Chapter VI: Part 6

He ran his hand through his hair. “I was very close to you,” he said.

“I thought you were.” She was waiting.

“You’re right, there were a lot of others, but I don’t think I loved any of them.”

“No one at all?”

He didn’t answer. He stood up and walked across the room. Then he came back and stood looking down at her.

“I don’t know what to say. We were very close once and then I came back here and made myself forget everything about Europe, everything that had happened to me there.

“It hasn’t been easy to do. The only way I could get by, though, was to do what I’m doing: become a broker. I can’t be the way I was; I can’t afford it. Of course I can still have all the girls I want and I can have a good time. I suppose I can fall in love sometime ... again, but I have to be a conventional person and I don’t mind.

“Tonight those people were examples of freedom....”

She interrupted him. “Not really freedom, self-indulgence perhaps.”

“Whatever it is, they call it being free. I don’t want that. I couldn’t have that kind anyway because I’m not talented; I don’t do anything well and I know it.”

“You can be a free person, though.”

“How?”

She sighed. “I’ve already told you and you already know. You can love.”

“You think that’s the answer?”

“I don’t know any other. It’s been important to me.”

He sat down beside her, sat close to her. “I don’t know if I could love someone,” he said. “I don’t know if I could love you the way you’d want.”

“You can,” said Carla. “You can do whatever you want.”

His hand touched hers. She sat very straight then, her eyes on the window, on the white lights. He put his arm around her shoulders and kissed her and she closed her eyes upon the lights outside.

For a long time they were like that on the couch. Then they separated and stood up, self-conscious and shy, newly discovered. He motioned with his hand toward the bedroom. She nodded and they went into the bedroom together and met finally in the middle of the bridge.

* * * * *

Robert Holton held Carla from him at arm’s length and looked at her. She was pretty, at this moment quite beautiful, her face white and her greenish eyes glittering.

“I’ve been waiting, Bob,” she said. “I’ve waited such a long time.” He pulled her to him then, her body against his. A part of him was given up entirely to making love but another part was still detached, still watching.

He helped her to undo her dress. Modestly now, with the reserve of strangers, they stood back to back as they undressed.

She was beautiful and he had forgotten that. She was not really pale: her skin was gold. She was slim and cleanly made and her breasts were small. They faced each other and looked at each other, the detached, the lonely part of himself memorizing every detail of her.

Carla walked slowly toward him and touched his shoulder. Tears were in her eyes.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

She shook her head and smiled: nothing was the matter now.

He took her slowly then, pressing her against his body gently, every nerve vibrating in both of them; hearts beating quickly.

They stood like this in the middle of the room; then she broke away and walked over to the bed and pulled the cover down.

“Turn out the light, Bob,” she whispered. It was a ceremony now: neither of them spoke out loud in the presence of the miracle taking place. He turned out the light. The room was dark except for the lighted dots of windows in the buildings opposite and, over the buildings, like unorganized window lights, cold stars shone clearly.

He turned and walked to the bed. Carla lay on her back, her arms behind her head. He got in beside her and they lay there together, not speaking, hardly breathing, and he felt the blood pounding in his head while, next to him, Carla was shivering, was waiting. He turned over on his side, barely touching her.

They did not speak now. Words were discarded and no surface was needed. Instinct guided them finally, made them a separate world together; there was only a dream existence outside of themselves.

And Robert Holton became the lover and ceased to be himself; his detached awareness was, for the time, submerged and forgotten.

He ran his hands over her, feeling the smooth skin of her shoulders, her thighs.... They kissed and began the act of completion.

To Holton it became a battle and a surrender, a taking and a giving; it became a fusion. He was no longer himself, he was enlarged; a giant in a world of giant sensations. He was no longer alone or incomplete.

Then the rhythm was found and the wild twistings and strugglings stopped. He was conquering now and, in the conquering, giving.

He entered her and to the rhythm of their fast-beating hearts, with a rush of sound like wind in his ears, he discovered the single world. Lights whirled inside his head, behind his eyes: they came in series--circles of sharp lights.

He was choking then, barely breathing, able only to cough and gasp. Sweat covered him; his hands clutched at her shoulders as though they were the only remaining solidity in a world rapidly disintegrating into sensations and fast-moving lights and a quick wind.

There was no time now. There was no memory. There was no reason. The struggle stopped and the moment came like fire.

Carla’s face was buried in his shoulder; she stiffened and then became relaxed, the battle finished and won.

