The Recognitions

  But his hand pressed against bone. With that, he retired from the image of himself which had stepped down from the mirror above the bar, to dwell apart and watch it move across the room toward the lobby, prepared to applaud this vacant being if things should go well, to abandon it tinted and penniless if things should conspire against it. Even absolute, he mistrusted glamours; even so, he did not notice the green muffler trailing from his pocket as he walked across the floor.

  —A single room for tonight?

  —We have just one, sir. With bath. Nine-fifty.

  —Fine. Fine.

  —And your luggage, sir?

  —Coming along behind me, you know. From the dock, following me.

  —I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to pay in advance. A formality . . .

  —I say, my travelers’ checks are all in my small suitcase, you know, following me along here from the dock. Just recently arrived, I mean back in this country . . .

  —I’m afraid we won’t be able to . . .

  —I haven’t much time to . . .

  —We might be able to hold a room for you until ten, unless someone else . . .

  —Yes, well, that will do then. It will have to do, you know. Thank you, Otto finished, turning from the desk, the particles of his expression uncomposed, as though at the theater and temporarily confused by the course of the play; but as the theater-goer has redemption written on his ticket stub, and a sterile fragment of faith tells him that salvation is just around the corner as he takes his seat for the last act, so an anticipatory calm pervaded the materials of Otto’s face.

  Nevertheless the machinery of faith inclines to creak when the multitude boards; and the more the formidable tyranny of their privilege exerts itself, and love of spectacle demands effects, the more brazenly the machine is bared. Among Rome’s earlier and more cheerfully dealt contributions to the decline of civilization was the gallant assistance she gave to the decadence of the Greek theater, where Roman eyes blinked in startled satisfaction as the god descended in a machine to dispense salvation on the stage, which faith, in the audience, had anticipated (while Democritus, succumbing in a measure to popular prejudice, granted to the upper air inhabitants “of the same form as men, but grander, composed of very subtle atoms, less liable to dissolution . . .”).

  As Jean was saying to Anatole in the bar, even then, —I just always kind of expect something nice to happen. And then it does.

  The slung arm rose taut from the sling; the free one dropped its work of jamming the green muffler into a pocket, and collapsed as Otto stood, swaying gently as though suspended, like Absalom perhaps, hanging by his chin in the terebinth tree as the darts of Joab found his heart, and so smitten he came down to earth: the revolving door turned, and from it issued an apparition on a fragmentary blast too weak to do more than flutter the end of the green muffler.

  It was too late to go out another door. The man had seen him. Otto finished jamming his own muffler down into his pocket, in mechanical denial of what was happening, and came forward with his hand extended.

  —Hullo, he said, a sound which took all of his energy, left him unable to add the word, —Father.

  —Uh huh, said the other, looking round him quickly through the thick glasses, pulling the cane up under his arm, hardly pausing to shake hands. —Everything all right? he murmured, going on in toward the bar.

  —Why yes, I . . .

  —You better take my arm. It looks better.

  —Why yes. I’m sorry. Of course. Otto guided him in; and they paused. —Do you want to have a drink first? I mean, a drink at the bar? Otto managed to ask, staring over a sagging shoulder at the sagging charm of Jean at the bar.

  —I don’t drink. Too many people at the bar anyhow. We’ll get a table.

  Otto followed, looking back over his own sagging shoulder at the bar. —It isn’t really crowded, he said.

  His companion turned, and for the first time fixed him with sharp pupils which seemed to penetrate him. —You’re not drunk, are you?

  —Drunk? I? Why no, no I . . .

  —That would be a nice stew.

  A lonely waiter appeared, to show them to a table in one corner, felicitously almost dark. Otto walked with a slight limp, in time to the March of the Sardar which came from the hidden amplifiers. The cane before him kept similar time. Passing an occupied table, Otto looked with horror at the man seated there: not at the man, perhaps, but at his tie: the inquisitorial stripes still challenged him. He still felt eligible, or had until this moment. The glance of the man at the table was cursory, from Otto to the grotesque striding before him, the glance of the British resident as the two ruined nobles followed the crippled clamor of their music toward the south.

