Part 23

“It’s a knockout.” Congo took a card out of his vest pocket:

MARQUIS DES COULOMMIERS IMPORTS

Riverside 11121

“Maybe some day you need some little ting ... I deal in nutting but prewar imported. I am the best bootleggair in New York.”

“If I ever get any money I certainly will spend it on you Congo.... How do you find business?”

“Veree good.... I tell you about it. Tonight I’m too busee.... Now I find you a table in the restaurant.”

“Do you run this place too?”

“No this my bruderinlaw’s place.”

“I didnt know you had a sister.”

“Neither did I.”

When Congo limped away from their table silence came down between them like an asbestos curtain in a theater.

“He’s a funny duck,” said Jimmy forcing a laugh.

“He certainly is.”

“Look Ellie let’s have another cocktail.”

“Allright.”

“I must get hold of him and get some stories about bootleggers out of him.”

When he stretched his legs out under the table he touched her feet. She drew them away. Jimmy could feel his jaws chewing, they clanked so loud under his cheeks he thought Ellie must hear them. She sat opposite him in a gray tailoredsuit, her neck curving up heartbreakingly from the ivory V left by the crisp frilled collar of her blouse, her head tilted under her tight gray hat, her lips made up; cutting up little pieces of meat and not eating them, not saying a word.

“Gosh ... let’s have another cocktail.” He felt paralyzed like in a nightmare; she was a porcelaine figure under a bellglass. A current of fresh snowrinsed air from somewhere eddied all of a sudden through the blurred packed jangling glare of the restaurant, cut the reek of food and drink and tobacco. For an instant he caught the smell of her hair. The cocktails burned in him. God I dont want to pass out.

Sitting in the restaurant of the Gare de Lyon, side by side on the black leather bench. His cheek brushes hers when he reaches to put herring, butter, sardines, anchovies, sausage on her plate. They eat in a hurry, gobbling, giggling, gulp wine, start at every screech of an engine....

The train pulls out of Avignon, they two awake, looking in each other’s eyes in the compartment full of sleep-sodden snoring people. He lurches clambering over tangled legs, to smoke a cigarette at the end of the dim oscillating corridor. Diddledeump, going south, Diddledeump, going south, sing the wheels over the rails down the valley of the Rhone. Leaning in the window, smoking a broken cigarette, trying to smoke a crumbling cigarette, holding a finger over the torn place. Glubglub glubglub from the bushes, from the silverdripping poplars along the track.

“Ellie, Ellie there are nightingales singing along the track.”

“Oh I was asleep darling.” She gropes to him stumbling across the legs of sleepers. Side by side in the window in the lurching jiggling corridor.

Deedledeump, going south. Gasp of nightingales along the track among the silverdripping poplars. The insane cloudy night of moonlight smells of gardens garlic rivers freshdunged field roses. Gasp of nightingales.

Opposite him the Elliedoll was speaking. “He says the lobstersalad’s all out.... Isnt that discouraging?”

Suddenly he had his tongue. “Gosh if that were the only thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why did we come back to this rotten town anyway?”

“You’ve been burbling about how wonderful it was ever since we came back.”

“I know. I guess it’s sour grapes.... I’m going to have another cocktail.... Ellie for heaven’s sake what’s the matter with us?”

“We’re going to be sick if we keep this up I tell you.”

“Well let’s be sick.... Let’s be good and sick.”

When they sit up in the great bed they can see across the harbor, can see the yards of a windjammer and a white sloop and a red and green toy tug and plainfaced houses opposite beyond a peacock stripe of water; when they lie down they can see gulls in the sky. At dusk dressing rockily, shakily stumbling through the mildewed corridors of the hotel out into streets noisy as a brass band, full of tambourine rattle, brassy shine, crystal glitter, honk and whir of motors.... Alone together in the dusk drinking sherry under a broad-leaved plane, alone together in the juggled particolored crowds like people invisible. And the spring night comes up over the sea terrible out of Africa and settles about them.

They had finished their coffee. Jimmy had drunk his very slowly as if some agony waited for him when he finished it.

“Well I was afraid we’d find the Barneys here,” said Ellen.

“Do they know about this place?”

“You brought them here yourself Jimps.... And that dreadful woman insisted on talking babies with me all the evening. I hate talking babies.”

“Gosh I wish we could go to a show.”

