—Who?
—“To ESME, whose unerring judgment is responsible for whatever value this book may have . . .” Your humility is really quite touching.
—Some girl in the office pulled those together for me, Brown said, drumming his fingers more rapidly, as his lowered eyes caught the edge of the poem scrawled under his sleeve. —Now what . . .
—Your modesty is overwhelming, as always.
—You came up here to talk about my modesty? Brown broke out at last.
—Hardly. Valentine turned on him. —I dropped in to talk to you about your . . . most successful protégé. He smiled.
—What about him? What have you been up to with him?
—I? Nothing, nothing at all. If Valentine’s composure had seemed to suffer, it was totally recovered; but Brown continued to look at him, hands splayed on the desk, as though nothing were more familiar than composure which was serene only when it had something to dissemble.
—You’ve seen him? What about?
—Let me see, Valentine answered vaguely. —As I remember, we discussed the Lex Cornelia, an ordinance against Roman matrons who poisoned . . .
—I told you, I wasn’t going to have any of your crap interfering.
Valentine raised his eyebrows. —My what?
—Yes, God damn it. I’ve allowed you a lot of things, but this time . . . Look here, there’s a lot of things about you I know, that maybe you don’t know I know, Recktall Brown said leaning forward over the desk, looking at him with the centerless eyes in those thick lenses.
—My private life is hardly any concern . . .
—Not just your private life. A God damn lot of other things.
—Other things? Valentine repeated blandly.
—What about a trip you made to Paris about six months ago? For a week in Paris. Where did you go from Paris?
—The Midi, as I told you. A pleasant town near . . .
—Midi hell. Do you want me to tell you where you went?
—Not especially, said Basil Valentine, tapping his chin.
—I could tell . . .
—But you wouldn’t, would you, Valentine said, resting the finger on his chin, and looking up, as Recktall Brown looked down.
—I told you the day you met him, Brown repeated, —I don’t want any interference from you.
—You know, I believe you rather like him. It must be an odd sensation for you.
—We’re in business.
—Tell me, just how interested in him are you?
—Right now, a quarter of a million dollars. I’m not going to lose interest, either.
—I suppose not, Valentine said, taking out another cigarette, and pausing until he’d lit it. —Tell me, suppose something happened to sever this partnership of yours?
—Something like that over my dead body, Brown said evenly,
—And if these forgeries were discovered?
—What do you mean, discovered.
—I might have said, exposed.
—So that’s it! Brown stood up, his hands remained planted on the desk. —You know God damn well, nobody could prove a thing.
—But if he . . .
—He?
—As you’ve told me, one cannot insure against inherent vice.
—What do you mean?
—Never mind, Valentine said. —I’m glad I understand you. Yes, for you he doesn’t exist except as an investment?
—And for you he doesn’t exist except as . . .
—We’ve had quite enough of this, Valentine cut in. —Now, this joint bank account you put his money into for him . . .
—It’s safe enough, Brown muttered, sitting down. —Nobody even knows about it, nobody could touch it but us, you and him and I. Then Brown looked up. —That’s what you’re thinking? to reach in there and take out . . .
—Good heavens, Valentine laughed. —You know me better than that. All I could do would be to stop payment anyway, you know. But he . . . Valentine stood looking down at the reflection of the diamonds in the mahogany. —With his genius . . .
—With his genius and your ambition, I’d have . . .
—Why, Valentine interrupted again, looking up at him. —Perhaps you should settle down and raise a family. I can’t imagine a prouder father than you might make.
—Listen, Recktall Brown said standing again, —we’re not going to have any more of this. You’re going to forget all this crap about exposing these pictures and ruining him.
—Him? But suppose . . . suppose it were he who had this notion himself?
—You think he’s crazy? Maybe in other ways, but . . .