Like fire it came and the wonder was achieved; a world was glimpsed and lost in a moment. Then, tide-like, the emotion stopped and withdrew. The ecstasy was gone and only two people were left in its wake, left on a high shore, exhausted, shipwrecked.

Robert Holton lay for a moment upon Carla’s still body, supporting himself with his elbows so that he would not crush her; he breathed deeply, taking in the air with great sobs. Beneath him Carla was quiet, at peace, her shuddering stopped.

He kissed her very gently then and they separated, without words; they lay quietly side by side, touching each other, yet apart, the trace of their fire still inside of them, and exhaustion brought with it no sadness, no loneliness.

Robert Holton put his arm under her head; then he looked out the window, looked at the real stars, not nearly as bright as the ones in his head, the ones they had made together.

Silence and darkness protected them.

Part of his mind became detached again and he saw himself in relation to the world. He saw himself in a darkened room of a large hotel, lying exhausted beside the wife of a painter. He frowned in the dark and he fought the vision of the outer world.

Carla moved her hand over his chest, twisting the hairs; he felt a spasm of tenderness shake him and he took her and held her close to him. This was the moment when he felt he was not alone, felt that he was not a single particle lost in a void. The half of him lost in the womb had been regained and he was finally complete: he was God and earth and other stars, so great was this fusion.

They slept quietly in each others arms. They slept unaware of time for they _were_ time.

Carla woke first. She gave a start and Robert Holton opened his eyes, wondered where he was; then he saw Carla beside him, saw a vague figure by the light of stars.

“_Caro mio_,” she murmured, saying the first words either had spoken.

“Darling,” he whispered.

“It’s so perfect,” she said and he put her head on his shoulder again. Then they were still, looking at the uncertain outline of their bodies on the whiteness of the bed.

He felt her smooth legs. They were cool, like dreams half-remembered.

“I love you,” she whispered into his ear, “so much more than you know.”

He kissed her for answer and his detached self almost fused with hers, almost made a union, almost died and made him free.

Carla turned on the light. It was two o’clock and they had been asleep for almost an hour.

Robert Holton lay quietly on the bed, his eyes closed, his breathing regular, one arm over his forehead as though to defend himself. She leaned over and kissed him lightly, then she got out of bed and went into the bathroom.

Her face shocked and pleased her. “How depraved I look,” she murmured to herself. Her face was glowing and her eyes shone and glittered. There were red marks on her white skin. His beard had scratched her and made her usually white face pink. With a sudden gesture she swept her hair back out of her face, held her dark curling hair captive.

Holton appeared behind her then and he put his arms around her waist and kissed the back of her neck. She shuddered and closed her eyes. She could not look at light with so much inward light behind her eyes. They stood like that. Then he let her go. They looked at each other: two people now, so recently a single world.

“Happy?” she asked.

He nodded. “I’ve never had it like this before,” he said. “It never meant as much to me as this.”

They walked back into the bedroom and sat down side by side on the bed. Modestly Holton drew the sheet over their laps. They sat quietly without speaking, their bare arms around each other. When Carla looked at the window she could no longer see stars and lighted windows; she could see only their reflection on black glass.

“What are you thinking?” he asked and she saw that he’d been watching her.

“Nothing, Bob. I don’t think all the time, you know. I was only feeling.”

“Feeling what?”

She smiled. “Feeling all the world.”

“I think I felt that, too ... to live in a big way....”

“Yes, I know.” She sighed. “You have to break all your little patterns. You have to expand now.”

But there was resistance to this. “I don’t see why you can’t have everything and still have that, too.”

“No, everything must be the richest and the fullest. Have you that?”

He stretched, the muscles moving under white skin. “Maybe it is; I don’t know.” He took her then and they fell back together onto the bed. For several minutes they were together and then he rolled over on his side. She opened her eyes.

“What’s the matter, Bob?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. He was looking at her, his dark hair in his eyes. He pushed it back.

“You’re not sad?”

“No.” He ran his hands over her hips. “I was only wondering what’s to happen next. You’ll go back to Europe.”

She had been waiting for this. She had been waiting for him to ask this. Now she could say what she felt but the words did not come easily. “I don’t have to go back,” she said. “I can stay here as long as I like.”

“Then your husband’ll come over here.”

“I can leave him.”

He shook his head. “I couldn’t marry you.”

She was lost. She was falling now. It seemed as if the room had become cold and foreign and she had come to a hostile country. There was no longer an answer to make: the answer had been made. She tried not to let her face show what she felt.

