William Gaddis - Carpenter's Gothic

— Monsieur McCandless, oui. Il était fâché.

— Yes well you said that, he was angry you said that, but I mean who. Qui.

— Monsieur McCandless, oui… The wet swath swept closer, underfoot, — cette piece la, il ne pouvait pas entrer. Il dit qu'on a change la serrure. Il était fâch…

— No now wait wait, attendez. He was, you mean Monsieur McCandless était ici? here? He was here?

— Ce matin, oui Madame.

— But he, I mean why didn't you tell me! What did he…

— La pièce lá… with a wet thrust at the door behind her, — il se fâchait parce-qu'il ne pouvait pas entrer quand il est venu ce mat…

— Yes well you said that, and he was fâché because he couldn't get in I mean why didn't he call? They put on a new lock last week when they fixed a pipe in there why didn't he call, the agent has the key he could have gone to the real estate agent couldn't he? Did he leave any message or anything? Where we could, où on peut lui téléphoner? or if, when he'll be back? S'il retourner?

— Non Madame.

— Well I don't know what he expects us to do… The pail lurched closer and she got up, got by it, — he didn't say anything? Rien? I mean where we could, où on peut lui trouver? She turned in the doorway, — where these people can call him? I mean I'm a little fâché myself… Steadied against a dining room chair she slipped off her shoes and her steps, shorn of purpose, took her back to the living room, to the mantel. — Madame? Madame Socrate…? She pressed the broken dog together, — ce chien? Qu'est-ce que arrive avec ce chien que, que c'est cassé?

— Madame?

— No nothing, never mind. Rien… She'd turned her back on it, turned her steps irresolute as her gaze fallen vacant where words abruptly snared it, seized upon its own privation shaped here to no purpose,

LOSS OF $412 MILLION, A RECORD, REPORTED BY GENERAL MOTORS

yesterday's headline or the day's before, of no more relevance then than now in its blunt demand to be read, building the clutter, widening the vacancy, driving it elsewhere, anywhere, the still embrace of the armchair there beyond the hearth to flee even that for the front door's glass paneled symmetry.

— Madame?

— Oh! I, you startled me…

— Vous parliez du chien, Madame? Out there on the brick, the old dog hunched scratching a callused elbow with those red nails. — Je ne connais pas ce chien Madame.

— It's not, never mmd, ça ne fait rien it's just, it just acts like it lives here no wait, wait I've meant to ask you. Ces meubles? all this furiiiture? I mean on dit que c'est le, les meubles du Madame?

— Madame?

— Du Madame McCandless oui, qu'elle vient pour le, to move it all out I mean? pour le retrouver?

— Sais pas Madame.

— Because it's all, I mean some of it's quite lovely isn't it it's, c'est comme un petit musée isn't it. I mean ces chaises? they're rosewood aren't they, I wouldn't leave chairs like that for tenants you don't even know, and this vase? It's Sevres isn't it? n'est-ce pas? Because everything goes together so beautifully, I've never been able to make a place look so, just look so right. Even these… she bent to blow at petals nodding in pink silk, it might have been cyclamen, stood away from the puff of dust. — Madame? Madame So-crate…? From the kitchen the rush of a torrent of water, the clatter of the pail in the sink. — She must have left suddenly, did she? all of a sudden? Or she wouldn't have left everything out like this… And back in the kitchen doorway, — Madame? C'est combien du temps que elle, que Madame McCandless, I mean how long she's been gone?

— Madame? The pail came to the floor.

— How long she's, quand elle est partie?

— Sais pas Madame.

— No but if you've been working for them, I mean you must have some idea when she, quelque idée…

— Sais pas Madame.

— But… she stood there, silenced by the back turned to her, the sullen ease of the arm wiping down white surfaces, the stove, the sink, the sill and there beyond it discoloured leaves filling the terrace in broken sunlight through the haphazard limbs of a mulberry tree, and then abruptly — elle est jolie?

— Madame?

— Is she, ce Madame McCandless, est-ce qu'elle est jolie?

— Sais pas Madame.

— No but I mean you must know if she's pretty, belle? Is she, if she's young? I mean vous connaissez ce Madame puis…

— Connais pas Madame.

— But she, you don't know her? Vous ne connaissez I mean you don't even know her? But that's, I mean that's odd isn't it, n'est-ce pas?

— Oui Madame.

Back in the living room she picked up the newspaper, put it down and picked up the field guide to birds where she studied the ragged crest and squat self importance of red breasted merganser. She had never seen one.

— Madame? in the kitchen doorway now, squeezing on worn pumps.

— Oh, oh you're finished now yes, un moment… Through the dining room she got the kitchen drawer open digging under napkins, under placemats, — that's, c'est vingt cinq dollars?

— Trente dollars Madame.

— Oh…? She came up with another five.

— Et la monnaie pour 1'autobus Madame.

— Oh the, your carfare yes, yes combien…

— Un dollar Madame, deux fois cinquante.

— Oui… she got her purse, — et merci…

— Le mardi prochain Madame?

— Next Tuesday yes well, well no. No I mean that's what I wanted to speak to you about, I mean qu'il ne serait pas nécessaire que, that it's maybe it's better to just wait and I call you again when I, que je vous telephone!…

— Vous ne voulez pas que je revienne.

— Yes well I mean but not next Tuesday, I mean I'll telephone you again I hope you understand Madame Socrate it's just that I, que votre travail est très bon everything looks lovely but…

— J'comprends Madame… the door came open, — et la clef.

— Oh the key yes, yes thank you merci I hope you, oh but wait, wait could you, est-ce que vous pouvez trouver le, les cartes… with a stabbing gesture at the mailbox, — la, dans le, des cartes…? And with the mail clasped to her she still kept standing, watching the steady lurch of the floral print down the hill, the splash of lipstick red hibiscus against the shoal of leaves cast up along the black current of the road rising toward her from the river, her chin sunk in an effort for breath. When she raised it again the telephone had stopped ringing. She closed the door, stepped back from the disheveled burst of red in the glass-framed sampler hung there thrusting her hair back, piercing that staled semblance to the entire alphabet laid out beneath the glass in needlework repose and the reproof of consecrated leisure, the mundane desolation in the lines of verse stitched below: While we wait for the napkin, the soup gets cold…

She came into the kitchen with the halves of the china dog from the mantel, found glue and stood there at the sink pressing the pieces together. An ear snapped off, and she walked more slowly to the trash, her thumb to her lips with a fleck of blood. Here in the top of the trash lay that harsh glimpse of boats off Eleuthera and, down wiping it clean of coffee grounds, a torn piece of a letter in a generous and unfamiliar hand drawn out in severed fragments, anyone's fault, the last thing I, for you to believe me, what else to do. Deeper down, under the wet batiste remnant shorn of its buttons, she found the torn half of the envelope with the Zaire stamp URGENT PLEASE FORWARD, picking it through till the phone brought her up with her thumb to her lips, tasting blood, — Mrs who…? No I'm afraid not, I'm not… Well it's a very small street and I mean I don't even know who lives… No now listen I can't join your march against cancer, I don't like cancer I don't even like to think about it that's all, now… yes you're welcome goodbye.