The Recognitions

  —But that smell? What’s that awful smell? Like hair burning.

  —That’s what it is, an evil smell, Fuller said. —That’s what evil smell like.

  IV

  “I’ve had a good dream, gentlemen,” he said in a strange voice, with a new light, as of joy, in his face.

  —Dostoevski, The Brothers Karamazov

  —Sempre con fè sincera . . . la mia preghiera . . . ai santi tabernacoli salì . . .

  No sound but this, the radio, behind Esme’s door. Otto raised his clenched hand to knock again; and as his knuckles hit the door it came open an abrupt four inches. His smile warped into surprise, every line in his face converted to its contradiction.

  Chaby faced him over the chain. Chaby had on a suede jacket, the collar turned up in back; and his hair looked like a pastry-cook’s triumph.

  —Nell’ora del dolore . . . perchè, Signore, perchè me ne rimuneri così?

  —Is Esme here?

  —No.

  —Do you know where she is?

  —Jesis how should I know. She went to get some coffee.

  —Do you know where?

  —Jesis how should I know where. Chaby did not slam the door until Otto had reached the stairs.

  Esme was sitting at a counter eating toast. She wore no make-up but faint sharp lines on her eyebrows. She smiled, and held out her hand to Otto, who realized, as he sat beside her, that she was breakfasting with the heavy-necked person on her right. He was showing her pictures of snapsnot size. —They came out nice, he said. —Much better than most of the girls we get, innocent-looking like. But look at these, look at these of me. The photographs showed him in theatrical attitudes. In one he held a knife. In another, a pistol. In another, a cord, ready for garroting. In all, he wore a hat (as he did now), and a cigarette stub stuck in the corner of his mouth (as one was now). —Whadda you say?

  —It’s very kind of you, Esme said smiling to him.

  —I’ll come see you Friday, huh?

  —Who was that? Otto asked when the man left.

  —He’s a nice man who is going to act in movies, Esme said.

  —What did he want from you?

  —I think he wanted me to act in the mo-vies.

  They had both smiled, and for a moment they were together. Then Otto said, —I just called at your apartment, and he withdrew his hand.

  —And did you see Mister Sinis-ter-ra? she asked, still with her smile.

  —Yes. What’s he doing up there?

  —He came to see me.

  —So I gather. When, last night?

  —Otto, that isn’t nice, she said, sobered, disappointed.

  —I’m sorry. Otto, suddenly, could not afford to be left so: he had withdrawn as a woman withdraws, to be followed. There was no pursuit in Esme’s eyes, as she turned them from him. —Esme, I’m sorry.

  —You’re not sorry, Otto. You only say that. It is a habit. There was no admonition and no feeling of hurt in Esme’s voice, she spoke to him simply.

  —Esme . . . Oh look, that isn’t what I meant . . .

  —Why do you say he slept with me?

  —That isn’t what I meant at all, said Otto (and in that instant almost retorted, —Well did he?). Then Esme was smiling happily again. She was smiling at someone behind him.

  —Hello Stanley, she said gently. —And do you know Otto?

  Stanley nodded and said, —Hello, putting the book he carried from his right to his left hand, so that he could shake hands; but he got no further. His right hand dropped empty to his side.

  —Poor Stanley. Why are you so dole-ful?

  —I’m all right, Stanley said. He stood there, his only motion a slight weaving toward them, as though his mustache weighed him in their direction. Finally he said, —Did you hear about Charles?

  —No, what?

  —He’s in Bellevue. They took him there last night.

  Max came in. He was smiling. He greeted them, and ordered coffee. —How’s your play, Otto? he said.

  —Well as a matter of fact I’m sort of upset, Otto said. —I misplaced a copy or two of it. In a dispatch case. A pigskin dispatch case. You haven’t heard anything? . . .

  —No, I haven’t heard a thing, Max said agreeably.

  —I heard about your play, Stanley said.

  —You found it?

  —No, I mean I just heard about it.

  —What did you hear, that it’s plagiarized?