“Why couldn’t you marry me?”

“I haven’t any money.”

“I have.”

“I wouldn’t want that. You wouldn’t want to be married to a broker and live in New York.”

“Why do you have to be a broker?”

He sighed then and she saw for the first time that he was the one trapped, the one who would not escape. “What else can I do?” he asked.

“You can break with all this.” She was fighting.

“But what could I do? I have to do something. I have to be something.”

“Why do you have to be something? Why do you have to do things that you don’t want, that make you unhappy?”

“Everyone has to. Besides, I’m not sure that I am unhappy.” She was defeated at that moment. The dream she had been fashioning disappeared and there were no traces of it left, only a lingering sadness and an open wound.

He went on talking and she answered him but there was nothing left for either of them to discuss.

Then after a while they both stopped talking. They sat side by side looking out the window, or rather looking at themselves reflected in the black mirror. Holton turned out the light and Carla was able to see the stars again.

“That was funny, wasn’t it?” chuckled Holton.

“What? What was funny?”

“Lewis tonight and all those people talking about religion and art.”

“I don’t think it was funny; I think it was sad.”

“Why sad?”

“They were lost, I think. Just like us, Bob.”

She could feel him looking at her. “Are you?” he asked softly.

She would not let herself cry. She would not give way. She would have to be strong now. Her voice carefully controlled, she said, “No more than you. We could be complete, I think.”

“I think we could,” he said and she knew that he felt nothing the way she did. Carla had the feeling of coming into a stranger’s house expecting friends, expecting familiar things. She was with an unknown, a man who did not feel what she did.

“I had hoped,” said Carla, “that we could.” She was going to be accurate in what she said. She used each word like the cut of a knife to sever the relationship, to kill her own love. “I don’t think we can now. You want to live a certain life. You want what you know and though you don’t like it you think it’s the safe thing. I don’t understand you, I’m afraid. I’ve tried to see all this through your eyes. I didn’t want it to be just another one, another woman. I wanted it to be important to you: it was so important to me. I think I was wrong. I think I was selfish and I’m sorry.” She wondered when her voice would break.

Then Holton tried to reconstruct at last. “No, you don’t understand. I feel very close to you. I’ve liked this more than any other time, more than with anyone else. But you see I can’t leave what I’m doing; I couldn’t live on you for the rest of my life.”

She sighed. “That’s such a superficial thing; that’s all the surface. When you feel something for another person those things don’t matter.”

“Someday they might. Of course I’m lonely and not very happy. You have to accept that. In a few years I’ll get married and maybe that’ll make it better. I could,” he was speaking slowly now, “marry you. I could do that but you wouldn’t be happy.”

“How do you know I wouldn’t be happy here?”

“You’re different, that’s all. I can’t tell you what the difference is. I don’t know.”

And she couldn’t tell him what the difference was. There was no way to tell.

He put his arms around her in the dark and they relaxed on the bed and she tried to give herself to the moment but she could not: too much had been given already.

“It’s a temptation,” said Holton suddenly.

“What is?” They separated.

“To go to Europe with you, to live with you.”

“It could be done.”

“Maybe.... No, it wouldn’t work.”

“Why?”

“It just wouldn’t be practical.”

No, she thought, it wouldn’t be practical.

Then the passion came back to them and she almost forgot his withdrawal. She fell back onto the pillows, his body over hers.

He whispered in her ear, “You know I really have to leave after this.”

“Of course you must,” said Carla, dying gently.

3

THE YELLOW WOOD

_Chapter Thirteen_

The early morning was cold and Robert Holton shivered as he left the warm lobby of the hotel. He stood outside on the sidewalk and wondered where he was. He turned to the left and walked a few steps and then he remembered the street he was on, remembered where east and west were. He turned to the right and walked rapidly toward Fifth Avenue.

The streets were almost deserted. Occasionally a taxicab would clatter by. Occasionally a tired couple looking for a room would pass him on the sidewalk. As he walked, his own footsteps made sharp regular noises on the pavement.

He came at last to a subway entrance. He breathed deeply, took a last breath of clean air and went down inside the ground.

Pale lights burned in old sockets and a sleepy Negro sat within the money-changer’s booth. A sailor stood vomiting in a corner; he was very quiet about it and the Negro paid no attention to him.

Robert Holton put his nickel in the turnstile.

