The Recognitions (Dalkey Archive edition) (158 page)

—I wanted to . . .

—The newspaper never tells Us nice things. Sometimes it just pipes in more blood than We think We can endure. And when you
mentioned Our daughter, didn’t you. We knew there was something, and now We remember. I was sure I’d read in the newspaper that she’d been hung for murder. Murdering her husband! And that is a little too much to endure, even for one’s own flesh and blood. And in Mississippi.

—Yes, she . . . but you should know, she . . .

—She was always a willful girl. We did all We could, but We saw signs of her drifting away quite early. And when she confessed to Us that she chewed the wafer . . . Mrs. Deigh looked up sharply, down again, and shook her head. —How sad We are that you will not be here for the canonization ceremonies of the little Spanish martyr. There will probably be fifty thousand people, and it will be the very first one to be held out of doors. We have tickets in the colonnade, you know. Why, there will probably be at least a hundred bishops, and His Holiness will wear the red mantle of martyrdom.

Stanley sat scraping the rug with the edge of his shoe, looking more apologetic, until the next thing she said, when he straightened up and almost brightened.

—And We have taken a vow to remain indoors until that glorious day.

—Oh, I . . . I wanted to ask you if I could . . . if I wanted to go somewhere if the Automobile could take me?

—You would have to tell Us where, she answered, and the chain rattled a slight reproach. —If only so We could give instructions to Orlando, since he cannot understand you.

—Well, to . . . to Assisi, I thought I . . . want to go to Assisi.

—The birthplace of Saint Francis! Of course, dear boy. That gentle, heavenly figure, so many stories have come down to us. To visit the Portiuncula, where he threw himself into the thorny rosebush in dead of winter, to overcome his passion . . . or We should say, the temptation to lessen his austerities, for it is his passion that we worship, is it not. It is almost time for the roses to come into bloom now, and you will see their little leaves spotted with his blood. Tell Us, dear Stanley . . . She inclined toward him. The egglike object slipped from her lap, and swung on the chain to the floor between them. Stanley got it and handed it to her. She accepted it without a glance, looking into his face. —Do you consider taking Orders? For We have read in your sweet unselfish nature . . .

—Well I . . . I . . . he commenced, when she left her words unfinished.

—And that is why you want to visit the shrine of the most selfless of the saints, the most humble? And see the very spot where he fought off the temptations of the Evil One? . . .

—Well I . . . it isn’t exactly for myself, I . . . Is Orlando really mute?

—Why yes, dear boy, but why do you ask that? And what do you mean . . .

—Well I mean, I mean not for myself, I mean, what I mean is not just for myself, I mean . . .

—You mean not just for your physical self, your senses, she said helping him forth from his confusion. —You mean for your spiritual self too, of course We understand, dear boy. Of course.

—Yes, I . . . yes, Stanley said feebly, and sat back. Mrs. Deigh was silent. He looked up guardedly, ready for her eye on him, but she was gazing at the newspaper and shaking her head.

—And here is a poor unfrocked Jesuit priest, she commented regretfully, as though continuing the conversation, —who is trying to start a world crusade against the Pope. She made the chucking sound once more. —And he is already excommunicated, not just toleratus, but vitandus. If he enters a church, service must stop instantly. But what is toleratus? she asked Stanley, looking up abruptly.

—Well that . . . that . . . he faltered, —toleratus is when someone has not yet been . . . been publicly denounced, when . . . and they can’t . . . put him out unless he tries to . . . to take part in the Mass.

—And where did you go to morning Mass today? she asked, as though now changing the subject.

—I . . . I didn’t go.

—You . . . but my dear boy! You mean you didn’t go to
early
Mass. We understand, she said, settling in the chair so that the mother-of-pearl crucifix rose above the wool border of her bosom. Stanley stared at it. He stood up, and his knees were weak.

—I should . . . go home, he said. His hand caught the tooth in his pocket. —Tomorrow . . .

