William Gaddis - The Recognitions

The most gross insult might simply be to say, — I trust there hasn't been some mistake? Better than that, to get up quietly from the table, cross the room quickly to the gentleman in light gray flannel (who also had a nose) and shake hands with him. But even now, the gentleman in light gray flannel was gone.

All this time, the sling had bumped between them without rousing curiosity. Now, he heard, — What are you wearing that sling for, you really got hurt?

— Well, in a way, I…

— I thought it was faked. You haven't learned how to handle it yet. You act like you're keeping a live squirrel in it.

— But it… I…

The music was the Blue Danube waltz. Otto rubbed his mustache with his fingertip, and looked into a distant mirror where he could see Santa Claus's strategic entrance, and stealthy approach to the door of the bar, where he was apprehended.

The fork beside him clattered to the plate. — I'm done.

— I think I've had enough, Otto said, barely half finished with the meal. He lit a cigarette, as the smell of lavender rose, heard a ringing in his ears from nowhere, wet his lips and heard forced salivation. Might it not all be rehearsed again, but differently, he thought, seeing a thin man of average height and quiet manner seated at a table in the middle of the room, finishing his dinner with a brandy: might Otto not have walked over and shaken his hand, and seated across from him, unsurprised, have listened to his intimacies with opera stars, artists, producers, over breast of guinea hen and wine?

The man in the club tie rose, looked at them, locking them together in his glance, and left. It was too late. Procrustes' bed was made: the only thing now was to get out of it the best way he could, which Otto did, more with weariness than pain. — It's kind of difficult, to talk about money, but. .

— I've got it right here for you. You want to take it now? said the voice through a mouthful of bread. He was cleaning his fingernails with a tine of his salad fork.

— Take what?

— Twenties. Five G's in perfect twenties.

— Five what?

— Five thousand. Here, it's a thick packet. He motioned with his elbow to his side pocket.

— Five thousand dollars?

— Christ! Keep your voice down.

— But isn't that too much? I mean, even with Christmas…

— Listen, are you sure you're not drunk?

— Why no, no, I…

— I wouldn't give this stuff to you if you was drunk. You'd probably throw it all over town before the night's over. Lift it out of my pocket there.

— Oh I'll be very careful of it, ver-y care-ful of it… Otto said as he reached into the pocket and lifted the packet out, while the other sat silent and unconcerned, cleaning his nails with a tine of his salad fork. Otto wanted another glass of whisky. He opened the packet, and took out a twenty.

— Christ! Don't wave them around here! said the man beside him, and looked over the room quickly. But no one was near to notice them, and when he looked back he seemed unable to resist taking the bill from Otto and laying it on the cloth before him. — Beautiful, he said. — Beautiful, isn't it.

— Yess, Otto gasped.

— A real work of art. He stared into the face of the seventh President. — You know it takes six different artists to make one of these? That's what makes it tough. Six to one. Six against one, you might say. He turned it over, and ran a fingertip gently over the portico of the White House. — A real work of art, he said. — You don't learn that at Harvard.

Otto stared. He clutched the packet, as though it were liable to be wrenched from him at any instant.

— You know, they burn around six tons of this stuff a day, the true quill, down in the Bureau of Printing and Engraving. Worn-out bills. It's a crime.

— Yes, but. . well. . this. . was all Otto could say.

The hand beside him rose to catch at a lapel, as the man sat back and stared upward, relaxed in nostalgia. — Johnny the Gent died the other day, he said. — You know him?

— No, I. .

— He melted down the Ascot Cup. He was the first one to gild the sixpence, and passed them as half-sovereigns until they had to call them in. He knew so much about the Church that once he posed as Bishop of the Falkland Islands. He just died, Johnny. He had about ten dollars on him.

Otto appeared to listen; but he heard nothing but jarring syllables.

— He organized the best den London ever saw. He was even a Sunday School teacher for five years. He was a great man. I've thought of him a lot of times when I was sitting in the hole.

The waiter approached a nearby table. — Put that stuff away. Otto put the twenty into his pocket, and the packet between his knees.

— I miss him when a great artist dies like that. He was no bum. It's no place for bums to get into, but they're ruining it every day. There hardly is a single old master left, a real craftsman, like Johnny, or Jim the Penman. And me. I haven't had a notice in the Detector in fourteen years.

— The what? Otto asked, politely, but firm.

— The National. . listen. Shut up and listen to that a minute.

It is. — What? — Vissi d'arte, vissi d'amore, he murmured with the music, — non feci mai male ad anima viva. . And they sat silent to the violent grief-impassioned end.

When it was done, Otto said, — That was very nice.

— Nice? Is that all you can sayr But you're just a kid, you never heard Cavalieri do Tosca.

— No, I…

— I'm going to get out now. He stood, and found his cane.

— Well. . but I mean, don't you want some coffee or something?

— No. I shouldn't have stayed this long anyhow.

Otto took the check. — I'll get this, he said graciously.

— All right, kid. Thanks.

— But thank you, I… Merry Christmas. Otto was left, the packet clutched against his parts, sniffing the delicious aroma of lavender, only half aware that the table had four legs. A fly landed on his hand, and he simply stared at it.

Two men went out the revolving door, the second a figure in a checked suit, who had been waiting for some time in the lobby. He caught the other by the arm. — This is you, isn't it?

— What do you mean?

— You're Frank? They told me I was going to meet you in the lobby. They kept me half an hour late, but you're an hour. Have you got the stuff? Five G's in queer?

— Jesus and Mary.

— I'm the pusher they sent, you know? Have you got the queer?

— Jesus Mary and Joseph.

— What's the matter with you, for Christ's sake?

— That kid. That fairy. He took every bit of it. He sat there rubbing his ankle against my leg. .

— Where'd he go? We'll go in and get him. He's got the queer on him?

— We'll wait out here. We'll get him when he comes out.

— Where you going now?

— Right here in this doorway. The coat came off, was reversed, the black wig went into one pocket, green muffler and glasses into the other, and the sandy mustache appeared, stuck to his upper lip. — It's cold, said Mr. Sinisterra. — And stop calling it "the queer."

Otto had appeared at the desk briefly, to put down a ten-dollar deposit on his bill. He was taken to a room. There he sat on the edge of the bed. He tore the wrapping from the money, and started to count it. The sling got in his way. He ripped it off and threw it on the floor. Then he made piles of ten bills each, fanned out alternating backs and faces, on the bed cover. He stood looking at it, and then turned to the mirror, and ran his fingertip over his mustache. He called downstairs, and waited for the bellboy to come with a razor and "anything else that might come in handy," passing the time counting the money, in various positions. When the razor arrived, he shaved quickly and dressed. He reeled a little, putting four twenties with his change (which included a ten), and the rest into a drawer, hurriedly, for he heard stirring next door, remembering his neighbor. He turned off the light, closed his door, and stood outside 666, where he knocked and, unable to restrain himself, and as surprised to find the door unlocked, threw it open.