The Recognitions

by William Gaddis

  But when he returned to his office, the newspaper photographer found an atmosphere of tense gloom which even his prize plum could not dispel. The managing editor, the feature editor, and the foreign editor were all gazing at a story from their own columns. There were two pictures: in one, a little girl in long white stockings; but they were looking at the other, a man with a round face whose limp flabby quality was belied by an exquisite mustache and penetrating eyes beneath a sharply parted widow’s peak. —That bastard, one of them muttered, and which one was not clear, for all of their expressions reflected the same feeling. —That dago bastard.

  —All right, how much is four million lires? What are lires, Spanish or Italian?

  —Eyetalian.

  —What do these spics want with Eyetalian money? for Christ sake.

  —That’s their business.

  —Six thousand six hundred sixty-six dollars and two-thirds of a cent, a junior reporter reported, after careful miscalculation.

  —Lemme see that God damn letter again. “A respectable business man and professor,” for Christ sake. “A mere child in arms when this unhappy incident occurred,” for Christ sake. “Reparations . . . my unblemished character . . . four million (4,000,000) lire . . .” for Christ sweet sake.

  —You’re a Catholic yourself, aren’t you?

  —Christ yes, but not one of these ignorant spic Catholics.

  —So?

  —So we’re screwed. We’ll settle for three million. How much is that? . . . And what the hell is all this?

  —These are some of the letters from that hotel room where that dame jumped out the window, the photographer said, and continued pulling them out of a bulging pocket. —You didn’t send me a speedwriter down so I just brought some along before the cops moved in.

  —Any good reporter would have done that in the first place. Why didn’t you bring them all?

  —I would have needed a truck . . .

  —So you just left the rest of them there, for every other paper in town to sift through . . .

  —I mailed one of them.

  —You what?

  —There was a thick one all sealed, with the name of this Doctor somebody on it, so I just looked his name up in the phone book and wrote an address on it . . .

  —You stupid bastard. You stupid stupid bastard. What address?

  —I don’t remember, the first one I saw under his name, I think it was somewhere on Fourteenth Street . . .

  —Oh you stupid bastard.

  —I just thought I’d do her a favor, I . . .

  —You just thought . . . Christ! How did you get onto this paper? How did any of you get onto this newspaper? And how much is three million lire, didn’t you figure it out yet?

  —All I get is sixes, six six six . . .

  —All right, shut up. And now what’s this?

  —A watch. I found it on the pavement beside her.

  —Jesus Christ. The battered thing dangled between his fingers. —Even Minnie wouldn’t know him.

  It was roses, roses, all the way

  And like an avenue of flags unfurled, the newspapers quivered in the hands of passengers whose faces reflected costive content and requited destitution, prodigies of unawareness, done with plotting against life, secure in disenchantment, recovered from the times when Cleopatra’s gnathic index, or Nefertiti’s cephalic index, might have made a difference, while the train shook only negligent response from attitudes which flouted the aesthetician who devised the divine proportion of seven to one from the dimensions of the human being.

  All save one: for there was an alertness about Mr. Pivner’s attitude, as there was an eagerness in his face, which distinguished him, hurrying home now under the ground. Eddie Zefnic was coming over again this evening, and they were going to listen to something on the radio which Eddie said was very worth listening to.

  Above ground, he hurried, scarcely pausing at curbs, scarcely pausing to greet Jerry when he got his paper, almost run down at his own corner where a truck swerved past bearing before his eyes a primitive family pictogram and the legend, “None of us grew but the business.” Even near his own door he scarcely paused when he dropped a coin into the tin cup of the blind accordion player who had been stationed there the last few evenings.

  Once inside he did not waste a moment, did not even pause to lock the door behind him, entered in darkness straight across the room to the floorlamp, which he turned to its highest brilliance. He ate with no sensation but of what was too hot, what too cold; looked three times to make sure of two quart bottles of beer in the icebox; took his injection with professional dispatch; and then, his shoulders drooping in weariness, squaring again with pride, he drew on his dressing gown, pulling its generous folds tight: for he still had the sense that it had been a gift from the guest he expected. He turned on the radio and it responded with The Bells of Saint Mary’s, played by the Department of Sanitation Band. Uncertain just what it was that Eddie had said would be very much worth listening to, he left it at that and sat down with his newspaper.

