She was looking at Jolly and Sid, and Sid was standing so that I could see his face over Jolly’s shoulder, but all I could see of Jolly was her back, which was very much worth the seeing, so far as that goes. She was wearing a white sheath dress without any shoulders, and her skin was brown from the sun, and her legs were just as good as Fran’s, if not better, and it was pretty obvious that she didn’t have much, if anything, under the dress. I couldn’t see her face, as I said, but I remembered from other times that it was a good face with eyes a little long and cheeks slightly hollow, and as a matter of fact it wasn’t good at all, it was perfect, it was the loveliest face in the world. That was one big difference between Jolly and Fran, among others. On legs they may have been in a dead heat, depending on your prejudices, but when it came to faces, Jolly was way out in front and no question about it.
This was more than you could say for Sid’s face, even if you were a woman and had a bias toward men’s faces as opposed to other women’s. At its best it was only so-so as faces go, and at this moment it was not at its best. It was red and glossy, as if he’d been working up a sweat in a steam bath, and I could see that he was angry and had been hurt by something Jolly had said to him, which is just another way of saying that he was sullen. Whatever it was Jolly had said, he was doing his best to take it like a gentleman, and he was practically certain to succeed in this because being a gentleman was very important to him, and whenever his Id and his Ego got to raising hell with each other, you could count on his Ego coming out on top every time.
Fran saw me and smiled and waved her martini glass at me.
“Sid says he’s a social drinker,” she explained, “and Jolly says social drinkers are pigs.”
Jolly had a black eye. When she turned around I could see it, and it was probably the most beautiful black eye I had ever seen up to that time or have seen since. From a deep blue-black, it shaded outward to a shining purple on her cheek bone.
“So they are,” Jolly said. “Social drinkers are pigs.”
“Why?” Sid said reasonably. “Tell me why in God’s name social drinkers are pigs.”
“Yes,” I said. “I’d like to know myself. Why are social drinkers pigs?”
“They are,” Jolly said. “They’re absolute pigs.”
“You just keep repeating it,” Sid said. “You don’t say why.”
“It should be perfectly apparent why.”
“Well, it’s not apparent. It’s not apparent at all.”
Jolly walked over to me suddenly and kissed me, which meant nothing much in itself, because she frequently kissed all kinds of people.
“Hello, darling,” she said. “I was so upset by this pig that I almost forgot.”
“I am not a pig,” Sid said.
“Of course you’re a pig. You just said so.”
“I didn’t. I said I’m a social drinker, that’s all I said.”
“It’s the same thing. A social drinker is a pig.” She appealed to me. “Darling, don’t you think a social drinker is a pig?”
“Well,” I said, “I came in late and may have missed something. Why don’t you just explain it to us?”
“Certainly. I’ll be happy to explain it. A social drinker is someone who drinks your liquor when he doesn’t even like it or really want it, and he thinks he’s doing you a big favor by being compatible or something.” She glared at Sid, and her black eye gave her a very ferocious look. “Fran likes liquor. Felix does too. And here you are with your damn sense of sociability drinking it up from someone who would enjoy it. Who the hell do you think you are to be taking the liquor right out of Felix and Fran’s mouths? The truth is, you’re not a who at all. You’re a what, that’s what. You’re a pig.”
It was a devastating display of logic, and I was very relieved because now I could be on Jolly’s side logically as well as emotionally. Sid looked at her with his mouth open, and Fran looked at her with a kind of awe, and after a moment Sid lifted the martini he was holding and poured it into his open mouth.
“By God, that was wonderful!” Fran said. “Besides all that other nice stuff, this girl has brains!”
“Yes,” I said. “Sometimes it frightens you a little.”
“Just the same,” Sid said, “I am not a pig.”
“Oh, please don’t be so stubborn,” Jolly said angrily. “It has been explained to you quite clearly that you are a pig, and you just keep saying that you’re not.”
“All right, all right,” he said. “I’m sorry I drank the God-damn martini.”
“You needn’t swear,” she said. “It isn’t necessary to swear.”
“You swore. You said I have a damn sense of sociability, and you asked me who the hell I think I am.”
“That’s different. I had sufficient provocation. I only swear when there is sufficient provocation.”
“Don’t you think I have any provocation, for God’s sake?”
“Provocation! You? You behave like a pig and persist in denying it, and for some strange reason you seem to think this gives you the right to swear at other people. I simply can’t understand how your mind works, Sid. You must be paranoid or something.”
“Well, I give up. I absolutely give up.”
“That’s a sensible attitude. Now you are being reasonable. Why don’t you just pour yourself another martini and behave decently?”
“No, thanks,” he said bitterly. “I have no wish to be a bigger pig than I’ve already been.”
“Oh, I have no objection to your being a pig. I just don’t want you to deny it. It’s for your own good, you know. Everyone should face reality. That’s what all the psychologists say, and it’s true. If you persist in denying things, you wind up with a lot of repressions and things, and it’s very bad for you.”
“How about me?” I said. “Do I get a drink?”
“Darling, I’m so sorry.” Jolly was contrite. “Can you ever forgive me?”
