The Recognitions

  Maude Munk had not moved. She said, —I haven’t seen Arny for hours.

  —Late hell, it’s morning, said the man in uniform.

  —It’s always morning somewhere . . . She looked at a windowless wall.

  —That’s Longfellow. I may not be an intellectual, but I know my American poets.

  —Is it? she murmured, surprised without interest.

  —That was Hannah the Horror of Hampstead, Mr. Crotcher intoned from his armchair bastion, to no one. —Shall I sing something else?

  And the woman in the collapsed maternity dress, who had been talking to the tall woman, went right on to the girl with the green tongue, —You see all the fat ugly little men with beautiful girls? All the wrong people have the money now, that’s because ugly people make money because there’s no alternative. When you’re ugly nobody spoils you, you see reality young and you see beautiful things as something separate from you you’re going to have to buy. So you start right out thinking money. Since the old aristocratic system where you inherited looks and manners and taste with your money . . .

  —Quick, gimme a piece of paper quick, Anselm said grabbing Otto by the shoulder. He wore the furpiece circling his face, knotted under his unshaven chin. —Hahaha, did you hear what just happened? I want to write something down, quick. He had jammed his rolled magazine into a hip pocket with the stethoscope. He was too excited with pleasure to notice Otto’s face, an anxious expression, but a vacant anxiety, and the more abandoned for being features inured by conscious arrangements where, only now as in sleep, nothing happened. Otto’s pale hand delved in his left jacket pocket, came up with his father’s note, some papers, —Wait! . . . wait a minute, not that . . .

  —Gimme that picture! . . . Everything about Anselm changed in an instant.

  Papers dropped between them. And Otto stood staring, at the pale, quivering, empty left hand so long out of use.

  —Where did you get it? Anselm demanded, half in a fury and half in a rage, as though he’d never seen, never before tonight, what was able to take his breath away: he picked it up from the floor staring at the glossy surface as though unable to contain the whole figure in his apprehension, seizing at details, the chair, the wallpaper, finally the delineating blemishes on the shadowed white, in a manic silence of search which led him to her face and left his own in a helpless show of fury and dismay. —I’d . . . you! . . . he hissed, looking up at Otto.

  —Esther, I’ve just heard the campiest limerick about an a-meeba and the queen of She-ba . . . a frail voice cried.

  —You . . . Anselm hissed.

  —But, listen . . . you can’t . . .

  —Are you the lady who wanted to hear about Pablo and his kitten?

  —You . . .

  —But how do you think I felt . . . ? Otto burst out at him, and reached to catch his naked trembling lip under a yellow forefinger.

  —Pablo was this scientist . . .

  —And it murmured, ich liebe, ich liebe.

  Then Anselm laughed, a choking hysterical sound, broken for an instant with a whimpered, —Sssuccubus . . . until he got his voice, —And when they took her to Bellevue and she knew they were going to undress her, she stopped screaming long enough to take out her falsies, and then she started in again, there, there, there! . . . his face was almost touching Otto’s.

  —In . . . she in, Bellevue? The whisper burned both their lips.

  Then a word ruptured Anselm’s mouth in a concussive sound which laid them at arm’s length: for both had brought up hands and stood so until, only Anselm did not move but followed his words with his eyes only, —yess, find her, find her, he hissed at the face gone in profile, and then that lost to hair and collar, and the soft convolution of an ear, —find her and be damned.

  Sounds rose about him; still Anselm did not move. With another look at the likeness in his hand, he shuddered and stuffed it into a pocket, then stood there alone gazing with an expression of revulsion at the orchid wilting upside-down on the graceless trunk of the figure moving like something afloat, bearing the signature of the jungle deeper among its shadows.

  —But nobody’s ever physically proved that the earth is in motion.

  —Einstein says he can’t believe God plays dice with the universe.

  —Well I have a friend who’s a physicist, he’s been converted. He writes songs now.

  —Claims he’s a serious musician. Be-bop, if you call that music.

  —Just so what she writes rhymes, she calls it poetry.

