Chapter IV: Part 4

When Rio could no longer hear his footsteps he sat down on the bed and lit a cigarette, but put it out immediately and carefully laid it on the washstand. For awhile he paced back and forth in his room. Then he went down to the desk and called out to the woman behind it.

“Where’s the Brat, Rosie?” he asked.

* * * * *

Rio left the Brat and went to the waterfront. The salt air, the breeze and the innocuous drainage of people took away some of his disgust. The _Comber_, bound for Buenos Aires, was tied up at Pier V 9. A watchman stopped Rio at the gate.

“Hold off,” he said roughly. “What’s it from you?”

“Flowers for the shore gang,” said Rio, in a high voice.

The watchman laughed.

“Oh. It’s you, eh?” He passed his hand over the gray stubble on his chin. “I figured you’d be headin’ south about this time.”

“Who’s the mate, Watch?” asked Rio, who was now grinning.

“The same baby they had last trip,” answered the watchman, spitting abeam of the wind.

“Thanks, Cap,” said Rio. He went through the warehouse to the pier and started up the gangplank. A mess-boy, flour covering his shoulders, cried “Gangway!” Rio twisted past him, indifferently brushing his sleeve where the boy had bumped into him. At the top of the plank Rio called to the quartermaster. “Where’s the mate?”

“Up at No. 2.”

Rio started forward, then turned and went aft to the last house ’midships. He opened the door of the sailors’ messroom and walked in. A few men were sitting around the table which was covered with dirty oilcloth. They were drinking coffee. One of them got up.

“Hello, Rio. I ain’t seen you since you broke your wrist over the Old Man’s head in the Channel.” The sailor laughed. “From bridge to brig in one trip.” He rubbed his head with tattooed fingers while the crimson lady, dotted on his heavy forearm, danced. The printed line, ROTTERDAM GERTIE, under the figure, stretched as wide as the lady’s hips.

“It wasn’t a bad trip, Joe,” answered Rio. “The brig’s better’n the chainlocker.” He looked suddenly interested. “How’d the Old Man make out?”

“I dunno. The last I seen him was when we tied up at Rotterdam. They was packin’ him off down the Lekhaven.”

“Down the Lekhaven, eh?” Rio looked grim. “His bones’d set of themselves on the Schiedamsche Dyk.”

Joe waved the remark aside.

“What happened to you, Rio?”

“They broke me, and let it go at that.”

“No more brass on your shoulders then.”

“I’d rather polish it than wear it.”

“Are you goin’ to ship on this?”

“Don’t know. Who’s the bos’n?”

“I am. Seventy-five dollars, my own boy and radio.”

“Company man, Joe?”

“Yeah. I never pass up this chicory.” The bos’n poured more coffee. “Have some,” he said.

Rio looked around the messroom. He saw the college boys staring at him, the flies on the wall and a cockroach settled under the percolator.

“Take it, Joe,” he said. “And my compliments to B.A.”

The bos’n followed him out of the messroom and walked beside him on the pier.

“They’re all the same, Rio,” he said, a little sadly. “The ships, the turnips and the crew. By God!—I won’t rot on shore, though.”

“I won’t neither,” said Rio. “I’ll go back sometime.”

They were passing a waterfront cafe. Its sign read: beer parlour. Joe pulled Rio inside and they sat down at a table.

“We shipped together for a long time,” said the bos’n. “There’s somethin’ eatin’ you. Drink up and get it off your chest.”

Rio raised his glass and set it down empty. Joe followed and waved his red hand at the waitress.

“A head on two,” he said.

Rio watched the girl pour the beer.

“I don’t figure it myself, Joe.”

“Drink up. Drink up and get it off your chest.”

“Well, my shipmate, last trip, was a queer one. I don’t mean there was funny business. I never knew nobody like him. He wasn’t no sailor, and sometimes I thought he was a little off. I never felt like that before, and it was all jam. He didn’t know how to take care of himself; so when he piled off in New York I knew he was in for it. I followed him and he was all over the town. He met a fag who got him a job. Then he met a girl and fell in love with her. The fag had him fired, and he went off the deep end. He got drunk and the girl threw him over. I found him at the Doghouse. I got hold of the fag and fixed him up a little and went to the girl’s place. And then—” Rio stopped and looked at the beer.

“Get it off your chest,” said Joe, and the tattooed ring on his forefinger turned an evil blue in the dim light.

Rio took a deep draught before he spoke.

“You know I ain’t cared for a woman since——”

“I know.” Joe nodded.

“She’s a swell girl,” said Rio, leaning heavily on the table.

“Who?” Joe looked bewildered.

“Martin’s girl. She’s too good for him. I’d hate to see her hurt.”

Joe thought a moment.

“What about you?” he asked.

“None of that,” said Rio shortly.

Joe shoved his glass aside.

“Is that all of it?”

“No.” Rio looked glum. “This Roberts—he’s the fag—don’t like the set-up. I think Martin and the girl’d make it but for him.” Rio glanced up at Joe earnestly. “I got him bluffed, though, and as long as I hang around, he won’t bother no one.”

Joe made a disgusted sound.

“You can’t wet nurse ’em the rest of your life.”

“No, but I could make a short trip and look Roberts up afterwards.”

Joe shook his head.

“And get thrown in jail? Listen!” Joe leaned closer to his friend. “Why don’t you ship out, Rio? There ain’t no use—” But something about Rio’s appearance made him stop. “All right,” Joe left the table. “If you change your mind, I’ll be in No. 5.”

“Good enough,” said Rio, not looking up.

Joe walked back slowly to his ship and Rio drank coffee. When he left the restaurant he went straight down the waterfront to the South American Line. A small ship was sailing for Santa de Marina that evening, for bananas. Rio saw the first officer.

