The Recognitions

by William Gaddis

  —The what? Otto asked, politely, but firm.

  —The National . . . listen. Shut up and listen to that a minute. It is.

  —What?

  —Vissi d’arte, vissi d’amore, he murmured with the music, —non feci mai male ad anima viva . . . And they sat silent to the violent grief-impassioned end.

  When it was done, Otto said, —That was very nice.

  —Nice? Is that all you can say? But you’re just a kid, you never heard Cavalieri do Tosca.

  —No, I . . .

  —I’m going to get out now. He stood, and found his cane.

  —Well . . . but I mean, don’t you want some coffee or something?

  —No. I shouldn’t have stayed this long anyhow.

  Otto took the check. —I’ll get this, he said graciously.

  —All right, kid. Thanks.

  —But thank you, I . . . Merry Christmas. Otto was left, the packet clutched against his parts, sniffing the delicious aroma of lavender, only half aware that the table had four legs. A fly landed on his hand, and he simply stared at it.

  Two men went out the revolving door, the second a figure in a checked suit, who had been waiting for some time in the lobby. He caught the other by the arm. —This is you, isn’t it?

  —What do you mean?

  —You’re Frank? They told me I was going to meet you in the lobby. They kept me half an hour late, but you’re an hour. Have you got the stuff? Five G’s in queer?

  —Jesus and Mary.

  —I’m the pusher they sent, you know? Have you got the queer?

  —Jesus Mary and Joseph.

  —What’s the matter with you, for Christ’s sake?

  —That kid. That fairy. He took every bit of it. He sat there rubbing his ankle against my leg . . .

  —Where’d he go? We’ll go in and get him. He’s got the queer on him?

  —We’ll wait out here. We’ll get him when he comes out.

  —Where you going now?

  —Right here in this doorway. The coat came off, was reversed, the black wig went into one pocket, green muffler and glasses into the other, and the sandy mustache appeared, stuck to his upper lip. —It’s cold, said Mr. Sinisterra. —And stop calling it “the queer.”

  Otto had appeared at the desk briefly, to put down a ten-dollar deposit on his bill. He was taken to a room. There he sat on the edge of the bed. He tore the wrapping from the money, and started to count it. The sling got in his way. He ripped it off and threw it on the floor. Then he made piles of ten bills each, fanned out alternating backs and faces, on the bed cover. He stood looking at it, and then turned to the mirror, and ran his fingertip over his mustache. He called downstairs, and waited for the bellboy to come with a razor and “anything else that might come in handy,” passing the time counting the money, in various positions. When the razor arrived, he shaved quickly and dressed. He reeled a little, putting four twenties with his change (which included a ten), and the rest into a drawer, hurriedly, for he heard stirring next door, remembering his neighbor. He turned off the light, closed his door, and stood outside 666, where he knocked and, unable to restrain himself, and as surprised to find the door unlocked, threw it open.

  —Who . . . what do you want? Jean cried, pulling a sheet to her throat, uncovering her neighbor, whose light gray flannel suit lay on the floor.

  —Why you . . . why . . .

  —Get out, get out of here, what do you mean coming in a lady’s room like that.

  The door banged.

  —Now just who the devil was that?

  —Don’t worry, honey, it’s only a fairy I met down in the bar.

  —A fairy?

  —You know, queer. He said he was a writer, and they’re always queer nowadays.

  —There he goes, said the man in the checked suit. —Out the side door. Look out of the way, you dumb bastard.

  —That’s no way to talk to Santa Claus.

  —Well get out of our way.

  —Merry Christmas. Have you got a dime for old Saint Nick?

  —Get the next cab in the line and follow him.

  The two cabs pulled away from the curb half a minute apart, and a police car drew up before the hotel.

  —I could sue you for false arrest, Mr. Pivner said when he got into the lobby, with a policeman, —if that would do any good. Do you know what you’ve done?

  Behind him the policeman talked with the tall bellboy, who said, —Well Jesus, I thought he was drunk. The guy with him was. The policeman said, —We got him down to the station house and found a needle on him. We thought he was a junkie. He’s real pissed-off.

  —Do you know what you’ve done? Did you see him? A boy with a scarf like this on, he came here to meet me, that was my son, my son . . .

