William Gaddis - The Recognitions

But all this happened very fast, and sometimes, before she knew it she'd set fire to his hair, or saw it so, what was the difference? or saw him streaming blood down the side of his face (as he had that morning when they had news that the warehouse, where his early paintings were stored, had burned, and he came in with a razor cut on his cheek), and this same mild expectancy, waiting to be told.

But now he turned away. — I've just come to pick up some things, he said, and he stood there holding one hand in the other before him, looking down. She watched the lines of his face become confused again, and still sitting on the edge of the bed she asked him,

— What things?

— Well, the. . there must be some clothes. Some clothes. Because this. . He stopped again, holding a black wilted lapel, and looked at it.

— It's been so long, she said, starting to get up. But then she only clasped her hands around a knee, and stayed. — Are you going away? she asked him, and sorry she had for he looked bewildered and not at her. — You're not going to stay? she added abruptly.

— To stay? he repeated, and looked at her.

— You haven't come back to… to stay?. . with me? Her knee slipped from her clasped hand.

— Why no I ssstopped in to… pick up some things, I… there's somewhere I have to go tonight, something I have to… do. He spoke each word as though intending another, misshaping them with his lips, and stood there uncertainly. — You see, I… he commenced again, but she interrupted briskly as she stood.

— It's all right, I simply wondered. A woman likes to know these things.

— But you…

— But you do look better than when you were up here a few days ago, don't you, she went on, her voice with an edge to it.

— Yes, I'm tired.

— Where have you been?

— A Turkish bath.

— All this time?

— No, I… yes.

— Why? Why? Why?

— Oh, they… do all sorts of things to you there. Heat and cold, and steam. . and cold water, and they pound you, and you. . and they. . they do all sorts of things to you to make you. . that you feel. .

He turned toward the closet again, took a step and startled at his brief image in the mirror.

— Oh, but that. . I'm sorry, she said, laughing, coming toward him around the foot of the bed.

— Well I didn't. . think it was mine, he said, confused again, taking off the jacket he'd got from a closet hanger. Its bold plaid sleeves came down to his knuckles, the skirt well down over his thighs.

— I am sorry, Esther said and she quit laughing. — It's. . someone left it here.

— But they're all like this, he said from the closet.

— Your things are in here, in these drawers. She stopped her going toward him, and pulled open a bottom drawer. When she straightened up she'd recovered her impatience. — When you're away for as long as you've been, she began. He was putting back on the wrinkled black jacket from the floor where he'd dropped it. — But here, Esther said, pulling folded clothes from the drawer, — surely there's something in here that will do better than. . that.

But he buttoned the jacket in front, taking both hands to each button.

— This, she said.

He took from her the suit she held out, plain gray with a diagonal weave.

— Well, aren't you going to put it on?

He folded it and put it on the bed, at the same time making sure of the buttons on the jacket he wore, as though suddenly afraid to lose it.

— Aren't you going to wear this?

— I'll. . I'll take it with me, and a shirt. Some shirts too. Then with a step he was nearer her, and another; and he stopped, bringing up his head, both hands open before him, open as though to come to grips except that he'd already fallen half a step back, and She, straightening up with some shirts held forth on the flat of her hands raised her face to his, joining forces with the mirror behind her. — What is it?

But with that half a step back one image retired, and bearing his green eyes on her he recovered, the half-step and another with it so that Esther shrank back against the chest holding the shirts out farther still between them and she repeated — What is it?

The door opened, flung open. Music burst in.

— What do you…

— Sorry.

Broken shapes, gray Glen Urquhart mitigated by blond hair in a wild panache, shattered the wall; a peripheral pattern instantly restored as the door bangs, closed.

— What was it?

— Purcell.

— No. Her hands lay in his, under the squared white mass of the shirts, cold nails and soft lined joints against his hard palms.

— The music?

— No. Her thumbs out, and palms up with the weight on them, her shoulders relax, and her hands open further, to draw up as instantly there is no support, first his right hand gone, clearly gone, and then with an instant's paroxysm the left.

And then the weight of those shirts, lifted away, and her hands rise empty, round-fingered, untapering and separate.

The mass of the shirts broke on the bed as he dropped them there, and took his left hand in his right where veins stood out in swollen tributaries rising between the roughed mounds of the knuckles, breaking in detail on the fingers whose severity they articulated.

— That night. . Esther said staring at his hands, her own withdrawn to shelter the hollows, heels on bone and the round ends of her fingers appointing that soft declivity which rose above them until her thumbs could not meet across her waist. — That night, she repeated, curling her finger-ends in upon the yielding bank, and the tips of her thumbs touched. — When I wanted to… manicure you? She looked up at his face, and with the effort smiled until she said, — And you. . drew away just like that. . each word draining the smile from her face, and she lowered her eyes, and her empty hands came down to her sides.

She waited, and heard no response, but watching saw his lips go tight. — What have you been doing all this time? she demanded of him, and sat on the bed.

He turned back to the shirts, which he'd just left stacked unevenly on the bed, and commenced to arrange them in a careful pile. — Nothing, he answered automatically.

— Nothing! she repeated, and sat up straight.

— A few things. . working, sort of… experimental things.

— Painting? What kind of things, then?

— Yes, sort of… that kind of thing.

— Painting?

He looked up at her, quickly and away, back to what he was doing, squaring the pile between his hands. — Looking around us today, he said with effort, — there doesn't seem to be… much that's worth doing.

— Well what good is it then?. . she burst out at him, — going on only to find out what's not worth doing?

— You find… he mumbled, — if you can find, that way. .

— Are you very ill? Esther said.

— 111? He looked up pale and surprised.

— Everything is just like it was, isn't it. Only worse. She started speaking rapidly again, as she got to her feet. — You've just got everything tangled up worse and worse, haven't you. Why the way you pulled your hands away from me just now, as though they were something. .

— Esther. .

— And your guilt complexes and everything else, it's just gotten worse, hasn't it, all of it. And the way you pulled your hands away from me just now, it was just like when we were first married and I hardly knew you, and the longer we were married the less you. . won't you talk to me? even now, won't you talk to me?

— Really Esther, I… I didn't come here to argue with you. He sounded again himself she remembered, and she pursued,

— You won't argue, you'll say things like that but you won't argue, you won't talk… to me. .

— Damn it, I… Esther, I just came in to get some things.