Part 8

“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.