Читать книгу This Finer Shadow - Harlan Cozad McIntosh - Страница 8

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Martin worked into the routine of the printing plant. There were thirty linotypes around him, shielding him with their clamor. He found retreat in their noise and liked to feel that he was a lever or cam, bending or turning inconspicuously in the tide of words. He hid his revulsion as an automaton and mixed his sweat with the oil of the machinery. There was an acrid taste of hot lead in the air, a taste of ink, the taste and rattle of matrices. Martin could feel his shoulders bend into the machine—could see the horizon shrink to the area of light on his copy. Type, type, type—up with the line. Feel the grinding of the fellow, pressing, digesting. Out with the slug, searing hot and good to calloused fingers.

When evening came and work was over, Martin straightened his back and went to the wash-trough. The gritty soap smelled good, like candy. He associated it with freedom. Outside, he felt like running—jumping a hydrant, racing a car. He wanted to shout at the slanting sunlight.

He lived uptown, at one of the most inexpensive club-hotels for men. The rooms were clean and, from the standpoint of his present earnings, the cost was reasonable. Most of the residents were hard-working fellows who needed a place to sleep. Martin read the recreational program; but women were not included in its itinerary, so he remained in his room or walked up and down the street.

He sat in his room, thinking to a point and back. The period seemed interminable. The break, the nervous ejaculation that would throw him out of this treadmill seemed further away than before. He remembered the sea and ships upon it, hot rain, salt and rust and bubbling, rising life. The memory filled his nose and lungs and mind.

“God damn,” he said, and struck the wall with his hand.

The buzzer in his room sounded and he went to the house-phone in the hall to answer.

“Hello, Martin. How are you?”

“Hello, Roberts.”

“I have a surprise, Martin. There’s a little party and I’d like you to come with me. Just a few people. Would you like to?”

“Yes. Yes, I’d like to.”

“Good. I’ll come by for you. It will all be very informal, very casual.”

“Indeed it will,” said Martin.

“What’s that?”

“I said, indeed it will.”

“What do you mean?”

Martin could feel Roberts’ eyes over the wire, slightly protruding, and his eyebrows moving gently up and down.

“I meant nothing. When will you be here?”

“Oh. Soon. It’s unexpected.”

“Thanks,” said Martin. “Till then.”

He went back to his room and shaved. Next he put on one black sock and one gray one—not for style’s sake, nor to be eccentric. When he was dressed he looked earnestly in the mirror.

“Pale,” he said. He sat down on the bed and stared at the wall. It seemed a long time to him before Roberts rapped on the door.

“I’m glad to see you,” Martin exclaimed with relief. “It’s you all right—you and your intolerable verve.”

Roberts laughed.

“Good heavens! What finery!” he cried, looking at Martin’s suit, which was pressed.

Roberts was wearing a Derby. There was a narrow beaver collar on his dark topcoat and under the fur was a light, silken scarf. He carried white knitted gloves. He stood for a few moments in the doorway looking at Martin. Then, throwing his hat and gloves on the bed, he went over to the mirror and adjusted his scarf, observing himself carefully.

Martin lay back in his chair and watched him, a twinkle in his eye.

“You’re beautiful, all right,” he said.

Roberts turned around and nodded seriously.

“I know I am,” he answered. “But there is more character than feature—that’s what pleases me.”

Martin laughed good-naturedly and got out of his chair.

“Both qualities are necessary for complicity with women, aren’t they?”

Roberts gave him a slow, cynical smile and they left.

Martin was sorry that he had accepted the invitation to the party when he met his hostess, for her immoderate greeting brought about a sudden loneliness within him. Among the guests this feeling of desolation grew stronger. Their faces and smiles seemed vaporous and foreign. One large fellow grinned persistently, his eyes unfocused. Only the hostess retained her buoyancy. She bounded from person to person with an amazing levity. There were sentences all over the room, but they were incoherent, more porous than the faces. Feeling helpless, Martin went to a corner and sat down. One of the guests sang “The Bells of St. Mary’s” backwards, and Martin began to doze.

