William Gaddis - The Recognitions

— I wouldn't reach up my ass for the whole city of New York, said the man with the kewpie doll tattooed on his forearm, who stood before a mirror in the communal lavatory eating cold chili out of a can. He ate before the mirror so that he could see where his mouth was, for he had been drinking for three days. He was not working because of the burn on his back, which he said he had got when someone took a chicken out of a boiling pot and threw it at him, in a brothel down in the port. The wound on his back was not the shape of a chicken. It had been painted with a purple solution, a great island the shape of Australia the first day, now contracted to the proportions of New Zealand, the stroke of Tasmania out to sea for the doctor's hand was not a steady one.

— That's where I live, Otto said. He enjoyed coming into this lavatory, because the mirrors all in a row over the wash basins gave the pleasant illusion of passing one's self at many windows. — That sounds like quite a revolution they're having, Otto said washing his hands at the next basin.

— Them bastids don't know how to have a revolution, said the other, turning with such Anglo-Saxon indignance that the orange chili ran down his chin. — You know what I'd do if I was up there. All you got to do is get them dumb cops on their motorcycles, and string a good piece of piano wire across the road, then get down at the end of the road and take a couple of shots at them. They come after you on their motorcycles and zing zing zing there go their heads just like that. All you need, a good piece of piano wire. They don't know how to have a revolution. They're afraid somebody'll get killed. If I was up there.

— I've got to go pack, Otto said. — Have you seen Jesse?

— What do you want to see that dumb son of a bitch for?

— I'm leaving. I just wanted to tell him goodbye.

— You goin somewhere?

— New York. I told you. I'm going home.

— New York! What do you want to go there for? I wouldn't reach. But he was busy eating.

Otto had suddenly remembered his manuscript, the manuscript of his play. He was certain he had not packed it, for he had kept it out to look at until the minute before departure. It was nowhere in his room. All he found was a newspaper, in which he had been looking up sailings from nearby ports (knowing all the time that he would take the Company boat), found only a want ad for a male Chihuahua sought for breeding purposes. This paper he threw across the room, and with a cigarette in his fist like a smoking weapon he strode out, down the porch toward the shanty where the cleaning women settled about this time of day.

— Quién limpian mi cuarto mañana? he asked when he arrived, getting out in one breath the question it had taken him the distance of his walk to phrase in mistranslation.

An ancient timid hand went up among the women. — Yo, answered its owner, letting it drop. One by one they got to their feet before him.

— Hay visto una manuscripta aquí? Otto had made up the word manuscripta. One of the triumphs of his stay was his successful evasion' of learning more than some thirty mispronounced words of the language.

— Qué dijo?

— La manuscripta de mi playa, said Otto forcefully. He knew that by adding a he could translate any English noun satisfactorily. The ladies were vastly confused. He turned from the doorway and set off toward his building. They followed.

— Qué dijo de playa? asked one, drawn on by the mystery of a man looking for a beach. None tried to answer her. They tramped up the dirt in silence. Inside his room Otto turned on the woman who had admitted to cleaning it. — El está para la máquina, he said pointing to the typewriter. — Esta mañana.

— Perdido, said one woman, satisfied that something was lost.

— Si, perdido, said another equally agreeable. She started to look under the mattress.

— Qué cosa? asked the accused bravely.

— Papel, said the master. — Papel que yo escribo mi playa al máquina, finishing in triumphal confusion. — Mi playa, he repeated, menacing.

— Es muy misterioso, said one of the women.

— Si.

— Muy misterioso, repeated the third, while the fourth let go the mattress (it was where she would have hidden anything) and stood silently marveling at this man who had lost a beach right here in the room.

— Titulito The Vanity of Time, Otto recommenced.

— No entiendo, the eldest came back at him, helplessly defiant.

— The Vanity of Time, he said more loudly. — La Vanidad del

Tiemplo, God damn it, he almost shouted. Illiterate, illiterate old fools. He looked around for a pencil, found none, returned. — Tiene una. una. He made scribbling motions in the air. — For escribo.

One held a pencil out to him. — Un lápiz, señor? she asked. Lápiz, of course; though anyone looking at it could see that it was a pencil. He took it from her and wrote, THE VANITY OF TIME, in large letters. — Mucho papel, he said.

— Aïe. said the old one, dawning. — Pero si, si señor, with happy relief. She was uncomfortably familiar with this pile of paper. It had once been pointed out to her as mucho importante, and she had daily dusted the title page with care: the words were as unforgettably meaningless to her as the Latin legend circumscribing the largest local Virgin, — Aquí está, she said reaching to the top of a pile of linen on a shelf. — Lo pusé aquí cuando empacaba, todo estaba tan revuelto que tuve miedo de que se perdiera, o se ensuciara. she got out, in what sounded like one wildly relieved word.

Otto, breathing heavily, took it from her muttering, — Gracias, gracias, señoritas, without raising his eyes from the precious bundle. The four smiled, murmured — Nada, de nada, señor, and trundled out the door clustering about the acquitted for an explanation.

He carried the sheaf of clean papers over to a chair. The words were beautiful. The letters themselves were beautiful. His handwriting, in careful notes along occasional margins to give the thing a casual look, was beautiful. He read at familiar random, smiling to himself. Every page, beautiful, except one which would have to be retyped, he had killed a cockroach on it. Or perhaps, perhaps it had style in itself, that dark smudge. There were (though he had never seen one) tarantulas in Central America. Or was it black widows? And would a black widow make a brown smudge?

Then he raised his face to the empty door. The obsequious smile was gone. Left eyebrow up, lips moistened, slightly parted and curled, he waited while a producer approached, welcoming hand extended. Otto eyed the vision, nodded casually, reached for a cigarette. There were none in the linen suit. He was interrupted while he went to the dirty striped shirt for the necessary property; and returned to the chair the long way round the room, pausing (at the mirror) to light the cigarette. Putting the papers on the publisher's desk he fumbled a little, able to use but one hand. — Here, let me help you, the publisher said. — Nothing serious, I trust? — Nothing, nothing at all, Otto answered, elbowing the sling back under his jacket. — A scratch. Central America, you know.

He read a few lines in the second act and blew a perfect smoke ring on the quiet air. There was Esther. Where would he meet her? At the apartment? But he did not want to see her husband again. The thought of that man barely ten years his senior made him curl inside, the man who had seemed at first almost a father, then a fool, finally near maniac. It would be better to call Esther for a drink. Or for luncheon. Better still to meet her casually, by carefully prearranged accident.

— How wonderful you look, Otto.

— A little color. How have you been?

— Oh the same old things, you know, but without you it's been so dull and so lonely. But you, what about you? And what's happened to your hand?