The Recognitions (Dalkey Archive edition) (102 page)

But all this happened very fast, and sometimes, before she knew it she’d set fire to his hair, or saw it so, what was the difference? or saw him streaming blood down the side of his face (as he had that morning when they had news that the warehouse, where his early paintings were stored, had burned, and he came in with a razor cut on his cheek), and this same mild expectancy, waiting to be told.

But now he turned away. —I’ve just come to pick up some things, he said, and he stood there holding one hand in the other before him, looking down. She watched the lines of his face become confused again, and still sitting on the edge of the bed she asked him,

—What things?

—Well, the . . . there must be some clothes. Some clothes. Because this . . . He stopped again, holding a black wilted lapel, and looked at it.

—It’s been so long, she said, starting to get up. But then she only clasped her hands around a knee, and stayed. —Are you going away? she asked him, and sorry she had for he looked bewildered and not at her. —You’re not going to stay? she added abruptly.

—To stay? he repeated, and looked at her.

—You haven’t come back to . . . to stay? . . . with me? Her knee slipped from her clasped hand.

—Why no I ssstopped in to . . . pick up some things, I . . . there’s somewhere I have to go tonight, something I have to . . . do. He spoke each word as though intending another, misshaping them with his lips, and stood there uncertainly. —You see, I . . . he commenced again, but she interrupted briskly as she stood.

—It’s all right, I simply wondered. A woman likes to know these things.

—But you . . .

—But you do look better than when you were up here a few days ago, don’t you, she went on, her voice with an edge to it.

—Yes, I’m tired.

—Where have you been?

—A Turkish bath.

—All this time?

—No, I . . . yes.

—Why? Why? Why?

—Oh, they . . . do all sorts of things to you there. Heat and cold, and steam . . . and cold water, and they pound you, and you . . . and they . . . they do all sorts of things to you to make you . . . that you feel . . .

He turned toward the closet again, took a step and startled at his brief image in the mirror.

—Oh, but that . . . I’m sorry, she said, laughing, coming toward him around the foot of the bed.

—Well I didn’t . . . think it was mine, he said, confused again, taking off the jacket he’d got from a closet hanger. Its bold plaid sleeves came down to his knuckles, the skirt well down over his thighs.

—I am sorry, Esther said and she quit laughing. —It’s . . . someone left it here.

—But they’re all like this, he said from the closet.

—Your things are in here, in these drawers. She stopped her going toward him, and pulled open a bottom drawer. When she straightened up she’d recovered her impatience. —When you’re away for as long as you’ve been, she began. He was putting back on the wrinkled black jacket from the floor where he’d dropped it. —But here, Esther said, pulling folded clothes from the drawer, —surely there’s something in here that will do better than . . . that.

But he buttoned the jacket in front, taking both hands to each button.

—This, she said.

He took from her the suit she held out, plain gray with a diagonal weave.

—Well, aren’t you going to put it on?

He folded it and put it on the bed, at the same time making sure of the buttons on the jacket he wore, as though suddenly afraid to lose it.

—Aren’t you going to wear this?

—I’ll . . . I’ll take it with me, and a shirt. Some shirts too. Then with a step he was nearer her, and another; and he stopped, bringing up his head, both hands open before him, open as though to come to grips except that he’d already fallen half a step back, and

She, straightening up with some shirts held forth on the flat of her hands raised her face to his, joining forces with the mirror behind her. —What is it?

But with that half a step back one image retired, and bearing his green eyes on her he recovered, the half-step and another with it so that Esther shrank back against the chest holding the shirts out farther still between them and she repeated —What is it?

The door opened, flung open. Music burst in.

—What do you . . .

—Sorry.

Broken shapes, gray Glen Urquhart mitigated by blond hair in a wild panache, shattered the wall; a peripheral pattern instantly restored as the door bangs, closed.

—What was it?

—Purcell.

—No. Her hands lay in his, under the squared white mass of the shirts, cold nails and soft lined joints against his hard palms.

—The music?