  —No, I didn’t mean that. I’d like to read it.

  Otto murmured, —You would, would you . . . Esme said, —Otto has a guilty conscience, and Max raised his coffee cup and said nothing.

  —I think I’d better get back uptown, Otto said in a strained tone, casual with great effort.

  —Really, Otto? Esme said, surprised, as he took her breakfast check. —Then thank you for my breakfast.

  —Did you have bacon and eggs and fruit and pastry?

  —No, that was the gentleman from the movies, said Esme.

  —All right, he said, crumpling the check in his hand.

  —Thank you, Otto.

  —Do you want me to go?

  —But Otto why should I want you to go?

  He lit a fresh cigarette and ordered another cup of coffee. They looked up and Stanley was gone. Esme turned to see him standing undecided outside, on the street corner. —Poor Stanley, she said gently, and smiled.

  —He just needs a woman, Max said.

  —He needs money, said Esme.

  —Money is simply a substitute for the mother in Stanley’s case. He has guilt feelings about her being in the hospital, and anyone who gave him money would be filling the mother’s place, the nourishment substitute.

  —I guess Hannah gives him what he needs, Otto said in morose confidence.

  —She’d like to.

  —Well she was sleeping with him a couple of nights ago.

  —Where’d you hear that?

  —She was there undressed at five in the morning. I don’t know what else she was doing.

  —Was Stanley there?

  —Sure he was there, Otto said defiantly.

  —Well, so she finally made him, said Max. He smiled and finished his coffee. —You haven’t seen my pictures yet, have you Otto. The show opened two days ago. I’m going up to the gallery later, come along?

  —Not now, Max. Otto looked at Esme.

  —They’ve sold seven of them, Max said as he left.

  —I hate him, Otto said when he was out the door.

  —Otto, what a silly thing to say.

  —I do, I . . . I just mistrust him so much. When he’s around I’d like to have a gun in my pocket. Not to do anything with, just to have it there, he added, and brandished the sling.

  —Yes, Esme said, suddenly putting her forehead in her hand and running her fingers into her hair. —Because he will survive.

  —Esme, I want to talk to you. Esme . . . She looked up, surprised, and she looked frightened. —I want to talk to you.

  —Talk to me, she said, and smiled.

  —But not here, not in this place, I . . . We’re liable to be . . . Someone’s liable to . . . Will you go for a walk with me.

  Otto paid for five breakfasts, and they went out. They walked toward Washington Square.

  —What, Otto? she asked him, seated on a bench.

  —I don’t know. I mean, look.

  —What did you do to yourself? she asked, pointing to his cheek.

  —I cut myself with a lousy razor blade. Look, Esme. I mean, are you really with me? I mean, are you and I, well, together? I mean I always feel like I’m sharing you with everyone in sight.

  —Otto, you make everything so difficult for yourself.

  —I do?

  —Yes, Otto. You push something and push it until it breaks.

  —I don’t want to do that, Esme. I don’t mean to.

  —And then you do all the more, Otto.

  —I love you, Esme. I’ve kept telling you that. I love you.

 
—No you don’t, Otto.

  —I do. I love you.

  —No you don’t, Otto. You don’t even know who I am.

  Esme spoke to him calmly, explaining, as though to a child, an adult truth.

  —But I do. And even if I don’t, is that my fault?

  —You had me all filled in before you met me, Otto. There was no room for me at all.

  —Esme, don’t be ridiculous.

  —It is not ridic-ulous, Otto. It is only true, you do not know who I am.

  —But I’ve . . . you’ve . . . and I don’t even know if you’ve been faithful to me, he burst out.

  —You can only be faithful to people one at a time, Otto.

  He sat staring at her face turned half from him. Then he reached up and turned it to him with one hand. Esme looked frightened. —Why are you beautiful? he demanded. Her eyes opened more widely, and she tried to lower her face. —Why are you? he repeated, looking at her. She did pull her chin back, and lower her face, silent. —Because you . . . I look at your face, this flesh and bone so many inches high and wide, and the nose sticking out and the . . . the punctures of nostrils, and your lips and I . . . and those two things that are eyes, and I . . . why should that be beautiful, anyhow. What is it? . . . and Otto’s voice was suddenly constricted, —What is beauty . . . He cleared his throat, —that your face should be beautiful? . . .

