Conrad Aiken - The Collected Short Stories of Conrad Aiken

II.

He sat down and took a drink, and turned the yellow copy-paper, and drew the penciled notes still closer. The writing was hard to make out, he had done it carelessly. Romero stepped into a right to the jaw and missed a hard right to the head. Both traded wallops at close quarters without damage. Romero landed a hard right to jaw but missed a left swing. Zabriski’s right to body was blocked. Romero missed two hard rights to body. Romero’s round. Four tough kids in the balcony began yelling and jumping up and down in their seats—what’s the matter, are you yellow, Zabriski, say would you like a nice piece of steak, what’s the matter are you afraid of him. And then there was that new buzzer which announced when it was ten seconds before the bell, and the urgent bell following almost immediately, and the two men springing out from their corners, and the seconds climbing swiftly over the ropes with the stools in their hands and the towels over their shoulders. The enormous canopy hung over the ring, its forty lights looking like a vast brooch of opals, swirls of tobacco smoke ascended toward the obscure ceiling, and the two great clocks looked down at the fighters, counting the seconds with important hands. How much had he missed by watching the clock, looking up over the heads of the two men, over their shoulders, over the interlaced arms and struggling bodies, beyond the naked shoulders reddened with repeated blows. A lot, probably. He had taken it down automatically, all except the ninth and tenth rounds, when he had gone out for a glass of beer; and those he had copied from Peters.

“Oncet in a while,” Cush murmured, “oncet in a while, why don’t they give us a decent show oncet in a while.”

“Next time we can swap assignments, I’ll throw in Ann for good measure. That is, if you can find her.”

“Well, where is she?”

“Ask me another. She was supposed to be having dinner with Mabel Innes, but when I called up Mabel, would you believe it, Mabel didn’t know anything about it.”

“Looks like bad teamwork, boy.”

“Yeah, I thought better of Mabel. She can usually think pretty fast, but this time I caught her on the wrong foot. If you know what I mean.”

The four tough kids had begun yelling, say what will your fiancée think of you now, go on back to Worcester, Zabriski, would you like a hot dog. She had turned and shouted angrily at them, shut up you coots, and then she began saying, over and over, come on Pat, come on Patsy, give it to him, show him what you can do, show the kike what you can do, go on in and finish him, he can’t take it, he can dish it out but he can’t take it. ROUND SIX.

He paused in his typing, and straightened his back, and looked up at the dingy white-washed wall, on which hung a small photograph of the James family—Henry and William sitting in garden chairs beside a wicker table, Alice standing behind them holding a sunshade, a cocker spaniel sprawled on the path. The garden was an English garden, an apricot or perhaps a peach tree was crucified flat on the brick wall, and the three good faces looked forward at him with an extraordinary integrity. Integrity! Yes, that was it, it wasn’t only the intelligence, the wisdom, it was the profound and simple honesty of all three faces—faces carved slowly out of serene honesty as if out of some sort of benign marble. A book lay on the table—too large for The Wings of the Dove , too small for Varieties of Religious Experience . What would it be? And what were they thinking, what were they remembering together, as they thus faced the camera, or the world, with such triune simplicity and kindness? They all seemed to be looking steadfastly at the truth.

He interrupted his meditations on the English garden, the peach tree, the three faces, by sitting forward again and dropping his hands at the side of the machine. Cush went out of the alcove with a sheet of yellow paper, holding it up and reading it as he pushed open the door.… Romero crossed a right to the jaw as Pat scored with a light left to face. The challenger neatly ducked Zabriski’s right and left swings. Both landed light lefts to body. In a sharp mixup Romero outpunched the champion and forced him to break ground. Zabriski had a hard time finding his fighting range, the feathery-footed challenger weaving, bobbing, dancing around, making it impossible for the champion to score.… The man behind him was beginning to say, gee, what’s the matter with Zabriski, come on Zabriski you’re rotten, for Christ’s sake keep that left up, keep up that left. Why, he’s making a monkey out of you.… The four tough kids, ejected from their seats in the balcony, had reappeared on the floor at the back, they were standing up on their chairs and booing, everybody turned to look at them, and a cop began walking slowly down the aisle toward them. One of them had a dirty cross of sticking plaster on his forehead.

Cush came in again, with the sheet of paper still in his hand, and said—

“I don’t know what it is, but whenever you really want something in this office you can’t get it.”

“Ain’t that the truth. What is it now?”

“Nobody cares, my boy, nobody cares. They just don’t take any interest. By the way, you aren’t driving back I suppose, by any chance?”

“No, I’m walking.”

“Walking! for the love of God.”

III.

They both typed steadily for a while. Above the sound of the machines they could hear the shrill whine of the dynamo in the basement and a vague rumor from the press-room. Now and then a voice floated up from an open window in the alley. The fiancée had certainly been a hard-boiled jane, and no mistake—a genuine gum-chewing blonde, with a jewel in every hole. But she was game, she was loyal. The woman marching by the beaten man! Her voice rose to a scream. Come on, for God’s sake Patsy, that left can’t hurt you, go on in under that left, make him stop dancing and fight, mix it up with him. Lookit, his knees are getting weak, he’s getting groggy. O come on and stand up to him you big boloney.… ROUND ELEVEN.

There was something merciless, something fascinating, something profoundly cruel, like the snake hypnotizing the sparrow, in the way Romero’s long left kept flashing lightly to Zabriski’s right eye, right cheek, jabbing the side of his head, pushing him off, stabbing again and again. The champion, at first mystified, and then annoyed, at last became angry—he tried to rush that grinning superiority, to break down that dancing guard, he pushed the challenger repeatedly to the ropes, trying desperately to get to close quarters, but always to find himself blocked. Above him would always be that eye, that curious half-amorous, half-derisive look, gleaming down at him with a kind of infinite understanding, an understanding faintly and humorously tinged with pity. The fiancée was becoming more and more silent—only now and then, but with flagging conviction, saying—come on now Patsy, come on now bozo, don’t let him get away with it. But the murmur from the whole hall grew every moment louder, more excited, more electric—it was becoming obvious that there would be a new champion. If Romero could last, if he could continue to compel Zabriski to box, avoid a last-round knockout—ROUND THIRTEEN.

“I suppose you heard that Bill Coit was through!”

“Yeah. Yeah, I heard it. Too bad. But surprising it didn’t happen before.”

“And would have, believe me, if it hadn’t of been for Mary. That’s a game kid, and she deserved better. Right now she ought to be in Arizona or a sanitarium or something.”

“Yes, I know.”

“The demon rum.”

… As they shook hands for the final round, Zabriski sent a hard right to Romero’s head and sent lefts and rights to body. Romero swung himself off his feet when he aimed a right to Pat’s head and dropped to the canvas. Romero made a great rally. While plainly tired, he stood toe to toe with the champion and slugged freely. Romero landed a stinging left jab to Pat’s face, while Zabriski dropped a right and left on Romero’s body. The champion fought madly, crowding Romero but missing badly. Romero drove home several good rights and lefts to the head to finish the round with a light lead. Romero’s round.