The music stopped. A mop, loudly wiping the floor behind Raul, broke his imagery. The black prince became gangling: long, clumsy legs; a head thrust forth from a toothpick neck; glasses that screened heavy, ugly eyebrows; a Jewish nose that grew from them, covered with blackheads; big, lumbering feet, enormous hands on skinny wrists. Raul vaguely remembered seeing a pimple on his right cheekbone.
He let out a short, manic laugh and opened a copy of Yeats.
But it’s untrue, Raul, untrue. He stood up to look in one of the large mirrors on Mike & Gino’s walls. You look gaunt and haunted; thin and emaciated. Without your glasses, your nose is fine. Your hair is sleek and black. Without your glasses, men tremble before you.
He put away Yeats and opened Hamlet. In a wizened voice he quoted: “Go thy ways to a nunnery, woman!”
In spite of himself, Raul sighed. He rose, walked over to the counter and ordered himself a cup of coffee. Suddenly he was slapped on the back. A voice was saying, “How are you? Oh, ha, you’re in black.”
Raul, stunned, saw who it was, “Alec. How are you?”
Alec dropped his boisterous look. He said seriously, “Fine. Are you getting a cup of coffee? Because if so, then I’ll get one too and we’ll sit down at the table.”
Raul, flustered, waited for the coffee and then carefully carried it to the booth.
“Why are you in black?” Alec asked in an interested tone. Raul knew that tone. He spent hours getting it himself.
“I’m in mourning for my life.”
Alec smiled, unsure, but charmed. “Who is that from?”
“Chekov.”
“Ah, yes. But what play?”
“The Sea Gull, I think. Yes, definitely The Sea Gull.” He knew damn well it was The Sea Gull. But the footwork was marvelous. The two of them were being ironic about their irony.
Raul, in reverie, let a smile flit about his lips. He caught Alec’s eye, and the two broke into grins. The logic of this meeting, of life, struck Raul. He exclaimed.
“What?” Alec asked, as if he had been waiting anxiously.
“It just occurred to me. It’s perfect that you’re here. God! The perfection astonishes me.”
“Come, come, does it bowl you over?”
“Literally knocks me off my feet.”
They exchanged bows.
“Are you on Senior Project?” Raul asked.
“No, Projects don’t begin until, oh, about the day Paul I is over.”
“Then why are you not in class?”
“Seniors have a lot of leeway. After the first trimester…well, only the grades from the first trimester are sent on to college. So after that nobody shows up. Anywho, I ain’t got but one class today.”
“So why is not everyone a senior?”
“Look, after the junior year we deserve a rest.”
“Oh. I didn’t know the junior year was hard.”
“C’est une bitch, eh? And why, may I ask, are you not in school?”
“Ah,” Raul sighed melodramatically, “I have been ill for nearly two weeks.”
“Oh, really? What from?”
“I have bad dreams.”
“Alas!”
“A pity, it’s true.”
They were silent.
“You know,” Raul said, “I nearly worked myself into a depression before you came in.”
Alec became suspicious. “What from?”
“Oh, a sudden lack of drama. A sudden destruction of my ego. No, no, you’ll take that wrong. I mean a dissipation of self-imagery. It’s true that ‘my ego’s been destroyed‘ is used rather flippantly these days.”
Alec was surprised. Raul’s wording was ponderous, but his tone was light; and he had guessed Alec’s objection.
“I always wanted to mold life like clay.” Raul’s voice had become an old man’s; he looked up at Alec with a smile. “When the clay’s away, the mice will play.”
The shift from poesy to irony seemed false. Alec was impressed, but how believable Raul might be was in doubt. There were an awful amount of poetic fakes at Cabot. Yet there was a major difference: the sly look, the thin, ironic smile, and the lure of Raul’s drama. Alec was an actor, and he felt the objective reality of the stage on them.
“Ah,” Raul said, like Zorba, “the sweat, the good winy sweat of life.”
But Alec couldn’t respond; and that shocked and depressed him. Raul expected a response; he felt an imbalance. The air was uneasy — there was a desperate need for something to be said.
Raul felt his lips fly apart, his eyes lose balance, his voice high and giddy with adolescence. “I really like that movie.” He degenerated into sheepishness: “Oy, what a schmuck I am.”
Alec glanced up and laughed. Raul smiled. He should express both their thoughts, he knew it. But a well of silence lay like a void in his throat.
Raul poked Alec’s arm. “It seems we both got ourselves into a depression.”
Alec looked at Raul, smiling. Like a Greek comrade, he slapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll come out of it, yes? Ah, good.”
“Sure,” Raul said eagerly. “Do you have a match?”
“Yes. Listen, Raul, isn’t it dangerous for you to be cutting school?”
“Shit, I’ve been doing it for nearly…today makes it two weeks.”
“You’re kidding! Really two weeks?”
“My Lord, would I lie?”
“You’re insane. You’re incredible. What time is it? Quick!”
“Don’t hurry me, don’t hurry me. It’s, uh, whew! nine- fifteen.”
“Oh. We’ve got time then.”
“One always does. Where were we going?”
Alec laughed. “Richard’s going to meet us at ten o’clock.”
“I see, but, uh, it would be interesting to know who Richard is.”
“Um…you must have met him.”
“In that case it will be good to see Richard again.”
“Alas! Poor Richard.”
“May hymns of angels sing him to his rest.”
“Very good, sir.” Alec’s hand arched, meeting Raul’s in a fine Madison Avenue handshake.
Raul shook it briskly, standing up, clicking his heels and bowing. “Your servant, sir.” Raul’s military face disintegrated into a serious one. “By the way, Alec.”
“Yes?”
“Who’s Richard?”
“Uh, do you remember the night of Aria da Capo? There was a guy, with a girl, who came up to me. Both of them were very short.”
“Did he then go over and talk to your mother?”
“Yep.”
“Then I know who he is.”
“Well, then you’ve known him all along.”
“I think that’s a very free interpretation of my testimony. Un moment. Let’s be serious here, before we degenerate completely. There is always the danger of being hammy.”
“Very true.”
“Is Richard a good guy? I didn’t mean to put it that way. Is he…you know, what is he like?”
“Richard? I’ve known him since I was very young.”
“That’s the excuse I use for one of my friends.”
Alec laughed. “That’s true, but, no, Richard’s okay. But he isn’t… well, let me say it this way, he isn’t very much like us.”
“You mean he isn’t a genius.”
Alec was surprised and off base. Raul thought he had overstepped what little bounds were left. He had expressed a complex thought too bluntly.
“That sounded terrible, but I didn’t mean it that way. What we’ve been doing is…at least an extension of art. Actually it’s the neurotic release of artists. But it’s fast and it flaunts life shamelessly. It’s hard for me, and I’m sure for you, to take anything in life with the real sorrows we’re showing on the stage. All the world’s a stage — nothing, for long, can depress us but our own imagery. Anger and love, against our wills really, turn into parts for us. The real emotion is lost. So what I meant was…oh, it’s too difficult to go into. I’m so moved by the mood I image that I express myself either cynically or hopefully on the basis of that. All my ideas are changed in a second. I, at least, no matter what I say, how I modify it, believe I’m a genius. I don’t think I’d create anything if I didn’t. So however good my stuff is, I think I’m a genius. And I think you do too, whether you admit it or not. That’s what it boils down to. And it’s disgusting that it boils down to that: pure egotism.”