  THE GHOST ARTISTS He read the advertisement automatically.

  We Paint It You Sign It Why Not Give an Exhibition? He gazed at it a minute longer without understanding, and then went on to an article which said that Swedish scientists hoped soon to be able to breed men ten feet tall.

  He could not concentrate. It was not that he was without his glasses, which he had hardly worn since Christmas: he could read clearly enough. It was not that the newspaper was less provoking than usual: quite the other way, in fact. In addition to the frontpage story, where he read fragments from the letters found in “ankle-deep” dispersal in the hotel room (including a proposal of marriage addressed to a man executed for murder some time since, a discrepancy accounted for with evidence of a crumpled news item torn from an old paper used to wrap the roses), there were other diverting tribulations: the bones of Sitting Bull, buried in North Dakota, had been dug up by unauthorized persons and buried in South Dakota; a man apprehended on a charge of engraving ten-dollar bills said that it had grown out of etching nature studies, he had “just drifted into counterfeiting from a hobby of fooling around with engraving copper plates”; a Reverend Gilbert Sullivan had been arrested for practicing phrenology without a license and, on the side, distributing literature which described his South African kingdom, holy water from the spring of Nebo, Uncle Ned’s Black Cat bone dust, Eagle-Eye Joe’s controlling powder, Aunt Sally’s Black Cat pussy-foot oil, and Mother Duck’s holy No. 8 oil . . . then the doorbell rang.

  —It’s The Messiah by Handel, Eddie said after they had exchanged slightly embarrassed greetings, and he put down his armload of new books. —It’s on this real little station, he went on, approaching the radio with a businesslike air, the slight apology in his tone articulating the expression on the face of the owner of this modest plastic affair who stood behind him, one hand clasping the other anxiously.

  —What have I du-un . . . and so friends to get your free . . . managed to hold onto the ball . . . en este momento . . . and now in a brand new . . .

  —Is it . . . time for it yet? Mr. Pivner asked hesitantly, prompting, self-conscious, a shyness reflected in the face of his skinny earnest guest as a hand dug into a pocket and the gold watch snapped open, and Mr. Pivner looked at him, and into his future with the thrill he had once known contemplating his own.

  —I don’t get much chance to listen to music any more since I’m studying so much, Eddie said, standing over the radio with an uncompromising look on his face, and like Pandora’s box, the stream of things shut up in that marvelous creation poured out as he turned the dial. —It ought to be right here, he murmured, as though indeed seeking the one beneficence which remained behind when the lid was lifted and all of the torments and absurdities lying there in wait rushed forth, to inflict themselves with such thoroughness in man’s life that he came to take them for granted as a part of it. —There’s no . . . hope, Eddie muttered, as brackish laughter, turned on like a ta
p, burst in his face.

  —Eddie . . .

  —Owners of television sets in the metropolitan area witnessed a stark human tragedy in their own living rooms, when . . .

  —Listen . . . !

  The Messiah was trying to squeeze through an infinitesimal aperture, where it was being jostled, shouldered, pushed aside and out of shape by an acrobatic contest among violins performing Paganini’s Perpetual Motion, on one side, and a cordially inane voice addressing friends, finally a quiz program where a house was being given away among much disciplined merriment.

  Mr. Pivner listened with all his attention, faintly able to follow

  —He was despiséd . . . rejected . . . a man of sorrows . . .

  But he found himself following the quiz program, where a Mr. Crotcher had just answered a question concerning a fable with an ant for its hero, and won a completely furnished house in a popular suburban community called Arsole Acres.

  —A man of sorrows and acquainted with grief . . . while the voice described the joys of the suburban community (its singular name derived, it appeared, from the Latin ars meaning art), and the doorbell rang.