  The policeman turned to the revolving door, and the tall bellboy said to him, —While you’re at it, take Santy Claus along. He’s driving us nuts out there.

  The controversy in the sky, by this time, was no nearer settlement; there was really no promise of armistice at all, though the haggling might continue, precipitating fine rain for periods of monotonous variance, broken by impatient bursts of sleet. The skyline of the city was reduced to two dimensions. There was no depth; accustomed to mass, and there was no such sensation, but instead buildings in immediate isolation, their heights awhirl in the weather, their lights incredible in the night, their feat undiminished by comparison with the mass which had clung to their sides pretending support, cowering now out of sight, would be there next day if it were fair, pretending, and sharing the steep triumph of these hampered giants tonight abandoned in trial to their integrity.

  The first cab turned into Jones Street; the second waited at the corner. —He’s going into that doorway where all those cops are. What’s he doing there. —How should I know what he’s doing there. I never should have trusted him. —I wouldn’t trust a fairy. —He’s not a Catholic. I should have known. They watched Otto talk with one of the policemen, and get back into his cab. —How’d’ya ever do a thing like that? —It was pride, it was the deadly sin of pride, I was so proud of those . . . those . . . O Mary, pray for me . . . If I hadn’t been so proud I would have watched my step . . . —Let’s just let him go, said the man in the checked suit as Otto’s cab left the curb. —The hell with him.

  —Let him go? with all that? You think it’s worthless, that paper? You think it’s a cheap job I did? Driver follow that cab.

  The juke-box played Return to Sorrento.

  Someone said, —Have you read this? It’s by a woman who spent the entire winter last year in Rome, she tells all about it here.

  At hand, a limp wrist hung on air. —I was in Florida for two fearfully rainy weeks, and I didn’t get browned very much . . . Laughter sprinkled up around him.

  —I’m a drunkard, said one of two young men sitting at a table with Victoria and Albert Hall. —Nothing but a drunkard, he repeated despondently. —You think that’s bad, I’m a drunk and I’m queer too, said the other, —an alcoholic and a homosexual. —So? demanded the paterfamilias. —I’m a drunk, a homosexual, and a Jew.

  She looked them over calmly, and finished her drink. —I’m alcoholic, homosexual, and a Jew, she stated. —And I’m crippled. When the next round of drinks arrived, she was the toast.

  —Have you heard the one about the muscular fellow named Rex? who had minuscular organs of sex?

  —Do you know, Il y avait une jeune fille de Dijon?

  —Es gibt ein Arbeiter von Linz?

  —“The whole gripping story is founded on fact. Look at the beautiful girl shown in the accompanying cut . . .” Anselm read aloud. —Are you listening? “Note the cruel marks cut in her tender body by the lash of the cat-o’-nine-tails wielded by the hands of a heartless and Christless Mother Superior in whose heart all human sympathy had been assassinated by the papal system . . .” He lowered The Moan of the Tiber to look up at Stanley. —You’re still brooding over that thing? he asked, seeing the torn strip of newspaper in Stanley’
s hand. —That’s yesterday’s paper, the whole of Saint Mark’s is probably under water by now. What are you drinking so much coffee for?

  —I have to stay awake, when I get home to work, Stanley said and looked anxiously at his wrist watch.

  —To work! Anselm muttered. —What are you waiting for? But he appeared to have no interest in what Stanley might answer, or not. He sat slumped, looking sullenly out from the table at the evening victims of the Viareggio. The spots on his face were dulled, his eyes lit with a smoldering rancor now and then as he watched them, but his tone was vague when a tall girl with dark hair reaching her furpiece said to someone, —Well I have yet to see an animal reading a book . . . and Anselm mumbled, —How’d you like to get your hand in her muff? Then he brought a hand up, fingers turned in upon the palm, and commenced to bite his nails. A minute later he had slumped again, motionless, and started to whistle, dull and rasping through his teeth.

  Stanley looked up. —What’s that? What you’re whistling.

  —Too Much Mustard.

  —Too much . . . what? No, what is it? It’s familiar, it’s Bach?

