Nothing but the Night

by John Williams

  Then, in his imagination’s eye, he had seen his mother rising, climbing the stairs. Now she was at the first landing, he would tell himself: now her feet were sinking into the deep plush of the last step: now she was in the hall. And then the anticipation would become so intense that he could not but clutch the sides of his bed and clamp his lips to keep from trembling visibly and crying aloud.

  The soft touch of her hand upon the door and its gentle movement inward was the most difficult moment of all. In her awaited presence, it took all the fortitude his young spirit possessed to keep from crying his swift pleasure, rising, running to meet her, throwing his arms about her. But no. He must be well-behaved: he must lie still, smile up at her as his heart pounded uncontrollably in his breast. He must await her private mood in this most delicate instant, he had learned.

  Sometimes she would fling her arms about him, lie beside him, tousle his hair, and whisper to him. At other times she would seem distracted, absent, not really there beside him at all. Then she would hold him to her briefly, talk to him in short stops and starts. But the rarest moments of all—and to him, the most startlingly beautiful—were the times when she floated into his room like a white angel, sat beside him, held him softly, saying little, gazing at his eager moon-bathed face with great tenderness and calm. When this happened he was afraid to move, almost afraid to breathe because his slightest motion might shatter the crystal of the wordless mood.

  But always there was the goodnight kiss.

  They would linger over that. And when her lips had left his face, he would remain so, his eyes closed, an unconscious smile hovering about his mouth. He would feel her careful hands as they arranged the pillow beneath his head, as they tucked the covers about his body. Then, with a final caressing pat, she would leave him as softly as she had come. He would not open his eyes again, even to watch her leave. Until he fell asleep he kept his eyelids shut, the better to hold her image graven on his mind through the long night, forever and for as long as he lived.

  That is the very best time of life, he thought again: when you are very young, when living is a simple, perfect succession of golden days.

  For a long while he remained in his chair, staring out of the window, remembering those days. His eyes could recognize earthly shapes now. He could see that the shadows had disappeared, that the buildings no longer shaded the avenue below him. He sighed once, audibly. He looked at his watch. Twelve o’clock.

  Then, with a twitch of resentment, he remembered his appointment with Stafford Long.

  One hour to bathe and change his clothing. One hour to prepare for Stafford Long. He smiled mirthlessly. He thought of Stafford, he was very careful to think of Stafford. Thinking of Stafford, he could not remember his father and the ordeal that would come with the evening.

  Like a released arrow he sprang from his chair and loped across the room. He replaced the picture where he had found it, wrapped in the same silken scarf. Then, into the bathroom. The water of the shower beat a powerful, complacent tattoo on the tiled floor.

  The pale pink door spilled inward when he pushed and he followed it, stepped aside and allowed the outdoor brilliance to be sliced neatly off by the quick backward whoosh. He closed his eyes, held them so for a moment, accustoming himself to the inner darkness. He reopened them and it was a little better, so he stumbled toward a stool and relaxed before the highly polished bar.

  He saw himself and the others on the outer edge of this half-circle as audience; and the bartenders were players, acting before a back-drop of pure form, an arrangement of cylinder, cube, and sphere. Cézanne and his reductio. But could he have meant this?

  He chuckled soundlessly.

  One of the actors entered before him, sanctified his personal area of bar with a damp towel, and questioned his need with a formal pause and raise of eyebrows.

  Amused, he said, ‘Martini. Dry.’

  He added a refinement to his earlier conception of Audience and Player. This was epic drama where audience and actor exchanged roles, where the stage shifted complexly from box to platform and back again and each group performed alternating functions.

  You won’t be satisfied until you break my heart . . .

  A coin was responsible. Ah, he thought, drama with music.

  He embraced the thin stem of his glass with thumb and forefinger, twirled it carefully, lifted it to his lips, and drank. He smiled invisibly and munched his olive and listened to the music.

  When the song was over, he glanced at his watch. Stafford was late again, as he had expected he would be late. He signaled the bartender and indicated his empty glass. He burrowed a little more securely in his separate awareness, he nestled a little more deeply into his private darkness, and he waited.

  In the long run, he thought, that is all one does; wait for people or keep people waiting.

