William Gaddis - The Recognitions

On his way back, the thick envelope deep in an inside pocket, he peered round the door onto the balcony, first to the head of the stairs, to see if the black dog were watching. He ventured to the rail, and there it lay below, a still blot on the Aubusson roses. With a glance of intrepid calm at his lustrous confidante, he turned to the stairs looking somewhat harried, but satisfied. Fuller was a good head taller than that suit of armor; and surely, on short acquaintance, his heart would have filled with foreboding suspicions toward one so anxious at his own safety, so apprehensive of others, that all his beauty lay in his defense. But year by year, polishing every plate and vent, every joint and hinge, Fuller had discovered every weak link in the mail, every chink in the armor, and he saw it now as a weaker demonstration of his own more elastic resistance, a hollow hope, but one which held its gauntleted hand forth, and a face which no longer glittered with disdain, but where, in their moments of confidence, familiarity had bred content.

Some time later Fuller entered with what he considered great stealth. He had not got far in the dark front hall, however, before he tripped on something. The large flat package fell flat on the floor. Fuller remained suspended before it. Then he saw two black eyes fixed upon him. The moment he looked up, the dog turned and trotted away. — You goin to write it down in your report, Fuller muttered, and straightened the package up again. — Some day I goin to discover where you keep it and destroy every page, he went on. — Rescue many good people from grief and vexation. Notably myself, he finished, entering the vast living room.

There, rising from one of the chairs before the fireplace, he saw a thin column of blue smoke. He retreated, put the straw hat in a very small panel closet in the hall, and approached again. Then, with great relief, he said, — Oh, it is you, sar. Good afternoon.

— Yes, it is, Fuller. For the moment, anyway. Who did you think. .

— I take for granted maybe it's goin to be Mister Valentine, sar. I fallen into the habit of expectin the worst durín my residence here.

— We all have, we all have. Bring me some brandy, will you Fuller? Bring in the bottle of cordon bleu. The bottle with the blue ribbon on it.

— Yes sar, but Mister Brown, sar. .

— When he sees me drinking the best he's got, I know it. Bring it in anyhow.

— Yes sar. A few minutes later, Fuller came in with ice and a glass, siphon, and the bottle of cordon bleu. — Could I mix somethin up for you, sar? he asked from the pulpit, where he stood, white-gloved. Given permission, he came across the carpet bearing a tumbler of brandy and ice in one hand, the siphon bottle in the other. He stepped with care. — A curious thing, he said upon arrival, — seem I always inclined to avoid steppin upon the flowers. Though he got no response, he continued to stand there, white hands swinging slightly above the table of the Seven Deadly Sins. Finally he said, — Thahss your package I encounter in the hallway, sar? and brought his eyes about in what he considered a surreptitious glance, if only because of the oblique angle of the steady stare which he lowered upon the face before him. — I trust I not responsible for any damage to the contents when it fall downward at my feet. We have a small collision there in the darkness. After another prolonged pause, Fuller said, — Upon my enterin the room seem like there not a soul present but myself. Mister Brown still occupied at the office, I presume.

Siphon was blown into the glass; and at last the voice said, — What is it, Fuller? What have you got on your mind?

Fuller's chest rose; at the same time his voice lowered to a tone consonant with the commonplace topics through which he planned to approach his question. — You tell me then, sar, is there such a thing as octopus?

— Yes. Of course.

— You have really observed one, sar?

— Well, I… not actually, no. But enough pictures of them, photographs.

Fuller looked at him with respectful disbelief. — Yes sar, I encounter the pictures myself upon occasion. Sar? Does there exist such a thing as mermaids, sar?

— That's legend, Fuller. They don't really exist, no.

Fuller looked at him with respectful disbelief. Nevertheless, he went on, — Are you acquainted with Saint Louis, sar?

— I've never been there.

— No sar, this one to which I refer is a mahn, sar, a kind of ghost-mahn they havin in the church. Fuller paused, and was rewarded with what appeared to be a look of reminiscence.

— The Crusader, who bought the original crown of thorns.

— Most likely the very same gentlemahn, Fuller said, raising his white hands. — Sound very reliable.

— For what purpose, Fuller?

— For wise counsel upon the problem I been rackin my under-standin some time now, sar. If a mahn try to lead the good Christian life, and he find his path vexed by what he consider evil, sar, . can he righteously and justly have a recourse to the bahd method to combat the adversary?

Fuller waited eagerly. He even added — Sar? in encouragement. But his answer was simply, — Fuller, that is one of the oldest questions in the world.

— Yes sar. So it seem to me very old when I contemplate it. So the answer got to be very old too, no question but have his answer, for if you have got no answer you have got no question.

— Fuller, this is dialectics you're getting into.

— Yes sar, Fuller answered and withdrew a step. -These problems continue to vex me, sar, he went on. — Like the mermaids, sar. — Fuller, Fuller. . keep your mermaids, if they please you.

— Yes sar. But it remain complex, sar, for if they mermaid womans they got to be mermaid mahns too. For the first time the face which Fuller was, by now, staring directly at, turned to him with a smile.

— I suppose you're right, God knows, Fuller.

— Yes sar. God keep Himself very well informed upon these sub-jecks.

— Fuller. .?

— Sar?

— You. . you've never seen a picture of God, have you Fuller?

— No sar. If some artist paint His picture it become quite a hindrance to the faith, sar.

— Yes, yes, Michelangelo tried it.

— What appearance he give to Him, sar?

— An old man.

— Seem like the foreign people find a comfort makin these pictures. . Fuller took a quick step back, and almost fell over the table, when the figure suddenly rose from the heavy chair. — I don't mean to disturb you, sar, comin forward with my vexations when you sittin quiet and peaceable enjoyin you. . refreshment. Fuller took a step toward him, in the middle of the room.

— No, Fuller, it isn't. . damn it, if these were just your problems we could lock you up and forget you.

— Yes sar, Fuller said, taking the step back. — That eventuality I preparin myself for daily.

— No, no, I didn't mean… I simply meant that… we all have the problems you ask about.

— Yes sar, Fuller said, looking relieved. — It seem an impractical measure, to lock up the whole world.

— Yes, but. . you lock it out. You can lock it out.

— Can you, sar? Fuller looked up at-the face suddenly turned upon him. — Seem like such a measure serve no good purpose, sar. Then the mahn lose everything he suppose to keep, and keep everything he suppose to lose. Fuller stood still, a conscious stolidity, as though to offset the movement before him, the shoes stepping heedlessly upon the roses. — It seem a very general inclination to contemplate God as an old mahn until the mahn become old himself, he said to the moving figure.

— I suppose it does, was all the answer Fuller got; nevertheless he went on, — Seem like the foreign people find a comfort makin these pictures.