—No. Her thumbs out, and palms up with the weight on them, her shoulders relax, and her hands open further, to draw up as instantly there is no support, first his right hand gone, clearly gone, and then with an instant’s paroxysm the left.

And then the weight of those shirts, lifted away, and her hands rise empty, round-fingered, untapering and separate.

The mass of the shirts broke on the bed as he dropped them there, and took his left hand in his right where veins stood out in swollen tributaries rising between the roughed mounds of the knuckles, breaking in detail on the fingers whose severity they articulated.

—That night . . . Esther said staring at his hands, her own withdrawn to shelter the hollows, heels on bone and the round ends of her fingers appointing that soft declivity which rose above them until her thumbs could not meet across her waist. —That night, she repeated, curling her finger-ends in upon the yielding bank, and the tips of her thumbs touched. —When I wanted to . . . manicure you? She looked up at his face, and with the effort smiled until she said, —And you . . . drew away just like that . . . each word draining the smile from her face, and she lowered her eyes, and her empty hands came down to her sides.

She waited, and heard no response, but watching saw his lips go tight. —What have you been doing all this time? she demanded of him, and sat on the bed.

He turned back to the shirts, which he’d just left stacked unevenly
on the bed, and commenced to arrange them in a careful pile. —Nothing, he answered automatically.

—Nothing! she repeated, and sat up straight.

—A few things . . . working, sort of . . . experimental things.

—Painting? What kind of things, then?

—Yes, sort of . . . that kind of thing.

—Painting?

He looked up at her, quickly and away, back to what he was doing, squaring the pile between his hands. —Looking around us today, he said with effort, —there doesn’t seem to be . . . much that’s worth doing.

—Well what good is it then? . . . she burst out at him, —going on only to find out what’s not worth doing?

—You find . . . he mumbled, —if you can find, that way . . .

—Are you very ill? Esther said.

—Ill? He looked up pale and surprised.

—Everything is just like it was, isn’t it. Only worse. She started speaking rapidly again, as she got to her feet. —You’ve just got everything tangled up worse and worse, haven’t you. Why the way you pulled your hands away from me just now, as though they were something . . .

—Esther . . .

—And your guilt complexes and everything else, it’s just gotten worse, hasn’t it, all of it. And the way you pulled your hands away from me just now, it was just like when we were first married and I hardly knew you, and the longer we were married the less you . . . won’t you talk to me? even now, won’t you talk to me?

—Really Esther, I . . . I didn’t come here to argue with you. He sounded again himself she remembered, and she pursued,

—You won’t argue, you’ll say things like that but you won’t argue, you won’t talk . . . to me . . .

—Damn it, I . . . Esther, I just came in to get some things.

—Get them then! Take them! Take them!

He busied himself folding the shirts up with the gray suit, tightening his lips against the sounds which escaped her.

—Because there’s no one, is there. You’re alone now, aren’t you. Are you alone now?

—Esther, good God . . . please . . .

—Ignorance and desire, you’ve told me . . . Oh, you’ve told me so many things, haven’t you. All of our highest goals are inhuman ones, you told me, do you remember? I don’t forget. But remorse binds us here together in ignorance and desire, and . . . and . . . not salt tears then, but . . . She gasped again, shuddered but would not give in.

—And what is it now, this reality you used to talk about, she went on more quietly. —As though you could deny, and have nothing to replace what you take away, as though . . . Oh yes, zero does not exist, you told me. Zero does not exist! And here I . . . I watched you turn into no one right here in front of me, and just a . . . a pose became a life, until you were trying to make negative things do the work of positive ones. And your family and your childhood, and your illness then and studying for the ministry, and . . . when I married you we used to talk about all that intelligently, and I thought you were outside it, and understood it, but you’re not, you’re not, and you never will be, you never will get out of it, and you never . . . you never will let yourself be happy. Esther was talking rapidly again, and she paused as though to give effect to the softness of her voice as she went on, though her memory crowded details upon her and it was these she fought. —There are things like joy in this world, there are, there are wonderful things, and there is goodness and kindness, and you shrug your shoulders. And I used to think that was fun, that you understood things so well when you did that, but finally that’s all you can do, isn’t it. Isn’t it.