—But you cannot imagine anyone being crazy when it comes to making a million dollars. Basil Valentine picked up his coat. He stood looking round the large office as he pulled it on. —You know, you might start a novel factory here, he said. —It’s been done before. And after the success of that “soul-searching” book. And that remarkable abomination, The Trees of Home was it? A regular assembly line. Incidentally, he went on in an agreeable tone, pulling up his lapels, —what ever happened to that boy who was up here with a book of poems to sell you? The one with a rather bad case of acne, whom I stumbled on sandpapering his cheeks in the lavatory? Arthur something . . .
—He’s still around, with his God damn poems. Religious poems.
—They weren’t awfully bad. You might allow him some money on them, you know, some chance to live like a human being.
—Do human beings write poetry? Recktall Brown demanded, looking up. Then his pointless gaze fell to the paper under his cuff. —Poets do.
Basil Valentine stood looking at the heavy bowed head for a moment. Then with his hat he picked up the stiff-covered little magazine from the deep chair. —I wish you luck with this, he said, tossing it over before Brown’s hands on the desk, where it slid toward the mass of hand mounting the diamonds, which withdrew with instant volition. The cigar had almost gone out in the ashtray, but continued to give off a faintly noxious emanation. Brown did not look up. He stared at Effluvium and mumbled something about how popular religion was now, and something about —those poor intellectual bastards.
—Perhaps they all ought to be crucified? Basil Valentine suggested, pulling the door open behind him. —That might give them some idea of religious experience.
—But this book is about religion, said a sub-editor, standing aside for the tall man in the black Homburg to pass. —It’s Buddhism.
—But it’s by a Jew, said the other, standing aside.
—Well, I’ve told him if he’ll change his hero from a Jew to a homosexual, we might accept it.
—But that’s the way it was in the first place.
Recktall Brown entered to demand, —Who the hell is the Reverend Gilbert Sullivan, and what the hell does he want here? When he got no answer (though he paused no longer than it took to shift himself from the outside door to another) Recktall Brown entered a large roomy closet, and hung his coat among many others of the same size, and shape, and style. The dog, moving its stump of a tail slowly, met him, and he reached down to give it a single pat on the head which seemed to please it greatly.
—Sar . . .
—Why the hell don’t you answer the door, Fuller? Recktall Brown said, advancing. —Instead of . . . who is this Reverend Gilbert Sullivan, what . . .
—Oh no sar, Fuller said, backing into the room before him. —The Reverend not present here, I alone here . . .
—Then why the hell don’t you answer the door instead of talking to yourself.
—Oh no sar not exackly alone sar I . . .
—Well who the hell . . . Well, my boy. I’m glad to see you. God damn glad to see you. Fuller, bring me the pitcher over here. Recktall Brown stood by the chairs before the fireplace, watching Fuller get across the room to the pulpit.
—Fuller? he said suddenly.
—Sar . . . ?
—What have you been up to, Fuller?
—Sar? Nothin, sar. I been most peaceable and quiet
of late.
—See you stay that way. Recktall Brown glanced down at the table, and Fuller glanced down at the dog.
—Fuller?
—Sar?
—Isn’t there any more regular brandy?
—Yes sar but . . .
—I told him I wanted this. You can take it out of my next check.
—It’s all right my boy, relax. I just thought that dumb nigger made a mistake. He gets vexed by liquor, he says, don’t know one from another. Recktall Brown settled down in a chair, and looked across the table. —You look tired, my boy. Tired as hell.
—Little dogs in the street bark at me.
—What the hell, my boy. What the hell. You can’t blame them.
—You mean if you were a little dog in the street, you’d bark at me?
—Now listen, my boy, what the hell . . .
—That damned congenitally damned glowing fiend of a dog of yours is the only one that doesn’t bark at me. This is good cognac.
—Listen, my boy, I want to talk to you. Now what about this picture you’re working on?
—That’s why I’m here. It’s out in the hall.
Recktall Brown had been sitting forward in the big chair with his hands turned in upon his knees. He shifted so that flesh rolled over the back of his collar, and shouted, —Fuller!
