William Gaddis - J R

— Well, I…

— Do you think… look out! Yes unless you kill me first, you’re going to tell me you didn’t see that limb? Do you think they didn’t notice it? That you picked the dullest part of my lesson to show them and then switched to something else? What. That Glancy at the blackboard? or your scarface friend with the machines? Which one. Or that Miss Moneybags with the social studies and the fake French name and the bazooms, which one?

— But, moneybags… he started, and then appeared to concentrate on the prospect of a curve distantly ahead.

— I thought so, with that front of hers that’s all you can look at, those French suits with nothing on under you don’t dress like that on a teacher’s salary. But don’t get worried I’m not asking you for anything, if you think I’d ask for your support on anything at least of all in the arts, not after this performance. Not that it’s anything different than the way you’ve always been, when I was having modern dance…

— But those lessons…

— And voice culture, singing…

— But those lessons…

— And painting, when I had it with Schepperman the support I got from you…

— But those lessons, I paid him for those lessons…

— Paid him! You paid him six months later as if that’s even the kind of support I mean, paid him! I mean some kind of plain understanding of somebody that wants to express themself and he had more inspiration in one finger…

— Finger… muttered diCephalis, maneuvering the curve.

— What? Yes, mock me, go ahead. Just repeat what I say, go ahead. If you knew how childish it sounds this jealousy of yours, because that’s all it is. Jealousy. You’re afraid somebody else may try to do something, aren’t you. With your book, just because you’re having trouble writing your book, you’re afraid somebody else may do something creative, aren’t you. Aren’t you…!

— But no, my book…

— Aren’t you. Can’t you answer me? Aren’t you?

— But my book, no. It isn’t. Creative I mean, it isn’t supposed to be it’s just on measurement, measuring things, it’s nothing to do with creative, my book…

— My book! My book! That’s all we ever hear from you my book, well let me just tell you something that’s to don’t be surprised if soniebody else has a book, that’s all. Just don’t be surprised! And she fixed unflinching on the passing gantlet of apartment house existences dismantled and laid out side by side on aprons of grass affording the embattled privacy of city stoops, sheltered by awnings of rippling yellow plastic blazoning heraldic initials in old world black letter, mounting names discreetly hidden a bare year since in the Brooklyn telephone directory on sentry carriage lamps, ships’ lanterns in authentic replica, a livid pastel wagon wheel swooning at a rustic angle, a demented wheelbarrow choked with stalked memories of flowers, a family of metal flamingoes, of ducks, of playful elves, till with a narrow miss for the cast iron potbellied stove painted pink and sporting a naked geranium stem from its lid the car left the pavement. — Just don’t act too surprised.

— Yes, well, we’re home, he said motionless.

— Home! The car wavered into silence. She sat staring out, long lashes sticking at the corners. — If you’d ever, even, just given me that.

He hesitated, swallowed, and got out, to round the back of the car in no hurry until, approaching the other side of it, he opened her door in a lively manner as though he might have been waiting here to deliver her from a drive with someone neither of them cared for. — That young man, he said briskly now, — the one I brought over? You were going to give him some pointers before he went on, did you… see him? His lesson, I mean…?

— I certainly did not. I was getting my own ready. Do you think there’s nothing to it but standing in front of a camera? Why.

— Why? what…

— Why what! You asked me if I saw his lesson. No. Why. I suppose you’re going to tell me he could have given me some pointers.

— No in fact, I didn’t see it either and I heard, I heard there were some technical difficulties.

Safe ahead, she stopped. — I could have told you that, the minute they see talent or sensitivity they sabotage it with technical difficulties and from talking to that young man if you look at his eyes, you can tell a person by their hands haven’t I said that? And he has more artistic sensitivity look out, if you step on this…

— In one finger, he muttered behind her on the flagstone path, restraining the umbrella.

— Finger. Yes in one finger. You’re doing it again and it’s childish, a child could see through you the way your jealousy sticks out because you’re afraid of everything aren’t you, afraid of life, living, anything that lives and grows…

— Finger, he muttered reaching for the aluminum frame door that bore his initials in the large as it slammed with the sound of a shot.

An elderly dog eyed him from under the table but did not move.

— Hello Dad, he said, and hooked the umbrella to a room divider supporting the old man and several sculptured primitives, all eminently male, that locked that wistful gaze beyond the silent rise and fall of fingers parading the sweeter for being unheard melody up and down the saxophone, propped erect in this mad pursuit of whatever men or gods those were to prompt a halt with — She has a dirty mind.

— Who? diCephalis asked vaguely, his hands now filling with the contents of an inside pocket, a tape measure, an automatic pencil calibrated in centimeters, a notebook thumb indexed with attached pen bearing magnifying glass or, as it turned in his hand, magnifying glass bearing pen, digits, holes, and the legend Do not fold or mutilate borne on a green card, an orange card, on two, three, four white cards, a length of string, a length of twine, a wallet glazed with soiled attentions, a linen counter, a perforation gauge, a letter with a four place number as its return address.

— I wouldn’t let her bring things like that into any house of mine, muttered the old man shifting from one ham to the other beneath the belittling thrust of a primitive insistence particularly African. — Nobody’s built like that. They couldn’t walk around. What…? He looked up, — yes the dog, the dog smells something terrible today, don’t he… and he settled back to the spirit ditty of no tone struggling to escape his fingers on the saxophone erect, as diCephalis started a round of turning off lights. Foyer, hall, bathroom, foyer, closet, side door, snap, snap, snap snap he made his way along stuffing his pockets again with everything but the letter and a newspaper clipping stuck to it, snap, snap, into the bedroom.

— What are you doing?

— We don’t need all these lights on in rooms nobody’s in.

— All these lights, she said to her streaked image in the glass, removing lashes.

— Are you using the typewriter?

— Do I look like I’m using the typewriter?

— Well no, I meant, just these papers…

— Just these papers! Throw them out. It’s just my project summary for the Foundation grant throw it out! What are all those papers you’re dumping there.

— Nothing. A questionnaire I’m filling out.

— Nothing. I’ll bet nothing. For a job? Your name must be as well known in personnel offices as Santy Claus.

— But in this one there’s no name it’s, they use computers. He brandished a flyer carrying a man’s face eradicated by punched holes and numbers. — They use, they call it coded anonymity, where they can make more meaningful evaluations of qualifi…

— What do you need to put your anonymity in code for?

— Respecting the dignity of the private individ…