William Styron: The Collected Novels: Lie Down in Darkness, Set This House on Fire, The Confessions of Nat Turner, and Sophie's Choice (231 page)

“Listen, he’s going to be all right,” I assured her, a little uneasily. “Anyone with the story Nathan is going to tell has a right to act a little peculiar.” Although I could not share what were obviously her deep misgivings, I had to confess to myself that her words put me a bit on edge. Even so, I thrust them out of my mind. I wanted only for Nathan to arrive with news of his triumph and an explanation for this unbearably tantalizing mystery.

The jukebox started to blare. The bar was beginning to fill up with its gray evening habitué-—most of them middle-aged and male, porridge-faced even in midsummer, North European Gentiles with flabby paunches and serious thirsts who ran the elevators and unplugged the plumbing of the ten-story Jewish pueblos whose homely beige-brick ranks stretched for block after block in the region behind the park. Aside from Sophie, few females ever ventured into the place. I never saw a single hooker—the conventional neighborhood and the tired and baggy clientele precluded even the idea of any such sport—but there were, this special evening, two smiling nuns who bore down on Sophie and me with some kind of rattling tin-plated chalice and a murmured plea for charity, in the name of the Sisters of St. Joseph. Their English was preposterously broken, They looked Italian and were extremely ugly—one of them in particular, who wore at the corner of her mouth an awesome wen the size, shape and color of one of those University Residence Club cockroaches, out of which hair sprouted like cornsilk. I averted my eyes but scrounged in my pocket and came up with two dimes; Sophie, however, confronted with the jingling cup uttered a “No!” with such vehemence that the nuns drew back with a concerted gasp, then scuttled away, and I turned to her in surprise.

“Bad luck, two nuns,” she said morosely, then, after a pause, added, “I
hate
them! Weren’t they awful-looking!”

“I thought you were brought up a good sweet Catholic girl,” I said in a joshing tone.

“I was,” she replied, “but that was long ago. Anyway, I would hate nuns even if I cared about religion. Silly, stupid
virgins!
And so horrible-looking!” A tremor passed through her, she shook her head. “Awful! Oh, how I hate that stupid religion!”

“You know, it’s really strange, Sophie,” I put in, “I remember a few weeks ago how you were telling me about your devout childhood, and your belief, and all that. What is it that—”

But she shook her head again in a brisk, negative way, and lay her slender fingers on the back of my hand. “Please, Stingo, those nuns make me feel so
pourri
—rotten. Stinking. Those nuns grubbling...” She hesitated, looking perplexed.

“I think you mean groveling,” I said.

“Yes, groveling in front of a God who must be a
monster,
Stingo, if He exist. A monster!” She paused. “I don’t want to talk about religion. I hate religion. It is for, you know,
des analphabétes,
imbecile peoples.” She cast a glance at her wristwatch and remarked that it was after seven. Anxiety edged her voice. “Oh, I hope Nathan is okay.”

“Don’t worry, he’s going to be fine,” I said again in my most reassuring voice. “Look, Sophie, Nathan’s really been under tremendous pressure with this research project, this breakthrough, whatever it is. That strain is bound to make him behave, well,
erratically
—you know what I mean? Don’t worry about him. I’d have a headache too if I’d been through his kind of wringer—especially when it’s resulted in this incredible achievement.” I paused. I seemed constantly compelled to add, “Whatever it is.” I patted her hand in return. “Now
please,
just relax. He’ll be here in a minute, I’m certain.” At this point I made another reference to my father and his arrival in New York (fondly mentioning his generous concern for me, and his moral support, though making no note of the slave Artiste and
his
part in my destiny, rather doubting that Sophie had sufficient comprehension of American history, at least yet, to be able to grasp the complexities of the debt I owed to that black boy), and I continued in a general way to praise the luck of those young men like myself, relatively few in number, who possessed parents of such tolerance and selflessness and the will to have faith, blind faith, in a son reckless enough to seek to pluck a few leaves from the laurel branch of art. I was getting a little bit high. Fathers of this largeness of vision and amplitude of spirit were
scarce,
I averred sentimentally, beginning to feel my lips tingling from the beer.

“Oh, you’re so lucky to still
have
a father,” said Sophie in a faraway voice. “I miss my father so.”