“It would be too late anyway.”

“And just spending money I havent got.... Lets have a cognac to top off with. I don’t care if it ruins us.”

“It probably will in more ways than one.”

“Well Ellie, here’s to the breadwinner who’s taken up the white man’s burden.”

“Why Jimmy I think it’ll be rather fun to have an editorial job for a while.”

“I’d find it fun to have any kind of job.... Well I can always stay home and mind the baby.”

“Dont be so bitter Jimmy, it’s just temporary.”

“Life’s just temporary for that matter.”

The taxi drew up. Jimmy paid him with his last dollar. Ellie had her key in the outside door. The street was a confusion of driving absintheblurred snow. The door of their apartment closed behind them. Chairs, tables, books, windowcurtains crowded about them bitter with the dust of yesterday, the day before, the day before that. Smells of diapers and coffeepots and typewriter oil and Dutch Cleanser oppressed them. Ellen put out the empty milkbottle and went to bed. Jimmy kept walking nervously about the front room. His drunkenness ebbed away leaving him icily sober. In the empty chamber of his brain a doublefaced word clinked like a coin: Success Failure, Success Failure.

* * * * *

I’m just wild about Harree And Harry’s just wild about me

she hums under her breath as she dances. It’s a long hall with a band at one end, lit greenishly by two clusters of electric lights hanging among paper festoons in the center. At the end where the door is, a varnished rail holds back the line of men. This one Anna’s dancing with is a tall square built Swede, his big feet trail clumsily after her tiny lightly tripping feet. The music stops. Now it’s a little blackhaired slender Jew. He tries to snuggle close.

“Quit that.” She holds him away from her.

“Aw have a heart.”

She doesn’t answer, dances with cold precision; she’s sickeningly tired.

Me and my boyfriend My boyfriend and I

An Italian breathes garlic in her face, a marine sergeant, a Greek, a blond young kid with pink cheeks, she gives him a smile; a drunken elderly man who tries to kiss her ... _Charley my boy O Charley my boy_ ... slickhaired, freckled rumplehaired, pimplefaced, snubnosed, straightnosed, quick dancers, heavy dancers.... _Goin souf_.... _Wid de taste o de sugarcane right in my mouf_ ... against her back big hands, hot hands, sweaty hands, cold hands, while her dancechecks mount up, get to be a wad in her fist. This one’s a good waltzer, genteel-like in a black suit.

“Gee I’m tired,” she whispers.

“Dancing never tires me.”

“Oh it’s dancin with everybody like this.”

“Dont you want to come an dance with me all alone somewhere?”

“Boyfrien’s waitin for me after.”

With nothing but a photograph To tell my troubles to ... What’ll I do...?

“What time’s it?” she asks a broadchested wise guy. “Time you an me was akwainted, sister....” She shakes her head. Suddenly the music bursts into Auld Lang Syne. She breaks away from him and runs to the desk in a crowd of girls elbowing to turn in their dancechecks. “Say Anna,” says a broadhipped blond girl ... “did ye see that sap was dancin wid me?... He says to me the sap he says See you later an I says to him the sap I says see yez in hell foist ... an then he says, Goily he says ...”

III. Revolving Doors

_Glowworm trains shuttle in the gloaming through the foggy looms of spiderweb bridges, elevators soar and drop in their shafts, harbor lights wink._

_Like sap at the first frost at five o’clock men and women begin to drain gradually out of the tall buildings downtown, grayfaced throngs flood subways and tubes, vanish underground._

_All night the great buildings stand quiet and empty, their million windows dark. Drooling light the ferries chew tracks across the lacquered harbor. At midnight the fourfunneled express steamers slide into the dark out of their glary berths. Bankers blearyeyed from secret conferences hear the hooting of the tugs as they are let out of side doors by lightningbug watchmen; they settle grunting into the back seats of limousines, and are whisked uptown into the Forties, clinking streets of ginwhite whiskey-yellow ciderfizzling lights._

She sat at the dressingtable coiling her hair. He stood over her with the lavender suspenders hanging from his dress trousers prodding the diamond studs into his shirt with stumpy fingers.

“Jake I wish we were out of it,” she whined through the hairpins in her mouth.

“Out of what Rosie?”

“The Prudence Promotion Company.... Honest I’m worried.”

“Why everything’s goin swell. We’ve got to bluff out Nichols that’s all.”

