The Recognitions

by William Gaddis

  —But . . . what . . . what is this? Who are you?

  —What are either of us doing here? Who are you? Tsk tsk, excuse my shouting at you.

  —But you . . . you must tell me . . .

  —I suppose I must. The doctor should not discuss the case with the patient, but who else can I discuss it with? Well, after your little accident, something set in. Something.

  —Something what?

  —Don’t be hasty. Something. Maybe something entirely original. Do you hear noises in your ears?

  —I hear you . . .

  —I have to shout, or you couldn’t hear me. Dizziness, nausea, vomiting, staggering, and down you go unconscious. It doesn’t sound very original, does it. How would you like to have a disease named after you?

  —But I . . .

  —Well, I’ll tell you a secret. It may be Ménière’s disease. It may be. You’d accept that, would you? Because if it is we couldn’t name it after you. We’ll see. I’ve given you a little nicotinic acid. Do you work for the fruit company here?

  —No . . . no, I . . .

  —It’s all right, don’t explain. I’m on the outs with them too. If they knew I had you here they’d try to get you for their patient.

  —No, I . . . now I . . .

  —That’s the spirit. Now you just wait here. If anyone comes in, cover up your head and moan. I’m going over to the fruit company dispensary, and try to get some Diasal for you. Diasal or Lesofac, Amchlor or Gustamate. If it is Ménière’s syndrome, we’ll have you up staggering around in no time. Of course I don’t know where you’ll stagger to, with no papers. What’s your name? We can’t name a disease after you if you don’t have a name.

  —But I . . . I . . .

  —My name is Doctor Fell. There. What’s yours?

  —. . . Gordon. Gordon. My name’s Gordon.

  —All right Gordon. Don’t throw up on the floor while I’m gone, Gordon. Gordonitis? tsk tsk . . . Get some sleep Gordon.

  —But you . . .

  —Roniacol or Dramamine . . .

  The door banged. Outside all was quiet, except for the distant dull crash and recession at the seawall, where the rehearsal continued. The sun shone.

  On the ridge of the tin roof across from the window, the vulture strode up and down, wings drawn back in a black mantle and head darting forward, like an old man thoughtful of money, hands restlessly grasping under the wings of his tailcoat. Then from somewhere an old man in a dry bird voice cried out, —Mani . . . mani . . .

  II

  “Miss Potter, where is God?”

  “He is everywhere,” replied Miss Potter with dignity.

  “But, my dear Maiden,” exclaimed His Highness, planting himself firmly on one of the chairs, “what good is that to me?”

  —Ackerley, Hindoo Holiday

  —A patron saint?

  —It’s a natural.

  —What does she do?

  —She intercedes.

  —What do you mean, she intercedes.

  —I don’t know, but that’s not the point. Look, they’ve dug up this Saint Clare. She’s going to be patron saint for the whole industry.

  —Where’d you hear all this?

  —Story conference. Somebody read about it in the paper. They’ve already run up a rough script on it. She had a vision once, at a basilica, where she saw the whole Christmas thing appear before her eyes. It was sort of the first TV show, you might say.

  —What’s a basilica? What was she, Eyetalian? They didn’t teach Eyetalian at Yale.

  —I guess so. It’s where Saint Francis of Assisi lived. The poor one. A place called Portiuncula.

  —How come they call him Saint Francis of Assisi if he lived in Port . . .

  —I don’t know, but that’s not the point. Look, for the program that inaugurates The Lives of the Saints on TV, this is a natural. The story line is terrific. This poor girl, she lives near Saint Francis, and finally she went around to ask him how she could be a saint too, like he was, except to start one for women. So he said . . .

  —Start one what?

  —Like a nunnery, but that’s not the point. So he gave her this hair shirt, and told her to go out and beg for awhile, and then come to his place at Portiuncula dressed like a bride. So she did. It’s a natural. This scene where all these monks meet her with lighted candles and walk her up to the altar.

  —Then what. They get married?

  —I guess so. Why else would she come dressed like a bride?

  They walked in thoughtful silence for a moment. The long bare corridor was brightly lighted and empty, until a young man with a thin face, a slightly crooked nose, and a weary expression which embraced his whole appearance, passed them. —There, there’s the guy who was working on this, he’s one of the writers. Hey, Willie . . . But the weary figure went on. He was carrying two books, one titled, The Destruction of the Philosophers, the other, The Destruction of the Destruction. He rounded a corner away from them muttering, —Christ. Christ, Christ, Christ, Christ, Christ.

  —It would be nice if we could get some kind of testimonial on this.

  —She’s dead, this saint.

  —I know that, for Christ sake. I mean from somebody like the Pope. It would make a nice tie-in.

  They walked on in thoughtful silence for a minute.

  —Ever since the Vatican pulled that stunt of telling Catholics that seeing Mass on TV wasn’t enough, that they still have to get out and go to church, when right in the comfort of their own living rooms they could . . .

  —Ellery . . . !

  —Morgie!

  —You two guys know each other? Ellery, this is Mister Darling, he’s the account exec handling Necrostyle . . .

  —Know each other! Morgie’s an old Skull and Bones man. The whole industry’s being taken over by the Ivy League. How the hell are you, Morgie?

  —I was saying the same thing at a party last night, Morgie said. —We all used to end up in the old man’s brokerage, and now . . . you can’t tell me advertising isn’t the new Wall Street. He and Ellery walked down the bright corridor with their hands on one another’s shoulders. The third man said, —The highest paid business in the U.S. today . . . and fell in behind them. He was an old Alabama Rammer-Jammer man.

  —I just came up for a look at our new morning show, said Morgie. —But why you’ve got a kids’ ballet school on for Necrostyle, now what the hell Ellery, with kids’ shows like the Saints . . .

  —That’s how you reach them, Ellery said, —through the kids. There’s something about kids. People trust them, you know?

  —But a ballet school! We want . . .

  —We know what you want, Morgie. Just be patient, we know what you want.

  A girl in a wedding dress stood outside a door in the empty corridor. She was very young, and the heavy make-up on her face almost hid her bad case of acne. She smiled uncertainly as they approached. —Lost, baby? Ellery asked her. She nodded and sniffed, up this close she looked about to cry. —You’re on the Let’s Get Married program? Ellery winked at her. She nodded and sniffed hopefully. —Look, down there, quick, see that guy in the skirt coming out of the men’s room? Quick, follow him. It’s studio thirty-seven, he called after her as she ran, hampered by her tight wedding skirt, her sharp heels calibrating the silence of the corridor, away from them.

  The third man turned and watched the restricted motion of her thighs. At present he had a single modest ambition: he was trying to get a line he had heard somewhere into the script of a highly paid comedian. The line was, It looked so nice out this morning I left it out all day. The censors would not have it: they said it was immoral. Nevertheless, he thought it was one of the funniest things he had ever heard. He also had a salt-shaker which he carried and used in public places. It was a crude plastic reproduction of the Venus de Milo. The sign in the place where he had bought it said, Because of the amusing way in which these shakers pour, better hide them when Grandma’s around. He was becoming a “character,” which was ex
actly what he wanted. When he went out he wore a cap. The person who had sold it to him had told him that he looked like the Duke of Northumberland in it. Now he said, —What a nice tight little can.

  Morgie looked at the girl too, over his shoulder. —You couldn’t get into that with a can-opener. It’s a crime the way they tie it in.

  —No disparaging remarks.

  —What d’you mean?

  —We got the Kanthold Korsets account.

  —What’s the tape over your eye, Morgie? Did she bite you?

  —This party I was at last night. A bunch of scared intellectuals, you know? A bunch of goddam unamericans.

  —But you told them, didn’t you Morgie. Ellery turned to the third man. —Morgie’s serious as hell. He was always serious, even in college.

  —This is serious, goddam serious. Don’t kid yourself, Morgie said. —They corrupt, these goddam intellectuals do. They corrupt.

  —I told you Morgie was serious, Ellery said, and grinned. —See what he got defending his country?

  —Don’t kid yourself. Some bastard started in on how New York would change if prostitution was legalized. Clean honest whorehouses, see?

  —In that case, you’ll have to consider me unamerican too, in Alabama . . .

  —No, the point was sublimation, see? This is the whoring of the arts, and we’re the pimps, see?

  —You should have hit him.

  —I did. That’s where I got this. Morgie pointed to the tape above his eye. —No matter how much you talk to them, they don’t get it. It’s too simple. It’s too goddam simple for them to understand. They still think their cigarettes would cost them half as much without advertising. The whole goddam high standard of American life depends on the American economy. The whole goddam American economy depends on mass production. To sustain mass production you got to have a mass market. To sustain a goddam mass market you got to have advertising. That’s all there is to it. A product would drop out of sight overnight without advertising, I don’t care what it is, a book or a brand of soap, it would drop out of sight. We’ve had the goddam Ages of Faith, we’ve had the goddam Age of Reason. This is the Age of Publicity.

  —O.K. Morgie, you believe in it. Come into the control room and see your dancing girls.

  —Goddam right I believe in it. You got to regard advertising as public information, that’s what it is.

  —O.K. Morgie, relax. Put out your cigarette.

  Morgie dropped his cigarette on the floor, and stopped to put it out with his shoe. —I know it, but I get browned off the way some people talk. They talk as if we weren’t respectable.

  —It’s the highest paid business in the U.S., said the old Alabama Rammer-Jammer man.

  A man in shirt-sleeves came through the door. —You seen Benny? Ellery asked him.

  —Benny who?

  A girl going the other way heard this. —I know who you mean, she said to Ellery. —He’s in OP, nobody around here knows him. I know who you mean, he was here earlier and he left.

  —Thanks, said Ellery; hunching up one shoulder he dropped his cigarette, put it out, and watched the girl go down the hall as he held the door.

  —You’ve only got two cameras up there? Morgie asked. They stood looking at three selective screens. Ellery nodded. —I don’t think I’d call this even a B show, even for morning, Morgie said. He was watching the close-up screen where a four-year-old girl, extended at the practice rail, smiled a personality smile into the wrong camera. Ellery looked at his watch.

  —And look. What the hell are they doing now, is this part of this show? Ellery was watching that screen, where the façade of an ugly church quivered into focus. The image moved to the squat steeple, and turned up to follow the spire to its top. —There’s a guy up there, there’s a guy climbing up it . . .

  Someone handed Ellery a telephone. —That’s right, telephoto on number one as soon as you get number two camera set up down in the street, got me? Cut an announcement in right now, got me? First-hand coverage of a stark human drama, take it from there. Get the church in, nice if you can get a shot of the service going on but don’t bust that up, got me? That’s it, that’s it . . . he went on, watching the screen. —Lift it a little, get the bells in . . .

  —See if they can get the whole goddam cross in, Morgie whispered.

  ——Ladies and gentlemen, Necrostyle, the modern scientific aid to civilized living, interrupts its regular program, Today’s Angels, to bring you on-the-spot coverage of a stark human drama . . .

  The close-up screen flashed into life again with the figure of a man mounting the shingled spire toward the cross. Ellery stood silent, gripping the telephone. —But wait a minute, he said. —Wait a minute . . .

  —Let it roll, let it roll, Morgie said beside him. —It’s terrific.

  —Wait a minute . . .

  —You can almost see the sweat on his face, Morgie said beside him. —Coming over like a dream.

  —It’s too bad they didn’t get some pancake on him before he went up, said the old Alabama Rammer-Jammer man. —But that light blue necktie . . .

  —That light blue necktie . . .

  Morgie took a step closer to the screens. He held his breath. When he realized that the man beside him was holding his breath, he commenced to breathe self-consciously. The man beside him realized this, and he commenced to breathe self-consciously.

  Then at the same instant they both stopped breathing again.

  ——Our camera seems to be having some difficulty . . . We’re sorry, friends, but because of the crowd which has gathered in the immediate vicinity there on the sidewalk it looks like we are going to be unable to bring our camera in for a close-up . . .

  —Like a dream, said Morgie, as they breathed again.

  When the scene was obliterated in favor of a sleek-haired oily countenance, they turned to one another. —Where’s Ellery?

