The uncertain feast

Front matter

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* SarffaZL* ^ c w

*0# ascertain Feast

II

The night outside was a black gulf hung with lights. Daniel's heels came down with regular clicks as if he listened to martial sounds. He avoided the eager-eyed crowd aiming for the subway in the square and struck across to a calmer corner. There he turned south and faced the giant containers of the city’s commerce.

He walked slowly, his eyes on the high horizon of masonry. They loom up to block out the stars and their ragged outline proclaims the daring and power of puny-limbed man —homo sapiens. He no longer has an instinct to raise something for the sake of having it last beyond his life. The Egyptians’ tombs! They tried to fight the oblivion of death by monuments at which men coming after would gaze astonished and murmur in perpetuity a name thus preserved in granite glory. But men have built all that ahead of me for rentals. They have sold their egos, already emasculated by Christianity, for an enormous annual income.

He was passing a lighted shop. A girl stood at the window. He curved in towards her. Fastidious profile. What does she stare at? Beads and brace¬ lets spread and hung for just such hungry eyes.

He stood at her side. She glanced up, startled, and received his full gaze. After a moment she bent her head. He did not move. She put up her hand and pulled down her hat with a timid gesture. He stepped back and looked at the glitter of gold and coral behind the glass. What pitiful eyes! Little drowned flowers. Eve seen them before. Ruth’s eyes like that the day I stoned her kitten. How long ago? Twenty years. Eheu fugaces, Postume! Her eyes faded now and lined by Andrew and the three fruits—sour little devils. But this girl’s eyes enough like Ruth’s to be a restraint. She’s turning. Oh, let her go. Anyway, she can’t be. Not with those fresh eyes.

He swung on his heel and walked away. Ruth and my unpleasant childhood. She weak and sensi¬ tive, I rough and moody. “See how nicely your sister behaves in church.” “Your sister gets up in the morning when she is called.” “Your sister never forgets to wash her hands.” She used to cry when I was whipped and bring me cookies afterward. Wouldn’t steal them for herself. A born comforter. The weak serving the strong. She doesn’t like to see me now. Thinks my ideas for the children will undermine sweet sickening home influence. Mother¬ hood handled well only in Sparta. Leave the babies in the rain all night. Take those that survive away from pap and cooings and make them fit for life. That would solve the overpopulation problem with¬ out help from old Malthus. I’d like to write a book on motherhood. Part one: How to be intelligent though a mother. Part two: Taking the drool out of maternity. Part three: Painless extraction of sentimentality. Part four: The ferine mother ver¬ sus the mother evolved. Part five: Motherhood’s coming of age. Part six: They desert you at twenty, why not do it first ?

A man, stepping from a doorway, collided with him.

“Excuse me. Didn’t see you coming.”

Daniel pulled his hat back in place, standing in the light from a row of plate glass windows. Just inside a man stiffly wrapped in white threw limp cakes into the air and caught them on a plate. Be¬ hind him the rows of tables were half filled by early diners. A girl sat alone near the door. She had taken off her hat and her clipped hair fell about forehead and ears, making stubby black points against her skin. Her mouth was full-blown and scarlet.

Daniel stood staring. Little blackbird. Is that rouge on her mouth? She has a bold black eye and I think it’s fixed on me. She hasn’t blinked since I’ve been looking at her. Well, there’ll be no prettier one on the auction block tonight so let us get on with the matter. Let us enter and dine behind the vaudeville act in the window.

He passed the girl’s table and hung up his hat and overcoat on a hook, pausing to read the restau¬ rant’s repudiation of responsibility for empty garments. He dried his sweating palms and replaced his handkerchief ceremoniously. Nerves, nerves. Too much pressure on me. It’s harder to play than to work. Now for the role of conquering male. I would have done it better ten thousand years ago. As it is, I wield a newspaper in my hand instead of a club as I approach those mysterious soft allure¬ ments. Without prescience one would not only be tormented but destroyed in that pleasant baited morass. Courage, I go to crook the knee to Eros, the iconoclast.

