Recktall Brown limbers the heavy extensions which support him, and rises. —Did you hear me, Fuller? Are you crazy too? Did you hear me?
—I think perhaps in the condition he enjoyin now sar he can understand the language the toast . . .
—Get out!
Fuller and Recktall Brown diverge. The old crucifer treads with care and mounts the hill of stairs. Recktall Brown reaches a corner, where he takes off his glasses, and from eyes sharp and open as those of undersea he stares into the soft diffusion of the room. —No, he says toward the fireplace; and then pursues his word. —You can’t do this, my boy. You can’t go crazy on me now.
—Now? Now?
—God damn it, my boy. Not before you finish this Herbert picture. Wreathed in smoke, he stands above his property. —How’s it coming along?
—Beautifully. Excitingly. Wondrously.
—Good. Good, my boy. Good.
—But not van Eyck.
—What do you mean?
—Not Hubert.
—What do you mean, my boy? What the hell do you mean? The smoke itself hung on diffracted planes, and Recktall Brown sat down. —You want the credit for it, do you? Is that it?
—But not from you, and not from them, from the thing itself.
Recktall Brown rolled the cigar between thick fingers. Then he put it to his lips, and without relinquishing hold upon it, rolled it there. —You can’t do this, my boy. He paused. —You know God damn well if you tried to sell one of these pictures as your own it’s worth about forty dollars. Now wait, my boy. Don’t laugh like that. It don’t sound right.
—Suppose . . .
—God damn it, my boy. Did we make a bargain or didn’t we. We’re in business, you and me. Do you see that book over there on the shelf there, the yellow one? The Trees of Home. That guy is in business, and he’s in business with me. And you . . .
—I . . .
—You knew when you started, said Recktall Brown, —you couldn’t stop.
They were silent. The lines of their stares formed two sides of a triangle, that was all.
—God damn it, my boy, if it wasn’t for being in business with me, you’d float away. This God damn world of shapes and smells you say you live in, you’ll turn into one of them. Look at you, you almost have already. By God, Recktall Brown said, standing, so that the look from his eyes no longer needed cross the distance between them, seated, but fell like a weight with his words, —you can’t go crazy now. I won’t let you. He threw his cigar into the fireplace; and took out another. —Do I have to send Christ down there to model for you? His voice was rising again. —Do I have to send the Virgin down there to spread her . . .
—It’s too late now.
—Too late for what. Go on. Talk to me. I feel like I’m talking to myself here.
—The Steenken Madonna. Well there. When Hubert van Eyck painted that, it wasn’t just a man, painting a picture, of a woman.
—Well then what the hell was it, tell me.
—Feeling? Belief? Say sensation, then. Ask Caligula.
—Belief necessary? So is money, and look how many people have it, for Christ sake. You leave feelings to other people, you do the thinking. Look at them. They’d rather feel than think, and look at them. You let them do your feeling and believing for you, and you do their thinking for them, or you’ll end up the same creek all of them are. In his throat, the two veins, either of them vital, pulsated under rolls of flesh. The two before him stood out in invitation to any passing blade.
—It is too late now. “The finest painting, and perhaps the culminating achievement of the fifteenth-century genius Dierick Bouts.” You see? I have to tell them.
Recktall Brown lowered his voice. —Like you say, my boy, It isn’t that simple. Do you think they want to know? Recktall Brown did not take out his penknife, nor even look for it in the pockets swung against his belly, where it was a familiar tenant. He bit off the end of his cigar, and began to pace before the fireplace. —Eminent scientists agree, after exhaustive tests, that a fifteen-cents-a-gallon chemical in a fancy bottle with a lot of scientific words on it is proven superior. So they pay a dollar a bottle because they want to. These pictures of yours, do you think you could get two hundred dollars for one? No. But these poor bastards crawl all over each other trying to get them away from me for prices in the thousands. They don’t know, they don’t want to know. They want to be told. This guy whose picture you print with a stethoscope in his hand, he’s the same as your half-assed authorities. They want credit for discovering one of these old pictures. So just like the people who are proud to pay a dollar a bottle for this chemical, the same God damn people are proud they can hire an eminent authority to tell them what they ought to buy for. art. If there aren’t enough pictures to go round . . .
