The Recognitions (Dalkey Archive edition) (55 page)

It was quite a party. There must have been four hundred.

They arrived as a beautiful thing in a strapless white evening gown finished a song called
I’m a Little Piece of Leather
, followed on the stage by a strip-tease in two parts. The first performer was all too obviously a woman, gone to fat. This tumbled about in the spotlights, wallowed a great unmuscled expanse of rump and bounced a mammoth front at the audience, jeering with laughter, railed off the stage in grisly flounces of flesh. Then towering loveliness appeared, bowed to thunderous applause, and moving with perfect timing slipped off one after another garment to reveal exquisite limbs (hairless but a trifle muscular) with long gathering motions of blond hair to the waist, serpentine caresses rising over the spangled brassière. Ed Feasley, who had muttered with virile disgust at the first, watched this exhibition with wondering pleasure, until, in finale, the brassiere was waved aloft leaving a chest uninhabited, leaving Feasley sitting forward in astonished indignation, leaving the stage through a curtain of wild applause.

—Are you
really
a girl? a young Bronzino in velvet asked Esme, punching in disbelief at her small bosom. She laughed, and Otto turned to brandish his sling; like Infessura, perhaps, writing of the papal court of Sixtus IV, “puerorum amator et sodomita fuit,” he ordered a drink.

There was, in fact, a religious aura about this festival, religious that is in the sense of devotion, adoration, celebration of deity, before religion became confused with systems of ethics and morality, to become a sore affliction upon the very things it had once exalted. Quite as festive, these halls, as the Dionysian processions in which Greek boys dressed as women carried the ithyphalli through the streets, amid sounds of rejoicing from all sexes present, and all were; glorious age of the shrine of Hercules at Coos, where the priests dressed in feminine attire; the shrine of Venus at Cyprus, where men in women’s clothes could spot women immediately, for they wore men’s clothes: golden day of the bride deflowered by the lingam, straddling the statue of Priapus to offer her virginity to that god who, like all gods, even to the Christian deity who exercised it with Mary in the form of the Holy Ghost, had jus primae noctis, and no subterfuge permitted. So enough of these young brides had backed up upon the Priapean image and left their flowers there. So a voice said now, —Then let’s go to Vienna, they’ve announced that you can wear drag in the streets if you don’t offend
public morals! Isn’t that sweet? To which a dark-haired person in an evening gown of green watered silk said, —More than once I’ve dressed as a priest, just so no one would be troublesome about my wearing skirts. Sometimes I just can’t
breathe
in trousers.

So priests down through the ages, skirted in respectful imitation of androgynous deities who reigned before Baal was worshiped as a pillar, before Osiris sported erection, before men knew of their part in generation, and regarded skirted women as autofructiferous. When they made this discovery, the sun replaced the moon as all-powerful, and Lupercalia came to Rome, naked women whipped through the streets around the Palatine hill, and the cross became such a glorious symbol of the male triad that many a religion embraced it, so notorious that when the new religion which extolled the impotent man and the barren woman triumphed over a stupefied empire, the early skirted fathers of the Church forbade its use.

So even now, under a potted palm with silver fronds, a youth making a solemn avowal held another youth by that part where early Hebrews placed their hands when taking oaths, for it represented Jahveh.

Ed Feasley had a hand on a smooth chocolate shoulder which rose from a lavender evening gown in organdy, standing in the less-lighted shelter of a pillar.

There were women there. At a large table near the dance floor one sat, with broad tailored shoulders, flat grosgrain lapels, shortcut hair and heavy hands (she looked rather like George Washington without his wig, at about the time he married Martha Dandridge (Custis) for her money), recently in trouble, someone said, over kidnaping a seal for immoral purposes. She had not spoken to a
man
for sixteen years. Somewhere submerged in childhood lay a little girl’s name which had once been hers. Only her bankers knew it now. Friends called her Popeye. Now she was saying, to an exquisitely pomaded creature whom thousands knew as a hero of stage, screen, and radio, —I wish I
were
a little boy, so that I could dance with
you
. They were interrupted by Big Anna, in dinner clothes. —
Have
you seen Agnes? said the Swede. —My dear she has the key to my
box
, and simply everything’s locked up in it. The most delicious gown Jacques Griffes made for me especially to wear
tonight
, and I’ve had to come in this silly tuxedo suit, simply everyone thinks I’m a
woman
 . . .