—Sar?
—Bring in that big package in the hall, bring it in here. Is that it, my boy? he asked, turning. He got no answer, and shifted again to watch Fuller advance, carrying the thing, picking his way among the roses.
—Hurry up, Fuller. What the hell are you doing, playing hopscotch? Now lay it out here and open it and be careful, be God damn careful. As the brown wrapping paper came away Recktall Brown was saying, —I told you not to bring these God damn things up here on the subway. I told you to call me and I’d send a car down for it. Look at here, you already banged up a corner. Then he stopped speaking, and gathered his breath to say, —What the hell!
Fuller had taken three careful steps backward, and stood now staring with a look which another face might have refined into anxiety, but on his was simple expectant terror. The explosion was not for him, however; but however, he remained bound.
—Where the hell is her face?
—Sar?
—I’m not asking you, Fuller, God damn it. Where the hell is her face?
—Appear she deprived of it by the many centuries passin respectfully over . . .
—Fuller! By God, Fuller! Have both of you gone crazy? Get out of here. The pools behind the thick lenses quivered like water disturbed by wind. —This is . . . by God. Now here. Tell me where the hell is her face.
—As Fuller says, it appear she deprived of it by the attrition of many respectful years passing their loving hands . . .
—Stop! Recktall Brown lowered his voice, and then his bulk into a chair. He was perspiring. —I’m tired too, God damn it. Now just tell me simply why the hell you damaged it like this. Fuller, I told you to get out of here.
—Yes sar.
—Ah, to dictate to the past what it has created is possible; but to impose one’s will upon what it has destroyed takes a steady hand and rank presumption. My wife told me once, that I looked like a criminal.
—What you’ve done to this picture here, it’s a crime.
—A supralapsarian criminal.
Recktall Brown sat forward gripping his knees. —You mustn’t laugh like that, my boy.
—Why not? Tell me, tell me. Some time I haven’t laughed.
—It just don’t sound right, Recktall Brown muttered, and looked down at the damaged picture. Then he looked up again. —Are you all right, my boy?
—Yes, well. There is often now the sensation of weightlessness, or weighing very little. There. Weightless but well. When you live where I do, upsets of the liver are seldom occurrences.
—It wasn’t your liver I’m thinking about, Recktall Brown said looking down again. —Look, you got to paint this face in here again, the face on this woman. Ten thousand dollars you’ve taken right off the price right there.
—And dishonored death into the bargain, so they tell me. Could I have a cigar?
—You?
—A cigar.
—My boy . . .
Recktall Brown watched him tear the cellophane cover away, and commence to trim the end with his thumbnail. —Here, take this, he said and offered the penknife. —Don’t just stare at it, my boy. Trim the end of the God damn cigar with it.
—Indeed.
—My boy . . .
—Nothing moves in this room. If you had music . . .
Nevertheless, the smoke rises.
—There! something moved, intimate movement there on the far wall . . . He recovered with a shudder, to draw a hand over his eyes and whisper, —Never mind. I thought I saw Patinir hanging there, I keep forgetting he’s in mortmain, gone home and taken his wages. You see how the prospect draws us on? Making perfect dice. They have to be perfect before you can load them. Goodness! what beautiful diamonds. How their impurities dance with life! Not deceit just skin-deep, like this intricate, cunning field full of fraud separating us here, seven and deadly. It’s not even a very good copy. He stared unblinking at the table, and suddenly came forward to pick at the edge of it with the penknife.
—Here! Brown lunged his naked hand out. —It’s real, this table picture, stop scratching it. Don’t worry, right after Valentine shot his mouth off about it I had some real experts look it over. Don’t worry, Brown grunted belligerent satisfaction, looking down at it. —It’s the genuine original.
—I can see, it is not, came the whisper distinct across the table of the Seven Deadly Sins. —Christ! to have copied a copy? and that was how it began!