  They were imprisoned, side by side, behind a table against the wall.

  —You shouldn’t have jumped like that, when you met me.

  —Oh, did I?

  —It just don’t look good.

  —I know, I . . .

  —People notice things like that.

  —I know. The waiter dropped menus before them and escaped. —I guess . . . well I mean we might as well start right off with dinner.

  —You want to eat?

  —Well, I mean I thought we were going to . . . I guess it doesn’t really matter. It was difficult for Otto to study the figure beside him; nevertheless he tried, beyond the bushy hair and the heavy glasses. Otto wanted to see his teeth. —It’s funny, he said. —You have such black hair.

  —What’s so funny about it?

  —Well, I mean because mine is so light, Otto answered as the cane clattered to the floor.

  —Is it on crooked? his companion asked in a low tone, raising his hand to his brow, and passing it delicately over his temple. —I been kind of rattled all evening, he said. —Since I left home.

  —Why. I mean is anything wrong? at home?

  —“He that is slow to wrath is of great understanding: but he that is hasty of spirit exalteth folly.” I just done something sort of hasty, like the Bible says there. But stupidity gets me sometimes. I just blow up. He sat back, then, and appeared to relax. —That’s dangerous in any business, let alone this one.

  —Yes, said Otto. —Of course. He held the large menu card up as a screen for his confusion, increased now by a scent which crept up around him, a familiar fugitive aroma which he could not identify. He was not reading the menu, but anticipating, as though reality in any desperate measure would suffice to anchor his covetousness; and he did not dare look up the bar for Jean. Clams, gros, to start? or omelette aux truffes?

  —But those things don’t hardly seem to matter tonight. I feel in a nice mood.

  Coq au vin? Pigeon aux petits pois? Poularde au riz, sauce suprême?

  —I always feel this way after a good job. And Christmas all over the place . . . The lonely waiter appeared, and he silenced.

  Foie gras à la gelée de Porto? Poulet . . . Fonds d’artichauts . . . Salade à la grecque . . .

  —Hamburger steak, sounded beside him; and the music was Mozart’s Turkish March. Where had he found that? Otto realized that he was looking at the wine list. As he folded the huge card back upon itself, the voice said, —Same thing for you?

  —Yes, I . . .

  —Two hamburger steaks, well done. And hurry it up.

  Albert, King of the Belgians, careening gloriously down among the crevices of rock, gone, never to reappear and interrupt legends offered about him, to suffer translation from the fiction of selective memories to the betrayal of living reality.

  Otto looked at the heavy glasses, saw dust on the surfaces of the lenses. —I noticed your eyes. Are they . . . I mean, very bad? I mean, they really look . . .

  —Eserine.

  —Oh. Is it contagious? I mean, is it dangerous?

  —Dangerous? It’s not dangerous.

  —But . . . is it painful?

  —No. You can feel it, but it’s not painful.

  —Oh. Otto folded his hands before him. —Is it he
reditary, do you know? he asked, looking up.

  —Is it what?

  —I mean, how did you get it?

  —I got it from a friend of mine.

  —Oh, said Otto, and sat a bit further away. Then he said agreeably, —I suppose you wonder what I’ve been doing with myself.

  —Keeping busy I guess, was the answer, in an uninterested tone. Otto looked down at his hands, and reconsidered. —What have you been up to lately?

  —I’m working on a passport now. It’s no job for a beginner. It never was work for bums to get into. They ruin it for the real craftsman.

  —Yes. I mean I guess it’s like that in everything. But passports? I mean, what are you . . .

  The lonely waiter bore down, a plate in each hand. —All right, can it.

  —What? I mean, I just asked about passports, what are you . . .

  —It’s a very cold night out tonight, ain’t it. Their plates were put before them, and the waiter went the way he had come. —What’s the matter with you, anyway. Don’t you know there’s some things you just don’t ask about like that? This is a public place.

  —Oh. I’m sorry, Otto said, and watched his companion cross himself, and start to eat. —Are you Catholic? he asked.

