It had begun to snow again. Mr. Pivner hurried along the slippery sidewalk and caught a bus almost immediately. It did, in fact, wait for him, which put him in even better spirits as he sat down and looked out the window, allowing himself to marvel at this dreadnaught which bore him away to the south, and the wonders of science which made it, not simply possible, but ordinary. Then the bus drew to a stop, and moved again reduced to a crawl, a cautious hulk in the solid dark line of vehicles. Traffic in the other direction was stopped; and as though conducting tourists reverently past a venerable setting of martyrdom, the bus crept past the figure of a man on the glistening wet surface of the street. One of his feet was balanced up on the toe. His hat was four feet away, and all that moved was his smashed umbrella, its black festoons stirred by bits of wind. It was the image of the foot, so delicately awry, which held Mr. Pivner even as they went on. His bus passed another, stopped in line in the opposite direction. His driver leaned out, to call to the other driver, — Ya got a knockdown.
Mr. Pivner's lips were moving again. He opened his newspaper, and stared for a moment at the headline, Minister Dies in 51-Day Fast Seeking "Perfect Will of God," trying to compose himself. Then he turned the pages looking for that ad, If you can count, you can paint. . There were times when he had considered taking up a hobby, painting? or building ships in bottles; but something that would interest him. Seeking those words, I did it myself, his eye caught a picture: Raise Chinchillas! in Your Own Home. . No Mess! No Trouble!
They all appealed to him, counting him excellently satisfactory just as he was; but if, on learning mistrust so late, he was not: how would they reward his ingratitude? how requite his betrayal?
Science assures us that it is getting nearer to the solution of life, what life is, that is ("the ultimate mystery"), and offers anonymously promulgated submicroscopic chemistry in eager substantiation. But no one has even begun to explain what happened at the dirt track in Langhorne, Pennsylvania about twenty-five years ago, when Jimmy Concannon's car threw a wheel, and in a crowd of eleven thousand it killed his mother.
Mr. Pivner stared at the chinchillas. They looked warm.
"Here's to fire, not the kind that burns down shanties. ." he found himself reading a few minutes later, bound by necessity before this scribbling on the wall. He shifted his eyes, chagrined at being seen staring with such attentive preoccupation at this, and the various graffiti surrounding it, even by the young man similarly preoccupied, and equivalently occupied, beside him. But the picto-graph his eye caught was so alarming that he lowered his eyes, glimpsing in that brief embarrassed sweep, the face beside him, a haggard lace drawn over a sharp profile which stared intently ahead. And his eyes were drawn slowly back up this figure his own height, near the same stature, slowly up, then snagged, drawn up short, and back, caught on a corner of green. And he was staring at that, down at the bit of wool protruding from the coat's pocket, waist-level, when the whole face turned on him, turned bloodshot eyes in a desolation of contempt.
Instantly Mr. Pivner returned square before him: "But the kind that burns in young girls panties." And after a shrugged fluster and buttoning beside him, he was alone.
— Is that old jerk going to come in here every night now, just sitting here in the lobby? the tall bellboy demanded as he emerged a moment later, and the night manager approached him. — Perhaps you would care to wait in the bar for the rest of the evening, sir?
— That young man, Mr. Pivner managed, — he, who just left?
— I believe he has been a guest of the hotel.
— Oh well yes, well then, no… Mr. Pivner lowered his eyes to the shining tips of the night manager's shoes. — But…! he looked up suddenly: eyes as bright, and incurious as the shoetops, dismissed him.
— If the young man you have described. .
— Yes, thank you, thank you. . Mr. Pivner hurried into the bar, and there ordered orange juice. He sounded weary and unprepared for surprises, even one so familiar as the dim image already resident, awaiting but the raising of his eyes, in the tinted mirror. To one side of him, a blonde sagged slightly in his direction. Her elbow edged nearer to his own a gold cigarette case, and he politely averted his eyes to avoid reading the inscription, withdrawing, bumping the man on his right. Mr. Pivner cleared his throat, as one prepared to apologize. But the other merely darted a pin-pointed glance at him and turned away, straightening a lapel where hung a boutonnière shabby enough to appear, in this light, made of paper. And Mr. Pivner settled his rimless glasses back closer to his eyes to stare forth into the tinted glass whose length construed the three figures in vacancy, maintaining a dim reality of its own, embracing their shades in subterranean suspense.
To one side, the blonde opened her purse, and exchanged a muffled pleasantry with the bartender. From the other side came a gasp. Mr. Pivner cleared his throat, as though prepared to apologize but unable to think, so quickly, of anything specific to apologize for. But the sharp eyes gleamed at something beyond him, and with such intensity that his own were drawn in a reflex to look to where the blonde paid for her drink. But all Mr. Pivner saw, in the dim light, was a crisp twenty-dollar bill exchange hands: or so it looked to him, moonblind in the tinted gloom of that landscape where the three of them hung, asunder in their similarity, images hopelessly expectant of the appearance of figures, or a figure, of less transient material than their own.
VII
We will now discuss in a little more detail the struggle for existence.
— It reminds me rather of that convent, the one at… Cham-pigneulles, was it? Near Dijon, said a tall woman, looking round her. — The one that was turned into a madhouse.
— I know what you mean, said the girl beside her. — Everyone keeps changing size. The tall woman looked at her quizzically, and noted that both of her wrists were bandaged. She took a step back; the girl took a step forward. — What do you do?
— I? Why. . when?
— Write?
— Oh, said the tall woman, recovering, — I support my husband. He writes. He's an editor, you know. He's editing Esther's book.
— Who's Esther?
— Why, my dear, she's our hostess. There, talking with the tall fellow in the green necktie. She turned, as her husband approached with a martini. — What an interesting group of people, she said. — And what interesting music.
— It's Handel, he said, handing her a glass. — The Triumph of Truth and Justice.
She looked around her, and raised the glass to her lips. — Do you think next year we might get to the Narcissus Festival in Hawaii?
Drinks were spilled, another brown line burnt on the mantel, people collided, excused themselves and greeted one another, and Ellery, tucking the green silk tie back in his jacket, said, — Just stop talking about it for a while. Who's that? he added, nodding at a blond girl.
— I don't know. She came with somebody. She's going to Hollywood.
— I want another drink, Ellery said, and went toward the blonde.
— Ellery, please. . But he was gone. She sat, holding her kitten.
— What does it mean, said a heavy voice near her. — The garbage cans in the street, the kids on the East Side playing in the gutters, swimming in that filthy river, see? What does that mean?
— Well she says Paris reminds her of a mouthful of decayed teeth, but I think Paris is just like going to the movies…