  —If it is not beautiful for someone, it does not exist, she said.

  —Yes, well . . . well . . . he muttered, lowering his eyes. —Look, he said when he raised them again. —Is it my fault if you haven’t even let me know who you are?

  —But you never tried, Otto. No part of you ever tried.

  —Look, I’ve done everything I ever could for you, haven’t I? I . . . I’m sick and tired of all this foolishness, this . . . I apologize for behaving the way I have with some of your friends but . . .

  —You are the only one you make unhappy when you behave badly, Otto. You become the victim of your own observations.

  —Do you love me?

  —It is not so simple, Otto.

  —But you’ve said you did. She was silent. —I . . . damn it, I get all mixed up with other people, he broke out finally, clenching his free hand over the hand protruding from the sling. —I . . . it’s like trying to tie a knot before a mirror, I know just what to do and then do everything backwards. He sat looking down. Then suddenly he raised his eyes and said, —Do you . . . do I look like Chaby?

  Esme looked up at him. She did not smile, but her face cleared and it was lightened, as a smile would have lightened it. —Otto, she said. —No. Why did you ask me that?

  —I don’t know. Never mind, he said lowering his eyes again. —It’s just that I . . . sometimes I feel my face and . . . or I feel myself moving or looking at something in a way that I . . . well never mind, never mind that. Never mind it then.

  Suggestion of the smile she had not smiled faded from her face, and quietly she said, —All right.

  —But no, I mean, I don’t know. Sometimes I do, sometimes I almost do, and then I lose it. Like a story I heard once, a friend of mine told me, somebody I used to know, a story about a forged painting. It was a forged Titian that somebody had painted over another old painting, when they scraped the forged Titian away they found some worthless old painting underneath it, the forger had used it because it was an old canvas. But then there was something under that worthless painting, and they scraped it off and underneath that they found a Titian, a real Titian that had been there all the time. It was as though when the forger was working, and he didn’t know the original was underneath, I mean he didn’t know he knew it, but it knew, I mean something knew. I mean, do you see what I mean? That underneath that the original is there, that the real . . . thing is there, and on the surface you . . . if you can only . . . see what I mean?

  She had rested her head back and closed her eyes. He put his arm over her shoulders, and she sat forward.

  —Esme . . . The brief strokes of anxiety and sharp strokes of detail broke the fragments of expression on his face, and he seemed able to catch none of them and fix it congruent upon that image of original honesty which he clutched at so desperately beneath the surface, and the second surface, with each instant more confused in the succession of mocking streaks of parody which he could not control. A moment came when he might have thought, and even understood; but he had not time to embrace it, and it passed. —It’s just . . . damn it, Esme . . .

  —Please don’t swear at me, she said dully, her lowered eyes on a pigeon passing before them.

  —I’m sorry, but I . . . Then he laughed with abrupt hoarseness. —Do you remember once when . . . Look, don’t you see? I mean, you can’t just live this way, you can’t . . . wait, where are you going?

  —I have to go now, Otto.

  —But don’t, Esme please don’t go, I want to talk to you.

  —We have talked, she said, looking him in the face; and Otto reached up and drew an alterant stroke on his mustache.

  —I want to marry you, Esme. I, you can’t go on this way, I mean so insecure, the way you live, and I want to, if I can save you from . . .

  —Save me from! she broke in, mocking. —It is always saving from, she said lowering her eyes, —and never saving for. Everyone fights against things, but people do not fight for things.

  Otto stood unsteadily beside her, as though ready to curb her if she turned away. —And I . . . even if you don’t love me now, I . . . like Saint John of the Cross said, “Where there is no love, put love, and take out love,” and I . . .