  The eyes turned full upon him, penetrating the dust. He swayed, and looked down at his plate. —Am I Catholic! What do you think I am?

  —Oh. I mean, that’s fine. I was just sort of surprised. Seven thin slices of mushroom stuck to the top of the meat. Magic number: Otto cut into them. Somewhere (in exile, doubtless), the handsome young prince must be sitting, over cognac so fine it could hardly be swallowed, recalling legends of the king. Otto put a piece of the dry meat into his mouth, and could hardly swallow it. Beside him, he smelled lavender, and felt ill. He looked up to see the blond Jean leave the bar, carrying her bag. She glanced at the two of them without recognition or interest. Otto raised his face, his eyebrows, and his fork, to signal her.

  —You know her? You know that woman?

  —No, I . . . well, I talked to her while I was waiting.

  —It’s no time to get mixed up with women. Keep yourself out of trouble. He went on eating.

  —Yes, well . . . I guess it was just Christmas, you know, I mean, the sort of Christmas feeling. Otto raised another shred of meat on his fork. —I’ve thought of it, you know. Joining the Church, I mean.

  —Uh-phhm, was his answer, through a mouthful of bread.

  —It’s . . . it kind of gives a reason for things that otherwise don’t seem to have any. I mean, it legitimizes . . . well, you know . . . life, sort of.

  —You’re either born into it or you’re not. The fork beside him rested on the tablecloth. —There’s too many people around joining it as if it was a sight-seeing party.

  —But I . . .

  —You got to be born into it.

  —In a sense, I was, said Otto, with a slight laugh of confidence, waiting affirmation. There was none. He rested his fork on the table. He felt dizzy. From the corner of his eye he saw the figure beside him bowed over the plate, eating fast, moving the food only a matter of inches from the plate to his mouth. A fly descended upon the bread, and busied itself there. Otto’s hand shook as he raised it with the fork. —I guess it’s silly, that I should be nervous now, but I am I guess.

  —Hide it the best way you can. It’s all right to be nervous, anybody gets nervous in a thing like this sometimes. But you don’t need to show everybody you’re nervous. You look pretty young.

  —Young? Well I guess I do look young. But I’ve been out of college for about three years now.

  —College? You went to college? He wiped his mouth with his napkin, bowing his head to do so, and looked up.

  —Yes, I thought you . . . I went to Harvard, Otto said, and for the first time noticed the man’s necktie. —Why . . . you have on a Porcellian tie. Otto stared at the silk pigs’ heads. —Were you P.C.? I mean, I didn’t even know you went to Harvard.

  —Me at college? You know where I studied. Attica and Atlanta.

  —But . . . that tie, it is the Porcellian tie isn’t it.

  —Don’t worry, kid. I know what I’m doing.

  The fly lit on Otto’s hand, and he shook it away. His legs were crossed, and he commenced rubbing his ankle up and down against what he believed to be the center leg of the table. The man in gray was leaving the bar. As he watched him go, Otto’s hand rose with slow automatism to his chest, and his wrist pressed the vacancy there. Who could prove a thing? if he rose abruptly, dumping the table over if necessary, to turn square upon the upholstered shoulders beside him and cry, —Do you believe this? But then, who would pay the check? and the bar bill? There would certainly be no offer of a Christmas gift of money which Otto must, somehow, manage to suggest: a gift which might pay for the drinks he had enjoyed with Jean, for having seen the frayed trouser-cuffs when they walked to the table he could hardly expect more. Suddenly he imagined his hair furiously red, his skin dark, or eyes at a telltale slant: that would give the lie to this whole thing. But no: his nose was, really, quite like the one beside him, though Otto refused to recognize it as being absolutely so, derivative. Noses were, after all, noses, quite similar among Caucasians.

  The most gross insult might simply be to say, —I trust there hasn’t been some mistake? Better than that, to get up quietly from the table, cross the room quickly to the gentleman in light gray flannel (who also had a nose) and shake hands with him. But even now, the gentleman in light gray flannel was gone.

  All this time, the sling had bumped between them without rousing curiosity. Now, he heard, —What are you wearing that sling for, you really got hurt?