“I want to get out, Mister.”

“We don’t like pierhead jumps on the _Nancy II_” said the blunt little officer. Then he looked Rio over. “Have you seen the delegate? Is your gear handy?”

“Yeah.”

“Bring it aboard. See the bos’n—Good Jesus, lad!” the mate yelled to an ordinary seaman who was scrubbing the whitework. “Soo-gee that bulkhead! Don’t kiss it!”

Rio was forward when they cast off the lines. After the ship was made ready for sea he sat down on a bitt and watched the higher lights of Manhattan fade in the twilight.

_CHAPTER XI_

Martin left Rio’s hotel and walked slowly along Fourteenth Street. His mind was blended with the darkness about him, for the street seemed to rest after the petty trading and rush of the day. He passed the cheap little shops and solitary stragglers, unconsciously accepting them in their place; nor did he turn his head to glance at the thin blue lights of a tiny cinema across the way. But a girl, in passing, brushed his shoulder lightly and asked him for a cigarette. He stopped, felt in his pockets and pulled out a package which he offered her.

“Mentholated, ain’t they?” she said, pleased at her good luck. “Gee, I like mentholated.” She took one of the cigarettes and handed back the package.

Martin looked at her and saw the rakish, ill-fitting dress, the tired expression in her eyes and the affected smile.

“Won’t you keep them?” he asked.

“Thanks, Mister. That’s swell,” she said, stuffing them in her bag. “But d’you have any?” Here she hesitated. “You better have one,” she said at last, carefully selecting a cigarette and handing it to him.

He accepted it and put it in his trousers pocket.

“Not there,” she cautioned. “You’ll smash it. Put it there.” She pointed to the pocket of his coat.

Unthinkingly, he obeyed her.

“Say,” she said, peering at him. “You look hungry.”

“I’m not hungry,” Martin smiled at her. “But now, I have to hurry.” He smiled at her again, then walked on rapidly.

The girl kept at his side, looking at him, her mouth slightly open.

“You’re a nice man,” she said finally.

Martin stopped and looked directly at her.

“If you knew what I am, you’d run like a frightened cat. You’d run anywhere, and afterwards thank God for it.” Then, seeing her eyes widen and her fingers clutch her bag, he continued more gently, “For you are a little cat, aren’t you, Cat?” and he hastened on with long strides.

The girl stared after him, then turned, and with her head hanging down, walked slowly the other way.

As Martin approached Seventh Avenue he noticed a bright-eyed old woman on the corner. On the pavement in front of her was a basket of French marigolds. Martin hesitated and stared at the flowers for a second, then at the old woman.

“What do they mean?” he asked. “They look like wax.”

“Oh, sir, they ain’t. I grew ’em myself.” The old woman watched him, her hands in her apron.

“Give me a bunch of the prettiest!” Martin pointed. “There!—in the center. They are for someone I love.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll give ye the bunch that’s prettiest.” She chose the freshest ones and carefully wrapped the stems in a piece of damp brown paper.

“Thanks, old lady,” said Martin, dropping a coin in her hand. “And I’ll give _you_ a wish.” For a moment she smiled, Martin thought rather shyly, regarding him with a strange, toothless understanding. He held the marigolds before him, sniffing occasionally as he hurried on.

* * * * *

When Deane saw him she wanted to cry; and taking the flowers, she fingered the little bouquet lovingly before laying it aside for a moment.

Martin sat down heavily on the divan.

“My God, I’m tired,” he said. “Tired and hungry. Why, I’m just as tired as when I left here. That seems like a long time ago.”

“Don’t let’s talk about it,” said Deane, sitting down beside him. Martin could feel each pulse beating from her wrist in time with his own blood. He put his head against her arm, letting the faint sound ring into his temples. He rested against her naturally, faithfully, as though returning from a voyage of centuries or death.

Deane added to this dream-like state, this swift advance of years to year. She felt the soft wash of logic crumbling within her, loved him without exception, and remained quiescent. She heard Martin’s breathing, felt an awakening, a weary happiness. A clear stream of words, unintelligible, fell through her hair....

Martin sat up.

“Did you sleep, too?” he asked.

“No,” answered Deane, smiling. “But I was very happy. You slept like a baby. Don’t you ever talk in your dreams?”

“I did have a dream,” declared Martin, now thoroughly awake. “I dreamt that I met you at the point where the world meets itself. We decided instantly that we loved each other and——”

“What a lie!” interrupted Deane, laughing.

“I swear it!” said Martin, elaborately crossing his heart. “And I dreamt also that I was very hungry. Wasn’t that strange?”

“Yes. A coincidence,” said Deane, kissing him on the lips and starting to rise.

Martin caught the back of her hair and strained her to him.

“Deane!” he cried. But she pushed against his shoulders until he let her go.

“I’m going to cook some bacon and eggs, Martin,” she said, panting. “Don’t act that way now. You said you were hungry.”

“For you,” Martin argued, stretching out his body and holding out his arms.

Deane shook her head and went into the kitchen where she could hear Martin laughing.

“He is really a terrible person,” she said to herself. But her lips trembled, and as she brushed the damp hair off her forehead the implication in her dark eyes was delightful.

When she brought in the feast Martin jumped up to help her with the tray. He could scarcely wait to taste the coffee.

“It’s perfect,” he said. “And how did you fix the eggs?”

“I beat them up with a little milk before putting them in the pan.”

“They’re wonderful,” he repeated. “Let’s make it a _real_ feast. What do you say we wait up until dawn. There will be many colors and shapes in the clouds from this window.” He pointed to where the late moon, a dull, inverted sickle, was shining in the east. “I can put my hand outside the window and almost touch Europe, Deane,” he said.

