Читать книгу The Diary of a Rapist - Evan S. Connell - Страница 8

JANUARY 1

Last night Bianca shook me awake and told me to stop grinding my teeth. Nothing gives her more satisfaction than to humiliate me.

So one year ends, another begins.

JANUARY 2

This afternoon on the way home from work saw three women fighting in the street. One had fallen to her knees, clothing pulled to rags. The others were jerking at her hair, hitting her furiously across the back with awkwardly closed fists. How clumsy women are! Shrieks and cries, a circle of attentive men. There’s a sort of dreadful augury in the birdcall screams of women.

JANUARY 3

Violence! Violence! Had scarcely left the Bureau when I saw a man struck by a taxi—no accident. The driver noticed him start across the street, I’m sure of it, and am sure there was time enough to stop the cab. Instead, what?

A chance for revenge! How many of us wouldn’t do the same? Yes, when that moment comes—that one instant when we’ve got the power either to love or hate, with nothing in between, how often do we hesitate? I know the answer. Day after day we’re humiliated, so why not seize the chance? Why not?

Well, don’t think about it, just do your work. Stay out of trouble. Anyway, who knows whether Love exists? It could be that Hate is the only reality. He that seeketh, findeth. Maybe. I’ve looked for some kind of love long enough but what have I found? Strokes of revenge, back and forth, regular as a metronome, that’s what I’ve found. So now I ask just to be let alone. I’m willing to do my work, not much else interests me because there’s not much to look forward to.

Bravo! Bravo for Earl Summerfield!—he’s quite a man. Yes, get home a few minutes before your wife, rush around the apartment flinging up your hands and shouting, grin at yourself in the mirror, practice a few vulgar gestures, then as soon as you hear the elevator stop you grab the newspaper and sit down and compose your features so Bianca always comes in to find the husband she expects. Bravo, Earl, yes indeed, you’re quite a man.

Well, maybe I’m too hard on myself. I doubt if other men are much better—a few, I suppose, but most of us are terrified. Scared to death of losing our job, getting in trouble with the bank, letting somebody make a fool of us. Usually it’s some woman. Stiff as a dead halibut if one of them looks at us cross-eyed. The truth is I’m really no weaker than the next, not a bit & if it wasn’t for Bianca I’d have been able to make something out of myself by this time. She’s ruined everything. There’s no limit to what I might have done by now. She knows it, too. I guess it gives her some sort of pleasure.

JANUARY 4

Friday. This noon at lunch Magnus confides that he’s discovered an extremely rare paperweight. Wipes his nose, coughs, peeps around & finally lets me in on the secret. “Not many ah uh persons realize how val-val-valuable uh certain paperweights can be!” Looked at the spots of grease on his necktie & tried not to grin. Oh? Is that so? How much do you think you can get for it? Then naturally he started backing off. Wasn’t sure, explained that it depended on the rarity and so forth. Claimed something called a “yellow overlay” brought $7,000. Maybe it did, I’m no authority on paperweights, but even if it did what’s that got to do with Magnus? He’s not going to find one that’s worth anything. What he found was just an odd piece of brass and that’s all he’s ever going to find. A molded lump of brass in a McAllister junk shop. I’ll bet he paid more than it’s worth. Why does he keep on searching? Why can’t he admit the truth? Why does he want to deceive himself? Mucking around at the bottom of the lake. If anything he’s lower and poorer and worse off than I am. Why doesn’t he admit it?

JANUARY 5

Rain. Most of my holiday on the bus riding back and forth across the city, one side to the other, listening & watching. Told Bianca I needed to get out of this apartment—no answer. Plucking a hair from her chin, lips compressed, holding the tweezers with both hands. She didn’t even glance into the mirror at me. I don’t know why she felt like pulling that hair, should think she’d let it grow, there’s nothing she wants more than to be a man. Now that I think about it—yes! How enlightening to realize you’ve been deceived—eh Earl? How gratifying to discover why she married you. She’s never had any interest in being a woman but at the same time there’s quite a sting to spinsterhood. There must be, if it’s sharp enough to make Bianca jump. Surprised I didn’t realize the situation a long time ago. She’s cold as a dead gull, it’s that simple. I’ve been blind. She’s never wanted to touch me—one excuse after another, I couldn’t admit them to myself. I’ve been a fool. She’s more interested in a room full of pimply, farting students than she is in me. Sweet Jesus! What a pair we make!