Through his discomfort he heard a new voice. Clear, apart from the conversation, it held his attention. He opened his eyes. Near the fireplace at the other end of the room, on a large divan and leaning far back into it, sat a blond young man, his legs crossed. In spite of his careless attitude, Martin was conscious of the earnestness with which the other regarded him. Fully aware of Martin’s observation the man continued to look at him squarely. At last he sat straighter, brushed his hair into place with a sweep of his hand and gave Martin an unusually provocative smile. Its good nature was genuine, but Martin kept to his own melancholy and somber stare. He had never seen a man with such apparent knowledge of his blood and caste, nor one so youthfully wise. Altogether, Martin saw in him a weathered, inbred prototype of himself, an experienced apprentice. It was the soil, the rash, the water Martin needed; and he continued to stare like a child absorbed. It was not until the young man turned to his companion that Martin realized that a woman as individual—more quickly individual, held his strange friend’s arm. Under Martin’s continued gaze she placed her other hand upon the blond man’s sleeve and looked up at him questioningly.

In the half-light of the room Martin could see her profile—could feel the intensity of her womanhood; and it caused him to forget, momentarily, her companion. Holding her throat that way, the way her breast rose under her satin gown, the unnatural silver in her dark hair caused Martin to speculate—to wonder at his own abreaction. He felt awkward and indecisive, yet withal, an inconsiderate urge and tightness under his collar. He could scarcely restrain himself from walking over and speaking. But he stayed quiet instead, and felt hot and cold at each thought, and finally decided he would just go away from sheer itching. When at last the woman did turn to look at him he continued to stare at her for a moment the same way he had done with the young man. Then he found that his thoughts were going down the satin dress to the slim waist and hips that seemed to be moving under his watery eyes, and down at last to her stockings.

“It isn’t her legs,” he thought. “It’s her stockings and every damnable, secret place they lead to.” Looking up again he saw her young clear lips, tattooed; and, he imagined, caps of equally bright color under her dress. Her eyes were the most beautiful of all of her, and yet the worst; for Martin, in amazement that they should translate his idiom so perfectly, felt that they were turning him inside out so that each thought and desire could be read plainly. However, there was something else about the woman that made him want to go away, or come, or do anything as long as it was she who sent him away, or took him in.

“I’m mad,” he said. “She’s nothing but a brood-mare. A wild, teasing brood-mare stamping for me. But I wish I had her in the grass where she should lie.” And he turned his flushed, wet face toward Roberts who was approaching.

“At whom are you looking?” asked the adviser, suspicion in his tone.

“I was watching,” Martin answered.

“Where are you looking?” persisted the adviser.

“I believe I should go home,” said Martin briefly.

Roberts looked around in the direction of Martin’s stare and smiled without amusement.

“Come along,” he said, sighing and taking his friend by the arm. “Either one was inevitable, I suppose.”

Without answering, Martin walked with him to the couch where the young man and his companion were sitting.

“I want you both to know Martin,” said Roberts. “He was just going home on account of you. I wonder what he meant, Deane,” he continued, ignoring the young man who stood up, smiling unconcernedly. “What did he mean, Drew?” he asked, this time of the man; and without waiting for an answer, sat down rather sulkily, peering from under his eyelids at Deane as though he was displeased, for Martin and Drew had moved a short distance away from the divan and had begun to talk together.

Deane looked at Roberts with understanding, her brilliant lips open, her cool, dark eyes filled with indulgence.

“Your friend looks interesting enough,” she said. “Why does he upset you? Isn’t he your protegé? Dear Ella,” she glanced toward the hostess, “intimated as much.”

“Damn her fat tongue,” said Roberts. “But,” he continued wearily, “I wish he were, Deane. I’m part of him and he doesn’t know it—or pretends not to. I gave him a rotten job. A job full of grit and lead and ashes and he won’t—he won’t——”

Deane seemed a little contemptuous.

“No?”

Roberts shook his beautiful head and turned away despairingly.

“A young girl in her first romance,” said Deane, speaking now with an undertone of anger.