The second in order of the strip-tease performers stood beside them, dressed now in silver lamé. —Rudy! the Swede said, —your dance was ex
cru
ciating.

—I feel simply ghastly, Rudy said. —I’ve been having hot flashes all evening. What divine perfume. Have you seen a book of mine?

—It’s only
My Sin
, I borrowed it from Agnes. Is this your book? Rudy reached for it. —But what are
you
doing reading Tertullian?

—For my work of course. I’m designing sports costumes for an order of nuns, and I’ve been told that their ears simply must be kept covered, by a very dear friend. He lent me this book, Rudy said, fondling Tertullian. —
De Virginibus Velandis
, on the necessity of veiling virgins. Val told me the most divinely absurd stories this afternoon. Do you know why nuns must have their ears covered? My dear, so they won’t conceive! The Virgin conceived that way, the Logos entered her ears. I have no idea what a
logos
is, but it doesn’t sound at all nice does it. Val quoted Vergil and all sorts of dead people. Why, they all used to believe that all sorts of animals conceived that way. They thought that mares were made pregnant by the wind. And so I have to read this to really know what on earth I’m doing, covering their ears, because evil angels are waiting to do the
nas
tiest things to them. Can you imagine conceiving on the badminton court?

—It sounds really celestial, said Big Anna. —But what perfume are
you
wearing?

—I can’t tell you, really. A very dear friend makes it himself.
Fuisse deam
, that’s what he calls it. An aroma remained, you could tell a goddess had just appeared, Rudy said, waltzing toward the dance floor.

—I’d prefer French, Big Anna muttered, looking bitterly after Rudy’s silver lamé. —
Where
is Agnes, he said, wringing his hands.

Otto was trying to order another drink. He stared on the festival with glazed eyes, and had decided for safety’s sake to sit still until he could summon energy to leave. He waved with a heavy hand at a passing mulatto whose black hair stood out four inches behind his conical head in anointed streamlining, and that one was gone with his tray. Instead Cleopatra fluttered up to ask him for Maude Munk’s telephone number, —because she’s getting the most gorgeous baby by air mail from Sweden, and we want one so
much
 . . . With the concentration of applied memory, Otto invented a telephone number. —Do you want to dance? Cleopatra asked him. Adeline returned to the table alone. —I was dancing with some guy and he suddenly let go of me and said, You
are
a girl, aren’t you, and left me right in the middle of the floor. See him, that big handsome boy, he looks like he went to Princeton.

—He probably did, Otto mumbled. Then he swung around at Cleopatra. —Will you get that God-damned thing out of my sling? he said, and the queen removed the asp, alarmed. —That’s the cutest disguise you wear, said Cleopatra, and then, abruptly, and as indignant —Aren’t
you
queer?

—Of course not, Otto said, indignantly unoriginal.

—What a
shame
, said Cleopatra. —I must find my barge.

Otto looked for Esme, did not see her. He looked for Feasley, did not see him. He was about to speak to Adeline when she left the table and went toward the dance floor saying, —I see a gentleman.

A voice said, —I’ve never seen so much bad silk on so many
divine
bodies. Another said, —Let’s elope. And another, —You can’t
touch
me, because I’m in a state of Grace. I’m going to be received tomorrow, only think!
Tomorrow
 . . .

—Pony boy, a voice crooned.

—But I thought Victoria and Albert Hall were going to be here. Have you read her book? Have you seen his play? Where are they? said Big Anna, looking, as he had each minute of the evening, nearer to weeping. —Oh Herschel! Herschel! Will you stop that singing and console me?

—What is it, baby?

—It’s Agnes. She has my
key
.

—Yes, baby, Herschel said. He was almost immobile, but still standing. —I have to get home to work, he said in a voice which was more a liquid presence and barely escaped his throat. —Work. Work. Work.

—What work?

—Haf to write a speech. Have you ever read
The Trees of Home?
It stinks, baby. It’s a best seller. I’ve been writing speeches for the author of the best seller
Trees of Home
, baby. Moral regeneration, insidious influences sapping our very gzzzhuu huuu I’m going down to Dutch Siam yes I am . . . he sang.

—I haven’t seen you since the boat docked! At this, Big Anna turned around. —Victoria! Where’s Albert? I’m so glad to
see
you baby.