  —One of them goes, “With the Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost and you-hoo-ho-hoo, What wonders the five of us could do . . .”

  —Painting like she was having an orgasm, if you call that art.

  —If you call this living . . .

  —If you call that love . . . ?

  Sounds echoing, not from the vibrant reaches of the jungle, but the jungle floor itself, constrictions in the peat bog, the specimens themselves in motion: —I feel like we’ve been here for simply ages, said the tall woman. —I feel like 1 was born here, murmured Maude. But neither plaint nor query sounded in their voices, and neither made a move to go. Those who had disappeared were gone silently, leaving only faint traces or none on their minute contributions to the origin of species: the others remained with the tenacity of creatures bound to work out natural laws of survival, thus prove the superiority of their various equipment in adapting to conditions which no memory was long enough to find anything but nature.

  The dark poet reared his head with reptilian vigilance, looking from the dead orchid to Herschel, who had just come from the bathroom and posed, flourishing, in the door, an unfamiliar bloom sprung from the jungle floor, watched by these resentful close-focused eyes, turned away, at that moment, to a sound and flutter across the room, where the Duchess of Ohio soared on an outburst of tittering. The critic approached, moving with the steps of one in a familiar medium, disdaining claims of time past and future, both contained in this limicolous present.

  —They’re moving Father’s grave . . . Mr. Crotcher sang, sunk in the armchair, indifferent as the oyster which, despite the evolutionary excursions going on above, has found no reason to change in two hundred million years. While all around, less abiding varieties kept in motion, as though this might in itself be proof against time. Arny Munk’s head lolled in several directions, its sensory equipment unnecessary for he was being led by Sonny Byron whose tender voice belied the firm grip of his hand. —Come along, baby, be sweet, just for a minute, she’ll never miss you . . . And they passed under the eyes of the Paleozoic poet, glittering open from features whose prehistoric simplicity was faintly shadowed with apprehension at the sight of the opportune mutations going on around him, denying, by their very existence, the finality of his old-world wisdom, and suggesting, as they took to the air manipulating the baubles so helplessly evolved with a pretense of having designed them themselves, that perhaps, for all his belligerent cooperation with environment, that environment itself was changing, and not only he, but the entire species upon which he depended while living, and rescue from anonymity, perpetuation afterward, was to become part of the sodden floor, and the mat, and finally only traces on the crust itself.

  —Derive venereal, and see what you get, if you don’t call that decay, said someone near the hunched critic, who turned away, looked down at his large hands, and shrugged.

  Beyond, like some creature opportunely equipped to cope with situations which have not yet arisen or, indeed, even been suggested, Mr. Feddle scooted up a tier of shelved books, beyond the reaches of hagfish and lamprey, and other jawless progenitors babbling in apparent contentment below. From the surface there, the critic watched him, bringing up a hand to smooth his hair and for that moment betray the size of his head. His expression was as simple as resentment without understanding can be: now like plesiosaurus laboring all four limbs for the paddles they were, lifting a small head to see pterodactyl raise its absurd body on more absurd wings and with cumbrous scaling gain th
e sky, a ridiculous place to be, certainly, but for that moment he watched, disconcerting to plesiosaurus, to whom no such extravagance had ever occurred and who, by no feat of skill or imagination, could hope to accomplish it now.

  —As for your Emerson . . . ! someone said: and indeed, there were those to satisfy that eclectic digger too, gliding not to eat, nor for love, but only gliding.

  Esther, advancing, searched the shadows, but the speechless kitten was nowhere to be seen. Then looking for Ellery she raised her eyes, but their light remained untenanted until Benny’s flickering image filled them, and he asked with forced cheer, —Have you seen a little blond number named Adeline?

  Several people turned to see Mr. Feddle fall clattering to the floor; and in keeping with that refusal to be ruffled by disturbances, which they called good breeding, no one offered to help him up. For even those present who considered good breeding a pretension affected by a class they were vocationally in revolt against, substituting for it an obtuseness which they called honesty, watched with honest laughter.

