William Gaddis - The Recognitions

As Esther crossed the room, Herschel caught her arm. — Baby, you must hear what Rudy's given his maid for Christmas. A hysterectomy! Isn't that the most thoughtful thing you ever heard?

While the tall woman continued to stare toward the door, where the sensitive youth fluttered an escape against the current of entrants. — At least I think that's who it was, I remember the picture on the book jacket, posing with magnolias. . She paused, to add, as he disappeared, — Or was that a book by Edna St. Vincent Mil-lay. .? And stepped aside for,

— Big Anna! but what happened baby? How did you get here?

— My Boy Scouts, I'll never speak to them again. .

— But I'm really upset about Rudy, Herschel went on, — that one called and has been in an auto smash somewhere.

— I have to find a doctor. .

— And you're so pretty tonight, and your nose, you know what they say about nos-es. Now you just drink this and we'll find you the cutest little doll-doctor. . Oh! so pretty for Christmas Eve, all red and shiny like a candy cane.

In the doorway, Maude hung back. — Do you think we could just go join the baby and live in Sweden, Amy? — Same thing there, he said. — I'll get you a drink. Can you really tell I've got this shirt on inside out?

Someone was saying, — Rather like Pyramus and Thisbe, if you know what I mean, and of course everyone knows that he was so sensitive she had to put cotton in the bedsprings the first time so he wouldn't be embarrassed. . That person quieted, nodding at who came in the door. Others turned to see Agnes Deigh, who said immediately, — It's really the most God-awful thing, will someone get me a drink? Is Stanley here?

— Who's Stanley?

— A funny boy with a mustache. She sat down, looking round her; but Stanley had not arrived, and she was soon enclosed behind a curtain of trouser-seats.

— I really prefer books. No matter how bad a book is, it's unique, but people are all so ordinary.

— I think we really like books that make us hate ourselves. .

— But. . why doesn't someone just write a happy book. . Maude had said that; but no one heard her. — If you had a judge who looked like your Daddy wouldn't you trust him? she asked a youth who turned on her with, — Trust that old bastard? Chr-ahst, he doesn't even trust himself. Do you want to buy a battleship?

All Maude could say, looking round the room, was — How do all these people know each other?

— Chr-ahst only knows. Do you like the party?

— It's a little. . chavenet. Don't you think?

— Chr-ahst yes.

Esther had retrieved her kitten, and stood holding it too tightly. At her elbow, someone said, — Well Ruskin dated his life from the first time he saw them. — Well, of course Ruskin, said the other. — He was in town just last week, wasn't he? said the tall woman. — I heard my husband talking about him. They had lunch together, I think. . he's doing a book about stones. .?

Across the room Ellery was turned toward her. He was talking to the blond girl, laughing, listening to her, she stood almost between them. The length of her back faced Esther. The heels were high, shoes narrow, legs slightly bowed. The whole of her figure up to the shoulders was slim as though waiting to be taken and turned, and bent downward and back: Esther felt heavy, resting against the door jamb, shapeless, and her head was tired, full, aching dully. — All I want to do is rent a house in the south of France with four deaf mutes. . said someone near her. The room before her was clean; but in her own mind it existed with the permanence granted only to shambles. Tenants whom she had not met stood like fixed dwellers in her life, never to be dispossessed: they had been borne to her as they were in their permanent blue suits and brown suits and black dresses and eyeglasses, permanently standing and turning, talking to and about one another, nourished and propagated by their own sounds and the maneuvering of cigarettes, leaving the act of life outmoded, a necessity of the past, a compulsion of ignorance: men raised cigarettes in erect threat; women proffered the olive-tongued cavities of empty glasses. — What's that music? someone asked her. — I don't know, it's something of Handel s I think, said Esther, pausing to listen to the strains of celebration written by the barber's son who had learned to play on a dumb spinet, as the anachronistic morning-sickness rose in her, and she put an arm across her sensitive breasts. Ellery blew a smoke ring toward her, a savage missile which the blonde reached out and broke on the air.

— You'd better ask this nice lady right here, said a man who was fluttering a pamphlet titled Toilet Training and Democracy in one hand, leading a seven-year-old girl with the other.

— I'm the little girl from downstairs, the child said to Esther. — Mummy sent me up to ask you could you give me some sleeping pills. . Esther set off with her to the bathroom, where they interrupted someone who was looking through the medicine cabinet. — Oh, sorry… he said, — just wanted to see if there were any razor blades here. . He left with difficulty. Emerging a minute later, she was caught forcefully by the wrist. — Look, you've got a kitten, I've got to tell you the one about Pavlov and his kitten. You know Pavlov, he had dogs. Pavlov rang a bell and whfffft, they salivated, remember? The dogs I mean. Well this time Pavlov has a kitten. . Voice and man were swept away, and Don Bildow was not where she had seen him. But Ellery was coming toward her smiling. She raised her face, smiling; and he stopped short, at the couch between them, where sitting alone was a man whose profession was as immediately obvious as that of the rickshaw boys of Natal, who whitewash their legs. A bow tie of propeller proportions stood out over extra-length collar bills on a white-on-white shirt, protected by many folds of a cloth which somehow retained the gracious dignity of transatlantic origin in spite of the draped depravity in its cut. -Benny! I'm glad you got here.

— Business is business, said Benny, raising his glass.

— What do you think of the idea?

— Terrific.

— I've got the guy all lined up. We're going to pay his family when he goes through with it, half now, half on delivery. But it's got to look accidental.

— Listen to this, said Benny. — I thought of this last night.

— What? An angle?

— Well, I didn't know whether you wanted to gag it up or make it arty or what. You know. We could have built a nice artistic number around it. Some ballet, with a story line in the background. Sweet. Or I thought if you wanted to gag it up we could make a kind of musical out of it. You know? Girls. Exploding cigars.

— Yeah but look, that's not quite. .

— I know, we couldn't do that angle anyway, the cigars. We've got a couple of good cigar accounts that would yell. No. The more I thought about it, the more I thought, what you guys really want is stark human drama. The real thing. So listen to this. I thought of this last night.

— Yeh…

— From a church. He does it from a church steeple.

— Christ! Benny, you'll win the Nobel Prize for that. It's a natural.

— I figured how we can make it look accidental enough. There's this church up in the Bronx right across from a dancing school. We'll have the cameras up there doing a show on kids learning ballet dancing, see? Then when we get the word all we have to do is break in and dolly them around right out the window. Beautiful camera angle.

— But what about the priest? He might screw it up if he's around.

— He'll be around. He'll be busy inside, saying a Mass.

— It's terrific. That's all I can say. Ellery spoke with his eyes lowered, in thoughtful admiration. Then he raised them. — You deserve a drink. Where'd you think of it, alone or in a story conference?