— God is love, telling that to a Welsh Corgi in labor, isn't that divine? the girl with Boston accents laughed, and Benny, who had heard her remark about a lost horizon, drew away from where she toppled near his end of the couch, pulling the book to him as he did so. It was a book on bridge design, largely the work of Robert Maillart, and his finger marked a picture, diagram and description of the bridge at Schwandbach. He had picked it up after his words with Esther, and sat trying to appear absorbed with it while he collected himself. But he was interrupted by the figure in the green wool shirt who had joined him on the couch with, — I hear you're in TV. Smiling with effort, and already perspiring freely, Benny answered, — That's right, what can I do you for?. . offering a cigarette, which was accepted without thanks.
They were being watched by the two who remained posted near the door, where they would be the first to greet, and snare, the guest of honor. Don Bildow, apparently supported upright by the lusty design of his necktie, watched through plastic rims. — What's he talking to him for, that television person? — He's just giving him a hard time, his companion answered, the same baleful satisfaction glittering under his brows, that poetic look of inner contemplation, charish, shot through with beams where some, his mirror among them, read a charismatic luster: all very well for the dust jacket of some slim volume (though no such had appeared), or the moment of inspiration itself, reflected in the eyes of someone else's wife, but, for moments like this, scarcely practical, for he could see nothing clearly more than a few feet away. — He said he was going to ask him for a job writing TV scripts.
It was evident that Benny was having a hard time. He'd just given his glass a brave, unsteady toss in his hand, and started to stand up, but he was stayed by the critic's hand, put forth in an annoying gesture as though to soothe where the irritating voice continued, speaking then of television as corrupting tragedy, now of the writer's integrity, of human suffering. .
Benny had hardly looked at the face of the man who was talking to him: in contrast to his own it was a detailed fortification, every rampart erected with definite purpose, their parapets calculated to withstand repeated assaults from any direction, tried in innumerable skirmishes where many had approached so close as to tumble between scarp and counterscarp, an arrangement so long in the building that, though every bit of it had been erected for defense, in finished entirety it assumed aggressive proportions; inviting strategy, it might only be taken by storm.
All this time, Benny's smile had not failed. His smile was his first line of defense. But even as he'd started to his feet, that defense was being abandoned, and so it remained, unmanned, as empty as gaping breastworks relinquished before unexpected onslaught.
— So tell me the truth, the harassing voice went on, as its owner came far forth from his walls, openly besieging. — Do you guys really give this same crap to each other you're giving to me, pretending it's a cultural medium? or do you just admit you're all only in it for the money, that you've all sold out.
Benny's smile was gone. He sat silent for a moment, studying the features of this attack. Then he said, — Why do you hate me? Did I ever do you a favor?
The critic straightened up, unprepared for this sally, without time to recover his own walls, he withdrew instantly behind con-travallations of mistrust.
— Tell me the truth, what do you want from me, you fine-haired son of a bitch, Benny said to him evenly.
— All-right, for Christ's sake. .
— What are you supposed to be, an honest man just because you don't have a necktie?
— Relax, relax. .
— I will like hell relax. Who are you, anyhow?
— Now listen. .
— You listen to me. I've just taken a lot from you. I've taken a lot from people just like you. Just like you. That's tough, isn't it, just like you, that this town is loaded with people just like you, the world is loaded with people just like you. The honest men who are too good to fit anywhere. You're one of the people, aren't you. Look at your hands, have you ever had a callus? You don't get them lifting glasses. Who are you, to be so bitter? Have you ever done one day of work?
— Look. .
— And now I understand. And you talk to me about life, about real life, about human misery, Benny went on. He was not speaking loudly, nor fast, still the cold but vehement and level tone of his voice drew several people to turn around, and listen and watch. The other sat his ground with a patient sneer. — I offered you work, and you were too good for it. We buy stuff from guys like you all the time, writing under pen names to protect names that are never going to be published anywhere else, but they keep thinking they'll make it, what they want to do, but never quite manage, and they keep on doing what they're too good for. It's a joke. It's a joke, Benny repeated, and it was now that his voice began to rise. — I know you, I know you. You're the only serious person in the room, aren't you, the only one who understands, and you can prove it by the fact that you've never finished a single thing in your life. You're the only well-educated person, because you never went to college, and you resent education, you resent social ease, you resent good manners, you resent success, you resent any kind of success, you resent God, you resent Christ, you resent thousand-dollar bills, you resent Christmas, by God, you resent happiness, you resent happiness itself, because none of that's real. What is real, then? Nothing's real to you that isn't part of your own past, real life, a swamp of failures, of social, sexual, financial, personal, . spiritual failure. Real life. You poor bastard. You don't know what real life is, you've never been near it. All you have is a thousand intellectualized ideas about life. But life? Have you ever measured yourself against anything but your own lousy past? Have you ever faced anything outside yourself? Life! You poor bastard. Benny started to laugh. He knocked an empty glass from the end of the couch, and Ellery put a hand on his shoulder. The stubby poet had come up beside the man at the other end of the couch, who was silent, looking at Benny, and the sneer almost squeezed from his face. Most of the people in the room were aware that something was happening, and had half turned, giving it half their attention, waiting to see if it deserved all. Benny started to stand up. — Come on, we'll get a drink, Ellery said to him, an arm across his shoulders. — All right, Benny said. Then suddenly he swung around again.
— Go on, you lush, said the stubby poet; but Benny did not regard him. He stood over the man who as quickly recovered his sneer to look up.
— How do you make your living? Benny demanded.
— Come on, Benny. Leave the poor bastard alone.
— I just asked how he makes his living.
— The hell with him. Come on, Ellery said.
— I just want to know how he makes his living, is there anything wrong with that?
— He's a critic. He writes about books, or some God damn thing. Now come on. But Benny pulled from Ellery's grasp on his shoulder. — How long is it since you've seen the sun rise? he demanded. Then he went on, — How you would have done it. That's the way everything is, isn't it. How you would have done it. Not how it should have been done, but how you would have done it. When you criticize a book, that's the way you work, isn't it. How you would have done it, because vou didn't do it, because you're still afraid to admit that you can't do it yourself.
— Ellery, please. . stop him, Esther said, in a low voice beside Ellery. He turned and looked at her, and he did, just then, have an expression very much like Benny's, one of tense impatience, which in that instant of exchange between them seemed to direct every- thing Benny had said, and was saying, at her. Everyone, within the bounds of what each considered either manners or sophistication, was watching; and most were watching the man on the couch. — Oh Chrahst I remember him, he's the guy that married Deedee Jaque-son, and they kicked her out of the little black book for it. Chrahst, what a coincidence, Ed Feasley commented.