“Suppose he prosecutes?”

“Oh he wont. He’d lose a lot of money by it. He’d much better come in with us.... I can pay him in cash in a week anyways. If we can keep him thinkin we got money we’ll have him eatin out of our hands. Didn’t he say he’d be at the El Fey tonight?”

Rosie had just put a rhinestone comb into the coil of her black hair. She nodded and got to her feet. She was a plump broadhipped woman with big black eyes and higharched eyebrows. She wore a corset trimmed with yellow lace and a pink silk chemise.

“Put on everythin you’ve got Rosie. I want yez all dressed up like a Christmas tree. We’re goin to the El Fey an stare Nichols down tonight. Then tomorrer I’ll go round and put the proposition up to him.... Lets have a little snifter anyways ...” He went to the phone. “Send up some cracked ice and a couple of bottles of White Rock to four o four. Silverman’s the name. Make it snappy.”

“Jake let’s make a getaway,” Rosie cried suddenly. She stood in the closet door with a dress over her arm. “I cant stand all this worry.... It’s killin me. Let’s you an me beat it to Paris or Havana or somewheres and start out fresh.”

“Then we would be up the creek. You can be extradited for grand larceny. Jez you wouldnt have me goin round with dark glasses and false whiskers all my life.”

Rosie laughed. “No I guess you wouldnt look so good in a fake zit.... Oh I wish we were really married at least.”

“Dont make no difference between us Rosie. Then they’d be after me for bigamy too. That’d be pretty.”

Rosie shuddered at the bellboy’s knock. Jake Silverman put the tray with its clinking bowl of ice on the bureau and fetched a square whiskeybottle out of the wardrobe.

“Dont pour out any for me. I havent got the heart for it.”

“Kid you’ve got to pull yourself together. Put on the glad rags an we’ll go to a show. Hell I been in lots o tighter holes than this.” With his highball in his hand he went to the phone. “I want the newsstand.... Hello cutie.... Sure I’m an old friend of yours.... Sure you know me.... Look could you get me two seats for the Follies.... That’s the idear.... No I cant sit back of the eighth row.... That’s a good little girl.... An you’ll call me in ten minutes will you dearie?”

“Say Jake is there really any borax in that lake?”

“Sure there is. Aint we got the affidavit of four experts?”

“Sure. I was just kinder wonderin.... Say Jake if this ever gets wound up will you promise me not to go in for any more wildcat schemes?”

“Sure; I wont need to.... My you’re a redhot mommer in that dress.”

“Do you like it?”

“You look like Brazil ... I dunno ... kinder tropical.”

“That’s the secret of my dangerous charm.”

The phone rang jingling sharp. They jumped to their feet. She pressed the side of her hand against her lips.

“Two in the fourth row. That’s fine.... We’ll be right down an get em ... Jez Rosie you cant go on being jumpy like; you’re gettin me all shot too. Pull yerself together why cant you?”

“Let’s go out an eat Jake. I havent had anything but buttermilk all day. I guess I’ll stop tryin to reduce. This worryin’ll make me thin enough.”

“You got to quit it Rosie.... It’s gettin my nerve.”

They stopped at the flowerstall in the lobby. “I want a gardenia” he said. He puffed his chest out and smiled his curlylipped smile as the girl fixed it in the buttonhole of his dinnercoat. “What’ll you have dear?” he turned grandiloquently to Rosie. She puckered her mouth. “I dont just know what’ll go with my dress.”

“While you’re deciding I’ll go get the theater tickets.” With his overcoat open and turned back to show the white puffedout shirtfront and his cuffs shot out over his thick hands he strutted over to the newsstand. Out of the corner of her eye while the ends of the red roses were being wrapped in silver paper Rosie could see him leaning across the magazines talking babytalk to the blond girl. He came back brighteyed with a roll of bills in his hand. She pinned the roses on her fur coat, put her arm in his and together they went through the revolving doors into the cold glistening electric night. “Taxi,” he yapped.

* * * * *

The diningroom smelled of toast and coffee and the New York _Times_. The Merivales were breakfasting to electric light. Sleet beat against the windows. “Well Paramount’s fallen off five points more,” said James from behind the paper.

“Oh James I think its horrid to be such a tease,” whined Maisie who was drinking her coffee in little henlike sips.