  —My dear, it’s been lovely, the tall woman said to Esther. —I do wish I could give parties like this, but my husband . . . With one hand she was attempting to dislodge her husband from the shoal of furniture, where his hapteric glass anchored him. —But you’re not upset? You have to learn to be philosophical about those things, my dear, just don’t think about them. Now I have a real problem, just look at my furpiece . . . well it is insured, thank God. I spoke to him about it but I honestly don’t believe he understands English. I can’t repeat what he said to me. There is something almost prehistoric about him, wouldn’t you say? . . . something almost attractive . . . wouldn’t you say?

  The furpiece had, in fact, lost the quality of being an assumed decoration. Nature’s hand (which we are now assured is experimentally inclined) might have worked here to produce one of those severe mutations which (so Science goes on assuring us) are opportune, chancy arrangements with no particular purpose, included in the calculated risk of being born. Nonetheless, Anselm wiped his nose on a mink tail as casually as though the thing had grown there for that purpose. But his expression retained a livid suspension, as the lower lip was held sharply under an uneven yellow line of teeth. He was watching Stanley. From Rose’s darkness came men’s voices borne on music, Judas Maccabaeus. On one hand, Chavenet turned out to be the man who had first proved that the eye which forms the image could not possibly have worked until after it was complete. Seated on the other, that xenophobic accessory to monosyllabic criteria in honest writing, overheard the word hapteron from above, and swore. Anselm watched Stanley. And behind him, Don Bildow approached mustering as vengeful an expression as plastic rims would allow.

  —There must be some place to hide for people who make mistakes, Agnes Deigh said holding Stanley’s hand in both hers. She was staring there, where Mickey Mouse semaphored annul with yellow mittens. —It can’t be that early, she murmured.

  —But Agnes, the Church . . .

  —That glass, the full one, could you hand it to me? she asked him then, looking up.

  He did, hesitatingly, —But don’t you think, for your own good?

  —Isn’t it when we make mistakes that we need love most? she said abruptly. She’d raised the glass in a quivering hand but did not drink, waiting.

  —Yes but, he answered unsteadily, pretending not to see Anselm’s approach as his voice picked up. —But not finite love that’s as weak as we are, not just that, not . . .

  —Stanley, she interrupted firmly, though her voice was faint. —I’m sorry. I’m sorry now for . . . about what I said to you that night, that night when you ran away Stanley, it was my fault, I shouldn’t have said that to you, should I . . . He waited for her to go on, unable to answer. —It . . . I . . . I didn’t know, Stanley. I didn’t know you didn’t want to hear it, God knows I do, I mean . . . I thought we all did, I thought it was all anyone wanted, to hear that . . .

  —Yes but . . . well, it’s . . . I mean love has to be something greater than ourselves, and when it is then it is faith, and the Church . . .

  Bildow clenched small fists, at the ends of his long arms. —I demand that you tell me where my daughter . . . he said loudly to Anselm.

  —Shut up, this is a conversation about love. Did you ever read the great poet Suckling? Here’s a poem of the English Cavalier poet Sir John Suckling for you, Stanley. “Love is the fart Of every heart; It pains a man when ’tis kept close; And others doth offend, when ’tis let loose.” Do you like that? Hey come here, where you going?

  Stanley looked helplessly at Agnes Deigh. —I have to . . . excuse me a minute, he said. She continued to stare at Anselm, who shifted his eyes from hers in sudden discomfort, finally said, weakly, —I’m . . . I mean he’s scared . . . Isn’t he . . . and turned away to where Bildow pulled him.

  All this time, a figure had been moving about the room like a shadow, but a pale shade, if black light could cast such a wan shape in darkness. Occasionally Anselm had fixed inflamed eyes upon him, and looked away after a fiercely vacant exchange. He spoke to no one, hardly anyone had spoken to him, and fewer of him, until now the woman in the collapsed maternity dress noted, —Yes, the boy with the silver plate in his head, he looks like a sensitive minority of one to me. And that woolly-headed boob is trying to convert him, that’s the trouble with converts . . . what is it, child? Mummy sent you up . . . I know, wait a minute, here . . . Wait, I almost gave you my Pubies . . .