Excite myself too much. I’ve got to learn to accept things as they are. Nobody has everything he’d like to have. Oh yes, be pious—shit! I’m dying, I’m dying in this place. I’m not alive. One day like another. I could be traveling around enjoying life. Then, too, if I was in a different situation I could be making my mark on the world. I could become somebody important, have people applauding me. Radio, television, etc. My picture in the paper. Being mentioned in the gossip columns & all the rest of it. Instead, what have I got? What am I?

If I could just decide how to start getting what I want. Maybe I can figure things out on my vacation next summer. Ought to decide ahead of time where to go, get things planned. I could leave the city by myself, Bianca wouldn’t care. She might not even notice that I was gone. So, that being the case, where first? Canada? England? Italy? Go to the South Seas? There’s money in the bank. About $400, I think. Not exactly enough to satisfy my appetite for life, but a start. Monday get a few travel folders.

Midnight. Picking at my face again! I sit here thinking, staring out the window, then suddenly realize I’m feeling my throat & ears & nose like a blind man trying to identify a corpse.

JANUARY 6

Must have been out of my mind last night because the truth is that I’m not going to go anywhere, not now or ever. Not enough in the bank? That isn’t the reason. Haven’t got the nerve. Set down the real reason: I’m afraid. Am what I accuse others of being.

Days, weeks, months. Get up at the same time every morning, put on a suit eight years old with the elbows polished slick as oilcloth, eat poached eggs & read the Chronicle, stand like a totem pole among perfumed stenographers riding the bus downtown, then sit on a stool until 4:45 P.M. Wiggle my toes for amusement. Look down at my shoes to see if the leather’s got any new cracks. Try to remember exactly how many times I’ve pretended to smile at the supervisor. Eh! Eh!

Caution, Summerfield. Don’t count the past.

JANUARY 7

Just fixed myself a bowl of soup, it didn’t sit well on my stomach. Don’t know what time it is, but late. Bianca’s asleep, grateful for that. Stopped at the bedroom door & listened to her breathing. Why did I marry the old lioness? She’s already 33, here I am just 26. I’m still young and she’s middle-aged. “We’re not children any longer, Earl.” Certainly lets me know, means more than it says, turns me away subtly. Oh she’s clever, closes everything up tight as a safety pin. “Earl in the name of sense stop acting like a child!” What am I expected to say? Turn my face aside? Apologize? She’s smarter than I am & I lose every argument, but that doesn’t mean she’ll win. I’m not weak. I know I’m not.

JANUARY 8

Newspaper item says some housewife in Chicago was tied up, painted with tar and then set on fire. Burned like a torch. Nobody could get close to her. People could hear her screaming even though the tar was bubbling across her mouth. Makes me think of those women fighting in the street. I keep seeing that one on her knees with her blouse torn and the white boobs spilling out—dangling like pendulums in a surrealist painting.

What else? Weather report calls for clouds & probable rain. My head feels squashy, afraid I might be catching cold.

JANUARY 9

Typical day at the Bureau. Mrs. Fensdeicke continually wiping her lips with a lace handkerchief while she glides around behind our backs, clipboard nestled like an unborn baby in her arms. Marks down her observations, smiles. “Please continue with your interview, Mr. Summerfield.” I should be used to it by now. If only I knew what she was writing about me. One day I’ll ask to have a look. Yes. Then her lips would turn into a pink pincushion and pat-pat with the handkerchief, smile to show she’s aware of the joke. She’s sick so I shouldn’t be so critical. Of course that overhead light does make every one of us look like a mummy, but am positive she’s ill. Bugs inside nibbling nibbling. Less and less of Mrs. Sara Fensdeicke. I guess I ought to feel sympathetic but the fact is I don’t. I’m worried that one of these days she’s going to accidently touch me with her shred of lace, then I’ll do something awful, God knows what. Kick her. Strangle. The way she holds that handkerchief for some reason reminds me of Bianca holding a cigarette—yesterday—no, day before it must have been—at dinner, had to shut my eyes. I think it’s certain mannerisms of women that make us want to kill them.