On the platform several people were waiting for the train. They were all tired. Another sailor had a girl and he was standing very close to her. They were both drunk and made strange little movements with their heads and hands, slow-motion movements, as though they were flying.

Robert Holton stood against an iron pillar. He felt exhausted but physically serene. He rested his head on the hard rough surface. It was pleasant to stand like this, underground.

The uptown train stopped with a jolt, the doors opened and Robert Holton stepped into the lighted train. The doors closed and the train started again.

Everyone in the car was weary or drunk or both. Papers and cigarette butts covered the floor. A pair of dirty gloves lay at his feet, forgotten by the owner, unwanted.

Robert Holton tried to sleep but the glare of light through his eyelids was distracting. His physical exhaustion was lessening, too, and he began to feel a return of energy.

He would not think of Carla, though; he would not think of her for a little while. He would wait until he was in his room.

After a long time, after ten minutes, the train stopped at his station and he climbed out of the ground and stood on the concrete surface of the earth; a suggestion of morning was in the sky and the wind blew fresh and cold from the river. He walked to his hotel.

“Evening,” said the clerk behind the desk.

“Good evening,” said Holton.

“Is it getting colder out?”

Holton nodded. “Probably be a real cold day tomorrow.” He walked over to the counter. “Have I got any mail?”

“Let’s see ... that’s...?”

“Holton.”

The clerk looked, then shook his head. “No mail, Mr Holton.” He paused. “You was in the army?”

“Yes, I was in the army.”

“So was I.” The clerk was lonely and wanted to talk and Holton was still tired and nervous and wanted to think. “It sure is nice being out,” said the clerk.

“Yes, it’s good to be out.”

“I was with the 82nd; you remember the 82nd, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.”

“We had a good group of guys.”

“I know you did.”

“Nothing like being a civilian, is there?”

“No,” said Robert Holton, “there’s nothing like being out. Good night.”

“Good night.” The clerk who had been with the army was sad to see him go.

He turned the light on in his room. It was all just the same, the troubling painting and the crowded dresser. Sometimes he would come into his room and have a feeling that everything would be changed when he turned on the light, that something exciting would have happened to change his room. It was always the same, though; always the way he left it.

Holton went into the bathroom. He should take a bath; he wanted to take a bath but he was too tired. In the morning; there would be time for that in the morning.

He undressed and put on the bottom of his pajamas; he never used the tops. Then he looked at himself in the mirror for a long time. He did not see himself in the mirror; he saw no image; rather he was trying to find an image, an explanation in the glass. But he found nothing and as he realized his failure the reflection of his face appeared in the mirror and he looked at it without interest because it was familiar and because he could see nothing behind it.

He turned and went into his room. He sat down on the bed and wondered whether he could sleep or not because his mind was uneasy. Holton turned out the lights and stretched out on his bed. He would make himself sleep; he would not think of Carla or of the day ended.

But his mind was too active now for him to sleep. He tried to hypnotize himself, tried not to hear the odd words and conversations in his ears.

He gave up finally. The barriers went down.

George _Robert_ Lewis’s voice sounded in his head and the clashing colors of the fairy night club glittered in his head. Lewis’s voice, flat and nasal, became articulate.

“I do feel that religion is merely a substitute for the loss of a personal vision.” His sharp little laugh sounded and the words repeated themselves over and over again in Robert Holton’s ear: loss of a personal vision ... a vision ... and elision.... The words became a refrain. The repetitions went on until Holton felt himself losing control. He was angry. He made the repetitions stop.

George _Robert_ Lewis began to talk again.

“I feel that we can find some way through the morass of life, some way to be serene and not sterile, not static. I think probably art is the way for the sensitive. If one has talent one can practise a medium; without talent one can appreciate.

“Love? What _does_ that word mean, darling? I’ve tried so awfully hard to be sincere about it and I’ve had some delicious attempts at it. Did you ever know Philip?... No, of course you wouldn’t have known. But as I was saying ... what was I saying?”

Holton tried consciously to recall what Lewis had said. But when he tried to hear speeches again he could not. Lewis’s voice began again, a disembodied voice speaking among colors in a place where all emotions were in a minor key.

“I think one must really barricade oneself against the world. One must retreat. Now don’t tell me it’s cowardly to retreat. Nothing in this world should be put on such a superficial basis as that. We are talking on different planes. That’s why communication is so difficult. Every argument is true and false and can be argued rightly from either side. To have any agreement those discussing should decide right away on what plane they want to talk. On a superficial and obvious one the terms bravery and cowardice and right and wrong have a certain meaning. On a deeper plane they have different, sometimes opposite, meanings--sometimes no meaning at all.