  There was something familiar about the man standing behind the one who flicked open a hip-pocket wallet with one thumb, to flash the star of the Secret Service as they entered.

  —And who’s this?

  Eddie Zefnic was standing, as wide-eyed as his host.

  —This? a . . . young friend of mine, he . . . what is this, officer?

  —You better come along too.

  —But what’s this about?

  —You can tell us what it’s about, when we get downtown.

  —But . . . where are we going?

  —The corner of West and Eleventh Streets, the Treasury man said patiently. Then, —Wait a minute, let’s have a look at this bathrobe.

  —But this, I . . . Mr. Pivner commenced, getting out of it.

  They looked at the label. —This is the one, all right . . . and rolled it up. —You’re going to tell us you didn’t know it was paid for with queer money?

  —But . . . Mr. Pivner was getting into his jacket, his coat, his green muffler. Eddie Zefnic was picking up his new science textbooks.

  —Wait a minute, where you going?

  —Just to . . . to get my glasses, Mr. Pivner said, and the man who had been silent accompanied him into the bedroom. Only as they were about to leave he spoke,

  —You might as well turn off your radio, you won’t be back here tonight . . . and Mr. Pivner recognized him, as he hurried back across the dark room while they waited in the door. It was the blind accordion player.

  —O.K., let’s go . . . But even now, habit did not desert Mr. Pivner. He waited until the radio announcer had finished his sentence,

  ——And now friends, stay tuned for drama with the impact of reality.

  The program was introduced by Beautiful Dreamer, played on the studio organ. Somewhere, distant, spectral, came the tender alleluias of a sixteenth-century processional, written by Gabrieli, to be led across the plaza of Saint Mark’s, where he was organist.

  ——I came here from another state thinking I would be more happier with my father and . . . an insistent quailing voice commenced; and the apparitions on the plaza of Saint Mark’s retired. —Now just a minute, dear, how old are you? . . . With preternatural and delicate strength, the specters reappeared, for an instant directly the viscous voice left off, and then, ——Twelve years old and I came here from another state thinking I would be more happier with my father and my father start drinkin again and beatin up on my step-mother . . .

  There was a crash. Stanley stood, and withdrew his foot from the front of the plastic radio, which was on the floor. He stood, staring at it, unable to believe that he had done such a thing: but there it lay in a mute tangle at his feet. Then he looked over his shoulder, alarmed as though he might have been seen by someone (the owner of the borrowed radio, for instance). Round him, everything in the room was packed in readiness, everything but the crucifix over his bed. Stanley’s eyes reached that, and rested on it. His tooth began to ache again, the same one that had been aching the hour his mother died; and with that dull throbbing pain that memory returned, throbbing as vividly. Then Stanley squared his shoulders. He stood up straight, a movement which drew breath into his chest. He closed his teeth together hard, and then turned off the light without a glance at the bundle which held his almost completed work, palimpsests bound together with clean scores which he hoped to alter and copy on the boat; and he went out the door without stopping at the communal hall bathroom, as he’d meant to, pause there and correct that multiplication problem for the thousandth time, out on the street with no idea where he was going. He soon arrived at that place where everyone else who had started out as aimlessly decided was the place they’d started out for.

  The juke-box was playing Return to Sorrento, and Ed Feasley, whom he did not think he had ever met, greeted him with, —Hello . . . Chr-ahst, and handed him a glass of beer.

  A weary atmosphere hung over the place. People stood about at odd angles, like clocks which must be stood at odd angles to keep running, finally all that is expected of them, for they seldom tell the right time, cracked faces kept around for familiarity as long as they keep some track of day and night.

  —And so then she broke right out in Braille . . . someone said.

  And Hannah asked Ed Feasley to buy her a glass of beer. While he was getting it she turned to Stanley and said, —I hear you’re going to Rome and be a Pilgrim. Where you getting the money?

  —My mother . . . left it.

  —Insurance? you can’t get insurance if you . . .

