Egress sighed with evident relief.—If that’s true, then maybe the whole thing wasn’t my fault, not entirely. Right?
—Who cares about “right” now? she asked rhetorically, leaving the rock.—Good-bye, Egress. I’m glad you are having a good time, however decadent. I don’t miss you, but I wonder lots of times how you are now.
—Same here, he said.—Are you “lonely”?
—Yes. But as I said, I don’t miss you.
—Right. Same here, he said to her lithe back as she walked athletically away.
3.
(IN THE MUSEUM)
He had stepped into the museum to get out of the rain, a sudden, unexpected shower that probably would not last. I never seem to have an umbrella when I need one, he thought, as he glanced into the adjacent roomful of midnight blue, very abstract paintings. The paintings, recent acquisitions, evidently, were all about six feet square, covered completely with a smooth coat of midnight blue paint. The surface was so smooth that it seemed to have been applied with a large roller or spray gun. There were between twenty-five and thirty of the paintings hanging in the large room, distributed evenly along the walls and hung at exactly the same height. Egress found himself moved invitingly by the sight and went into the room for a closer look at them.
They were by an artist whose name he did not recognize, and they were entitled, “Composition A,” “Composition B,” and so on, in sequence, all the way, he discovered, to “Composition Z,” which brought him back to the door again. The exhibit gave him considerable peace of mind, and it was with pleasure and a kind of relief that he noticed, after having gone through the exhibit a second time to study each individual painting closely, that he was the only person in the room—until the moment when Naomi Ruth, in a lemon yellow dress and carrying a matching yellow umbrella, entered the room.
—Oh, she said, seeing him.—Well, we meet again. We can’t go on meeting like this, she laughed, shaking her small, dark head provocatively.—Are you enjoying the paintings? she queried.
—Oh, yes, immensely. As a matter of fact, they have given me a great peace, a deep spiritual equilibrium which lately I seem to have lacked to a considerable degree. They’ve offered an order to my chaos.
—The artist is my present lover, she said in a flat voice.
—Ah? Ah, well … ahem, how shall I say it, then? How nice? Or, perhaps, congratulations? Or would it be more polite to admit a personal relation and hope he’s like his paintings—that is, lucid, totally consistent, witty, and well-hung. He smiled coldly at her, pushed past and out the door, broke into a flagrant run and exited from the museum to the downpour outside.
4.
(AT THE CAFÉ)
—Actually, I’m all right now. Things are much better for me, he assured her.
—Are they? Good. I was worried, she said, motioning with one hand for the waiter. The waiter arrived, and Naomi Ruth ordered their drinks, in French, which impressed him, for her accent was quite good.
—Yes, I have a girl friend, a good woman who loves me well, he lied.—We share a nice little flat in a charming quarter of the city. Very comfortable place. A lot of Russian émigrés live in the district. We’re very happy. She’s a dancer. Quite young. Lovely. Smokes those Russian cigarettes. Young. A sparkling beauty. Tanya. She’s Russian. A dancer. Quite young. She loves me.
—Ah, good. And you? Do you love her as well? The waiter brought their drinks, a martini for Naomi Ruth, Campari and soda for Egress.
—Oh, well, you know. As I said, she’s quite young. Let’s just say that I’m “fond” of her, and grateful. She’s a marvelous dancer. Flying feet.
—How nice, said Naomi Ruth, nipping at her martini with pursed lips. Though she didn’t believe a word he said, she judged him as she would if she had believed everything. The man’s still a cad, she decided. Even his lies betray him. It’s no use.—It’s no use, she informed him.
—No?
—No, she said, getting up from the table.
—Must you rush off?
—Oh, I left long ago, Egress. If only I could get you to leave, I’d be a free woman, she declared, and she picked up her coat and walked hurriedly away.
He finished his drink slowly, thoughtfully, then, brightening, drained hers. He suddenly felt like celebrating.—Garcon! he called.—Bring me a double martini, s’il vous plait!
5.
(IN THE HANSOM CAB)
—Where my money comes from, said Egress to Naomi Ruth, is not of much importance, you know that. After all, it doesn’t matter to me where it comes from, so why should it matter to anyone else? Most of my economic theories are of the type used to describe other people’s financial situations, not one’s own, which happily places me in the grand tradition of modern economic theorists, and also leaves me free to take whatever I can get from wherever I can get it without offending the glorious abstract—letting the general principles freely transcend the particularities of my usually very complex finances. So, the answer to your question, What am I doing for money these days? is, casually, I get by. What about you, however? Since you happen to be a woman and thus have spent most of your life locked by the abstract into a very particularized and personal dependence on other individuals (first your father and then me) for your money—to the degree that your most important personal relations have been, as they must be, with whomever you have economic relations—What are you doing for money these days? Asking a woman about her financial life is not much different from asking her whom she’s sleeping with, I know, and if you had not slept with me for twenty-five years or more, believe me, I would not feel entitled, as I do, to pry.
—I get by.
—We’re quite a pair, Egress laughed, aren’t we? It’s a damned good thing nobody’s counting on us to play big historical roles, to lead his revolution or put one down.