The girl looked across at him with quick indif¬ ferent eyes as he sat down. Then as if unaware of his scrutiny across the narrow whiteness between them, she watched the street, her lazy eyelids droop¬ ing, recovering, drooping. I was right. Her mouth is rouged. But rouge on a background as red as itself. She keeps her eyes away. Some burly type would please her better than I, knowing the ap¬ proach. Yet I have in my pocket that which will release interest, smiles, flutterings—the parade of her graces. Touch the currency button. Fiat lux . Where’s the menu?

He reached toward the girl as a waitress with stained hands put down a tray and served dishes from it with the small rapid gestures with which one deals a pack of cards. She passed to Daniel’s side and bent for his order.

The girl began to eat, dipping successively into small dishes and chewing her food frankly. He opened his newspaper. By looking at the headlines he could see her face, a pale blur beyond his direct vision. Savage little type. She would go well in the Place Pigalle. With longer hair, a Goya. Some¬ thing like that Portuguese girl I found on the Quai d’Anjou. Dark down on her upper lip. One sees it often in France. Some like it. Others advocate a depilatory. I’m sure I don’t care. It’s neither an aphrodisiac nor a drawback to me. Certain tastes rejoice in a cast in the eye, a bizarre turn of counte¬ nance, a crooked back, Cezanne’s women, the poison¬ ous hauteur of old Florentine busts, Cranach’s false nudes. Of the ancients I choose never the chill calm of Greece but the exquisite lines of Nephretete, passionately lean, sweet-lipped, proudly ruling Egypt. Her dissipated dust now floats behind dis¬ tant curtains. Perhaps I alone in all the world mourn Nephretete tonight, sitting in vulgar glare and clatter, bent on a project that—Ah, she is star¬ ing at me. Thick lids insolent eyes.

Daniel folded his newspaper and held it out. “Would you like to see this?”

She hesitated. “Thanks.”

He watched her open the paper. Satin unflushed cheeks. A flare to the nostrils. Looks healthy. She didn’t have much of a dinner. I suppose if someone else were paying for it she would order nine opulent courses. I used to hear about women being delicate eaters. I’ve never dined one yet that didn’t eat more than I. I wish I hadn’t given her that paper. She’ll read it all if only to annoy me. She knows I want to talk to her. So does every man she meets proba¬ bly. Old Bill McMahon used to say, “Let the pretty ones alone, boys, and pick the others. They’re fresher.”

The girl looked across squarely. “I bet she killed him—that Mrs. Cramer down to Long Island.”

“Very likely, judging from the evidence. But the jury-”

“She done it all right, all right.”

“Tell me. Would you kill someone if you were jealous? You look as if you would.”

“Me? I dunno. I might if he was worth it.”

The waitress placed his dinner before him and poked the menu into the girl’s hand.

“Have something with me,” said Daniel. “Yes? Good. Bring some ice cream, please.”

The girl stared at Daniel with cold puzzled eyes.

“What do you do? I mean, do you work?” he asked.

“Sure. Don’t you?” She raised the newspaper between their faces.

Daniel took up his fork. Presently he put it down and dried the palms of his hands on his nap¬ kin. A touchy little devil. I’ll have to go slow. The chase in always a humiliation to me. Here I sit, eating a dinner I don’t want and trying to inter¬ est and placate a girl with a Neanderthalensis intel¬ ligence—all because the hour has struck. It’s degrading—appalling. No wonder those gaunt narrow-templed ascetics fled to caves with ropes and nettles. Swish, sting, be off with your beckoning eyes. My flesh shall not be leman to you, iniquitous and unclean messenger of Satan. Peace, peace, while I save my soul and on with the flagellation. Nowadays you’d be dragged off for a lunatic.

The waitress brought a plate of ice cream and the girl put down the paper. “You didn’t eat your din¬ ner,” she said.

“I was thinking,” said Daniel.

“Thinking never keeps me from eating.” She smiled slightly.

“Perhaps you haven’t anything to worry about,” said Daniel.

“Don’t you believe it.” Her voice took a higher note. “My mother’s sick and my sister’s just lost her job. That leaves me and the kid brother to make good. My father run off last year.”

“What kind of job have you?”

“What do you want to know for?”

“Why—I—Excuse me. I only hoped you had a good one.”

