Читать книгу This Finer Shadow - Harlan Cozad McIntosh - Страница 9

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Roberts waited near the printing plant the following afternoon. When Martin came out he went swiftly to him, holding out his hand. There was haggardness and strain—a formation of new lines in Roberts’ face.

“I could hardly wait till you were through work to-day, Martin,” he said anxiously. “I have been terribly distressed over last night. I feel that it was my mistake—entirely my mistake. I was overminded by my zealousness—or,” he hesitated, “by my jealousy. You know how I feel about you. You do know, don’t you?”

Martin, following his emotion, rather than the outposts of his mind which usually warned him, was drawn to Roberts by this speech, so painful and revealing.

“For God’s sake, Roberts,” he said, “there wasn’t any mistake. But if there is anything deserving such a name, we’ll forget my fault, and yours.”

Roberts sighed with relief.

“Then you will forgive your old mother?” he asked contentedly.

“I forgive myself and you,” repeated Martin.

Roberts did not hear, or hearing, did not understand. A strong impression of brotherhood made his hands tremble. A feeling of careless happiness exhilarated him. The vision grew clearer and his heart tried gallantly to keep pace with his mind’s picture of the Affinities, striding hand in hand against the foolish tide of intolerance and misunderstanding. He took Martin’s arm and started down the street, a new freedom in his eyes.

“We are going to have dinner together to-night, Martin.”

“I’m sorry, Roberts, but I have an engagement.”

Roberts laughed.

“Oh, you’ll come, all right!” He swung on to Martin’s arm. “We’ll have the most glorious dinner of our lives. We’ll put the table by the radio and have our sherry with Bach—yes, with Bach. But you may have Delius with your Chablis.” He shook his finger in Martin’s face and laughed again. “I warn you, however, our Benedictine will call for Wagner! The renegade!—The impious Pretender! We’ll swing his stomach like a bell over our Benedictine.”

Martin’s cheeks were sucked in. He seemed ready to laugh but his eyes were shaded.

Roberts, still chuckling, glanced at him carelessly in his merriment and was astonished.

“Martin!” he cried.

“I’m sorry. Some other time I’d like to. But to-night, I can’t come.”

Rage, a positive hatred, shook the adviser. Words of reproach and anger were about to be spoken when he was deterred by the same quality in Martin’s face that had quieted him before. This time, even in his shame, he tried to analyze the reason—to connect and precipitate Martin’s features into the symbol that stopped his fury. He felt that it was an earth-impression—a breath of old winds—a shade of substratum clay—a distillation neither spatial nor timely. He saw Martin’s face in retrospect as the outline of a rising mountain crag, lonely within the moon; or as the shaping pseudopods of cloud that are confusing in their similarity to some ancient clot of memory.

But Roberts was not easily defeated. He spoke evenly.

“We must have dinner together to-night.”

“I have an engagement,” repeated Martin.

“An engagement! Our dinner is important.”

“My engagement is the kind you can’t break.”

“Really!” A supercilious expression flitted across Roberts’ face and his one sharp word carried an air of volubility.

Martin, looking straight ahead, made one more effort.

“Won’t you walk down this way with me?” he asked.

“But this is a special dinner,” protested Roberts, following him.

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

“Oh, I see. I didn’t realize your social program was so strenuous.”

“This is the first thing of its sort,” Martin replied.

“First thing of its sort?” Roberts laughed shortly.

“Yes,” Martin answered. “That was awkwardly put.”

“Yes,” said Roberts, a mimicking expression on his face. “Yes, yes.”

“Let’s not break this, please.” Martin spoke earnestly.

Roberts’ voice acquired a superior tone.

“I can’t help it, Martin, if your sense of values is unintelligent,” he said.

“I wish you would understand.”

“I do understand.” Roberts held his finger in the air warningly. “Don’t let some transitory illusion make a fool of you, dear boy.”

“‘Transitory illusion?’” asked Martin absentmindedly. “It has a history and a future.”

“Deane Idara is a clever woman,” observed Roberts. “But you have a job.”

Martin smiled queerly.

“Doesn’t my job depend upon my work?” he asked.

Roberts stopped abruptly and faced him.

“I can tolerate rudeness, but not unkindness,” he declared with dignity.

Martin took the other by his arm.