“Well, to get back to my point, on the _deepest_ level of understanding only instinct and what is natural counts. If one can’t arrive at love (and so many of us, darling, haven’t the capacity for it) then one must make a substitute, something to take up the sixty or seventy years one is alive. That’s where art is important. I understand business men feel the same way about business, though I’m not at all sure about that.

“And then as for all this driveling about going to Rome let me say I do feel that religion is merely a substitute for the loss of a personal vision....”

The sound of Lewis’s voice became louder and continued until finally the voice became so loud that it ceased to be a voice and became silence.

Robert Holton wanted to sleep but there were so many things that had to be arranged first.

There was also the dream of the night before to be recalled. He would think of that later.

He remembered Jim Trebling. He thought of the days on the boat when they had talked about the future.

Against a background of sea he could recall the image of Trebling. Details were absent and he could not make out the face but he could hear the voice and he could see the ocean.

“I hate the idea of being tied down any more than I have to be. You know, Bob, we’ve lived the most unnatural life there is during this war. I get the feeling sometimes that we’ve lost a lot of time. I keep wanting to start over again.

“I might want to start my own business. I think that’s not so bad: it’s worse working for somebody else. It’s funny but I’d just as soon never work. I’d just as soon drift the rest of my life.”

And Robert Holton had agreed. He agreed in those days.

“Of course you have to have money to loaf. Maybe if we hadn’t been raised in such a sound middle-class way we could be bums but we’re too used to being comfortable. No, we’re too used to being comfortable. We’ve got to get the money first.”

Robert Holton had agreed to that, too. He had agreed to everything. He wanted to be as free as possible. At least he thought he had then. Because his friend wanted it he felt he did too. He assumed a similar identity.

Trebling had more to say and his deep laughing voice continued: “No, we’re going to have to work a little. Not much, just a little to get enough ahead. We’re going to be careful though not to get bogged down, not to get too interested in working. It’s dangerous to get to like it.”

Holton agreed.

“Well, Bob, get your mind on the ball. How’re we going to spend that army money? I think pottery out in California sounds easy.”

Yes, pottery was easy. Then they separated and they changed. Or perhaps only he, Holton, had changed. He’d done the easiest thing, he thought. But it was true that he was entangled now for the rest of his life with Heywood and Golden; with them or another like them.

Trebling was entangled, too. Holton was pleased by that as he lay in the dark. Trebling hadn’t done better. He belonged to the army now and his chances of beginning a business were slight. He might try it though; he might be able to live the way he wanted to. Holton shuddered. It would be awful to miss freedom so narrowly.

There was a problem, still unsolved: what did he want?

“You know,” said Trebling’s voice, rising up out of the sea, “you know you make things tough for yourself. You don’t make up your mind.”

That wasn’t true, he was always plotting; most of the time, anyway.

“You try to be like everybody else.”

He was safest when he was like the rest of them. No, that wasn’t a bad thing to do; besides, he wasn’t that way really. He was different from the others in the office. They sensed that. He would probably go a long way and most of them wouldn’t. Perhaps he was like Heywood. That wasn’t bad. Heywood was a success. _He_ could be free if he liked. He had money and he could do whatever he liked.

Trebling’s voice was fainter now and the sound of the sea behind it was becoming loud. “Sure we might flop but if we don’t we’re just fine. I’m not worried; I’m not worried about anything except being stuck in an office and working for somebody. That’s a lot to worry about, I suppose, but I’m not bothered. It’s going to work out. You’re a long time dead, I figure ...”

The sea came into Holton’s room then and he was whirled on the top of a wave; for a moment there was nothing but sensation. He opened his eyes in the dark and the sea was gone.

Trebling’s voice was lost.

Holton turned over on his side, troubled, tired, looking for sleep. He thought of Carla. He had to think of her; there was a decision to be made.

She had been quiet when he left her in the apartment. She had not looked him in the eyes and he had been eager to leave, to escape.

Now she began to speak again. She had talked to him as he was dressing.

“I don’t think it would work now. I’d hoped it would; for a long time I’ve thought about you, about our living together. But you don’t want to.”

He had tried to deny this but he could not deny what he felt.

Her voice came back to him now, a sad thin echo; there was no vibrancy in the remembered voice. She was whispering in an empty room.

