The Recognitions

  The first at his hand was new: In Dreams I Kiss Your Hand Madam, “An Anthology of Romantic Stories from Seven Centuries, by forty-six authors, gathered from thirty-one countries . . . Edited by Recktall Brown.” The first page was blank, the second repeated the title, the fourth the title and the elucidations on the jacket, but Otto studied the third: “To / ESME / whose unerring judgment / is responsible for whatever value / this book may have.”

  The tango ended in a long unwilling surrender on the radio, and a similar expression in the middle of the floor. Esme recovered. Laughing, she pushed her hair up from perspiring temples. —Chaby teaches dancing, she said to Otto, explaining what had just happened, smiling like the Baganda woman smiles in Central Africa, lain in the thick grass with a plantain flower between her legs, flower dislodged by her husband’s rearing member before he takes her to dance in the gardens of friends, to encourage the plantain trees that grow in their gardens.

  —Really, Esme said, —it must be illegal to dance like that. Her unruffled partner had opened his shirt to the waist, showing a silver medal swung on a chain from his neck.

  —It should be, Otto muttered.

  —What Otto? She sat beside him now, and said over his shoulder, —Isn’t that awful? when she saw what he was reading.

  —Who’s Recktall Brown? he asked back.

  —He did that because he wanted to go to bed with me, she said cheerfully.

  —Who is he?

  —A terrible fat man who does things like that.

  —How can he give you credit for the merit in a Maupassant story? he said, thumbing the pages to Bed Number 29, laying the fault on her.

  —Because he just does, she explained. —He’s going to publish my poems.

  —Same reason?

  —Yes. Just because he wants to go to bed with me. Isn’t that funny? Isn’t that disgusting? she said laughing.

  —Yes it is, Otto agreed soberly.

  —What’s that funny smell? said Chaby. —I always smell it up here.

  —What smell? Esme asked.

  —Don’t you smell nothing? Some funny smell, like oily flowers.

  —I noticed it, Otto said to Esme. —It’s lavender, he explained, condescending to glance across the room where Chaby sniffed, audibly, formed his lips in a silent obscenity which indicated that he understood, and lit an extra-length cigarette. He had not even looked over at Otto.

  —Is it perfume? or is it from your clothes? Otto asked her. —Sachet, I mean. She was looking out the window absently. She turned quickly and said, —Oh, from my clothes I guess. I guess it’s from my clothes.

  —I saw Anselm in the park, Otto said.

  —What did he say, she asked.

  —He didn’t say anything. I just saw him. He’d shaved, anyhow.

  —I know, Esme said, smiling again, —and he cut himself three times because he said the razor blade was dull.

  —What do you mean?

  —Because I didn’t have any new razor blades, and he had to use the same one I shaved my legs with.

  —You mean he shaved here?

  —Yes. Anselm came in and shaved.

  —But . . .

  —What is a succubus? Esme asked. —Chaby, do you know what a suc-cubus is?

  —It sounds like somebody that sucks, said Chaby.

  —You’re terrible, Esme said, laughing again and as if about to throw a book at him.

  —What do you want to know for anyhow?

  —Because Anselm says he called me one, and that he’s sorry, he didn’t mean to call me that, but I still am one.

  —You’re the best one I know, said Chaby, grinning. Esme got up, went over and shook him by the shoulders. —I hate you, you’re being so bad this morning, she said, laughing, and her face flushed. —Isn’t he being bad, Otto?

  —Have you had breakfast, Esme? Otto asked her.

  —No, have you, she asked, turning, —Mister Sin-is-ter-ra? still holding him by the shoulder with sisterly fondness, and the tone of two who shared all of one another’s secrets.

  They went down the stairs, all three. Otto (brandishing his sling) forgot his green scarf, left behind on the floor.

  Seated at a counter, Chaby ate hungrily, Esme with little attention to what she was eating or how, Otto already floating nauseously on coffee smoldered silently over another cup. At one point he leaned over to Esme who sat between them, and said, —Esme, I want to talk to you about . . . well, alone.