“If you will give me the drink, I’ll see about it,” I said.
“Of course. Is there some left in the shaker, Fran?”
“Yes,” Fran said, “there’s quite a lot left.”
She uncrossed her legs and stood up and began to pour a martini for me, and I went over to get it. Jolly turned on Sid again.
“I hope you’re satisfied,” she said. “You’ve positively made me forget all my manners.”
Sid opened his mouth to say something, but then he must have considered the possible consequences, and he closed his mouth again and came over to get another martini for himself. I had the feeling that he wasn’t getting this one just to be sociable.
“The trouble is,” Fran said, “Sid’s in love with Jolly. He subconsciously enjoys having her give him hell about things. It’s a pleasure to him, I mean. I wonder if it’s a sexual pleasure. I’ve been wondering about that, and I’d like to know. Is it a sexual pleasure, Sid?”
“Cut it out, Fran,” Sid said.
“I’m only asking for information. I really feel very clinical about it. Sort of like Kinsley.”
“Kinsey,” Jolly said.
“Really? Is it Kinsey? I thought it was Kinsley.”
“No, it’s Kinsey. I’m quite sure of that.”
“Well, anyhow, I’d like to know. Is it, Sid?”
“Cut it out,” Sid said.
Fran poured another martini for herself and drank some of it. While she was drinking, she stared at Sid judicially.
“You know,” she said, “I believe this is significant. Your refusing to answer, I mean. I ask you a scientific question, and you refuse to answer. It shows that, under all that pretense of drinking to be congenial and everything, you are really quite antisocial. It is the duty of every good citizen nowadays to be scientific, and anyone who refuses is surely antisocial.”
Jolly was looking at Sid with interest. She looked as if she might be inclined to forgive him a little for being a social drinker.
“Are you in love with me, Sid?” she said. “It simply never occurred to m
e.”
“Of course he’s in love with you,” Fran said. “He’s simply wallowing in the filthy stuff. Couldn’t you tell? Actually couldn’t you? Even from the way he keeps looking at you and following you around and everything? It’s really rather disgusting, if you want to know the truth. Take the way he got so angry and all about your black eye. Didn’t you think that was really rather disgusting?”
“Speaking of the eye,” I said to Jolly, “I’ve been wondering about it.”
She smiled happily and touched it proudly with finger tips.
“Isn’t it beautiful?”
“It certainly is. It’s the most beautiful one I’ve ever seen. Where did you get it?”
“Kirby gave it to me. We were discussing something, and all at once he hit me right in the eye.”
She turned up a palm and made a fist and smacked the fist into the palm. “Pow!” she said.
“What were you discussing?” I said.
“I don’t quite remember. It must be that it sort of knocked it right out of my head when he socked me. Anyhow, it was apparently something that annoyed him.”
“Apparently. Did he knock you down?”
“Yes, he did. On the bed, that is. If the bed hadn’t been there, I’d have gone right down on the floor. I didn’t lose consciousness, though. I’m rather proud of that. It shows I’m pretty tough. I dare say lots of women would have simply blacked out.”
“Did it hurt?”
“Oh, it hurt, all right, but I didn’t cry. I believe that annoyed Kirby even more than what I must have said to make him do it. Are you angry about it?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t seem to be.”
“I don’t know that I like that. I think I would prefer that you be a little angry. Nothing excessive and disgusting like Sid, of course, but maybe just a little.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll keep thinking about it, and maybe after a while I’ll begin to get angry.”
“All right. All I ask is that you do your best.”
“It was beastly,” Sid said. “No one but a beast would hit a woman like that. He ought to be thrashed.”
Fran and Jolly turned on him simultaneously.
“Oh, please don’t start being disgusting again,” Fran said.
“Who the hell do you think you are,” Jolly said, “to be wanting my husband thrashed? Don’t you think a husband has the right to hit his wife in the eye now and then without having you try to interfere?”
“Besides,” Fran said, “why couldn’t you say beat up or kicked in the teeth or something sensible? Thrashed, for God’s sake! It makes you sound like a fairy or something.”
“When I want you to thrash Kirby for hitting me in the eye, I’ll let you know,” Jolly said.
“All right, all right,” Sid said.
Fran tried to pour another martini, but there wasn’t any left, and so she started putting gin and vermouth into the shaker. She was very good at it. She had gotten so good that she could measure the proportions with only her eye. It was her right eye that she used. She closed her left one and used the right one somewhat as if she were looking through a telescope.
“This conversation is getting dull,” she said. “Every time you get into a conversation, Sid, it immediately begins getting dull. I think it would be exciting to talk about Felix for a change. What have you been doing with yourself, Felix?”
“I’ve been teaching bright kids and schoolteachers about goliards,” I said.
“Seriously? I’m afraid that doesn’t sound so exciting after all. You are being a big disappointment to me, Felix.”
“Well, the kids and the schoolteachers aren’t much, I’ll admit, but the goliards are pretty exciting.”
“Do you mean it? Really exciting? What are they?”
“Not are. Were. They were mostly twelfth century clerics and students in the universities.”