—My boy, says Recktall Brown, and stands to his feet to light his own cigar and jam it among uneven teeth. The youthful portrait hangs still as he approaches it, and perhaps, as Basil Valentine remarked, serves in some measure to humanize the fragments of motion which compose his progress toward it. Immediately upon arrival there, Recktall Brown turns his back upon it, a gesture which leaves its expression unchanged as he obscures it with the one which has superseded it. —Maybe you need a girl.
—A girl?
—How long is it since you’ve had one?
—Had one?
—I don’t mean a God damn wife hanging around all the time. I mean just a girl. You can’t go around month after month with all this piling up inside you. Of course, hell anybody can see that will drive you crazy as hell. You got to release that once in a while, or it drives anybody crazy. Do you want me to send you a nice girl down there for a couple of nights?
—But the cost.
—The cost? Each foot planted upon a rose, Recktall Brown’s laughter might seem to rise the entire distance of his frame, a laborious journey, complicated by ducts and veins, cavities and sedulous organs whose functions are interrupted by the passage of this billowing shape which escapes in shambles of smoke. —You can pay for anything in this town.
—Barefoot on that vast acreage, for love or money.
—God damn it, my boy. God damn it . . .
—Without love?
—Do I fall in love with the barber when I get a haircut? God damn it, my boy.
—Reverend Gilbert Sullivan . . .
—God damn Reverend Gilbert Sullivan!
—Exactly.
Recktall Brown starts to turn away; his reversal is remarkable for its quickness, a feat of muscular cooperation which happens before his eyes can contain the reason. They do, though; his voice too. —Put that damn bottle down now and sit down.
—A hindrance to the working of reality. Ah, Brown, Brown, your daughters all were fair. But the youngest . . .
—Are you getting anything from Esme?
—There remains the complication of the mermaid men.
—Sit down. We’re both going to sit down and figure this out. Did he put you up to all this crap?
—I hear singing.
/> Sinking, on heavy tones into the depth of the vast room, come these weights, —Littel girl
—My bachelor room
—Fuller!
—Sar? drops from above.
—Stop that God damn noise.
—You and I, Brown. You and I. You are so damned familiar.
—You’ve got to get hold of yourself, my boy.
—If we are, as he says, projections of his unconscious. Then the intimacy is not at all remarkable, is it.
—Stop it. You got to stop talking this way. Valentine does the same God damn thing to me, he tries to wear me down. Did he . . . has he been bothering you, my boy? Now damn it talk to me, let’s get all this straight. What’s on your mind?
—The equation of x to the power of n plus y to the power of n has no nontrivial solution in integers for n greater than two.
—Sit down.
—That is Fermat’s last theorem.
—Sit down. What the hell’s the matter, is there . . . have you got a pain in you? The motion reflected on the thick lenses (and entering through aqueous chambers to be brought upside-down and travel so, unsurprised, through vitreous humors to the confining wall of the retinas, and rescued there, and carried away down the optic nerves to be introduced to one another after these separate journeys, and merge in roundness) emerges upon his consciousness in the constraint of slowed motion. —What are you grunting for?
—I’m pretending I weigh three hundred pounds.
—Sit down. Stop this. Give me that God damn bottle.
—It isn’t difficult.
—Sar?
Nothing moves but the intimate landscape of Patinir, a self-contained silent process which demands no attention, for the prevailing color there is blue.
—Sar? What I goin to do with these relics?
A full dozen of crosses lie massed in Fuller’s arms.
—Fuller, says Recktall Brown, with stolid deadly patience, —you take those little men you been rubbing and nail each one of them on a cross, and get them right side up, and do it quietly, and get the hell out of here, now.
—The little Jesus-men, sar?
—Get out. Get out. Get out.
—Saint Peter, upside-down. Wait, Fuller. Confirm me. Isn’t there, in every one of us, a naked man marching alone down Main Street playing a bass drum?
The Recognitions (Dalkey Archive edition) Page 49
