King Coffin: A Novel

by Conrad Aiken

  So it was that!…

  At this instant, the little Jones was being born upstairs,—with Jones in attendance, and the doctor, and the nurse. The child’s cot, the hamper, the slop-bowl, the hospital chair—the whole thing was only too disgustingly obvious. The nurse, of course, lived in that house at the corner of Alpine Street, had loaned these objects, had been summoned, Jones had gone to the Orpheum not expecting any such immediate development, it was all happening prematurely. The drama of moving shadows on the ceiling in the upstairs bedroom was simply the drama of childbirth, a drama in which these items were the humble properties. He crumpled the paper in his hand, flung it down bitterly amongst the litter besides the overturned basket, ran quickly up the brick stairs to the back yard. That Jones should come down now was clearly inconceivable: the scope of action had abruptly narrowed—perhaps psychologically as much as physically?—and therefore something else must be done, something else must be thought of, the time-problem otherwise dealt with. But what, and how?

  He stood for a moment beside the uplifted arms of the clothesline, stared at it, then walked slowly along the path towards Reservoir Street. There was an odd smell—faint, but unmistakable: it was ether, a slight sweet thread of ether on the night air, he paused to make sure, and at the same time heard a cry. It was not a child’s cry—it was a woman’s, a soft downward quaver, something between a sob and a moan, distant and muffled. It was not repeated, he stood listening for two minutes or perhaps three with angrily averted face, his hands clenched in his pockets, again feeling the curious pain in the side of his throat. His position, too, was tense and unnatural. He became slowly aware of the strain in his half-flexed right knee, the pressure of his elbows against his sides. Did he want to hear that sound again, or didn’t he?

  This was becoming decidedly unpleasant. What was needed was a longer view, a wider horizon, something farther off on which to rest one’s eyes, a voice at the other end of a telephone, the simple reassurance of something known and familiar, even if hated. Gerta? Sandbach? Toppan? A rapid walk to the Square, to Fresh Pond, perhaps the getting out of the Buick and a drive into the counrty? The time-problem, in this fashion——

  To think this was automatically to begin moving. Without any clear reason for it, he walked quickly to the street, passed the doctor’s car, then turned up the next path, proceeding thus again to the grotesque shape of the clothes-line in the back yard; and before he knew, had walked completely round the house without once looking at it. There was no sense in this; it was stupid and meaningless, it might even be dangerous; nothing was now to be gained from loitering here, despite his reluctance to go away in the very middle of what was so obviously a “scene.” He could ring the doorbell, of course, making some pretense of an inquiry, participate thus more intimately, perhaps even converse with his victim face to face—but to look up once more at the lighted windows on the third floor, to observe that now everything there was still, no shadows in motion, was also to decide that this too would be meaningless. The smell of ether had sharpened, he turned and walked rapidly towards Huron Avenue, feeling oddly defrauded, oddly reckless. It was curiously as if Jones had deserted him; as if the alliance between them had been denounced; as if he were now, precisely, walking away from the very thing which most clearly symbolized his own reason for living. This was the center, and to walk away from it——

  An empty streetcar clattered past the corner, on its way to Harvard Square, he cursed it and turned in the other direction, already finding the angry phrases to telephone to Gerta. I really mean it. Gerta. What exactly did she think she meant? That she had discussed the whole thing, finally, with that dirty Jew Sandbach, told him all about it, cried with her face on his greasy shoulder and his ridiculous short arms about her? That they were working with Toppan? That they had told the police? Toppan would be here again tonight, no doubt, sitting in a car somewhere to watch him. Damn them all, and to hell with them. If they thought for a minute they could match their wits against his genius, against his freedom from scruple—the idea was crazy, he could laugh at it, and as he closed himself into the telephone booth in the drugstore at Gurney Street he was already feeling amused.

  —Hello?

  —Your dear Jasper speaking. I just wanted to thank you for your card: very kind of you.