“What’s so exciting about students in universities? What I’d like to know is, why should twelfth century students be more exciting than twentieth century students? You just said your own students aren’t so much, and it seems very unlikely to me that twelfth century students were any better.”
“From the standpoint of being interesting, they were much better. They wrote poetry about drinking and gambling and having love affairs.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so? I’ll agree that this puts a different light on the matter. Why are they called goliards?”
“They were supposed to have had a leader named Golias, but it is generally understood that Golias was a mythical figure. Some of the poetry is pretty good.”
“Is it all about drinking and love and stuff like that?”
“Mostly. They wandered around a lot, and there are some about how nice it was out on the open road and all that, and there are a few parodies of sacred hymns.”
“You say some of these goliards were clerics? Doesn’t that mean priests or something?”
“Yes.”
“That’s what I thought, and it seems to me very odd that they should have written that kind of poetry. I’m not at all sure that they should have done it.”
“I don’t agree,” Jolly said. “I think it’s very nice that they wrote poetry about drinking and love, especially if it has turned out to be interesting to Felix, but what I think was wrong is that they wrote parodies of sacred hymns. I’m very reverent myself, and I don’t think it was right to write parodies of sacred hymns.”
“Some of them are pretty vulgar,” I said.
“You see? Vulgar parodies of sacred hymns. That wasn’t right.”
“Could you recite one of the vulgar parodies?” Fran said.
“I don’t want to hear it,” Jolly said.
“Oh, come on, Jolly, be a sport,” Fran said. “Let’s hear it.”
“You needn’t argue about it,” I said, “because I don’t remember any of the parodies.”
“Good,” said Jolly. “I’m glad you don’t remember any. I’m very reverent, and I wouldn’t want to hear it.”
“Since when have you been so reverent?” Fran said.
“I’ve always been reverent,” Jolly said. “Didn’t you know that?”
“It isn’t very apparent,” Fran said.
“Well,” Jolly said, “I have been, just the same. I’m reverent by nature.”
“How about one about love?” Fran said. “Do you know one about love, Felix?”
“Yes,” Jolly said, “I wouldn’t object at all to hearing one about love.”
“I know one called The Pretty Fruits of Love,” I said. “It’s about a pregnant girl whose lover has run away.”
“That doesn’t sound very interesting to me,” Jolly said. “I don’t believe I care to hear a poem on that subject.”
“I must say you are being quite difficult, Jolly,” Fran said. “It seems to me that a poem about a pregnant girl would be unusual and interesting.”
“I don’t want to hear it,” Jolly said.
“Would you please explain why? Perhaps you are sensitive or something. Have you ever had an unfortunate experience along that line?”
“Not at all. The truth is, it would be quite impossible. Didn’t you know that? Kirby and I tried and tried, but nothing came of it, and Kirby was very depressed because he thought he might be the one, but we went to this doctor, and he said no, it was me. Poor Kirby was extremely relieved, but I couldn’t understand what difference it made. I mean, it takes two to accomplish anything, you see, and I couldn’t understand that it made any particular difference which one of us it was that couldn’t.”
“It’s psychological,” I said. “Men are peculiar that way.”
“Really? I absolutely can’t see the sense in it.”
“What I can’t see,” said Fran, “is why you continually don’t want to hear Felix recite a poem. Perhaps you could think of one that would please her, Felix.”
“Well,” I said, “there’s a good one about a university student who decides he should quit studying and have som
e fun, but I can only remember a few lines.”
“What kind of fun?”
“Fun with girls mostly.”
“How about that one, Jolly? Would you like to hear a poem about a university student who decides to have some fun with girls?”
“That one sounds quite charming, and I am willing to hear it.”
I recited one of the verses, and then Fran went around with the shaker again, pouring martinis into glasses. Sid shook his head and wouldn’t have any. His feelings were still hurt, and he looked out the window and pretended that he was indifferent to everything that happened. Jolly sipped her martini with a small smile on her lips. I liked her black eye, after getting used to it. Besides making her look ferocious at times, it also gave her a rather dashing look.
“I concede that it’s nice,” Fran said about the poem, “but I was hoping for something hotter.”
“I like that part about down among the maidens and the dancing feet. That has a very nice sound,” Jolly said.
“I’m dubious about the part about white limbs, though. Limbs has a kind of nasty sound. Prudish, you know. Why couldn’t he just say legs?”
“Well, maybe he didn’t mean just legs. Maybe he meant arms too.”
“Arms? Are arms limbs? I thought only legs were limbs.”
“Oh, no. I’m positive arms are also limbs. What do you say, Felix? Are arms limbs?”
“Yes,” I said, “arms and legs are both limbs.”
“In that case,” Fran said, “why couldn’t he have said arms and legs?”
“It wouldn’t scan,” Jolly said. “A poem has to scan.”
“Nevertheless,” Fran said, “I wish it had been hotter.”
“There is a whole book of them,” I said, “and some are as hot as you could want. Why don’t you read the book?”
“What’s the name of it?”
“It’s called Carmina Burana.”
“Really? What a strange name.”
“It’s a rather strange book, so far as that goes.”
“Perhaps I’ll read it.”
Brass Bed Page 2