The Recognitions (Dalkey Archive edition) (115 page)

—Wait, listen! . . . you can’t do this . . .

—God damn it let go of my arm. Recktall Brown stopped abruptly, and Valentine swung around almost before him.

—What’s the matter with you tonight? What the devil’s the matter with you?

—Not a God damn thing the matter with me . . .

—Listen now, listen to me, Valentine said, trying to take him by both arms now. —Don’t be an idiot, you can’t show another one now, you can’t show this one so soon . . .

—Get out of the way.

—Do you think these men are fools? do you think they’re children? And after what’s just happened do you think you can take them in there and show them another van der Goes without . . .

Several people turned at Recktall Brown’s laughter, which rose about him there in the middle of the vast room in an eructation of smoke. —And show them your face, hey? You think they’ll laugh at your face, hey? Get out of the way.

Basil Valentine stepped back quickly. He opened a white handkerchief and paused to cough into it, as Recktall Brown went on. When he caught up, Crémer was saying, —Tell us, Monsieur Brown, for you which is the most beautiful . . . objet, in your present collection.

Recktall Brown stood before them with the cigar in one end of his mouth, uneven teeth discoloring his grin, the pupils of his eyes filling the lenses. He did not pause to consider but threw a hand up. Those before him startled back at this gesture; but Basil Valentine, arriving beside him, did not, and got the blow square in the face.

The handkerchief reddened as he held it up to his lip; but Brown did not even pause to look at the diamonds. —That! he said, pointing; and though they had started immediately to solicit Valentine on his injury, he had excused himself and was gone, and each of them was staring up at the balcony, and the suit of armor there, before he knew it.

Crémer recovered quickly. He took a loosely made cigarette from the battered blue packet and returned his eyes to his host. —Quelle drôlerie!

Recktall Brown looked back to see their eyes upon him, slightly quizzical, only Crémer looking at him with a penetration equal to that of Basil Valentine, whom, in a dismally obvious, badly dressed way, he rather resembled.

—You don’t like it? Brown burst out, addressing himself directly to Crémer.

—Ah mais oui, mais . . . c’est charmant . . . Nevertheless Crémer took a step back now, and the smile faded from his face as he looked at Brown’s.

Recktall Brown looked up at the other two men in quick turn, and then he suddenly took off his glasses and startled them all three with the sharpness of his eyes, which he lowered then, and wiped his forehead with the ends of his fingers. They were silent and attentive while he put the glasses back on, and said, peremptorily, —Come with me, I’ve got something to show you. He turned, signaling three or four other people with his nod, and they followed
him toward the panel door in the other end of the room. Mr. Schmuck joined them, halfway across, Mr. Sonnenschein three-quarters, and Basil Valentine reached them before they were all through that door, and closed it behind him.

—They’ve gone in to look at dirty movies, said Miss Stein, watching them. —Art pictures the boss calls them. Too late, she had taken a step to follow.

The tall woman was deflected from her course by a plump hand which hit her in the breast. She did not pause for an apology; and the bearded youth did not pursue her to offer one. He went right on with, —No, the story was published over there, and of course I have every right to sue her, she’s
ru
-ined my London reputation.

—But you’ve never been in London, have you?

—Well I might go . . . so there! No, don’t you touch me . . . I’m going right over and discuss Martin Schoongauer’s etchings with that exquisitely fifteenth-century-looking person.

The tall woman interrupted her husband, who was absorbed in saying nothing to anyone. —Oh dear, I always say the wrong thing, I just don’t stand a Chinaman’s chance . . . Then her voice stopped, as her eyes were halted by the man at her elbow whom she had met as Mr. Kuvetli. —A Chinese person’s chance . . . she faltered on, bravely, —Oh dear, I do try . . .

And at the far end of that great room the panel door opened to upset someone who was depending upon it as part of the wall.

—Don’t tell me that advertising does a cultural service by reproducing art, confusing the art and the product in people’s minds, it corrupts the art by exalting the . . . ooops!

—Pardon, said M. Crémer, stepping back while this speaker picked himself up and renewed his attack. —So your hair oil reproduces the Mona Lisa, that’s patronage . . .