“And anyway,” said Mrs. Merivale, “Jack’s not with Paramount any more. He’s doing publicity for the Famous Players.”

“He’s coming east in two weeks. He says he hopes to be here for the first of the year.”

“Did you get another wire Maisie?”

Maisie nodded. “Do you know James, Jack never will write a letter. He always telegraphs,” said Mrs. Merivale through the paper at her son. “He certainly keeps the house choked up with flowers,” growled James from behind the paper.

“All by telegraph,” said Mrs. Merivale triumphantly.

James put down his paper. “Well I hope he’s as good a fellow as he seems to be.”

“Oh James you’re horrid about Jack.... I think it’s mean.” She got to her feet and went through the curtains into the parlor.

“Well if he’s going to be my brother-in-law, I think I ought to have a say in picking him,” he grumbled.

Mrs. Merivale went after her. “Come back and finish your breakfast Maisie, he’s just a terrible tease.”

“I wont have him talk that way about Jack.”

“But Maisie I think Jack’s a dear boy.” She put her arm round her daughter and led her back to the table. “He’s so simple and I know he has good impulses.... I’m sure he’s going to make you very happy.” Maisie sat down again pouting under the pink bow of her boudoir cap. “Mother may I have another cup of coffee?”

“Deary you know you oughtnt to drink two cups. Dr. Fernald said that was what was making you so nervous.”

“Just a little bit mother very weak. I want to finish this muffin and I simply cant eat it without something to wash it down, and you know you dont want me to lose any more weight.” James pushed back his chair and went out with the _Times_ under his arm. “It’s half past eight James,” said Mrs. Merivale. “He’s likely to take an hour when he gets in there with that paper.”

“Well,” said Maisie peevishly. “I think I’ll go back to bed. I think it’s silly the way we all get up to breakfast. There’s something so vulgar about it mother. Nobody does it any more. At the Perkinses’ it comes up to you in bed on a tray.”

“But James has to be at the bank at nine.”

“That’s no reason why we should drag ourselves out of bed. That’s how people get their faces all full of wrinkles.”

“But we wouldn’t see James until dinnertime, and I like to get up early. The morning’s the loveliest part of the day.” Maisie yawned desperately.

James appeared in the doorway to the hall running a brush round his hat.

“What did you do with the paper James?”

“Oh I left it in there.”

“I’ll get it, never mind.... My dear you’ve got your stickpin in crooked. I’ll fix it.... There.” Mrs. Merivale put her hands on his shoulders and looked in her son’s face. He wore a dark gray suit with a faint green stripe in it, an olive green knitted necktie with a small gold nugget stickpin, olive green woolen socks with black clockmarks and dark red Oxford shoes, their laces neatly tied with doubleknots that never came undone. “James arent you carrying your cane?” He had an olive green woolen muffler round his neck and was slipping into his dark brown winter overcoat. “I notice the younger men down there dont carry them, mother ... People might think it was a little ... I dont know ...”

“But Mr. Perkins carries a cane with a gold parrothead.”

“Yes but he’s one of the vicepresidents, he can do what he likes.... But I’ve got to run.” James Merivale hastily kissed his mother and sister. He put on his gloves going down in the elevator. Ducking his head into the sleety wind he walked quickly east along Seventysecond. At the subway entrance he bought a _Tribune_ and hustled down the steps to the jammed soursmelling platform.

* * * * *

_Chicago! Chicago!_ came in bursts out of the shut phonograph. Tony Hunter, slim in a black closecut suit, was dancing with a girl who kept putting her mass of curly ashblond hair on his shoulder. They were alone in the hotel sitting room.

“Sweetness you’re a lovely dancer,” she cooed snuggling closer.

“Think so Nevada?”

“Um-hum ... Sweetness have you noticed something about me?”

“What’s that Nevada?”

“Havent you noticed something about my eyes?”

“They’re the loveliest little eyes in the world.”

“Yes but there’s something about them.”

“You mean that one of them’s green and the other one brown.”

“Oh it noticed the tweet lil ting.” She tilted her mouth up at him. He kissed it. The record came to an end. They both ran over to stop it. “That wasnt much of a kiss, Tony,” said Nevada Jones tossing her curls out of her eyes. They put on _Shuffle Along_.

“Say Tony,” she said when they had started dancing again. “What did the psychoanalyst say when you went to see him yesterday?”