“I want to be as good a friend as you’ve been to me, Roberts,” he said, trying to speak calmly. “Every contact, economic or social that I have, you’ve made for me. I’d not be myself if I were unappreciative. That’s not it alone, though. We have many things together—food—and music—isolate cynicisms—and all these have their place. You understand. You know, also, that even with the best of friends, sometimes a path divides. Certain diversions, certain loves, are found impossible in common.”

“But love is what I need,” said Roberts quietly.

“That element is fugitive.”

“And still I need it.”

“The whole world does,” insisted Martin.

“But I, especially.”

“It’s too difficult, Roberts.”

“Nothing is difficult,” he replied. His voice was sorrowful. “Martin! Break this date with Mrs. Idara.”

“It has more than precedence, Roberts.”

“I demand it.”

“Then,” said Martin, a feeling of exhaustion coming over him, “I’m afraid there’s no alternative. I turn down here.”

Roberts’ wide blue eyes looked white in the twilight.

“We’ve been fools, Martin. We should never quarrel. Let’s forget all this. Come on.” He was like a small boy pulling at Martin’s arm. “We’ll have wine and chicken. We’ll have mushrooms.”

It might have been a sob.

“I can’t.”

Roberts, blinded to Martin, stared at him. Then he turned swiftly. His eyes darkened in the first lights of evening and he walked hurriedly away.

Roberts’ face superimposed the view from the window where Martin stood with Deane. Its expression was somber and equivocal. Through this skeletal haze they watched the city’s significant pantomime—the silhouettes and flashings, the play of shadows below them.

“You’ve seen Roberts, haven’t you?” asked Deane quite suddenly.

Martin looked down at her bright sandals. She was wearing a deep blue hostess gown, nearly the color of the evening sky. A burnished cross, held by a woven cord, fell from her throat and lay between her breasts, and again Martin saw the silver within her hair as mast lights over the water.

She picked up a cigarette and lit it for him. Around the tip, the moist red paste from her lips left a scarlet ring. She put the cigarette in Martin’s mouth.

“Yes,” he said, holding the smoke in his lungs, “I’ve seen Roberts. But he has no place up here.”

Deane looked at him strangely.

“He disturbs me, Martin. I don’t like him.”

“He disturbs, me, Deane. He wanted me to have dinner with him to-night. When I told him I had an engagement he knew it was with you. One wheel in his brain spins on an eccentric.”

“What can he do?”

“He can kill the copper goose—cause me to lose my job. And it’s all wrong. We like each other. We should have been good friends. I admire him. He has a mind, and my brand of humor. The first time I saw him at that Relief place I was attracted to him. I wanted to know him better.”

“But couldn’t you see that he was—different?”

“You call it ‘different.’ Roberts calls it temperamental.’ Rio would call it——” He stopped.

“Rio! Who is Rio?”

“Oh. Rio? He was a shipmate. An individual. Sometime I’ll tell you what I know about him.... But to get back. I did know that Roberts was different. I believe I knew it the first time I saw him. It didn’t interfere with my admiration for him. I was lonely. Hard work on ships had surfeited me with the physical. I didn’t hesitate at the specter of consequences—although I did anticipate them. I believed that I could handle them. I couldn’t. You see, Roberts was convinced that I, too, was ‘temperamental.’”

Deane made an impatient gesture.

“He had no reason to think that.”

“Perhaps he did,” said Martin thoughtfully. “Perhaps he had a combination of reasons. First of all, I took no pains to hide my interest in him. Perhaps he misunderstood the motive. And then, there are gestures and expressions that are open to suspicion. The line of demarcation in such friendships seems variable. Roberts wanted me to belong to his group, and whether the misconstruction was artificial or genuine, he arrived at a conclusion. Tell me what you know about him, Deane.” He turned to her impulsively.

