William Gaddis - J R

The policeman turned in the doorway. — You got your water running there, he said to Bast and left him fitting the door back into place and then standing there with his back against it, staring at the footprints on the shade and appearing to listen, finally to make his way through film cans and lampshades back, over the Morning Telegraph, to reach the shade and send it up with a snap, and stare through the window beyond, motionless, staring, till a knock on the door brought him round.

— Who is it?

— Hello? came from the other side. — Could I talk to you?

— Who is it?

— One minute could I ask you Mister?

He got the door opened enough for the shaft from the bare bulb to catch an old face in the hall there. — What is it?

— I came to ask the apartment Mister?

— It’s not mine I just sort of, work here.

— No by the end of the hall Mister, it’s empty now? the apartment? My vife Mister…

— But, what do you…

— We live upstairs Mister, five flights stairs up, my vife Mister, her legs, she couldn’t go up and down, I see them take him away in the bag Mister, I ask, maybe…

— But you you, miserable…

— My vife, Mister…?

— Go away! He stood backed against the door, pulled a shirt from the dishtowel rack and wiped his face with it, waiting, and then he suddenly started picking up film cans and stacking them, lampshades and stacking them, scores, papers, pencils, in to the armless sofa where he pounded shape back into the punctured lampshade and sat putting down notes, drawing lines, curves, sitting back to wipe his face, up to find the cup, trip on the bottle, shake the empty teabag box, pick up the bottle and empty what little was left into the cup, drink it, stare at Baldung’s sorceress propped sideways against 24/One Pound H-O, grab it up and examine it and finally return it, upright, and stare at the ceiling. On his feet again and halt with his shod step forward, he scaled The Musical Courier and, strung out atop it, put his ear to a crevice between the volumes.

— a country the size of California has the fourth largest army in the world, thanks to…

He raised himself, reached a mop protruding over the edge of the submerged piano, forced its handle down into the crevice between the volumes and pounded, brought it back out and put his ear to the crevice again.

— timely food tips, brought to you by…

Over cartons and lampshades the mop flew to lodge behind Appletons’ and he hitched himself back to the edge of the plateau steadying one foot on Won’t Burn, Smoke or Smell, looking into it, digging among undeveloped film rolls, string, an odd glove, defunct cigarette lighters, coming up with a straw beach slipper he fitted descending, paused again to brush another layer of dirt down his front before he sat on the sofa’s edge staring down at a fresh lined page, up at the ceiling, at the Baldung, at 24–7 Oz Pkgs Flavored Loops, appearing to listen as shreds of sound escaped sporadic partings of his lips, scribbling a clef, notes, a word, a curve, still reaching fresh pages as light chilled the skewed leaves of the blind, lapsed motionless as it warmed the punctured shade and finally cast it into shadow, coming to abruptly and through to the torrent at the sink with the slap, slap of the straw slipper back to set the cup dangling the teabag string on Moody’s and reach a sharper pencil, a fresh page, pages as shadows rose, crossed, fell, hunched as though listening to bring sounds into being, up in a sudden turn that might have been a pose for the mirrorless wall as though holding them off.

— time to join the biggest savings bank fam…

— Wait who is it…! he was through to catch the door as it came in at him — oh it’s, it’s you Mister Gibbs wait let me…

— Bring in the mail see who’s in the package…

— No no wait I’ll pick it up don’t, wait here’s your newspaper… he held up the Turf Guide, — just let me…

— Good, today’s? Where’d you get it…

— You just dropped it no be careful…!

— Christ…

— Yes well I wouldn’t try to sit on those film cans they’re not very, just let me get the door here… he heaped the mail up on 24-One Pint Mazola New Improved, — can you…

— Keep tripping on this God damned…

— Wait yes let me pick up this music’s scattered around in here… he came sliding the slippered foot ahead past 36 Boxes 200 2-Ply — I mean I’ve been working all night and…

— Left my cigarettes here, who took my cigarettes.

— They’re under you, on the floor right under your…

— Call that cigarettes? A hand worked blindly under the sofa — that’s a bottle, tell a bottle by its shape Bast take my cigarettes left an empty bottle.

— Well but, I can make you a cup of tea I have to shave anyway because I have to go…

— Saw your car waiting outside why I broke my neck to get here Bast, said I’d…

— My what?

— Car waiting downstairs take you on your business trip, why I broke my…

— That, no that black limousine down there? he let the blind fall back — that’s not, I mean that couldn’t be…

— Said you’re going on a God damned business trip didn’t you?

— No but that’s, I mean I’ve already been Mister Gibbs just somebody who asked me to help him out this one time it was just a, just sort of an errand he couldn’t really handle himself just to earn some money till these dancers pay me if you could move your knee, just let me get these pages before they…

— Problem Bast you don’t trust them, God damned performers sit up here write music for them you don’t trust them to…

— No well they wouldn’t even play it till I rescored it I mean I don’t really know what it sounds like myself yet but…

— Why I just told you broke my neck to get here didn’t I? Help you dig out that God damned piano promised I’d…

— No but right now I, I mean maybe you should just rest for a while Mister Gibbs you don’t look, you look like you haven’t had any sleep and your…

— Better take a look at yourself Bast, call the God damned kettle back better go take a…

— No that’s why I have to go clean up and shave before I…

— Can’t compose without a piano Bast promise to help you dig the God damned thing out didn’t I? What Beethoven told Cipriani Potter can’t compose without a piano may be tempted to consult it, Bast? Talking to you where the hell…

— Yes I can hear you Mister Gibbs ljust have to shave, he called over the sink’s torrent pulling his shirt off, working his face with the cracked bar of yellow laundry soap from the rusted shelf there — Mister Gibbs? It’s all right if I use this razor I found here isn’t it?

— Never compose in a room where there’s a God damned piano Beethoven told Cipriani Potter because you may be tempted to consult it, Bast? you hear me?

— Yes but I’m…

— Problem Bast there’s too God damned much leakage around here, can’t compose anything with all this energy spilling you’ve got entropy going everywhere. Radio leaking under there hot water pouring out so God damned much entropy going on think you can hold all these notes together know what it sounds like? Bast?

— What… he drew the rusted razor down his cheek, tipped a cookie tin top on the shelf to catch its reflection.

— Not listening.

— Yes but… he drew blood and paused, reached for the shirt dangling from the dishtowel rack. — I mean there are some things you can’t really write down especially simple things, they just have to be left for the performer and till the music’s actually performed it doesn’t really exist at all so the only…

— Problem writing an opera Bast you’re up against the worst God damned instrument ever invented, asked me to tell you about Johannes Müller didn’t you?