William Gaddis - J R

— Yes well ahm, yes of course that does make things simpler…

— Just get my train then… and he turned a heel in the gravel, — sorry…

— Oh Mister, Mister Gibbs? I’m…

— Dan’s wife yes… he sidestepped, — I was sorry to hear about it.

— About what, oh his accident you mean… she came on beside him — Jack? Don’t people call you Jack?

— Yes occasionally they…

— I thought you might have seen Mister Bast Jack, the young composer we had here he doesn’t seem to be anywhere.

— Maybe after that rather, that remarkable lesson on Mozart he may have arranged some sort of hasty sabbatical.

— I’ll tell you who arranged a hasty sabbatical for him, the same ones who sabotaged his lesson they…

— Did you see it?

— Jack I didn’t have to see it, the minute they see talent and sensitivity they sabotage it and call it technical it’s not just him they’re after it’s all of us, anybody creative scares them Jack, maybe you don’t know it but they’re after you too because you’re talented and creative I can tell by your hands… she seized the one nearest her leaving the curb — just your fingers, the strength of character in your thumb look…

— Yes I, I’ve seen it… but he did look down, slipping its length from her peristaltic grasp as though relieved to see it again — I’m sorry I, I have to get the train Mrs di…

— No Ann, Ann. Jack? because I know, because I’m a talented woman who’s never been allowed to do anything Jack? I’ll be home later, maybe we could get together and talk?

— Yes but I’ll be, I may not be back out at all I…

— As late as you want yes Dad, Dan’s Dad lives with us but they’re in bed by nine Jack…? pursued him round the turn, — maybe we can talk…? digging in pockets to come up with a cigarette packet, empty, crumpled and flung as he made the steps to burst out on the platform above where a length of train moaned and fell still and then, in total silence as he ran toward it, moved. The platform narrowed with his pursuit, rapping on the glass in the door at what might have been a face through the encrusted filth when all at once the door, all the doors flew open, and he staggered on as though the train’s momentum had become his own in the squeal of its halt, searching a clean handhold slipping past the serge shine of the conductor’s back and up an aisle through planes of smoke grabbing, as the train lurched forward, at the corner of a seat, disturbing, enough only to bring her eyes half up from vacancy and limn her profile the woman seated there as he fell back, ducked to retrieve a rolled newspaper jammed in a seat hinge and sidled with it raised before his face toward the door and the car beyond.

— Your ticket?

— Ah? He lowered New York’s picture newspaper.

— Oh Jesus.

— Ah! Wie geht’s!

— Okay look, just give me your ticket.

— Ja, ich bin es, beide Hälften, nicht? He was digging in pockets with enthusiasm. — Für den Kopf, ja? und… he thrust out a battered cardboard square, — und…

— Look, if you can’t speak English how come you’re reading American newspaper?

— Ah, die Zeitung? He flourished it, digging with his free hand, — amerikanische Kunst, ja? Schwarze Kunst, grausig… he came abruptly forward with a lurch of the train, aiming an index finger at his temple, thumb cocked, — das Blut! der Krieg! And he straightened back, rolling eyes settled in a leer, plumbing a closed hand with the length of a finger, — geschlechtlicher Umgang! Scheisserei…!

— For Christ sake just give me the other ticket.

— Für den Unterkörper… he was digging again, — ja…

— And let the lady get by.

— Oh I, ja die ah… he came up with another battered cardboard, — das Hinterteil nicht vergessen eh? he leered cupping from behind the curve of Mrs Joubert’s skirt as she got past and through the door to the next car, where he turned and threatened a handshake, — danke, danke… and got it closed after them before he spoke again. — Hello I, I didn’t ah, see you…

— What in the world was all that? she asked, down the aisle of empty seats.

— Oh the ah, the conductor, yes… he sank into the seat beside her. — A young German boy, hasn’t been over here very long and I’ve sort of befriended him, sort of try to encourage him. It’s his first job over here and he’s sort of ah, gets sort of discouraged sometimes.

— Oh I see.

— Yes you can’t really blame him can you, passing a scene like that day after day… he gestured across her where broken fence enclosing a fleet of rusting bus hulks fled past the dirty pane, tried to cross a knee and gave it up. — How any normally constructed human being can get comfortable in these…

— Here, let me move my bag, she said and, doing so, — oh, you’ve torn your pocket.

— Well I… he straightened up piecing it together, pulled the flap over the tear — damn it, did it on that door trying to make this God damned train.

— It’s late, we sat there at the platform for hours, she said. — Every time the train started all the doors opened and we stopped again. I thought I saw you on the platform, running.

— Oh?

— And you came into that car up ahead?

— Oh well the, oh, oh yes the smoker, yes I got in there and found I didn’t have any cigarettes. He slumped further in the seat beside her, his elbow over the back of it and his hand that close to her shoulder. — You don’t smoke?

— I do sometimes.

— I meant, you don’t happen to have any cigarettes with you now, do you?

— I’m afraid not… She’d opened the bag on her lap, bending over it, thrust back her hair and he stared along the line of her cheekbone as though seizing this sudden opportunity to study this close the meticulous care in her makeup. — No… she looked up square at him and he dropped his eyes to his own hand, and a nail that might have been cleaner. — I’m sorry, I don’t… she had out a pair of tinted glasses and he dropped his eyes again, from her long fingers there putting them on, to her knee, and cleared his throat. — You come into New York quite often, don’t you, she said.

— To get away from that place? I certainly do.

— Is that all? just, to get away?

— Well I, no, no today I’m coming in to, I have an appointment to, coming in to see a publisher yes…

— You’re writing a book? she turned sharply, caught her glasses against his dangling hand.

— Yes but it’s still, it’s not finished I’m…

— A novel?

— Not a, no no it’s more of a book about order and disorder more of a, sort of a social history of mechanization and the arts, the destructive element…

— It sounds a little difficult, is it?

— Difficult as I can make it.

— Oh? she drew her knees close as he tried again to cross a leg, — you do have trouble with seats don’t you.

— Seats?

— The day in that cafeteria after that field trip when you…

— Had trouble with more than seats yes, wasn’t really one of my better days…

— I hope not.

— No but listen when we left there in the cab I didn’t mean…

— It’s all right no, I got where I was going but you know you really were quite unkind to that young man Mister Bast, talent doing what it can? and those who can’t, teach? and turning everything upside down he tried to say about, who was it Bizet? All he wanted from you was encouragement, he…

— Bast? from me? All he talked about was…

— Himself of course, the things he’s doing because I’d asked him, that was all. He’s so young and earnest so, just such a romantic I suppose, he’s really quite dear I hope you’ve seen him and told him you were sorry?