“Then I must tell you of his mother, Martin. She was as luxuriant as himself and more. She was pure crystal with the same high febrile cheeks, but an attitude so strong that I always felt his should be less. I’m sure though, that no one could touch her but himself—at least, I felt she swept along in an invulnerable carriage of glass, indifferent to any but her son. William Roberts finds his coloring from her, and his bearing, and his remarkable beauty; for,” Deane observed in reminiscence, “he wears a tie or scarf the way she wore her pearls, as though they were a part of her throat. They were glorious pearls—a small dark strand with a diseased, slow luster, indistinct in tone, but so inseparable from her body that when her skin assumed the radiance we see in Roberts, they followed her as though they loved her. What her husband meant to her before his death seemed of little importance; for her life, so obviously, was contained in Roberts’ glance, his frown, or contradictory expression. These two were more like complementary figurants intent upon each other in their mutual demand than like a mother and son. That he adored her showed in every action—from the way he placed her shawl—” Deane looked at Martin briefly, “from the gentle manner with which he drew her shawl over her exquisite, proud shoulders (it was like a caress!) to his affectionate concern over trivialities—her slightest expression, or even guarded undertones that no one knew except themselves. Once, I saw them when he became aware of a woman speaking—I knew it was without intent—and then I saw his mother’s strength. She never moved—no line of her face changed; but everything in the room became alive and hard. To me, it seemed that the tender pearls around her throat turned into steel. The woman who had been speaking with Roberts became confused, faltered, and he seemed ready to rise from his chair. But at this, his mother smiled faintly and spoke graciously to the other woman. It was all right, apparently; but I was chilled and felt ever so glad when the party broke up. Shortly after that, Martin, the mother died, and I am sure that part of Roberts went with her.” Deane was speaking intensely, with a fixed, unusual look toward Martin which he accepted steadily. Since he would not speak, she made a curious remark. “This, you knew, Martin—not the way I told it; but you knew.”

“Yes,” he answered. “Yes, I knew.” He turned from her, staring out of the window into the darkness.

The doorbell rang.

“It’s Drew,” said Deane. “No one else would come here at this time——unless——” she looked at Martin, and for a moment seemed to be less assured. Then she lifted her head. “No! He wouldn’t—Roberts wouldn’t dare! I’d better answer.”

Drew entered and kissed Deane lightly on the cheek.

“You’re lovely,” he said, holding her arm affectionately and extending his left hand to Martin who, embarrassed, knew of nothing but to squeeze the delicate, closed fingers.

Drew smiled faintly and sat down, crossing his slender legs.

“I just left Ella, poor girl,” he said, with a sigh. “She wouldn’t have a doctor. So she called me.”

Deane looked at him in surprise.

“Ella sick? Why, she seemed very well last night. Should I see her?”

“I shouldn’t bother,” said Drew, smiling faintly again. “I gave her a bromide and devotedly held her hand till she went to sleep. She’ll be all right in the morning.”

“But what happened?” insisted Deane.

Drew leaned forward and spoke more seriously.

“I’m glad both of you left when you did,” he said. “Roberts drank consistently—a thing he’s never done before, and left in a stagger, vowing he would never see Ella again. He spoke rather madly in his apartment, too. I stayed with him most of the night.” Drew sighed once more. “Of course, both of you are to blame.”

“It’s ridiculous!” said Deane, her dark eyes brilliant with anger. “Is Roberts out of his mind?”

Drew did not answer, but settling back in his chair, took from his pocket a gold cigarette case inlaid with an exquisite Mosaic design in various metals, opened it, and without offering its contents to the others, selected a rather bulky cigarette which he lit at once, before returning the case to his pocket. A singularly aromatic odor was first noticed by Martin. He looked at Drew in surprise. Then a wisp of smoke floated toward Deane who wrinkled her nose.

“One of your disgusting cigarettes,” she said. “I don’t see why you smoke them.”

“It’s a beautiful herb,” replied Drew contentedly. “Martin understands it.”

“Of course,” said Martin.

“Will you smoke?” Drew inquired of him, reaching for the case once more.

Martin smiled slowly and shook his head.

“But I can see it in your eyes,” persisted Drew.

Deane looked at Martin excitedly, then turned to the other.

“Please, Drew, don’t ever offer Martin hashish.”

“Ah!” said Drew, slightly amused. “So you know!” Then, taking a long, deep draw on the cigarette, he let the smoke escape in little puffs from his mouth and nose. His attitude became more languorous. The timbre of his voice changed and he sighed. “A quiet night,” he said. “My lovely friends.... You are lovely, aren’t you?” he continued, speaking carefully.

“Yes,” answered Martin, studied and frowning. “Lovely.”

Deane reached over impulsively and laid her hand on Drew’s.

“Won’t you put it out, darling?” she pleaded. “I hate to insist, but it gives me a feeling of——”

“Of apprehension,” supplied Drew, rising slowly and slowly crossing the room to the open window. He tossed out the half-smoked cigarette, then returned, partly on his tiptoes.

“I wish you wouldn’t smoke like this,” said Deane quite urgently. “It gives you bad dreams. You hate yourself, too.”

Drew raised his hand with a listless movement.