“You’re going to accept a pattern and I can’t stop you. I can’t bring out the capacity for love in you. You have it, I know, but I’m not enough to make you aware....”

Again the denial and again the sad voice whispering.

“No, I was wrong to try to change your life. It’s very selfish to do things for people they don’t want done. I wanted you so much. You’re the one I’m not supposed to have, though, and that’s sad for me.”

He had talked to her then and explained that he could not take the risk of living with her, that he must be within the pattern. But he could not make any of these things sound convincing. Somehow everything got confused as he tried to explain himself to her. He tried to tell her that he did love her but that he couldn’t live with her. She had listened and when he had finished she had talked again. Now her voice entered his room; it was a shadow’s voice murmuring in his ear.

“I don’t think I’d better see you again, Bob. It’s very hard for me but I’m going to control myself. I am going to forget all the things I had dreamed about since Florence. I shall find a new object and that’s a hard thing to do. It’s hard to change but I will.”

That was true, of course. There was also more.

She walked with him to the door; she let him go free to his chosen prison.

The little voice no longer whispered in his ear and there was nothing but silence and the beating of his heart, the slow beating of his heart.

The shade of the window fluttered in the outside wind. Bits of light gleamed around the shade as it fluttered. Lights from signs and behind those lights, gray and massive, was the light of early morning. The room grew colder.

He got under the blanket and he closed his eyes tight and thought of nothing: thought of shapes and shadows and lights and colors and all the things that comprise nothing: he could not sleep.

Robert Holton made a case for himself as he lay in the occasionally broken dark.

He had no gift. He was an average person. Perhaps not quite average, he had had many advantages. He was among the many, though. He could not make a world separate. He wished now that he had told Carla that: he could not make a world separate. He belonged to the world of all people and it was wrong to retreat from that world. He felt noble as he thought of this: it was an excellent argument and he wished that he had used it.

To have gone to live with Carla would have been a retreat from all that was right. Right? What had Lewis said about the planes of understanding? It didn’t matter because Lewis was just another little fairy. He was perverted in everything. No, it was right not to live with Carla. He had to do what was expected of him.

Robert Holton built himself an argument, and as he built his barricades stronger he was aware of discontent, well-hidden beyond the barricade but still alive. Duty was important and difficult. Nothing that was right was easy. Was that true? He was becoming confused.

He had worn too many faces. He thought of the myriad faces he had been made to wear. He had been different with every person he’d ever known. This lack of consistency bothered him. In the army he had been without care, without ambition; he had been like Trebling.

With the people in the office he had been cold or warm, as they were. He had given them what they expected. He had been an actor with too many rôles to play. Tonight he had played all of them for Carla and then he had become lost and he had tried to be himself and he found that he was not enough.

Every person saw him differently, not entirely because every person was different, but because he had also intended it to be that way. Now he did not know himself. He had no way of knowing the person behind the myriad faces.

For a moment he felt himself sinking. It was like a dream of falling. He seemed to be descending into a pit without bottom. There was no longer a Robert Holton: only a series of masks, cracked now and no longer usable, no longer convincing. He could never use one again.

He stopped falling; by an effort of will he stopped himself. Carla was gone and he was sorry. There was no one else and loneliness now crept out of the silence. He would have to build the barricades stronger and higher. He would shut loneliness out.

The masks were no longer good. Carla had helped him break them. This was to be a beginning then. He would assume an identity. He would become a decided person and he would cease to be changed by others.

Robert Holton would become a successful broker working in an office.

The decision was made and he felt secure at last. The words and thoughts that had been in his mind, troubling him, stopped abruptly. He had a magic of his own and he had used it and it worked. Now he was free. There would be no more talk of going away to Florence and living with a pretty woman who loved him and wanted him to be different. He was resolved at last. It was as simple as that. With great effort he assumed an identity and freed himself from doubt.

He stopped twisting. The fever was leaving and he was tired.

Robert Holton turned over on his stomach and took a deep breath. Soon he would be asleep. All his questions were solved--except one. There was still something to be taken care of, something not very important, but bothersome. He frowned with his eyes shut. Then he opened them and he looked across the room at the dark outline of the picture frame.

The dream.

He hadn’t been able to remember the dream of the night before: the troubling, unpleasant dream. It had great significance, he knew.

His only half-conscious mind tried to remember. He kept it purposefully unawake because in this state, between sensation and memory, most dreams could be recalled.

For a long time he wondered. But he could not remember, and he went to sleep finally, exhausted, and in his mind was hidden the dream of the night before, the secret dream, the dream of death, of living. He had almost remembered.