Naomi Ruth responded with a chuckle. Egress, leaning forward in the seat, called to the driver and instructed him to stop at the next corner, in front of the American Express office. Then, to Naomi Ruth, he said,—Well, I’ll leave you here. It’s been kind of you to share your ride with a walking-man, a member of the walking class, heh-heh. Seriously, though, thanks for the lift. I might’ve had to stand there for hours before convincing a cab to stop. The hansom cab stopped in front of the American Express office.—Well, here we are! Good old American Express, eh? By the way, if you’re going to be here in the city for a few days, maybe we can get together for lunch…?
—No.
—Right, right. ’Bye, then.
—’Bye.
Exit Egress cheerily. Naomi Ruth signaled for the driver to go on. Exit hansom cab.
6.
(AT THE PLAZA)
—Ah, you breakfast at the Green Tulip Room? I didn’t realize…
—Well, yes, I’ve been coming here on Sundays for several months, all winter, in fact. It’s a bit ornate, but quiet, peaceful, and of course there is the food, and the service…
—Yes, the Plaza…
—What about you, is this your first time, I mean, for breakfast?
—No, not really. I mean, not that I haven’t dined here before, as you must remember… We stopped here many times together, for lunch, remember? Never on Sundays, though. Oh, will you listen to me, making jokes like that! It’s so difficult, though, when you reach a certain age, I guess, to avoid references either to the past or to the popular culture … so difficult just to be personal and immediate. I’m sorry about that.
—You think it’s age? That we’ve gotten so old, or so tired, that now our lives are either in the past or “public”…? I wish I believed that. I’d give up fighting it, if I thought it was an impossible fight to win. I’d let myself go, either into the past or into the public life, you know, that fantasy of one’s life as a movie, or a TV series, or maybe a Time magazine cover story…
—Which appeals to you more?
—I don’t know, to be honest about it. Today, seeing you, here, on an early spring morning, with al
l this hushed, tasteful luxury around us, I think I prefer the past. But any other time, when the associations aren’t so strong and aren’t especially pleasant anyhow, well, then I prefer the other.
—But never this, this life now, here, the real one…?
—No, I suppose not. But I can’t imagine it any different from the way it is—I can only fantasy a different life, my old life, with you, or as someone else altogether, someone created by the public, as a kind of community effort, you know…? That’s how bitter I am.
(Both Egress and Naomi Ruth break into nervous laughter.)
—Well, I don’t suppose we should have breakfast together, do you? The pain…
—We might be seen by a columnist, you know. The Green Tulip Room is not exactly your cozy, little, out-of-the-way café. We don’t need any more gossip than we’ve already endured, do we, now? As it is, by the time you get back to your apartment, or wherever you’re living now, you’ll flip on the radio or TV, only to hear that Egress and Naomi Ruth “accidentally” met in the lobby of the Plaza outside the Green Tulip Room, spoke quietly together for a few moments, and then went their separate ways, etc. Where are you living now, incidentally? In the city?
—Yes. As a matter of fact, I’ve been staying right here at the Plaza—all winter.
—Amazing.
—Yes.
—Yes, well, good-bye, now… It’s been … odd.
—Hasn’t it! But pleasant, too. We’ll have to do it again, sometime…
—Yes. Well, good-bye.
—Good-bye.
—Good-bye.
—Yes. ’Bye.
—’Bye.
—So long.
—Ciao.
—Ciao.
—Tra.
—La.
7.
(AT THE PARTY)
They spotted each other at the same instant on opposite sides of the crowded, smoke-draped room and made their respective ways through the crowd, holding their cocktail glasses over their heads so as not to spill, excusing themselves with careful graciousness as they stepped on toes, crunched corsages, bumped breasts, kicked canes, until they finally were together, breathless, in the center of the room, light peck on the cheek, sip from the drink as eyes appraise each other’s bodies, faces, clothes, cigarettes lit, puffing, smiling nod to acquaintance nearby, appreciative and only slightly critical analysis of the posh apartment’s décor, and, at last,
—Well, I didn’t expect to run into you here! Naomi Ruth said in a hard but gay voice.
—And I didn’t expect to run into you here! Egress countered.
—Jesus, Egress, we can’t seem to say anything new to one another, can we?
—Not at this level, m’love. There’s lots we could say if we weren’t so obsessively intent on discussing our failed marriage every time we happened to meet.
—I know, she said sadly.
—Too bad we can’t fuck, he said.—By God, then we’d have something new to talk about!
—Yes.
—I know.
—Yes.
—Um. Well, it’s been “real,” as they say…
—Yes. Did you come alone? she asked him.
—Oh, no, no, no. No, I came with a “friend.”
—Yes, she said, believing him.—The dancer. The young Russian girl. I remember.
—You alone? he queried idly.
—No, no. No, I’m not. Well, good-bye, Egress, she said hurriedly, and started to pull away from the center of the room.
—Good-bye! he called after her.