“I don’t want Europe,” Deane said huskily. Her face seemed a little drawn as she watched him, her eyes half closing and unclosing.

Martin, noting the expression on her face, felt a kind of loving in his heart which he had never known before.

“Sweet little maniac,” he said gently, and petted and caressed her. The sedative movement of his hands, which he worked most carefully, so as not to excite the blood or open the tiny nerves about her spine soon quieted Deane and she lay in his arms. “I’m going to tell you some stories,” he said, rubbing his cool cheek against hers. “And later, we’ll watch the dawn come up over Europe.”

It was midnight. The last light had been extinguished in the giant buildings and only the raw sky and the face of the radio brought shadow into the room. Deane rested on the divan, her eyes on Martin who sat crosslegged on the floor in front of her. Suddenly, he leaned forward.

“This is a magical room, Deane, and this is a magical night. In older times, in an ancient time, there was a beautiful Princess—the loveliest in all the world. Arrogant Princes with long gleaming swords and many dragons to their credit wooed her. But she was unresponsive.

“Her father, the King, said, ‘She is sick.’

“Her mother, the Queen, said, ‘We shall see.’

“And so, one night, when the moon burned like a silver flame over the Kingdom, they stood at the wall of her room and peered through the chinks at their daughter. The Princess, a look of ecstasy upon her face, was in a chair, resting. In front of her was a little, old man—perched like a bird before her....

“‘What does she see in the little man?’ whispered the King.

“‘What _does_ she see?’ demanded the Queen. Affection? A reflection of herself? Or some quality in the creature?’”

Martin stopped. Deane’s hands braided and became sexed again. Once more, Martin leaned forward.

“Would you like to hear the sequel?... It happened in Paris, Deane. There was a gargoyle struck on the cornice of a gigantic cathedral. His stone eyes had been forced shut by the ages and his only tears were rain. His thick shoulders were bent by the centuries, and moss covered his throat.

“A beautiful woman, desired by all men, surfeited by leisure and adoration, saw this figure. And so, in secret, she took lodging across from the cathedral that she might watch the shadows move in the gargoyle’s face by moonlight, by lightning-flash and in sun. Day by day she contemplated his patient, agonized expression; and day by day she became more contemptuous of the gracefulness and vanity of her suitors.

“One night, moonlit and vagaried with cloud, she was gazing at the asymmetrical face. Suddenly the head seemed to move. The woman’s heart beat quickly and she grasped the sides of her chair. Deliberately, while she watched, the gargoyle’s eyes opened and turned upon her, asking a question. The woman, protesting, held out her white hands. At this, the figure shuddered; then his stone arms pushed on the cornice and his shoulders broke from the wall.

“The woman ran to her mirror, regarding her pale, excited face. In her closet she touched her gowns—faster and faster her heart! Dressing herself in the loveliest gown of all, she returned in haste to her chair. There she waited, facing the empty cornice where a gargoyle had lain for centuries....

“There was a soft sound at her door. Now, through the opening, the woman could hear quick breathing. She pressed her hand against her throat, observing the figure as it entered.

“Slowly the gargoyle went to her, his movement quiet and purposeful. Laying his head upon his arms, he dropped down on his knees before her. Frightened, the woman looked away. Then her love, conquering fear, placed an infinite pity upon him. Her hands braced under his chin, lifting the agonized face until his eyes met hers. Lightly, her fingers caressed the deep cracks in his cheek, brushed the dry moss from his throat—and for one helpless, inarticulate moment, the gargoyle lived.”

Martin felt the heavy wetness of his eyes. His twisted, passionate face looked up at Deane.

“She knew!” he cried. “And you know!”

Deane placed her hands upon his throat and drew him toward her.

“Yes,” she said. While in an uneven, throaty voice she kept repeating, “She knew, and I know.”

“Flower lips,” Martin whispered, the taste of blood in his mouth, “squint your lovely eyes like old China—China eyes—” He moved her then, until she floated, insubstantial, upon the blue mosque of the couch. Once more, reality became a dream, and night pushed inward....

Martin watched the moon rise slowly and swing higher southward. Venus appeared, and then the Dipper, of such a calculating blue, such measured coldness that Martin shivered. He looked at Deane tenderly as she lay in his arms, trying to remember when such emotion had dominated him. Deane’s face, a cameo in the steel-tinted light, was now upturned to him in a death-like stillness. He put his ear against her heart to reassure himself. Deftly, he disengaged his arm from her waist and slipped on one knee to the floor. Then he crept softly to the window and looked out over the vast eastern sky. He imagined that he could faintly see the first pale ravages of dawn, so he returned. Still kneeling on the floor, he blew upon Deane’s hand and up her arm. He thought that she would never awaken, until suddenly he heard her say, “My, what a feeling you gave me! Did you enjoy the view from the window?”

“So you were awake all the time!” Martin laughed. “I thought as much.”

“Then why did you blow so hard?” asked Deane. “And why did you sigh once?”

“Come on,” said Martin, pulling her to her feet. “The sky’s beginning to change.” The sunrise was bleak, desolate and forbidding. “It just came out of the sea by way of Newfoundland,” he added. “Everything is cold in that region—even the sun. Do you see those clouds streaking over the horizon? That’s the point where all winds leave for a short visit with Mother Carey.” Martin sniffed the air. “I thought so. Don’t laugh, Deane, but I can smell icebergs.”

“What do they smell like?” Deane asked curiously.

“Some sailors say the bergs smell like wet sea moss; others say it’s like a pocket of cold salt. But to me they have no positive odor. It’s more like a taste. It’s like kissing an ammoniated mirror.”

“That’s strange,” said Deane, looking at him queerly.