“Later—perhaps. But now everything is very sweet.” He smiled dreamily. “This clarity, after my extreme confusion, forgives an old sin. An image!—memories unfolding that bring a figure more alive than you.... A splendid figure.... Burning with clandestine color.... Unfaithful!... He tried, though, more than I....” Drew leaned back again, resting his head against the chair. His lips were partly open and there was a flush of pleasure upon the high oval of his cheek.

Deane arose without a word and went into the kitchen. Martin imagined that she was making coffee. As the aroma came into the living room, Drew opened his eyes, looked at Martin and shivered.

“A good awakening,” he said, smiling nervously.

“Yes,” said Martin. “The cigarettes are mild.”

“Too mild,” said Drew. “I should have eaten the salve, but I was afraid. I was nervous from spending last night with Roberts. It was terrible to see him act the way he did. He cried out once. It was like a bellow.” Feeling slightly dizzy, Drew stopped talking for a moment and wiped his forehead.

Martin waited quietly.

“This evening,” Drew continued, “I went to my bedroom and took the jar from my cabinet, holding it as though it contained radium. I was uncertain, as I always am on approaching this Nirvana; but to-night I was afraid. As I removed the lid, exposing the ointment, its ungodly musk affected my breathing. There was something sinister in its appearance. I peered deeply into it, and the jelly seemed to glow and change from a dark green to a paler color. It trembled and faded to a lighter shade, and stayed that way. Then the odor poured afresh into my nostrils. I felt staggered and closed the lid.” Drew shivered again, then relaxed in his chair, while Martin watched him.

Deane brought in three steaming cups of coffee. Martin drank his hurriedly, taking the hot liquid in large swallows. Drew sipped his, while Deane’s remained untouched.

Seized with excitement after this fresh stimulant, Drew arose suddenly, put down his cup, turned to Deane and said, “I must go. And I know you will understand, Deane, if I ask Martin to leave with me.” With feverish haste he put on his coat and Martin, with an expressive look at Deane, followed him from the apartment.

As Deane fastened the door after them she leaned upon it for a moment, her forehead resting against the panel, her small hands tightly closed.

Drew and Martin walked swiftly up the street, for the cold night breeze whipped in from the Atlantic. Martin turned down the brim of his hat and put his hands into the pockets of his topcoat. Drew looked around at him.

“Would you like to be at sea to-night?” he asked.

“I was just thinking about it,” answered Martin. “There isn’t a bad night on land but that I think of the men on ships.”

The air seemed to exhilarate Drew and he spoke again, enthusiastically.

“Will you answer a rather intimate question, Martin?”

“If I can.”

“Well, don’t be angry. But are all the stories that seamen tell—I mean the tall tales—just fancy, or are they mostly true?”

“That’s a trade secret,” said Martin thoughtfully, noticing that Drew’s classical manner had become more feminine since they had left Deane’s. Then, as though suddenly changing his mind, he added, “Yes, Drew. Most of them are true. You don’t have to exaggerate or romance about the sea. It gives you a bellyful whether you want it or not. Of course, all the adventures that sailors tell about probably didn’t happen to them. But they happened some place and to someone. I have a good collection of tales I’ve swapped, and I couldn’t tell you right now the true ones from the borrowed.”

Drew took Martin by the sleeve and they came to a halt. There was a curious, understanding expression in Drew’s eyes.

“I like you very much,” he said. “Please don’t misunderstand me, Martin, but I think a great deal of you. I’d like to know you better—to have your friendship.”

“You have my friendship, Drew.” Martin held out his hand and was surprised at the other’s firm, steady clasp.

Drew nodded his head in the direction of a subdued, blue glow on the opposite corner.

“There’s a cocktail lounge,” he said, “where once in a while I go when I’m tired of routine. I’ve never taken anyone there before, but I’d like you to come with me this evening. It’s very quiet—a place where one can rest or think as he desires. Will you?”

“I’d be glad to,” Martin answered simply, still wondering at Drew’s eagerness.

A waiter hurried to them as they entered.

“Mr. Noland,” he said, bending his head slightly before Drew. Then, glancing at Martin with mild, respectful curiosity, he led the two men to a small booth in a remote corner of the lounge where he received their order and left quietly.

Martin was attracted by the room—its lighting, the suggestion of avidity. Directly across from them, and near the wall, a fountain sent up a soft golden spray from its center, around which individual columns of multi-colored water rose and fell. A mural, hung just behind the fountain, caught its indiscreet fires. There, the lights blended into a seeming gradation of silver fungus until only the sharp blue antlers of a stag, at the top of the painting, stood out thirstily over the water.