“Oh nothing much, we just talked,” said Tony with a sigh. “He said it was all imaginary. He suggested I get to know some girls better. He’s all right. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about though. He cant do anything.”

“I bet you I could.”

They stopped dancing and looked at each other with the blood burning in their faces.

“Knowing you Nevada,” he said in a doleful tone “has meant more to me ... You’re so decent to me. Everybody’s always been so nasty.”

“Aint he solemn though?” She walked over thoughtfully and stopped the phonograph.

“Some joke on George I’ll say.”

“I feel horribly about it. He’s been so decent.... And after all I could never have afforded to go to Dr. Baumgardt at all.”

“It’s his own fault. He’s a damn fool.... If he thinks he can buy me with a little hotel accommodation and theater tickets he’s got another think coming. But honestly Tony you must keep on with that doctor. He did wonders with Glenn Gaston.... He thought he was that way until he was thirtyfive years old and the latest thing I hear he’s married an had a pair of twins.... Now give me a real kiss sweetest. Thataboy. Let’s dance some more. Gee you’re a beautiful dancer. Kids like you always are. I dont know why it is....”

The phone cut into the room suddenly with a glittering sawtooth ring. “Hello.... Yes this is Miss Jones.... Why of course George I’m waiting for you....” She put up the receiver. “Great snakes, Tony beat it. I’ll call you later. Dont go down in the elevator you’ll meet him coming up.” Tony Hunter melted out the door. Nevada put _Baby ... Babee Deewine_ on the phonograph and strode nervously about the room, straightening chairs, patting her tight short curls into place.

“Oh George I thought you werent comin.... How do you do Mr. McNiel? I dunno why I’m all jumpy today. I thought you were never comin. Let’s get some lunch up. I’m that hungry.”

George Baldwin put his derby hat and stick on a table in the corner. “What’ll you have Gus?” he said. “Sure I always take a lamb chop an a baked potato.”

“I’m just taking crackers and milk, my stomach’s a little out of order.... Nevada see if you cant frisk up a highball for Mr. McNiel.”

“Well I could do with a highball George.”

“George order me half a broiled chicken lobster and some alligator pear salad,” screeched Nevada from the bathroom where she was cracking ice.

“She’s the greatest girl for lobster,” said Baldwin laughing as he went to the phone.

She came back from the bathroom with two highballs on a tray; she had put a scarlet and parrotgreen batik scarf round her neck. “Just you an me’s drinkin Mr. McNiel.... George is on the water wagon. Doctor’s orders.”

“Nevada what do you say we go to a musical show this afternoon? There’s a lot of business I want to get off my mind.”

“I just love matinees. Do you mind if we take Tony Hunter. He called up he was lonesome and wanted to come round this afternoon. He’s not workin this week.”

“All right.... Nevada will you excuse us if we talk business for just a second over here by the window. We’ll forget it by the time lunch comes.”

“All righty I’ll change my dress.”

“Sit down here Gus.”

They sat silent a moment looking out of the window at the red girder cage of the building under construction next door. “Well Gus,” said Baldwin suddenly harshly, “I’m in the race.”

“Good for you George, we need men like you.”

“I’m going to run on a Reform ticket.”

“The hell you are?”

“I wanted to tell you Gus rather than have you hear it by a roundabout way.”

“Who’s goin to elect you?”

“Oh I’ve got my backing.... I’ll have a good press.”

“Press hell.... We’ve got the voters.... But Goddam it if it hadn’t been for me your name never would have come up for district attorney at all.”

“I know you’ve always been a good friend of mine and I hope you’ll continue to be.”

“I never went back on a guy yet, but Jez, George, it’s give and take in this world.”

“Well,” broke in Nevada advancing towards them with little dancesteps, wearing a flamingo pink silk dress, “havent you boys argued enough yet?”

“We’re through,” growled Gus. “... Say Miss Nevada, how did you get that name?”

“I was born in Reno.... My mother’d gone there to get a divorce.... Gosh she was sore.... Certainly put my foot in it that time.”

* * * * *

Anna Cohen stands behind the counter under the sign THE BEST SANDWICH IN NEW YORK. Her feet ache in her pointed shoes with runover heels.

“Well I guess they’ll begin soon or else we’re in for a slack day,” says the sodashaker beside her. He’s a raw-faced man with a sharp adamsapple. “It allus comes all of a rush like.”