The wind outside was raging and whistling through the radio antennas as through the rigging of a ship.

Deane made fresh coffee. As Martin was finishing his cup, she asked him gravely, “Martin, how are you going to live? What will you do?”

He raised his head.

“I shouldn’t worry about that, Deane; at least, not now. I know a typographer who, I think, will give me a job. It will probably be part time, but that’s all the better, for I have some other work I’d like to do.”

“What kind of work?” she asked.

“Along the same line,” Martin answered. He pulled an oilskin envelope from his pocket and carefully took out some papers. “I’m building a type design that I’ve worked on quite awhile. As an avocation I find a good deal of pleasure in it. Some of the letters got a little wet, but I think you can see what I’m trying to do.” He spread the papers out on a table and he and Deane bent over them. He pointed to one of the capital letters. “See, Deane?—The design is that of living forms—plant and animal. In the drawing, the bottom circles represent growth by cell structure in all life. By simply rolling up this series, beginning with the smallest cell, the face of the shell is seen, because that is the way shells grow—by rolling up themselves as they develop. Since the rate of development is normally the same, the flare of the sectors is constant.

“The black line of the drawing shows where the artist places the line for the letter stem, missing the center by half the radius. The blue line shows where the stem really should be placed. It looks much better that way. You will see that the straight line is intersected at an angle of about 100 degrees instead of the 90 degree angle.

“On the back of the drawing is seen how this measurement, ‘the square of root 2’ rule, is worked out for rectangular designs. The square root of 2 is 1.4141 etc.; its reciprocal, divided by 2, is .707 etc. That is, the strongest and most beautiful rectangle is 1.7 times as long as wide. Apply it to a book page. Width is determined mainly by size of type and number of columns per page. For a page 6 inches wide the length is 1.7 times 6 or 10.2 inches. This is the correct ‘golden’ or ‘sacred’ sector, used almost universally in the temples and sacred vessels. Textbooks give the page ratios 5 to 8 as the golden sector but it is not correct, neither is it so convenient or beautiful as the 6 to 10.2.

“The design is based on the soundest dimensional ratio known—‘dynamic symmetry.’ Many years were spent recovering this lost art, mainly in countries about the Eastern Mediterranean—Greece, Egypt, Persia, Arabia, and so on. The findings were published in a beautiful volume[1] and it was there I got my information and inspiration to design a type face.

“It is a humiliating fact that no original type face has ever been designed in America. Our type designers have been modifiers of European types, adding what Mark Twain called ‘new and killing varieties.’”

Martin folded the papers and returned them to the oilskin envelope. He was absorbed by his subject and failed to notice Deane’s expression, or her flushed cheeks.

“I’m ashamed of myself, Martin,” she said quietly. “I didn’t realize that you had such a definite structure running along with your life. Go on out now and try to get your job. And when you come back, I’ll have fixed our dinner.”

When she had tightly buttoned up his coat, he kissed her as a man would kiss his wife. She detained him for a second, ran into her bedroom and came out triumphantly waving a heavy muffler. After she had tied it properly around his throat, she threw her arms around him and sobbed quietly for just a moment. Then she shook the tears away in happiness, lifted her chin and gently pushed him through the door.

Martin, expressionless, with a steady tread, faced the sharp wind outside. He looked at the foot-prints on the thin film of snow that covered the sidewalks. He smiled. The passers-by could not tell whether his smile was that of a child, or of an idiot. He crossed the street.

_CHAPTER XII_

Once, while Deane was living with her aunt in a midwestern city, she had met a young man named Carol Stevens who was visiting there. Deane’s aunt liked him—his little courtesies, the niceties of his behavior. But with Deane, he produced conflicting impressions. He loved a kitchen the way most men love a study or an office; and he moved among the pots and pans the way an artist walks before his canvas. His talent in bringing common food to life and giving it new meaning was no greater than his ability with a needle. He could take odds and ends of material and bring them together in an evening gown as fragile as a cloud. But more interesting than the things he created was his manner of creation; for he sewed with curving, meticulous gestures that were certain of each other. Sometimes Deane, watching him, would smile, and sometimes frown as though puzzled. After his visit, the young man returned to his home in Idaho and Deane forgot all about him.

She was having a quiet cup of tea one afternoon when he announced himself. When he came in he took her hands affectionately, as though they were long lost and newly reunited friends. He placed his topcoat carefully on a chair, sat down on the divan and pulled his trousers high above his ankles. In less than a minute he seemed quite at home.

“What a _dreadful_ trip!” he said. “A simply dreadful trip, dear!—I’m exhausted. On a bus,” he explained. “Gas fumes—oranges—babies! A man with a parachute on his back, or something,” he ended wearily.

Deane laughed. She offered him tea, but he shook his head vigorously.

“Wine?” she asked.

“Wine,” he repeated, and drew a line across his fingernail, adding, “—so much.”

Deane went to a cabinet and poured a glassful of sherry.

Carol looked at the drink and stuck his tongue into it.

“Glorious!” he said, sipping like a kitten. Deane had the feeling he was going to take off his shoes.

To her relief Martin came in and she introduced the two men. Carol watched the newcomer suspiciously. He was shorter than Martin and chunky. He was broad in the belly; his waistband was spread with fat. His suit, which was more yellow than tan, accentuated his contour in spite of its good tailoring. His pale eyebrows lighted his pale eyes. His nose revolted at the tip and elevated itself, searching. His mouth was supposed to be prim and grim; but Martin wondered if he could catch it in a pot. His chin billowed out. His wrists were thick and his fingers perky. They touched things lightly. He took a cigarette holder from his pocket. Three of his fingers were around the stem and the fourth stuck out. Martin wondered how it would feel to bite this one off. It gave him a pleasant sensation to think of having the finger in his pocket, severed. He was so rapt in his thoughts that he smiled. This made Deane nervous. It was all right for Martin to act that way with her, but not with other people. When he smiled like that with other people it meant he was taking a trip. She tried to catch up with his thoughts before they became spectacular.