I felt a little ashamed—no, not ashamed, inadequate would be better—thinking suddenly of the story she had told me, some weeks before, about her father herded together with the other Cracow professors like so many pigs, the Nazi machine guns, the stifling vans, Sachsenhausen, then death by firing squad in the cold snows of Germany.
God,
I thought, what Americans had been spared in our era, after all. Oh, we had done our brave and needful part as warriors, but how scant our count of fathers and sons compared to the terrible martyrdom of those unnumbered Europeans. Our glut of good fortune was enough to make us choke.

“It has been long enough now,” she went on, “that I no longer
grieve
like I did, but yet I miss him. He was such a
good
man—that is what make it so terrible, Stingo! When you think of all the bad people—Poles, Germans, Russians, French, all nationalities—all these evil people who escaped, people who killed Jews who are still alive right now. In Germany. And places like Argentina. And my father—this good man—who had to
die!
Isn’t that enough to make you not believe in this God? Who can believe in God who turn His back on people like that?” This outburst—this little aria—had come so swiftly that it surprised me; her fingers trembled slightly. Then she calmed down. And once again—as if she had forgotten that she had already once told me, or perhaps because the repetition gave her some forlorn comfort—she sketched the portrait she imagined of her father, in Lublin many years before, saving Jews from a Russian pogrom at peril to his life.

“What is the word
l’ironie
in English?”

“Irony?” I said.

“Yes, such an irony that a man like that, a man like my father, risk his life for Jews and die, and the Jew-killers live, so many of them, right now.”

“I’d say that’s less an irony, Sophie, than the way of the world,” I concluded a little sententiously but with seriousness, feeling the need to relieve my bladder.

I got up and made my way to the men’s room, weaving slightly, aglow at the edges of my skin with a penumbra of Rheingold, the jolly, astringent beer served at the Maple Court on draft. I richly enjoyed the men’s john at the Maple Court, where, cantilevered slightly forward over the urinal, I could brood over the plashing clear stream while Guy Lombardo or Sammy Kaye or Shep Fields or some other glutinously innocuous band rumbled faintly from the jukebox beyond the walls. It was wonderful to be twenty-two and a little drunk, knowing that all went well at the writing desk, shiveringly happy in the clutch of one’s own creative ardor and in that “grand certitude” Thomas Wolfe was always hymning—the certitude that the wellsprings of youth would never run dry, and that the wrenching anguish endured in the crucible of art would find its recompense in everlasting fame, and glory, and the love of beautiful women.

As I blissfully pissed I eyed the ubiquitous homosexual graffiti (inscribed there, God knows, not by the Maple Court regulars but by the transient trade which managed to scribble up the walls of any place, no matter how unlikely, where males unlimbered their joints) and with delight gazed once again at the smoke-stained but still vivid caricature on the wall: companion-piece to the mural outside, it was a masterpiece of 1930s innocent ribaldry, displaying Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck in contortionist Peeping Tom postures, gleefully asquint through the interstices of a garden trellis as they observed little Betty Boop, enchanting and voluptuous of calf and thigh, squatting to take a pee. Suddenly I was stabbed with alarm, sensing an unholy and unnatural presence of flapping vulturous black, until I realized in an instant that the two mendicant nuns had blundered into the wrong facility. They were gone then in a flash, squawking in distressed Italian, and I rather hoped they had gotten a look at my
schlong.
Was it their entry—duplicating the bad omen Sophie had felt only a short while before—that presaged the evil contretemps of the next fifteen minutes or so?

I heard Nathan’s voice over Shep Fields’ rippling rhythm even as I approached the table. It was a voice not so much loud as incredibly assertive and it cut through the music like a hacksaw. It was filled with trouble, and though I wanted to retreat when I heard it I dared not, feeling something momentous in the air which impelled me on toward the voice and Sophie. And so totally immersed was Nathan in this rancorous message he was imparting to Sophie, so single-minded did he seem at that moment, that I was able to stand waiting by the table long minutes, listening in miserable discomfort while Nathan bullyragged and tore at her, quite oblivious that I was there.

“Haven’t I told you that the only single thing I absolutely demand from you is
fidelity?
” he said.

“Yes, but—” She could not get the words in.

“And didn’t I tell you that if you were ever with this guy Katz—ever again, outside of work—that if you ever so much as walked ten feet with this cheap
shmatte,
I’d break your ass?”