JANUARY 10

Thursday, Thursday, Thursday! What a tedious year this will be. Scarcely past Christmas holidays but already I look forward to vacation. Waiting for the bus this evening & noticed people staring at me, realized I was crumpling the newspaper. Forced to grin & make an excuse. Said out loud that I was tired of reading about nothing except corruption, murder, war. Nobody answered. Tempted to shout at them. “Are you deaf?” Don’t they know what’s going on? Gets worse every day but they go right on just as they always have, pay no attention. However, I guess underneath they’re as worried as I am, all of us hoping for improvement of one sort or another. Fensdeicke, for instance, worried about lungs or whatever it is, Magnus wandering around in search of the rainbow. Vladimir and his worn-out Bolshevik reforms, fifty years late. Old Clegg wanting nothing to change, absolutely Nothing! Pins & decorations on his lapel disgust me. McAuliffe must hope for something—more women, more liquor, that’s about all. At lunch today almost thrust my fork into his eyes when he kept talking about the women he’s had in Auckland, Port Said, etc. All right, he’s been to Faraway Places, had experiences I’ll never have, but what’s that got to do with it? He wastes his experiences, wastes his entire life! So why should I concern myself with him or anything he talks about?—he’s insignificant. Filthy. Filthy in body as well as in mind. Dirt under his fingernails, obscene jokes. He makes me sick. It’s an irony that we’re doing the same work, considering how much difference there is between us.

Well, I don’t know why I allow thinking about McAuliffe to upset me, particularly when I realize that before long I’ll be getting somewhere and he won’t ever. He gives me the impression that he’s rotting away inside. His liver must be gone, eyes watery as eggs. Disintegrating. So I suppose I ought to be grateful. Even if his liver does hold up he’s not going to amount to anything, always be what he is right now—Interviewer, State Employment Bureau—lowest possible classification. One grade above File Clerk. Magnus, Vladimir, old Clegg & McA & I in the same basket, all five of us perched on stools, 5 in a row. I’m the only one who doesn’t belong.

JANUARY 11

Today being Friday treated myself to a drink downtown after getting off work. Chatted quite a while with a wealthy man from New York who’s out here to open a branch of his investment business. Let him know I might be interested in joining the firm, made certain he caught my name. There’s no telling, he might call. I believe I made a good impression. Pretended I’d given out all of my cards. I think I ought to have some cards printed up.

JANUARY 12

So much violence that nobody pays attention to it any more. Old man on Potrero Hill beaten to death last night by gang of boys in painted leather jackets. Negro woman in Menlo Park stabbed so many times they just called it death from “multiple” wounds. Another woman’s body dredged up from the bottom of a lake in Trinity County, hands & feet tied. Oakland choir boy, honor student, president of his class, etc., got his throat cut while walking home through a vacant lot. What else? Well, Archbishop somebody-or-other got his picture in the paper tonight—blessing the cornerstone of a new church. Makes me sick. Feel like keeping track of everything, then throwing it into the face of the next person I meet.

Shouldn’t get angry like this. Look out for myself, let others do the same.

Don’t know why am so depressed. Last argument with Bianca? Always accepting blame as if I was her servant. Six years in these dirty rooms, circling each other like dogs. Six years! Telling myself tomorrow something will happen to improve the situation but it never does. No wonder we don’t have any friends. Other couples keep out of our way, I don’t blame them. Not much happiness here. A bent coin, Earl & Bianca.

JANUARY 13

Day of leisure. B spent half of it reading poetry to herself, then back to grading papers & now she’s gone to some concert with Spach. As if I didn’t know what she’s up to! Not satisfied to be teaching mathematics, wants some sort of executive position where she’ll have more authority. She’ll get it. Sooner or later Spach’s going to feel obligated without really knowing why and will see that she gets whatever she wants. I don’t care. Let her become principal of the rotten school, no business of mine. Don’t care what she does.

So here you sit again, Earl Summerfield. Sunday night to yourself! Prowl the apartment, suck at your fingertips, contemplate yourself in the bathroom mirror—bulging forehead and puckered lips. Why do you look so worried? Walk to the back porch again, stare at the lighted windows across the alley. Dancing figures, a mandolin, Italian arguments. You’re dry with envy, Earl. That’s so. Others are living life, you’re only watching.