  She looked up at him, surprised, at that. Then she said, —Is that how he meant it? Before Otto could answer she went on, lowering her eyes again, —No, how did he know what he meant. When people tell a truth they do not understand what they mean, they say it by accident, it goes through them and they do not recognize it until someone accuses them of telling the truth, then they try to recover it as their own and it escapes. The saints were very mean people.

  —Yes, I . . . yes that’s it, and I . . . I want to marry you.

  She looked up and smiled at him. —How could I marry you, if I haven’t got any stomach?

  —Esme, stop it, I really mean it. I mean, you know I’m sincere. I’ve always been sincere with you.

  She put her hand on his. —Otto, she said. —Sincerity becomes the honesty of people who cannot be honest with themselves.

  —Esme . . .

  —I have to go away.

  —All right then, damn it, go.

  She turned and walked away from him. Then he was beside her again.

  —Esme . . .

  —What is it, Otto? she asked in a quiet voice, looking at him like a stranger whom she did not know.

  —Esme, I . . . look, please . . .

  —Goodbye, Otto, she said gently.

  —Esme . . .

  She walked away from him easily. It was only eleven o’clock in the morning.

  Gazing wistfully into a shop window filled with ladies’ lingerie, including a brassière in black lace with black satin hands cupping the mannequin’s composition bosom, Anselm stood with a six-year-old girl by the hand. In his other hand, Anselm had Tolstoy’s Kingdom of God, but it was folded in a magazine with a girl and an umbrella, and nothing else, on the cover, so that all that showed of the small book was the spine. The little girl was looking up the street, in the direction of Stanley’s approach, and she pulled her escort in that direction, but he hung back, rubbing the rough inflammations on his chin, and staring into the shop window.

  Stanley might have gone on without disturbing that reverie, and so home to work (he was carrying his cardboard practice keyboard and a book), but Max was approaching from the other corner, pausing now to greet Otto, who came from the direction of the park.

  Without a word Anselm took Stanley’s book from his hand, looked at it and handed it back, muttering something. Then he said abruptly, —I dreamt about you last night. Stanley looked anxious. —I know it
was you, it must have been you, Anselm went on, before the others came near. —I was crossing the street in this dream and somebody, somebody I knew well, it must have been you, was coming across the other way with something cradled up in his arms like a baby. It was wrapped in a black shawl, I just took for granted it’s a baby, and then he said, then you said, I want you to meet my mother. I look and it was a tiny little old woman, this tiny little old woman was in the shawl . . .

  —Yes, but . . . all right, but . . .

  —What’s the matter? Anselm was looking at him with intense curiosity.

  —I just wish you wouldn’t . . . Stanley looked one way and the other and down. —It’s sort of . . .

  —It was, it was strange, it was kind of a nightmare.

  Stanley raised his eyes, and they looked at each other intently until Max was upon them. Then Anselm laughed suddenly, pulling the little girl round between them, and spoke as though carrying on the same conversation. —Come on, play us something. Look, Stanley brought his instrument, he said, brandishing his magazine at the practice keyboard which Stanley held defensively in front of him. —He’s going to play us something by Vivaldi. Come on, Stanley, for Christ sake don’t be so bashful, some of that nice Jesuit baroque music, be-do-be-boo, be-be, boody doody boo . . . did you hear the one about the boy who sat up on the rock? and fitted fiddle strings . . .

  —Please . . . Stanley began.

  —Here comes Otto, Max said.

  —And with every erection he played a selection from Johann Sebastian Bach.

  —I have to get home, Stanley said.

  —To what, your five-fingered honeymoon?

  —To . . . to work, Stanley said, as Anselm turned to look across the street, where a tall man hunched in a green wool shirt gave a nod of recognition slight enough to be disavowed if it were not returned. Max nodded back agreeably. —Who is that? Stanley asked Max.

  —Some half-ass critic, Anselm said, —a three time psychoanaloser. He spat into the gutter. —With his fake conversion to the Church. You remember that little tiny girl that used to be around? she came about up to his waist. He used to take her home and dress her in little girl’s clothes and rape her.