A curious singing began in his right ear. He put down his glass very hard on the red table, which was unexpectedly near, then walked quickly, with Bertha’s glare still fixed upon him, across the corridor to the bathroom. The door closed, he stared at his reflection in the greenish mirror. White as a sheet. First stage of drunkenness. Boy, you ain’t seen the half of it. This is going to be a souse in a million. He watched himself swaying, rested his hands on the marble basin, and saw his face beginning to cry. The mouth curled itself grotesquely, like a child’s, like the wound in a tragic mask, his eyes closed themselves to slits, the white face began absurdly jiggling up and down, in time with the rapid soundless convulsions of his chest. He turned on the two taps in the basin, to drown out the extraordinary noise Andrew Cather had begun to make. A sound like a swift departure of wings, pigeon’s wings, whe-whe-whe-whe-whe-whe-whe-whe — then a shudder of breath quickly indrawn, and another hissing flight of wingbeats, and a long oooooooooooooo — subsiding to caught calm, as the tears fell into the steaming water. Grates me. Is this the face that launched a thousand quips? Is that you, One-eye Cather? Wash your bloody, driveling little map. If, the last time your mother spanked you, when you were seven, you refused to cry, why cry now? What is there to cry about? Is it manly to cry? Disgusting. Step up, ladies and gents, and see the weeping pig: the pig with wings, the pig with a glass eye. Look at the little red veins in his nose, heritage of six months’ drunkenness, the whiteness of the white of his left eye, the redness of the white of the right. Wash your face with cold water, as you have often seen Bertha do after a midnight quarrel. Observe yourself from a great distance, as if you were an ant crawling over the toe of your shoe. Isn’t he a funny little thing? Does he know where he’s going? Has he a god? Does he distinguish right from wrong? Has he sexual appetites, loves, hates, despairs? Has he an ideal? A secret richness of soul, tenderness of heart, susceptibility to injury? Have you lost your wife, your friend, or is it only an egg? Tu pupila es azul; y quando lloras—the world is a lost egg. A mislaid egg. It will hatch, out of season, in a universe of intemperate weather, an absolute zero, and the god it contains will be born dead.
You are not angry: you don’t want to be angry: you are hurt.
His face washed, the temples cold and transparent over the brain, he returned to the sitting-room. It was now Bertha’s turn to cry. She lay huddled at one end of the couch, her back turned, her cheek on a green pillow, a handkerchief held over her eyes. One of her pianissimos, a soft whispering sound, persistent, uninterruptible, the kind that could go on for hours, for all night. She looked small and pathetic, but also absurd. He felt a profound detachment and irony towards her, watched the slight shaking of her body, the irregular lift and fall of the blue mandarin jacket on her left shoulder, the movement of the blue elbow, noted the heaviness of the upper arm: she was getting old.
— I’m not angry, Berty: I don’t want to be angry: I’m hurt.
The rain answered him. Hurt? The word seemed singularly inadequate. But words in a scene were always inadequate: it was always like this: these midnight quarrels were always the same: ridiculous phrases followed by ridiculous silences, sudden shifts from fury to pathos, from the heroic to the absurd, and at last a bedside reconciliation dictated by sheer fatigue. But not tonight, not this time. No. Good God, no.
— Are you going to say anything?
No answer. His hands in his pockets, he walked into the kitchen, looked at the table, the empty tin, the tin opener, the half lemon, the sugar bowl, the spots of gin and water on the varnished wood. Still life. A cockroach signaled at him with alert antennae from the edge of the kitchen sink. The ice in the ice chest settled itself with a grating slump, metallic. Domestic interior: the persistent order that underlies all disorder, the useful tyranny of the inanimate. Say good-by to it, old fool — this is the beginning of the end. All is over. No more ice chests, shared cockroaches, fruit knives, gin rings to be mopped up with handkerchiefs. To hell with it. No more mosquitoes on the window screens in the summer evenings, to be squashed with one finger against rusty wire. The last day of the calendar, the calendar with the sacred cow. Out with it: this is the terminus. Let Rome in Tiber melt—
— Perhaps you’re right. Yes, I believe you may be right. What’s the use? How can we summarize everything in a few well-chosen words. Your life, and my life, our life together. Non si puo.… Just the same, I don’t see what you’re crying about — you’ve got what you want, haven’t you?
He looked at her quizzically: she was quieter, but he could still see her left shoulder now and then spasmodically lifted, hear the sharp intake of breath. He picked up the red Spanish grammar from the other end of the couch, seated himself where the book had lain, being very careful not to touch the slippered feet which were so close to his knee.