I don’t deny it. Well, then. Hmm. I wonder how it would be to move to Europe, take a cottage on a hillside above the Adriatic. Live surrounded by pigs and goats and a dozen children and odors of hay and manure. Hmm!

Dear Jesus before much longer I’ll become a creature of fads & fancy. Lights will come to seem too strong or weak, every day too cold or warm, and acquaintances impossible. I don’t have any friends as it is, want none. Next year at this time I’ll demand more sugar, suffer headaches, trace my thoughts like tendrils of convolvulus, yes, and sit in a wooden chair cracking my finger joints while I wait for supper.

Bitter depths. Bitter depths.

JANUARY 14

Felt drowsy after getting home from work, grateful Bianca wasn’t here. Awoke instantly to the noise of her key in the lock, my expression suitably alert, suitably neutral. She has no idea who I am. Years arch over our heads, yet Bianca continues to think that I am what I used to be.

Earl Summerfield! she cries—EARL SUMMERFIELD! Is that what you do? Sleep? Is that all you do?

Have no idea what time it is, clock’s stopped. It must be late & I still hear the echoes of her voice.

JANUARY 15

This noon an attack of vertigo. Thought I’d fall. Managed to lie down, absolutely humiliated. To have people staring down at you—forced to admit in public that you’re sick—can’t remember when I’ve been so embarrassed. It gave everybody the impression that I’m not in very good health. I can’t imagine what happened today. And the worst of it was McAuliffe acting cynical, could tell from his grin that he thought I was malingering. He’s gotten afternoons off with various pretenses & so assumes other people are equally dishonorable. It’s as if he regards conscientious people as being foolish. The thought of him nauseates me. Reminds me of a diseased stork with its feathers dropping out, greasy hair dangling over those bloodshot eyes. A person could die and he’d think it was a trick. I’ll ignore him tomorrow, won’t say good morning. If I’m indebted to anybody in that office for consideration it’s Mrs. Fensdeicke, and am forced to admit to myself it’s a surprise. Would never have guessed she could be so solicitous, but then she’s a woman. Illness touches them every time. One of the few things I like about them. She wanted to call a doctor. Perhaps I should have agreed instead of getting to my feet. Still felt dizzy, but lying down in public was unbearable & not one person in that office will ever forget what happened today. I hate them for seeing me helpless, even though the fault was mine. How awful, the whole business. Worries me. Never had an attack like that before. Mr. Foxx came out and looked at me lying on the couch. I felt like such an idiot, nodding and smiling although he didn’t say a word. Somehow that moment changed our whole relationship. I remember staring up at that puffy brown face—he looked older, too, noticed the gray hair—I think he’s West Indian or Puerto Rican. Tempted to speak to him as an equal but didn’t quite have courage. Should have let him know I’m too intelligent to be doing the work I’m doing. Yes, there was your moment, Earl! Why didn’t you seize it? However, I have a feeling that he understood. He may very possibly be considering me for a supervisor’s position. We’re one short, rumor is. I could be the appointee. I’ve taken examinations enough, so Something ought to come of them. Foxx could do a great deal for me. I only wish I’d made a better impression. I wonder what he saw when he looked down—Summerfield lying on the maroon leather couch with a wool blanket pulled up to his chin and his feet sticking out. I could feel a draft on my ankles. What a day to be wearing these dime-store socks—it was all I could do to prevent myself from explaining I bought just one pair almost as an amusement because they were inexpensive. Ordinarily nobody would notice but I had to choose this particular day to get sick and expose them to the world. Oh God. I hope Mr. Foxx didn’t notice them. He must have. Yes, they did turn out to be an amusement, they certainly did! Well, too late now, too late to fret. Went back to his office without a word. I expected him to give me the remainder of the day off. Seems rather odd he didn’t suggest it. Even so he’s a good man. He’s all right. Whatever he wants me for—anything at all! I’ve thought of him as somebody to avoid. Do your work, keep out of the chief’s way, that was my motto, but now I think I’ve been too self-effacing. Much too much. He’s aware of me now. I could drop by his office on the way out some evening and mention the incident, thank him for his consideration, shake hands. We might have lunch together some day. Yes, that might not appear strange. I’m sure there’s no regulation against it. Why shouldn’t we become friendly? I ought to let him have a closer look at me. It’s foolish to be humble.