  Gerta’s voice was very cool, very detached; she said slowly——

  —Now look here, Jasper——

  —I’m looking with all my teeth.

  —I don’t think you are taking quite the right attitude, do you? I’d be a little more concerned—for you I mean—if I didn’t know of course that the whole thing is a fake.

  —Oh, so it’s a fake, is it?

  —Obviously, isn’t it, my dear?

  —Oh, obviously! I’ve just, for example, been in his house—in his cellar. I suppose that’s a fake. You and your Sandbach make me laugh!

  —Of course it’s a fake! I don’t believe a word of it.

  —Believe what you like. I assume, of course, we’re talking about King Coffin?

  —You and your King Coffin!

  —Yes, me and my King Coffin! Size five by two! Silk-lined and silver-handled; you’d be surprised! If you want to come out here, I’ll prove it to you. Is it a bet?

  —Thanks, my dear, I’m afraid I’ve got better things to do.

  —Suit yourself.

  —And incidentally, I thought you were going to the Orpheum tonight.

  —Certainly. I did!

  —I see. You combined theater and cellar.

  —Exactly. It’s been a great success! You’d find a full account of the evening very entertaining, I assure you.

  —No, thank you. I’d rather not!

  —I might have known you’d get cold feet——

  —Call it what you like, my dear——

  —I said cold feet.

  —And when you come to your senses drop me a picture postcard, won’t you? Good night!

  —Gerta—listen——!

  He heard the click, listened, she was gone; she had played his own trick on him; he gave a little annoyed laugh, hung the receiver softly on its hook. A fake! It was an ingenious line to take, it did her credit, Gerta was no fool. She had calculated it cunningly to drive him out into the open, force him to show his hand. And so cool about it too. But behind this were other things, other shapes—imponderable but perhaps for that no less definite. She had not yet said anything, or much, to Sandbach, perhaps very little to Toppan. She was still hoping to bluff him, still hoping that she could manage the thing by herself. This much loyalty could still be counted on, to this extent she was loyal in spite of herself, or in spite of Sandbach; and to this extent by implication she was keeping open for him, if he should want it (or as she put it, come to his senses), a line of retreat. She had suggested New York—a holiday in New York. New York! But that was far away, impossible, it was another shape and another design, it was not and could never be in this pattern at all: for better or worse the thing had now taken its own deep direction. Jones was not in that world, nor New York in this, he and Jones were here together, more than ever together—and if the pressure of their queer relationship was becoming hourly more obscure, and hourly more subtle in its underground ramifications, it was perhaps for that very reason all the more tyrannous and inevitable. There could now be no New York, or “other” thing: any more, for example, than there could be life after death.

  Life after death!

  Exactly. It was like making an engagement for a party, or to meet a friend, or to go to a show, at eight-thirty on the evening following one’s death. Gerta, with her New York, her Sandbach, her painting, her print-room at the Museum, the bowl of apples on the window sill, the life-class at Belmont, the smile from under shaded eyes in the two-year-old photograph, Gerta with her Gertadämmerung and her Russian blouse—this was now already another world, whirled away diminishing into the past or the future, beyond all contact or reality. To think of it was simply to think of an amusing contrapu
ntal device in time, a synchronization of the impossible. It was an act of laconic leave-taking, a laconic farewell, the cry of a sea gull over the last whirl of froth that marked a sunken ship. The thing was gone.

  He found that he was tapping with his fingers against the glass side of the telephone booth, looked down at his stilled hand as if suddenly it belonged to some one else, gave a little shiver. He noticed that he was again standing, as in the path of the Reservoir Street house, in a slightly unnatural way, and with an unnatural tenseness, like an animal that is frightened. The slight surge of the body which is being electrocuted! Relaxing deliberately and angrily, he opened the door, went out, pondering the other project, the idea of ringing up Jones. But this would be better when he got back, this would be better from Hampden. In the meantime——

  The man in the white jacket behind the soda fountain was saying to a customer:

  —fired for wearing a colored shirt and a wrong haircut.