  —What is it? she asked, sitting back, offering the busy immediacy of Chaby. —Tell me. She was delighted by confidences, wanted to share them with everyone. Otto grimaced, lit another cigarette. —But you already have one, she said, pointing to the cigarette smoking in his saucer.

  —Hullo, Stanley said in a dull voice behind them.

  —Stanley! said Esme turning; and she had that tone of having waited for him for weeks.

  —You seem happy, said Stanley, accusingly.

  —Oh Stanley! I am. Has something else happened?

  Stanley held out a paper. It was a letter, from an eye bank. Esme read it. —It’s scandal-ous, Stanley, she said. She laughed. —Do they want you to deposit your eyes?

  —I don’t really understand what they want, Stanley said. —I think it’s that if I die, they want my eyes sent to them immediately. There’s a little coupon at the bottom you fill out.

  —Well that’s all right, isn’t it? said Esme. —Then will they come and get your eye while it’s still warm?

  —Don’t talk like that, Esme, it’s . . .

  —Why not?

  —It’s frightening, the thought of these complete strangers coming to get my eyes . . .

  —But you won’t need them . . .

  —But I will. I might . . .

  Otto leaned toward Esme. —Look, will you be home this afternoon? he said. —Alone? he added, as Chaby reached for a toothpick.

  —Unless someone comes.

  —Who?

  —I don’t know. People.

  —They have bone banks too, Stanley said.

  —I’ll see you this afternoon, Otto said. —Alone. He took out a five-dollar bill, and carefully tore a corner off of it. Chaby watched, frowning. —Whatayadoin? he said.

  Otto raised an eyebrow, took a step away, and paid for their breakfasts. —If she’d said I only gave her a dollar, I’d tell her to go through her money there until she found a five with this corner missing, he said, dropping the shred of evidence under the counter, and pocketing his change. Stanley looked troubled.

  —Esme, Otto said, —I . . .

  —In Russia I read that they even graft on . . . well, you know . . . onto soldiers who get wounded there . . .

  —Stanley!

  —Esme . . . Otto rested a delicate hand on the counter for a moment more. Chaby was showing Esme a picture from his wallet, a tattered thing which at a glimpse showed only limbs indecently intertwined. Otto looked, as casually as he could; and as casually, the thing was turned from his gaze. Stanley looked away. —I don’t want to see it, he said. Esme was laughing. Otto turned and left like an angry steam engine.

  As he reached the door Esme called, —Goodbye, Otto . . . but he did not stop. Chaby did not even look around. —They spoiled a good whore when they hung a pair of nuts on him, he said. —Maybe they could help him out in Russia . . .

  —Chaby Sin-is-ter-ra! Stanley, isn’t he being bad? She was laughing.

  Meanwhile, the winter sky had darkened. The blazing eye of the sun was gone, and the sky lowered upon the city with the weight of a featureless being smothering it against the earth. The peaks of its buildings reared against the sky seemed to hold that portentous weight at bay, in the great conspiracy of mother and son, the earth and the city, against the father threatening overhead; for it was Cronus the mother conspired with, to free the children suffocated between the intimately united bodies of their parents, where they could not see light.

  Years had passed over the Titanic capital, as it grew to its full stature,
and over the continent spread at its feet where a year’s relief from love cost eighty-five million dollars in headache remedies; and for faith: 15,670,944,200 aspirin tablets, carried like phylacteries. The state, this Titan’s namesake, breathed the smoke of forty billion cigarettes that year. Descending into the lungs of this reinforced concrete incarnation, the smoke circulated through steel lobules cushioned in pleural cavities of granite (though unlike the lungs of a good giant no concave inner surface was necessary for the heart), and from there it was exhaled through chromium-cartileged larynges to diffuse into the spew of grime with which the ungrateful child affronted his father above. Fly-ash, cinders and sand, tar, soot, and sulfuric acid: six tons a day settled on this neighborhood where Otto stepped forth, his faculties so highly civilized that he seemed not to notice the billions of particles swirling round him, seemed not to notice the flashing of lights, the clangor of steel in conflict, the shouts, and the words spoken, timorous, temerarious, eructations of slate-colored lungs, seemed to acknowledge nothing but his own purpose, which led him east.