JANUARY 16

Felt much improved today, quite cheerful in fact. My steps were brisk. I was the model civil-service employee marching from desk to filing cabinet and back again. Displayed my most seriously efficient look. Have decided to impress Mrs. Fensdeicke. There, that’s the spirit, Summerfield Call me Horatio. Yes, Mrs. F—check-check-check like a chicken scratching at your clipboard and no Mrs. F! Eight hours of it! What was my reward? Now, what the Bureau is seeking to achieve in our particular area, Mr. Summerfield, is what Mr. Foxx often refers to as—heh! heh!—a machine-like rapidity. “Indeed?”—that’s what I should have answered, instead of smiling. Why do I always act so obsequiously? What have I to fear? How much longer am I to put up with these insults? There’s beauty imprisoned beneath the surface of our world and if anyone’s to find it that person will be Earl Summerfield.

JANUARY 17

McAuliffe’s latest tidbit: the celebrated Bird Nest Soup. Made out of the nests of the sea swallow, he claims, and has a strong taste, like crayfish soup. The nests are built from seaweed and the leaves stuck together by the spawn of fish, which is extremely rich in phosphorus, and everybody knows, says he, that phosphorus is an erotic stimulant. Eat too much, he says, and it’ll poison you! Small danger of that. What won’t he think of next? Half his life has been spent wallowing in dreams of sex, money for liquor and pornographic books. I wonder where he gets them. Mexico, he says, winks & smiles. He buys them somewhere in this city.

That pack of cards he showed me during lunch—lost my appetite. No, not true. I’m pretending once again. I went right on eating. But there was a reason—Mrs. Fensdeicke not six feet away! If she’d so much as glanced at us she’d have seen them. McAuliffe handed them to me so casually she never noticed. Still, that’s not surprising, now that I consider it. Women seldom realize what goes on about them.

JANUARY 18

McAuliffe says Mr. Foxx has a white mistress young enough to be his granddaughter. I don’t believe it. Told McAuliffe it was a lie. He grinned and shrugged. How would he know?—even if it was the truth, which it isn’t. He couldn’t know. It’s just that he’s filthy himself. He’s vile and wants to smear slime on decent people. There are not many people I believe in any more, but I do believe in Mr. Foxx. He’s a good man.

I have a feeling all of us need to believe in somebody, maybe it doesn’t matter who. Also I think it doesn’t make much difference what we are, weak or contemptible, we can change. Can become what we were intended to be. Yes, I do believe this and if it makes me an optimist—all right, that’s exactly what I am!

JANUARY 19

Another dog poisoned in the neighborhood last night—five so far this month. Humanity isn’t much to be proud of. Thugs on the loose assaulting people so the streets aren’t safe any more, etc. You’d think the police would do something, but they’d rather write out traffic tickets.

Burned the note, have no intention of making a fool of myself. Citizens don’t count, not if you’re entrenched at City Hall. They’d just laugh at me. I realize how unimportant I am—oh yes, oh yes! Here’s a letter from Earl Somebody complaining about dogs being poisoned. Throw it away. The Mayor’s got more important problems. That’s what would happen, no point fooling myself that anybody in an important position would listen to me. Earl Nobody.

JANUARY 20

Ugly Sunday, my own fault. For some reason I won’t let myself forget last Christmas. Almost a month gone by but still worrying it like a half-dead mouse. $20 from my wife, right out of her purse during breakfast, didn’t even bother to slip it into a gift card. “Earl, I’ve been too busy to go shopping. Buy yourself whatever you want.” At least she might have said “Merry Christmas!” But oh no, even that would be an effort. She treats me like a child who’s always in the way. Should have jammed the money in her mouth. Well, I did next best—wasted it. Two pounds of chocolates. Sweater I don’t want or need, also a couple of books I probably won’t read, stuffed the last two dollars in somebody’s mailbox. I trust your Christmas was equally pleasant, my precious wife! If you care to know the truth I spent a good many hours selecting that robe. Do you ever plan to wear it?

On & on, over & over! Forever abuse myself.

JANUARY 21

Looks like we’ve got a lunatic in the building. He threatened me again today. I think he lives on the 2nd floor. 201. 206. I’ll see if I recognize his name on the mailbox.