“Yes, but—”

“And this afternoon he brings you home again in his car! Fink saw you. And not only that, that cheap motherfucker, you take him up to the room. And you’re there for an hour with him. Did he lay you a couple of times? Oh, I’ll bet you Katz does quite a number with that fast chiropractor’s dick of his!”

“Nathan, let me explain!” she implored him. Her composure was fast dissolving, and her voice cracked.

“Shut your fucking yap! There’s nothing to explain! You’d have kept it a secret too, if my good old pal Morris hadn’t told me he’d seen the two of you go up there together.”

“I would
not
have kept it secret,” she wailed. “I would have tell you
now!
I did not have a chance yet, darling!”

“Shut up!”

Again the voice was not loud so much as chillingly domineering, scathing, irruptive. I yearned for an exit, but only stood there behind him, hesitant, waiting. My intoxication had bubbled away and I felt the blood pounding against my Adam’s apple.

She tried to persist in her plea. “Nathan darling,
listen!
The only reason I took him to the room was because of the phonograph. The changer part has not been working, you know that, and I told him and he said he might be able to fix it. He said he was an expert. And he
did
fix it, darling, that was all! I’ll
show
you, we’ll go back and play it—”

“Oh, I’ll bet old Seymour’s an expert,” Nathan put in. “Does he do a quick routine on your spinal column when he’s humping you? Does he get your vertebrae all in order with those slippery hands? The cheap fraud—”

“Nathan,
please!”
she entreated him. She was leaning forward toward him now. The blood seemed to have drained from her face, which wore an expression of terminal agony.

“Oh, you’re some dish, you are,” he said softly and slowly, in tones of sarcasm that sounded unbearably heavy, graceless.

He obviously had visited their lodgings at Yetta’s after returning from the lab; I inferred this not only because of his reference to Morris Fink’s outrageous tattle but because of his dress: he was decked out in his fanciest oyster-white linen suit, and heavy oval gold links sparkled on the cuffs of his custom-made shirt. He smelled pleasantly of a light, jaunty cologne. Plainly he had intended to match Sophie’s gala get-up that evening and had gone home to transform himself into the fashion plate I now beheld. There, however, he had been confronted with evidence of Sophie’s betrayal—or what he construed as such—and now there seemed no doubt that the celebration had not only become aborted, it was headed for unknown depths of disaster.

Writhing inwardly as I stood there, I held my breath and listened while Nathan continued. “You’re really some Polish dumpling. It was. over my dead body that I let you degrade yourself by continuing to work with these charlatans, these horse doctors. Bad enough you accept the money they make stretching the spines of ignorant, gullible old Jews just off the boat from Danzig, with pains that might be rheumatism or might be carcinoma but go undiagnosed because these snake-oil shysters con them into thinking that a simple back massage will return them to glowing health. Bad enough you managed to talk me into continuing this disgraceful collaboration with a couple of medical hoodlums. But it’s fucking
unbearable
to think that behind my back you would let either of these mangy characters get into that twat of yours—”

She tried to interrupt. “Nathan!”

“Shut up! I’ve had just about enough of you and your whorish behavior.” He was not talking loudly but there was something mincingly savage in his throttled-back rage that seemed more threatening than if his voice had been a roar; it was a bleak, reedy, thin, almost bureaucratic rage and his choice of phrase—“whorish behavior”—sounded incongruously tight-assed and rabbinical. “I thought somehow you would see the light, that you would abandon your ways after that escapade with
Doctor
Katz”—the accent on
Doctor
was a consummate sneer—“I thought I’d warned you off after that smooching business in his car. But no, I guess those pants you wear get a little too urgently hot in the crotch. And so when I caught you in a bit of hanky-panky with Blackstock, I wasn’t
surprised,
given your bizarre predilection for chiropractic penises—I wasn’t
surprised,
as I say, but when I blew the horn on you and put an end to it I thought you’d be
chastened
enough to abandon this wretched,
degrading
promiscuity. But no, once again I was wrong. The libidinal sap which courses so frantically in your Polish veins would allow you no ease, and so today once again you choose to fall into the ridiculous embrace—ridiculous, that is, if it weren’t really so
vile
and
demeaning
—of Doctor Seymour Katz.”