Conrad Aiken: Great Circle

— What I mean is—

— Oh, sure—

— … kind of a turbine principle—

— … on the level, yes—

Wah-wah-wah-wah —the voices all rose at once against the clamor of the train through a deep cutting. It’s none of my business — Oh, of course not. But it was a mere disinterested love of music, that was all. Companionship. Years and years of it. Just like a brother. Come on, Andy — come on, Bertha — we’re going to Revere Beach, we’ll have a drunken battle with marshmallows on the boardwalk, we’ll find the monkey in the cage, we’ll raise a little polite hell. He waved the gin bottle over his head, gave a whoop, clutched Bertha, and began dancing along the hall. Bertha screeched, slapped her hands against his chest, pulled his ears. A harmless lark, they had so many tastes in common, like brother and sister. Why, for years Tom and Bertha hadn’t missed a night at the Sanders Theater concerts. No indeed. How they loved Haydn! How they adored Bach! What about a little Brandenburg tonight? and a little ravioli to begin with? what about the North End? what about the fortuneteller? Bertha’s eyes were on Tom while the dark lady studied her palm. What was the look in her eyes which had so struck him at the time? Nothing. Sense of change, sense of time, the flowing away of all things, cloud shadows on falling leaves. Who was Bertha? Bertha, to begin with, then Bertha plus one, Bertha plus two, Bertha plus three: never the same again. The sudden kiss in Craigie Street, the laugh, the shock, the readjustment to terrific wonder, the wedding, the honeymoon, and then the amazing flight of years and places, the dance of rooms, the dance of apartments, the dance of houses, the chorus of changing voices and faces. And now, after ten years, it was Bertha plus four, Bertha with Tom, Bertha with music, her arms grown heavier at the shoulders, her clothes more careless, fond of cocktail parties and dances, golf at Belmont, lunch with the Sewing Circle. Well, by God, if it was true—! Treason. Horror. He jumped to his feet, flung down the paper on the seat, and hurried forward. Pocahontas. The passengers were beginning to be restless, old ladies were waking up, the porter was gathering the bags from their reluctant owners and carrying them to the vestibule. Swaying, he touched the green velvet back of a chair, then another, then a third. A long row of lights fled past the windows, illuminated houses rushed at them and rushed away again, a cement wall converged on them perilously, whipped a series of swift column shadows at them, and was gone. Cordaville? One of the Newtons? Auburndale? The houses closed in on them, their path was being narrowed, one deserted station succeeded another. He sat down, put his feet on his suitcase, closed his eyes, and listened to the delicate sound of the rain on the roof and windows, which could be heard as a secret accompaniment to the train’s violent storming of suburb after suburb. The Harvard Club, first — cocktails and dinner at the Harvard Club, a little leisure, a little peace, time to pull himself together, to muster the phrases, the attitudes. What attitudes? A genial bursting in, gay homecoming, followed by instant surprise? Bewilderment? An entrance quiet and suspicious? Announced beforehand by the bell from below? Unannounced? Suppose they were at the piano. Ah yes. Then the easy comradely smile. But why are you home so soon? Why, indeed. But suppose, on the other hand—! And the phrases. Hello, darling — are you there, darling? Or perhaps it had better be in the plural. Idiot! What you need is a few drinks at the club — that will put you right, don’t worry, wait. Relax. Believe in God and the sanctity of marriage, not to mention the holiness of friendship. Have faith in Massachusetts and the Pilgrim Fathers. How do you do, Tom; hello, Bertha — what a fortunate coincidence to find you together — did Gieseking play on Thursday? Is there any ice in the icebox? Wonderfully mild weather for the time of year, isn’t it? But the papers say the rain will turn to snow before morning. Don’t stop playing — do go on — shall I turn the pages for you — or the sheets? Have I come to the right place? Is this Shepard Hall, Shepard Street, Cambridge, Massachusetts? Or was it two other fellows? Excuse me for intruding. I must have made a mistake. Haven’t we met before somewhere? — your face is very familiar — too damned familiar, if you ask me — and now let’s all join hands and have a good laugh together. But on the other hand—? No, no, no, no, no. Not. Never. Couldn’t. Not that! This is no place for old-fashioned melodrama, we don’t do such things in Cambridge, no indeed. There are no beds in Cambridge — how could we be so vulgar? My dear Tom, it’s none of my business, I’ll be going, just dropped in to see how you two lovebirds were getting on; hope everything is going swimmingly, that’s fine, O. K., see you in hell one of these days, good-by, good luck, God bless you, send in the bill. We aim to please. By the great love I bore you — Christ. Bores me, the sum.