Have noticed him several times but paid no attention—cropped hair, stubble on his jaw, yellow canvas jacket, dirty trousers, makes me think he might be an ex-convict. That slack once-muscular little body—he could be dangerous. Glared at me, gesticulated, pretended he was going to spit. I suppose I was a bit contemptuous but he was the one who spoke first. I’ll keep on as I have, do everything possible to avoid him. Remember last week at the laundry I hopped out of his way, wondering if I’d get a blade in my ribs. He swaggers around with hands in his pockets, no way of guessing what he’s up to. Wonder if I ought to mention it to the police. It’s none of my business, I’d better keep quiet. Besides, they could ask what he’s actually done, then what would I answer? Well, I’d be forced to admit that so far he hasn’t, actually Done much of anything, as far as I know he hasn’t. Just that he’s threatening & I have this feeling he’s dangerous. Don’t know how I know, but have no doubt. It’s beneath the surface. Why is he challenging me? I think I should go to the police. Imagine. Harrumph! You tell us he’s insane? WHY is he insane? So there I’d be. Trapped, not able to say a word, having thrown suspicion on myself. Maybe the best solution is mind my own affairs, keep away from him & make sure he understands he’d better not push me around. I think that’s how to handle it. Ignore his presence, don’t even look at him if we meet in the corridor. Be careful not to turn my back on him, watch him from the corner of my eye.

Otherwise today? Tum-tum-te-tum very very little. Cloudy but didn’t rain. Sick of winter. Shouldn’t complain so much, we never have to worry about icy streets and so forth as the rest of the country does. Then of course the summer’s always cool. Count your blessings.

JANUARY 22

What a dull dull Tuesday. Has anybody on earth ever been as bored as Earl Summerfield? Impossible! I suppose I’m feeling all right, but continue concerned about that Spell a few days ago, whenever it was. Let’s have a look. Week ago today! Doesn’t seem possible, time slipping out from under my feet. I just wonder how much longer I can go on like this, especially because of the relationship with B deteriorating. Seems like we don’t have much in common any more. If I came back to a good meal and—well, came back to what I have a right to expect, then I wouldn’t mind the job every day. But there’s nothing for me at the office, nothing for me here. Don’t know what I want, just feel as if I’m drowning. Tomorrow the water will rise a fraction of an inch higher. Can almost see it rising from the floor, submerging the office while I sit there conducting interviews. Fill out these papers and come back at two o’clock, report to Mr. Rostov at the next window, he’ll take care of you, my man, he’ll take care of you at two o’clock. Then the next & next. How long out of work? Name of previous employer? How long in that position? Reason for discharge? Applied previously for compensation? Married? How many children? How many years of school? Can you drive a truck? Well, I’m tired of it all! Tired of their stories, tired of the cheats and lies. I know what they’re going to say. “My wife she’s sick, Mister. She got some kind of bone disease. Oldest boy, Rafe, he broke his arm last week. My father, he died in Tuscaloosa a little while back. The doctor, he says I ought not to do this work no more, the dust is bad on my lungs. Don’t know what we’re going to do. Rain put me out of work, Mister. The foreman, he laid off twelve of us, you can ask him. I ain’t lying. Won’t be nothing for at least a month. I’m willing to do anything. Except my lungs, Mister, I’m—” One right after the other. Next. Next. Step up to the yellow line, wait there until your number is called. So they wait and I wait, all of us wonder how much longer. File clerks scurrying back and forth opening drawers, squatting down, inviting everybody in the office to look at their hams—well, they’ll get what’s coming to them! Goggle-eyed laborers staring, whispering to each other. I know what’s going on. Dogs that come to lick the sores of a beggar. Which is more disgusting?

