Conrad Aiken - The Collected Short Stories of Conrad Aiken

At the long bar of polished wood, on which at regular intervals were small potted palm trees, a straggling line of men leaned or stood in the various stages of lifting up or putting down their glasses, their feet on the railing, hats pushed back on backs of heads. At the farther end he could see Tom, shaking something in a cocktail shaker. He was talking, and shaking as he talked, and making, as he always did, a ritual of it; the glittering shaker was moved not only back and forth, but rose and fell in graceful curves from white stomach to blue chin, from blue chin to white stomach, twinkling. Moving nearer, he heard the cold rattle of the ice in it. And he saw that Tom was talking to Jerry Zimmerman, a disreputable young lawyer.

“Hello, Tom and Jerry!” he said, slapping Jerry on the back.

“Well, if it isn’t old Charlie-horse,” cried Jerry. Cleghorn shook hands solemnly with Tom.

“How’re they hanging, Tom?”

“Oh, up and down, up and down,” said Tom with a grin. “How is it by you?”

“Dry,” said Cleghorn. “Let me have one of those, Tom. Well seasoned.”

“Seasoned is the word.”

“Have one, Jerry?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Tom produced a small flask from his hip pocket, seasoned the ginger ale, and they drank. “To crime,” said Jerry. “Happy days,” said Cleghorn, and gave a loud smack over the emptied glass.… “Another?” Jerry’s dishonest face twinkled. “A hundred more.” said Cleghorn.… Tom produced the flask again, extracted the loose cork with his teeth, poured the ginger ale, poured the whisky, smiled wearily. “It’s a great life if you don’t weaken,” he murmured. “Snowing still?”

“Snowing like hell. Snowing like the devil. And I’m a long, long way from home.”

“It’s the wrong way to tickle Mary,” said Jerry, swaying against the bar.

“Hello! I believe Jerry’s got a little slant on!”

“He’d oughter have,” said Tom, “the amount he carries. A regular watering cart.”

Jerry beamed, dishonestly affectionate, subtly oscillating. “You said it, Tom. Strong waters run deep.”

“Well, I’ll soon be with you,” said Cleghorn. “Wait for me there. Have another?”

“Now don’t you tempt me, Charlie.”

“No, I wouldn’t think of it. Make it two, Tom.”

Ten minutes later, Cleghorn felt the blood swarm suddenly against his temples, something changed in his ears, and the whole hot smoky room seemed to be singing with a sound like telephone wires in a wind. He smiled at his glass.

“There’s a wind blowing here,” he said, “with furies in it.”

“You don’t say so,” said Tom, wiping a glass. “There’s a lot of them round this year. Good-sized ones, too.”

“From Brookline, I don’t doubt. There’s a funeral there today.”

Jerry hiccoughed, candidly. Then, smiling loosely:

“A funeral? Who’s dead?”

“Clara.… Feldeinsamkeit.”

“Oh? Hup. No friend of mine. Never even heard of her.”

“She died at curfew. Of botulism. I had a vision of it when I was in the taxi.”

“Acute or chronic?”

“Acute.”

“I hope she had an easy passage. Must be a rough night on the Styx.”

“She gave her oath she’d never live again. Swore on the telephone directory.”

Jerry closed his narrow eyes, rubbed his forehead. “Something’s wrong with me,” he said. “I can’t understand a word you’re saying. What was that?”

“Acute bottleism,” said Tom. “You’ve both got it.”

“And the doctor was a brute,” said Cleghorn. “Told the nurse to pull the pillow out from under her head! I distinctly heard him. And then they stripped the sheet off.… Still, there was nothing left of her anyway.”

“No, there wouldn’t be,” said Tom. “Them furies” (he winked at Jerry) “eat out a man from the inside, like. There’s nothing will stop them once they get a hold of you. And they’re particularly bad this winter. I hear they come from New Jersey.”

“It’s mosquitoes,” said Jerry, pawing a vague foot vainly at the rail.

“Nothing left but the head, which was shining, but dimming, if you see what I mean, like a lamp going out. The doctor said something to her about her waning brain. When it went out, they had the funeral.”

“As quick as that!” said Tom, laconically.

Jerry got his foot onto the rail. “I’m damned if I like this conversation,” he said, and put the bottom of his empty glass against his forehead.

“Thousands of black horses. Millions of black horses. All galloping. Up the edge of a pyramid. They poised her coffin on the pinnacle; Mrs. Feldeinsamkeit.”

“Was she a friend of yours?” Tom wiped the counter, lifting the glasses. He refilled the glasses, and Jerry put down a dollar and a half. Cleghorn smiled, pushing up his gray mustache toward his spectacles. He wagged a mysterious finger, leaning forward on the bar. His hat was over his left ear.

“Ah! Now you’re asking a question. The question of questions.… Where’s Jerry?”

“Here,” said Jerry, disembodied, in a voice which went round and round the room like a planet, whizzing and ringing.

“I thought you’d gone.… And I want you both to hear this; I want your advice.”

“Good advice,” murmured Tom, looking toward the other end of the room with a jaded eye, “is what I don’t give nothing else except.”

“This Feldeinsamkeit,” pursued Cleghorn, confidingly, “is really my wife.”

Tom looked surprised.

“What!” he said.

“But she’s not dead. Not yet.”

“Not yet!…” Jerry set his glass down rather hard. “What’s the idea?”

“Feldeinsamkeit is just a name I chose for her.”

“An affectionate little nickname,” said Tom.

“A disguise.… It means I want to kill her.”

“Oh, is that all! Why didn’t you say so?”

“It’s what I’ve been telling you all this time, only you’re so slow.…”

Cleghorn became morose. He looked down at his wet feet, which he saw standing all by themselves in wet sawdust. He felt baffled. There was something locked, which he couldn’t open. He moved his right foot over a dead match. The idea went up like a kite, swooping, with a long tail of jingling sleigh bells, and darted out of sight.

“Yes; I’m going to do it tonight. A bath of blood. The hateful body must be deposed. Down with the digestive organs!”

Jerry gave a sudden whoop of laughter, stared, and gave another whoop.

“A padded cell,” he said, “and meals in paper saucers, through a little window.… Ha, ha!”

“Don’t be an idiot,” said Cleghorn. Then he shouted: “Don’t be an idiot!”

He became absorbed in a strange weaving and unweaving network of sounds, sounds which seemed to be visible as little shivering evanescent cords. The knots gleamed and dissolved. Jink—jink went the cash register. A lot of words were all spoken at once. Tom and Jerry were talking to each other very far away. Tom looked at him, then back at Jerry, shaking his head. “No!” said a voice. “I tell you—” said another. The front door opened, a draft came in, a man went out. Snow.

“I’ll think I’ll go out”—his own voice—“and stand on my head in the snow. Keep my hat.”

He put his hat over his glass on the counter. Jerry took his arm.

“You stay here, Charlie. You’re all right—I’ll look after you.”

“No!”

“Yes!”

Jerry was putting his hat back on his head, a little uncertainly. Cleghorn felt like crying.

“You’re a good scout, Zimmerman, even if you are a crook.”

“Sure I am.… You come along with me, now.”

“I want to talk to Tom!” cried Cleghorn despairingly. “I want to tell him about Lulu, star-spangled queen!”