“You only think me so,” went on the adviser, still desperate. “But I’ve waited for this a thousand years and it goes in one bleak night to my one dear friend,” he looked up at Drew who was still standing before Martin, “or,” he ended bitterly, glancing once more at the woman beside him, “to you. I tell you, I know him, Deane. I saw it in his eyes. He was watching you so. I never saw him watch me that way. Never!”

Deane looked at him in amazement.

“You?” she cried. “Watch you?”

Roberts, observing her, sat straighter, became more haughty.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “He never looked that way at me. And I’m mad because of necessity and not an empty wish! It’s the bone of me—it’s my flesh and the rancor of centuries!” He stood up, trembling.

“Drew!” he called commandingly. He was white, beautiful and Satanic in his rage.

Drew started, looked around at him and the two young men stepped nearer.

“Roberts!” cried Drew in consternation.

But the adviser merely waved his hand.

“Roberts!” said Martin slowly. His eyes half closed, and in the space where the iris showed came a harsh light as if misdirected robots were moving behind the lashes. His face, still burned by the sea, became intent. It was as though he were concentrating upon a floating object. Motile, sensitive lines drew around the corners of his eyes and turned from rust to white. Under this stare, Roberts faltered in his attitude of severity; and wheeling suddenly, without excuse, his hands half out, walked swiftly across the room to the buffet where he stood, leaning one arm upon it.

Deane sat quietly, watching Martin. There was now a look of contempt upon his face. It formed about the fine cheeklines, which by themselves seemed to curl until the face solidified and grew articulate with sour flutes of madness. He took a step toward Roberts and Drew caught him by the arm.

“What is it, Martin?” he asked. “In heaven’s name, don’t look that way! Be careful! Everyone is watching you. Stay here with us!”

Abruptly, Martin sat down with Deane, so close that she could feel him tremble. She looked up quickly at Drew, who nodded, and with a brief, inscrutable smile, left them and went to Roberts.

As he waited for Roberts to speak, there was a tactfulness and grace about him which the adviser could not evade.

“Drew,” he said at last, “listen to me. It’s dreadful.” He paused to look steadily at his friend. “I can’t work without thinking about him. I can’t eat. It’s a damnable obsession! And to think!—with such a shameful lad!”

Drew appeared listless.

“Is that the word, Roberts?”

“It’s the smallest I can think of.”

Drew took a purple flagon containing a cordial from the buffet, holding it so that he might find its color from the room’s dim light.

“No,” he said, “‘shameful’ is not the word. Rather I should say,” he hesitated, “‘shameless.’”

Roberts regarded him carefully.

“What is your interpretation of that word?”

“The usual one,” said Drew slowly. “A lacking of, Roberts. Not a diverting of.”

“You think then, that he has no moral sense at all,” said Roberts, as though in agreement.

Drew tilted the flagon, observing the changing violet lights as the clear, thick drops of the liqueur ran individually down the neck of the bottle.

“It isn’t this important, dear,” he said. “It can’t be this important.” He was still observing the flagon. “Do you know this amazing drink?” he asked. “It comes from a small flower that grows only in the Bavarian Alps, and at an altitude of between four and five thousand feet. This very discriminating blossom is called the ‘blue dormant.’ ... A boy once pointed out to me the place where they grew,” he said reflectively.

“Oh! Damn you, Drew!” said Roberts miserably. “Answer my question. You’ve often told me that you, yourself, were unmoral, not immoral—are you drawing a likeness?”

Drew replaced the Gebirge Enzian and faced Roberts, sincerity in his voice.

“You were terribly upset and I chatted a bit. That’s all. I don’t even know what I said, and I don’t believe you meant what you said.”

“Oh, I do.” Roberts nodded his head grimly. “Indeed I do. Look over there.” He motioned slightly in the direction of Martin and Deane who were speaking intimately with each other. “Do you see that, my love?” he went on contemptuously. “As catching as flypaper and as promiscuous. And yet I can’t help myself. The very way he looks at Deane puts arrows into me.” Suddenly Roberts’ eyes filled with tears, and half choking, he turned from the guests and from Ella, who was hovering nearby and who seemed frightfully amused. Instinctively, Drew stepped close to him, his protective shadow encircling the bent shoulders of his friend, hiding the quiet sob.

