William Gaddis - The Recognitions

— What is she, anyhow? Otto asked as they drifted in that direction.

— An agent, a literary agent, Stanley answered under his breath, and they arrived to fill a gap in the trouser-seat curtain around her. There was a silent moment: Agnes Deign and Otto compared sun tans. Then she said, — I'm collecting members for Art for Labor and Democracy. It's a party.

— A party? someone from another cluster turned to ask.

— A political party, darling, she said, and he retired.

— I have no political interests, Otto said to her.

— But you don't have to do anything. You just give me two dollars, that pays your dues and they have another member.

— But why join if I'm not going to do anything?

— They need members. They just want your name, darling.

— I'm sorry, I'm afraid I really couldn't afford it.

— Two dollars?

— That isn't what I meant. But Agnes Deigh was talking to someone else. Otto retired, to recover composure with an eyebrow raised on nothing.

The funeral spray was on the floor; and in the sunless garden round it the flowers wilted one way and another, toward each other and away. There was music, briefly. A girl's voice counterfeited by the phonograph sang, "I sold my heart to the junkman. " until the needle broke and the song was lost in a whirr and momentary dimming of the electric light. A healthy baritone voice from a girl with a tubercularly collapsed chest said, — But it isn't really a good novel at all, the only perceptive chapter is where the boy discovers he's queer.

One, with an unconscionably persistent smile, his coat too long and trousers too short, was detailing the plot of his as-yet-unfinished novel, — slightly reminiscent of Djuna Barnes perhaps. A man is told that his girl is a lesbian, so he makes himself up as a girl and goes to a party where she'll be. He makes advances to her, she accepts, and he throws off his disguise and rapes her. The voice of Agnes Deigh rose, — But darling, you don't have to do anything.

Time, essential for growth, seemed to have forgotten the place, abandoned this garden which had never seen the sun, neither known the songs nor the fertilizing droppings of birds; still there might be worms, and one would hesitate to pry under to prove that there were not. In spite of not being tall, Otto looked loftily over the dusty scene, as he had upon the simmering market in the Central American port two weeks before. Here, as there, he poured disdainfully casual and acrid tobacco smoke over the traders, stood with one foot extended, an eyebrow raised. Occasionally he flicked at the ends of his new mustache, or affected difficulty with his sling. No one had mentioned either.

In spite of the fact that the couch was out of sight, he set off toward it, suddenly remembering the perennial hunt; and by now he had had enough to drink to encourage him toward the woman sought after in vain, die Frau nach der man sich sehnt (as Gordon called her in Act III). So he knew the eyes that looked beyond and did not acknowledge him, the hands which offered but protected, and these were the places one was forced to seek her in New York, no matter the shadows, the choking air, this Ewig-Weibliche, the Eternal Helen. Then he suddenly heard Jesse Franks's voice saying, — She looks like some friggin madonna, and, no more realizing the wonder in that remark than the man who had spoken it, shut it out.

— I haven't seen you for months, said someone beside him. They shook hands.

— I've been in Central America, said Otto, brandishing the sling.

— Were you? I didn't know it.

Otto recognized him: the young man who wore his coat too long and trousers too short. The unconscionable smile, Otto remembered unpleasantly, not a smile to make one feel cheerful in its presence and persistence. Rather its intimation was that the wearer knew all of the dismal secrets of some evil jungle whence he had just come, a place of surreptitious traffic in fetid sweetish air where the fruits hung rotten on the trees. — How do you like my painting? This, of course, was Max.

— The colors are good, said Otto warily to his host. The smile was not cold, but its very attempt to show itself open and honest revealed disarming calculation. It was a smile that had encouraged many to devote confidences, which gaining the cold air of outdoors they regretted, and mistrusted him accordingly. He dealt largely in facts, knowing for instance that most Hawaiian grass skirts are made in Switzerland, that Scottish Border ballads originated in the Pacific islands, that Scotch tartans are made in Switzerland, British army swords in Germany. It was for these moments that Otto wanted to carry a gun, not to flourish, certainly not to fire, simply to feel it heavily protective under his arm. — Did it take you long? he asked.

— Thinking it out was the main thing, said Max.

— It always is. I've just finished a play and.

— Do you know Ed Feasley? He was at Harvard too, said Max, who had studied locally.

— Hello, said Ed. — Chrahst we were in the same class. You know, I called you up a couple of months ago. I looked you up in the phone book when I came to New York and called. I got some man. He seemed to know you, but he didn't know where you were.

— That must have been my father, Otto said. There was the sound of collision across the room, as Anselm went down.

— That last time I saw you, said Otto, — you were playing golf down here, driving golf balls down Thompson Street.

— I was drunk, said Ed, whose father owned a battleship works. — Just happened to have some clubs in the car.

— What are you doing now?

— Not a God-damned thing. The old man told me he'd give me a ten-per-cent commission if I'd sell one of his God-damned boats, I think the old bastard's just kidding me. He wants me to go to work in one of his plants. Start from the bottom.

— What happened to that girl you were going to marry?

— O Chr-ah-st, Ed said wearily. His old-school drawl relieved him of the burden of blasphemy. — I've decided to write a book about her instead. He was a tall well-built fellow with a very small head, what was known as the university type before those institutions let down their barriers, now viewed by the frail round-heads who have penetrated as definite evidence of degeneration of the race.

— I guess we're all writing, Otto said cheerfully. — I've just finished a play.,

— Wha'd you do to your hand anyway? Ed asked.

— I've been in Central America. A revolution.

— Wha'd you go down there for?

— I was working, but when this revolution started, well, you know, you get mixed up in things, before you know it. And to see a dozen policemen coming at you on motorcycles, after you've strung piano wire…

— Mister Feddle, said Max, — I'm so glad you came. This interloper was an old man, who seemed glad to be here.

— I feel young again, among all of you, he said. — And I must tell you since I know you'll be interested. My poems are being published.

— That's splendid. Congratulations. Things will be a lot easier for you and your wife now. Is she here?

Mr. Feddle looked out into the room. — She was, he murmured, — she was, as he tottered away.

— All you really need is a length of good piano wire.

— Did you say you were writing a novel? Max asked Ed Feasley.

— No, said Otto, — a play. I just finished a play, down in…

— Has anyone seen it? Max asked him.

— No, I… well.

— I'd like to read it, Max said.

— Would you? Let's see. I might get it to you tomorrow. It's one of those things, you can't really be sure of it until an outside person has seen it, said Otto explaining this sudden committal to himself and to them, as though he would show it to Max if he were uncertain. And Max smiled at Otto, as though he knew him very well, and had seen him often in another part of the jungle.