_Chapter Fourteen_

The next day was cold, colder than the early morning had been.

Robert Holton took a bath, dressed, and went down in the elevator. He said good morning to the man at the desk who gave him a letter from his father. Then he went outside; shivering, he walked to the subway station. Without buying a paper he went down into the ground and at Wall Street he came to the surface again.

* * * * *

Marjorie Ventusa was glad to see him. The movie she had seen the night before had been a successful tragedy and she had wept and had been able to think about herself less tragically afterward.

She watched him as he came into the restaurant. He went to his usual table and sat down. After he was seated she picked up a tray and walked over to him.

“Good morning, Mr Holton,” she said, and smiled.

“Hello, Marjorie. How’s everything going?”

“Fine, just fine. Weather’s getting cold, though.” She noticed that he had dark circles under his eyes. She tried not to think of what he might have been doing with the dark-haired girl.

“Got anything good for breakfast? I feel pretty worn out today.”

“I guess you were out late last night.”

He nodded. She couldn’t stop asking now; she couldn’t stop thinking about Robert Holton and the dark-haired girl.

“Probably one of those big parties, I guess.”

He nodded and said, “Sure, one of those big parties.”

She was not sorry that he lied. “We got some good sausage today,” she said.

“I’ll take whatever you got ... and black coffee.”

“Sure, I’ll go get it.” She walked back to the kitchen. She frowned when she saw Mrs Merrin looking at her. She had to look serious even though she was happy. He had at least not wanted to tell her that he was out with another girl. She had made so many images of Holton and herself that she accepted an imagined closeness as real. He had not really been unfaithful this time.

She called out his order to the cook and then she fixed her snood in the steamy mirror. She had bought a dark snood and she noticed now that it made her hair look darker, look rather mysterious. It felt good to look mysterious.

His breakfast was ready and she took it out to him.

She made herself busy at the next table and she talked to him as she worked.

“You like going out to them big parties?”

“Not so much.”

“Why do you go?”

“Business, I guess. It’s good to see all the big shots.”

“You’re right there; you’re sure right there.”

“What’s that you got on your head?”

She giggled self-consciously and wished that she didn’t get so silly when she was pleased. “Just a snood. I’ve had it such a long time.” This was not true.

“Looks nice,” said Holton seriously, biting into a piece of bread.

“Thank you; I like it.” No, that was wrong, it sounded defiant and she didn’t mean that. She added in a much softer voice, “I’m glad you like it.”

He ate then and she put dirty dishes on her tray. Then he said, “When’re you going to Italy with me?”

She laughed. “I got some previous engagements before. Any other time, though.”

“I’m told it’s nice there,” said Holton and she noticed that he looked sad and she was happy to think that he was a little concerned about her, that he was almost serious when he talked about Italy.

“Maybe we’ll go some other time,” she said.

“Sure,” said Holton, “maybe we’ll go some other time.” He drank his coffee. He looked at his watch. “Lord, I’m late,” he said. He paid her quickly. “See you at lunch.”

“See you at lunch, Mr Holton.” She watched him go out the door and into the crowded street.

She cleared his table. Then she went gaily back to the kitchen, her hair bobbing mysteriously in its snood. She was glad she hadn’t told him she’d seen him in Times Square.

* * * * *

“Late, aren’t you?” asked Caroline when Holton came into the office. She knew he was late but she was in a mood of violent humor; she was always this way when she was happy and she was happy today because of Trebling.

“Not very,” said Holton and he went to his desk. Mr Murphy hadn’t come in yet and he was safe. Caroline sat for a moment enjoying the pale white sunlight that shone across her desk. Then she got up and came over to Holton’s desk.

She was awkward now. She wanted to find out things but she didn’t want to be subtle. She tried anyway. “I was out with Jim last night,” she began.

“How do you like him?” Holton wasn’t paying much attention to her and this was irritating. He was busy putting books on his desk. She looked around to see if anyone was watching. Kuppelton was out of the room and no one else appeared interested. She sat down on his desk.

“I like him quite a bit,” she said.

He looked at her. “Good,” he said. “Jim’s a fine fellow. You’ll have fun playing around with him.”

“I suppose I will.”

“Just don’t take him too seriously, though. He’s sort of an expert with girls.” How shallow Holton was, thought Caroline. “Just play with him and you’ll be all right. A lot of girls’ve liked him.”