She lifted her shoulders and returned to her ice cream. Daniel watched her. Parents probably Italian. Even Greek. That’s why she evades a direct answer by moving her shoulders. She’s of¬ fended. Why? Perhaps because I don’t know how to talk to her.

He swallowed some water to relieve the dryness in his throat. “You didn’t have a very good dinner tonight. Suppose you meet me when I get through at my office and we’ll have a little supper. Cold lobster or chicken—anything you like. And after¬ ward I’ll give you something to take home to your mother.” He tapped his breast pocket that she might understand.

She studied him a moment before she replied. “What’s the idea ?”

He hesitated. Damn her truculent air. Why can’t she be businesslike? I’m being as delicate as possible. Don’t tell me she hasn’t done this before. Not with that bold stare and paint on her mouth. Why did she talk to me if she wasn’t hoping for a good bargain? Everybody knows that some work¬ ing girls supplement their wages by going out occa¬ sionally. “You’re a pretty girl and I like you. Isn’t that enough?” Perhaps if I attack in my turn she will have more respect for me. If not I won’t waste my time persuading her.

“How late would it be ?”

“Midnight at least.”

She shook her head. “I can’t. My mother won’t go to sleep till I get home.”

“Why not go home now? Wait till she’s asleep and go out again. I used to manage that way when I lived at home.”

“And come all the way back downtown ?”

“No. I live in Eighty-First Street.”

“Where are we going to eat?”

Daniel looked directly into her eyes. “At my apartment. You can come there in a taxi. I’ll be waiting for you.”

“Oh.” She considered something that seemed to amuse her. She began to smile. White shining teeth. Such a pretty little savage. I’m in luck. Her throat smooth and hard as marble. Shoulders nicely turned. My heart anticipates—beating, beating. She must like me a little. She hasn’t asked for any¬ thing. Usually they think they are about to tap a new vein and come running with pickaxes and dyna¬ mite.

“All right. What’s the address?” She buttoned the collar of her cape about her throat and put on her hat. Daniel wrote on his card with a hand that shook and sweated. He passed it across the table' and slid her dinner check on top of his.

“We’ll say half-past twelve then?”

She nodded and leaned across to him. Soft eyes and the gleam of teeth. I can smell her hair. The procedure of the female. All retreats and claws until the moment she decides to capitulate. Then the contours are smooth over relaxed muscles.

“What if you’re late? I’d be out in the cold with a taxi to pay for.” She stood and jerked on her gloves.

“I’ll fix that,” said Daniel. His stained old wallet trembled in his fingers. She’s right, of course. A tie-up in the subway—an accident to the presses— I might be delayed an hour or more. Damn! Only five and ten dollar bills. Get change. “Just a moment,” he said. He laid a five dollar bill on the table while he folded his wallet. ‘Til get this changed for your taxi.”

The girl reached over and swept up the bill, laugh¬ ing. She walked around to him. “See you later.” Her hand stroked his sleeve up and down. He looked at her mouth, the blood creeping up in his face. Still laughing, she went to the door with quick steps and passed into the street.

The waitress came up to Daniel with a troubled face. “Is anything wrong, sir?”

“No, no,” said Daniel. “Nothing.” He went to fetch his overcoat and put it on at the cashier’s desk. My little treasure, my little scented savage. Her fingers still penetrate me. The folds of her cape clung close about her slenderness. She must be new at it. Not like most of them. Asked for no guaran¬ tees. Really, she likes me, I think. She didn’t have to touch my arm.

Outside Daniel stood bareheaded and looked at the sky. Sex isn’t always ugly after all. Sometimes a refuge from the prose and poetry of work, a per¬ fumed interlude without the pain of thinking. Per¬ haps I am not wise to force myself into such rigidities of habit. That girl—my little savage— I might see her often. But no. There would be an attachment—scenes—money for the sick moth¬ er—

He put on his hat and began to walk. The night was as chill as a cavern. A wind blew through streets that were emptied each nightfall of their thousands as cities in other times were deserted when a plague descended. He smiled as he ploughed into the wind. Send Micky out for lobster or chicken. No, it’s absurd to spend money like that.

Sandwiches would do. Yet I promised her-.

