Evan Connell - Mr. Bridge

“You’re a strange person,” Ruth said. “You’re my father and all that, but I really don’t know what goes on inside your head.”

Mr. Bridge laughed uncomfortably. “Well, Ruth, I’m afraid I don’t know what to make of that statement.”

“You’re so hard and so cold and so humorless. Then you do a thing like this. And for a Jew.”

He stopped eating. In a controlled voice he said: “I do not know what you are talking about. The fact that young Glatz was Jewish had nothing to do with it. I would — in fact, I have done the same thing for other people who were not Jewish.”

“Your charity work?”

“If you wish to call it that.”

“That’s what Julia calls it.”

“And just what else has Julia told you about what goes on in my office?”

She reached across the table and rested her hand on his. “Now don’t go home and fire Julia. She isn’t giving away secrets. She assumed I knew about it. Sometimes you treat us all like strangers.”

“When you say I treat you all like strangers, whom do you mean?”

“Douglas. Cork. Me. There are times you treat Mother like you never saw her before.”

“I am not aware of that,” he said, and began to wipe his fingers on the napkin. “If so, Ruth, that certainly was the last thing on my mind. I believe you must have misinterpreted something I said or did.”

“No. It’s the way you are. Everybody who knows you knows it. Dr. Sauer said you were a consummate Puritan.”

“I am not sure I understand.”

“Oh Christ, let’s forget the whole thing.”

“I will not. I want to get to the bottom of this. If I have done something wrong I wish you would tell me. Your mother, your brother, your sister, and you yourself mean more to me than anything in the world. I hope you are aware of this.”

“Will you please quit? I may be about to cry.”

“I intend to get to the bottom of this matter.”

She hid her face in her hands and whispered, “For once in your life can’t you let something go?”

He was embarrassed and puzzled. He looked around to see if anyone was watching. Then he said, “I seem to have upset you without meaning to. I’m sorry. I do not know what this is all about and I am trying to find out.”

“Let’s not quarrel.”

“We are not quarreling, so far as I know. You have made a statement which is most disturbing. I am attempting to discover what it is that I have done wrong.”

“Listen, I’m exhausted. I’m terribly tired. I really must go back to the apartment and get some sleep.”

“Wouldn’t you care for dessert?”

“No. No. No! I don’t want dessert. I don’t want any God damned dessert. Will you please let me alone?”

“As you wish.”

He beckoned the waiter to bring the check. Then they rode back to her apartment without speaking. He could not understand why she refused to explain. He wanted to ask again, but he was afraid she would become hysterical.

Before saying goodnight she asked if he would like to attend the Bjoerling recital.

“Whatever you wish,” he smiled, and took out his wallet and gave her twenty dollars, saying, “I have no idea what the tickets are, but this should be sufficient.” Then he asked where it was to be, and at what time. The recital was in Carnegie Hall the following night at eight thirty.

He got there at eight o’clock and waited on the top step with his arms crossed. The number of people arriving for the concert surprised him. Presently he saw Ruth get out of an expensive foreign car. She found him at once, as though she knew where he would be standing. She waved as she came up the steps, and then for a few minutes they remained outside while she smoked a cigarette. She was smoking too much, but he wanted this evening to be pleasant so he did not mention it. He gestured at the crowd.

“Great Scott, you’d think it was a movie premiere. If this fellow gave his concert in Kansas City he wouldn’t draw anywhere near this many people.”

Ruth dropped her cigarette, stepped on it, and took him by the arm. In the lobby he bought a program and after they were settled in their seats he opened it, read about the artist, and contemplated his picture. Bjoerling had somewhat fleshy features and dark hair. As for the songs, none were familiar. Having seen what he wished to see, he gave the program to Ruth.

As soon as the singer appeared from the wings there was an enthusiastic ovation. He was short, dignified, rather portly, and for some reason his feet looked uncommonly small.

The lights dimmed and the concert began.

Before the end of the first song Mr. Bridge was thinking about other matters and the music sounded far away, as though the man was singing in a different hall.

Two days later, Saturday, Ruth suggested another cultural excursion, this time to the Metropolitan Museum where there was to be a lecture on El Greco by a famous art historian. Again he agreed. He had visited the museum once before, about ten years ago. Since then he had made a number of trips to New York and several times had thought of visiting the Metropolitan again, but for one reason or another had not done so. He did not particularly like the El Greco pictures he had seen because the figures were distorted; however, it might be interesting to learn something about them.

During the talk he found himself dozing, and when he blinked and straightened up he was unable to concentrate on the information. He remembered only a few phrases. He remembered “the eyes of the demented have an exalted look,” and he believed he heard the lecturer say that El Greco used to paint the insane people of Toledo, which was curious. Otherwise it was a wasted hour. Then Ruth wanted to see the pictures, so he followed her around without saying much. The pleasure of the afternoon was in being with her.

She stopped in front of the portrait of Cardinal Don Fernando Niño de Guevara, Archbishop of Seville and grand inquisitor during the reign of Philip the Second. The tense, elderly churchman in his cherry-red robe and red hat sat like a burning pyramid in the wooden chair. A document lay on the checkered floor near his feet. Behind the dark-rimmed glasses a shrewd pair of eyes bent suspiciously to the left. His elongated right hand lay relaxed on one arm of the chair, but his left hand convulsively clutched the other arm.

She asked what he thought of the portrait. He replied that he did not know much about painting, but it seemed to be well done and was probably a good likeness of the man.

Staring at the face of the cardinal, she said, “I bought a print of it. He reminds me so of you.”

While wandering around on the second floor of the museum they met Steve Cook. He was a tall, impeccably dressed Negro with aquiline features and pale blue eyes. Mr. Bridge shook hands and then stood by with his arms folded while Ruth and her friend chatted about Spanish painters and various other matters. Finally Steve Cook announced that he ought to be getting back to the office. He turned to Mr. Bridge and smiled, and remarked that it had been a pleasure to meet Ruth’s father and that he hoped they would meet again.

“Thank you,” Mr. Bridge said. After the Negro walked away he asked if this was the man who had escorted her to the ballet, and she said it was.

“You are begging for trouble,” he said.

She threw the hair out of her eyes and said, “Oh, dear Christ!”

“Where did you meet this person?”

“In the subway.”

“I see. What does he do for a living?”

Ruth was not sure. He was the advertising manager for Houyhnhnm, but this was merely because he was kind enough to help out. He was not getting any salary for it. She thought he had a part-time job as a public relations man, maybe with one of the airlines. He used to work for an advertising agency. Maybe he was still there. He was writing a play. He had appeared as a guest on a radio program, but she did not know why he had been invited.