So Waldo continued remembering, when circumstances didn’t force him to forget. There were fortunately the exams ahead. He had to study; he was, and would remain weak in Maths. There was also the question of the Influential Client of the bank, whether he had spoken — by now it did not seem as though the latter realized how much depended on him. Waldo would wake at night in a sweat. Once he dreamed he was working on the railway as a fettler, and had not dared admit his true, his elective work. As he lay there beneath the creaking roof, at home, he thought how safe he would be returning from the books in the Library to write his own. Comparatively safe, anyway. He would still have to face Arthur and his own doubts.
The third occasion on which he came in contact with the Feinsteins Waldo knew there was no escaping something which was being prepared. Mrs Feinstein’s formal note deliberately arranged it for the Saturday. So that you are able to introduce your brother to our circle, the writing ended underlined.
Waldo wondered whether he dared pretend he had not received the letter. In that way time, naked but finally rational, might solve his problem.
It was Arthur who decided which line they were to take.
“Saturday,” he was telling Mother, “both of us are going up to Feinsteins’. Do you think there’ll be a big tea? Will there be other people? Or shall I have an opportunity of making conversation with Mrs Feinstein?”
Waldo could not decide whether he was hearing what he heard.
“What put it into your head,” he asked, “that the Feinsteins are expecting you?”
“The letter,” Arthur said, “which you left lying on the dressing-table. I thought you meant me to read it, Waldo, seeing as she’s invited me.”
Mother did not even correct the grammar, but told Arthur it would be in order for him to go without his coat provided he wore his silk shirt. That was good enough to stand up to any formality.
As they walked up the hill to Feinsteins’ on the day, Waldo saw that Mother’s present of a silk shirt was much too large for Arthur. It ballooned out on his shoulders, a physical deformity to all the rest. The water, besides, was trickling down the red side-burns from Arthur’s attempts to reduce his staring hair.
“I am looking forward to this opportunity,” he said, “of meeting Mrs Feinstein socially.”
He was trembling by the time they reached “Mount Pleasant”, whereas it was Waldo who should have trembled, if resentment hadn’t tempered him.
Phlox was fluttering in the beds, beside the steps which led from the road, by steep, yet clipped, grassy banks, to Feinsteins’ door.
Arthur was gasping.
“We came, all right!” he called from near the top.
As Mr Feinstein appeared in the doorway.
“You needn’t tell me!” The old boy laughed. “And on a Saturday!”
In the hall he took Waldo aside.
“You realize,” he said, “this is to bear out a theory I expounded. Do you know, Waldo, it is the Sabbath today? Yet here is your brother blowing like a flame, or spirit of enlightenment, through a Jewish household, with all the doors thrown open.”
Waldo only half-listened. He was too agonized wondering what Arthur might get up to.
“Shall we have a feast then Mr Feinstein?” Arthur called from somewhere behind.
“Oh, yes! It will be all feast!” Mr Feinstein was shining with laughter. “Once upon a time it was only for a family of Jews mumbling together behind closed doors.”
“Shall we be your family?” Arthur was gibbering with hope and pleasure.
“Naturally!” Mr Feinstein could not laugh enough; his stomach was laughing behind the gold chain, to say nothing of his illuminated cranium. “We expected nothing less.”
Though when his wife appeared he withdrew, Waldo suspected, for good. It would be for Mrs Feinstein, rather, to produce the cakes of enlightenment.
Mrs Feinstein was quite willing. Wearing the same dress as before, she had obviously prepared herself for understanding Arthur Brown. She stuck her most sympathetic smile on her flesh-coloured face.
“You must tell me all about yourself, Arthur,” Mrs Feinstein said.
Fortunately Arthur wasn’t taken in by that. He was too interested, in any case, in the room, the same big over-furnished living-room in which they had received Waldo alone on the previous occasion. Arthur was soon walking about looking at everything as though he must remember for ever.
“What is that?” he asked.
“That is a prayer-cap,” Mrs Feinstein explained pleasantly, “which people used to wear in the days when they still have been superstitious.”
“Well, that’s an idea,” Arthur said too thoughtfully. “I never saw anybody praying in a cap.”
For a terrible moment Waldo thought he was going to put it on. He might have, if Dulcie hadn’t opened the door.
“Did you ever pray in a cap?” Arthur asked as though he had met her before, and she was only, as it were, re-appearing.
“It’s different with women,” Dulcie answered.
At least from that moment Waldo knew that Dulcie was seeing Arthur for the first time. She was so obviously upset. She tried to make it look as though the whole idea of prayer-caps, and superstition generally, repelled her, whereas it was the lumpy look of Arthur Brown slobbering with imbecile excitement. Although Waldo was personally distressed that she should react in this way to his brother, he was relieved to find she was sincere.
“Now I shall be able to remember you in your room, Dulcie, now that I have seen your face,” Arthur was saying, or gobbling, “even if you never want to see me again.”
At this Mrs Feinstein began to protest by noises.
“Why should I — ” Dulcie gave a high, unexpected laugh “ — not want?”
She ended awkwardly in mid-air.
Because Arthur had gone up too close to her, the way he would with people in whom he was interested, to remember also by touch, it seemed.
“Here, Arthur,” Waldo was beginning to say, to interrupt, to drag him off.
But Mrs Feinstein’s smile continued to find the situation reasonable.
“Because we mightn’t have enough to say to each other,” Arthur said, looking too closely at Dulcie, into her eyes. “I mean, people can say and say, by the yard, but they don’t always seem to have learnt the same words.”
Then Dulcie appeared to be making a great effort.
“I think, Arthur,” she said, “you may be able to tell me a lot I shall want to hear. We may be able to teach,” she said, “to teach each other things.”
“Will you,” Arthur shouted, seizing the opportunity, “teach me the piano? Will you? Can we start now?”
“Oh, yes!” Dulcie said, and laughed with the greatest pleasure and relief.
Waldo knew he must get out quickly. Find the dunny. As he went barging out he heard the discords of music spattering out of the upright piano under Arthur’s hands. He knew how Arthur’s not quite controlled hands were behaving.
Behind him now, all was music of a kind, and laughter, as he blundered down the passage. He heard at last, against the doors he opened, Mrs Feinstein following him.
“I want,” he mumbled foolishly.
“You want the bath-room?” Mrs Feinstein asked most sympathetically.
“No,” he said, in what he heard was his surliest voice. “The other.”
“Here,” she said, opening a door.
So that he did not have to go any farther, out through any grass, looking for a dunny. Here was a real porcelain lavatory with mahogany seat, on which he sat down at once and gave way to the diarrhoea which had been threatening him.
And now the music was flowing from unseen hands — they could only have been Dulcie Feinstein’s — though under Arthur’s influence, he feared. Waldo wished he could have conceived a poem. He had not yet, but would — it was something he had kept even from himself. If it would only come shooting out with the urgency of shit and music. He rocked with the spasms of his physical distress, and the strange drunkenness which the unbridled music, muffled by perhaps several doors, provoked in him. Was Dulcie playing an étude? He hoped it was an étude. He hoped against hope the Influential Client would soon speak. Then he would no walk up the hill to Feinsteins’, and present himself, and say: Here I am, an intellectual, working at Sydney Municipal Library — kindness is not enough, you must respect, not my genius exactly, but at least my Australian-literary ambitions.