Well, a chicken, then. Two dollars at a delicates¬ sen’s. And lettuce sandwiches—say, fifty cents. And a few drinks of sherry. Tell Micky to have the chicken packed in a box. I don’t want to carry a grease-smeared parcel. Out of the office at eleventhirty. Home at twelve and half an hour to set the table and wash up. Must open sherry bottle. Tra, la, la! The first visitor to my apartment. I’ll tell her so. No. She might feel too important. Will you walk into my parlor said the spider to the—female spider. Oh, so willingly, kind sir. My prices vary accordingly to the quality of your web. Is it cotton or silk? I must know before I advance another centimeter. My little savage will say silk, I’m sure. And silk it is compared to her tenement. Enter the first visitor—woman. Exit the ascetic, his grey mantle streaked with purple at last.

“Abstinence sows sand all over The ruddy limbs and flaming hair ”

Sands of time, running, running. Time only an illu¬ sion, being one with space. In the year of an atom man’s second is not perceived but lasts through an eternity. And our eternity is but a flash in the life cycle of Canopus. The shivering weak cover their faces and flee back to the human bosom of their Creator with a capital C. He didn’t tell them any¬ thing so disquieting. Better heaven and hell than relativity. A man knows where he stands when he hears about harps and brimstone. He holds one and gets choked with the other. That’s reasonable. But tell him matter may be only a hole in the solid ether and he will shake a Bible at you. The number of Bible-shakers has fallen off, though, even in my time. Now a man is just as likely to say, “Let’s see you prove it to me.” Father is still shaking the Bible. But only at mother. He must miss the ferocious zest for prayer I inspired. The night he held me by my hair and prayed for my conversion. I felt anger and shame for him. Now that has faded into contempt. Honor thy father. An im¬ portant precept among Chinese and Jews. There’s small honor for parents among those that call them¬ selves after the beautiful megalomaniac of Nazareth. Only pity, mixed with diluted affection and irrita¬ tion. Blame sentimentality for that. When living gets soft the soul buds forth and the fruit is senti¬ ment, romance and havens for the unfit. Still some races left, however, that crack them on the head. Little corners of the earth where they don’t under¬ stand why we save them. One sect in India ostricises women after the menopause—roofs given only to the reproductive. Wonder what happens to the old men? Servants, I daresay, hunting in the heads of their children’s children.

Daniel pushed through the swinging doors of his office building. A young woman with light curls under her hat was entering the elevator. He turned aside to the tobacconist established in the corridor and bought cigarettes. I’ll wait for the next ele¬ vator. She would talk to me about sending her to Washington for the convention. If she asks me about it again I’m going to tell her that I think Miss Ramsey can do it better. I’ll spare neither pride nor precedent in this office.

He filled his cigarette case and took the next ele¬ vator to the editorial rooms. The light had been turned on in his office and the lid of his desk pushed up to make way for the evening papers, mail, proofs and telephone messages. He sat down and opened a telegram that lay on top of his letters:

“Thank you for the appointment tomorrow. Amy Fiske.”

He let it fall into the basket at his side. Why does she R.S.V.P. me? She must think a newspaper is like a dinner party. I’ll see her just long enough to say there’s no opening for her here. I owe old Rufus that much.

He rang for Micky, gave a number to the tele¬ phone operator and drew a proof of the editorial page across his papers. The evening routine began. Orders, consultations, rebukes, corrections, the re¬ curring summons of the telephone. At half-past eleven he pushed away some proofs and sent out for Trainer. “I’m going early tonight,” he said. “Look out for things.” That will flatter him—to be left in charge. A fever drumming in my blood. Fve been working entirely in the subconscious to¬ night. My little savage. She won’t have to wait for me. Package. Coat. Gloves. Hat.

In the street he turned up his collar and blew his breath in spurts of warm steam. The thick smell of sweat weighted the air of the subway station— that pungent incense to man’s labors. Daniel seated himself in a train and balanced his package on his knee. He stared through the window at the walls of the subway as they roared past, streaked by sudden lights. Each train paints its own frescoes. Patterns of almandite and ochre chasing us along moist walls, caught and effaced by sentinel lights or the inter¬ vention of a station. Clamor and blare, thunder and turmoil—we suffer all these in order to huddle our roofs together every man in terror lest he be squeezed out into the country where the stars will enter his thoughts.