When Drew had gone to Roberts, Deane placed her hand on Martin’s for a moment, then withdrew it gently, without speaking.

“It was a kiss,” thought Martin. “She’s bringing me across the river.... A proud woman, with her hair like the lights of a ship.... A woman sheltered, but one inalienable to love.... I wish she’d smile again.... God help me! She’s on my trail like a hound! I might as well have spoken through a trumpet.” Turning toward her he said, “I really shouldn’t have come here. I feel out of place. But,” he hesitated, “I thought that it might be ... and it is,” he added shortly.

Deane started to touch him again, then stopped, for Martin looked so eager and shy that she became the same way.

“Damn it!” thought Martin. “What a trip!” ... “Well,” he said aloud, “it shouldn’t have been.”

Deane laughed softly. Martin could see the black diagonal stripes across her red kid slippers and this cabalistic signal took his thoughts back wantonly to the Church where so often as a child he had released his theological rut into the dark precipices of the Cathedral. Those fearfully sweet memories came sharply into his mind now and he remembered how the vast, swelling notes of the organ had lifted him up and rocked him into peacefulness. Nostalgia overcame him as he continued to gaze at the little red and black slippers. Then he grimly blocked these crevices of the mind which exude a flavor too ghastly even for the pith and stench of the undersoul, and he spoke again, this time without thought or conception.

“I mean,” he said, “that for a long time the parties I’ve gone to have been so apart from this sort of thing—that is, apart dimensionally. The people were plain and simple. There were rivers, mostly yellow, and bushes and trees to lend informality, and all the music came out of parrots. Once, along such a river-path, I met a man with a nose as broad as my fist. His dark skin had such heavy needlework upon it that it was beveled like tooled leather. His feet splayed like a water-creature’s. We couldn’t speak each other’s language, but we both understood food. It made us friends. We had mashed rice, water, and some kind of grape he’d brought out of the forest over his shoulder.” Martin stopped abruptly at Deane’s curious look.

“I’m sure there was that and more in the tropics, Martin,” she said deliberately. “There was the Right Honorable Lord Jesus stamping through the jungle.”

Martin, embarrassed and yet amused, looked steadily at Deane.

“Such things can, and should be reduced,” he said. “I’d have been impatient, myself.” He hesitated, unable to keep from staring at the soft line of her throat where each shadow lay like a bruise upon her skin. This intimation of her feeling for light, of limbs too tender, made him lift his intense eyes to her own which were even more brilliant. “Please,” he continued, “will you please let me take you home?”

Now, Deane saw him differently, with more excitement. What an enigma! And what a charming transition from his faint braggadocio (or was it!) to this straightforward question. She knew that he was waiting for an answer, yet she was silent. Silent while they kept turning their heads to reassure each other like naughty children in the cool green brush and willows by a railroad track. They knew. They understood completely; and Martin, in this Roman anticipation, shivered; and when at last they did stand up to separate only for a moment they still seemed to cling together helplessly. Once, as they crossed the floor, Martin paused, and Deane, aware of his intention, went on alone. She disappeared into the hallway, and the sight of her sweet entirety, her gown, the thought beneath it made Martin caustic and erect. Only then did he look around to see that Drew and Roberts were observing him. As he came up to them, Drew greeted him warmly, but Roberts held his face away.

“We were talking of compassion,” said Drew, smiling. “It takes sophistry, Martin.” He turned to his other friend. “Isn’t that true, Roberts?” he asked.

“It takes common sense,” said the adviser.

“It takes that, too,” said Martin. “It takes sophistry and common sense and a hundred other things. But I prefer to leave it to the Giver.”

“Right,” said Roberts angrily. “It takes the god-damned miserable Giver!” Then more softly, “Deane Idara is a remarkable woman, Martin. You realize that she has recently suffered a severe shock?”

“No! A shock, you say?”

Roberts’ eyes shone above the sudden pallor of his cheeks.

“Yes,” he said. “She lost her husband only a very short while ago.”

