The Recognitions

  —So if you didn’t want to go to bed with me I just naturally took it for granted you didn’t go to bed with girls, so I just naturally took it for granted you were queer. What are you doing here, are you Catholic? The girl at the next table looked up at Stanley as though he were intruding, but he stood gazing searchingly beyond them.

  At the table to his left, an American Protestant minister in rimless glasses tasted Cinzano for the first time, made a wry face, and said, —It’s just part of this big job we’re all pulling together in. Do you know this new word, Caprew . . . ? It’s made up of the first two letters of Catholic, Protestant, and . . .

  —Me Catholic? Christ no, I just came over to see the art here.

  —Well you sure picked a lousy time, the girl said, watching Stanley recede among the tables. It was just six.

  —Why do they get excited about the ruins in Rome here, Berlin is just as good now.

  —You can always see an ancient city better when it’s been bombed.

  Stanley looked on. He saw the pale girl he had seen before, outside the Bronze Door when he sought Father Martin; and as her face had taken the place of his then, Father Martin’s face rose before Stanley now, and turned away, as Stanley turned away from her. She was sitting alone, and reading A Room with a View.

  —I’ve really practically finished this novel, all I have to do now is put in the motivation, said a young man at the next table he stopped near. —I’ve been reading Dante trying to get some ideas.

  Then Stanley thought he saw her, at a table with a number of faintly familiar figures, halfway across the crowded terrace. He tried to hurry in that direction, his mind again filled with the rash of irrelevancies flooding in as Father Martin’s face bowed and was banished by that of the fat woman, pursing the small lips silently, losing flesh, the eyes widening, hollows deepening, to become the face he sought now and believed he had just seen, except, he considered, bumping tables and chair backs in his haste, weak-kneed, except for what she appeared to be wearing: a white turban knotted with a flair over the forehead, white cuffs and a broad white collar over her shoulders, her lips brightly colored and the glimpse of a narrow long black skirt.

  —Stanley!

  —Wha . . . haa? . . .

  Don Bildow had his wrist in greeting. —I wondered what happened to you when you didn’t get off at Naples . . .

  —Yes, I . . . I’m in a hurry, I . . .

  —So am I, wait, listen . . . Don Bildow looked appealingly through his plastic rims. His hair looked thinner, and his brown suit more threadbare. The brown and yellow tie was getting soiled about the knot. —Just one thing, if you’ve got any . . .

  —I . . . I have to go! Stanley broke from his grasp saying, —And I don’t even know what that stuff was that you asked . . .

  —No, that’s all right, said Bildow catching his arm again, —the Methyltestosterone, I got that, the nurse on the boat was fine about it when I . . . but listen, now I need . . . Do you know the Italian word for contraceptive? There’s a girl waiting for me and I . . . Wait! . . .

  When Stanley reached the table across the terrace, there was no one there he knew. A blond boy had just finished saying, —I don’t care if Saint Joseph of Copertino did fly around and perch in trees, that hasn’t a thing to do with it!

  —I saw you! said a voice from a vaguely familiar face, and a large red forefinger was rested on Stanley’s hand.

  —But . . . where? he asked, taken a back, for in spite of the dark blue suit and short blond hair, the heavy face was familiar.

  —Chez that perfectly obvious woman, you came in as I went out.

  —But it was . . .

  —Me. I called to ask about a shop where I could buy undies. But what was a boy like you doing there? I won’t think. Then the finger slid away as he turned and introduced Stanley to the rest of the table with, —I’m afraid, my dears, it’s one of those odious Pilgrims, and he’s already been stoned in the streets, see his hand. But it’s only a finger? What naughty game were you playing? . . .

  —But I . . .

  —And as I was telling you, this morning I’d gone to this brazenly recherché little church, since they’re supposed to have an honest-to-God Titian hidden there somewhere. Of course there was a line, so I waited my turn, and do you know, I found myself on line for benediction as a pregnant mother?

  —Was there a girl here? Stanley broke in.

  —My dear boy stop being indecent or you’ll have to go away. What is the matter, do you have lice? You’re scratching like Thomas à Becket.