  —What? fired for what?

  —For wearing a colored shirt and having the wrong kind of haircut.…

  He went out, smelt the smoke from the burning-dump at Fresh Pond, the stars above the mean houses were like sparks borne on the cool north wind, a man and a girl were talking in low voices in a car which was parked at the corner. At the sight of this he stiffened, and turned quickly to the right, as if some sixth sense, some dark animal instinct, had given him warning. It was of course just the sight of people sitting in a parked car, that was all; but it reminded him just the same of Toppan, he had felt sure, he felt sure still, that Toppan was somewhere about, somewhere near. It had the simplicity of a conviction: it was just the right time for Toppan: he had in fact arranged for Toppan: and Toppan would be there. He might be in a car in the southern end of Reservoir Street, or in Huron Avenue itself; but more likely he would be on foot, and near Wyman Square. Or possibly he was even now in the act of walking up from Hampden, but had got quite close, was slowing down and moving cautiously as he drew near the neighborhood. This was excellent in its way, but it was also tedious, it was the little extra something of annoying and belated complication with which, for some reason, he felt reluctant to deal. One’s own past witticisms and ingenuities, one’s own history, in short, could become tiresome. To see Toppan, but to avoid him——

  Keeping on the right side of the street, so as not to face the headlights of the oncoming traffic, and also keeping as close to the houses as possible and using the tree-line wherever he could, he walked swiftly, pointing before him the stem of his unlighted pipe. Very well, let Toppan come, by all means let him come, there would be plenty to say to him. Why, indeed, avoid him since there was obviously so much to say, and since besides it was always so easy to speak from the shadow—as it were, from the tomb—to those who walked in the sunlit innocence of their folly? The image of the party after death had recurred to him, it pleased him, it was a good idea, it would be nice to ask a group of ill-assorted people to come to a party, for instance, the night after one intended to commit suicide: send out the invitations, timing them very carefully, so that the guests would arrive and themselves make the charming discovery. The Findens, for example, Sandbach, Mrs. Taber, Gottlieb, Gerta, a sprinkling of mere acquaintances, of the socially climbing sort, like Mather, and a few ordinary University prigs——

  A coffin party.

  Mr. Jasper Ammen requests the pleasure of your company at a coffin party——

  The door would be unlocked, someone would eventually try the door and walk in, and there he would be!

  At Wyman Square, he was about to turn down Sparks Street when he saw the familiar white raincoat rounding the corner at Concord Avenue, hesitating and then coming quickly forward down the little hill, the whole figure very alert. This time, the bearing was unmistakable. He stood still in the shadow of an elm, completely invisible, and waited for Toppan to arrive at the opposite corner of the Square,—grinning, but as yet undecided what he would do. It was good. It was very good. It had all shaped itself quickly under his hand like magic, it was part of the whole beautiful scheme, it was growing miraculously and hugely, like a cathedral, with Toppan simply a gargoyle. As he approached the swerve of Huron Avenue Toppan slowed down, clung more closely to the hedge before the house at the corner, revolved his head, peering this way and that. Twice the round spectacles flashed under the arc light, but saw nothing, he even stepped cautiously out into the road so as to get a longer view round the curve; then, reassured, and once looking behind him, was about to go forward, when Ammen whistled.

  The effect was comical.

  Toppan not only stopped in his tracks, as if he’d been shot—he somehow managed to look extraordinarily silly. He just stood where he was, looking, but also pretending that he wasn’t looking, in every direction. One could imagine the slightly foolish smile. Ammen stepped out of the shadow and said:

  —I’m over here.

  Toppan came towards him rather slowly, his head a little on one side, his hands in his raincoat pockets.

  —Oh, it’s you.

  Yes: it’s me. I whistled because I had an idea you might be looking for me.

  —And why should I be looking for you?

  —Because, my dear Toppan, you don’t always mind your own business. And it was obvious to me that you needed a little help. Aren’t you being clumsy?

  —Am I?

  —Even your imitation of me is clumsy.