  —No, it was . . . she had it pinned in her clothing, in her underclothing.

  —I hear your lady friend with the white fingernails went out a window too.

  —What? Stanley looked at her aghast.

  —Didn’t you hear? Max was in here, he had a newspaper. It’s all over the front page. She jumped out a hotel window.

  —No but, she wouldn’t have jumped, she might have . . . fallen, he faltered. —She wouldn’t just . . . to kill herself . . .

  —She jumped, don’t be . . . that way about it, she jumped. And she didn’t kill herself, she just smashed herself up. She’s in Bellevue the paper says. Hannah accepted her beer, sipped it without a word, and turned, —Hey where you going?

  —Well I thought I might go over there, over to Bellevue . . .

  —Come on, for Christ sake, you can’t go in there this late. You probably can’t visit her anyhow. She’s probably all strung up there . . .

  —Please . . . Stanley said, looking up with sudden appeal at Ed Feasley who stood staring at the floor, silent.

  They were all three silent for a moment, looking down, and Don Bildow’s plaintive voice reached them. —She’s all swollen up, and just before I sail. I don’t know if I should go with her like this.

  —Dropsy?

  —How could a six-year-old girl have dropsy? Bildow moaned, fingering the yellow and brown necktie which seemed to support him.

  —I mean Chrahst, what happens to people? Ed Feasley asked finally. Stanley stood looking numb. —And I mean Chrahst, everybody’s leaving, everybody’s going abroad. I haven’t been in Paris since I was seven years old, Chrahst to go there now! I mean to Saint Germain des Prés where they’re imitating Greenwich Village and here we are in Greenwich Village still imitating Montmartre . . . I mean Chrahst. Hannah had been watching him narrowly, noting the strain in his voice, the forced way he spoke and looked away. When he looked up and saw her he started to speak again, sounding more forced and talking about Max in order to avoid talking about something else. —And I mean did you see that fistful of Confederate money Max had? All these old ten- and twenty-dollar Confederate bills, he said he picked them up for almost nothing, I mean what does he want with that if he’s going to Paris? I mean, you know? Chrahst. And I saw him talking to Bildow, I mean how come he gets along so well with Bildow aft
er that poem thing, that poem Bildow published . . .

  —He explained that, Hannah said. —He didn’t steal it, he said that skinny girl, you remember the one, she used to write poetry, or she told everybody she did. Max said she gave it to him and asked him to have it published under his name. I guess she pretended she didn’t want to use her own name in case people didn’t like it. That was a lousy trick, getting Max in trouble like that. She was probably high. They picked up that junkie she had hanging around.

  —What happened to her?

  —I don’t know.

  —I mean Chrahst what happens to people. You know? I mean, like Anselm, did you hear about him? He joined a monastery Max told me. I mean Chrahst I’d just as soon be dead. Look out, you’re spilling your beer.

  —Did he . . . is that true? Stanley asked.

  —I mean Chrahst how do I know? Ed Feasley said impatiently. —It’s what Max told me. Some silent order out west.

  —I always thought he was queer, said Hannah.

  —But . . . is that true? Stanley repeated, staring at Ed Feasley.

  —How do I know! Ed Feasley burst out at him. —I mean, I told you . . . I’m sorry but, Chrahst, I mean haven’t we all had enough of all this? They looked at him with surprise, because his voice was that different, it almost broke; and then he recovered without looking up at them mumbling, —Because Chrahst I mean you can’t just you know I mean Chrahst . . .

  —I heard you bought an airplane, Stanley said after a moment. Ed Feasley nodded but did not look up. And then Hannah asked him,

  —Was that true? what we saw in the paper? Was that your father in the Times this morning?

  —How do I know, I don’t read the Times. Chrahst. I suppose it was. Then he looked up. —Have you got a cigarette? They both looked blank. —What do you mean? he broke out again. —About all this . . . these charges of collusion with a foreign government, and the whole works going to hell, and then my old man has a stroke on top of that? Is that what you mean? I mean Christ say what you mean.