Mrs. Wilkins turned again. “I hope they’re not comedians.”
“They don’t look very funny right now,” Mrs. Straw said. She estimated the butter left on her plate. “Every time I eat a good dinner,” she said, “I think of Walter and the food we used to get in school.”
“Walter writes that the food is quite good,” Mrs. Wilkins said. “He’s gained something like three pounds.”
Mrs. Straw raised her eyes. “For heaven’s sake!”
“What is it?”
“I think he’s a ventriloquist,” Mrs. Straw said. “I do believe he is.”
“They’re very popular right now,” Mrs. Wilkins said.
“I haven’t seen one since I was a kid,” Mrs. Straw said. “He’s got a little man—what do you call them?—in that box there.” She continued to watch, her mouth a little open. “Look at it, Jen.”
The girl in green and the man had sat down at a table near the entertainers’ door. She was leaning forward, watching the dummy, which was sitting on the man’s lap. It was a grotesque wooden copy of the man—where he was blond, the dummy was extravagantly yellow-haired, with sleek wooden curls and sideburns; where the man was small and ugly, the dummy was smaller and uglier, with the same wide mouth, the same staring eyes, the horrible parody of evening clothes, complete to tiny black shoes.
“I wonder how they happen to have a ventriloquist here,” Mrs. Wilkins said.
The girl in green was leaning across the table to the dummy, straightening his tie, fastening one shoe, smoothing the shoulders of his coat. As she leaned back again the man spoke to her and she shrugged indifferently.
“I can’t take my eyes off that green dress,” Mrs. Straw said. She started as the waiter came softly up to her with the menu, waiting uneasily for their dessert orders, his eye on the stage where the orchestra was finishing a between-acts number. By the time Mrs. Straw had decided on apple pie with chocolate ice cream the master of ceremonies was introducing the ventriloquist “…and Marmaduke, a chip off the old block!”
“I hope it’s not very long,” Mrs. Wilkins said. “We can’t hear from here anyway.”
The ventriloquist and the dummy were sitting in the spotlight, both grinning widely, talking fast; the man’s weak blond face was close to the dummy’s staring grin, their black shoulders against one another. Their conversation was rapid; the audience was laughing affectionately, knowing most of the jokes before the dummy finished speaking, silent with interest for a minute and then laughing again before the words were out.
“I think he’s terrible,” Mrs. Wilkins said to Mrs. Straw during one roar of laughter. “They’re always so coarse.”
“Look at our friend in the green dress,” Mrs. Straw said. The girl was leaning forward, following every word, tense and excited. For a minute the heavy sullenness of her face had vanished; she was laughing with everyone else, her eyes light. “She thinks it’s funny,” Mrs. Straw said.
Mrs. Wilkins drew her shoulders closer together and shivered. She attacked her dish of ice cream primly
“I always wonder,” she began after a minute, “why places like this, you know, with really good food, never seem to think about desserts. It’s always ice cream or something.”
“Nothing better than ice cream,” Mrs. Straw said.
“You’d think they’d have pastries, or some nice pudding,” Mrs. Wilkins said. “They never seem to give any thought to it.”
“I’ve never seen anything like that fig-and-date pudding you make, Jen,” Mrs. Straw said.
“Walter always used to say that was the best—” Mrs. Wilkins began, and was cut short by a blare from the orchestra. The ventriloquist and the dummy were bowing, the man bowing deeply from the waist and the dummy bobbing his head courteously; the orchestra began quickly with a dance tune, and the man and the dummy turned and trotted off the stage.
“Thank heavens,” Mrs. Wilkins said.
“I haven’t seen one of those for years,” Mrs. Straw said.
The girl in green had risen, waiting for the man and the dummy to come back to the table. The man sat down heavily, the dummy still on his knee, and the girl sat down again, on the edge of her chair, asking him something urgently.