JANUARY 23

Feel better tonight, not so angry. The fact is, I feel sorry for most of the people I know. I pity them. Magnus, for example, living with his sister and brother-in-law, one little room, a cheap radio for company. Last week telling me about an Arkansas farmer who plowed up a diamond weighing almost two carats. Asked if he was going to start plowing up his back yard. He didn’t laugh. Serious and humble as a cur he says his brother-in-law wouldn’t allow it. Now he’s convinced he knows where to find one of the jeweled Easter eggs that belonged to the Czar! Heard about some antique shop in the suburbs where somebody noticed this thing on sale for five dollars. “It’s worth a f-fortune! An enormous f-f-fortune!” No doubt, no doubt. So he spends half his lunch hour quizzing Vladimir. Vladimir, what happened during the Revolution? Vladimir shakes his head. Barely remembers Mother Russia. He was in Belgium, so he claims, and as for the Czar’s playthings he doesn’t know any more about them than I do. There’s one in some antique shop around here? Yes, yes, and you can have it for five dollars. Oh well, finish the dream, Magnus. Soon enough you’ll be two dim lines near the back of the Chronicle, that’s your fortune. But go ahead, Magnus. Dream of the afternoon you’ll discover locked in the dust and darkness of half a century the toy of an emperor. Imagine the egg, Magnus, studded with rubies and emeralds, with a solid gold hasp, and inside the egg?—on a black velvet cushion a sapphire as blue as the Caspian Sea! Oh yes. Of course. Let us know when you find the treasure of the Czar. As for myself, I regard the entire world as an illusion from which each man must free himself in order to find Salvation.

JANUARY 24

I’m more alive at the Bureau than here—this apartment’s lifeless. We should move. But where? Unless you’ve got money these buildings are all alike. How would it be with a fine view of San Francisco bay? A doorman in a blue uniform and a cap who’d greet me whenever I went out or in. He’d press a gold button and the elevator doors would slide apart. The corridors wouldn’t stink. Yes, Stink is the word. That lunatic below us pees on the carpet, I’m sure of it, no mistaking the odor. Tomorrow I’ll ask Bianca.

JANUARY 25

The Brazen Head has spoken. Sweet Christ in Heaven, are there other men obligated to live as I do—restricted everywhere by women?

I doubt if she was even listening to what I said, went on reading the financial page. I should have made a sarcastic comment. Has First Charter gone up today? Good earnings report, no doubt. Rumors of a merger, excellent, excellent!

Why don’t you open an office, Bianca? You have the heart and soul of a broker. Bianca Summerfield. Stocks & Bonds. Member New York Exchange.

Have I begun to hate her? Yes, I have. God help us both. And yet this isn’t what I wanted. This isn’t what I expected.

JANUARY 26

Saturday. Bianca tutoring all afternoon. Two schoolgirls in baggy sweaters, sleeves pushed up to the elbow, the current fad. They stared at me, I stared right back until they dropped their eyes—the most satisfaction I’ve had this year. Was very anxious to stay in the front room so I could look at them. Bianca guessed it, asked if I wasn’t going out for a walk. She’s so delicate. Didn’t want them to understand why she wanted me out. So I said that I was about to leave—giving it the right emphasis, suggesting I might not come back. She just shrugged and looked bored, obviously doesn’t care if I live or die. So put on my jacket and went out. I should have said something to the girls as I went by the table. Hoped they’d glance up from their books but suspect they were afraid to. Don’t know why I despise them. They act so innocent but then something turns up in the papers like last week where one of these little innocents was “taken into protective custody” because police discovered she was earning about a thousand dollars a week between the time she got out of school and the time she came home for supper. Found a shopping bag stuffed with money in her school locker and a pillow case full of dollar bills hidden in her closet at home. Money everywhere! The little pig was rolling on her back squealing with pleasure every afternoon in somebody’s apartment or hotel room, earning more in five minutes than I make by working all day. Yes, but if you’d see her at school you’d assume she was a sweet little girl. Same as those two Bianca tutors. They’re probably up to the same tricks. Well, if I had them here right now in this room I’d teach them something they’ll never learn from B.

No urge to sleep. Have got myself upset again by thinking about this afternoon. Now what? Sit here until dawn? I’ve done that too often. Lights twinkling on the bridge. See if I can get some music on the radio.

Not able to sit still. Can’t quit thinking.

JANUARY 27

So much for trying to apologize to Bianca! I was a fool to bring up the subject, also shouldn’t have asked if they were coming back next Saturday. Dirty bitches.

JANUARY 28

Monday. Rumor about us having a second supervisor has started up again. Supposedly the first of the month. If true it means I’m being passed over because I’d certainly be informed by this time. Ought to find out how these matters are decided because I’m convinced there’s more to it than examination scores. You need influence in order to get ahead. Old Clegg so many years at that same wicket, same classification. No reason for me to go on and on like that. I’m intelligent and ambitious, plenty of good qualities, so should be promoted. My main problem is getting to know people, get acquainted with them. Usually I have an impression they talk about me after I leave. They think I’m conceited, perhaps, when just the opposite is the case. It’s my expression.

