Conrad Aiken: Great Circle

— Hello!.. Hello, darlings! Lochinvar is home again.

He swept the gloves, hat, and stick onto the floor: the yellow stick clattered. In their place he flung down his own soaked hat and coat.

— View halloo! Tallyho!

The light in the corridor was switched on, and Bertha’s hand and face were motionless, frozen, inclining forward from the bedroom door. The mouth was relaxed, the eyes concentrated, with fright.

— It’s a melodrama, Berty. Will you come forward singly or in pairs?

— Andy!

— Andrew One-eye Cather himself!

The surprised face disappeared, taking with it the white plump hand. The bedroom door creaked very slightly.

— Take your time about dressing: I’ll wriggle some cocktails.… Wriggle is the word.

He stumbled into the sitting room, turned on the light, stood in the center of the Kerman rug under the hideous brass chandelier, and stared out through the black window. Rain. All the way from Boston to New York. Rain devouring New England. Wonders of the Invisible World! And there were the Goddamned nasturtiums too — the nasturtium quid — and the damned little gilt clock, ticking subtly and complacently to itself, for all the world as if it were Tom’s own pulse. Break it. Dash it to smithereens on the red-brick hearth. Step on it, kid — let time be out of joint. But where were they? What were they doing? What were they saying? He listened. Nothing. Not a sound. If they were saying anything, it was in a whisper — a frightened whisper — they were pulling themselves together — wondering what line he would take — pulling on their stockings and shoes — perhaps not daring to look at each other. The room gave a streaming lurch, and to steady himself he put his hand on the corner of the yellow-grained mantelpiece. A Spanish grammar. He plucked the red book out of its place on the shelf, opened it at random, then flung it onto the couch. What about another little drink. Or the cocktails.

In the kitchen, unthinking, he assembled on the table a can of grapefruit juice, a lemon, a small sharp knife, the sugar bowl, the cocktail shaker, and began chipping the ice in the ice box. A cockroach ran out and fell to the floor. Then Bertha’s voice spoke oddly behind him.

— Andy.

He missed his stroke, his hand slipped along the smooth cold surface of ice, then he resumed his chipping, the chunks of ice clunking into the grooved pan.

— I’m sorry, Andy.

— Gosh, is that all. I said this was a melodrama, didn’t I?

He flung the ice pick point forward so that it stuck, quivering, into the wooden drainboard of the sink. Then he began gathering up the broken ice between his two palms and dumping it in the shaker.

— I think we’d better talk reasonably about it.

— Sure. Go ahead. Step right up with a wagonload of reasons. This is going to be fun, by God. Go fetch Tom and tell him to have a drink.

— Look at me, Andy!

— Why the bloody hell should I? But I will, if it’ll do you any good.

He put the cap on the shaker and started shaking, then turned and looked at her, smiling. She had on the Mandarin jacket, a band of black velvet was round her copper-colored hair, her eyes were deep, dark, tear-bright. She leaned against one side of the door.

— I see you, Berty! There you are — the known unknown at last.

— That ought to be something.

— Oh, it is, believe me. Hell, I forgot to put in the grapefruit juice. And the lemons.

He found the can opener, opened the can, breathing heavily, poured the contents into the shaker, sliced three slices of lemon, then shook black squirts of angostura over the floating ice. Five, six, seven, eight. He felt dizzy, and held an ice-cold palm against his forehead. Whoof. The world must be slipping sideways. Better grab on to something. Perhaps Bertha. The prop of your old age. Perhaps the rung of a sideways chair. A dish cloth.

— I don’t see what good it’s going to do you to get any drunker than you are already. For six months—

— For God’s sake, don’t talk to me about six months! Go on, get out of here, sit down and I’ll bring the glasses.… Oh, there you are!

He tilted his head to one side, elaborately, and grinned at Tom.

— Hello, Andy.

— Nice little surprise you planned for me. Have a drink.

Bertha turned abruptly on her heel, went into the sitting room, and sank onto the couch. She sat upright with her hands beside her, staring at nothing. Tom followed her awkwardly. As if to avoid the appearance of approaching her, he went to the farther side of the room and stood for a moment by the black piano, frowning. Then he took a step or two back towards the kitchen.

— I don’t think I’ll have a drink, if you don’t mind.

— Oh, sure, come on, might as well do it amiably, say the hard things amiably—

He put the shaker and glasses on the red table, and waved his arm over them.

— Go on — make yourself at home. Everything that’s mine is yours. Don’t try to smile, though, till you’ve got your face under better control.

— Look here, Andy, old man — I think I’d better go. You two had better talk it over first — don’t you think so, Bertha.

— Yes.

— Nope. Nothing doing. This is now a famille à trois . Family conference. Every one to be represented. Though I must say you don’t either of you seem to have much to say. Strikes me the scene is a little disappointing. Oughtn’t you to say you were waiting for a streetcar? Or came back for your umbrella? Did you lose your motor bike? You know, something like that. But of course the thing isn’t really a surprise to any of us, is it — we’ve all seen it coming for such a long time — months and months — Jesus, I’ve got to laugh.

He laughed, pushing his shoulders against the mantel, while Tom, his face white and strained, handed a cocktail to Bertha. She took it mechanically, without looking at it, and as mechanically drank it.

— Why did you come back tonight, she said.

— Why? Because a little bird told me.

— I don’t think it was very sporting of you.

— Neither do I. But what can you do. I’ve never faced a situation quite like this, my dear, and you must forgive me if my technique is a little crude. As I remarked to begin with, it’s a melodrama; and in a melodrama, you’ve got to behave like actors in a melodrama, haven’t you? Suppose I’d telephoned from the club. Everything spoiled, postponed, all of us left in doubt and suspense and agony, nothing settled. What the hell was the use of that? I thought of it, believe me — looked at the telephones — but, no, I decided it must be cut off with a knife. Psst — and done.… Here’s how.

Tom had perched himself on the arm of the big chair, and was tapping his glass with a finger-nail.

— You’re perfectly right, he murmured — Perfectly right. Of course I don’t need to say how sorry—

— Oh, no. We needn’t go into that. We all know how sorry. One of those awkward complexes, nicht wahr , in which delight and sorrow are so painfully and inextricably mixed. I’ll give you credit for the sorrow, which I know must be real. Of course. Naturally. You like me — I like you — we’re old friends, aren’t we — knew each other before we knew Bertha — grew up together — how couldn’t you feel sorry? Same here. I feel sorry, too, though it may surprise you. Sorry for you and Bertha and myself in about equal portions. Yes. A sort of weltschmerz . Perhaps a little sorrier for myself than for either of you, which is selfish of me, but you’ll forgive me. I suppose, as a matter of fact, I ought to kill you? I even thought of it. I thought of it at the corner of Garden and Shepard Street: had a vision of my revolver lying brightly at the bottom of my steamer trunk. But that would be ridiculous.