“What do you think?” he said loudly, without looking at her. He waved to a waiter, who hesitated, looking in back of him at the table where the woman who owned the restaurant was sitting alone. After a minute the waiter approached the man, and the girl said, her voice clear over the soft waltz the orchestra was playing, “Don’t drink anything more, Joey, we’ll go somewhere and eat.”
The man spoke to the waiter, ignoring the girl’s hand on his arm. He turned to the dummy, speaking softly, and the dummy’s face and broad grin looked at the girl and then back at the man. The girl sat back, looking out of the corners of her eyes at the owner of the restaurant.
“I’d hate to be married to a man like that,” Mrs. Straw said.
“He’s certainly not a very good comedian,” Mrs. Wilkins said.
The girl was leaning forward again, arguing, and the man was talking to the dummy, making the dummy nod in agreement. When the girl put a hand on his shoulder the man shrugged it away without turning around. The girl’s voice rose again. “Listen, Joey,” she was saying.
“In a minute,” the man said. “I just want to have this one drink.”
“Yeah, leave him alone, can’t you?” the dummy said.
“You don’t need another drink now, Joey,” the girl said. “You can get another drink later.”
The man said, “Look, honey, I’ve got a drink ordered. I can’t leave before it comes.”
“Why don’t you make old deadhead shut up?” the dummy said to the man, “always making a fuss when she sees someone having a good time. Why don’t you tell her to shut up?”
“You shouldn’t talk like that,” the man said to the dummy. “It’s not nice.”
“I can talk if I want to,” the dummy said. “She can’t make me stop.”
“Joey,” the girl said, “I want to talk to you. Listen, let’s go somewhere and talk.”
“Shut up for a minute,” the dummy said to the girl. “For God’s sake will you shut up for a minute?”
People at nearby tables were beginning to turn, interested in the dummy’s loud voice, and laughing already, hearing him talk. “Please be quiet,” the girl said.
“Yeah, don’t make such a fuss,” the man said to the dummy. “I’m just going to have this one drink. She doesn’t mind.”
“He’s not going to bring you any drink,” the girl said impatiently. “They told him not to. They wouldn’t give you a drink here, the way you’re acting.”
“I’m acting fine,” the man said.
“I’m the one making the fuss,” the dummy said. “It’s time someone told you, sweetheart, you’re going to get into trouble acting like a wet blanket all the time. A man won’t stand for it forever.”
“Be quiet,” the girl said, looking around her anxiously. “Everyone can hear you.”
“Let them hear me,” the dummy said. He turned his grinning head around at his audience and raised his voice. “Just because a man wants to have a good time she has to freeze up like an icebag.”
“Now, Marmaduke,” the man said to the dummy, “you’d better talk nicer to your old mother.”
“Why, I wouldn’t tell that old bag the right time,” the dummy said. “If she doesn’t like it here, let her get back on the streets.”
Mrs. Wilkins’ mouth opened, and shut again; she put her napkin down on the table and stood up. While Mrs. Straw watched blankly she walked over to the other table and slapped the dummy sharply across the face.
By the time she had turned and come back to her own table Mrs. Straw had her coat on and was standing.
“We’ll pay on the way out,” Mrs. Wilkins said curtly.
She picked up her coat and the two of them walked with dignity to the door. For a moment the man and girl sat looking at the dummy slumped over side
ways, its head awry. Then the girl reached over and straightened the wooden head.
Seven Types Of Ambiguity
THE BASEMENT ROOM of the bookstore seemed to be enormous; it stretched in long rows of books off into dimness at either end, with books lined in tall bookcases along the walls, and books standing in piles on the floor. At the foot of the spiral staircase winding down from the neat small store upstairs, Mr. Harris, owner and sales-clerk of the bookstore, had a small desk, cluttered with catalogues, lighted by one dirty overhead lamp. The same lamp served to light the shelves which crowded heavily around Mr. Harris’ desk; farther away, along the lines of book tables, there were other dirty overhead lamps, to be lighted by pulling a string and turned off by the customer when he was ready to grope his way back to Mr. Harris’ desk, pay for his purchases and have them wrapped. Mr. Harris, who knew the position of any author or any title in all the heavy shelves, had one customer at the moment, a boy of about eighteen, who was standing far down the long room directly under one of the lamps, leafing through a book he had selected from the shelves. It was cold in the big basement room; both Mr. Harris and the boy had their coats on. Occasionally Mr. Harris got up from his desk to put a meagre shovelful of coal on a small iron stove which stood in the curve of the staircase. Except when Mr. Harris got up, or the boy turned to put a book back into the shelves and take out another, the room was quiet, the books standing silent in the dim light.