With long thrusts, with smooth and powerful lunges of speed, they overtook another train, measured bright window against bright window, drew abreast of statuesque lethargic passenger after passenger, newspapers, hats, hands lifted or falling, swaying coats, listless inquiring eyes, men, women, girls, a final clack, and gone. The porter bent deprecatingly with his whisk, he rose and followed him, fishing in his pocket for a quarter, feeling for the right size, the milled edge.

— You all gettin’ off Back Bay, boss?

— Yes, I’ll take my bag myself.

— All right, boss.

The pale girl in green satin passed him, humming, holding her thin arms away from her thin swaying body for balance, the white hands a little lifted, self-conscious. Too bad, darling — where have you been all my life? If only you had introduced yourself more efficiently, perhaps at the ticket gate, or last night, or last year, things might have been very different. We’d now be like an old married couple. What secrets left? None. Do you perspire freely? Snore? Chew gum? Sing in your bath? Do you scratch the mole on your left clavicle every night till it bleeds? Cascara or castor oil? And exactly how good a liar are you? Liars need good memories. Yes, indeed. Don’t forget how you were caught in that little fib about Mehitabel Mockingbird and the dead pansy, or that other one about Methuselah and his sponge bag. Ah ha! We know all about it. And my God, the quarrels, the late night wrangles, the three-day silences, the weepings in dark rooms face downward on disheveled beds, the blows struck in sudden fury, the livid eyes of hate over the morning grapefruit! And lying beside each other for sleepless hours at night, the hands clenched, the eyes wide open but unseeing, eyeless at Gaza, while the digestion of each in turn interrupts the dramatic silence with obscene squeals and snickers. Love? after all that? My dear woman, pull yourself together. Go your way, take your little smells and snoops to another station, send your laundry to the North Pole, order a sandalwood coffin at Woolworth’s.… Marriage. In Cambridge there shall be neither giving nor taking in marriage, but all shall be as one sex, and that shall be without which is without, only the dead moon will dare to maculate the red macula. My dear Andy—

He put on his hat, his heart was beating, he felt a curious constriction in his throat, as if speaking would be difficult, his voice somehow misplaced. Think, you idiot! Think — don’t feel. Be calm. Cast a sure and slow balance of the figures in the situation, weigh the years one with another, measure each room, each wall, against the last. Why, to be sure, the sitting-room in the Shepard Hall apartment was smaller, much smaller, than the lounge at the Harvard Club, and there was no bar beneath it, nor was there a bison’s head above the fireplace, nor a pair of brass shells from the Somme. There were no palm trees in it, as in the lobby of the Touraine, not even a newsstand behind which one could take shelter: and as for the natatorium, why, the poor fool of an architect had left that out entirely. Just the same, they were getting on swimmingly. Come on, Andy, come on, Bertha, come on in, the water’s fine. Let’s walk down to the Square and get a cup of coffee; let’s go down and skate on the Common; let’s see what there is at the movies and make loud remarks about the hero. But it was all so innocent, so natural and boylike, so good-natured, so ringed about with brassy and wholesome laughter, how could one suspect anything wrong?… Patience. Run the eye slowly along the edge of the chair back, note the reflected lamp in the dark lustrousness of the windowpane, and another station passing; listen to the mournful rain-quenched cry of the whistle, cut off abruptly by a bridge, released again, silent. The train began shuddering and slowing, shuddering and slowing, lurched, glided, lurched again, and then quietly, evenly, with rhythmic soft hisses of steam which fogged the windows, no longer like a train, but like a ship on even keel in quiet waters, slid past slowing lights, and stopped with a last prolonged profound sigh.