A friend, a man obviously attracted to Naomi Ruth’s not inconsiderable beauty, happened to be standing just behind Egress, and, recognizing his bluff voice, punched him affectionately on the shoulder, and said to him,—Hey, ol’ buddy, who’s that fine-looking woman you were just propositioning?
—Oh, that’s just … that’s my ex-wife.
—You sound regretful, ol’ buddy.
—Naw. Not regretful. The wages of sin, you know. Wistful, though … and something else. But not regretful.
8.
(AT THE CASINO)
—Stay close, m’love. I started winning the second you entered the room, and I’ll have to quit if you leave.
—Do you think there are some sort of house rules against…?
—Against what? Luck?
—I thought it was slightly more than that, luck. I mean, the way you carried on…
—Well, it is more than luck, of course, but we don’t want them to know it, because, yes, there is a house rule against magic, another against divine intervention, a third against astral projection, and so on. Your usual house rules.
—Which one are we breaking, confidentially? Whisper it.
He whispered into her diamond-encrusted ear. She shuddered down into her furs. He turned back to the table and continued winning.
It was quite a night, for both of them. They had such a good time together that on several occasions, half a dozen, at least, the pain brought one or the other of them to his knees. They were almost relieved when it was over and they could go back to their respective hotels along the Strip.
9.
(AT THE BANK)
—Making a deposit or withdrawal? she asked him.
—Oh! I almost didn’t recognize you in that business suit. A withdrawal, as it happens. What about you?
—Deposit.
—Neat, he said appreciatively.
—What?
—Oh, you know, the balance of payments, as it were. It’s almost cosmic. I love analogies, as you well know, he reminded her gently.
—I don’t need to be reminded, she informed him.
—Yes, I remember your telling me that, too. And just about everything else we say to each other as well.
—It’s not exactly an opportunity for adventure, is it, being one of a pair of parallel lines? We stayed together too long, Egress; she reminded him again.
—Yes, I know, I know. I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. Remembering it, I mean.
—What’s the solution?
—Infinity, he laughed.
—No, be serious, Egress.
—I am, I am. We’re a pair of parallel lines, you said it yourself, and if that’s become a problem, as it most evidently has, then the only solution is “infinity,” which is where they meet, finally.
—Or diverge.
—Right, or diverge. Of course. But we’re not Greeks, nor were we meant to be, so we ought to be careful not to get our ethics mixed up with our mathematics. We’re neither of us skilled enough a mathematician to accomplish it with anything like grace or good feeling.
—Don’t worry about me, she said.—You’re the one who loves analogy, remember?
—Yes, yes, of course. But you’re the one who brought the parallel lines into this, which I’ve merely accepted as an indication of how you perceive our lives, past, present, and, presumably, future.
—I can’t stand this quarreling. It’s all so familiar to me, she exclaimed.—So déjà-vu. Good-bye, she said to him, and hurried from the bank.
He finished his transaction with the teller and left also, feeling no stranger to his anger with himself, even taking perverse pleasure from the familiarity.
10.
(IN THE COCKTAIL LOUNGE)
—H’lo again.
—Again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again.
—Been here awhile, eh?
—The better part of a season, I’d say. I thought I’d found a place you’d not found and wouldn’t. But here you are. I see I should’ve kept moving, should’ve kept taking those chances instead of this one…
—I’m sorry.
—Don’t be! No, it’s not your fault! None of it. Not a bit.
—I’ve changed.
—I know it. I can tell that. I know you’ve changed. Trouble is, I’ve changed too. And you know where that puts us? I’ll tell you where it puts us! It puts u
s right back where we started. What we’ve got to do is change, all right, but only one of us at a time!
—Right. Well, don’t let me interrupt you. ’Bye.
—Yeah. G’bye. Too bad for the bartender, though.
—Why?
—Wal, y’see, he just lost two customers. A “regular” and a “potential.”
—Oh, I know. Well, don’t worry, someone else will take our places, I’m sure.
—Yeah, sure, the world is full of people running away from each other.
—Right. ’Bye.
—G’bye.
11.
(AT THE HOSPITAL)
—Are you a patient?
—Here for tests.
—Really? Anything wrong?
—No, I’m sure it’s nothing at all. A little innocuous bleeding. A lump or two, shortness of breath. But still, one has to treat these things as if they were serious…
—I know.
—What about you?
—The same. Tests, X-rays.
—Nothing serious, I hope?
—Not really. A cough, occasional pain, a cut on my wrist that won’t heal properly… Probably coincidence.
—Of course. Like our checking in here at the same time, eh?
—Yes, sure. Just like that.
12.
(AT THE OPERA)
—No?
—No.
—Right.
—Right?
HAMILTON STARK
The individual has a host of shadows, all of which resemble him and for the moment have an equal claim to authenticity.
—KIERKEGAARD, Repetition
CONTENTS
Chapter 1 By Way of an Introduction to the Novel, This or Any
Chapter 2 The Matrix: In Which Certain Geographic, Historic, Economic, and Ethnic Factors Get Described and Thence Enter the Drama; Also Flora, Fauna, and Other Environmental Marginalia; Some Local Traditions; a Fabled Place and an Early Murder There
Outer Banks Page 8