William Gaddis - The Recognitions

That suddenly, it was real. And as suddenly terrified, Otto looked frantically for sanctuary. The cathedral, with its protecting wall, stood waiting. He looked wildly round him but saw nothing as he started to run toward it. From behind the bandstand, a policeman rode, he and his mount looking in every direction, the man's and the horse's eyes matching in bloodshot apprehension, dodging the rocks that found them from above.

Just then a white bird came down in an arc from a branch, down falling like a stone before it ascended, and the policeman, dodging the threat, threw his weight over, his horse scrambled for a moment on the concrete and went down, and the falling flank caught Otto as he ran without seeing toward the church, spun him round and pinned him on the concrete, unconscious.

+ The vulture on the outside roof fussed for a moment, one wing extended, impatiently like a dignitary fully dressed for an appointment looking at his watch. Then the wing came back somewhat askew, as though he'd buttoned the coat up wrong, and not noticing it in his impatience stood rocking from one foot to the other.

In the street outside a little boy held up a male dog, exposed, for a female to investigate. His mother said to another and larger black woman, — Tomorrow morning, soon soon. . Other little black boys passed, wearing men's hats. The card game was back out on the veranda.

Near the only occupied cot, in the schoolroom which had been used as a hospital, was posted a stuffed fox whose snarl exposed a pink fly-blown tongue. The doctor stood beside the cot looking down at the face. Nothing moved there but a fly. It rummaged a cheek for a moment, studied the caves of the nostrils, hurried across the bandage to the cleft of the chin, from that eminence sighted the convoluted marvel across the way, and leaped silently to the ear. The eyes flickered, and closed tightly as though to recall the long night and the wonder of nonentity it had permitted: recreation not for the body, nor the soul, but opportunity for circumstances to refurbish themselves, a hope untempered by ages of experience where morning brings no change, but only renewal of conflict on the terms it left off. The lips moved, drawing up twice on, — I know it… I know it… and then tightening to know sleep only, and there animate circumstance with the good intentions which had already brought it low in present disaster; and then descending, a little lower, only to belabor those good intentions, vicarious opiates laboring in half-consciousness to fall away before the pursuit of dreams, dreams ravin in tooth and claw, while the beard grows against the pillow in darkness.

The fly returned to course the warm terrain of the eyelid, moving with the careless persistence of diabolical things, and both eyes came open.

— What happened?

— I was going to ask you the same thing. They just brought you in here in pieces, and. .

— I feel sick.

— Well you are sick, so it's a good thing you know it.

— I can hardly hear you.

— You're lucky you can hear me at all. Ever have ear trouble?

— Yes. No.

— Well, you do now. You might even have a deaf ear before you're through. Just like Julius Caesar, that would be nice, wouldn't it.

Who are you? You're very young to show up with something like this. I might even say tragic it I knew who you were.

— Wait, I… I can't move my arm.

— That's partly because it's broken. Do you remember trying to walk yesterday? Please excuse my shouting at you.

— But what is it? what is it?

— Like a drunkard. Staggering around like a drunkard. Of course I might not say that if I knew who you were. We didn't find any papers on you at all. Just money. Money. Lots of it.

— Where is it?

— Lie back now, it's safe. All that money! But you can't run around spending it now. Don't be impatient. Why, look at me, I have a right to be impatient. I was sent down here to help these nig. . natives with their drainage problems, and now look at me.'They keep promising to transfer me to Barbados, but they never do. A special health project in Barbados. . He had walked over near the window, and looked out. — I've sent for some more medicine for you. Of course I know all the time that I'll have to go get it myself eventually, this tattooed idiot who's supposed to work for me. . Then he shouted out the window, — Jesse. .! Jesse!. . There, you see? He's nowhere to be seen. Worthless, useless, tattooed idiot… of course I wouldn't call him that if I thought he could hear me. This is the third time now that I've put in for a transfer to that special health project among underdeveloped. . oops! Wait, don't throw up on the floor. Here. . here we are. Ummmp! That's better. Feel better?

— But. . what. . what is this? Who are you?

— What are either of us doing here? Who are you? Tsk tsk, excuse my shouting at you.

— But you. . you must tell me. .

— I suppose I must. The doctor should not discuss the case with the patient, but who else can I discuss it with? Well, after your little accident, something set in. Something.

— Something what?

— Don't be hasty. Something. Maybe something entirely original. Do you hear noises in your ears?

— I hear you. .

— I have to shout, or you couldn't hear me. Dizziness, nausea, vomiting, staggering, and down you go unconscious. It doesn't sound very original, does it. How would you like to have a disease named after you?

— But I…

— Well, I'll tell you a secret. It may be Ménière's disease. It may be. You'd accept that, would you? Because if it is we couldn't name it after you. We'll see. I've given you a little nicotinic acid. Do you work for the fruit company here?

— No… no, I…

— It's all right, don't explain. I'm on the outs with them too. If they knew I had you here they'd try to get you for their patient.

— No, I… now I…

— That's the spirit. Now you just wait here. If anyone comes in, cover up your head and moan. I'm going over to the fruit company dispensary, and try to get some Diasal for you. Diasal or Lesofac, Amchlor or Gustamate. If it is Ménière's syndrome, we'll have you up staggering around in no time. Of course I don't know where you'll stagger to, with no papers. What's your name? We can't name a disease after you if you don't have a name.

— But I… I…

— My name is Doctor Fell. There. What's yours?

— … Gordon. Gordon. My name's Gordon.

— All right Gordon. Don't throw up on the floor while I'm gone, Gordon. Gordonitis? tsk tsk. . Get some sleep Gordon.

— But you…

— Roniacol or Dramamine. .

The door banged. Outside all was quiet, except for the distant dull crash and recession at the seawall, where the rehearsal continued. The sun shone.

On the ridge of the tin roof across from the window, the vulture strode up and down, wings drawn back in a black mantle and head darting forward, like an old man thoughtful of money, hands restlessly grasping under the wings of his tailcoat. Then from somewhere an old man in a dry bird voice cried out, — Mani. . mani. .

— A patron saint?

— It's a natural.

— What does she do?

— She intercedes.

— What do you mean, she intercedes.

— I don't know, but that's not the point. Look, they've dug up this Saint Clare. She's going to be patron saint for the whole industry.

— Where'd you hear all this?

— Story conference. Somebody read about it in the paper. They've already run up a rough script on it. She had a vision once, at a basilica, where she saw the whole Christmas thing appear before her eyes. It was sort of the first TV show, you might say.