William Gaddis - The Recognitions

He jumped to his feet, slipped against the table, spilling the ink on the papers there, and in three steps was through the door to the other room. The dog lay in the darkened foyer before the front door, facing the door and apparently at rest. — Damn you! he said. -I'll.

The dog turned to look at him, as he threw his hands out before him. — Damned. animal out of hell are you. The dog, only partially distinguishable in the darkness, got up, the hair on its shoulders bristling as he took two steps closer, and paused. They both listened to the footsteps on the lower staircase, he with his hands still in the air as though counting the steps, heavy and even, neither casual nor hurried, reaching the hallway below, the foot of the stairs, and up the stairs with no more apparent effort than one step at a time, though too soon knock knock knock

The rain, silenced by inattention, took up its beating against the glass; then the dog whined and clawed the door, movement which broke the still arrangement where every object seemed tense in suspension. He walked to the door, and as he put his hand to the latch the hand on the other side, as though responding, moved too: knock knock knock. And he drew back as though threatened.

The dog clawed the door, and when he pulled it open the dog jumped so fast that he had no chance to restrain it. But the visitor who waited in the darkness had apparently expected the attack, for he caught at the red collar and held the black poodle down.

— Hello. Hello, said that voice in the shadow, a voice at once cheerful and unpleasant. — Some kids in the street saw you bring her in here.

He opened the door more widely. — Come in, he said, in a tone which seemed to reassure him, for he repeated it. — Come in… Who are you?

The visitor extended his hand as he entered, a stubby hand mounting two diamonds set in gold on one finger. — My name is Recktall Brown.

He took the hand and said his own name in reply, distantly, as though repeating the name of an unremembered friend in effort to recall him.

Recktall Brown entered and strode to the middle of the room, looking round it through heavy glasses which diffused the pupils of his eyes into uncentered shapes. — Good thing you brought her in, he said, and waved the diamonds at the dog where it lay on the floor, licking itself. — She hates the rain. Then he turned, a strange ugliness, perhaps only because it looked that a smile would be impossible to it.

— Would you. like a drink?

— No. Not now. Not now.

— Yes, but. there, yes, sit down.

Recktall Brown dropped into a heavy armchair facing the open door of the studio. He tapped the diamonds on the arm of the chair while he continued to look around the room, his head back, his face highly colored with the redness of running up flights of stairs; yet he breathed quietly, almost imperceptibly, for his stoutness absorbed any such evidence before it reached the double-breasted surface of his chest. — I know your name. He smiled, a worse thing than the original, turning for a moment to the man who stood watching him as he poured brandy into a glass, and said, — Yes, I… I think I know your name, but in what connection.

— A publisher? A collector? A dealer? Recktall Brown sounde 1 only mildly interested. — People who don't know me, they say a lot of things about me. He laughed then, but the laughter did not leave his throat. — A lot of things. You'd think I was wicked as hell, even if what I do for them turns out good. I'm a business man.

— But. how did you know my name?

— What's your business?

— I'm a draftsman.

— And an artist? Recktall Brown was looking beyond him to the studio, and back at him as he approached and sat on the couch.

— I… do some restoring.

— I know.

— You know? He sat forward on the couch, holding the glass between his knees, and looked at his visitor and away again, as though there were some difficulty which he could not make out.

— You did some work for me.

— For you?

— A Dutch picture, a picture o£ a landscape, an old one.

— Flemish. Yes, I remember it. That painting could hang in any museum.

— It does. The hand which carried the diamonds was folded over the other before him. — You couldn't tell it had been touched. Even an expert couldn't tell, without all the chemical tests and X-rays, an expert told me that himself.

— Well, I tried, of course.

— Tried! You did a damn good job on it. He looked around the room with an air of detached curiosity, and finally asked what the funny smell was. Because the glasses obliterated any point in his glance, it was difficult to tell where he was looking, but he seemed aware that he was being watched with an expression of anxiety almost mistrust, not of him, but an eagerness to explain anything which might be misunderstood. His questioning was peremptory

— Lavender. I use it as a medium sometimes. The smell seems tc stay.

— A medium?

— To mix colors in, to paint with.

— You do a lot of work here, don't you.

— Well, I… I've been doing some of my work at home. This drafting, bridge plans.

— No. The painting, the painting, Recktall Brown said impatiently.

— Oh, this restoring, this. patching up the past I do.

— You don't paint? You don't paint pictures yourself?

— I… No.

— Why not?

— I just. don't paint.

Recktall Brown watched him wipe his perspiring forehead, and drink part of the brandy quickly. — All this work, all these books, you go to all this trouble just to patch up other people's work? How come you've never painted anything yourself?

— Well I have, I have.

— What happened, you couldn't sell them?

— Well no, but…

— Why not?

— Well people. the critics… I was young then, I was still young.

— What are you now, about forty?

— Forty? Me, forty?

— Why not, you look forty. He took a cigar from his pocket, and continued his gaze at the man across from him. — So they didn't like your pictures. What happened, the critics laugh you out of town?

— Well they.

— And you got bitter because nobody gave your genius any credit.

— No, I…

— And you couldn't make any money on them, so you quit?

— No, it…

— And you decided the only thing you could do was patch up other people's pictures.

— No, damn it, I…

— Don't get mad, I'm just asking you. He had unwrapped the cigar, and he raised it to his ear, rolling it between fingers as thick as itself. — Don't you want me to ask you?

— Why yes, yes. And I'm not angry, but, damn it…

— Why, do you want to tell me you can do more than patch up old pictures? There was no sound of dryness as he rolled the cigar, lowered it to trim the end off with a gold penknife, and thrust it among uneven teeth.

— Of course I can.

— But you won't, because they won't all stand up and cheer and pay you a big price.

— It isn't that, it isn't those things. They don't matter.

— Don't matter? Don't tell me they don't matter, my boy. That's what anybody wants, Recktall Brown said, lighting the cigar. — Everybody to stand up and cheer. There's nothing so damn strange about that.

— But it all… it isn't that simple now.

— Now?

— In painting, in art today…

— Art today? The uneven teeth showed in a grin through the smoke. — Art today is spelled with an /. You know that. Anybody knows it, he added patiently and waited, offering an oppressive silence which forced an answer.

— It's as though. there's no direction to act in now.

— That's crazy. You read too much. There's plenty to do, if anybody's got what you've got.