He stood across the bed holding his bundle up before him, meeting her eyes, provoked, and he smiled, ready to speak.

—And your smile, she went on, —even your smile isn’t alive, because you abdicated, you moved out of life, and you . . .

—But the past, he broke in, —every instant the past is reshaping itself, it shifts and breaks and changes, and every minute we’re finding, I was right . . . I was wrong, until . . .

Esther plundered the fragments her memory threw up to her, taking them any way, seizing them as they rose and clinging to each one until she’d thrust it out between them. —The boundaries between good and evil must be defined again, they must be reestablished, that’s what a man must do today, isn’t it? A man! Wasn’t it? . . . She paused, retaining hold on that for a moment longer, raising her hand to her forehead in fact as though doing so, considering its details and lowering her voice. —Yes, you couldn’t have a world in which the problem of evil could be solved with a little cunning, she added, word by word, dully, —and you . . . Oh yes, by confessing, to set up order once more between yourself and the world . . . Esther’s voice tailed off as she stared down at the bed between them.

—Yes, go on, go on with it, he said eagerly when she stopped, staring at her.

For as it happened, this point had come from a play she’d read shortly after Otto had sailed for Central America, a play by Silone
called
And He Hid Himself:
but even now, looking up, Esther saw these words on the lips before her, slightly parted in expectation. She began again, —I wish . . .

—Yes, you understand, he burst in, —you understand, that’s why this is crucial, you understand, don’t you. How this is going to expiate . . .

—Expiate! She accepted him again, standing there with his hand out.

—And that it isn’t just expiation, but . . . that’s why it is crucial, because this is the only way we can know ourselves to be real, is this moral action, you understand don’t you, the only way to know others are real . . .

A wave of nausea rose through her body, and Esther gripped the corner of the night table behind her, swaying a little, swallowing again. —If we had had a child . . . she murmured. —Yes, if we . . .

—And you understand it, his voice came on at her, —this moral action, it isn’t just talk and . . . words, morality isn’t just theory and ideas, that the only way to reality is this moral sense . . .

—Stop it! she cried out. —Stop it! . . . She caught herself, and took up the handkerchief again quickly for saliva was running from the corner of her mouth beyond the apprehension of her swallowing. —Moral sense! she repeated loudly at him. —Do you think women have a moral sense? Do you think women have . . . any morals? that . . . that women can afford them?

—Esther . . . He started toward her round the end of the bed.

—Oh no! she said. —No! Do you know how much she has to protect? and every minute more? And you make these things up, and force them on her, men take their own guilt, and call it moral sense and oppress her with it in the name of . . . She shrank back as he came close to her. —In the name of Christ why didn’t you go on and . . . stay where you came from, and be a minister where you came from, instead of . . . coming here where I . . . she shuddered as he took her arm, —have so much to protect.

—Esther, he said to her, that close.

—But now you . . . are here, she said to him in a whisper. The nausea had fallen away, abruptly as it had come, leaving her in his grip with her teeth chattering as she spoke, and her tears did not fall but spread evenly into the wetness of her cheeks. Two of her fingers sought his wrist, and tried to close on it. —You . . . she articulated from a wild breath in his face, —now you are here to . . . stay and protect . . .

They stood there with three senses locked in echo of the fourth, and she licked her lip.

—Sorry . . .

The door banged against the wall.

—They’re still there only
talk
ing . . .

The door banged closed.

—Esther . . . you don’t understand? His hand opened.

—You’re not . . . going to . . .

—Not yet, because tonight, when I’ve done what I have to do . . .

—Not yet! She stepped away as though she had broken from him. The clothes bundle fell to the floor. He put a hand out, and then withdrew it slowly, and stooped to recover the clothes.

Esther stared at the wrinkled black of his bent unsteady figure only for a moment. Then she opened the handkerchief, wadded all this time in her hand, and blew her nose as she crossed the room to the mirror, and he backed toward the door.