Then the silence was broken by the sound of the door opening in the little upstairs bookshop where Mr. Harris kept his best-sellers and art books on display. There was the sound of voices, while both Mr. Harris and the boy listened, and then the girl who took care of the upstairs bookshop said, “Right on down the stairs. Mr. Harris will help you.”
Mr. Harris got up and walked around to the foot of the stairs, turning on another of the overhead lamps so that his new customer would be able to see his way down. The boy put his book back in the shelves and stood with his hand on the back of it, still listening.
When Mr. Harris saw that it was a woman coming down the stairs he stood back politely and said, “Watch the bottom step. There’s one more than people think.” The woman stepped carefully down and stood looking around. While she stood there a man came carefully around the turn in the staircase, ducking his head so his hat would clear the low ceiling. “Watch the bottom step,” the woman said in a soft clear voice. The man came down beside her and raised his head to look around as she had.
“Quite a lot of books you have here,” he said.
Mr. Harris smiled his professional smile. “Can I help you?”
The woman looked at the man, and he hesitated a minute and then said, “We want to get some books. Quite a few of them.” He waved his hand inclusively. “Sets of books.”
“Well, if it’s books you want,” Mr. Harris said, and smiled again. “Maybe the lady would like to come over and sit down?” He led the way around to his desk, the woman following him and the man walking uneasily between the tables of books, his hands close to his sides as though he were afraid of breaking something. Mr. Harris gave the lady his desk chair and then sat down on the edge of his desk, shoving aside a pile of catalogues.
“This is a very interesting place,” the lady said, in the same soft voice she had used when she spoke before. She was middle-aged and nicely dressed; all her clothes were fairly new, but quiet and well planned for her age and air of shyness. The man was big and hearty-looking, his face reddened by the cold air and his big hands holding a pair of wool gloves uneasily.
“We’d like to buy some of your books,” the man said. “Some good books.”
“Anything in particular?” Mr. Harris asked.
The man laughed loudly, but with embarrassment. “Tell the truth,” he said, “I sound sort of foolish, now. But I don’t know much about these things, like books.” In the large quiet store his voice seemed to echo, after his wife’s soft voice and Mr. Harris’. “We were sort of hoping you’d be able to tell us,” he said. “None of this trash they turn out nowadays.” He cleared his throat. “Something like Dickens,” he said.
“Dickens,” Mr. Harris said.
“I used to read Dickens when I was a kid,” the man said. “Books like that, now, good books.” He looked up as the boy who had been standing off among the books came over to them. “I’d like to read Dickens again,” the big man said.
“Mr. Harris,” the boy asked quietly.
Mr. Harris looked up. “Yes, Mr. Clark?” he said.
The boy came closer to the desk, as though unwilling to interrupt Mr. Harris with his customers. “I’d like to take another look at the Empson,” he said.
Mr. Harris turned to the glass-doored bookcase immediately behind his desk and selected a book. “Here it is,” he said, “you’ll have it read through before you buy it at this rate.” He smiled at the big man and his wife. “Some day he’s going to come in and buy that book,” he said, “and I’m going to go out of business from shock.”
The boy turned away, holding the book, and the big man leaned forward to Mr. Harris. “I figure I’d like two good sets, big, like Dickens,” he said, “and then a couple of smaller sets.”
“And a copy of Jane Eyre,” his wife said, in her soft voice. “I used to love that book,” she said to Mr. Harris.