  He recognized this as an epigram and it had a vaguely familiar ring; but it pleased his conceit, so he smiled at it, turned it over in his mind, and repeated it to himself.

  Just when he had finished his cocktail and was preparing to remove the olive from the toothpick with fastidious teeth, he felt that soft hand on his shoulder, the hand which somehow was capable of caressing without moving. He made a small grimace of distaste and swung around on the stool, dislodging the hand as if by accident.

  ‘You’re late,’ he said.

  Stafford Long smiled softly, mysteriously at him, as if he were the possessor of an infinite wisdom. It had taken Arthur a long while to discover the essential vacuity which this expression masked.

  ‘Oh, I’m awfully sorry, Arthur,’ Stafford Long said. ‘Really, I am. But the most disgusting thing happened this morning and it upset me dreadfully. It disrupted my entire day. I mean, it literally disrupted it.’

  Arthur sighed. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Oh, I can’t tell you now. Oh, no. Later, perhaps. It was frightful.’ He shuddered demonstratively.

  ‘Do you want a drink?’

  Stafford cocked his head and regarded him primly. ‘Really, Arthur. How do you stand it? It’s so early. Doesn’t your stomach just protest? Aren’t you afraid of ulcers? I understand that drinking before sundown inevitably results in ulcers.’ His lips curled unpleasantly about the sound of that last word.

  Arthur shrugged and turned away from him and made another signal to the bartender.

  ‘Oh, come on, let’s get out of here,’ Stafford snapped. ‘This place is disgusting.’

  Arthur frowned, wishing Stafford would not talk so loudly in that high, mincing, unmistakable voice. He noticed that a couple on his left glanced at him, and turned away quickly to hide nasty little grins of amusement.

  ‘All right,’ he said to Stafford. ‘All right,’ he said gruffly. He brushed past Stafford and walked toward the curtained door which led into the dining room.

  But Stafford did not move. ‘Arthur,’ he sang out. ‘Arthur, where are you going?’

  He clenched his jaw, turned, faced him, controlled his voice, tried to make it cool and amused. ‘Why—to the dining room, of course. Come along.’

  ‘No,’ Stafford cried petulantly. ‘I won’t go in there. The food is absolutely filthy. I know. It isn’t even clean in there.’

  He fixed a smile on his face for the benefit of those who might be listening and watching. He walked back to where Stafford stood.

  ‘Listen,’ he whispered tensely through his flexed lips. ‘Stop acting like this.’

  ‘But Arthur. I know much nicer places than this. Much nicer.’

  ‘Don’t think you’re going to talk me into going to another one of your places. I know what they’re like. I’ve told you I don’t want to have anything to do with that business.’

  Stafford’s eyes were round and hurt. ‘Arthur!’ he said reproachfully. ‘Arthur.’

  ‘And stop acting like that. You know I don’t like it.’

  Stafford’s underlip was trembling, his eyes were slightly moist. ‘How can you say things like that, Arthur? Do you enjo
y hurting my feelings? Do you? There’s nothing I’m ashamed of. I want you to know that.’

  ‘Stafford, shut up!’ he whispered furiously.

  ‘You just don’t understand, do you?’ Stafford mused bravely. ‘If you understood, you wouldn’t—’

  Arthur sighed wearily. ‘All right. All right. I apologize. Anything. Now, do you want to stand here and talk all afternoon, or shall we go in and eat?’

  ‘Very well,’ Stafford said. ‘Very well, I’ll go. But I’m sure it will give me an awful indigestion.’

  As he followed Stafford Long through the doorway, he saw his peculiar position with a sudden and rather amused clarity. He had often asked himself why he put up with Stafford; and he could never answer. It was not friendship; no one could feel friendship for him. He had no sympathy for the sort of person Stafford was. Stafford’s particular perversion constantly repelled him, and there were times when he felt active dislike, even spite, for him. Nor was it pity, for there also were moments when he consciously envied him a superficiality which amounted to invulnerability.

  Perhaps it was because with Stafford, of all the people he knew, he felt no need to ingratiate himself. Stafford accepted him, as he accepted everyone, for the instant of acceptance only. Whatever preceded or followed the acceptance was of no importance. Their friendship (if it could be called such) was born anew and suffered an abrupt, painless death upon each meeting.