—A magnificent work, Crémer went on, coming out, —bien entendu, le visage de la Vierge . . .

—Yes that, of course, said the white-haired man behind him, —but most obviously the work of some restorer. Rather serves to show up the excellence of the rest of the thing, though, you might say.

—Un sacrilège, ce visage-là, archaïque, dur comme la pierre, voyez vous, sans chaleur, sans cœur, sans sympathie, sans vie . . . en un mot, la mort, vous savez, sans espoir de Résurrection.

Last in the short line, Mr. Sonnenschein came out saying, —It’s a price. It’s a price. He looked over his shoulder, and started to say something, but the door closed in his face.

The white-haired man bumped Crémer, who’d stopped abruptly,
one foot full on an Aubusson rose, to say, —Your Monsieur Brown, he is . . . typical?

Here the sharkskinned Argentine approached, to excuse himself and ask if any of them were Mr. Brown?

—He’s right here . . . ummph . . . somewhere, the white-haired man said looking round over their heads. The Argentine looked, anxiously, with him.

—You are here on . . . business? Crémer challenged him.

—My official commission is completed earlier, the Argentine answered, —but I am here with the hope to secure something of . . . artistic? . . .

Crémer turned his back. —Il va sans dire, he said, pausing to chuckle, —comme tout le monde sait bien, les grands tableaux de Goya qu’on trouve dans le Jockey Club de Buenos Aires sont des . . . faux.

—A deodorant company reproduces the
Madonna of the Rocks
in an ad, and you call that . . . ooops!

Recktall Brown came through the panel door, with a fresh cigar in his mouth. He strode into the room and looked around with expectation, holding one heavy hand in the other behind him, and then the second in the first, his back turned to the direction he had come from, passing Crémer and the others so fast he had not seen them.

—A laxative company reproduces the portrait of Doctor Arnolfini and his wife in full color, and that’s supposed to be . . . ooops!

Basil Valentine came through the panel door, and stood there, pulling it closed behind him slowly as he looked over the room pale, his lips tight but moved by the tongue which caressed the broken tooth.

—Look, come on over to a safe corner, because I want to tell you that if there’s one single cancer eating out this country, it’s advertising.

Basil Valentine cupped his hands to light a cigarette, for the one he had held up with a match was quivering.

—But Doctor . . . Kuvetli is it? in the Fourth Dynasty the process of embalming and mummification . . .

—I beg you to excuse me for a moment . . . Valentine watched him approach, the cigarette poised at his mouth, where he pressed his upper lip with a fingertip.

—What is the trouble? what is happening?

—Nothing, Valentine answered in the same low tone.

—But there is something, you are very upset. How did you injure yourself?

—An absurd accident . . .

—But you must tell me what all this is, there is something very wrong here tonight . . .

—There is nothing wrong with anything but . . . with anything that concerns you, Valentine answered quickly.

—Ah, but you cannot . . .

—I can do anything I wish, Valentine said heatedly, turning his back on the room.

—I am most concerned to see you lose . . . to see you so disturbed, said the other, backed against the wall there. —It is never a good thing.

—I’ve lost control of nothing.

—And you expect some trouble?

—Nothing that . . . with which I am not familiar.

—Are you armed?

—Armed? Good heavens, do you expect someone to . . . attempt my life?

—Ah, but not so loudly . . .

Valentine backed a step from him. He looked the man up and down. —What the devil is all this . . . ? Do you think you’re here to . . . keep a watch on me? All this, I assure you, he went on, —I assure you it has nothing to do witn any but personal concerns, do you understand me? And that man over there . . . he started to turn, nodding over his shoulder at Brown’s heavy back. Then he suddenly closed in again. —And you, are you armed? he demanded. He had only a smile in return, a smile which did not spread beyond the lips, nothing else moved from the point of the beard to the sharp black eyes. —Give it to me, Valentine said.

—But if, as you say, this is all no more than a personal affair . . .

—Give it to me, I say.

—But in matters of this sort, your authority does not extend . . .

—Damn you! hand it over, and stop . . . The vein stood out, pounding in Basil Valentine’s temple. —My authority extends where I take it, he said, opening his dinner jacket and shielding the figure before him as the square weight of an automatic pistol passed between them. —And now . . .

