John Passos - Manhattan transfer

‘What, did you say Bob Ingersoll had been struck by lightning?’ cried Olga shrilly. ‘Serve him right the horrid atheist.’

‘No not exactly, but it scared him into a realization of the important things of life and now he’s joined the Methodist church.’

‘Funny how many actors get to be ministers.’

‘Cant get an audience any other way,’ creaked the man with the diamond stud.

The two waiters hovered outside the door listening to the racket inside. ‘Tas de sacrés cochons… sporca madonna!’ hissed the old waiter. Emile shrugged his shoulders. ‘That brunette girl make eyes at you all night…’ He brought his face near Emile’s and winked. ‘Sure, maybe you pick up somethin good.’

‘I dont want any of them or their dirty diseases either.’

The old waiter slapped his thigh. ‘No young men nowadays… When I was young man I take heap o chances.’

‘They dont even look at you…’ said Emile through clenched teeth. ‘An animated dress suit that’s all.’

‘Wait a minute, you learn by and by.’

The door opened. They bowed respectfully towards the diamond stud. Somebody had drawn a pair of woman’s legs on his shirtfront. There was a bright flush on each of his cheeks. The lower lid of one eye sagged, giving his weasle face a quizzical lobsided look.

‘Wazzahell, Marco wazzahell?’ he was muttering. ‘We aint got a thing to drink… Bring the Atlantic Ozz-shen and two quarts.’

‘De suite monsieur…’ The old waiter bowed. ‘Emile tell Auguste, immediatement et bien frappé.’

As Emile went down the corridor he could hear singing.

The moonface and the bottlenose were coming back from the lavatory reeling arm in arm among the palms in the hall.

‘These damn fools make me sick.’

‘Yessir these aint the champagne suppers we used to have in Frisco in the ole days.’

‘Ah those were great days those.’

‘By the way,’ the moonfaced man steadied himself against the wall, ‘Holyoke ole fella, did you shee that very nobby little article on the rubber trade I got into the morning papers… That’ll make the investors nibble… like lil mishe.’

‘Whash you know about rubber?… The stuff aint no good.’

‘You wait an shee, Holyoke ole fella or you looshing opportunity of your life… Drunk or sober I can smell money… on the wind.’

‘Why aint you got any then?’ The bottlenosed man’s beefred face went purple; he doubled up letting out great hoots of laughter.

‘Because I always let my friends in on my tips,’ said the other man soberly. ‘Hay boy where’s zis here private dinin room?’

‘Par ici monsieur.’

A red accordionpleated dress swirled past them, a little oval face framed by brown flat curls, pearly teeth in an open-mouthed laugh.

‘Fifi Waters,’ everyone shouted. ‘Why my darlin lil Fifi, come to my arms.’

She was lifted onto a chair where she stood jiggling from one foot to the other, champagne dripping out of a tipped glass.

‘Merry Christmas.’

‘Happy New Year.’

‘Many returns of the day…’

A fair young man who had followed her in was reeling intricately round the table singing:

‘Hoopla,’ cried Fifi Waters and mussed the gray hair of the man with the diamond stud. ‘Hoopla.’ She jumped down with a kick, pranced round the room, kicking high with her skirts fluffed up around her knees.

‘Oh la la ze French high kicker!’

‘Look out for the Pony Ballet.’

Her slender legs, shiny black silk stockings tapering to red rosetted slippers flashed in the men’s faces.

‘She’s a mad thing,’ cried the lady in the tiara.

Hoopla. Holyoke was swaying in the doorway with his top hat tilted over the glowing bulb of his nose. She let out a whoop and kicked it off.

‘It’s a goal,’ everyone cried.

‘For crissake you kicked me in the eye.’

She stared at him a second with round eyes and then burst into tears on the broad shirtfront of the diamond stud. ‘I wont be insulted like that,’ she sobbed.

‘Rub the other eye.’

‘Get a bandage someone.’

‘Goddam it she may have put his eye out.’

‘Call a cab there waiter.’

‘Where’s a doctor?’

‘That’s hell to pay ole fella.’

A handkerchief full of tears and blood pressed to his eye the bottlenosed man stumbled out. The men and women crowded through the door after him; last went the blond young man, reeling and singing:

Fifi Waters was sobbing with her head on the table.

‘Don’t cry Fifi,’ said the Colonel who was still sitting where he had sat all the evening. ‘Here’s something I rather fancy might do you good.’ He pushed a glass of champagne towards her down the table.

She sniffled and began drinking it in little sips. ‘Hullo Roger, how’s the boy?’

‘The boy’s quite well thank you… Rather bored, dont you know? An evening with such infernal bounders…’

‘I’m hungry.’

‘There doesnt seem to be anything left to eat.’

‘I didnt know you’d be here or I’d have come earlier, honest.’

‘Would you indeed?… Now that’s very nice.’

The long ash dropped from the Colonel’s cigar; he got to his feet. ‘Now Fifi, I’ll call a cab and we’ll go for a ride in the Park…’

She drank down her champagne and nodded brightly. ‘Dear me it’s four o’clock…’ ‘You have the proper wraps haven’t you?’

She nodded again.

‘Splendid Fifi… I say you are in form.’ The Colonel’s cigarcolored face was unraveling in smiles. ‘Well, come along.’

She looked about her in a dazed way. ‘Didnt I come with somebody?’

‘Quite unnecessary!’

In the hall they came upon the fair young man quietly vomiting into a firebucket under an artificial palm.

‘Oh let’s leave him,’ she said wrinkling up her nose.

‘Quite unnecessary,’ said the Colonel.

Emile brought their wraps. The redhaired girl had gone home.

‘Look here, boy.’ The Colonel waved his cane. ‘Call me a cab please… Be sure the horse is decent and the driver is sober.’

‘De suite monsieur.’

The sky beyond roofs and chimneys was the blue of a sapphire. The Colonel took three or four deep sniffs of the dawnsmelling air and threw his cigar into the gutter. ‘Suppose we have a bit of breakfast at Cleremont. I haven’t had anything fit to eat all night. That beastly sweet champagne, ugh!’

Fifi giggled. After the Colonel had examined the horse’s fetlocks and patted his head, they climbed into the cab. The Colonel fitted in Fifi carefully under his arm and they drove off. Emile stood a second in the door of the restaurant uncrumpling a five dollar bill. He was tired and his insteps ached.

When Emile came out of the back door of the restaurant he found Congo waiting for him sitting on the doorstep. Congo’s skin had a green chilly look under the frayed turned up coatcollar.

‘This is my friend,’ Emile said to Marco. ‘Came over on the same boat.’

‘You havent a bottle of fine under your coat have you? Sapristi I’ve seen some chickens not half bad come out of this place.’

‘But what’s the matter?’

‘Lost my job that’s all… I wont have to take any more off that guy. Come over and drink a coffee.’

They ordered coffee and doughnuts in a lunchwagon on a vacant lot.