Conrad Aiken - King Coffin

— I’m just putty in the hands of a girl —

Jones, the little cock-sparrow, with his head on one side, seemed to be listening to this detachedly, it was easy to see him, for he was barely ten feet away, but as obvious as his air of detachment was his slight self-consciousness, as if the occupation of a box was a new experience. He sat a little stiffly, very guardedly now and then turned to glance quickly at the rows of people below him; perhaps felt even too close to the performers on the stage. And was he — possibly — looking somewhat pale?

Why should he look pale?

And what had he been saying to the usher?

A bellhop crossed the stage rapidly, intoning—

— Telephone for Mr. Frederick — telephone for Mr. Frederick—

It might be that he had been inquiring about the origin of the tickets. It might be that he was suspicious. But why should he be suspicious? There was little reason. Complimentary tickets were sufficiently common. No, it must be something else. And the most likely explanation — of course! — was simply that the other members of the party were coming later: he was alone, he had come in advance, he was waiting, had given instructions, by name, for the admission of the others. Cautiously, he now rested an elbow on the box-edge — and with returning confidence he had relaxed, his head was held a little farther back, he passed his left hand slowly backward over his thin hair. But he looked pale, he looked older, or ill — unless, of course, it was simply the effect of the unusual light, and of seeing him, so close too, without a hat. The face looked smaller than ever, whiter, the hollows below the cheekbone more marked—

The man, rising, was saying to the girl:

— A couple of wees and a couple of woos, eh?

— Oui, oui!

Her hands held out straight before her, stiff as snake’s heads, she shimmied, she oscillated, undulated the sharp hips from which hung the straight line of beads, appeared to be about to encircle her breasts with the bright scarlet fingernails, approached him, lifting the eager mouth, then retreated again.

He said:

— Well, if you have to go, you’ll have to go, I suppose!

He stood still in the middle of the stage, puffy red face above neat white flannels, the malacca stick wandlike in pasty hands.

— But if you don’t go soon, we’ll both have to go!.. Suppose you do the fan dance for me, we’re all paid-up Elks!

The laughter of the audience began uneasily, ran lamely from group to group, a little furtive, died out and began again, some one in the top balcony applauded loudly, a single and clear series of hard handclaps, but before the ensuing silence could become embarrassing the pas de deux had begun, the bellhop was again crossing the stage, doing it nimbly in patter-dance, the heavy mother emerged beneath the palms.

— Ride ’em cowboy! The last round-up! Whoopee !

— You like it?

— Like it? I should say so. Say, I can see you had coffee and doughnuts for breakfast.

— Oh, you can -can you!

With the fingers of his right hand, Jones was twisting his little moustache, he was laughing, a small cry catarrhal and descending laugh, the same four downward notes repeated over and over, huh-heh-ha-hah, huh-heh-ha-hah , then abruptly silent, the head tilted backward for dignity. It was easy to watch him, he sat there unsuspicious, exposed, immobile, near enough to touch with a tentpole. His coat was on the chair beside him, his hat on the floor, his heart, beating on the far side, naïve and vulnerable. Lighted thus, from above, the mole by the eyebrow was particularly noticeable, the slight curve of the aquiline nose rather more refined than one had suspected, the whole expression perhaps more intelligent, if also weaker. It was a homunculus, there was no mistake about that, a weakling — it was the face of a defeated animal, the sort of defeated animal in which a sense of humor has come to the rescue and has acted as defense: Jones was undoubtedly one of those innumerable ones who make a virtue of laughing things off. He was a belonger, a currier of favor, a propitiator, always ready to meet life halfway, a soft and guileful bargainer: the teeth and claws held in reserve. What mercy for this? What mercy for this, even now? It was a life, but it was also a symbol: its very nearness, now leaning on the box-edge, was an invitation: the arm, the raised hand, the pale cheek, shaved this morning in a paltry bathroom, the lungs full of foul theater air, the small belly with its little burden of half-digested supper—

To witness all this was to close the eyes to all other visible things, to forget on the instant the raised baton of the orchestra leader, the first violin leaning his face to his fiddle, the two girls who had sidled on to the stage, twin sisters, one blonde, one hennaed; it was to feel again the power and the vision; the vision arose, the vision grew like a tree, softly and soundlessly the magnificent boughs thrust right and left over the helpless world, it was like hands, it was like fingers, an all-exploring touch and grasp, one’s own body became immaterial. The knees pressed hard against the seat in front, the elbows pressed hard on the arm-rests, the revolver firm against the hip—

Blonde was saying to henna:

— Jane, why don’t you behave yourself?

— I would, but what’s in it!

— Where are you going to spend your honeymoon?

— In France. He said as soon as we were married he’d show me where he was wounded.

It all suddenly clicked firmly into place, it was perfect, and to be sitting here within ten feet of Jones, anonymous embodiment of death, as if they had come together here, in this queer place and in this company, for the performance of some profound ritual, was suddenly the rightest thing in the world. These subhumans, these chattering apes, were the witnesses, they bore unconscious testimony to the perfection and necessity of the idea and the action. Complete in itself, the whole scene had fallen swiftly out of time and space, was isolated as if it were itself a separate star, a final symbol: all of history had been preparing from the beginning for this absurd culmination. Jones there, in his box, sniggering at the stupid and laboriously obscene jokes, the fools clowning under an arranged light, the silly music, the rows of gaping idiots — all this was the reductio ad absurdum , the ultimate monstrosity of life; the awful perfection of the commonplace, the last negation of all values. And if Jones was the negative, he himself was the destructive positive, the anonymous lightning which was about to speak the creative Name. A ritual, yes — it was in fact a sort of marriage. And to realize this—

The blonde wiped her nose on the edge of her skirt, and said:

— He said to me, you’re just the kind of a girl I want for my wife. And can you beat this one, I said to him, well, you tell your wife she can’t have me. See? Just like that.

— to realize this—

It was of course — and this was really funny — to give Jones a kind of dignity, a kind of importance, he had become the other chief performer in the rite, the acquiescent one, the dedicated ram led garlanded to the pure altar. In this light, it was even possible to regard Jones with something oddly like affection; for as he sat there, with two neat fingers adjusting his spectacles, he was being subtly and dreadfully transmuted into something sacred. The bond between them had deepened immeasurably, he turned and looked at him steadily, smiling frankly, almost wishing that Jones would turn and see him, would meet the smile which meant so much to him without his knowing it; but at this very moment, like something planned, the curtains beyond Jones were swiftly drawn aside, the usher had entered, was stooping towards Jones and speaking agitatedly, Jones was rising, had risen, had snatched up his hat and coat, and gone. The curtains were swinging, the box was empty.