—Ah yes of course, I have read the book, a charmingly cynical thing of its kind. It is written with such . . . freshness . . . He stroked his beard with one finger, as Basil Valentine composed himself quickly, buttoning his dinner jacket and stepping back to allow the intrusion of a man whom neither of them appeared to know, —such naïveté, that one may imagine the author himself quite innocent of comprehending the full meaning of the deceit implicit in the scandalous behavior which he recommends, in order
to win friends and, as it follows, influence people. Did you not have this feeling, Mister . . . Mister . . . ?

Valentine had retired a step, and then another, about to turn. But he said, —Valentine. And now . . .

—Of course . . . He had not taken his sharp eyes from Valentine’s face but for an instant. —Of course I have implicit faith in your judgment, in matters of this sort.

—Thank you, Valentine said, bowing quickly from the waist and excusing himself, —I must see our host for a moment.

—Of course . . .

—It proves no more than that the ends justify the means, and that eventually connivance is necessary to the accomplishment of good, said the intruder, carrying on with some perspicacity what he believed to be a conversation. —I believe that we can call its success in a society supposedly based in reason, as logical an outcome as the pragmatic approach of modern American psychoanalysis, he went on, though the man to whom he was now talking had favored him with the briefest scrutiny, and stood now looking over his shoulder toward the center of the room, where Basil Valentine collided with Fuller, who was retreating backwards with a loaded tray.

—You idiot! Idiot!

—Oh yes sar, yes sar . . .

—Here, what do you mean calling Fuller an idiot?

—Oh Mister Brown sar, Mister Valentine sar . . .

And if Basil Valentine was surprised, Fuller was astonished; if Valentine was discountenanced, Fuller was thoroughly alarmed at this guttural defense from the last source either of them might ever have expected.

Recktall Brown stood with his hands flattened across his belly one upon the other, the diamonds hidden beneath the thick joint of a finger. And as Valentine’s eyes turned to the pools floating rash defiance in those thick lenses, Fuller made good his escape.

On the shifting surfaces of voices, rising, hesitating, and breaking, rolling deeply and fading away, moving in even swells, shattering in conflict, figures moved around them, as Recktall Brown took out a cigar with one hand, found the penknife with the other, and stood there, waiting.

—Whatever this game of yours is, it’s gone far enough, Valentine got out finally.

Recktall Brown just looked at him. He began to trim the end of the cigar. Finally he said, —It’s my party.

—But you can’t . . . you can’t . . .

—I can’t what. Brown did not raise his eyes from what he was doing.

—Good God . . .

Brown raised his eyes at that, to stare at the face before him. He looked very tired: that was the only way to explain the expression on his face which he lowered quickly, as though his features, so familiar in the daylight of triumph, or wrath, or satisfaction, might betray him. He finished trimming the cigar, and folded the penknife closed in his hand. —What did you do that for? he asked quietly, as he raised his face, and with it the cigar, —about the money in the account? Like you just told me in the back room . . . the money I’d already paid him like he earned it. With the last word, he bit the cigar.

—What do you think I did it for?! Valentine stared. —And what are you suddenly so . . . My God, what’s come over you?

—What did you do it for?

—To slow him down a little, to make him think twice before he went on with this . . . idea of his . . . But you . . . you . . .

—And he’s trying it anyways. Recktall Brown turned away. Valentine got round in front of him, and broke out again,

—What’s come over you? Why you . . . and that picture you just showed, in the back room, they know something’s wrong. They won’t say anything, they won’t even say anything to each other but they know something’s wrong. You couldn’t have chosen a more stupid moment. What are you trying to do, see how far you can push them?

Recktall Brown lit the cigar, and then laughed in his face. —They know something’s wrong all right. Who the hell told you to paint that face on it? They loved that, didn’t they?

Then a man appeared before them and said, —Merry Christmas, Brown . . . holding out a glass across the table of the Seven Deadly Sins.

—What’s this? Brown said, taking it.

—I don’t know. Whatever you’re serving.

—Listen, you go find Fuller, and tell him to bring out some of that good brandy, the ones with the blue ribbons on.