William Gaddis - The Recognitions

There was exquisite correspondence between the Sevres cup and the back of his hand, where blue veins showed making the flesh appear translucent: it was not a reflection of mutual fragility, but rather the delicacy of the porcelain completed a composition enhancing, as it did, the tensile strength of the hand which raised it. In the other, he opened a book, and read. Now and then his lips moved, as he turned the pages of Loyola's Spiritual Exercises which he had, contrary to habit, lent out (for this was not the only, certainly not the nicest copy he had). A fly landed on the print, and he struck at it. The fly rose and crossed the room to settle busily upon a golden figure, a bull lowering its jewel-collared head to thrust with its horns at the egg floating in the rock cavity before it. The figure was small, and stood on a column at the end of the couch.

He turned another page. A fine-sprung coil of brown hair lay in the inner margin. Basil Valentine leaned down to blow at it. The hair did not move. He made a sound with his lips, and flicked it away with a finger. Then he read for less than a minute more, closed the book abruptly and bent down, searching the floor for the coil of hair. He found it on the carpet, put it into an ashtray, opened the book again and gazed at the page. There was a faint hum, from the corner where the phonograph had shut itself off. His gaze shifted to the ashtray. Then he moved quickly, to stand, take the coil of hair from the ashtray, into the bathroom and drop it into the bowl. He flushed the toilet and washed his hands, studying his face in the mirror as he did so.

The expression of anxiety which he had worn all this time did not leave him as he returned to the living room, tightening the cord of his dressing gown, and taking the gold cigarette case from its breast pocket. Snapped open, without taking out a cigarette he snapped it closed again and stood looking at the inscription worn almost smooth on its surface. — Damn him, he whispered. — Damn him. He turned to look at the Vulliamy clock. It was adorned with a cupid. He loosened the cord of his dressing gown.

A few minutes later Basil Valentine had exchanged his black pumps for a pair of equally narrow black shoes, the dressing gown for a blue suit, and he returned pulling at the foundations under his trousers. Among the books at the back of his desk, he pushed aside La nuit des Rois and quickly found the copy of Thoreau. He pulled on his coat, and on his way out opened a panel closet and took out a large flat envelope. He paused in the doorway to look the room over quickly, and then locked the door with two keys, leaving the Spiritual Exercises of Saint Ignatius of Loyola open on the desk, where the fly had already alighted before the second key turned in the lock.

In the street door below, he paused to look in all directions. A slight drizzle had commenced. He came forth damning the wind, the hand with the gold seal ring holding his hat on as he hailed a cab with the other.

The wind from the river was quite strong. It was, in fact, strong enough to support a man; and this, at a corner on Gansevoort Street, is exactly what it was doing. The man himself, on the other hand, did not seem grateful. He was talking to the wind; and, as occasional words took shape from the jumble of sounds he poured forth, it became evident that he was calling it foul names. At this, the wind became even more zealous in its attentions to him. He hit at the skirt of his tattered coat as it flew up around him, addressing it somewhat like this, — Gway gwayg. . yccksckr. . until, its caprice satisfied, the wind flung him round a corner and went on east. Abandoned, he swayed, and fortunately found a wall with the first throw of- his hand, instead of the face of the man who approached, for he had struck out at just about that level.

— Here, my good man. Could you tell me whereabouts Horatio Street. . good heavens.

Thus called upon, he took courage: the sursum corda of an extravagant belch straightened him upright, and he answered, — Whfffck? Whether this was an approach to discussion he had devised himself, or a subtle adaptation of the Socratic method of questioning perfected in the local athenaeums which he attended until closing time, was not to be known; for the answer was,

— Stand aside.

— Here, don't goway. Here, how do youfffk. . He licked a lip and commenced again, putting out a hand. — My name Boyma. . he managed, summoning himself for the challenge of recognition. — And you must be Gro… go… raggly!

He seemed to have struggled up on that word from behind; and he finished with the triumph of having knocked it over the head. He did in fact look down, as though it might be lying there at his feet. It was such a successful combat that he decided to renew it. — Go. . gro. . gorag… His hand found a wrist, and closed thereon. Bells sounded, from a church somewhere near. — Go. . ro. . grag. . But the sharp heel of a hand delivered to the side of his head stopped him, and he dropped against the wall with no exclamation of surprise whatever.

The door was opened to the length of a finger.

— You… 1

— I…

— How. . how did you find me?

— It hasn't been easy. You might put Rouge Cloltre out here on your bell, at least.

— Rouge. . put what?

— The name of the convent that took van der Goes in, you know. May I come in?

— Oh, why. . yes, yes come in.

— I'm not disturbing you? Basil Valentine asked, entering the room. — Coming at such an odd hour?

— Yes it is, but no, not if… you don't need the sleep?

— Unfortunately I do, I need it badly, Valentine answered with a smile. — Here, I brought down these van Eyck details. And your Thoreau. I went off with that quite by mistake.

— That, thank you for that. And you. . your. .

— My coat? Yes, it's wet. I'll take it off in a moment. First I'd like to wash my hands, Valentine went on, turning toward a door, — I had a rather disagreeable encounter on my way here. The room was the kitchen; and with one look at the sink, he returned to say, — Are you aware that there's something growing in here? A delicate plant, growing right up out of the drain?

— Oh no, but that, it must be a melon then. Some melon seeds washed down. . here, here's the bathroom here.

A minute later, Valentine's voice came from there. — A towel?

— Yes, here, use this.

Valentine came out, drying his hands on a wad of cotton waste. — It's pretty stuff, isn't it, he said smiling again, and threw it into the fireplace. — And tell me, it's your habit to cover up mirrors? as they do in a house where someone's died?

— The one in the bathroom? it's only., something drying. But you, he asked Valentine suddenly, — don't you get tired of the image you dodge in mirrors?

— I don't dodge. Valentine had not lost his smile. He took off his coat, and put it with his hat on the bed, where he sat on the unmade edge and leaned back against the rumpled covers, hands clasped round one knee. — So, you're working, are you? he said agreeably. — You've been at it all night?

— All night, I've been working all night. I just finished it.

— What? could I see it?

— It's this one, this big one here.

Valentine got up to help him move it out from the wall, and stand it face out against the inside of the door. He offered his cigarette case, lit their cigarettes, and studied the painting for some time before he said, — Brown won't like this, you know. The face there, how badly you've damaged it.

— But the damage? It isn't as though I'd done that. A hand was flung up before him. — The painting itself, the composition took its own form, when it was painted. And then the damage, the damage is indifferent to the composition, isn't it. The damage, you know, is… happens.