William Gaddis - The Recognitions

He had started to get round and get hold of her, but she held him where he was with a look of infinite reproach.

— That smelled of Madon-na lilies, she said in this low tone, a tone of infinite regret.

— Now look, you… he who?. . Otto burst round to the other side of her, started to take her arm and realized that she was still carrying Uncle Tom's Cabin. His mind churned a vast array of irrelevancies, from the faces passing them which turned here and there in dull curiosity to that incunabular joke which said that Uncle Tom's Cabin was not written by hand because it was written by Harriet Beecher Stowe…

— He in the mir-ror, — who, she said in her mocking tone.

— Now look, that photograph, and his. . look, what is it?… Have you been modeling?. . for him?

— Sometimes she did.

— But where is… but where are the pictures?

— He did not show them to her. Her voice was brisk with disappointment. They were passing outside a bar whose door just then came'open and poured out a heavy broken stream of German music which was gone with their next step, leaving her face in the blue and red lights of the window sign for beer, exposed in the expression of fear he first remembered on it when he had gone down on her in the chair in the afternoon and something, somewhere, broke: but in this instantaneous conspiracy of lights and make-up that immaculate fear became terror, and jaded terror sustained beyond human years and endurance, and he shuddered at this hag before he knew it.

— When the witnesses come, she said to him, not taking his arm but touching it with her fingertips, — will they identify her? or will they turn from her to the pain-tings of her which are not of her at all, and shudder as you shudder and look away.

So he had looked away, passing the window of a fun store, a bright litter of novelties, of colors and false faces, pencils, puzzles, a kiddies' toilet seat, Christmas cards, ashtrays, a paint set, rings with false stones, a phosphorescent crucifix, — jingle all the wa-a-ay, came from the transom above.

— We are the gypsies, she said to him as he turned quickly back to her, and she spoke in that low tone of earlier, of deep remorse, — the Lost Egyptians, and we pay penance for not giving Them asylum, when They fled into Egypt. What harsh laws they make against us, she went on, her voice becoming dull. — They will not permit us to speak our own language, she said looking up at him again, — for they believe we can change a child white-into-black, and sell him into slavery! She laughed at that, suddenly, looking up at him;, but with his hand tight closed on her wrist the laugh disappeared and left her surprised, staring into his eyes. They had come to a stop, and she took up walking again though he seemed to try to hold her back.

— Now look… he said. — Look. .

— He even said once, that the saints were counterfeits of Christ, and that Christ was a counterfeit of God.

— Now look, where is he? I mean does he still have that studio? that place on Horatio Street.

— Perhaps he does, or he does not. She does not see him any more.

— I want to see him, I… but you, look can I see you later? at home.

— If you want to.

— Will he be there?

— She does not see him any more.

— I mean Chaby, will he be at your house?

— If he wants to be.

— But he… I mean damn it he's always there, he… what's he doing there anyhow?

— Now he is there doing bad things to himself with the needle.

— Look when will you be home?

After a long pause, when they'd reached a corner and she stopped there, under the streetlight, she said, — She does not know, she must take a long walk with the chemical in her stomach that is not there, and then she must go to the doctor.

— But the… I have to meet my father in a little while, but look, I want to see you. I mean, I have to talk to you, it seems like months since I've seen you, and you. . and I still love you, even if…

He broke off, and gave her wrist which he still held such a quick tug that the book fell to the ground. He got it quickly, and came up with, — Because I've believed nothing, or I thought I didn't believe in anything and maybe I've been pretending I didn't believe in anything, but only tried to use my head and figure things out and. . because that's the way everybody seems to have to be now, because you can't trust. . and you. . and now. . and then when I found you, I found you really didn't, you really didn't believe in anything and you have to, you have to… he finished breathlessly and reached for her wrist again but she withdrew it and he stood with his free hand quivering on the air between them. Then he took a deliberate breath, deeply, and spent it all saying, — Do you love me?

— If there were time, she answered him looking him full in the face.

— Or… or… he started to falter again, raising his hand to the razor cut on his cheek and pressing his fingers there xvhen he found it. — It's like… he commenced again, lowering his voice, and his hand, and he caught her wrist this time, — It's as though when you lose someone. . lose contact with someone you love, then you lose contact with everything, with everyone else, and nobody. . and nothing is real any more. .

She stared at him, patient now in his grasp which loosened slightly as his voice ran out; though he found enough of it left to repeat, — Or things won't work. Then he drew breath again and stood looking at her under the streetlamp. She had relaxed in his hold; even taken half a step closer to him, and he studied her face in the light from above them, as it seemed a faint and expectant, and a receptive, anxiety spread over it; while his own slackened slowly over the cheekbones, and the excitement drained from his eyes as he marshaled his senses. He loosed her wrist, and lowered his hand, and stood before her as he had stood on the dock before the glare of that white fruit boat; and as he had counted out change for the beggar in whose face he saw no beauty, so suddenly had it come upon him, he computed his emotions, reckoning how much he could spare, and how much retain for himself. — You can depend on me, he said to her.

She withdrew; and there, like small coins slipping through his fingers, he began to lose what he had balanced and accounted with such practiced care, having given the two-and-one-half cent piece, which looked like a dime. He whispered her name hoarsely, and raised his arm to put it round her.

— Don't.

— But I…

— Leave her alone.

The safety pin came undone, the sling dropped as he put both arms around her, and his hand opened, everything spilled. But she made no move, no effort to move, she stood and waited with her head drawn down as far as she could do. Then he closed his hands, looking beyond her, so quickly gathering up all that he had almost lost.

— You'll be all right alone? he said to her.

— Now she will.

Otto stooped and picked up the sling. — I'll see you later on, he said. Half a block apart, he turned and looked back, to see her walking away from him.

Balloons, a watch, a poopoo cushion, textile paints and stencils, a gold-finished silk-tasseled watch-case compact, Your portrait in oil (a genuine original oil painting) from favorite snapshot, 4½ x 5½ inch canvas, decorative wooden easel and palette free; a dusty imitation ink-blot; a dusty imitation dog spiral; a talking doll; Blessed Mother, Infant of Prague and Saint Joseph, 24K gold-plated, in pocket-identification case, 25cent; Venus de Milo with a clock in her belly; a sewing kit (resembles quality bone china) figurine; a Christmas card with 180-page genuine Bible postage-stamp size attached; a ventriloquist's dummy; a false face, mounted on another false face; all these, as well as many more durable, beautiful, useful, inspiring things lay stretched before Otto's gaze where he stopped to pin up the sling. The pin was gone. He knotted it, unsteadily stealthy with both hands, and felt for his wallet before he put his hand into his trouser pocket, for it was shaking. People passed in both directions. One bumped him below, and cried,