  They found a table. A harried waiter slopped glasses of water in front of them and waited to take their orders. Arthur selected indifferently, quickly; but Stafford worried and fretted over the menu, asked the waiter numerous questions, which he ignored or answered impatiently, and he sought Arthur’s advice upon the quality, price, and digestibility of each contemplated item.

  Not at all thirsty, Arthur sipped his water. After the martini, it was flat in taste and not very cold. He regarded Stafford absently; and he, in return, gave him an ardent twinkle and a brilliant smile.

  Arthur was amused. He decided upon friendliness, banality.

  ‘Well—how have you been, Stafford?’

  ‘Oh, don’t ask me that,’ Stafford cried. ‘Please don’t. Everything is simply dreadful. No hope for survival. Nothing.’

  ‘That’s too bad.’

  ‘So don’t ask me.’

  ‘All right.’

  Stafford brooded for a moment. ‘And the climax, the felling blow, came this morning.’

  ‘Umm-m-m?’

  ‘Revolting. I can’t talk about it.’

  Arthur said nothing. After another dramatic pause, Stafford went on.

  ‘It was that Evartz again. Honestly, Art, I don’t see how you put up with that man.’

  ‘I thought you liked Max. Last week, he was—Wasn’t he the most “subtly discriminating” person you knew?’

  ‘That was enthusiasm,’ Stafford told him. ‘False enthusiasm. I’m willing to admit I was wrong.’

  Arthur shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Do you know what he said to me?’ Stafford asked.

  He shook his head reluctantly.

  ‘He called me,’ Stafford whispered, and he leaned forward a little, ‘he called me a damned little fairy! And he told me to get the hell out of his place and stay out.’ With this pronouncement he leaned back triumphantly. ‘Now. What do you think of that? Isn’t that a dreadful thing for a civilized man to say?’

  Arthur was distinctly uncomfortable between laughter and pity.

  ‘I think everyone should know what sort he really is,’ Stafford declared. ‘I’m telling all my friends what happened. It will get around, you know. Oh, yes. It will most certainly get around.’

  The uncertainty dissolved and Arthur was suddenly ashamed for him and pitying. ‘Drop it, Stafford,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Forget about it.’

  ‘I will not,’ Stafford snapped. ‘I most certainly will not be dissuaded. People will know.’ Then he paused and looked suspiciously at Arthur. ‘Are you trying to protect him? Is that your game?’

  Arthur laughed shortly at him and said no more. Their food was placed before them and they began to eat. Stafford chattered and wailed and postured throughout the meal, his conversation like a morbid symphony with a monotonously recurring, unmelodic theme. But after a while, as they dawdled over their coffee, he lapsed into a deep silence; and Arthur glanced up at him, disturbed by the lack of sound. He surprised a look of sly calculation on Stafford’s face, a look so fleeting that it might hardly have been there. Instantly, he became wary.

  ‘Well, what is it?’ he asked.

  Stafford was round-eyed innocence. ‘Why, whatever do you mean, Art?’

  ‘I know that look. What do you want?’ Arthur smiled contemptuously at him.

  The innocent expression of interrogation froze on Stafford’s face. He blinked several times. Arthur knew that he was debating approach. The innocence disappeared, a new look of confidence taking its place, and he relaxed, leaning forward above the table.

  ‘No one can fool you, eh, Arthur? It was silly of me even to try.’ He stopped and looked away, stared sorrowfully at nothing. ‘Everything is so horrible, so dreadful,’ he said at last. ‘Day after day after day. Nothing. It’s unspeakable.’ He shivered. ‘Sometimes, you know, I ask myself: “Why? Why do you go on?” And do you know,’ he whispered, ‘do you know what frightens me so much? I’ll tell you. I can’t answer it. I don’t know the answer to my own question. Frightening.’

  He waited for a murmur of sympathy, but Arthur did not speak.

  ‘I’ve got to get away from here,’ Stafford went on. ‘I’ve got to make something out of my life, discover some meaning. And Arthur,’ he said slowly, emphatically, ‘Arthur, you’ve got to help me.’

