— Do you think there would be so many queers around if there were a few good whorehouses in town? Hannah demanded sharply. — No, here they'd rather see their boys go to bed with a picture of some movie star with big boobs, and go on a five-fingered honeymoon like Anselm used to say, with a movie star.
— I know. I mean Chrahst, every time I've gone out to bars looking for a girl I end up drunk talking to some old man.
All three of them stood staring at the floor.
Don Bildow left, looking as vengeful as plastic rims would allow. He had just learned that someone he knew had been arrested trying to charge a three-hundred-dollar suit to the account of someone neither of them knew. Someone else discovered that the old man in black coat, black hat, black rubbers, and black umbrella, was not the art critic for Old Masses at all, but had been hired to go round to galleries because he looked the part (and could keep warm this way); the columns were written by someone in Jersey City, who mailed them in because she never came to New York. The old man left, carrying a glass of beer with him. And down the bar, the Big Unshaven Man was offered a job writing the lonely-hearts column for a newspaper in Buffalo.
— What I get a kick out of is these serious writers who write a book where they say money gives a false significance to art, and then they raise hell when their book doesn't make any money.
— Here, put this in the juke-box. Play Return to Sorrento.
— That's what's playing.
— Play it again.
— Chrahst I wish they'd stop playing that and play On the Sunny Side of the Street.
Stanley had been simply standing there dumbly, staring at the dirty floor, until Hannah asked him what he was going to do next day.
— Well first I, I guess I'll go over to Bellevue, he said. — Why?
— I thought maybe you'd go with me to get a passport.
— But you, you're going too? To Rome?
— Rome, for Christ sake? I'm going to Paris. All he could say was, — But. . looking at her. Hannah looked straight up into his face; and then as suddenly as he had turned, she stood on her toes and kissed him. — Because I may not see you again, she said, and was gone. He stood there, his mustache trembled, and he pressed a finger against it where she had kissed him.
— You know? said Ed Feasley beside him, — I mean I feel like I've left little parts of me all over the place. Like I could spend the rest of my life trying to collect them and I never could. These pieces of me and pieces of other people all screwed up and spread all over the place. I mean there are people you… do something with and then you never see them again. Like Otto, you know? Where the hell is he?
— I don't know, Stanley said clearly, but he continued to stare at the floor.
— I mean he's probably raising hell and having a good time somewhere, you know? But Chrahst, a good time! I mean like the night we went to that party up in Harlem with all the queers, that seems like ten years ago, that little nigger in the lavender dress standing at the next urinal. And then there was this blonde, a woman, I mean I can still hear her singing, If you can't get Maxwell House coffee by the can get Lipton's tea by the balls, I mean Chrahst I can hear it now. I never got over that night somehow, it got me somehow, I even remember what the soap smelled like, this kind of medical smell, I mean why does the soap always have a medical smell in a place like that? You'd think it would be scented. Where you going, you leaving already?
— It's late, Stanley said. — I'm going home.
— Yes but home, I mean late, and then there was this marathon walker, but I mean Chrahst I mean, how long?
— Half an hour, Ellery said thickly. — I'll meet you there.
— One of us better go with you, Morgie said. — You can hardly walk.
— I told you, like I told you, I told you I'm just going to drop up there alone for a minute, I'll meet you at the whatever the nightclub I'll meet you.
They helped him into a cab, which got him to Esther's address before he went to sleep in the back seat. He had difficulty getting out, but he managed, staggering into the doorway, and pushed the first button his thumb found. Then he climbed, stopping every now and then to try to count the number of flights he'd come up, and finally knocked at the door halfway down the hall. There was no answer. He put his hand on the knob, it turned, and there stood a little girl with a fly swatter.
— Rose? She stared up at him. — What's the matter, is she asleep?
— Yes, the little girl said. — She's still asleep.
He followed her in mumbling, — Rose, Rose, you're like a kid, Rose. There was a strange smell in the place. It became stronger as he approached the bedroom.
— See? She's still asleep. The little girl pointed with the fly swatter at the figure in the bed, and repeated, — She's still asleep.
The sme.l was overpowering. Ellery almost fell on the bed; but he steadied himself and stared. He got out a cigarette, but dropped it.
— She's still asleep, and I'm keeping the flies off her.
— Rose. Christ. Jesus. . He turned away heaving.
— They say at school there aren't flies in winter, the little girl went on, while he was sick over the back of a chair, — but there are, and I'm keeping them off her.
He hung there for a minute, and then pulled a dresser scarf close enough to wipe his mouth on it.
— Because there are flies in winter, here there are. .
He turned slowly holding his head in his hand, staring at her, and then pulled himself up and started for the door, where he fell against the door frame turning to look at her again. — Rose, listen,
Rose. . Breath was pouring into him and out of him. Then in one motion he turned himself out the door and reached the stairs.
He stopped three or four times on the way down, to prevent himself from falling headlong, and finally did fall about three steps at the bottom. It was enough noise to bring out the janitor, who helped him up and demanded, — Do you know anything about fifty tons of sugar?
Ellery just stared at him. Then he raised a hand and pointed up the stairs.
— Somebody's been trying to deliver fifty tons of sugar here all day.
Ellery let his weight go back against the wall, still pointing up the stairs. Then his hand dropped as though too heavy a weight to hold suspended so, and he got out the door, found a cab, and finally got to the nightclub, where some of the movie people had also come, for it was still comparatively early.
— My, that really was a verklärte Nacht, said Mr. Schmuck's musical director. — It was bad publicity.
Mr. Schmuck was tapping his fingers impatiently on the table, waiting for his order while beside him Mr. Sonnenschein engaged a Baked Alaska. Mr. Schmuck had simply ordered filet de mignon.
— I told you we'd ought to have just bought our pictures and gotten out of there, said Mr. Sonnenschein, blowing a delicate meringue filigrane across the table through the word pictures.
— A real Walpurgis. . Mr. Schmuck's assistant commenced.
— Shut up, said Mr. Schmuck, — so I could see the lady singing.
— Si-hilnt nite. Holy-y nite. Alll is calm. . she sang, in a blue gown with sequin-studded bolero jacket to match, filling a selective circle of blue spotlights with a song which had proved such a favorite Christmas Eve that she was singing it again.
In the reverent shadows, the Alabama Rammer-Jammer man salted a steak with Venus de Milo. Morgie pushed a glass over to Ellery. — Drink that and you'll bounce back.
Ellery mumbled, staring blearily into nothing. From a mouthful of steak across the table came, — Come on, if you can't eat you got to…
From a nearby table came, — We were here Christmas Eve too. We tried to get into Saint Pat's for the High Mass but you should have seen the mob.