William Gaddis - The Recognitions

— That young man, Mr. Pivner managed, — he, who just left?

— I believe he has been a guest of the hotel.

— Oh well yes, well then, no… Mr. Pivner lowered his eyes to the shining tips of the night manager's shoes. — But…! he looked up suddenly: eyes as bright, and incurious as the shoetops, dismissed him.

— If the young man you have described. .

— Yes, thank you, thank you. . Mr. Pivner hurried into the bar, and there ordered orange juice. He sounded weary and unprepared for surprises, even one so familiar as the dim image already resident, awaiting but the raising of his eyes, in the tinted mirror. To one side of him, a blonde sagged slightly in his direction. Her elbow edged nearer to his own a gold cigarette case, and he politely averted his eyes to avoid reading the inscription, withdrawing, bumping the man on his right. Mr. Pivner cleared his throat, as one prepared to apologize. But the other merely darted a pin-pointed glance at him and turned away, straightening a lapel where hung a boutonnière shabby enough to appear, in this light, made of paper. And Mr. Pivner settled his rimless glasses back closer to his eyes to stare forth into the tinted glass whose length construed the three figures in vacancy, maintaining a dim reality of its own, embracing their shades in subterranean suspense.

To one side, the blonde opened her purse, and exchanged a muffled pleasantry with the bartender. From the other side came a gasp. Mr. Pivner cleared his throat, as though prepared to apologize but unable to think, so quickly, of anything specific to apologize for. But the sharp eyes gleamed at something beyond him, and with such intensity that his own were drawn in a reflex to look to where the blonde paid for her drink. But all Mr. Pivner saw, in the dim light, was a crisp twenty-dollar bill exchange hands: or so it looked to him, moonblind in the tinted gloom of that landscape where the three of them hung, asunder in their similarity, images hopelessly expectant of the appearance of figures, or a figure, of less transient material than their own.

— It reminds me rather of that convent, the one at… Cham-pigneulles, was it? Near Dijon, said a tall woman, looking round her. — The one that was turned into a madhouse.

— I know what you mean, said the girl beside her. — Everyone keeps changing size. The tall woman looked at her quizzically, and noted that both of her wrists were bandaged. She took a step back; the girl took a step forward. — What do you do?

— I? Why. . when?

— Write?

— Oh, said the tall woman, recovering, — I support my husband. He writes. He's an editor, you know. He's editing Esther's book.

— Who's Esther?

— Why, my dear, she's our hostess. There, talking with the tall fellow in the green necktie. She turned, as her husband approached with a martini. — What an interesting group of people, she said. — And what interesting music.

— It's Handel, he said, handing her a glass. — The Triumph of Truth and Justice.

She looked around her, and raised the glass to her lips. — Do you think next year we might get to the Narcissus Festival in Hawaii?

Drinks were spilled, another brown line burnt on the mantel, people collided, excused themselves and greeted one another, and Ellery, tucking the green silk tie back in his jacket, said, — Just stop talking about it for a while. Who's that? he added, nodding at a blond girl.

— I don't know. She came with somebody. She's going to Hollywood.

— I want another drink, Ellery said, and went toward the blonde.

— Ellery, please. . But he was gone. She sat, holding her kitten.

— What does it mean, said a heavy voice near her. — The garbage cans in the street, the kids on the East Side playing in the gutters, swimming in that filthy river, see? What does that mean?

— Well she says Paris reminds her of a mouthful of decayed teeth, but I think Paris is just like going to the movies…

— A lovely little hotel near Saint Germain, I don't think 1 crossed the river more than twice all the time I was there. I really lived on the left bank, it's so much nicer, the architecture, the cloud formations over there. .

— Of course if you like Alps. I found them a fearfully pretentious bore myself… I mean, what can you do with an Alp. .

— He's still in Paris. He wrote that he's just bought one of those delightful Renaults. .

— Oh yes, I do love them. An original?

Esther stood up. Her face was flushed. The music disturbed her because it seemed the records were being played at random, one stray side of Handel after another in haphazard succession. She started toward the room which had been the studio, where the music came from, and bumped into a person who was saying, — Do you mean you've never heard of Murti-Bing? Before she was halfway across the room, her way was blocked by an immense glistening countenance. — Baby they told me you were looking for a doctor, and. .

— Do you know of one? Esther asked, too startled for poise.

— No but I'm looking for one too. Maybe we can find one together. .

Esther found Rose sitting in the dark. — Isn't the music nice? I 'm playing them, she said. — Yes, but perhaps, he wouldn't want any of them broken, Rose. — Oh, I won't break them, Rose said, smiling at her in the dark. Suddenly Esther put an arm around her; and then as abruptly withdrew it, and left her there with the phonograph.

— Wasn't it silly of me. I tried to kill myself twice in two weeks. The second time I was out for two days. Sleeping pills.

— How many did you take?

— Twenty-three. Why?

— I just wondered. It's always a good thing to know.

Esther closed her eyes, as though shutting out sound, and moved on toward Don Bildow, whom she saw across the room talking with a gaunt man in an open-collar green wool shirt, and a stubby youth.

— Yes, I'm almost finished it, said a woman beside her, to the editor. — It's to be called Some of My Best Friends Are Gentiles. I'm so weary of these painful apologies from our sensitive minorities.

I often think how nice it must be among dogs, a bulldog saying, there's a grayhound, there's a basset, a Pekinese, none o£ them mind at all. They're all dogs. Here all you have to do is say a word like Jew or Catholic or Negro or fairy and someone looks ready to cut you up. .

— I'm sorry to interrupt, Esther said, — but who is that fellow talking to Don Bildow? The tall one.

— He's a critic. I can't remember his name. He used to do books on Old Masses.

— The other one calls himself a poet, said the woman who had been talking. — He's a professional Jew, i£ you know what I mean.

Nearby, a man smoking something from a box whose label said, "Guaranteed to contain no tobacco" spoke to a fluttering blond boy who, someone must eventually remark, resembled an oeuf-dur-mayonnaise. The tall woman indicated him to her husband, with the query, — And who is that perfectly weird little person? He's been talking for simply hours about the solids in Oochello. Wherever that is.

— He's one of our. . more sensitive writers, her husband got out expelling air as though it were salt water.

— Yes, she murmured, — I can see he has a good deal to be sensitive about. She watched, as the object of her gaze halted a pirouette of departure to say, — But all my dear friends are exotic, just all twisted and turned like the irregular verbs in any civilized language, and all from over-use!. . The tall woman said thoughtfully, — Yes, and I tried to read his book. Didn't I? she added, turning to the other woman who, she noticed now, was wearing a maternity dress in collapsed folds, the pregnancy foiled. Then as though bringing a topic from nowhere she smiled and said, — Will you bring me a drink? to her husband; —I'm drinking for two now, to them both; and, — I don't know how he could have been so careless, to the other woman.