“I can understand that. He’s really serious about starting something himself. At least he doesn’t want to work for somebody like everybody else wants.” She wanted this to be sharp; she didn’t care if it hurt or not.

“That’s a good thing to want,” said Holton. How dull he is, thought Caroline, comparing him unfavorably with Jim Trebling.

There was nothing she wanted to know from Holton. “How was your society party?” she asked.

“It was O.K.,” said Holton. “It was interesting.”

I’ll bet, thought Caroline. She was impatient of others now that she knew she was appreciated, knew that she was to see Trebling that night. “Well, don’t work too hard,” said Caroline, getting up from the desk. “By the way, I’m going out with Jim tonight.”

“Better be careful,” said Holton seriously.

She laughed. “I’m always careful; didn’t you know that?”

* * * * *

Heywood was feeling well. He had managed to get home early the night before. That was one advantage in going to the theater alone: you didn’t have to go some place afterward and get drunk.

He sat contentedly in the mahogany twilight of his large office, looking at a photograph of himself. There was no particular work to be done. Golden hadn’t bothered him yet and it would be almost an hour before he had his first conference.

A buzz came out of the box on his desk. He pressed a button.

“Mr Murphy to see you,” said his secretary, concealed in the box.

“Send him in.” There was something he had to tell Murphy. Something to do with the party. The young man, Robert Holton: he was to do something for him.

“Good morning, Murphy.” Mr Heywood did not bother to rise.

“Morning, Mr Heywood,” said Murphy and Heywood wished his voice wasn’t so loud. It jarred the twilight mood of the office.

“I’ve got some statistics here, the ones on Steel stocks; the ones showing fluctuation and ...”

“Ah, yes, Murphy, that’s very good of you to have them for me so promptly. I have another matter to discuss....” Heywood paused to make sure that Murphy was listening to him carefully. “This boy, Holton,” he went on, “I think he might do better dealing with the public, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Murphy judiciously, “yes, I think that might be a good place for him. You saw him last night?”

“What? Oh, yes, I saw him last night. I had a pleasant talk with him. He’s a clever young man, I think.”

“Yes, he’s got a good head on his shoulders,” agreed Murphy.

“You will tell him, won’t you, about his promotion and, ah, transfer?”

“Certainly. He’ll be glad to hear this. I’ll be glad to tell him. And, by the way, there’s another matter in my section....”

“And what is that?” asked Heywood gently, trying not to yawn.

“Well, we’ve a man named Kuppelton who’s always done a good job and I think he should get the usual promotion in that department. The one we had in mind for Holton.”

Heywood sighed. “Certainly, Murphy; I rely, as always, on your recommendation in these cases.”

“Thank you....” They talked then of nothing that interested Mr Heywood. Finally Murphy left.

Mr Heywood yawned and stretched. He was rested and almost happy. He would make good decisions today. He sat back in his chair and looked at the photograph of himself. He would divorce his wife and go to South America for a year. Or perhaps he wouldn’t divorce his wife but take her to South America instead. It was strange but he looked younger now than he did when the photograph was taken several years before.

* * * * *

When Kuppelton heard the news his first impulse was to call his mother immediately on the phone and tell her all about it. He decided not to, though, because, after all, it wasn’t completely official. He did talk to Holton about it.

“Congratulations,” he said as he came over to Holton’s desk. Mr Murphy had already gone to lunch and it was safe to talk.

“Thanks,” said Holton, smiling. He didn’t seem as happy as Kuppelton expected him to be.

“Caroline just told me that Mr Murphy told you you were going to be a customers’ man and I’m certainly glad to see you’re getting ahead. I always thought that this job would be too small to hold you.” He paused. “When do you think you’ll move out?” he asked, looking away.

“The first of next week probably.” Holton chuckled. “I guess you’ll be sorry to see me leave.”

Kuppelton recognized the sarcasm but he didn’t care. “Sure I’m sorry. Of course, it’s good news, in a way, for me.”

“It is at that.”

“You sure got a good deal. Well, you can’t beat City Hall I always say.”

“You always say that?”

“What? Well, no, but.... What I meant was....”

Robert Holton only laughed.

Kuppelton tried to talk some more with him but it was very difficult; they never had liked each other, anyway. Kuppelton left him to go to lunch.

He was jubilant but dignified as he put on his coat and hat and walked down the corridor. He would have a lot of news to tell his mother tonight. Everything had worked out nicely and soon he would be making more money and everyone he knew was happy.