—Yes, dear boy, until tomorrow. She smiled up at him, and then pursed her lips silently, almost like the fat woman. Stanley tried to smile but turned away, rubbing his eye with one hand, and murmured a good night. Then he heard her voice, and turned to look back. She was gazing at the paper once more.

—Find what? he asked, as the glitter of her wrist watch, and the soft gleam of the pearl-white crucifix caught him again, weak-kneed with the words running through him, —et anathematizatum esse decernimus, et damnatum cum diabolo, et angelis eius, et omnibus reprobis in ignem aeternum indicamus . . .

—Some Americans on Mount Ararat. They’re looking for Noah’s Ark.

Next day an American picture magazine, whose insidious pretense to simplicity earned it a large circulation, gave a full page to a picture published earlier in
Osservatore Romano
in substantiation of the sun’s antics over Portugal at the time of the Virgin’s apparition there. The Pope himself (who had spent part of today blessing drivers at a motor-scooter festival, whom he praised for their “courage and agility”) had, on another inspired occasion, received “silent and eloquent” messages from the “agitated sun,” and witnessed “the life of the sun under the hand of Mary.” And here, as proof, was the picture (of “rigorously authentic origin”) of the sun near the horizon at 12:30
P.M
., where it might well have been photographed if the horizon were Portugal, and the hour, Barbados, for even now it was near noon in the Caribbean as an evening Angelus bell sounded somewhere over Stanley’s head and he entered the Piazza di Spagna looking weary and disquieted.

—Oh no! he found energy to say, as Don Bildow caught his arm and, at the same moment, he saw the tall figure he had not seen since the dock at Naples, the black homburg hat drawn over the forehead, the arm no longer in a sling but resting in a pocket of the Chesterfield coat.

—I just came for my mail at American Express, Bildow said, not letting him go. —What’s the matter? Aren’t you all right?

—I . . . I have to . . .

—I guess I look pretty seedy myself, Bildow said looking him over, —but I’ve just been to this tailor, he’s making me a beautiful suit, forty thousand lire, I’m going to throw this one away when I get it. Everything else I have got shipped right to Paris, I’m going on up there in a few days. I’m going to throw this suit away and wear the new one so I don’t have to pay duty on it. Have you seen this? He held out the book he was carrying. —I just saw it at Piale’s. It’s Anselm.

Stanley, who had been looking anxiously after the figure he knew only as the Cold Man, startled and looked down at the book. —Anselm?

—His confession. I’m in here. You’re in here too. We’re all in here.

—I . . . really? Stanley said, staring at it. —But I thought he was in a monastery?

—He is. This is his confession of what drove him there. I’d like to . . . get my hands on him, Bildow added, clutching the book in a soft fist.

—Could I borrow it? Stanley asked suddenly.

—Why . . . why sure, if you want to. I haven’t read it yet, I just looked in it. We’re all in it. I don’t want to read it yet, he added, handing the book over, and Stanley took it in both hands, his
broken bandaged finger across the title. —And do you know what happened to me last night? Bildow went on, sounding slightly incensed. —I can’t wait till I get to France. That girl I had, waiting for me, you remember?

—I have to go, Stanley said quickly, holding the book up against his chest as though to shield himself.

—I took her up to the room, and at first she wouldn’t take off her brassière. She had everything else off but . . .

—I have to go, goodbye, thank you for the book . . . Stanley had caught another glimpse of the Cold Man.

—And you know? You know the kind of a trick she was pulling on me? One of her breasts was wooden.

—I . . . I don’t want to hear, let me go, goodbye . . .

—Are you still in a hurry? What do you think of that, though, one of them was wooden, it was made of wood, just like . . . hey, when will I see you again? . . .

