John Passos - Manhattan transfer

‘You mustn’t laugh at her, she’s a peach… If only she wouldn’t keep that horrid little white poodle. She keeps it in her room and it never gets any exercise and it smells something terrible. She has that little room next to mine… Then she’s got a steady…’ Ruth giggled. ‘He’s worse than the poodle. They’re engaged and he borrows all her money away from her. For Heaven’s sake dont tell anybody.’

‘I don’t know anybody to tell.’

‘Then there’s Mrs Sunderland…’

‘Oh yes I got a glimpse of her going into the bathroom - an old lady in a wadded dressing gown with a pink boudoir cap on.’

‘Jimmy you shock me… She keeps losing her false teeth,’ began Ruth; an L train drowned out the rest. The restaurant door closing behind them choked off the roar of wheels on rails.

An orchestra was playing When It’s Appleblossom Time in Normandee . The place was full of smokewrithing slants of sunlight, paper festoons, signs announcing LOBSTERS ARRIVE DAILY, EAT CLAMS NOW, TRY OUR DELICIOUS FRENCH STYLE STEAMED MUSSLES (Recommended by the Department of Agriculture). They sat down under a redlettered placard BEEFSTEAK PARTIES UPSTAIRS and Ruth made a pass at him with a breadstick. ‘Jimmy do you think it’d be immoral to eat scallops for breakfast? But first I’ve got to have coffee coffee coffee…’

‘I’m going to eat a small steak and onions.’

‘Not if you’re intending to spend the afternoon with me, Mr Herf.’

‘Oh all right. Ruth I lay my onions at your feet.’

‘That doesn’t mean I’m going to let you kiss me.’

‘What… on the Palisades?’ Ruth’s giggle broke into a whoop of laughter. Jimmy blushed crimson. ‘I never axed you maam, he sayed.’

Sunlight dripped in her face through the little holes in the brim of her straw hat. She was walking with brisk steps too short on account of her narrow skirt; through the thin china silk the sunlight tingled like a hand stroking her back. In the heavy heat streets, stores, people in Sunday clothes, strawhats, sunshades, surfacecars, taxis, broke and crinkled brightly about her grazing her with sharp cutting glints as if she were walking through piles of metalshavings. She was groping continually through a tangle of gritty sawedged brittle noise.

At Lincoln Square a girl rode slowly through the traffic on a white horse; chestnut hair hung down in even faky waves over the horse’s chalky rump and over the giltedged saddlecloth where in green letters pointed with crimson, read DANDERINE. She had on a green Dolly Varden hat with a crimson plume; one hand in a white gauntlet nonchalantly jiggled at the reins, in the other wabbled a goldknobbed riding crop.

Ellen watched her pass; then she followed a smudge of green through a cross-street to the Park. A smell of trampled sunsinged grass came from boys playing baseball. All the shady benches were full of people. When she crossed the curving automobile road her sharp French heels sank into the asphalt. Two sailors were sprawling on a bench in the sun; one of them popped his lips as she passed, she could feel their seagreedy eyes cling stickily to her neck, her thighs, her ankles. She tried to keep her hips from swaying so much as she walked. The leaves were shriveled on the saplings along the path. South and east sunnyfaced buildings hemmed in the Park, to the west they were violet with shadow. Everything was itching sweaty dusty constrained by policemen and Sunday clothes. Why hadn’t she taken the L? She was looking in the black eyes of a young man in a straw hat who was drawing up a red Stutz roadster to the curb. His eyes twinkled in hers, he jerked back his head smiling an upsidedown smile, pursing his lips so that they seemed to brush her cheek. He pulled the lever of the brake and opened the door with the other hand. She snapped her eyes away and walked on with her chin up. Two pigeons with metalgreen necks and feet of coral waddled out of her way. An old man was coaxing a squirrel to fish for peanuts in a paper bag.

All in green on a white stallion rode the Lady of the Lost Battalion… Green, green, danderine… Godiva in the haughty mantle of her hair…

General Sherman in gold interrupted her. She stopped a second to look at the Plaza that gleamed white as motherofpearl… Yes this is Elaine Oglethorpe’s apartment… She climbed up onto a Washington Square bus. Sunday afternoon Fifth Avenue filed by rosily dustily jerkily. On the shady side there was an occasional man in a top hat and frock coat. Sunshades, summer dresses, straw hats were bright in the sun that glinted in squares on the upper windows of houses, lay in bright slivers on the hard paint of limousines and taxicabs. It smelled of gasoline and asphalt, of spearmint and talcumpowder and perfume from the couples that jiggled closer and closer together on the seats of the bus. In an occasional storewindow, paintings, maroon draperies, varnished antique chairs behind plate glass. The St Regis. Sherry’s. The man beside her wore spats and lemon gloves, a floorwalker probably. As they passed St Patrick’s she caught a whiff of incense through the tall doors open into gloom. Delmonico’s. In front of her the young man’s arm was stealing round the narrow gray flannel back of the girl beside him.

‘Jez ole Joe had rotten luck, he had to marry her. He’s only nineteen.’

‘I suppose you would think it was hard luck.’

‘Myrtle I didn’t mean us.’

‘I bet you did. An anyways have you ever seen the girl?’

‘I bet it aint his.’

‘What?’

‘The kid.’

‘Billy how dreadfully you do talk.’

Fortysecond Street. Union League Club. ‘It was a most amusing gathering… most amusing… Everybody was there. For once the speeches were delightful, made me think of old times,’ croaked a cultivated voice behind her ear. The Waldorf. ‘Aint them flags swell Billy… That funny one is cause the Siamese ambassador is staying there. I read about it in the paper this morning.’

When thou and I my love shall come to part, Then shall I press an ineffable last kiss Upon your lips and go… heart, start, who art… Bliss, this, miss… When thou… When you and I my love…

Eighth Street. She got down from the bus and went into the basement of the Brevoort. George sat waiting with his back to the door snapping and unsnapping the lock of his briefcase. ‘Well Elaine it’s about time you turned up… There aren’t many people I’d sit waiting three quarters of an hour for.’

‘George you mustn’t scold me; I’ve been having the time of my life. I haven’t had such a good time in years. I’ve had the whole day all to myself and I walked all the way down from 105th Street to Fiftyninth through the Park. It was full of the most comical people.’

‘You must be tired.’ His lean face where the bright eyes were caught in a web of fine wrinkles kept pressing forward into hers like the prow of a steamship.

‘I suppose you’ve been at the office all day George.’

‘Yes I’ve been digging out some cases. I cant rely on anyone else to do even routine work thoroughly, so I have to do it myself.’

‘Do you know I had it all decided you’d say that.’

‘What?’

‘About waiting three quarters of an hour.’

‘Oh you know altogether too much Elaine… Have some pastries with your tea?’

‘Oh but I don’t know anything about anything, that’s the trouble… I think I’ll take lemon please.’

Glasses clinked about them; through blue cigarettesmoke faces hats beards wagged, repeated greenish in the mirrors,

‘But my de-e-ar it’s always the same old complex. It may be true of men but it says nothing in regard to women,’ droned a woman’s voice from the next table… ‘Your feminism rises into an insuperable barrier,’ trailed a man’s husky meticulous tones. ‘What if I am an egoist? God knows I’ve suffered for it.’ ‘Fire that purifies, Charley…’ George was speaking, trying to catch her eye. ‘How’s the famous Jojo?’