— Not a bad idea. But for one thing, I’m beginning to be uneasy about appearing in that neighborhood too much — as you’ve probably noticed, there is always a postman about, or a policeman. What about that.
— Yes, I know. It’s not too easy. Have you thought of using a car?
— A car?
— Yes, a car. It’s of course one of the recognized devices — you sit in the car a little way off, it prevents your having to dodge about behind telephone poles day after day, and so on. I told you I used one that time in Brookline.
— I hadn’t thought of it — it might be a good idea. You mean, hire one.
— Yes.
— I’ll keep it in mind.
— Or if there happens to be an apartment vacant across the street—
— There isn’t.
— How long do you propose going on with it, anyway? After all, there isn’t much to gain after a certain point—
— My dear Toppan you’re sometimes very stupid. In a pure study of this sort there can be no limit.
— Incidentally, that time you had him call you on the telephone — isn’t there a weakness there?
— You mean he’d have a record of the number? No. The occupant of that apartment has been carefully instructed, if Kazis calls again, to say that the whole project is off, and without mentioning any names. It would be a dead end in any inquiry — completely.
— Do you think it’s quite fair to use Gerta for that?
— Did I say it was Gerta?
— It’s fairly obvious.
— You’re quite mistaken. It isn’t.
— In that case I’m relieved.
— Keep the change.
There was a pause — he walked to the piano, touched one note, felt a little defrauded, the thing was not going exactly as planned, the tone was wrong, as out of key — somehow — as this too-vibrant c-sharp. He said:
— I’m afraid you’re not much help, but thanks just the same. There’s one thing further — I must remind you that I expect you to treat all this in the strictest confidence. And since you mention Gerta, I’ll repeat what I said to you before, I think perhaps you’re forgetting it a little — I don’t want any interference there. I won’t go into details, but there is a very delicate and peculiar situation between Gerta and me, of great importance to both of us, and I don’t want any meddling with it — is that clear?
— Perfectly.
— Then why do you blush?
— As I said once before, that’s my innocence.
— All right. Keep it. And keep out.
— Just as you say, professor!
— If you don’t, I shall know it — I shall make it my business to know it. And I don’t think you’d enjoy the consequences.
— My dear fellow—
— Thanks for the smell of whisky. Good night.
Arrived on the top floor, he felt a little breathless, a little stifled, he suddenly discovered that he was holding his pipe too hard, and with a perspiring hand. The whole thing had been somehow forced—it had not come naturally, was not natural now; the effect was of a slight jangling. The map still hung there, with its marginal notes, the list of dates and scenes, it was all just as clear as before, just as orderly; but there was also a queer something which was changing. For one thing, he had not, as he now saw he had intended, presented Jones to Toppan, and this had seemed important. He had wanted — that was it — to make Toppan vividly aware of him — as vividly as he was aware himself. He had wanted to photograph him for Toppan — tweed hat, fur collar, ash can, and alclass="underline" the mole, the perpetual smirk, the mustache, the jaunty little vulgarity of bearing. Curious he hadn’t seen that — his purpose had not been so much to ask advice as simply to talk about Jones; and in talking about him — was that it? — to take further possession of him. But for some reason, this project had broken down; Jones seemed if anything farther off than before; the excitement had cooled.
It must be simply that he was tired.
From the window he looked obliquely down at the deserted and lamp-lit stillness of Massachusetts Avenue, then, as always, lifted his eyes to the one mysterious light which always burned nightlong in an upper room of Boylston Hall. What secret was in that room—?
And at once, as always, when he thought of it, the vision returned; dimension after dimension rolled off soundlessly to disclose depth above depth, height below height; where vapor had been, the tree of clouds began once again to thrust upward with swirling boughs.
This was good, he could laugh again, Jones was still there. Let the clocks go as madly as they liked, Jones would still be waiting for him, waiting calmly.
IX The Stranger Is Gay
The little procession was monstrous, it was absurd, it was mad and meaningless, and as he watched it from the safe interior of the car, which was filled with tobacco smoke, with his black hat pulled down over his eyes, the pale afternoon sunlight seemed to emphasize and isolate each element in it as grotesquely as if it were merely an outlandish figure in a dream.
Karl Jones had suddenly become new — he was being seen for the first time.
Bareheaded, wearing again his old black sweater, grinning a little self-consciously, as if something in the occasion made him shy, and as if he were trying to carry it off with bravado, he came down the wooden steps of the Alpine Street house with a small striped mattress over his shoulder and a worn suitcase in his hand. The suitcase he dropped on the cement sidewalk, where already stood a white-painted chair, such as are seen in hospitals, a Gladstone bag, a porcelain slop bowl, and a brown wicker hamper. He flung the mattress into the back of the open model-T Ford which waited at the curb, balancing it carefully over the child’s cot which reared its white legs and bright brass casters into the air. A middle-aged woman followed him down the steps, bringing a rope; with this they proceeded to knot the mattress into place, first throwing a patchwork quilt over the whole shapeless pile. Then the hamper was with some difficulty wedged into the front, beside the driver’s seat: it was heavy, tied with cord, and what looked like bed linen protruded from the gaping lid. As the woman reascended the steps Jones called after her:
— Guess we’ll have to carry the rest! Hope you don’t mind!
What she said was inaudible, she waved a hand, entered the house, and in a moment reappeared accompanied by a man. The man climbed into the front seat, slammed the tin door, started the car and began turning it. Jones lifted the slop bowl by its handle, laughing, his head tilted to one side: the woman seated herself in the white chair on the sidewalk. She too was laughing, leaning forward and clapping her hands on her knees. When Jones said something to her, she got up, took the slop bowl from him, picked up the suitcase, and began walking away towards Reservoir Street. Jones swung the chair up against his shoulder, seized the handle of the Gladstone bag, and followed.
The whole thing was unreaclass="underline" it had no existence.
The woman might be a trained nurse: she was wearing a dark cloak from beneath which, as she walked, flashed the white of what appeared to be a uniform.
And the child’s cot — what about that? If there was a child, in the Reservoir Street house, why had he seen no sign of it in all this time? And if the child was ill — as the presence of the nurse seemed to suggest — then it was difficult to account for the queer cheerfulness of the scene. The logic was a little wrong.…
He sat still, watched them turn the far corner at last, vanish out of sight. They had not noticed him, it would be easy enough to drive slowly through Reservoir Street and observe the end of this peculiar ceremony, but for some obscure reason he felt apathetic, indifferent. It hardly mattered: he had already seen more than he expected anyway, he had not really intended to come here at all, had simply made a last-minute detour on his way to meet Gerta. The thing was a windfall, it was in a sense outside the routine, needn’t be too much bothered about. Just the same, it was certainly odd, among other things, that Jones should be here, and not at his office — it was three o’clock.