William Gaddis - The Recognitions

One moment he thought she was laughing at him for finding no meaning; the next, that she took him a fool for looking for one. — It sounds hermaphroditic, he said, defensively.

— Her-maph-ro-dit-ic? What is that?

— Someone with the equipment of both sexes.

— Like a succubus?

— Queer. Queerer.

— Queerer than queer?

Even now, it was almost dark; and the daybed where he sat stood mounted on the surface of the painted rug, and she outside it, looking on as one looks at an odalisque. Alone in the chair she thought of this, and started to shiver. — What's the matter? he said, and started to get up.

— Don't, don't, she said quickly as though frightened. — Stay there, please. Please.

— But what's the matter?

— I just get cold sometimes, all of a sudden my feet get very cold.

— Esme, about last night.

— What did you want to see me about, alone? she asked, seemed to mock him.

— Well, about last night, I wanted to clear up…

She sat still, far out of his reach, one leg folded under her. She had lit a cigarette, and its smoke rose between them. He had no wish to clear up the events of the night before: only to repeat it, in the pall of half-light, but while there was still light, light, so he could see. He got up and came to her chair.

— Please sit down, please, where you were, she said, hiding her face. — If we're going to talk I have to be able to see you. The cigarette burned, a protective brand between them. He turned, silent, and looked around, on the chest, on the table. There he picked up a paper, covered with writing in her large open hand. He read, "Baby and I / Were baked in a pie / The gravy was wonderful hot. / We had nothing to pay / To the baker that day / And so we crept out of the pot." — Is this more of your poetry?

— Oh no, Otto. That's a nursery rhyme I used to know.

— What did you write it here for?

— Sometimes I just write things I know, things I remember, because I like to write lovely things.

— I don't see what's so lovely about being baked in a pie.

— Please sit down, she said. But when she put her cigarette out, he crushed his own quickly and reached her before she had time to do more than throw her elbow up before her eyes. He took her shoulders and turned them back until her face fell open to him. Her eyes were larger than he thought they could be, her lips quivering with fear, he kissed her crushing her down with his whole weight. Then like the pickpocket who calls attention to one's arm by bumping it, while his hand slips in to the billfold, Otto distracted the dress covering her breasts with one hand, while his other sought delicately, lower, until it came to uneasy rest in warmth and darkness.

— But your arm? she whispered.

— What arm? She pointed to that sling, come undone. — It's all right, he said, flushing. — It's all right. Esme's thin face had the look of a small terrified animal never assailed, never before held and forced, and now caught in a snare; but a face that asked no pity, no stopping now, only assault, until every terror was consummated. Then she hid her face. — Otto, that thing scratches.

— What thing?

— This, she said, pointing at his mustache, exposing herself, and they went down in the chair again. Something snapped. Esme reached to her shoulder, embarrassed at this interruption of reality. Then, blithe as a little girl who has a secret game, or hiding place, which she shows to only one (or as candidly, one at a time) she led him back to the daybed.

— Esther. Otto whispered, and buried himself more deeply on her, forced his head down over her shoulder, pressing the lips that lied into her neck. — Esme.

As in Chinese fencing, whose contractual positions eliminate the fetters of time, time passed.

— It's a song from Tosca, she said, waking in the dark.

— What is?

— The song you wanted to know the name of.

— Song? Then you were dreaming.

— Then I was, she said. — Was it a dream? He felt her feet, very cold, against him. And he held her close to him, smiling. — I dreamt… he said, — Now don't you smell it?

— What?

— Lavender. Don't you smell the lavender? A moment of silence, and she said, — What did you dream?

— I dreamt… I had a terrible dream. I was at a film with a woman I knew very well, and I was pretending to be blind, with my eyeballs looking way up under the lids. Then I really was blind, and I was walking with a stick with a retracting point. There was cloth over my eyeballs that scratched and hurt, but I didn't seem to be upset. And the woman with me threatened me if I tried to escape her. Then another woman came along, she was very full-breasted, in a tight sort of bodice. We went to the park, and there was someone else there. Who was it? I can't think who it was. But the woman with me led me down a long street, and we came to a movie palace. Then I realized I'd made myself blind. And then the stick split down the middle, and I was there alone. The woman had left me alone. It was terrible.

— I dreamt about someone.

— Who?

— Someone you don't know, she said. Then she said to herself, — He was in a mirror, caught there.

— Now I remember who it was I saw in the park, Otto said.

— Who?

— Someone I used to know, someone you don't know, he said, and saw that pale thin man standing in the park vividly silent, watching him without recognition as he approached, blind, with the stick and its retracting point. — A friend, I used to… it's funny, that I miss him.

— But why aren't you missing me! she cried out in a suffocated voice. — I'm here… In the dark he felt her shudder, and traced her brow with his finger.

Esme put her head under his chin. He held her, smiling. And in the darkness, he suddenly realized that she could not see his smile, and he relaxed his face, feeling what a strain the smile had been.

She straightened her clothes, getting up, and turned on a light. — Stop looking at me, she said.

— You have a lovely body, he said.

— That isn't true.

— It is, it's so slim, almost like a boy's body. Do you ever model?

— Sometimes I do, Esme admitted.

— For fashion magazines? She hesitated, and turned away, looking for a belt. — Yes, that's it, she said, and Otto pursued her no further, busy as he was tying up his bandage which had come loose, exposing a healthy, though pallid, length of forearm. — I like my body because it's just easy to wash, Esme said, and went out, to the communal bathroom.

His hair was rumpled; looking for a mirror, all he found was a medicine chest, the mirror's place filled by a painting of dark abstraction.

— Do you like the painting? she said, coming in behind him.

— Don't you have a mirror?

— Don't you see? There aren't any, she said.

— But why not?

— Mirrors dominate the people. They tell your face how to grow.

— Now Esme, really. Mirrors are made to look in.

— Made to look in? she said. — They are evil, she said, thinking of her own dream now. — To be trapped in one, and they are evil. If you knew what they know. There are evil mirrors where he works, and they work with him, because they are mirrors with terrible memories, and they know, they know, and they tell him these terrible things and then they trap him. She was speaking with hysteric speed.

— Esme, he said, holding her. — Now relax Esme, and she reached her arms around him, pulling him down to her as though never to let go.

— Is there a mirror in the bathroom? he asked as he let her go.

— Yes, she whispered.

He tried to take her round the waist again, but she twisted away. — Let me go. I have to hurry, she said.