His package slipped from his knees and fell to the floor. He snatched it up and held it between his hands. My little savage’s supper. Kisses between mouthfuls and sips—food translated into flesh and thought. The breast of chicken tomorrow trans¬ formed by nature’s alembic into a tender memory of me. Wagner’s sauerkraut and sausages became the piercingly sweet Abendstern. Newton’s dinners of red beef turned into concepts of gravitation. Hokasai’s bowls of rice are now flowing lines hotly bid for at Occidental auctions.

The train ground to a stop and Daniel poked him¬ self through the crowd that pressed up the stairways. The wind, cold and determined, forced itself through cheviot and linen. He shivered and set his teeth. This climate one of the prices we pay for progress. We need a measure of discomfort, it seems, to buck us up for the struggle of achievement. We thrive on shivers and sweat and having to decide often about changing our underwear. Too much hard¬ ship and we sit dully in igloos unfit for mental effort or the proximity of a civilized nose. Too much comfort and we take our ease under a flat-leafed tree, almost too listless to like the motion of the waves on the beach.

Daniel opened the door of his apartment and looked about. It isn’t so bad since I bought that Mexican rug. Nice red in it—like the rich loam of Ceylon. She’ll like that. The books make pleasing blocks of color against the gray of the walls. But I daresay she won’t notice the books.

He spread a yellow and brown checked cloth on the table and fetched plates, glasses and a bottle of sherry from the kitchenette. Turning on the cold water in the bathroom, he put clean towels about. His pajamas were hanging on the bathroom door, wrinkled and limp. He pulled them down and kicked them under the bathtub. He thrust razor and

3 i toothbrush into the cabinet and filled a pitcher with water for the table. Half cutting, half pulling, he separated the chicken into four clammy parts. Hurry, hurry, hurry. Greasy fingers. Can’t stop to wash them. She may be waiting even now. I’ll leave the light burning. In case she’s timid about stepping over a strange threshold into darkness.

He snatched up his hat, closed the door behind him and ran down the stairs. The hall boy dozed at the switchboard of the telephone. Walking on his toes, Daniel passed by. The street was empty. He went to the curb and looked right and left. The wind lifted swirls of dust and tossed them back and forth before flinging them again at the buildings.

A man came around the corner. Daniel watched him approach, cross the street and turn into a door¬ way. Presently a window was raised in the oppo¬ site apartment house and a woman in a yellow kimono stood there for a moment before the light went out. More swirls of dust and then a long interlude during which the street rested inactive.

A yellow cat trotted by, tail held high, a senti¬ mental smile in her eyes as she blinked them at the light behind Daniel. A scarred grey cat followed her, stretching his neck forward and down and flat¬ tening his ears as he passed. The yellow cat leaped down an area way. The grey cat paused on the upper step, looking down and swinging his tail from side to side.

A silence like an augury lay on the street’s bleakness. Daniel knocked his heels against the curb. He began to walk up and down. Four houses to the west. Turn. Four houses to the east. Turn. Four houses to the west. Turn.

The whirr of a taxicab sounded in the distance. Daniel stopped walking and thrust his head from the collar of his coat to listen to the knock of the engine as it labored up the incline of the avenue. He was at the curb before his own doorway when the taxi¬ cab turned the corner and rolled at him. He leaped to the door and pulled it open.

An old man stepped out, grave and surprised. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “What’s the meter read, driver?”

Daniel moved back. He looked at his watch and slowly returned it to his pocket. The old man went to the door and pushed at its weight with a feeble arm and shoulder. Daniel, reaching from behind him, threw it open with a vicious thrust. The old man stumbled inside and made for the elevator. Daniel, his lips a blue line, followed into the hallway. The door closed on his heels with a clang.

Ill

Among Daniel’s letters was an envelope addressed in wavering, old-fashioned writing. Mother. Still watering that old bottle of ink. Asking me to come out Sunday to dinner, I suppose. I’d better go. Let’s

see—two, no three, weeks since I-

He slit the envelope with a paper cutter and read the penciled lines, frowning.

