William Gaddis - The Recognitions

Mr. Pivner listened with all his attention, faintly able to follow

— He was despised. . rejected… a man of sorrows. .

But he found himself following the quiz program, where a Mr. Crotcher had just answered a question concerning a fable with an ant for its hero, and won a completely furnished house in a popular suburban community called Arsole Acres.

— A man of sorrows and acquainted with grief. . while the voice described the joys of the suburban community (its singular name derived, it appeared, from the Latin ars meaning art), and the doorbell rang.

There was something familiar about the man standing behind the one who flicked open a hip-pocket wallet with one thumb, to flash the star of the Secret Service as they entered.

— And who's this?

Eddie Zefnic was standing, as wide-eyed as his host.

— This? a… young friend of mine, he… what is this, officer?

— You better come along too.

— But what's this about?

— You can tell us what it's about, when we get downtown.

— But. . where are we going?

— The corner of West and Eleventh Streets, the Treasury man said patiently. Then, — Wait a minute, let's have a look at this bathrobe.

— But this, I… Mr. Pivner commenced, getting out of it.

They looked at the label. — This is the one, all right. . and rolled it up. — You're going to tell us you didn't know it was paid for with queer money?

— But. . Mr. Pivner was getting into his jacket, his coat, his green muffler. Eddie Zefnic was picking up his new science textbooks.

— Wait a minute, where you going?

— Just to… to get my glasses, Mr. Pivner said, and the man who had been silent accompanied him into the bedroom. Only as they were about to leave he spoke,

— You might as well turn off your radio, you won't be back here tonight. . and Mr. Pivner recognized him, as he hurried back across the dark room while they waited in the door. It was the blind accordion player.

— O.K., let's go… But even now, habit did not desert Mr. Pivner. He waited until the radio announcer had finished his sentence,

— And now friends, stay tuned for drama with the impact of reality.

The program was introduced by Beautiful Dreamer, played on the studio organ. Somewhere, distant, spectral, came the tender alleluias of a sixteenth-century processional, written by Gabrieli, to be led across the plaza of Saint Mark's, where he was organist.

— 1 came here from another state thinking I would be more happier with my father and… an insistent quailing voice commenced; and the apparitions on the plaza of Saint Mark's retired. — Now just a minute, dear, how old are you?. . With preternatural and delicate strength, the specters reappeared, for an instant directly the viscous voice left off, and then, — Twelve years old and I came here from another state thinking I would be more happier with my father and my father start drinkin again and beatin up on my step-mother. .

There was a crash. Stanley stood, and withdrew his foot from the front of the plastic radio, which was on the floor. He stood, staring at it, unable to believe that he had done such a thing: but there it lay in a mute tangle at his feet. Then he looked over his shoulder, alarmed as though he might have been seen by someone (the owner of the borrowed radio, for instance). Round him, everything in the room was packed in readiness, everything but the crucifix over his bed. Stanley's eyes reached that, and rested on it. His tooth began to ache again, the same one that had been aching the hour his mother died; and with that dull throbbing pain that memory returned, throbbing as vividly. Then Stanley squared his shoulders. He stood up straight, a movement which drew breath into his chest. He closed his teeth together hard, and then turned off the light without a glance at the bundle which held his almost completed work, palimpsests bound together with clean scores which he hoped to alter and copy on the boat; and he went out the door without stopping at the communal hall bathroom, as he'd meant to, pause there and correct that multiplication problem for the thousandth time, out on the street with no idea where he was going. He soon arrived at that place where everyone else who had started out as aimlessly decided was the place they'd started out for.

The juke-box was playing Return to Sorrento, and Ed Feasley, whom he did not think he had ever met, greeted him with, — Hello. . Chr-ahst, and handed him a glass of beer.

A weary atmosphere hung over the place. People stood about at odd angles, like clocks which must be stood at odd angles to keep running, finally all that is expected of them, for they seldom tell the right time, cracked faces kept around for familiarity as long as they keep some track of day and night.

— And so then she broke right out in Braille. . someone said.

And Hannah asked Ed Feasley to buy her a glass of beer. While he was getting it she turned to Stanley and said, — I hear you're going to Rome and be a Pilgrim. Where you getting the money?

— My mother. . left it.

— Insurance? you can't get insurance if you. .

— No, it was. . she had it pinned in her clothing, in her underclothing.

— I hear your lady friend with the white fingernails went out a window too.

— What? Stanley looked at her aghast.

— Didn't you hear? Max was in here, he had a newspaper. It's all over the front page. She jumped out a hotel window.

— No but, she wouldn't have jumped, she might have. . fallen, he faltered. — She wouldn't just… to kill herself. .

— She jumped, don't be… that way about it, she jumped. And she didn't kill herself, she just smashed herself up. She's in Bellevue the paper says. Hannah accepted her beer, sipped it without a word, and turned, — Hey where you going?

— Well I thought I might go over there, over to Bellevue. .

— Come on, for Christ sake, you can't go in there this late. You probably can't visit her anyhow. She's probably all strung up there. .

— Please. . Stanley said, looking up with sudden appeal at Ed Feasley who stood staring at the floor, silent.

They were all three silent for a moment, looking down, and Don Bildow's plaintive voice reached them. — She's all swollen up, and just before I sail. I don't know if I should go with her like this.

— Dropsy?

— How could a six-year-old girl have dropsy? Bildow moaned, fingering the yellow and brown necktie which seemed to support him.

— I mean Chrahst, what happens to people? Ed Feasley asked finally. Stanley stood looking numb. — And I mean Chrahst, everybody's leaving, everybody's going abroad. I haven't been in Paris since I was seven years old, Chrahst to go there now! I mean to Saint Germain des Prés where they're imitating Greenwich Village and here we are in Greenwich Village still imitating Montmartre. . I mean Chrahst. Hannah had been watching him narrowly, noting the strain in his voice, the forced way he spoke and looked away. When he looked up and saw her he started to speak again, sounding more forced and talking about Max in order to avoid talking about something else. — And I mean did you see that fistful of Confederate money Max had? All these old ten- and twenty-dollar Confederate bills, he said he picked them up for almost nothing, I mean what does he want with that if he's going to Paris? I mean, you know? Chrahst. And I saw him talking to Bildow, I mean how come he gets along so well with Bildow after that poem thing, that poem Bildow published. .

— He explained that, Hannah said. — He didn't steal it, he said that skinny girl, you remember the one, she used to write poetry, or she told everybody she did. Max said she gave it to him and asked him to have it published under his name. I guess she pretended she didn't want to use her own name in case people didn't like it. That was a lousy trick, getting Max in trouble like that. She was probably high. They picked up that junkie she had hanging around.