“What is it?”
“I cut off a little too much right there.”
“Oh, boy...”
“No, it’s all right. Just a little too much, that’s all.”
“How long is this haircut going to take?”
“Why?”
“I think it’s beginning to cloud up.”
“It was cloudy when we got here,” she said.
“No, really, Grace. I think it’s going to rain.”
They had left the hansom cab and were walking down Fifth Avenue when the first drop struck him in the eye like a hurled egg.
“It’s starting to rain,” he said, and suddenly the sky broke apart like a huge water-filled sack splitting along its weakest seam, dropping its contents in a surprisingly swift deluge for which there had been no real warning. They began to run. They ran blindly because the falling water was everywhere around them and its suddenness had produced a sort of numbed shock that robbed them of everything but instinct. He clutched her elbow and tried to steer her in one direction but she shrieked and turned in the opposite direction, giggling in panic, and then he grabbed her hand and tugged her toward him, and they both almost slipped on the suddenly slick pavement, and threw their arms around each other to maintain their balance, and then ran with their heads ducked, she holding her bag over her head like an umbrella, he tugging at her hand and searching for an awning or a doorway or anything to protect them from this storm that had materialized in vicious fury and was threatening to drown them.
“This way!” he shouted. “Here!” And she shouted, “Where?” And he yelled, “Here, here!” And they ran up the low slippery long flat steps of a gray and solemn church, her heel catching on one of the steps and sending her falling headlong, the fall broken by his supporting hand and arm. The rain lashed about them as he tried to help her up. One of her stockings had ripped from the heel of her shoe clear to the ribbed top. He put his arm around her waist and pulled her to her feet and then, still supporting her this way, half walked, half dragged her to the open arched door of the church and into the dimly lighted narthex, where the first thing he saw was the font of holy water.
“Wow,” she said, “what a rain! Where’d that come from?”
“Are you all right?”
“My leg hurts,” she said. “It’ll probably be black-and-blue in the morning.” She pulled back her skirt and said, “Oh, hell, will you look at that? A good pair of nylons.” Then, seeming to remember that she was standing in a church vestibule, she immediately covered her mouth with her hand, as though her mild swearing had been overheard. She pulled her head into her shoulders and stood with her hand covering her mouth, waiting for a holy repercussion. When none came, she shrugged and said, “Could we go inside? I’m freezing in this doorway.”
As they walked out of the narthex and into the church itself, she whispered, “Ick, I’m soaked to the skin,” and he whispered, “I am, too,” and then their whispers trailed because they heard the music coming from above them, and the music, like the sudden storm, seemed to erupt from nowhere as though a wise and knowing, all-powerful, all-seeing deity were handling the world in an avant-God incoherent though orderly-to-Himself way. The music came from somewhere above in the organ loft, and Buddwing recognized it as one of the Bach fugues, just as Grace whispered, “Bach,” and he nodded. There were two men above them in the organ loft, both unseen, one playing the organ in majestic frenzy, the other playing the violin in a burnished rich and somehow pagan response. The music swelled and echoed throughout the church, repetitive and seemingly endless, the mathematical symmetry of Bach resounding from the heavy stone walls of the nave, and rising to the vaulted domes, falling like the pelting rain outside to the altar dimly glowing with the light of votive candles. They backed away down the aisle, striving for a glimpse of the musicians. The unseen men played with a fervor bordering on fury. The organ exposition was vibrant and resounding, the violin answering the theme, transposing it a fifth upward, the rich blend flooding out over the center aisle and the crossing, flowing into the north and south transepts, the organ’s countersubject booming intricately, the violin entering again an octave below, the music reaching out beyond the altar and into the apse and flooding each stone corner of the church. Tongues of fire lashed at wooden stakes, licked the robes of fettered martyrs. Thieves and prophets hung alike in crucifixion, the music soared in wildly ordered abandon, heathens danced by firelight, bodies glowed with sweat and paint.
They had backed down the nave toward the crossing and then past that almost to the altar, but they still could not see the hidden musicians. At the western end of the church, through the narthex and the open arched door, a streak of lightning illuminated the gray wet street beyond, and an old man ran by with a newspaper tented over his head. The votive candles danced in red and green glass cups, thunder boomed its echo above the vaulted canopy, the organ answered in its richly resonant voice, the violin descended in a strident spiral, the final chords of the fugue hung suspended in the air like softly falling dust, echoing, and then the huge stone church was silent.
The silence was as surprising as the earlier rain and music had been. The music still seemed to vibrate within them, their skin still tingled with its resonance; but like a star that had died centuries ago, its light still visible on earth, the source of the sound was gone, and the only true reverberation now was the empty boom of silence. Into the silence, the musicians whispered something to each other, still invisible, their voices carrying across the length of the church.
Buddwing and the girl stood with their backs to the altar, speechless in the whispering vault.
His hand sought hers.
Their fingers locked and were wedded.
This, then, is a consummation, he thought.
This, now, is a consummation on a narrow nuptial bed, the first consummation and the last, a fugue in itself, the overlapping subject and answer, and the endless quest, the parts introduced in succession and following each other in chase, in flight, in Latin fuga. She did not, as she had maintained, have a beauty spot near her left shoulder, but this was an unimportant incidental, he knew, for here on this bed and on the succession of beds to come, the parts introduced, he would learn who this woman was.
The apartment smelled of fresh paint — had he painted it himself only a month ago while she conferred with hovering seamstresses about her bridal gown? The furniture was new and clean, it smelled of the factory, its varnish was unmarred, its fabric unspotted. They had taken it from the packing crates not a week ago. The wood had splintered beneath the clawed end of his hammer as he pulled out the nails in squealing protest. The woman beside him on the sofa bed was new and clean, too, her gown diaphanous by custom, her hair neatly brushed, her eyes studying him in virginal anticipation. They had touched before, they had kissed more often, but they did not know each other yet, and now they would learn. They thought they would learn. Here, in preparation for the coupling that would follow, they brought two separately revolving universes and hoped for collision and knowledge. Viewpoints. The concurrent conversations he and Jesse had discussed, the deaf listener, the egocentric orator.
He smelled a subtle perfume in her hair, a scent of veiled mystery and erotic intrigue; she smelled the faint aroma of his male perspiration; it reminded her of her father’s arms when he used to carry her to the rumble-seated Chevrolet. He felt her feathery blond hair and the paper-thin skull beneath, which he could crush in his hands; she felt the emerging bristle on his jaw, and wondered what it was like to shave, and his hands in her hair were gentle.