  —Look!

  —Why it is, it’s Herschel. Now do you see what he’s married to? His studio paid her ten thousand dollars. Something named Adeline.

  —But does he have to take her everywhere?

  —That’s why they paid her ten thousand dollars. Of course he doesn’t have to take her to bed. Have you heard he’s not to play Saint Sebastian in this film after all? In the martyrdom scene you know, he has to be practically naked when they shoot all those horrid arrows at him, but one look at the divine tattoo on his . . .

  —Please, Stanley interrupted again, —don’t any of you . . .

  —And think, they won’t let me have little Giono until Wednesday, when I’m received. Why I’m in a state of Grace this very moment.

  In a moment of silence, as Stanley got his breath, a feeble falsetto across the table rose with, —Blessed Mary went a-walking . . .

  —That’s her! you . . . that’s a song she sings, she . . .

  —Baby, do you know her?

  —Yes, you . . . where is she? She was here, she . . . wasn’t she? Wasn’t that her wearing that funny . . .

  —Careful, baby. Rudy designed that specially for her. It’s her brwidal gown.

  —Her . . . what?

  —I should say, her trwousseau.

  —But you . . . she . . . she’s . . . getting married?

  —Baby, didn’t you know?

  —But to . . . who? Who’s she going to marry?

  —Maybe it wouldn’t be descrweet to tell.

  —But you must, she . . . I . . .

  —All rwight, we won’t name the grwoom. You can guess. We’ll just tell you she’s going to become a nun. Now, can you guess, Who?

  —But you . . . huuu . . . Stanley could only breathe in gasps.

  —Baby, don’t take on so, we don’t want any jealous suitors.

  —Huuuu . . .

  —Isn’t Rudy’s habit sweet on her? I mean the habit he designed. She has a very trim body anyway, you know. Not all round and plumpy like women.

  —An . . . nnn . . . nun?

  —Rwudy said he trwied to make it look as Do-minican as possible. And imagine Rwudy marrwied!

  —She’s . . . marrying . . . Rudy? Stanley brought out.

  —It’s no one you know, silly. It’s no one anyone knows, no one can see what he sees in that one, who shall be nameless. A piece of trade. Ordinary, common, vulgar . . .

  —But wait, I . . . she . . . where did she go? Stanley demanded looking round helplessly.

  —Rudy designed another with the most divinely inspired halo hat, and the longest swishiest magenta sash with oodles of gold, why I could have taken vows myself when I saw her in it. But did you hear her talk? about stigmata, and a lance tipped with golden fire piercing her heart, and pus-filled holes in her forehead smelling like lilies and all sorts of the most gory details. Oh no! “Lilies without, roses within.” But not that. Oh no! On her face . . .

  —Pure Caravaggio. I told her I knew I’d seen her before, but I refused to ask her who she knew in New York, I never want to think of that rude vulgar nightmare again, ever. I said, I’ll just pretend I’ve met you in a painting. Pure Caravaggio. But did you see my Raphaels this afternoon? Benito is only seven! and you should hear him chatter with that exquisite little pink tongue . . .

  —Please, tell me . . . Stanley said now, getting his voice down where he could almost control it, —where did she go?

  ??
?Do stop scratching! Simply all she talked about was going to Assisi, to run in and out the door of the Portiuncula church there and get just oodles of indulgences for someone she knows in Purgatory, someone who came down into the celestial sea on a rope, I don’t know, she made it all sound just too camp.

  —But she’s . . . gone there now?

  —She wants to go just more than anything, but she has no way to get there. I told her to simply go barefoot. Put your faith in God, baby, I told her. She’ll protect you.

  —But she . . . then where did she go?

  —She went off with a vulgar person in a green silk necktie, who said he was going to enter her in a movie contest. That’s simply all I know. There. There, do you see that rather clumsily collegiate person over there? with a green silk necktie? sitting with that odd little . . .

  —Thank you, Stanley said, turning away, and he hurried off.

  —Is it trwue that the Cardinals can roller skate between the sala ducale and the cappella Sistina?

