Life after death!
Exactly. It was like making an engagement for a party, or to meet a friend, or to go to a show, at eight-thirty on the evening following one’s death. Gerta, with her New York, her Sandbach, her painting, her print-room at the Museum, the bowl of apples on the window sill, the life-class at Belmont, the smile from under shaded eyes in the two-year-old photograph, Gerta with her Gertadämmerung and her Russian blouse — this was now already another world, whirled away diminishing into the past or the future, beyond all contact or reality. To think of it was simply to think of an amusing contrapuntal device in time, a synchronization of the impossible. It was an act of laconic leave-taking, a laconic farewell, the cry of a sea gull over the last whirl of froth that marked a sunken ship. The thing was gone.
He found that he was tapping with his fingers against the glass side of the telephone booth, looked down at his stilled hand as if suddenly it belonged to some one else, gave a little shiver. He noticed that he was again standing, as in the path of the Reservoir Street house, in a slightly unnatural way, and with an unnatural tenseness, like an animal that is frightened. The slight surge of the body which is being electrocuted! Relaxing deliberately and angrily, he opened the door, went out, pondering the other project, the idea of ringing up Jones. But this would be better when he got back, this would be better from Hampden. In the meantime—
The man in the white jacket behind the soda fountain was saying to a customer:
— fired for wearing a colored shirt and a wrong haircut.
— What? fired for what?
— For wearing a colored shirt and having the wrong kind of haircut.…
He went out, smelt the smoke from the burning-dump at Fresh Pond, the stars above the mean houses were like sparks borne on the cool north wind, a man and a girl were talking in low voices in a car which was parked at the corner. At the sight of this he stiffened, and turned quickly to the right, as if some sixth sense, some dark animal instinct, had given him warning. It was of course just the sight of people sitting in a parked car, that was all; but it reminded him just the same of Toppan, he had felt sure, he felt sure still, that Toppan was somewhere about, somewhere near. It had the simplicity of a conviction: it was just the right time for Toppan: he had in fact arranged for Toppan: and Toppan would be there. He might be in a car in the southern end of Reservoir Street, or in Huron Avenue itself; but more likely he would be on foot, and near Wyman Square. Or possibly he was even now in the act of walking up from Hampden, but had got quite close, was slowing down and moving cautiously as he drew near the neighborhood. This was excellent in its way, but it was also tedious, it was the little extra something of annoying and belated complication with which, for some reason, he felt reluctant to deal. One’s own past witticisms and ingenuities, one’s own history, in short, could become tiresome. To see Toppan, but to avoid him—
Keeping on the right side of the street, so as not to face the headlights of the oncoming traffic, and also keeping as close to the houses as possible and using the tree-line wherever he could, he walked swiftly, pointing before him the stem of his unlighted pipe. Very well, let Toppan come, by all means let him come, there would be plenty to say to him. Why, indeed, avoid him since there was obviously so much to say, and since besides it was always so easy to speak from the shadow — as it were, from the tomb — to those who walked in the sunlit innocence of their folly? The image of the party after death had recurred to him, it pleased him, it was a good idea, it would be nice to ask a group of ill-assorted people to come to a party, for instance, the night after one intended to commit suicide: send out the invitations, timing them very carefully, so that the guests would arrive and themselves make the charming discovery. The Findens, for example, Sandbach, Mrs. Taber, Gottlieb, Gerta, a sprinkling of mere acquaintances, of the socially climbing sort, like Mather, and a few ordinary University prigs—
A coffin party.
Mr. Jasper Ammen requests the pleasure of your company at a coffin party—
The door would be unlocked, someone would eventually try the door and walk in, and there he would be!
At Wyman Square, he was about to turn down Sparks Street when he saw the familiar white raincoat rounding the corner at Concord Avenue, hesitating and then coming quickly forward down the little hill, the whole figure very alert. This time, the bearing was unmistakable. He stood still in the shadow of an elm, completely invisible, and waited for Toppan to arrive at the opposite corner of the Square, — grinning, but as yet undecided what he would do. It was good. It was very good. It had all shaped itself quickly under his hand like magic, it was part of the whole beautiful scheme, it was growing miraculously and hugely, like a cathedral, with Toppan simply a gargoyle. As he approached the swerve of Huron Avenue Toppan slowed down, clung more closely to the hedge before the house at the corner, revolved his head, peering this way and that. Twice the round spectacles flashed under the arc light, but saw nothing, he even stepped cautiously out into the road so as to get a longer view round the curve; then, reassured, and once looking behind him, was about to go forward, when Ammen whistled.
The effect was comical.
Toppan not only stopped in his tracks, as if he’d been shot — he somehow managed to look extraordinarily silly. He just stood where he was, looking, but also pretending that he wasn’t looking, in every direction. One could imagine the slightly foolish smile. Ammen stepped out of the shadow and said:
— I’m over here.
Toppan came towards him rather slowly, his head a little on one side, his hands in his raincoat pockets.
— Oh, it’s you.
Yes: it’s me. I whistled because I had an idea you might be looking for me.
— And why should I be looking for you?
— Because, my dear Toppan, you don’t always mind your own business. And it was obvious to me that you needed a little help. Aren’t you being clumsy?
— Am I?
— Even your imitation of me is clumsy.
— Isn’t anything an imitation of you?
— But I’m sorry to have to outwit you. You can now pretend, if you like, to be taking a walk around the Pond, but can I tempt you to ride back to the Square with me in a taxi? Otherwise you’d be wasting your time.
— You think so?
— Don’t be silly. Of course it is. Of course you are.
— Is, or are?
— And there’s a question I want to ask you.
— My dear Jasper, go ahead!
— Oh, aren’t we clever! Oh, aren’t we smart! Don’t we stand with our heads cocked at an angle and feeling very brilliant! Jesus Christ!
Toppan was silent, merely raised his hands in his pockets, shrugged, turned his profile.