William Gaddis - The Recognitions

— You've seen him? What about?

— Let me see, Valentine answered vaguely. — As I remember, we discussed the Lex Cornelia, an ordinance against Roman matrons who poisoned. .

— I told you, I wasn't going to have any of your crap interfering.

Valentine raised his eyebrows. — My what?

— Yes, God damn it. I've allowed you a lot of things, but this time. . Look here, there's a lot of things about you I know, that maybe you don't know I know, Recktall Brown said leaning forward over the desk, looking at him with the centerless eyes in those thick lenses.

— My private life is hardly any concern. .

— Not just your private life. A God damn lot of other things.

— Other things? Valentine repeated blandly. — What about a trip you made to Paris about six months ago? For a week in Paris. Where did you go from Paris?

— The Midi, as I told you. A pleasant town near. .

— Midi hell. Do you want me to tell you where you went?

— Not especially, said Basil Valentine, tapping his chin.

— I could tell. .

— But you wouldn't, would you, Valentine said, resting the finger on his chin, and looking up, as Recktall Brown looked down.

— I told you the day you met him, Brown repeated, — I don't want any interference from you.

— You know, I believe you rather like him. It must be an odd sensation for you.

— We're in business.

— Tell me, just how interested in him are you?

— Right now, a quarter of a million dollars. I'm not going to lose interest, either.

— I suppose not, Valentine said, taking out another cigarette, and pausing until he'd lit it. — Tell me, suppose something happened to sever this partnership of yours?

— Something like that over my dead body, Brown said evenly.

— And if these forgeries were discovered?

— What do you mean, discovered.

— I might have said, exposed.

— So that's it! Brown stood up, his hands remained planted on the desk. — You know God damn well, nobody could prove a thing.

— But if he…

— He?

— As you've told me, one cannot insure against inherent vice.

— What do you mean?

— Never mind, Valentine said. — I'm glad I understand you. Yes, for you he doesn't exist except as an investment?

— And for you he doesn't exist except as…

— We've had quite enough of this, Valentine cut in. — Now, this joint bank account you put his money into for him. .

— It's safe enough, Brown muttered, sitting down. — Nobody even knows about it, nobody could touch it but us, you and him and I. Then Brown looked up. — That's what you're thinking? to reach in there and take out. .

— Good heavens, Valentine laughed. — You know me better than that. All I could do would be to stop payment anyway, you know. But he… Valentine stood looking down at the reflection of the diamonds in the mahogany. — With his genius. .

— With his genius and your ambition, I'd have. .

— Why, Valentine interrupted again, looking up at him. — Per- haps you should settle down and raise a family. I can't imagine a prouder father than you might make.

— Listen, Recktall Brown said standing again, — we're not going to have any more of this. You're going to forget all this crap about exposing these pictures and ruining him.

— Him? But suppose. . suppose it were he who had this notion himself?

— You think he's crazy? Maybe in other ways, but. .

— But you cannot imagine anyone being crazy when it comes to making a million dollars. Basil Valentine picked up his coat. He stood looking round the large office as he pulled it on. — You know, you might start a novel factory here, he said. — It's been done before. And after the success of that "soul-searching" book. And that remarkable abomination, The Trees of Home was it? A regular assembly line. Incidentally, he went on in an agreeable tone, pulling up his lapels, — what ever happened to that boy who was up here with a book of poems to sell you? The one with a rather bad case of acne, whom I stumbled on sandpapering his cheeks in the lavatory? Arthur something. .

— He's still around, with his God damn poems. Religious poems.

— They weren't awfully bad. You might allow him some money on them, you know, some chance to live like a human being.

— Do human beings write poetry? Recktall Brown demanded, looking up. Then his pointless gaze fell to the paper under his cuff. — Poets do.

Basil Valentine stood looking at the heavy bowed head for a moment. Then with his hat he picked up the stiff-covered little magazine from the deep chair. — I wish you luck with this, he said, tossing it over before Brown's hands on the desk, where it slid toward the mass of hand mounting the diamonds, which withdrew with instant volition. The cigar had almost gone out in the ashtray, but continued to give off a faintly noxious emanation. Brown did not look up. He stared at Effluvium and mumbled something about how popular religion was now, and something about — those poor intellectual bastards.

— Perhaps they all ought to be crucified? Basil Valentine suggested, pulling the door open behind him. — That might give them some idea of religious experience.

— But this book is about religion, said a sub-editor, standing aside for the tall man in the black Homburg to pass. — It's Buddhism.

— But it's by a Jew, said the other, standing aside.

— Well, I've told him if he'll change his hero from a Jew to a homosexual, we might accept it.

— But that's the way it was in the first place.

Recktall Brown entered to demand, — Who the hell is the Reverend Gilbert Sullivan, and what the hell does he want here? When he got no answer (though he paused no longer than it took to shift himself from the outside door to another) Recktall Brown entered a large roomy closet, and hung his coat among many others of the same size, and shape, and style. The dog, moving its stump of a tail slowly, met him, and he reached down to give it a single pat on the head which seemed to please it greatly.

— Sar. .

— Why the hell don't you answer the door, Fuller? Recktall Brown said, advancing. — Instead of… who is this Reverend Gilbert Sullivan, what. .

— Oh no sar, Fuller said, backing into the room before him. — The Reverend not present here, I alone here. .

— Then why the hell don't you answer the door instead of talking to yourself.

— Oh no sar not exackly alone sar I…

— Well who the hell. . Well, my boy. I'm glad to see you. God damn glad to see you. Fuller, bring me the pitcher over here. Recktall Brown stood by the chairs before the fireplace, watching Fuller get across the room to the pulpit.

— Fuller? he said suddenly.

— Sar. .?

— What have you been up to, Fuller?

— Sar? Nothin, sar. I been most peaceable and quiet of late.

— See you stay that way. Recktall Brown glanced down at the table, and Fuller glanced down at the dog.

— Fuller?

— Sar?

— Isn't there any more regular brandy?

— Yes sar but. .

— I told him I wanted this. You can take it out of my next check.

— It's all right my boy, relax. I just thought that dumb nigger made a mistake. He gets vexed by liquor, he says, don't know one from another. Recktall Brown settled down in a chair, and looked across the table. — You look tired, my boy. Tired as hell.

— Little dogs in the street bark at me.

— What the hell, my boy. What the hell. You can't blame them.

— You mean if you were a little dog in the street, you'd bark at me? — Now listen, my boy, what the hell. .

— That damned congenitally damned glowing fiend of a dog of yours is the only one that doesn't bark at me. This is good cognac.