—We sanction Gresham’s law.
—Don’t talk to me now about law, just listen to me. Who would gain anything if you ran around telling people you painted these things? They’d all be mad as hell at you, most of all the people who bought them. Do you think they’d even admit they paid forty or fifty thousand for a fraud? Do you think anybody would thank you?
—I’ll trade my cigar for that bottle of brandy, that bottle of cognac for this half-smoked Havana cigar which I am not enjoying.
—Do you think they’d even believe you? They’d lock you up, my boy. You could get up there and paint these things all over again, and they wouldn’t believe you. They’d think you’re crazy. That’s what they’d want to think. My boy, you’ve fooled the experts. But once you’ve fooled an expert, he stays fooled. Wait a minute. Sit down. I’m not finished. Who put you up to this?
—The midget who married the tall woman. Have you heard that one?
—Valentine’s doing this, is he? Answer me. I warned you about him, didn’t I? God damn it, I warned you about him. He’s jealous of you, my boy, can’t you see that?
—You and he are very close, Mister Brown and Basil Valentine.
—I know him, Recktall Brown said, looking down at the cigar in his hand. Its leaf had started to unroll, and he threw it so into the fireplace. —It’s a long time now I know him, and the one thing I know, he went on looking up, —you can’t trust him. Nobody can. He’s mixed up in a lot of things. Brown was fumbling in his pocket down front. —In God damn near everything. He’s too smart for his own good. Have you got that knife? Don’t get up, don’t get up, just hand it to me here.
—A brilliant man?
—He’s got the best education money can buy, I’ll tell you that.
—If we are priests, conspiring against you, do not be surprised.
—I . . . God damn it, I told you not to laugh that way.
—What is laughter?
—It makes me nervous.
—You don’t think about me when I’m not here. Well, should I be surprised at that?
—Where are you going now?
—To be with my wife. Sheer enterprise, as you will understand. I wonder, when I step out of doors, how the past can tolerate us.
Recktall Brown came round the chairs, and their paths converged. He raised his arm, and it came to rest. —I can feel your bones right through your shoulder. Don’t you eat anything?
—Your reassurance strengthens me, for I have sensed I felt them there myself. But no one has confirmed me in some time. Would it have been beyond temptation then, to take a knife and dig for them, and prove they’re there?
—Christ, my boy, you’ve got to get hold of yourself.
—Small choice, then, to take what others leave.
—You feel better now, do you? Take a rest. After this Herbert picture, take a rest. And just forget these crazy things you’ve said. Hell, you can paint this picture and you know it. And as for what you said about . . . well hell, we’ll just forget the other things but don’t forget, just keep away from Valentine.
—You are so damned familiar, Brown.
—Why Jesus Christ, my boy, I’ve known you quite awhile now. I want to
watch out for you. And keep away from him, do you hear?
—So damned familiar.
—I’d trade him for you any day. Now take care of yourself. You’ll feel better when you get yourself back to work.
In the hall doorway, the weight of the arm remains extended for another moment, and the cumbrous diamonds, hanging beside the rough cheek. Behind, the dog lay licking her belly. Beside hung the portrait, udder-like hands to the front. The weight of the arm and the diamonds, the milkless mamma, malfeasant, even at pendulant rest, that and the sound of the dog, licking, licking, in pestilential heat, as inertly oppressive as the hand, shaded in insensible intimacy to suffocation; and had Recktall Brown not, just then, patted the shoulder which he released, saying, —Get hold of yourself and finish up this last one, my boy, and then take a rest. You just need a rest . . . the shadow which united them, after an instant’s complication, might have been simplified by one-third.