  The sky refused the encounter it threatened. The storm refused to break; but the dark being continued in menacing movement above, content to unnerve its arrogant antagonist, to inspire foreboding, but declining the skirmish which would witness the spilling of its own blood in streaks of lightning. The inhabitants moved agitated, apprehensive, intent on immediacies. For the rest of the morning, Otto behaved impatiently in the streets, ruthlessly in the subway, merciless in revolving doors. Left arm tense, and occasionally combative in the sling, his right arm pressed against the presence of his wallet, he moved between immediate destinations, every address a destination until it was reached, when it offered simply a pause where the next step could be planned, time unbroken by leisure but instead brief spasmodic stretches of emptiness between activities, minutes parceled together by cigarettes. Leaving a glass of beer on the bar, Otto went back to the telephone booth. He dialed Max’s number. It was busy. He sat staring through the dirty glass panel, where someone had drawn the letters of an obscene syllable on the glass with a diamond. He dialed again; got only brrk, brrk, brrk. He dialed two other numbers, hoping to find someone free for lunch. No one was. He dialed Max again: brrk, brrk, brrk. Then he thought of a number which came to him almost out of habit, he had dialed it automatically that many times. What would he say? And if a man answered? But by this time he was unsettled enough to call that number without giving himself time to think of consequence. He could ask Esther to meet him now, for lunch. He dialed. The telephone at the other end was picked up. He said, —Hello? There was silence. —Hello? Hello? Silence. —Hello? Is Esther there? —No, said a voice in weak decision, as though relieved. —Hello. Who is this? —Rose. —Rose? Rose, are you the maid? Hello? —Rose, said the voice. —Hello? Then their humming silent contact was dead. Otto shook the hook up and down. —Hello, hello, say . . . The bartender was looking in at him. He hung up. He sat for another moment, staring at the word written on the glass. Then he dialed Max. He could hear the brrr which indicated that Max’s telephone was ringing. There was no answer. He hung up. He dialed again, another number, this time found Maude Munk at home sounding as though she did not want to talk, not for a minute stopping. —Did you get it, Maude? —Get what? —I mean did you get to the adoption center? —Oh no, silly, we were both so hung over . . . I don’t know which one of us really wants it anyhow . . . We decided it wasn’t such a good idea; for today anyhow . . . What about your party, I hear it was quite hideous . . . —Say, do you know someone at Esther’s house named Rose? She answered the phone . . . —Oh Rose, Rose, of course, silly, everyone knows about Rose . . . look would you mind calling me later, I’ve got to do something now . . . —But who’s Rose? —Around five? Could you call around five . . . ?

  Otto returned to the bar. He remembered that his watch was fourteen minutes slow. He started to pull out the stem to reset it, looked up at the clock over the bar. That clock told the same time his watch did. —Is that the right time? he asked the bartender. —Yuh. Maybe it’s a little fast. Another beer? Otto started to decline, then noticed the mirror behind the bar, and watched himself accept.

  —It’s funny, said a man beside him. Otto turned, to see a striped tie. Unsure what club it represented, he said, —What?

  —This sunlight. I was just wondering where this sunlight could be coming from, from the west. Then I noticed it’s a reflection from that window across the street.

  —Yes, so it is.

  —Can I buy you a beer? Let’s have two beers here, he called to the bartender.

  —I’m always surprised to see sunlight anywhere in New York, Otto said.

  —Have you ever crossed on the ferry? Have you ever seen the sun on the Statue of Liberty at seven o’clock in the morning? Here’s your beer. Have you?

  —Matter of fact, said Otto, resting his helpless arm on the bar, —I passed it on a ship just yesterday morning. Coming in from Central America.

  —Central America, have you been down there?