“I can let you have a very nice set of the Brontës,” Mr. Harris said. “Beautiful binding.”
“I want them to look nice,” the man said, “but solid, for reading. I’m going to read through all of Dickens again.”
The boy came back to the desk, holding the book out to Mr. Harris. “It still looks good,” he said.
“It’s right here when you want it,” Mr. Harris said, turning back to the bookcase with the book. “It’s pretty scarce, that book.”
“I guess it’ll be here a while longer,” the boy said.
“What’s the name of this book?” the big man asked curiously.
“Seven Types of Ambiguity,” the boy said. “It’s quite a good book.”
“There’s a fine name for a book,” the big man said to Mr. Harris. “Pretty smart young fellow, reading books with names like that.”
“It’s a good book,” the boy repeated.
“I’m trying to buy some books myself,” the big man said to the boy. “I want to catch up on a few I’ve missed. Dickens, I’ve always liked his books.”
“Meredith is good,” the boy said. “You ever try reading Meredith?”
“Meredith,” the big man said. “Let’s see a few of your books,” he said to Mr. Harris. “I’d sort of like to pick out a few I want.”
“Can I take the gentleman down there?” the boy said to Mr. Harris. “I’ve got to go back anyway to get my hat.”
“I’ll go with the young man and look at the books, Mother,” the big man said to his wife. “You stay here and keep warm.”
“Fine,” Mr. Harris said. “He knows where the books are as well as I do,” he said to the big man.
The boy started off down the aisle between the book tables, and the big man followed, still walking carefully, trying not to touch anything. They went down past the lamp still burning where the boy had left his hat and gloves, and the boy turned on another lamp further down. “Mr. Harris keeps most of his sets around here,” the boy said. “Let’s see what we can find.” He squatted down in front of the bookcases, touching the backs of the rows of books lightly with his fingers. “How do you feel about the prices?” he asked.
“I’m willing to pay a reasonable amount for the books I have in mind,” the big man said. He touched the book in front of him experimentally, with one finger. “A hundred and fifty, two hundred dollars altogether.”
The boy looked up at him and laughed. “That ought to get you some nice books,” he said.
“Never saw so many books in my life,” the big man said. “I never thought I’d see the day when I’d just walk into a bookstore and buy up all the books I always wanted to read.”
“I
t’s a good feeling.”
“I never got a chance to read much,” the man said. “Went right into the machine-shop where my father worked when I was much younger than you, and worked ever since. Now all of a sudden I find I have a little more money than I used to, and Mother and I decided we’d like to get ourselves a few things we always wanted.”
“Your wife was interested in the Brontës,” the boy said. “Here’s a very good set.”
The man leaned down to look at the books the boy pointed out. “I don’t know much about these things,” he said. “They look nice, all alike. What’s the next set?”
“Carlyle,” the boy said. “You can skip him. He’s not quite what you’re looking for. Meredith is good. And Thackeray. I think you’d want Thackeray; he’s a great writer.”
The man took one of the books the boy handed him and opened it carefully, using only two fingers from each of his big hands. “This looks fine,” he said.
“I’ll write them down,” the boy said. He took a pencil and a pocket memorandum from his coat pocket. “Brontës,” he said, “Dickens, Meredith, Thackeray.” He ran his hand along each of the sets as he read them off.
The big man narrowed his eyes. “I ought to take one more,” he said. “These won’t quite fill up the bookcase I got for them.”
“Jane Austen,” the boy said. “Your wife would be pleased with that.”
“You read all these books?” the man asked.
“Most of them,” the boy said.
The man was quiet for a minute and then he went on, “I never got much of a chance to read anything, going to work so early. I’ve got a lot to catch up on.”
“You’re going to have a fine time,” the boy said.
“That book you had a while back,” the man said. “What was that book?”
“It’s aesthetics,” the boy said. “About literature. It’s very scarce. I’ve been trying to buy it for quite a while and haven’t had the money.”
“You go to college?” the man asked.
“Yes.”
The Lottery and Other Stories Page 18