“Carol had a miserable time,” she said. “It was on a bus; and there were detours—it’s not pleasant.”

“It’s not pleasant,” repeated Carol.

Martin frowned and looked at him. He looked at Carol and the more he looked, the more he disliked him. Carol was shocked at the way Martin was watching him. It made him uncomfortable and angry. He drew his mouth into a forced, straight line, tucked in his chin and spoke to Deane.

“It _was_ wretched, dear. I bounced this way, and I bounced that way! And my traveling companions!” He rolled his eyes. “There was a salesman!” Carol snorted; a delicate snort, neither high nor loud. “The person had a case that he held on his lap all the way!” Carol’s shoulders shook with mirth and the ashes from his cigarette fell on the rug. He stopped for a moment to nibble at his holder.

Martin felt something unhealthy—something that hung in the room like an infectious mist. But the young man squirmed comfortably and continued.

“There was an old lady. The proverbial old lady of all busses. The kind that has a basket of food and draws out apples and fried chicken and the right kind of sandwiches. She offered one of them to me.” He had made himself laugh until he felt slightly sick. “And I bounced this way, and I bounced that way!”

Deane told Carol that it had been an amusing experience, but one not to be repeated; to which Carol replied as he raised one plump hand, the palm outward, “Heaven forbid!”

Deane tried to be pleasant, but she didn’t feel well. The air was sticky, and she wanted to sit down with Martin and have him hold her tightly and listen to him swear for five minutes. Martin could swear so beautifully that it purified a room like rain.

Martin knew what Deane was thinking and he reached for her hand. Carol saw this and cleaned his cigarette holder with a clear, refined disapproval. Then he meticulously cleaned his ear with the finger Martin wanted. He cleaned his ear thoroughly; but his movements were elegant. The expression on his face was Olympian.... He was alone in the room. Then he looked more cheerful. He was not alone. He was in New York, visiting.... He tried to yawn and couldn’t; but he slapped his lips lightly and smiled at Martin.

“Deane has a lovely apartment—doesn’t she?”

Martin nodded, but remained silent.

Carol’s mouth became firm again and he tapped the floor petulantly with the toe of his shoe.

Martin arose, went to a table where there was whisky and poured himself a drink.

Carol watched him for a moment, then stood up and took Deane’s hands.

“I have an appointment, my dear,” he said gently. “It has been good to find you.” He hesitated, lifting one eyebrow. “And I am happy to have met your friend.”

Martin nodded again and took a drink.

Carol bit his lip and put on his coat, tenderly pressing a scarf of coral pink under his collar.

“Goodnight. I’ll call you to-morrow, dear,” he said to Deane as he left.

When the door closed behind him Martin put down his glass and went over to Deane.

“It’s funny,” he said, “how friendships like this spring up.”

Deane looked away while she spoke.

“He hates you.”

Martin squinted through the window at the colors in the dusk.

“Have your fun, Martin,” she continued, “but not at his expense. Why were you so rude?”

“Because it’s the easiest way.”

“I know Carol’s extravagances,” she went on, “but I hate to see him hurt.”

Martin wheeled around. “And I don’t want you hurt,” he answered. “Carol’s bad luck. He’s a fool and a parrot.” Then, raising his voice a little, he repeated, “They’re all damned bad luck.”

* * * * *

All this time Carol was walking down the street. His walk was unusual but convincing. His hips had no vertical motion. They jerked horizontally, hesitated, and jerked to the other side. He knew that his hips did this. He liked it and did it on purpose, for he had always liked the abstract movement of a woman. So Carol went down the street, aware and proud of his unusual attraction. But he kept thinking of Deane and Martin. He shuddered. “They are like animals—they!” He looked swiftly at a man crossing the street. Then he shrugged his shoulders and thought again of Deane and Martin. “How carnal! How obvious! Why, even now they might be looking at each other—holding each other.” The thought was too repugnant and he held a handkerchief to his lips. Yes; such things were—he waved his handkerchief almost imperceptively—well, beyond endurance. Gently he picked up his cross and strapped it over his shoulders, basking in tribal strength. His friends had said: “Man and woman?—ah, yes,”—(with a yawn). Carol held the handkerchief closer.

He walked along the Avenue to Washington Square and sat down on a bench. A thin, blonde-haired woman with a pretty face passed him slowly. She thought rapidly, came back and sat down beside him.

Carol’s mind was drifting pleasurably. He remembered a boy in Chicago who could quote poetry beautifully and whose blue eyes were oriental. The boy’s hands were so strong that they could crack a walnut; and yet, they could be so gentle. Carol smiled, a sweet, remembering smile. The girl on the bench smiled, too. She thought he was affecting indifference and her interest increased. But he did not even know that she was there until she held a cigarette toward him.

“Pardon me. Do you have a match?” she asked.

Carol was taken from his dream. Not entirely. A moment, a memory, a little beauty remained. But this slender, light-haired creature had destroyed everything he felt most closely. He looked at her calmly. He knew women.

“I do not have a match. I do not smoke.” He looked at her and she understood. Both had an expression of loathing. Each typified the thing in the world they disliked most. The girl stood up. She didn’t know how to tell him what she felt, but an obscene, contemptuous movement of her hips sickened him. He looked in the other direction, praying that she would leave swiftly. It was humiliating.... The evening shadows hid her as she walked away and Carol tried to reminisce again. But it was no good. His dreams had gone.