—Hi, gang! Your friend Lazarus the Laughing Leper brings you radio’s newest kiddies’ program, The Lives of the Saints, sponsored by Necrostyle. Before we hear from your friend Lazarus, just let me ask you a question. Does Mummy have trouble sleeping? If she does, and ha ha what Mummy doesn’t, ask her if she knows about Necrostyle, the wafer-shaped sleeping pill. Remember the story Laughing Lazarus told you last week, kids? About the saint who didn’t sleep for the last eight years of her life? That’s right. Agatha of the Cross. But Mummy’s not a saint, is she. Mummy needs her sleep. Tell her about Necrostyle, if she doesn’t already know. Don’t forget, kids, Necrostyle, the wafer-shaped sleeping pill. No chewing, no aftertaste . . .
—Ellery, Esther interrupted.
—Just a second. Ellery sat forward with a newspaper rolled in his hand, his head down, listening to the radio. —This is a new account.
—your friend Laughing Lazarus will be here in just a minute, but listen kids. Here’s one real confidential question I want to ask you first, just between us. Do you have enough brothers and sisters? I know, you love big brother or little Janey, don’t you. But too many can spoil your chances. Look at it this way. When you have pie for dessert, how many ways does it have to be divided up? Do you get your share? If you have enough brothers and sisters, or even if you don’t have any and don’t want any, tell Mummy about Cuff. Cuff, the new wonder preventative. Cuff is guaranteed not to damage internal tissues or have lasting effects. But you don’t have to remember all those long words, just tell Mummy to ask about Cuff next time she visits her friendly neighborhood druggist. Remember, Cuff. It’s on the Cuff.
—I feel ill, Esther said.
—Listen.
—and Zap. But I’ll be back to tell you more about Zap later on. Now, here’s your friend Laughing Lazarus, ha ha, who’s going to tell us about what happened to Blessed Dodo of Hascha, when he . . .
—Can you turn it off now? Esther asked, resting her head back, her eyes closed.
—Rose wants to hear it. I’ll just turn it down, Ellery said. He walked over to the radio with the laborious movements of a football player demonstrating that simply the act of being physical is one of high achievement. Ellery was lithely, easily built. He handled himself and everything round him with an air of clumsy familiarity. When he walked it was with an air of patient indifference to where he was going, though he never arrived anywhere else. Clothes looked well on him: he was what tailors with a sporting bent had in mind when they designed loose-fitting jackets and pleatless narrow-legged trousers. Cigarettes smoked from between his fingers lifelessly, forgotten, leaving him unresponsible for the ashes which dropped to the rug when they grew heavy enough. Smoking, he blew rings heavy with disdain which seemed to jar wherever they hit. He looked at things and at faces with patient boredom, and he shrugged his shoulders. Sometimes he winked, as he did now at Rose who sat on the floor, cowered against the loudspeaker of the radio. Ellery turned the volume down. Rose stared at him.
So did Esther. —Sometimes . . . I hear those things and I just can’t believe them, she said.
—It’s a big account, Necrostyle Products. That’s the way to get at them, through the kids.
—But it . . . how can it be so vulgar? She breathed that last word heavily. She had opened her bloodshot eyes to stare at the ceiling.
—Vulgar? That’s what people like. That’s what vulgar means, people.
—Ellery, but I don’t see why . . . I don’t see why . . .
—You told me that yourself. They didn’t teach Latin at Yale.
She lowered her eyes to look at him. In her lap, Esther held the kitten too close, threatening the strain of life in it with her attention.
—Not that I ever knew of, anyhow. He shrugged his shoulders. —How many people have you got coming to your party?
—Twenty or so, she said wearily.
—It’s a hell of a time for a party. For you to give a party.
—I know it is, do you think I feel like it?
—Why don’t you just call it off, then? Because you’ve already invited this great poet you’ve always wanted to meet. I know why, too, honey. But believe me, it won’t help your writing any.
—I wish . . . She was staring at her typewriter and its silent litter.
—Isn’t one enough?
—I wish you wouldn’t talk this way now, please. We’ve got to find a doctor, Ellery, quickly.
—There’s a call I have to make, he said, and went into the bedroom where the telephone was with the newspaper rolled in his hand. His voice broke above the radio. —Just a second, operator. It’s the Hospital of the Immaculate some damn thing, hang on a minute . . . He opened the newspaper on the bed.