  —Yes, it’s called I can give you anything but love, Anselm answered without looking up. —Bach wrote it when he was three, he added, —for Mother’s Day.

  —Anselm, Stanley said inclining toward him slightly, —is there something, is something wrong?

  —Is something wrong! Anselm turned at him. —That’s the stupidest . . . But his voice tailed off, he lowered his eyes from Stanley, and scratched his head.

  —If there’s anything I could . . . do?

  Anselm looked at the blunt black ridges of his nails, then held them out. —I’ve got a sycosis, see? Not psychosis, like these other crazy bastards. Plain sycosis. Scabs. And he went back to scratching his head.

  Mr. Feddle entered, an alarm clock swinging from his neck on a piece of twine. In the doorway he bumped the man in the checked suit, whose companion said, —Go in and get him. —I couldn’t just pull him out of there, said the man in the checked suit. —He won’t stay long, he’s too jumpy to hang around a dump like this. —Look out, there he goes! . . . —Goes, hell. He’s going to the can.

  As he stood, occupied, the mirror was beside him at his left shoulder, and Otto stared into it. He continued to stare as he turned a minute later, buttoning his trousers, weaving slightly, and allowed the smile to come to his face slowly as though savoring the renewal of an acquaintance long away, dead perhaps, for all they knew, in the jungles; returned now, and returned affluent. Then the smile left his face as slowly, and the same reckoned composure with which it had come: with all the sincerity of a suppliant before an icon he said, —If I were a character in a play . . . would I be credible? When the door banged open he was standing looking down at the pale left hand extended from his sleeve, and licking the strangely naked upper lip.

  —What are you grinning about? You look pretty pleased with yourself.

  —What? Oh . . . he spun around. —Max.

  —What happened, you sell your play or something?

  —My play? I . . . yes, yes that’s it. How did you know? Yes . . .

  —Good, Max said over his shoulder. Smiling, he added, —Look, I hope you didn’t think I had anything to do with what people were saying.

  —People? Otto repeated vaguely, going toward the door.

  —You know, that you’d plagiarized . . .

  —Oh, oh that, yes, no, no I wouldn’t have thought that, Otto said, and left Max bound there to deepen the steaming gully in the cake of ice in the drain. He saw Stanley sitting at a table with Anselm, who was listlessly turning pages in a magazine which bore the picture of a girl sliding down a bannister, and the challenge, Can Freaks Make Love? on the cover. Anselm tore something out and pushed it across the table to Stanley who looked at it and then away quickly, his eyes searching the room for refuge until he lowered them to the floor.

  —Hey, Hannah? Look at those two, said a tall round-headed young man in an expensive suit. —Did you ever see that Kollwitz print, “Zwei Gefangene Musik hörend”? That’s what they look like, two prisoners listening to music.

  —Stanley is a sort of prisoner, Hannah said half to herself.

  —Anybody is who’s always broke. He handed her the beer he’d got her.

  —You can talk! Hannah turned on him, accepting the dripping glass. —You work for your money, so you don’t have to worry spending it.

  He stared at her; then cleared his throat and asked, —Say, is that really Ernest Hemingway behind me?

  —What if it is, what would that make you?

  —He, I . . . I’d like to meet him, I think he’s a great writer.

  —You think some of it will wipe off on you? You’re still a salesman. Did you ever read Cummings’ poem, a salesman is an it that stinks to please . . . and you want to write?

  —I do in my spare time, I’ve taken a course . . .

  —Go stink to please somewhere else.

  —Yes, I . . . all right, all right . . . He turned two hundred dollars’ worth of tweed on her, and said, —Mister Hemingway? My name is George . . .

  —Glad to see you, George, said the Big Unshaven Man. —What are we drinking?

  Otto paid for his whisky-and-soda with a twenty-dollar bill, and stood unsteadily looking about him.

  —What are you mumbling about? Hannah demanded from just beneath the level of his gaze. He was looking at a tall blond girl who had just said, in Boston accents, that Paris was like a mouthful of decayed teeth.

  —Hannah? I just sold my play, Otto repeated, but aloud this time, as though finding confirmation in what he heard.