  —I don’t care if Moses is accused of witchcraft in the Koran, who reads the Koran?

  Stanley caught up with the man in the green silk necktie at the terrace edge, as he was leaving, and immediately got across a pertinent description.

  —Do you know her too? She’s terrific, isn’t she. I didn’t even know she was a-merican, except for whatever the hell she was wearing, she looked like a regular eye-tye madonna, do you know what I mean?

  —Yes but I . . . where is she?

  —Well I’m here doing publicity for this movie on the life of the B.V.M., and we’re running a competition for the lead. She’s a natural for it. You know, I came up to her and I said, Spikka ing-glish? like that. I never learned Eye-talian, they didn’t teach it at Yale.

  —But she . . .

  —Not that I ever knew anyway. So I ask her if she was ever in the movies, and you know what she said? She said once she went and saw a picture about a funny man in a round black hat and a little mustache . . .

  —But . . .

  —Another time she saw Uncle Tom’s Cabin where Little Eva gets pulled up on ropes to heaven, so I said, Not going to the movies, I mean ever acted in one. We’ve got a six-language sound track on this life of the B.V.M., we’ve rented a whole town for it.

  —But . . .

  —We rented all the people in the town too. It’s color. She’s a natural for the B.V.M. What’d you do to your hand?

  —Well that, I . . . there was a sort of a riot . . . Stanley faltered.

  —You in that too? Look. My checkbook, see? See that? A bullet. It stopped a bullet for me. I have to go. It’s nice meeting you. See that little jerk who’s with me? I have to have dinner with him, he’s an ex-king. He wants a good publicity man to help him get his throne back. So long. It’s nice meeting you, if you know her too. She’s terrific. A natural . . . the B.V.M. incarnate . . .

  —But where is she? Stanley asked desperately, clinging to the hand which had seized his in an automatic gesture.

  —Now? You got me. I tell you, all she talked about was she wanted to go up to some town into some rose garden, and see some guy up there who came down to the bottom of the ocean on a rope. I didn’t get it, to tell you the truth. We barely had time to get a few stills of her. She’s terrific, even in 3-D she’d be terrific, so I told her I’d send a studio car around to take her wherever the hell it is, this rose garden. She’s going to call me. So long.

  —Yes, I . . . so . . . so long.

  Stanley stood scratching under one arm, and watched the lime-green convertible car roar away. Behind him, someone said,

  —Of course the Vatican is abject poverty, after Delphi.

  —Dear boy, thank Heaven you are all right. I’ve been praying.

  —But . . . what?

  —A young man jumped from the inner dome of Saint Peter’s, and I thought it might . . . Oh! His body landed right in front of the high altar, right in front of all those tourists, and I felt . . . though the paper does say he was a well-dressed young man.

  Stanley followed her into the crowded room, where she sat down looking distracted. The chain rattled as she cocked her head to a distant sound of breakage, which reached them somewhat muffled by the red hangings. —It’s been such a day, and poor Dom Sucio, he’s being plagued by a gross German woman who wants her daughter canonized. She actually came here today looking for him, and We had to hide him in the harmonium. A Frau Fahrtmesser, Mrs. Deigh pronounced forcefully, —and she says she has her daughter with her, in the baggage room at the Stazione Termini. Then Mrs. Deigh gazed for a minute at Stanley, who shifted apologetically in his jacket. She shook her head, made the familiar chucking sound with her lips, and repeated, —Thank Heaven you are all right, as she picked up the newspaper. —Our scapular protected you, thank Heaven. She lowered her eyes to the paper, and shook her head over that. —We do hope they find them, she murmured.

  —What?

  —Saint Peter’s bones. They’ve been after them for so long, she murmured, and continued to shake her head. The room was very warm, and Stanley sat forward on the edge of the Queen Anne chair with his hands clasped between his knees, staring at the floor. Once or twice he looked up about to speak, and finally he leaned back and rubbed his shoulders against the chair.

  —I wanted to . . .