—He’s dancing with an archbishop. But darling tell me have you seen a tall dark girl here? Her name is Seraphina di Brescia, I just hoped she might be here, I know she’s in New York. I met her at the Monocle in Paris . . .

—No, but have you seen Agnes? Agnes Deigh?

—You’re joking, darling. Tell me, did you ever get your little what-was-his-name over from Italy?

—Little Giono! said the Swede, wringing his hands again. —No, and I’ve been after the immigration people, but they won’t help. Why he’ll be fif
teen
by the time I can get him over here, and he won’t do for a
thing
. I’m going to have to adopt him, it’s the only way out. But before I adopt him I have to join the Church my dear, think of it. He has to have a Catholic
parent
. I’m going back next week.

—To Rome?

—Oh yes, I can’t bear it here a moment longer.

Otto, seeing Feasley approach, struggled to his feet. —Let’s get out of here, he said. —Where are Esme? and Adeline?

—The hell with them. Just wait a minute. There’s a little colored girl here I want to take along. See if you can find her while I go to the head. She’s in a purple dress.

—We met in Paris, someone said, —in the Reine Blanche . . .

—In the Carrousel . . .

—In Copenhagen . . .

—The Drap Dead . . .

—The Boof on the Roof . . .

—Seraphina? The one they call Jimmy? I know she has money, but what does she spend it all on? —Don’t be silly. She spends it on girls.

—Yes darling, said Adeline’s dancing partner into her blond hair resting against the grosgrain lapels. —We have to follow Emerson’s advice to treat people as though they were real, because, perhaps they are . . .

From somewhere in the middle of the floor, in a quailing voice, —Baby and I were baked in a pie, the gravy was wonderful hot . . .

—Of course there’s time, Agnes Deigh’s voice said, —just take the key and
hurry
. And don’t let me forget to give you my mother’s address in Rome . . .

—And the address of Monseigneur Fé, he has his own chapel right near the Vatican where he performs the most divine
marriage
ceremonies . . .

So they danced, as though ridden with the conscience of the Tarahumara Indian, whose only sin can be not having danced enough.

Feasley said, —Come on, let’s get out of here, not stopping as he passed the table. —Chrahst, I found her, the girl in the purple dress. Standing right beside me at the next urinal . . .

—I hate women, a voice said. It paused. Then, —I hate men too.

And so, as the Lord prophesied through the Greek Clement:
I am come to destroy the work of the woman, that is, concupiscence, whose works are generation and death
.

It broke up and spread itself, in couples and threes and figures of stumbling loneliness, into the streets, into doorways, they all went into the dark repeating themselves and preparing to meet one another, to reassemble, rehearse their interchangeable disasters; and the place looked like a kingdom stricken by papal anathema, as when Philippe Auguste, cunning pitiless monarch of France, was excommunicated for marrying Agnes while his wife Ingeborg still
lived, and in his kingdom under the interdict there was neither baptism, marriage, nor burial, and corpses rotted on the high road.

—Wasn’t it
fun
, said Agnes Deigh leaning against a garbage can. Herschel, scratching the sotted front of an evening shirt beside her, agreed, with the sound of a thing drowning. He excused himself, and when he had thrown up in an empty doorway returned singing. No doubt about it: tonight he was going to manage it. —Your strip-tease danse was
shock
ing, Rudy, he said. —Where’s Tertullian? I can’t lose
him
, Rudy said, and slipped a white hairless arm through Herschel’s, pulled the evening cape tighter and with almost masculine exasperation thrust the long blond hair out over the fur. —Call a cab, baby, for God’s sake. I feel awful. I feel like I was going to have a miscarriage.

Agnes Deigh returned a moment later, from between two parked cars. She was talking. But there was no one to talk to. There was no one there at all. The sound of thunder approached from the street’s corner, a Department of Sanitation truck stopping every ten or twelve yards to open the huge maw at its back and masticate the immense portions left out to appease it with gnashings of reckless proportions, glass smashed and wood splintered between its bloodless gums. Agnes, leaning alone there, was suddenly frightened less than ten bites away. She was, as much as her haze of consciousness would allow her, terrified, and set off up the street in the opposite direction, loping in frantic steps as though dodging among trees, an injured doe in a landscape of Piero di Cosimo fleeing the patient hunter. She reached a lighted doorway, struggled into the vast and empty interior, and collapsed into a pew.