William Gaddis - The Recognitions

They were imprisoned, side by side, behind a table against the wall.

— You shouldn't have jumped like that, when you met me.

— Oh, did I?

— It just don't look good.

— I know, I…

— People notice things like that.

— I know. The waiter dropped menus before them and escaped. — I guess. . well I mean we might as well start right off with dinner.

— You want to eat?

— Well, I mean I thought we were going to… I guess it doesn't really matter. It was difficult for Otto to study the figure beside him; nevertheless he tried, beyond the bushy hair and the heavy glasses. Otto wanted to see his teeth. — It's funny, he said. — You have such black hair.

— What's so funny about it?

— Well, I mean because mine is so light, Otto answered as the cane clattered to the floor.

— Is it on crooked? his companion asked in a low tone, raising his hand to his brow, and passing it delicately over his temple. — I been kind of rattled all evening, he said. — Since I left home.

— Why. I mean is anything wrong? at home?

— "He that is slow to wrath is of great understanding: but he that is hasty of spirit exalteth folly." I just done something sort of hasty, like the Bible says there. But stupidity gets me sometimes. I just blow up. He sat back, then, and appeared to relax. — That's dangerous in any business, let alone this one.

— Yes, said Otto. — Of course. He held the large menu card up as a screen for his confusion, increased now by a scent which crept up around him, a familiar fugitive aroma which he could not identify. He was not reading the menu, but anticipating, as though reality in any desperate measure would suffice to anchor his covetousness; and he did not dare look up the bar for Jean. Clams, gros, to start? or omelette aux truffies?

— But those things don't hardly seem to matter tonight. I feel in a nice mood.

Coq au vin? Pigeon aux petits pois? Poularde au riz, sauce supreme?

— I always feel this way after a good job. And Christmas all over the place. . The lonely waiter appeared, and he silenced.

Foie gras a la gelée de Porto? Poulet. . Fonds d'artichauts. . Salade a la grecque. .

— Hamburger steak, sounded beside him; and the music was Mozart's Turkish March. Where had he found that? Otto realized that he was looking at the wine list. As he folded the huge card back upon itself, the voice said, — Same thing for you?

— Yes, I…

— Two hamburger steaks, well done. And hurry it up.

Albert, King of the Belgians, careening gloriously down among the crevices of rock, gone, never to reappear and interrupt legends offered about him, to suffer translation from the fiction of selective memories to the betrayal of living reality.

Otto looked at the heavy glasses, saw dust on the surfaces of the lenses. — I noticed your eyes. Are they… I mean, very bad? I mean, they really look. .

— Eserine.

— Oh. Is it contagious? I mean, is it dangerous?

— Dangerous? It's not dangerous.

— But… is it painful?

— No. You can feel it, but it's not painful.

— Oh. Otto folded his hands before him. — Is it hereditary, do you know? he asked, looking up.

— Is it what?

— I mean, how did you get it?

— I got it from a friend of mine.

— Oh, said Otto, and sat a bit further away. Then he said agreeably, — I suppose you wonder what I've been doing with myself.

— Keeping busy I guess, was the answer, in an uninterested tone. Otto looked down at his hands, and reconsidered. — What have you been up to lately?

— I'm working on a passport now. It's no job for a beginner. It never was work for bums to get into. They ruin it for the real craftsman.

— Yes. I mean I guess it's like that in everything. But passports? I mean, what are you. . The lonely waiter bore down, a plate in each hand. — All right, can it.

— What? I mean, I just asked about passports, what are you. .

— It's a very cold night out tonight, ain't it. Their plates were put before them, and the waiter went the way he had come. — What's the matter with you, anyway. Don't you know there's some things you just don't ask about like that? This is a public place.

— Oh. I'm sorry, Otto said, and watched his companion cross himself, and start to eat. — Are you Catholic'? he asked.

The eyes turned full upon him, penetrating the dust. He swayed, and looked down at his plate. — Am I Catholic! What do you think I am?

— Oh. I mean, that's fine. I was just sort of surprised. Seven thin slices of mushroom stuck to the top of the meat. Magic number: Otto cut into them. Somewhere (in exile, doubtless), the handsome young prince must be sitting, over cognac so fine it could hardly be swallowed, recalling legends of the king. Otto put a piece of the dry meat into his mouth, and could hardly swallow it. Beside him, he smelled lavender, and felt ill. He looked up to see the blond Jean leave the bar, carrying her bag. She glanced at the two of them without recognition or interest. Otto raised his face, his eyebrows, and his fork, to signal her.

— You know her? You know that woman?

— No, I… well, I talked to her while I was waiting.

— It's no time to get mixed up with women. Keep yourself out of trouble. He went on eating.

— Yes, well… I guess it was just Christmas, you know, I mean, the sort of Christmas feeling. Otto raised another shred of meat on his fork. — I've thought of it, you know. Joining the Church, I mean.

— Uh-phhm, was his answer, through a mouthful of bread.

— It's… it kind of gives a reason for things that otherwise don't seem to have any. I mean, it legitimizes. . well, you know. . life, sort of.

— You're either born into it or you're not. The fork beside him rested on the tablecloth. — There's too many people around joining it as if it was a sight-seeing party.

— But I…

— You got to be born into it.

— In a sense, I was, said Otto, with a slight laugh of confidence, waiting affirmation. There was none. He rested his fork on the table. He felt dizzy. From the corner of his eye he saw the figure beside him bowed over the plate, eating fast, moving the food only a matter of inches from the plate to his mouth. A fly descended upon the bread, and busied itself there. Otto's hand shook as he raised it with the fork. — I guess it's silly, that I should be nervous now, but I am I guess.

— Hide it the best way you can. It's all right to be nervous, anybody gets nervous in a thing like this sometimes. But you don't need to show everybody you're nervous. You look pretty young.

— Young? Well I guess I do look young. But I've been out of college for about three years now.

— College? You went to college? He wiped his mouth with his napkin, bowing his head to do so, and looked up.

— Yes, I thought you… I went to Harvard, Otto said, and for the first time noticed the man's necktie. — Why. . you have on a Porcellian tie. Otto stared at the silk pigs' heads. — Were you P.C.? I mean, I didn't even know you went to Harvard.

— Me at college? You know where I studied. Attica and Atlanta.

— But. . that tie, it is the Porcellian tie isn't it.

— Don't worry, kid. I know what I'm doing.

The fly lit on Otto's hand, and he shook it away. His legs were crossed, and he commenced rubbing his ankle up and down against what he believed to be the center leg of the table. The man in gray was leaving the bar. As he watched him go, Otto's hand rose with slow automatism to his chest, and his wrist pressed the vacancy there. Who could prove a thing? if he rose abruptly, dumping the table over if necessary, to turn square upon the upholstered shoulders beside him and cry, — Do you believe this? But then, who would pay the check? and the bar bill? There would certainly be no offer of a Christmas gift of money which Otto must, somehow, manage to suggest: a gift which might pay for the drinks he had enjoyed with Jean, for having seen the frayed trouser-cuffs when they walked to the table he could hardly expect more. Suddenly he imagined his hair furiously red, his skin dark, or eyes at a telltale slant: that would give the lie to this whole thing. But no: his nose was, really, quite like the one beside him, though Otto refused to recognize it as being absolutely so, derivative. Noses were, after all, noses, quite similar among Caucasians.