  —The newspaper never tells Us nice things. Sometimes it just pipes in more blood than We think We can endure. And when you mentioned Our daughter, didn’t you. We knew there was something, and now We remember. I was sure I’d read in the newspaper that she’d been hung for murder. Murdering her husband! And that is a little too much to endure, even for one’s own flesh and blood. And in Mississippi.

  —Yes, she . . . but you should know, she . . .

  —She was always a willful girl. We did all We could, but We saw signs of her drifting away quite early. And when she confessed to Us that she chewed the wafer . . . Mrs. Deigh looked up sharply, down again, and shook her head. —How sad We are that you will not be here for the canonization ceremonies of the little Spanish martyr. There will probably be fifty thousand people, and it will be the very first one to be held out of doors. We have tickets in the colonnade, you know. Why, there will probably be at least a hundred bishops, and His Holiness will wear the red mantle of martyrdom.

  Stanley sat scraping the rug with the edge of his shoe, looking more apologetic, until the next thing she said, when he straightened up and almost brightened.

  —And We have taken a vow to remain indoors until that glorious day.

  —Oh, I . . . I wanted to ask you if I could . . . if I wanted to go somewhere if the Automobile could take me?

  —You would have to tell Us where, she answered, and the chain rattled a slight reproach. —If only so We could give instructions to Orlando, since he cannot understand you.

  —Well, to . . . to Assisi, I thought I . . . want to go to Assisi.

  —The birthplace of Saint Francis! Of course, dear boy. That gentle, heavenly figure, so many stories have come down to us. To visit the Portiuncula, where he threw himself into the thorny rosebush in dead of winter, to overcome his passion . . . or We should say, the temptation to lessen his austerities, for it is his passion that we worship, is it not. It is almost time for the roses to come into bloom now, and you will see their little leaves spotted with his blood. Tell Us, dear Stanley . . . She inclined toward him. The egglike object slipped from her lap, and swung on the chain to the floor between them. Stanley got it and handed it to her. She accepted it without a glance, looking into his face. —Do you consider taking Orders? For We have read in your sweet unselfish nature . . .

  —Well I . . . I . . . he commenced, when she left her words unfinished.

  —And that is why you want to visit the shrine of the most selfless of the saints, the most humble? And see the very spot where he fought off the temptations of the Evil One? . . .

  —Well I . . . it isn’t exactly for myself, I . . . Is Orlando really mute?

  —Why y
es, dear boy, but why do you ask that? And what do you mean . . .

  —Well I mean, I mean not for myself, I mean, what I mean is not just for myself, I mean . . .

  —You mean not just for your physical self, your senses, she said helping him forth from his confusion. —You mean for your spiritual self too, of course We understand, dear boy. Of course.

  —Yes, I . . . yes, Stanley said feebly, and sat back. Mrs. Deigh was silent. He looked up guardedly, ready for her eye on him, but she was gazing at the newspaper and shaking her head.

  —And here is a poor unfrocked Jesuit priest, she commented regretfully, as though continuing the conversation, —who is trying to start a world crusade against the Pope. She made the chucking sound once more. —And he is already excommunicated, not just toleratus, but vitandus. If he enters a church, service must stop instantly. But what is toleratus? she asked Stanley, looking up abruptly.

  —Well that . . . that . . . he faltered, —toleratus is when someone has not yet been . . . been publicly denounced, when . . . and they can’t . . . put him out unless he tries to . . . to take part in the Mass.

  —And where did you go to morning Mass today? she asked, as though now changing the subject.

  —I . . . I didn’t go.

  —You . . . but my dear boy! You mean you didn’t go to early Mass. We understand, she said, settling in the chair so that the mother-of-pearl crucifix rose above the wool border of her bosom. Stanley stared at it. He stood up, and his knees were weak.

  —I should . . . go home, he said. His hand caught the tooth in his pocket. —Tomorrow . . .

  —Yes, dear boy, until tomorrow. She smiled up at him, and then pursed her lips silently, almost like the fat woman. Stanley tried to smile but turned away, rubbing his eye with one hand, and murmured a good night. Then he heard her voice, and turned to look back. She was gazing at the paper once more.