Conrad Aiken - King Coffin

Mean!

But how could it be that?

He looked quickly upward toward the sound of an opening window, saw a maid shake a dusting cloth with a downward gesture of the white arm, felt for a moment something inimical in the mere notion of height. To be enclosed thus anonymously between high walls, and as if purposeless, at a standstill — this was to be enacting the “unrecognized” Satan, the Satan in disguise. It was that moment when Satan, humbly clad, has not yet declared himself; skulks in the background; pulls the hood low over his marked bright forehead; has not yet pointed toward the victim his mesmeric forefinger. Certainly there might be a kind of meanness in this, — as there was in any mere solitude. To be alone, in an absolute sense, was also to be mean, as the acorn or the toad is mean. But also to be alone was to be magnificent.…

He gave his laugh again, turning, he had come back again to his starting point, the laughter of the gay wisdom, it was all as clear and beautiful and ominous as a black beetle in a golden blaze of light. The scarab! He was the scarab. And with precisely that kind of hard and precious immortality. And its touch, when K. N. Jones felt it, would be cold.

But the telephone call was imminent, he must get to Gerta’s room, be waiting there, listen — for the first time — to the stranger’s voice. Gerta would not be at home of course, she was at the Museum, working in the print-room — perhaps he would leave a note for her. Crossing Charles Street, he ascended Chestnut, stamped the dust from his shoes, heard the sentences of the dialogue forming, listened intently to the new voice which crept all the way over the hill from an office in School Street. Advertising. The Acme Advertising Agency. The Farrow might be mythical. A one-horse show. Bought out, perhaps. And who went to such a firm for advertising?

When Sally let him in, unsurprised by his request to use the telephone and to leave a note, it was ten minutes to eleven. The room was empty, silent, smelt faintly of turpentine. The blue smock hung over the back of an unpainted chair, the green bowl of apples stood on the sill, the notice of an art show was propped against one of the candles. On the corner table, tilted to the wall, was a new painting — a new Gerta — which obviously she must have concealed the night before. Like all of Gerta’s recent work, it was queer, it surprised him — as if abruptly she had begun speaking in a foreign language. It might be the interior of a lunar volcano, — the inside, the wall, — but it was vascular with silver, encrusted as with heavy silver veins which seemed to have a cold and heavy life, and above this, in a light as dead and clear as terror, were two winged things, not birds, not moths, which appeared to be at dalliance. Above these, in turn, was a little hard pale wafer of a sun.

What did Gerta mean by it?

He took it to the window, held it to the light, saw how heavily crusted was the paint, all that veined interior as solid as a honeycomb, but also with a queer phosphorescent unreality. A strange world, as strange as his own, she was a match for him, it was what he had always liked in her: she had secret depths and heights, there must somewhere be a Kay in her family. She had said — aren’t we both mad?

No.

He replaced the picture, then stood still in the middle of the floor. At this minute, perhaps Jones had his watch in his hand, was putting out his arm toward the telephone, pulling it toward him, waiting. Or perhaps he was walking to and fro in the room, in the little dingy office, unable to sit down, wondering what the mysterious note could mean: and whether it meant a job or not, and why it had come by messenger. Perhaps the bottle of whisky stood on the desk, with a tumbler beside it. And an ash tray littered with matches and cigarette ends. Or had he forgotten the message already? was busy, wouldn’t call at all? It seemed unlikely. The very fact that it had come by Western Union messenger would make it appear all the more urgent.…

Urgent! He little knew.

A faint premonitory buzzing, and then the telephone, as if clearing away an obstruction, began its sharp and rhythmic ringing. For a moment he stood and listened to it, gazed down at it, smiled as he put his hand on it and lifted it, the receiver still unremoved. Beware lest, if thou gazest into the abyss, the abyss gaze also into thee!

— Hello?

— Hello? This is K. N. Jones speaking, of the Acme Advertising Agency. I received a note asking me to call this number—

— I beg your pardon?

— I say I received a note this morning asking me to call—

— Oh, I see; this is Mr. Jones.

— Yes. Who is this speaking, please?

— The Acme Advertising Agency, is that right?

— Yes! Yes?

The voice was a little anxious, a little eager, a little mystified: but low-pitched and quite pleasant. After a pause, getting no reply, it went on:

— What can I do for you?…

— Well, as a matter of fact, I’m not quite sure as yet. I merely wanted to make an inquiry.

— I see. Well, I’ll be glad to give you any information I can—

— You undertake all sorts of advertising work, I assume?

— Oh, yes. Anything and everything. Perhaps you could give me an idea of what it is you want?

Carrying the telephone with him, he took three steps to the window, placed the felted base of the transmitter on the sill beside the bowl of apples, looked down over the roofs toward the Esplanade, the bright surface of the Charles River Basin, the far-off Harvard Bridge. The window was a few inches open, and he closed it by bearing softly down upon the sash with his elbow.

— As a matter of fact, I’m making the inquiry not on my own account, but for a friend of mine.

— I see.

— Well, do you?

— Well, I mean I’d be very glad—

— It would be rather a confidential matter.

— Well, I guess that would be all right — would you mind telling me who recommended us to you?

— I think that hardly matters. But if you want to know, my friend simply happened to be in your building — in School Street, I think he said — and saw your offices.

— I see.

— You feel you would have to have references?

— Why, no, certainly not, I didn’t mean that, I just wondered how you knew—

— But of course, if there are going to be difficulties, we’d better not be wasting each other’s time—

— Not at all, not at all! Please don’t misunderstand me! I was only—

— My own part in it is simply to make inquiries. It’s a matter of political advertising which requires absolute confidence. Do you understand?

The gentle voice seemed to hesitate, then said:

— Of course. What medium, may I ask, did you have in mind?…

— That hasn’t been wholly decided. What I was going to suggest — will you hold the line a minute while I consult my partner?

— Yes—?

Resting the receiver on the sill beside the bowl of apples, the earpiece downward, he crossed the room to the mantelpiece, lifted the notice of the art show from beside the candle, read it carefully, then went to the Colonial mirror which hung on the rear wall. His back to the light, he peered at the shadowed and elongated face which he saw there, leaned closer to it, grinned at it with a conscious evilness of expression, his hands all the while in his pockets, then turned again toward the window and stood motionless. The thing was so easy as to be meaningless. If it was all going to be as simple as this—! And the poor little man was so eager, so keen to get the job! Waiting there, hardly daring to breathe. Perhaps it would be a good thing to create a danger. If the enemy didn’t hit back—

Returning to the telephone, he lifted it quietly and said: