The Recognitions (Dalkey Archive edition) (126 page)

Just then a white bird came down in an arc from a branch, down falling like a stone before it ascended, and the policeman, dodging the threat, threw his weight over, his horse scrambled for a moment on the concrete and went down, and the falling flank caught Otto as he ran without seeing toward the church, spun him round and pinned him on the concrete, unconscious.

The vulture on the outside roof fussed for a moment, one wing extended, impatiently like a dignitary fully dressed for an appointment looking at his watch. Then the wing came back somewhat askew, as though he’d buttoned the coat up wrong, and not noticing it in his impatience stood rocking from one foot to the other.

In the street outside a little boy held up a male dog, exposed, for a female to investigate. His mother said to another and larger black woman, —Tomorrow morning, soon soon . . . Other little black boys passed, wearing men’s hats. The card game was back out on the veranda.

Near the only occupied cot, in the schoolroom which had been used as a hospital, was posted a stuffed fox whose snarl exposed a pink fly-blown tongue. The doctor stood beside the cot looking down at the face. Nothing moved there but a fly. It rummaged a cheek for a moment, studied the caves of the nostrils, hurried across the bandage to the cleft of the chin, from that eminence sighted the convoluted marvel across the way, and leaped silently to the ear. The eyes flickered, and closed tightly as though to recall the long night and the wonder of nonentity it had permitted: recreation not for the body, nor the soul, but opportunity for circumstances to refurbish themselves, a hope untempered by ages of experience where morning brings no change, but only renewal of conflict on the terms it left off. The lips moved, drawing up twice on, —I know it . . . I know it . . . and then tightening to know sleep only, and there animate circumstance with the good intentions which had already brought it low in present disaster; and then descending, a little lower, only to belabor those good intentions, vicarious opiates laboring in half-consciousness to fall away before the pursuit of dreams, dreams ravin in tooth and claw, while the beard grows against the pillow in darkness.

The fly returned to course the warm terrain of the eyelid, moving with the careless persistence of diabolical things, and both eyes came open.

—What happened?

—I was going to ask you the same thing. They just brought you in here in pieces, and . . .

—I feel sick.

—Well you are sick, so it’s a good thing you know it.

—I can hardly hear you.

—You’re lucky you can hear me at all. Ever have ear trouble?

—Yes. No.

—Well, you do now. You might even have a deaf ear before you’re through. Just like Julius Caesar, that would be nice, wouldn’t it.
Who are you? You’re very young to show up with something like this. I might even say tragic if I knew who you were.

—Wait, I . . . I can’t move my arm.

—That’s partly because it’s broken. Do you remember trying to walk yesterday? Please excuse my shouting at you.

—But what is it? what is it?

—Like a drunkard. Staggering around like a drunkard. Of course I might not say that if I knew who you were. We didn’t find any papers on you at all. Just money. Money. Lots of it.

—Where is it?

—Lie back now, it’s safe. All that money! But you can’t run around spending it now. Don’t be impatient. Why, look at me, I have a right to be impatient. I was sent down here to help these nig . . . natives with their drainage problems, and now look at me. They keep promising to transfer me to Barbados, but they never do. A special health project in Barbados . . . He had walked over near the window, and looked out. —I’ve sent for some more medicine for you. Of course I know all the time that I’ll have to go get it myself eventually, this tattooed idiot who’s supposed to work for me . . . Then he shouted out the window, —Jesse . . . ! Jesse! . . . There, you see? He’s nowhere to be seen. Worthless, useless, tattooed idiot . . . of course I wouldn’t call him that if I thought he could hear me. This is the third time now that I’ve put in for a transfer to that special health project among underdeveloped . . . oops! Wait, don’t throw up on the floor. Here . . . here we are. Ummmp! That’s better. Feel better?

—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 . . .

“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 exactly 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?