Anyway, the key to my particular situation must be Mr. Foxx. All right, get acquainted with him. Make an effort to do so. Find a reason to visit his office. Also, as a matter of general principle: Quit Wasting Time. Bring yourself into focus, decide who you are & what you wish to become. Do you want to spend 20 years on a stool like Clegg and wear a paper flower? Join the American Legion or Elks Club and. collect postage stamps? Get mixed up in Vladimir’s socialistic jargon? It’s easy to wait around thinking the situation’s going to resolve itself. Or go on pretending like Magnus that one day you’ll find a treasure in a box. No, thank you. No, no, no! I’m not going to let myself be deluded.

So forth and so forth until the rainbow cracks, shatters, comes tinkling to the ground. Don’t feel well just now. Not even positive where I am. My name sounds odd. Lightheaded. Maybe I ought to rest awhile. Remember reading how some famous man wrote to his mother that he had everything a human being could desire—a life in which he could exert himself and Grow day by day, in fine health, without passion or confusion, without troubles or agitation, like a man beloved of God who’s completed 1/2 of his existence and who because of past suffering has been tried in preparation for future suffering. If only life was that simple for me! I’ll make plans but they won’t work out. Hopes snap like sticks. What else should I expect? With nothing at the start how could I have less when everything’s finished? No answer. Nothing except silence.

JANUARY 29

Profile bad. Chin watery. I’d look more forceful with a beard, but of course would lose my job. Not one man at the office with a beard. Mr. Foxx has a small mustache, also a couple of men on the second floor, and Vladimir. I have a feeling Fensdeicke wants to make V shave it off. I wonder if he knows. I wonder if she’ll suggest it to him. Possible. He’s afraid of her and she knows it. So far she hasn’t dared, but I think she will. Smile, remark how nice he’d look without his mustache, shifting the clipboard from one arm to the other so he can’t miss the threat. After that she’d like to cut off his balls. I just wonder if he knows. He doesn’t say much. I admire his courage. Maybe next year I’ll grow a mustache. Think it over. Don’t want people laughing at me.

I spend too much time looking in the mirror—positive indication of failure. I should learn to Act, worry less about my appearance. I have a good reputation, conscientious, always pleasant, never curl my lip at anybody. Too much so. People think of me as a vegetable, assume I don’t mind the abuse. They think I’m not aware of the hurts, the insults, everything else. But I realize how I’m being treated. Oh yes.

JANUARY 30

International police working undercover have reports of worldwide ring of exotic prostitutes. Apparently there’s an elaborate brochure with descriptions & photos of the Merchandise. All you need is a thousand dollars cash & then just take your pick. Fly to Hamburg or Trieste or Copenhagen or anywhere on earth and do whatever you feel like doing. That’s how some people live. They get a taste of life that Earl Summerfield won’t ever know a thing about. But why not? Why can’t I live like that? Bianca’s the only woman I ever had. She used me. Got what she wanted. I hardly enjoyed it even at first. Didn’t much enjoy kissing her—lips too thin. Remember the first time I kissed her being surprised by the hard, closed teeth. I guess I’ve never impressed her very much. If I was important she might be different. Too late now. Caught in this uninteresting life. Caught.

JANUARY 31

Quite a discussion at lunch about the latest crime. McAuliffe claims to know a detective who told him she was tied to a chair in a peculiar position so the first thing police saw when they broke into the apartment was It. The things that happen between their sex and ours, impossible to believe. Guess we don’t belong together. Or do we?

Half hour wasted imagining. Police take pictures of those crimes, keep them on file, McAuliffe might be able to obtain permission for us to have a look. But if he did I wouldn’t go. I’d be ashamed.

Why does he like to talk about them? Why do I listen? I feel like vomiting but I always listen. Last Tuesday at lunch talking about that medical student going back to the room where there was a post-mortem, pulled aside the sheet and climbed on the table. Same as if she was asleep says McA. If a woman’s asleep or dead she doesn’t judge you, no need to be afraid.

Past midnight. B’s probably asleep by now. If I slipped in cautiously—perhaps.