The cars sped by and he walked slowly, but steadily.
He did not encounter anyone else on foot.
His collar was turned up, against the wind, but it did not stop all of the cold.
He walked on, and the morning bit him and tugged at his clothing. The day held him, walking, in its infinite gallery, unsigned and unnoticed.
Christmas Eve.
... The opposite of New Years:
It is the time of year for family reunions, for Yule logs and trees blazing—for gifts, and for the eating of special foods and the drinking of special drinks.
It is the personal time, rather than the social time; it is the time of focusing upon self and family, rather than society at large; it is the time of rimed windows, star-coated angels, of burning bushes, captured rainbows, of fat Santas with
two pairs of trousers (because the youngsters who sit upon their laps are easily awed); and the time of cathedral windows, blizzards, carols, bells, manger scenes, season's greetings from those far removed (even if they live but a short distance away), of broadcast Dickens and holly and candles, of poinsettia and evergreen, of snowbanks, firs, spruces, pines, of the Bible and Medieval England, of "What Child is This?" and "Oh Little Town of Bethlehem," of the birth and the promise, the light in the darkness; the time, and the time to be, the feeling before the realization, the realization before the happening, the trafficking of red and green, the changing of the year's guard, of tradition, loneliness, sympathy, empathy, sentimentality, singing, faith, hope, charity, love, desire, aspiration, fear, fulfillment, realization, faith, hope, death; a time of the gathering together of stones and the casting away of stones, of embracing, getting, losing, laughing, dancing, mourning, rending, silence, speaking, death, and not speaking. It is a time to break down and a time to build up, a time to plant, and a time to pluck that which is planted...
Charles Render and Peter Render and Jill DeVille began a quiet Christmas Eve together.
Render's apartment was set atop a tower of steel and glass. It had about it a certain air of permanency. Books lined the walls, an occasional piece of statuary punctuated the shelves; primitive paintings in primary colors were set in open spaces. Small mirrors, concave and convex (and now framed by boughs of holly), were hung in occasional places.
Greeting cards stood upon the mantelpiece. Potted plants (two in the living room, one in the study, two in the kitchen, and a bedroom shrub) wore tinsel, wore stars. Music flooded the suite.
The punch bowl was a pink jewel in a diamond setting. It held court on the low coffee table of fruitwood, its attendant cups glittering in the diffused light.
It was the time of opening of Christmas presents...
Jill turned within hers, swirling it about her like a soft-toothed sawblade.
"Ermine!" she exclaimed. "How grand! How flne! Oh, thank you, dear Shaper!"
Render smiled and blew wreathes of smoke.
The light caught her coat.
"Snow, but warm! Ice, but soft..." she said.
"The skins of dead animals," he remarked, "are highly potent tributes to the prowess of the hunter. I hunted them for you, going up and down in the Earth, and to and fro in it. I came upon the finest of white creatures and said, 'Give me your skins,' and they did. Mighty is the hunter, Render."
"I have a thing for you," said she.
"Oh?"
"Here. Here is your gift."
He peeled away the wrappings.
"Cufflinks," he said, "totemic ones. Three faces, one above another—golden. Id, ego, and superego—thus shall I name them, the highest face being the most exalted."
"It is the lowest one that is smiling," said Peter.
Render nodded to his son.
"I did not specify which one was the highest," he told him, "and he is smiling because he has pleasures of his own which the vulgar herd shall never understand."
"Baudelaire?" said Peter.
"Hm," said Render. "Yes, Baudelaire."
"... Badly misphrased," said his son.
"Circumstance," said Render, "is a matter of time and chance. Baudelaire at Christmas is a matter of something old and something new."
"Sounds like a wedding," said Peter.
Jill flushed, above her snowfield of fur, but Render did not seem to notice.
"Now it is time for you to open your gifts," he said.
"All right."
Peter tore at the wrappings.
"An alchemistry set," he remarked, "just what I've always wanted—complete with alembics, retorts, bain-marie, and a supply of elixir vitae. Great! Thanks, Miss DeVille."
"Please call me 'Jill.'"
"Sure, Jill. Thanks."
"Open the other one."
"Okay."
He tore away the white, with its holly and bells.
"Fabulous!" he noted. "Other things I've always wanted —something borrowed and something blue: the family album in a blue binding, and a copy of the Render Report for the Senate Sub-committee Hearings on Sociopathic Maladjustment among Government Employees. Also, the complete works of Lofting, Grahame, and Tolkein. Thank you, Dad. —Oh my! There's still more! Tallis, Merely, Mozart, and good dead Bach. Fine sounds to fill my room! Thank you, thank you! What can I give you in return?—Well, lessee . ..
"Howzabout these?" he asked.
He handed his father a package, Jill another.
Render opened his, Jill hers.
"A chess set"—Render.
"A compact"—Jill.
"Thank you"—Render.
"Thank you"—Jill.
"You're both welcome."
"How are you coming with the recorder?" asked Render.
"Give a listen," said Peter.
He assembled his recorder and played.
He played of Christmas and holiness, of evening and blazing star, of warm hearth, wassail, shepherds, kings, light, and the voices of angels.
When he was finished he disassembled the recorder and put it away.
"Very good," said Render.
"Yes-good," said Jill. "Very ..."
"Thanks."
"How was school?" asked Jill.
"Fine," said Peter.
"Will the change be much of a bother?"
"Not really."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm good. I'm a good student. Dad has trained me well—very, very well."
"But there will be different instructors ..."
He shrugged.
"If you know an instructor, then you only know an instructor," he said. "If you know a subject though, you know a subject. I know many subjects."
"Do you know anything about architecture?" she asked suddenly.
"What do you want to know?" he said, smiling.
She drew back and glanced away.
"The fact that you ask the question the way you do indicates that you know something about architecture."
"Yes," he agreed, "I do. I've been studying it recently."
"That's all I wanted to know—really..."
"Thanks. I'm glad you think I know something."
"Why is it that you know architecture, though? I'm sure it isn't a part of the normal curriculum."
"Nihil hominum." He shrugged.
"Okay—I just wondered." She looked quickly in the direction of her purse. "What do you think of it?" she asked, reaching for her cigarettes.
He smiled.
"What can you think about architecture? It's like the sun: It's big, it's bright, and it's there. That's about all— unless you want to get specific."
She flushed again.
Render lit her cigarette.
"I mean, do you like it?"
"Invariably, if it is old and far away—or, if it is new and I am inside it when it is cold outside. I am utilitarian in matters of physical pleasure and romantic in those pertaining to sensibility."