— Impossible to find the right words, isn’t it. Just as well read at random out of a book. For example. It is lightning, and I fear that it will rain. Is she unhappy? She appears to be so, but I cannot believe that she is so. He is sorry that he is ill, and I am sorry that he is ill. Use the subjunctive after expressions of doubting or fearing, joy or sorrow, or necessity. Mientras dure la vida—as long as life lasts. Ella está enamorada: y si lo está, que mal hay en ello? No harm at all.
The rain answered him. No harm at all.
— Or how about this. This seems to settle everything. It seems to me; it seems to you (fam. sing.); it seems to him; it seems to us; it seems to you (fam. pl.); it seems to them, I go to bed; you go to bed (fam. sing.); he goes to bed; we go to bed; you go to bed (fam. pl.); they go to bed. All life in a nutshell, by God. We hate each other; they (masc. and fem.) hate each other. We embrace and kiss each other.… Cardinals and ordinals. We shall reach the city of Waltham before night comes on. Let us take leave of the wounded man: he slept well yesterday, and he is not moaning tonight. This is a Spanish proverb: “Although the monkey dressed in silk, she remained a monkey!” It is snowing or raining all the time in this town: we hope that the weather is better in yours.…
No answer to his lifted eyebrow: he began to feel angry again.
— I like the “fam. sing.,” don’t you? He has a toothache, and is shedding a lot of tears. If you do not prefer to lend them the pens, do not lend them the pens.
The sound of Bertha’s weeping became louder: she made a sudden convulsive gesture with her lifted elbow, turned her face farther away into the pillow, and said:
— Will you stop it, please?
— Certainly, if you like.
— I believe you have — I believe you have — no heart at all.
— Step right up, ladies and gents, and see the pig without a heart.… To drink is to live. An old Spanish proverb. Have a drink, Andy, old fellow. Yes, I will, thank you.
He sat still, staring, let the opened book slide to the floor, then rose and stood before her, jingling the silver in his pocket.
— Well, what do you suggest?
— Nothing.… Whatever you like.
— I see. You want me to make the decisions. Is that it?
No answer.
— By God, I could kill you when you take refuge in weeping and silence. It’s a damned dirty way of evading your responsibilities, if you ask me! I’m going back to the club. I don’t know where I’ll go from there. Anywhere. I’ll let you know—
He lurched into the hall, struggled into his wet coat, put his hat on, returned to the couch, where Bertha still lay motionless, squeezed her elbow once between finger and thumb, saying, “I’m off,” and a moment later found himself running along the slippery boardwalk toward Garden Street. In this street once. He got into a yellow taxi, which started moving before he had quite seated himself: he found himself on his back, and for a few seconds lay inert, uncertain whether he wanted to laugh or cry. Lights. The expensive hum of a Packard. Bertha at the opera, in the borrowed car. Mrs. Skinner, the old buzzard, sat behind them. “They were just finding each other,” she said. Just finding each other. Oh, yeah? And now they were just losing each other. One as easy as the other — now you see them and now you don’t. Close the eyes. Let the chin come to rest, where it will, on mother’s breast. Let us frolic on the hills at Arlington, under the shadow of the water tower. Wild barberry. Black-eyed Susan. Does some one see us. Is some one coming. Beams multiply in a scaffolding, the scantlings cant, the lashed ladder topples, falls, veers, descends dizzily down the booming well. She has bats in her belfry. Long sounds, long lines of sound, long lights on backs of sounds, rode like the Valkyrie, whooping through the tunnel. Let fall your chin on mother’s breast. No, you mustn’t here, this is too public, some one might see us, don’t, Andy, you’re too dreadful. The taxi ticking, Mr. Rodman said: I said: Mr. Rodman said: tu pupila es azul. Paid the bill. Saw the spittoons, garboons. The ice in the urinals, too, and the brass keys on the rack. Who’s on the rack? Beams multiply in a scaffolding, the scantlings cant, cross levers, struts and stays, footholds and handholds, giant’s jackstraws, you are lost among them, come down, oh, maid, from yonder height, get out from under before it all falls, it will fall, is falling, fam. sing. and all, go on and hoot your way into hell. Who was hooting? The dead man under the bridge, fumbling in darkness along slimy piles, bowing to the tide, felt hat in hand. Good evening, madam. Have they found me yet? Has my watch stopped ticking? What brick was it that spoke that about ticking? It was the train, over the joints, over the rails. In Rome too as the Romans too.