Two boys strolled past him. They were students and they were talking about books. Their clothes were not well pressed and they were obviously thinking about technicalities. Another boy went by; thin, his hair uncut, looking straight before him. Several Italian sweethearts, laughing, holding hands, walked up and down. Carol watched them with indifference. Two more boys passed, close together. One of them was handsome. They laughed musically, and while Carol could hear only a fragment of their conversation, it made him lonely. Several young fellows with polo shirts under their coats approached him; but he was scornful. “Trade! Commercializing those wretches!”—He flicked it out of his mind with arrogance.

The moon undressed over the University. It was slender, strong and white. Carol had seen a boy like that one time—slim and white and very strong. Carol made his own standards when he had been hurt enough. The moon was a boy, dancing for him. Tears were in Carol’s eyes and he wiped them away austerely. Still the moon danced before him. There was an animal cry in his throat, but he would not let it out. He arose and left the park, went to a telephone booth and called Deane. While he talked, he held the back of his neck tightly.

“Hello, Deane. Would it be imposing on you if I came over again for a few minutes?—just for a few minutes before I go to my hotel?”

Deane was a woman, too, and she felt the quality of hysteria in his voice.

“Of course you can. I’ll be so glad to see you, Carol.” “Right away,” he said, and hung up. For a long time he stood there, staring blankly at the mouthpiece while his child-mind spun blankly round its core.

* * * * *

Deane returned to the living room, sat down beside Martin and lit a cigarette.

“Jesus Christ!” said Martin, looking at her.

The phone rang again.

“Jesus Christ!” he repeated.

This time it was Roberts. He asked Deane (rather pleadingly, she thought) if she would see him.

“Martin is here, Roberts,” she replied.

“Please let me speak with him.”

Deane beckoned to Martin, who flung himself out of the chair a bit impatiently and took the receiver from her hand.

“You think this is easy,” said Roberts, when he heard his voice. “It isn’t, Martin. You think I’m wrong, and I think you are. But that shouldn’t be an issue. Right or wrong, there is something more important to which we owe our fidelity.”

“What’s that?”

“Ourselves, Martin. Listen! I’ve gone back and forth over our quarrel and God knows where the origin was, or worse yet, where the ends are now. Help me find them, dear boy. Everything is twisted. I can’t sleep.”

Martin rubbed his forehead. There was sincerity in Roberts’ voice.

“Everything’s all right, Roberts,” he said at last. “Come along.”

“Good boy! Good boy!”

Martin could hear a strange, sobbing chuckle.

“It’s all right,” he repeated. “And Deane wants you to come, too.” Martin could see Deane incline her head gently. It was a gesture he loved and of which he was jealous. After he left the phone they sat for some minutes without speaking. Then Martin shook his head. “Jesus Christ!” he said once more.

He got up and went into the kitchen to mix the highballs. Before he had finished he heard Deane open the door and knew that it was Carol. The boy stepped across his brain—walked cozeningly, with his side-weave and his red, disarranged face. Then Martin heard Roberts. He felt the unreliable smile—saw the white, fanatical face. He felt the pressure of entering the room and held his fingers against the sides of his head. The two figures with Deane were waiting for him.... Carol, looking for a lost doll.... Roberts, handsome, leprous, searching for the impossible.... Martin waited until the introductions were over, then walked into the living room with the drinks. He placed the tray of highballs on a table.

Roberts got out of his chair at once and went to him, holding out his hand with an intense movement which Martin accepted quietly.

“You’re looking well again, Martin,” said the adviser. “And I’m glad to find it so.” He turned halfway to Deane with a strained smile. “Isn’t it splendid, Deane?”

She returned the smile, nodding her head and Martin broke in swiftly.

“I fell into a job, Roberts—free lance work that turned regular. Perhaps my relief shows in my appearance.”

“Where is the job?” asked Roberts quickly, looking concerned.

“Downtown,” said Martin, a vague expression in his eyes.

Roberts flushed and returned to his chair, while Martin sat down on the divan beside Deane. Carol, who had been watching the two men with fascination, leaned back sighing, a satisfied look softening his features as he drew out his cigarette holder.

“I knew New York would be this way—just this way. And I just _love_ it!” He cocked his head at Martin and nodded wisely. “The swift pace of commerce,” he added.

“Who said that?” asked Martin, amused.

Carol looked embarrassed.

“Why, I—why, I think the salesman did. But it was so apt—the salesman said—” He hesitated, and Martin raised his hand in agreement.

“It _is_ apt, Carol,” he replied. “I should know. It takes experience to make one understand ‘the swift pace of commerce.’ Mr. Roberts realizes this, too, though in a different way; for _he’ll_ never let commerce get at _his_ heels.”

“Indeed, I won’t,” said Roberts vehemently. “I’ll follow it, trip it, mold it and make it carry me.” He was about to continue when Deane spoke quietly, but with a certain implied request. Her beautiful eyes gleamed in the shaded light.

“Did you keep your appointment, Carol?” she asked, turning to him with mild interest.

“No, dear,” he answered in a puzzled voice. “No, we must have been—well, mixed up,” he went on more precisely. “So I went to the park—Washington Square, the policeman said it was. But oh!—I just felt so blue I _had_ to call you up.” He held a silken handkerchief daintily under his nose and let it flutter with his breath. “But there’s a glorious moon,” he continued, looking at Martin. “It really seems to be dancing. And speaking of dancing—I saw the _cutest_ thing at a show the other night!” He became enthusiastic and stood up, still holding on to the handkerchief with one hand while he placed the other on his hip. Then he turned his head a little and looked coyly over one shoulder.

“What was it like?” asked Deane, a strange smile on her lips.