  —You sold your play? her query sustained him, but no further than, —Can you buy me a beer? as she put an empty glass on a table behind her. He struggled to the bar, got her a glass and handed it to her over someone’s shoulder, but when he’d paid for it and turned again she was gone, leaving only her query echoing Max’s, sanctioning what he had heard in his own words, and ratified now with a murmured yes and a smile of discovery. But immediately he saw Max, standing at the table with Anselm and Stanley, looking in his direction and talking through a smile, he felt unsteady again, called upon to defend himself, and his hand rose to the empty fall of his jacket as he approached them.

  Max always looked the same, always the same age, his hair always the same short length, in his smile the humorless agreeability of one who could neither suffer friendship nor celebrate enmity, a parody on the moment, as his clothes caricatured a past at eastern colleges where he had never been.

  —And if it’s only through sin that we can know one another, and share our human frailty? Stanley went on, staring into his coffee. —And by doing that, we come to know ourselves . . .

  —Crossing the Atlantic Ocean to get laid. He can’t even get it up without a dose of methyltestosterone, Anselm interrupted, without looking up as Otto approached, without a pause in his speaking he tore something from his magazine and held it out to Otto, who read, “LONELY? 25¢ brings magazine containing pictures, descriptions of lonely sincere members everywhere, seeking friendship, companionship, marriage . . .” —What better reason is there to get out of this stupid white Protestant country, for Christ’s sake. Yes, for Christ’s sake. At least Catholic countries take sin as a part of human nature, they don’t blow their guts when they find you’ve gone to bed with a woman. Somebody like him is scared to try it here, he’d rather go where nobody knows him, a bunch of stupid foreigners he doesn’t have to respect because they don’t speak English, and don’t have any money, where nobody will point at him in the street if they see him coming out of a whorehouse. Christ. It breaks my heart. Somebody like that, it breaks my heart. But you know what breaks my heart? He looked up directly at Otto, who started, the smile jarred from his face, whose eyes, evading a wince, found Max’s indulgent smile. —That that’s sin! Anselm hissed, looking back at the table top. —That . . . Chhrist!

  None of them spoke. Stanley clung to his coffee cup
as though moored there. Otto tottered slightly. Max stood reflecting the vacant satisfaction he found in exposé.

  —With all the . . . rotten betrayals around us, and that, that . . . that one moment of trust, is sin? Anselm whispered, looking at none of them.

  None of them spoke until Anselm said, —You’re spilling your God-damned drink, what’s the matter with you? and Otto, righting his glass and licking his naked upper lip, came round to the other side of the table and the empty chair Max stood beside, bumping a girl who was carrying Everybody Can Play the Piano under her arm, and saying, —Well I thought his approach was rarther crude, just coming at me like that with a dollar bill wrapped around it . . .

  —You’re not sitting here? Otto asked Max, who stepped aside with the courtesy accorded infirmity. —Who’s going abroad? Otto asked after a moment, seated. Stanley looked up at Anselm, as though to give him opportunity of answering, then said himself in a quelled tone, —Don Bildow . . . sounding as though he wanted to say more, but could find no more to say. And Otto looked up, over backs and shoulders, to see Don Bildow’s white face bobbing behind the plastic-rimmed glasses; and heard, from someone falling toward the table, —Everything is either concave or convex . . . someone caught and raised to receive this intelligence, —Nothing, absolutely nothing, can convince me that all of us and everything isn’t shrinking at the rate of one millimeter a minute . . .

  —Has anybody seen Esme? Otto asked, his voice in an abrupt strain. —I just went by her house, he added hurriedly, and brought his glass to his lips.

  —Nobody there? Max asked behind him.

  —Well no, no not really, I mean no.

  —Not even Chaby?

  —No, he was . . . he wasn’t there, no. I mean, I didn’t see him, I didn’t really go in, I . . . I just passed there, Otto finished looking up confused, rummaging his pale left hand, whose freedom no one had noticed, in a pocket, and seeing Stanley’s ragged mustache, licking a lip whose nakedness no one had remarked. —Would anybody like a drink? he asked, and signaled a waiter who did not see him. Behind him, someone said, —A million people try to disappear in America every year, a million Americans try to erase themselves, that’s a statistic and it doesn’t include criminals either, a million a year, a million people a year . . .