  —Well, in a way, I . . .

  —I thought it was faked. You haven’t learned how to handle it yet. You act like you’re keeping a live squirrel in it.

  —But it . . . I . . .

  The music was the Blue Danube waltz. Otto rubbed his mustache with his fingertip, and looked into a distant mirror where he could see Santa Claus’s strategic entrance, and stealthy approach to the door of the bar, where he was apprehended.

  The fork beside him clattered to the plate. —I’m done.

  —I think I’ve had enough, Otto said, barely half finished with the meal. He lit a cigarette, as the smell of lavender rose, heard a ringing in his ears from nowhere, wet his lips and heard forced salivation. Might it not all be rehearsed again, but differently, he thought, seeing a thin man of average height and quiet manner seated at a table in the middle of the room, finishing his dinner with a brandy: might Otto not have walked over and shaken his hand, and seated across from him, unsurprised, have listened to his intimacies with opera stars, artists, producers, over breast of guinea hen and wine?

  The man in the club tie rose, looked at them, locking them together in his glance, and left. It was too late. Procrustes’ bed was made: the only thing now was to get out of it the best way he could, which Otto did, more with weariness than pain. —It’s kind of difficult, to talk about money, but . . .

  —I’ve got it right here for you. You want to take it now? said the voice through a mouthful of bread. He was cleaning his fingernails with a tine of his salad fork.

  —Take what?

  —Twenties. Five G’s in perfect twenties.

  —Five what?

  —Five thousand. Here, it’s a thick packet. He motioned with his elbow to his side pocket.

  —Five thousand dollars?

  —Christ! Keep your voice down.

  —But isn’t that too much? I mean, even with Christmas . . .

  —Listen, are you sure you’re not drunk?

  —Why no, no, I . . .

  —I wouldn’t give this stuff to you if you was drunk. You’d probably throw it all over town before the night’s over. Lift it out of my pocket there.

  —Oh I’ll be very careful of it, ver-y care-ful of it . . . Otto said as he reached into the pocket and lifted the packet out, while the other sat silent and unconcerned, cleaning his n
ails with a tine of his salad fork. Otto wanted another glass of whisky. He opened the packet, and took out a twenty.

  —Christ! Don’t wave them around here! said the man beside him, and looked over the room quickly. But no one was near to notice them, and when he looked back he seemed unable to resist taking the bill from Otto and laying it on the cloth before him. —Beautiful, he said. —Beautiful, isn’t it.

  —Yess, Otto gasped.

  —A real work of art. He stared into the face of the seventh President. —You know it takes six different artists to make one of these? That’s what makes it tough. Six to one. Six against one, you might say. He turned it over, and ran a fingertip gently over the portico of the White House. —A real work of art, he said. —You don’t learn that at Harvard.

  Otto stared. He clutched the packet, as though it were liable to be wrenched from him at any instant.

  —You know, they burn around six tons of this stuff a day, the true quill, down in the Bureau of Printing and Engraving. Worn-out bills. It’s a crime.

  —Yes, but . . . well . . . this . . . was all Otto could say.

  The hand beside him rose to catch at a lapel, as the man sat back and stared upward, relaxed in nostalgia. —Johnny the Gent died the other day, he said. —You know him?

  —No, I . . .

  —He melted down the Ascot Cup. He was the first one to gild the sixpence, and passed them as half-sovereigns until they had to call them in. He knew so much about the Church that once he posed as Bishop of the Falkland Islands. He just died, Johnny. He had about ten dollars on him.

  Otto appeared to listen; but he heard nothing but jarring syllables.

  —He organized the best den London ever saw. He was even a Sunday School teacher for five years. He was a great man. I’ve thought of him a lot of times when I was sitting in the hole.

  The waiter approached a nearby table. —Put that stuff away. Otto put the twenty into his pocket, and the packet between his knees.

  —I miss him when a great artist dies like that. He was no bum. It’s no place for bums to get into, but they’re ruining it every day. There hardly is a single old master left, a real craftsman, like Johnny, or Jim the Penman. And me. I haven’t had a notice in the Detector in fourteen years.