  ——. . . brought to you through the courtesy of Necrostyle Products. And so friends, don’t forget, Necrostyle, in the vanguard of modern civilized living. Ask your favorite druggist for the Necrostyle product that meets your needs. Necrostyle, the wafer-shaped sleeping pill, no chewing, no aftertaste. Zap, the wonder-wakener. Cuff, it’s on the cuff. And Pubies, the newest . . .

  —Where’s Ellery?

  In the background, an electric organ played The End of a Perfect Day.

  ——. . . no harmful after-effects. For men and women over forty, start living again, with Pubies . . .

  —He must have gone out, do you think it got him down?

  ——And so remember, friends, when you come to the end of a perfect day . . .

  They went out to the bright corridor where, after a moment, Ellery appeared from an office. He was walking very slowly and staring at the floor. —I just had to see B.F. for a minute, he said when they joined him, and he stood there by the door and lit a cigarette.

  —Like a dream, Morgie congratulated him. But Ellery did not raise his eyes. From the office they could hear a voice. It was B.F. on the telephone. —Hello, hello Ben? Listen, there was a jump a few minutes ago, it . . . what? No, this was a man, off a church up in the Bronx, he . . . Yeah, that’s the point, it was one of our own men, a guy named Benny . . . what? I don’t know, something must have went wrong. I know you can’t hush it up, but try to keep us out of it . . . Yeah, they can play up this other one then, the woman . . . Inside the office B.F. hung up the telephone. He stared vacantly for almost a full minute. Then he clicked his lips and took out a cigar.

  Ellery blew a heavy ring of smoke toward the floor. It rolled, getting larger, dropping more slowly, and settled round the toe of his shoe.

  All this time Morgie was talking. —You handled it beautifully, it came over like a dream. But look, what’s the matter, did it upset you? A thing like that? Look at it this way. Those things happen. This happened. We happened to be there. What the hell, it’s all in a goddam day’s work. Come on, he said as they started to walk down the corridor. Ellery dropped his cigarette
and paused to step on it. —Come on, I’ll buy you the best lunch in town. You’ll bounce back.

  —Twenty-one? said the Alabamarammerjammerman.

  —Twenty-one Ellery?

  —Twenty-one.

  One after another the flashbulbs burst and, in the gray light of that day, seemed each time to arrest an instant of riotous motion as lightning freezes motion and then, in the dark again, the persistence of vision retains that image of abandon which could not have sustained itself, as it did here, on the winter pavement, after the newspaper photographer had bundled up his equipment and hurried into the hotel, hoping to make the sporting final.

  The morning mail was late, for the falling body had struck the mailman, setting off a pattern of inconvenience which intruded upon many routines. Outside that hotel of faded Edwardian elegance which, having become a landmark, was about to be torn down, the body lay in a pose of reckless flamboyance, a gratuitous gesture annoying such passers-by as the tall woman who was leading a poodle and saying to a friend, —Her name is Huki-lau, that means fish-picnic in Hawaiian, isn’t that cute? She used to bite her nails right down to the quick, analysis is doing her a world of good. Oh God! Look! No, don’t look.

  Discovered breathing, she was taken away on a stretcher instead of the pinewood crate which was already half unloaded.

  The hotel room itself proved so rewarding that the newspaper photographer telephoned for more flashbulbs, and asked the city desk to send over somebody with shorthand. He said the reporter with him had just been taken sick by the fumes. Then he hurried back down the hall, took a deep breath, and entered that mélange of smoke, whisky, and roses, where he paused only to sweep some of the letters into a pile with his foot as graphic witness to the story which would say that they were ankle-deep all over the room. The bottles he did not have to rearrange at all, their hollow necks protruded everywhere. As for the roses, he could not have done a better job if he’d taken a month to it. They were festooned dead, dying, and two or three dozens still in bloom, wherever that desperate ingenuity could contrive, and the hand reach. —Roses . . . he would say later (when someone was trying to recall a line of poetry that contained “Roses, roses . . .” to use in the caption), —Roses till hell wouldn’t have them. The bathroom, especially, was entirely transformed. There was no place to sit down at all.