“Why did you tell me that?” asked Martin rapidly. He tried to quiet himself, but he bit his lip and looked at Drew rather wildly. “I understand death. I too have died. I too have seen intimate death.” The phosphorus shone again in his eyes. “Cowardly remark!” he said under his breath.

The adviser seemed to draw within himself, growing even more pale. He spoke sarcastically.

“Do you mean that you, too, Martin, have lost a husband?”

Martin glanced again at Drew who was standing motionless, expressionless, then back at Roberts. He could scarcely move his lips.

“I’m going home,” he said. “Goodnight, Drew. And goodnight, Roberts.”

“Goodnight,” Drew answered, holding out his hand to detain the adviser who was automatically following. “Goodnight, Martin,” Drew called after him again. Then, “Roberts!” he whispered uneasily, still holding his friend’s arm. “You don’t have even the foundation! Won’t you be sensible?”

Deane Idara was standing at the door. Martin’s shadow fell across her face and they left the apartment. Outside, the air was high and pointed with light. Crisp new stars whizzed over them, brightening the street. Martin could feel her arm get tighter and tighter, and his own breath became heavier until in the darkness between corner-lamps he swung her round to him and kissed her cold little wet lips. With his arms around her and the feel of her lips becoming warmer under his, he whispered, “I’ll kill you. Oh, by God!—I’ll kill you, I love you so!” And then he kissed her again until he felt himself just going away as he had thought he would. Deane was pressing as tightly as she could against him, but her head seemed to fall back too loosely and Martin kept saying, “I’ll get a taxi, dear. I’ll get a cab.” He waved at several until one stopped, and after they had climbed inside he pulled Deane to him and asked, “Where are we going, dear?” She kissed him, and Martin could feel her breath on his cheek. The cab driver slumped down in his seat indifferently and lit a cigarette. “Where are we going, Deane?” Martin asked again.

“Not far,” she answered, nodding to him feverishly. “Tell him to drive up the street. It’s one sixty-nine....”

Her apartment was dim and motionless. A long window faced the line of city buildings. Martin and Deane stood before it, breathing the soundless air. In this black and white panorama he felt indistinct, separate from his identity. He had removed his topcoat and he imagined he could feel Deane’s skin against his, so tight was her black gown. They stood by the window, holding each other in a sensuous embrace of expectation—of change of clime. Then he thought of her stockings and her sacramental slippers. They were furiously beautiful and revealing against the rug. Martin put his hand within her blouse and held it there while she pressed closely to him. He unslipped a button, then another, and another. “I’ve buck fever, Deane,” he whispered hoarsely.

Deane shook her hair, her eyes blazing.

“You helpless bastard,” cried Martin to himself.... “Let’s break it, Deane,” he whispered to her once more. “Let’s break it completely,” and he pulled the loosened gown from her white shoulders. “And here’s mine,” he went on, continuing the motion until his opened shirt and singlet were flat against her breast. “We’ll call it the wild black clogs of Belgium, dearest,” and he clenched his hard brown arms around her waist. Without speaking further he took her hand and led her into the adjoining room. He sat down on the gray paneled bed, pulling her surely beside him. Deane saw the slight trembling of his lips and the heavy expression of his eyes which stirred her with an intoxication that was close to fear. She was drawn by the swift pace of his emotion, yet held back by the certainty of his demand. Even as she was thinking, the rapid heartbeats against her became more rapid and the pressure of Martin’s hands brought so definite a response that all vaporous abstractions were forgotten and she knew herself in an immediate physical presence. Wanting Martin as she did, the knowledge of his action brought no idle gestures; and she was quiet, with eyes half closed as she felt herself lifted, then rested, with Martin’s arm for a pillow. Infinitesimal beads of moisture formed on Martin’s temples as his hand caught the rim of her stocking, but the warm, soft flesh above it made him cry out softly. The very lights seemed tenderer and the very shadows kinder as these two lovers held each other. The night was penetrated by a question, by a sob; and all the cruelties and perversions of humanity were justified by this union—natural, unashamed and magnificent in simplicity and passion.