Rose turned from Blessed Dodo of Hascha. —Someone is at the door, she said to her sister. —Blessed Dodo, Blessed Didée, Blessed Bartolo of San Gimignano . . .
—Rose!
—Or even Doctor Biggs of Lima Peru.
—You . . . ? Embracing his weariness in her own voice, Esther opens.
—Don’t disturb, don’t disturb. Only to find some things I left here, for safekeeping, they say. I enter sparingly.
—And Rose? says Rose.
—Rose.
—Rose of Lima, Peru. Saint Rose of Lima. Then you . . . Don Diego Jacinto Paceco . . .
—Rose, now, that’s enough, says Esther. —She is . . . but you . . . ?
(—Yeh, that’s the guy, honey, he jumped out a window but the newspaper says he only broke a few ribs . . .)
—My wife God love you, even now some Mozart especially. Symphony Number Thirty-seven especially. Four four four.
—But you, you . . . here you are.
—Kind words then, while it’s still daylight. Have you kept my secrets, then? I’ve come to get them.
(—Visiting hours, two to four and seven to eight. Thanks honey.)
—You look . . . are you . . . is everything all right? Esther comes alive; even her eyes seem to clear. —I have so much . . . there must be some way to . . . is it drinking has you this way?
—Its powers of magnification embrace us all, do they not, or do they not. Well, into the study, for I’ve trusted you there.
—Well you . . .
—I . . .
—Oh, this . . . is my husband, Ellery?
—How do you . . .
—This is a . . . friend, Ellery.
Lighting a cigarette with the hand he had used to shake the hand he had been offered, Ellery sat down. —I fixed it up, he said to Esther. —It’s a cinch.
She looked at him, her eyes wide, daring relief. Ellery drew heavily on his cigarette, and then sent a smoke ring rolling toward Rose curled before the radio. Rose cringed at its approach. —She’s like a kid, isn’t she. I could probably get a good audience reaction from her on this program. Ellery picked up a magazine. It was an issue of Dog Days devoted to Doberman pinschers which had been here when he came.
§ ANNOUNCEMENT §
As a Token of his Appreciation
To every bitch who presents him with a Champion he
ir
Dictator will give an additional service
with his compliments
Ch. Dictator von Ehebruch was offered at stud (“to bitches for whom only the best is good enough”) for one hundred fifty dollars.
—My eyes. May I show him my eyes?
—Sit down, Rose. Rose has been upset, Esther said, standing with the kitten. —She had a job in Bloomingdale’s for the Christmas rush, and she was victimized. They fired her. Let’s . . . sit down?
—Somebody pulled the old twenty-dollar-bill switch on her, Ellery said looking up from his magazine. —Somebody comes in and pays for something with a twenty with the corner torn off, then another guy comes in and pays with a buck, and when he gets change for only a buck he raises hell, see? He says he paid with a twenty, and he’s got the torn corner to prove it, he got it from the other guy outside . . .
—It’s a shame, Esther interrupted. —All she could tell police about the first one was that he had a hair-line mustache.
—And his hair! Rose burst in, —that he wore like a hat. She stared at them, and then returned to the radio and left them there abandoned to each other’s vacancy like three children met in a summer bungalow colony where the plumbing in each ugly cottage is the same, the beds sagged in discouragement, used only for supporting sleep, where the heat of the sun serves only to excuse the appearance of white-skinned parents in offensive states of undress while they pretend that there is something new under this sun and they have come to find it; while the children know that there are no new secrets, and so they are satisfied to keep the old ones from each other.
—What day is it? Esther asked, pushing the switch on the table lamp beside her.
—Wednesday.
—Thursday, Ellery corrected, damning a day later, and she winced.
—What is it, Rose?
—How old you all looked, when the light went on. How quickly you grew up together, Rose said from shadow.
—I just read the Pope uses an electric razor, said Ellery. —I wonder what make it is, how much do you think he’d take for a testimonial.
Looking across the room Esther said, —But . . . can I get you something? Are you all right?
The Recognitions (Dalkey Archive edition) Page 50