  —What are they for? the girl with the green tongue asked.

  —I forget, but they help . . . And she looked back hungrily to where the hunched man in the green shirt had just said, —Just the same, you ought to get wise to yourself . . . when he was swung round with a dirty hand on his shoulder. Anselm looked him square in the eyes.

  —Don’t you get tired of hanging around like a spare prick?

  —Why, why you . . . The hunched man quivered throughout his body, as though it were suddenly an unfamiliar arrangement which he could not call upon, at such short notice, to fight.

  —Just don’t give Charles a hard time, Anselm said to him calmly. —You’d be a God damn lot worse off than he is if you’d been through what he has. I heard this crap you were just giving him, your . . . and you can’t argue that way, you can’t discuss absolutes in relative terms. That’s what screws you God-damned smart intellectuals up, trying to discuss absolutes in relative terms.

  —I’ll discuss it any way I want to, the critic said sounding firm because he spoke quickly.

  —God damn it you will not! Anselm said desperately. —You can’t, you can’t do that with absolutes, you either accept them or you tell them to go take a flying fuck but you can’t do what you’re doing . . . Anselm stopped, breathless, close upon the man. Behind him Bildow stood where Anselm had broken from his grasp, looking at the pale face beyond them both. —And . . . and leave Charles alone, just . . . leave him alone, Anselm finished.

  The other shrugged, taking green elbows in his heavy hands. —I was just trying to get a razor away from him, he said sullenly, turning away.

  —A what? Anselm demanded, got no answer, and turned to the pale fading figure. —Did he? Have you? He grabbed a shoulder and shook him. —Where’d you get it? Give it to me. Give it to me. God damn you 1 said give it to me! He watched the thin wrist with its exaggerated rasceta disappear, and snatched the black-handled thing from the thin hand as it drew out of a pocket. —You . . . stupid bastard, you . . . what were you trying to do? Anselm went on, but his own voice was unsteady as he put it into his own pocket, and he did not look into the empty face before him. —You have no . . . God damn right to try things like this, you . . . stupid bastard . . . he finished bringing his voice to a whisper where he could control it. When he did look up their eyes held one another, Anselm’s burning into that vacant embrace until he tore them away, and turning away himself sniffed and wiped his nose with his hand, muttering. Don Bildow stood in his path but did not interrupt him when h
e saw the orchid, fallen to the floor from an earlier caress, and went to pick it up. With it dangling between two fingers, Anselm turned, recovering, —Hey lady, he said, but the woman who’d worn it was not to be seen. —The lady lost her nuts, Anselm said to no one. He mumbled, —That’s the world we live in, the ladies wear the nuts . . . choking forth convalescent laughter, coming on toward Stanley who had found the bathroom door locked and was returning to Agnes Deigh the long way round the room.

  —And Pablov had this kitten . . .

  —But Carruthers had a mare . . .

  —Well she says she got pregnant by taking a bath right after her father, but I say . . .

  —Omychrahst, I mean, youmeanyoureallywanttobuyone?

  —Cómo? qué dice . . . ?

  —You. Really. Want. To. Buy. One.?

  —That is the purpose of my trip to your country, in addition for picking up something of artistic for the Jockey Club in Buenos Aires.

  —Oh Chrahst now look don’t go away, I mean I haven’t got one with me. Look tomorrow morning I’ll come to your hotel and you come with me. I mean, you’re not drunk are you?

  —Drunk? I?

  —Chrahst I’m sorry maybe I am, I mean I was, but I mean people don’t just go around buying battleships.

  Maude had been fumbling at her throat. —What’s matter, you spilled something down your dress? The hand on the back of her neck stopped, the man leaned forward and looked, with her, down the front of her dress. —What’s matter? But her fumbling hand failed, and she was staring at an encumbered limb before her. The attractive girl with the Boston voice, whose leg it was, looked down too. She had just said,