“Dear Dan:—We haven’t had a letter from you in a week. How are you getting on over there? I hope you will come out on Sunday. The insurance is due on the first, you mustn’t forget it and Pa broke the clock again. Ruth was over yesterday with little Eddie. She wouldn’t want it known for anything but she’s expecting again. This is strictly private for you only. She looks poorly but that’s natural. Andrew is doing fine and had another raise at the office, so now he can give Ruth more comforts. I am well and wish I could say as much for your Pa. He mopes around the house and goes to bed every afternoon. Now, Dan, that is not like your Pa to do that. Maybe he’s got some sickness hanging over him but we’ll hope and pray for the best. Come Sunday sure. Your loving mother, Annie Geer.”

Daniel tore the letter into bits. Probably old age. He must be sixty-eight or nine. I was born when he was thirty-seven. The years are heavy on him and will soon press him into the earth. Then mother’s turn. And mine. Each generation burrowing under disturbs the sod. Our steps kick up the dust of our ancestors. All life that has been lies under our boot-heels and we tread on the eyes of the quiescent dead. Stamp one day—get stamped on the next. Glad Andrew got that raise. Now he won’t be borrowing from me. Poor Ruth! Another suck¬ ling to sap her strength. Andrews image, impress¬ ed a fourth time, will inflate him still more. “Quite a little family, eh, Dan? And when are you going to do your duty by your country?” “Now, Andy, you stop teasing Dan. You’ll only stir him up and he’ll start on one of his lectures.” “Well, Ruthie, he ought to be stirred up. Why don’t he get busy and find some nice girl to marry him? With all that money he’s earning it’s a shame. He’s grow¬ ing into a regular old bach.” “Marriage, Andrew? Not for me. Just the first week of the honeymoon. If you stay longer than that you’ll find disillusion¬ ment. You start to save so she can spend. Bills, words, tears. She telephones your office to ask if you still love her. She just adores the theatre and dancing. Her friends come in the evening when you’re reading. Pregnancy. Humor her whims. Calm her fears. Reproach yourself. Terrors of birth. Then turbulent nights in the interest of lung development. Wet garments, faintly ammoniacal, hang on the radiators. Loose wrappers, untidy hair, wrinkled eyes, inferior conversation—like yours, Andrew. Pregnant again. You’re caught in the trap for life. Only a villain ever gets away and breathes free, impersonal air, smiling at the curses that follow him as if they were petals.” “I told you so, Andy. You started him off and—”

“Lady says she has appointment with you, Mr. Geer.”

Daniel took a card from the boy. Miss Amy Fiske. Damn! Old Rufus. Twelve o’clock. Telegram. Suppose I’ll have to. “Show her in. Send Miss Elliot here first.”

He scowled at his littered desk. They’re always late except when you don’t want to see them. Then they come before you have a chance to read your mail. If they want something from you they’re Johnny-on-the-spot. If you want something from them they don’t turn up. Like that little swindler last night.

“Dictation, Mr. Geer?”

“No. I want you to come in here in ten minutes and tell me that I’m wanted at a conference.”

“A conference ?”

“Yes, a conference. Is the word new to you?”

She flushed. “I don’t understand.”

“It isn’t necessary. Just do what I tell you.”

She turned away, her eyes filling with tears. Stupid! Does she think I have time to stop and explain my motives to the office force? I suppose I’ve hurt her feelings. Well, she isn’t here to have feelings but to take orders. If she’s sensitive she’d better stay home and help her mother wash dishes. I’ve no time to coddle the employees. I hear Miss Amy Fiske approaching, damn her. If she has any of that vaunted feminine intuition she’ll see how busy I am and clear out. Behind my chair. Hesitating. Perfume. Penetrating French kind. Give me good old printer’s ink.

“Mr. Geer?”

Daniel lifted his eyes from the newspaper he was pretending to read and stood. Without looking at her face he accepted a firm, smallish hand in a fawn-colored glove.

“Won’t you sit down?” he said and tapped his desk with a pencil.

“Dr. Edwards told you, I believe, that I am looking for a position. He thought perhaps you would give me a chance here with you. I’ve brought some things I’ve been writing.” The voice was clear, slightly metallic, enunciating with sharpness.