But Stanley was out of earshot. He hurried along the pavement with the book under both forearms against his chest, darting looks ahead, unsure where he had seen that same strong profile and narrow chin, and the watery blue eyes, but certain now he had seen it long before the
Conte di Brescia
. But with some question far more important, more immediate, burning in his face, Stanley followed him to a café where he entered, looked round quickly, and sat down alone, putting his hat beside him, smoothing the ends of his hair with his fingertips, then resting his chin on his hand, turned in so that he appeared to be biting the gold seal ring there. Stanley stood uncertainly near a pillar behind him, catching the ragged ends of his mustache as though to find the words of address he sought in that way.

—The whole cabin was filled with the most God-awful stench, said the tall woman sitting over an apéritif nearby, —simply all his vitamin B pills had melted. He takes them for hangovers.

A girl to his right said, —All the drawers were full of empty Bromo bottles when she left. Have you read this? It’s Firbank.

Then just as Stanley was about to step forward, a man with a smooth unpliant oriental face, tight but not tense, and moving only faintly at the corners of the mouth as he approached, came forward from another table. He was quite short, and wore a trench-coat. They greeted one another with apparent surprise, and the man in the trenchcoat started to speak as he sat down.

—Fenn és . . .

—Speak English, you idiot . . .

At the sound of that voice, even muffled as it was behind the clasped hands, Stanley remembered, and his lip trembled. The whole night came back to him, and he lowered his face and sat
down half behind the column, opened Anselm’s book and stared at a page: “If we had stopped for even a minute then, a minute of silence . . .” He closed his eyes tightly, and his head was filled with the roar of the subway train. Now he almost drew his hands up to find if his shirt was unbuttoned, to button it as he had been doing then; instead he only shivered, as he had been shivering then, and as a woman’s voice near him came out with, —There are little electric lights on the graves, and you pay by the hour, just like they were candles burning down . . . Stanley heard echo the voice of the woman on the subway embracing him and the man who stood with the handkerchief before his mouth, as he sat with hands clasped there now. —Up where Keats is buried, or is it Shelley? . . . Her voice, and the tangled mass from under her skirt embracing them both in the intimacy of horror, out onto the platform where the liquid blue eyes froze above the white handkerchief: —Those, my dear young man, are the creatures that were once burned in witch hunts . . .

—The stench, everywhere . . .

Stanley wiped his face with his hand, as he had done that morning, waking suddenly, looking at the palm, dropped it, and listened.

—It could not have been more simple, more inviting, the man in the trenchcoat was saying in a low tone. —He invited me there, in fact, to see the mummy. He had made one himself for me! Oh, but with such ingenuity, it was really a masterpiece . . .

—Really, my dear fellow . . .

—I confess I did not have heart to finish our business so immediately, I spent a few minutes congratulating him. He became very angry when I appeared to question the . . . authenticity? of this thing, but he was very proud. I saw in his eyes, he was very proud, when we finished our business together.

They sat silent for a moment, and the man in the trenchcoat twitched a little at the corners of his lips, gazing at the ceiling, as though he were fondly recalling some pleasant encounter with the past. Then he shrugged, and added, —The Spaniards, however, they are not . . . sane, of course.

The man with him had hardly moved, except to shift an elbow to make way for a glass on the table before him. He sat staring past the door of the café from vacant light blue eyes.

—You don’t look well, said the other. —You are more haggard than when I saw you, over there.

—I don’t sleep well.

—You did not sleep well then.

—Even as well as . . . then.

—Cigarette?

—No.

—You no longer smoke.

—No.

After a minute of solicitous silence the man in the trenchcoat said, —And you do plan to go back? He got no answer but a faint nod. A waiter appeared with more wine, and some Gorgonzola cheese. —Yes, you are then? certain you want to go back? For there is still time . . .

—What . . . business is it of yours! Certainly I’m going back. Still he barely turned his face from the hands clasped before it, for this outburst of impatience, and quickly muffled them there again.

—Your lip is badly scarred? The man in the trenchcoat twisted again round the ends of his mouth. —You know it can be fixed, of course, he murmured, listening, watching with glittering eyes.