“I really can’t say, dear. But,” Carol’s eyes brightened, “It _did_ have—” he waved the handkerchief, “what do you call it?—‘um-pah!’” Completely forgetful now of his surroundings, he pursed his lips into a curious form and began to sing in a rather wistful mood, “Ooh-ooh, woo-woo, me too,” his hand on his hip, his handkerchief still fluttering. Then he circled his left foot back of the right, followed up, and continued until he was moving gracefully across the room in time with the weird intonation. At last he seemed to fade into the hallway as though it were the wings of a theater; and the three in the room could hear the words float in long after he had disappeared—“Ooh-ooh, woo-woo, me too.”

Martin laughed without restraint and clapped his hands loudly. There was a gurgle of delight from the hall and Carol peeped around the doorway, his face aglow at such acclaim.

“Great!” continued Martin, as the young man came in beaming. “The best! The very best, Carol!” he went on, while the other, breathless, sat down and touched the handkerchief to his forehead. Deane’s eyes still gleamed peculiarly; but Roberts had merely turned his face the other way.

Then suddenly, as though each wanted to convince the others that his own thoughts were spontaneous, they talked in animated sequence. They talked of music, and of tides, and of the government. Each word was a word—Roberts’, like a dark sword in a silver lake; Carol’s, like the hole in a fisherman’s net; and Martin’s and Deane’s, like clouds over a river.

In a short while, Roberts stood up.

“I must go,” he said gravely.

Carol got up also, and after a brief look at Martin, followed the adviser into another room to get his coat.

* * * * *

Outside there was a cool wind blowing. Carol led Roberts to Washington Square—an inexplicable impulse returning and behind the direction. The guards had raked the grass after the early snows. A pile of leaves burned slowly, and the soft flutter of pigeons beyond the firelight made the park seem homely and comfortable. On the icy concrete surrounding the fountain there were children with skates. Their flashing feet splintered the dark which lay under the moon, and around these romping figures the cool wind, blowing softly, held everything together.

Neither Carol nor Roberts noticed the pigeons or the children. They were watching their own hearts. Carol’s beat slowly, with a regular, bovine thump. Roberts’ beat quickly, irregularly, with acuity and despair. He was in such despair that he tried to find camaraderie within the boy beside him. His monologue pretended to be a conversation, but his bright words of indictment against Martin rolled across Carol’s porcine cheek and were reflected, turning in to himself, weighting his bitterness more heavily.

“Yes, Carol,” he said, “we must forget ourselves in this issue. We must save our friends from this domestic suicide. Clutching an insane illusion of love, they are bemused by carnal appetite. Lost on the horizon of flesh, their perspective becomes astigmatic. Drowned in beast’s blood, they deliberately blind themselves to an obvious incompatibility. It is our duty to our strength, our lives, our God, to break this union.” Roberts’ mouth became loose and wet. “We must show them the truth.... Martin! Martin!” The adviser’s eyes were like those of a sick horse. “Martin is so young—so fruitful. We must forgive him.... And that lovely woman—upset so terribly by him—we must give her our strength.” Roberts dropped his head, unable to speak further.

Carol smiled vacuously.

“Yes,” he replied.

And while Roberts cried into the vacant moon the boy beside him, uncomprehending, drooled on.

“Yes. We must give our strength. We must give ourselves. We must give—” Carol’s voice became fainter and disappeared into the sound of leaves. He could feel Martin’s arm around him, petting—forcing. Carol’s face became curiously beautiful.... He was giving himself....

Roberts, taken from his sadness by this incoherent dribbling—Roberts, sensing the thought beside him, moved away. He looked at Carol, at the fat thighs, the fat cheeks, the desire; and he was suddenly sick. To have Martin touched, even in thought, was unbearable. Unsteadily he pushed himself off the bench and walked away without speaking. The moon was beautiful, but it was not for him. There was magic in the wind, but it made him feel more lonely.... For a long time he walked. The cornstalk he had left sitting on the bench was but a mild irritant now. It became less and less so until Roberts laughed.

Carol was not aware of the change. He knew only that Martin was closer—that his dream was real.

The bonfire had long been extinguished and the guards had left. There was no sound of skates; there was a hush of wings; and the moon looked down on the Italian lovers with their quick, dark hands.

_CHAPTER XIII_

Carol did not sleep well that night. He had dreams of strong and muscular things; but they felt good. Early in the morning his child-mind was tired. His fantasies and adult body had exhausted him. He awoke and turned over to be spanked. His father had always spanked him when he had been bad. But now he did not feel his father’s calloused hand against him, nor could he see his father’s frown and long, unshaven jaw. Carol turned over again, realizing vaguely where he was.... His father was dead. He was not being spanked. Something had been taken from him and his mouth trembled.... The strong nostalgia made him sick. He wanted to be bad, and then feel the hard hand and weep happily as his father struck him.

Carol was now fully awake. He got out of bed, rubbing his sticky eyes. Over the wash-basin there was a mirror in which he saw himself. He turned on the cold water, dipped his head in the bowl and rubbed his cheeks until they glowed. Then he bathed with a washcloth and afterwards, squirted toilet water under his arms. The hotel room was small and hot. He opened the window a little wider, returned to his bed and made it up carefully, patting the corners. At last, he put on a dressing gown with long, flowing sleeves, smiled at the reflection of his pink, clean face in the mirror and picked up the telephone.

“Give me outside,” he said.

“What number do you want?” asked the operator, sucking her teeth.

Carol was startled. Then he gave the number.

Deane answered a little sleepily.

Carol lit a cigarette and blew the smoke in flat, blue layers.

“Did I get you out of bed, sweet?”

Deane smiled easily, the smooth skin at the corners of her eyes forming tiny lines.