  ‘I really don’t know what I can do to . . .’ Arthur began carefully.

  Suddenly, Stafford was business-like and capable. ‘It’s all very simple,’ he explained. ‘I just want you to let me have five hundred dollars.’

  ‘Five hundred dollars!’

  ‘Yes.’

  Arthur looked at him quietly. ‘Stafford,’ he said gently, ‘five hundred dollars is—’

  ‘It’s just a loan,’ Stafford cut in quickly. ‘You’ll get it all back. Every penny.’

  ‘Stafford, I’m sorry, but—’

  Stafford regarded him angrily. ‘Are you afraid you won’t get it back? Isn’t my word good enough? Is that it?’ His voice broke on the high peak of ‘it.’

  Arthur drummed his fingers on the table, curbing his impatience. ‘Look, Stafford. I didn’t say anything about your word, or not getting it back. What do you need this money for?’

  Stafford sulked back in his chair. He did not look at Arthur. A faint blush rouged his cheeks.

  ‘I want to buy a printing press.’

  A laugh burbled up in Arthur’s throat. For no explicable reason, an image of Stafford Long kneeling in front of a toy printing press flashed across his inner vision.

  The blush on Stafford’s cheeks deepened. ‘What are you laughing at?’ he asked defiantly.

  ‘I’m not really laughing, not really,’ Arthur giggled. ‘But the way you said it. Just for a minute, I—Why on earth do you want a printing press?’

  Stafford hitched himself forward to the edge of his chair and said enthusiastically, ‘I have it all figured out. I’m going to borrow this five hundred from you, and I’m going to borrow some more from a couple of other fellows I know, and I’m going to buy a handpress—oh, I know where I can get one, all right—and I’m going to move to Carmel, that’s in California, and publish poetry.’

  Arthur stared at him, fascinated. He repeated stupidly, ‘Publish poetry?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll do all the work myself—editing, designing, setting up type, everything. I intend to publish only the best that’s being written. I can tell what’s good and what’s bad, you know. Oh, it will work out all right, you needn’t be afraid of that.’

  Glaring at Stafford, he suddenly wanted t
o shake him roughly, to scold him as he would scold a child. But he did not move or speak.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Stafford questioned him. ‘Don’t you think it’s a good idea?’ Belligerently, ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  What could he say? He knew that much of Stafford’s original unthinking enthusiasm, the only real foundation for the idea, was gone and that now he was desperately fanning the dead coals, trying to justify himself, not to Arthur, but to himself.

  So he said roughly, ‘What do you know about printing or printing presses? What do you know about publishing, or about . . . Good God, have you ever even seen a printing press?’

  Stafford waved his hand. ‘Those are things you can learn. It just takes a little intelligence, a little adaptability. I’m going down to the public library this afternoon. They’ll have books that—’

  Unable to stand this longer, Arthur shouted at him, ‘You’re crazy!’ Some people looked at them in surprise. In a lower voice he told Stafford, ‘Use your head. Just for a change, think things out. Good God, you have a brain, haven’t you? What’s it there for?’

  Stafford’s eyes were liquid seas of pain. ‘So you won’t give me a chance,’ he said sadly. ‘Kick me back down. No help. Nothing.’

  ‘Look,’ Arthur said. ‘I’m not kicking you anywhere. I’m not doing a thing. It’s a crazy idea, but even that isn’t the main question. The main question is five hundred dollars.’

  ‘It isn’t very much.’

  ‘Maybe it isn’t, but it’s more than I happen to have at the moment.’

  Stafford’s eyes regarded the floor sorrowfully. ‘Oh, of course. Of course. That’s the easiest thing to say. I suppose you think you’re being kind.’

  He ground his teeth. ‘Stafford, it isn’t a question of kindness, it’s—Oh it’s impossible to talk to you.’

  Stafford smiled bravely. ‘Oh, that’s all right. It’s all right, Arthur.’

  There was a long silence.

  Suddenly, Arthur burst out, ‘God damn it, Stafford, I told you I don’t have the money. If I did, I’d let you have what you want.’

  Stafford leaned across the table. ‘Would you?’ he asked breathlessly. ‘Would you really, Arthur?’