— Hide it the best way you can. It's all right to be nervous, anybody gets nervous in a thing like this sometimes. But you don't need to show everybody you're nervous. You look pretty young.
— Young? Well I guess I do look young. But I've been out of college for about three years now.
— College? You went to college? He wiped his mouth with his napkin, bowing his head to do so, and looked up.
— Yes, I thought you… I went to Harvard, Otto said, and for the first time noticed the man's necktie. — Why. . you have on a Porcellian tie. Otto stared at the silk pigs' heads. — Were you P.C.? I mean, I didn't even know you went to Harvard.
— Me at college? You know where I studied. Attica and Atlanta.
— But. . that tie, it is the Porcellian tie isn't it.
— Don't worry, kid. I know what I'm doing.
The fly lit on Otto's hand, and he shook it away. His legs were crossed, and he commenced rubbing his ankle up and down against what he believed to be the center leg of the table. The man in gray was leaving the bar. As he watched him go, Otto's hand rose with slow automatism to his chest, and his wrist pressed the vacancy there. Who could prove a thing? if he rose abruptly, dumping the table over if necessary, to turn square upon the upholstered shoulders beside him and cry, — Do you believe this? But then, who would pay the check? and the bar bill? There would certainly be no offer of a Christmas gift of money which Otto must, somehow, manage to suggest: a gift which might pay for the drinks he had enjoyed with Jean, for having seen the frayed trouser-cuffs when they walked to the table he could hardly expect more. Suddenly he imagined his hair furiously red, his skin dark, or eyes at a telltale slant: that would give the lie to this whole thing. But no: his nose was, really, quite like the one beside him, though Otto refused to recognize it as being absolutely so, derivative. Noses were, after all, noses, quite similar among Caucasians.
The most gross insult might simply be to say, — I trust there hasn't been some mistake? Better than that, to get up quietly from the table, cross the room quickly to the gentleman in light gray flannel (who also had a nose) and shake hands with him. But even now, the gentleman in light gray flannel was gone.
All this time, the sling had bumped between them without rousing curiosity. Now, he heard, — What are you wearing that sling for, you really got hurt?
— Well, in a way, I…
— I thought it was faked. You haven't learned how to handle it yet. You act like you're keeping a live squirrel in it.
— But it… I…
The music was the Blue Danube waltz. Otto rubbed his mustache with his fingertip, and looked into a distant mirror where he could see Santa Claus's strategic entrance, and stealthy approach to the door of the bar, where he was apprehended.
The fork beside him clattered to the plate. — I'm done.
— I think I've had enough, Otto said, barely half finished with the meal. He lit a cigarette, as the smell of lavender rose, heard a ringing in his ears from nowhere, wet his lips and heard forced salivation. Might it not all be rehearsed again, but differently, he thought, seeing a thin man of average height and quiet manner seated at a table in the middle of the room, finishing his dinner with a brandy: might Otto not have walked over and shaken his hand, and seated across from him, unsurprised, have listened to his intimacies with opera stars, artists, producers, over breast of guinea hen and wine?
The man in the club tie rose, looked at them, locking them together in his glance, and left. It was too late. Procrustes' bed was made: the only thing now was to get out of it the best way he could, which Otto did, more with weariness than pain. — It's kind of difficult, to talk about money, but. .
— I've got it right here for you. You want to take it now? said the voice through a mouthful of bread. He was cleaning his fingernails with a tine of his salad fork.
— Take what?
— Twenties. Five G's in perfect twenties.
— Five what?
— Five thousand. Here, it's a thick packet. He motioned with his elbow to his side pocket.
— Five thousand dollars?
— Christ! Keep your voice down.
— But isn't that too much? I mean, even with Christmas…
— Listen, are you sure you're not drunk?
— Why no, no, I…
— I wouldn't give this stuff to you if you was drunk. You'd probably throw it all over town before the night's over. Lift it out of my pocket there.
— Oh I'll be very careful of it, ver-y care-ful of it… Otto said as he reached into the pocket and lifted the packet out, while the other sat silent and unconcerned, cleaning his nails with a tine of his salad fork. Otto wanted another glass of whisky. He opened the packet, and took out a twenty.
— Christ! Don't wave them around here! said the man beside him, and looked over the room quickly. But no one was near to notice them, and when he looked back he seemed unable to resist taking the bill from Otto and laying it on the cloth before him. — Beautiful, he said. — Beautiful, isn't it.
— Yess, Otto gasped.
— A real work of art. He stared into the face of the seventh President. — You know it takes six different artists to make one of these? That's what makes it tough. Six to one. Six against one, you might say. He turned it over, and ran a fingertip gently over the portico of the White House. — A real work of art, he said. — You don't learn that at Harvard.
Otto stared. He clutched the packet, as though it were liable to be wrenched from him at any instant.
— You know, they burn around six tons of this stuff a day, the true quill, down in the Bureau of Printing and Engraving. Worn-out bills. It's a crime.
— Yes, but. . well. . this. . was all Otto could say.
The hand beside him rose to catch at a lapel, as the man sat back and stared upward, relaxed in nostalgia. — Johnny the Gent died the other day, he said. — You know him?
— No, I. .
— He melted down the Ascot Cup. He was the first one to gild the sixpence, and passed them as half-sovereigns until they had to call them in. He knew so much about the Church that once he posed as Bishop of the Falkland Islands. He just died, Johnny. He had about ten dollars on him.
Otto appeared to listen; but he heard nothing but jarring syllables.
— He organized the best den London ever saw. He was even a Sunday School teacher for five years. He was a great man. I've thought of him a lot of times when I was sitting in the hole.
The waiter approached a nearby table. — Put that stuff away. Otto put the twenty into his pocket, and the packet between his knees.
— I miss him when a great artist dies like that. He was no bum. It's no place for bums to get into, but they're ruining it every day. There hardly is a single old master left, a real craftsman, like Johnny, or Jim the Penman. And me. I haven't had a notice in the Detector in fourteen years.
— The what? Otto asked, politely, but firm.
— The National. . listen. Shut up and listen to that a minute.
It is. — What? — Vissi d'arte, vissi d'amore, he murmured with the music, — non feci mai male ad anima viva. . And they sat silent to the violent grief-impassioned end.
When it was done, Otto said, — That was very nice.
— Nice? Is that all you can sayr But you're just a kid, you never heard Cavalieri do Tosca.
— No, I…
— I'm going to get out now. He stood, and found his cane.
— Well. . but I mean, don't you want some coffee or something?
— No. I shouldn't have stayed this long anyhow.
Otto took the check. — I'll get this, he said graciously.