“Of course not, Carol,” she replied. “I’m glad you called. Did you enjoy your evening with Mr. Roberts?”

“Oh!” said Carol, “I had _such_ a good time. Mr. Roberts is so interesting. And we talked about so many things. It was such a beautiful evening and so—” Carol’s sibilant words came through the wire to Deane, awakening her thoroughly. “Let’s have lunch together,” he continued. “How about twelve, at the Astor?”

“I have some shopping to do,” she answered, “but I’ll be through by one. Suppose we make it then.”

“All right, dear. I’ll see you then,” he said, stressing every other word. “I’ll see you then. Good-by, dear.”

Deane left the apartment in confusion, half amused and yet severe. Her tiny hat, which was like an autumn leaf, revoked the tailoring of her rust-colored velvet suit. On the street, old women smiled at her without knowing why; and newsboys became quiet for one starry-eyed, adolescent moment as she passed. But she kept thinking of Martin. She remembered him as he had been on the previous night. She loved him, but he was a problem. If his were artistry, it would be good to get back to solidity and minds that ran in clear, straight lines. She had thought this as she left the apartment. But in the shops she changed her mind. She saw strong, competent men and women and she liked them. But thoughts of Martin persisted—Martin with his hair sticking up—Martin, fumbling with design and people and dreams. He might find it! He _must_ find it! Deane put her small, gloved hand to her throat. She wanted him suddenly, strongly. She wanted his incoherent sentences, his slippery body and his crazy, adoring heart. She laughed self-consciously in front of the pencilheads, typewriter-heads and blotting-paper faces, and made a few reckless purchases.

Carol met her at precisely one o’clock. His face was pink, natty and smiling. His belted coat showed his figure and he wore no hat. His astonishing scarf had been replaced by an ascot tie whose vivid background was accentuated by purple stripes. He took both of Deane’s hands with sisterly affection, completely unconscious of the mild attention he had attracted in the lounge.

“A _dreadful_ morning,” he said wearily. “One can’t eat in New York, can one?”

Deane was a little piqued.

“Well,” she said, biting her scarlet underlip, “one’s going to.” More kindly she took his arm. “We’re going to eat heartily, Carol. I’m hungry.”

They went into the bar. The buttons on Carol’s topcoat stuck out like feathers. He was conscious now of the atmosphere and of the woman with him. His exuberance spilled, porridge-like, over the barren years of his life and reached out toward the other patrons in the bar. Ostentatiously, he led Deane past a table where two elderly ladies were having whisky and soda. One of them wore three wedding rings. The other’s plume on her tiny hat colored the dark fur over her shoulders. Carol’s good nature manifested itself again and he nodded intimately to them. The old ladies looked at each other and went on drinking their whisky.

At last, Carol selected a table and held a chair for Deane. She wanted a glass of sherry, but tried to enjoy the drink he ordered. It was a fragile looking concoction of pale pink, with a lace of foam.

“At home, we call it a ‘raspberry kiss,’” said Carol proudly.

Deane knew that he thought he was living. He sipped on, and sang on, hesitating briefly to glance at every man who walked into the bar. One or two of them looked at him in amused recognition, but most of them were absorbed in other matters and passed him, unnoticing. As the alcohol sifted through his mind, his sentences became more vapid, more pretentious, and louder. He began to simper—call attention to unimportant things. There was an angry moment with the waiter, who accepted his ridiculous complaints with thinly veiled contempt. It was difficult to embarrass Deane—the outside of Deane. But she refused a second drink, suggesting food instead, and together they went upstairs to the dining room.

The head waiter courteously guided them to a corner table. No one was close to them and Deane relaxed. Carol sighed, lit a cigarette and ordered the luncheon. Suddenly he leaned toward Deane.

“We have been friends too long, dear,” he said, “for me to mince words. You don’t mind my speaking?”

“Of course not,” said Deane. “I don’t mind at all.”

“I have heard rumors,” said Carol, shaking his head over his plate. “They have bothered me and I feel that you ought to know.”

Deane looked amused.

“Rumors?” she repeated. “Honestly?”

“This,” said Carol sternly, “is not a frivolous joke. It has no frivolity.” He looked less stern now. Frivolity. He liked that word. He leaned back in his chair and tried, ineffectually, to blow a smoke ring. “This,” he continued, “concerns your happiness. It will probably hurt you. But I know you will face it. I must forget myself in this issue.”

“Issue?” asked Deane, frowning a little.

“Yes, Deane,” went on Carol. “It’s Martin and you. It is domestic suicide. I watch you clutch this insane illusion of love—bemused by carnal appetite. Lost on the horizon of flesh, your perspective becomes astigmatic. Drowned in beast’s blood, you deliberately blind yourself to an obvious incompatibility. It is my duty to my strength, my life, my God, to break this union.” He let his head rest against the wall for a moment, hypnotized by the magnificence of his words.

Deane was now frankly amazed. Where did these words come from? They were brilliant, hateful words. Carol was incapable of such expression. She hunted through her memory for the explanation. Then she recalled Martin’s analogy of the parrot. Carol had heard the words and had remembered them. Where had he heard them? No one knew Martin—ah! The good friend Roberts. That sounded like Roberts. That _was_ Roberts.

She watched Carol—his eyes closed, three fingers on his holder. Retentiveness—that was it. Carol, the parrot. Retentiveness. Carol did not know what had broken from his memory. Deane knew that he believed it was himself speaking. She began to fear Roberts. Fear him so much that she forgot Carol was with her.

Carol squinted and nodded his head approvingly. That had done it. His great understanding had brought Deane to her senses. Her face showed it—pale, constricted. Carol cocked his flat, moist hands at her in sympathy.

“I know it’s hard,” he said, reaching womanishly toward her.