William Gaddis - The Recognitions

— We want a goverment that will do something for Americans, said Mr. Schmuck, to the right, — and I don't mean the Indians.

Three men stood over the low table before the fireplace as Basil Valentine entered, fingertips suppressing, at that moment, the vein standing out at his temple. He approached them. Two of them were European, and the third was Recktall Brown.

— There is no place here for history to accumulate, said the tallest of them, taking the cigarette and pausing the lighted match as though to illuminate his synthesis, — and you call this progress.

— Good evening, Basil Valentine said as they turned to acknowledge his arrival; and while courtesies were being exchanged, he looked straight across the table.

There was something reckless about Brown's appearance. He had had his glasses on and off a number of times, and though they were on now, slightly crooked, the pupils swimming behind those thick lenses seemed to be wary of that constant renewal, sharpened to points, each time the glasses were removed, and nervously alerted against it. He was perspiring; and the cigar he held in his mouth burnt on a bias. At that moment he noticed it, taking it from among those uneven teeth, and threw it into the fireplace behind him. He had another out very quickly, unwrapped, and stood, vaguely marsupial, delving for the penknife in a pocket of his vest.

Basil Valentine wasted no manners in getting round beside him. — What happened?

And M. Crémer politely turned his back on them, and speaking to the tall man beside him managed to continue a conversation which had not yet begun. — Mais cette peinture-là, je veux 1'acheter, vous savez, mais le prix!. . bien sûr que c'est Memlinc, alors, mais le prix qu'il demande, il est fou!

— Pas si bete. . that one murmured, and together they crossed the room to look at a painting recently hung in the neighborhood of the vast tapestry. A lantern-jawed young man with a low forehead stared at them dumbly as they passed without a glance lor him. He was quite used to being annoyed in public as a movie star. Now, hearing French, he muttered, — Fairies. . and went for another drink.

— Him Byronic? Miss Stein demanded.

— I said moronic, said Mr. Schmuck's assistant. — We have to keep a tank of straight oxygen on the set to sober him up…

— What happened, I asked you.

— Nothing. Not a damn thing happened. Not a God-damned thing, Brown threw back unsteadily.

— You're in splendid shape this evening. Valentine stepped back, looking him over. — Splendid, he rasped.

Brown would not look round at him. Finally he did say, — He wants to buy that Memling.

— Who?

— This frog that was just here, he wants to buy it for nothing. Crazy frog.

— He is an idiot, I agree, Basil Valentine said, and supporting one elbow drew the hand up to his face, his chin lowered so that he seemed to kiss that gold seal ring, and they stood side by side, sustaining a perilous abeyance between them, and weighing the room before them in the balance.

Fuller entered, bearing glasses on a tray suspended at nose level between white hands, and altogether a harried look about him. They both watched Fuller until he arrived, without the mishap he appeared to expect, at the bar; but even when he'd set the tray down there safe, his expression did not change: it even seemed to summon itself to an exaggeration as he looked round to see them watching him from across the room, and the sounds and the movement about him fell away in the suspense of his own paralysis, an intolerable moment while they three were alone in the room, surrounded by shades, and waiting.

— Hey George, where's the can?

Fuller turned to Miss Stein. — I will direck you to the tilet, madam, he said, and set off before her.

Like undersea flora, figures stood weaving, rooted to the floor, here and there one drifting as though caught in a cold current, sensing in a greater or a less degree what one expressed as — Something submarine, as he paddled the air before him, and went on, — Agnes should be here, this is her world. Then he touched the beard which dripped to a point at his chin with two fingers, smirked at the stolid figure across the room whose somber presence he caricatured, and whined, — Where is that black Ganymede?. .

Fuller was sitting on a white stool in the kitchen, bolt upright pretending to read a cruise guide he had found in a street trash bin. On the floor, the dog watched him. She swallowed. He did not move. She was watching him as though to see if the intent strain on his face were for his reading or tense suspension, waiting, for a sound from her. She growled. At that, as though it were a signal of relief from restraint, he brought a hand up to hide the intent corner of his profile, and peeked at her through his fingers. Sometimes this went on for what seemed hours, to them both; though tonight the surveillant might be justified: she had seen him selling the evening's emptied liquor bottles, with their undamaged expensive labels, to a furtive shade at the service entrance.

Miss Stein returned to hear the lantern-jawed young man finishing what was apparently a familiar joke, for she laughed before it was done while the tall woman listened with polite anticipation to, — So one nurse says, And did you see he has the word swan tattooed on it? And the other nurse says (here Miss Stein burst into laughter), — That xvord's Saskatchewan.

The tall woman waited politely for a moment more, then she said agreeably, — Oh. . that's in Canada, isn't it? They quit laughing and stared at her. — I'd better go look after my husband, she said. And turning, she gathered her features to return in kind an expression of vaguely startled curiosity from a tall white-haired man in gray, who was turning it everywhere in the room, though apparently in conversation with the hapless creature before him, to whom he had just said,

— Eh?

— Ail séd, ouî mest keep going ouor semmhouer naoû olouezz azz a séfté valv it izz valyouebel, ouith provijenn it dezz not spredd.

— Good heavens yes, daresay you're right, eh? Now if you'll just. .

— Semm aoutt-ovv-dthe-oué piece houer it dezz not interfîre ouith dthe civilise oueurld.

— Good heavens yes! Excuse me, there's a good mpphhht fellow.

— Ouonne ouor. .

Nearby, someone overheard mention of Tuthmosis in another conversation, and going on, found it immediately useful in still another, — This is for your tomb-like little ears, she has something contagious called. .

— Tuthmosis third, eh? Good heavens yes, remember him well, the white-haired man went on, now deep in confusion with a sharp-bearded "oriental sort of chap" as he would say when he escaped. — Probably the greatest Pharaoh of them mphht all, I daresay, eh? Had a very low forehead I remember, curious thing, eh? Looked a bit like this mphht chap here somewhere, works in pictures they tell me. Pitiful sort of mppht way to live eh? He finished and glanced up, startled again at the sharp eyes fixed on him.

— Ah yes. . and the child princess Ink-naton, is she perhaps familiar?

— Ink. . mphht. . Ikhnaton, daresay that's who you mean, eh? Good heavens yes, very interesting chap he was, Ikhnaton. Put down the mphht what-do-you-call-ems, don't you know. Religious reform, all that sort of thing. Good heavens yes, had them all running round worshiping the sun. All very well, that sort of thing, don't you know, pushing out the mphht old gods, eh? But keep an eye on politics, eh? Keep an eye on politics. Not like this fellow what's-his-name we're talking about, building his temple out there on the edge of nowhere, eh? Spending everything he could get his hands on out there worshiping the mphht visible disc of the sun, eh? Won't do, won't do at all.