  —I just got back.

  —You know, when I saw you, or when I heard you talk first, I thought you had some sort of accent. Not a foreign accent, more of a what you might call cosmopolitan.

  —Well, I . . .

  —Can you speak Spanish?

  —Oh yes. Certainly, I picked it up down there.

  —You did?

  —It’s not difficult. When you really live with the people.

  —Not if you have a talent for languages. You must have one.

  —Well, a bit perhaps. I . . .

  —Say, do you know Central America very well?

  —Fairly well, I . . .

  —Peru and northern Bolivia, have you ever been there?

  —I’ve never spent much time down that far.

  —Have you ever done any writing?

  —Yes, as a matter of fact that’s the sort of work I do.

  —Ever done motion picture work?

  —Never directly, I . . .

  —Here, will you take my card, and get in touch with me?

  Otto took the card. It said SUN STYLE FILMS in large letters, and R. L. Jones in one corner. —I’m very glad to know you, Otto said, shaking hands. —My name is Otto . . .

  —Just write it down here, the man said. Otto wrote.

  —When I saw you first, or rather when I heard you talk. Another beer?

  —Let me get it, Otto said, reaching in for his wallet. The man paid from his change on the bar.

  —What were you doing down there? In South America?

  —Writing. But those revolutions . . .

  —You were covering a revolution?

  Otto thrust his sling forward. —Things got pretty hot down there, he said.

  —Is that where . . . something happened to your arm?

  —Yes, I . . .

  —I didn’t want to ask you. You know, I thought it might hurt your feelings, I mean some people are sensitive about things like that.

  —Oh, I don’t mind talking about it. As a matter of fact, I . . .

  —What time is it? said the man looking at his wrist watch. —Is that clock right? I’ve got to get going. He pulled his hat down in front.

  —Haven’t you got time for another beer? It’s my turn . . .

  —I’ve got to get to the office. Will you call me there?

  —Yes, certainly, I’ll be delighted . . .

  —Don’t forget, now. We may be able to work something out.

  They shook hands. The man went out. Otto nodded to the bartender. —Could you give me a whisky and soda? he said, and opened his large manila envelope, to study a few pages of his play with minute appreciation. The bartender put a whisky sour down before him. —But I . . .

  —Sixty cents, the bartender said. Otto paid.

  The trip to MacDougal Street involved two crowded buses and a seething subway. Otto, in good spirits, planned to spend some time with Max, discussing the finer points of his play. Max was not at home. Otto t
ried to wedge the manuscript into the mailbox, but it was getting badly bent. Then the thought of it getting lost, or stolen (and produced with great acclaim under someone else’s name) drove him to summon the janitor. After establishing the thing’s value in that dull head he gave it over for delivery, slightly weakened at its loss.

  Walking west, he stopped in an Italian grocery to buy cigarettes, was disregarded, tapped his foot loudly, and then pocketed a package from the counter and left.

  Hannah passed without a word. She was talking with a tall Negro. Otto looked the other way.

  Esme was alone. She had just stopped Chaby in her doorway, telling him it was cold, that he must wear a coat, warming his neck with her arms for a moment and then tying round it a green scarf she found on the floor behind the chair. He was gone when Otto appeared.

  Otto and Esme sat quietly for a few minutes, for Esme a content quiet demanding nothing, for him a perilous one, the minutes building up upon themselves like a precarious house of cards waiting to be shattered. She walked about the room singing a frail song, whose words found nothing to bind them together but the free sale of her voice, separated, and were lost. She smiled at him, but shy, when she looked up and saw him watching her. Picking up papers, or hanging a skirt, or simply following the fragments of her song about the room, Esme seemed to show how easy it was being happily alive, to be beautiful, not to question.

  Otto sat impatient. Finally he said, —I may have to go to South America.

  —Really Otto? she said, charmed.

  —Bolivia and northern Peru.

  —That would be very nice, she said. —What a silly place to go, Otto.

  —I don’t see anything so silly about it.