Martin looked away from the fountain. Drew was watching him with a reflective expression, with such a gentleness foreign to men’s eyes that Martin was immediately intent. For there, in Drew, he saw the central, fine equation between his friend and savage, weeping Lesbos. The two united, defying by extreme cunning and deceitful fingers a dogmatic scythe of science which uses the symbol X for one impossible of definition. And what he saw beneath, caused Martin to tremble and lean back in his seat, with his heart beating faster as though the secret had been upon his lips or in his mind. However, that fever which comes upon a man as he sights dimly before him the object of his life’s search—the feeling that it might kill if the secret was discovered, left him suddenly. Vaguely he knew that he had touched the edge of it, and that was all. In one way he was glad that the revelation had not come to blind him. He was not ready. Nor could he, by any trick he knew, even follow. There were years before him, other trails to entice him, so he argued. And as he opened his eyes, rather painfully, Drew, concerned and full of question, brought him round again to sanity, and not a mind deliberately drugged by the spin and shuttle of the fountain’s aimless carrousel.

The waiter came at this moment and set the glasses upon the table. Even the man’s crisp, white hair seemed a part of the scheme of the lounge, Martin thought. Fancies, ridiculous and uncalled-for, occurred to him in succession until he wished that he could stay quiet forever with Drew, whom he trusted most of all in this irrepressible hysteria. However, the waiter withdrew quickly enough, resting his hazel eyes only for a moment upon Martin, who spoke to Drew with a restrained irritation.

“Was this intended?” he asked. “It seems, Drew, to be something planned.” He waved his hand impulsively. “All this,” he continued, “is native to you and unfamiliar to me. It has—it has a quality—” Martin stopped talking.

Drew picked up his drink.

“I suppose it does have what you say, or suggest,” he answered. “I’ve felt it many times. But it was not defined to me before to-night. I came here to rest, because it was restful; but I shall never come here again, because you have given it a suggestion of intimate life which is offensive. It wasn’t planned at all, Martin, and I was never native until you said so.” Drew leaned forward frowning, puzzled. “What kind are you?” he asked. “You, Martin, could vulgarize the very Church.” He sipped his drink, although Martin left his own glass untouched. “Prosaic as it may be,” Drew went on, “it is not myself with whom I’m concerned. It isn’t myself, or Roberts, or even you that I am most deeply worried about. It’s Deane.” He lifted a finger, decisive, commanding. “In her you have found sweetness, tenderness and passion—a physical, well trained animal. Don’t speak!” He held his finger warningly again as Martin’s brooding shoulders straightened. “You’ve talked uncannily enough, Martin, to make even me wonder. I love your thoughts—the upside down philosophy that makes me laugh when I believed I could never laugh again. But Martin, you surely won’t abuse this powerful—yes, this beautiful gift with Deane. Don’t misunderstand me, I beg of you once more. It isn’t evil, Martin, to use a weapon at your command. It isn’t really that you’re a devilish anti-Christ, as I first thought.” Drew lowered his voice, speaking almost frantically. “It may be that you are even Christ himself. You have your Cross and finally you’ll rest there. For you are no more invulnerable than the Man on Calvary, who under pressure—under striated clouds asked for an end of it. Is there anyone you can ask in that intolerable moment?” Drew wiped his forehead, drank deeply and spoke again, although he avoided Martin’s flaming eyes. “I repeat,” he persisted, “‘that intolerable moment!’ And it matters very little whether you consider me a fanatical, abusive priest, or—” and now the spray from the fountain seemed to lean toward Drew. Heavy lines of moisture which he failed to notice, covered his forehead. “Martin,” he said, “I know Deane. I love her ‘in my fashion.’ I—I too, was taken from a medium of ordinary happiness into this rarefied, spiritualistic land you understand so well.” Unable to speak further, Drew brushed his handkerchief across his eyes and placed his hands upon the table. To his astonishment—almost to his grief, he saw them tightly gripped by Martin, who seemed to hover over him, transfigured....

They got up and put on their coats. With surprise, they noticed that the shutters of the lounge were drawn and that the bar was untended. Alone in a corner, the white-haired waiter sat dozing. Drew pressed a bill into the hand of the sleepy attendant and opened the door himself. Out in the street the wind was blowing harder than ever and a pale green light clung like a heavy paste to the eastern horizon.