  —Isn’t anything an imitation of you?

  —But I’m sorry to have to outwit you. You can now pretend, if you like, to be taking a walk around the Pond, but can I tempt you to ride back to the Square with me in a taxi? Otherwise you’d be wasting your time.

  —You think so?

  —Don’t be silly. Of course it is. Of course you are.

  —Is, or are?

  —And there’s a question I want to ask you.

  —My dear Jasper, go ahead!

  —Oh, aren’t we clever! Oh, aren’t we smart! Don’t we stand with our heads cocked at an angle and feeling very brilliant! Jesus Christ!

  Toppan was silent, merely raised his hands in his pockets, shrugged, turned his profile.

  —Yes—breathing softly—there’s a question or two I’d like to ask you. If you don’t mind! And before you’ve become too impudent with other people’s affairs! You’ve been following me, and a lot of good may it do you. I’ve known all about it, and watched you at it, and it’s been funny. It’s made me feel a little ashamed. Do you understand that?

  —So you thought I was following you!

  —Thought!

  —Could your question wait till tomorrow? I’m just on my way——

  —My dear Julius, you were on my way, if you don’t mind my saying so, but let it pass. My question, which was about razor blades, can wait.

  —Razor blades!

  —Yes, razor blades. I’ll see you tomorrow.

  He turned abruptly, with a slight gesture of the pipe in his hand, left Julius standing under the arc light, was off towards the yellow taxi which he saw at the top of the hill. He listened for the sound of Toppan’s footsteps, heard none as long as he was within range, figured to himself that Toppan must be standing motionless there, standing there fixed and smiling, fixed and thinking, but did not turn to see. To open the taxi door was in itself a dismissal of Toppan and the world, conscious of his height he stooped to enter, sank back and closed his eyes.

  This giddiness again—this dizziness—it was the third time. It was queer. The sensation of speed, flowing past him and round him, catching him up and twirling him, with its steady pour of sound, was like a world of bright lines drawn swiftly in parallels, a vast river of bright lines. Amongst and against these rays of arrowy light he was borne rapidly forward in a half-recumbent position, with his eyes closed and his hands tightly clenched; and just above the roof of his mouth, on each half-painful crest of his breathing, was a new and peculiar darkness of helplessness and horror. This too it might be possible to visualize—one could see the sha
pe of it, with a little trouble—but in a sense it was controllable, it could wait. The first thing was to call up Jones, and this could be done with perfect security from Hampden. To summon Jones down from that third-floor bedroom, make an appointment with him——

  He dismissed the taxi by the barbershop, went round the corner of Plymouth Street with the phrases shaping themselves on his tongue. At the entrance of Hampden, Jack, the janitor, was standing on the granite steps with a dustcloth in his hand, bareheaded, his white hair bright in the lamplight. He pointed with the cloth towards the hall and said:

  —Oh, Mr. Ammen, th-th-there’s a sss-pecial delivery for you in your b-box, you must have missed it.

  —Thanks.

  —You’re welcome.

  He fished out the letter, saw the postmark, Saint Louis, the long blue stamp, slightly sinister in its suggestion of hurry, and his father’s printed name in the upper left-hand corner. This was ugly. It had a meaning, there could be no doubt of that, it was part of the narrowing circle of pressure, the unseen blockade. Damn him! And damn them all. The impulse to tear it in two ran sharply down his fingers, he had already visualized the gesture and felt the contempt in it, but instead he slipped the envelope into his side pocket and went to the telephone by the elevator. With one foot reaching back against the door behind him, he dropped in his nickel, gave the number, waited. Far off, he could hear the repeated double ring, the little rhythmic cricket-cry,—zeeng-zeeng,—zeeng-zeeng,—zeeng-zeeng,—zeeng,-zeeng,—it was as if he himself were there in the front room beside the oak table, on which the telephone stood, waiting for Jones to come downstairs. The ringing continued interminably, and then as if very close at hand the operator’s voice said: