— This place needs a good airing out. One look at that room in there and anybody can see that your husband.
— My husband.
— He.
— I…
The music is Mozart's, the Concerto Number Seven in F Major for three pianos. — I wish. Esther says. In a feverish conspiracy of order the notes of the music burst from the radio in the other room where it is dark. They thrust there in the darkness against hard surfaces and angles as sharp as themselves. Possibly molecules are rearranged, set dancing, in a sympathy which lasts no longer than the duration of the note; possibly not, but there is the lighted doorway, to be entered in a concerted rush, the naked soles of a man's feet hung over the end of the bed, calloused and unlikely targets. — I wish. Esther says. Her hand moves quickly, but too late, where she has been pausing, holding cloth. Her breast, bared, and not especially full but standing out, centered and still, is very real to her and to no one else: her hand moves there quickly but too late as a note from one of three pianos strikes with the purpose of a blade, and has entered with the cold intimacy of a penknife in the heart. — I wish.
— You don't think he'd walk in, do you?
— He?
IV
Les femmes soignent ces féroces infirmes retour des pays chauds.
In the dry-season haze, the hills were a deep blue and looked farther away than the sun itself, for the sun seemed to have entered that haze, to hang between the man and the horizon where, censured and subdued, it suffered the indignity of his stare. The heat of day was as inert as the haze which made it visible; and it only mitigated with the dissolution of the haze in darkness.
From that darkness outside the window came a bird cry, staccato, sound of a large alarm clock being wound in the next room late at night. Otto was sitting in a pair of underdrawers, writing. When his door was flung open and a man wearing only faded dungarees, with a bottle in one hand and a glass in the other, entered, Otto put down his pen and said, — Hello Jesse.
— Hello Jesse. How do you like that. Hello Jesse. What are you doin anyhow? said the tattooed man, and sat down on the other wooden chair.
— I'm writing.
Jesse put the bottle and glass on the table and looked around him. The corners of his mouth twitched, momentarily confused about something, but something which was going to be pleasurable. He looked over the table, littered with papers illegibly scribbled upon, and at the pictures on the wall.
— Do you want a cigarette? Otto asked him.
— Yeah, give me a cigarette. Jesse put out his hand, and then waved away the green package of MacDonald's Gold Standard. — What do you smoke those things for? That ain't even American-made stuff.
— I don't know, I… anyhow it is Virginia tobacco, I…
— Yeah what do you smoke those lousy things for? Why don't you smoke American cigarettes? He knocked one of Otto's clean socks from the corner of the table into the cuspidor with his elbow, and watched suspiciously while Otto got up and went behind him to retrieve it.
— What are you doin anyhow? Jesse asked. Then he said, — You're a religious bastid ain't you.
— Not exactly, why do you say.
— That. That's a religious picture ain't it?
— Why no, that's just a print o£ a painting, an Italian Renaissance.
— Looks like some friggin madonna, said Jesse, mistrustful, and looked back at Otto. Then he spat into the cuspidor. — Give me a cigarette, he said.
— All I've got are these, said Otto. He held forth a packet of Emu, locally manufactured.
— What do you smoke these lousy things for? Why don't you smoke American cigarettes? Jesse spat again, on the floor. Otto pushed the cuspidor nearer with his bare foot. — I didn't get any on me, did I? Jesse looked down at his chest, where a ship struggled through a mat of hair. Toward each brown nipple a bluebird dipped. On one shoulder, a peacock; on the other, a palm-tree seascape. The arms wore anchors, a tombstone with MOTHER on a scroll, and a dagger. The gallery swelled as he watched it. — That's pretty good, hunh? What do you think of that, hunh? He turned his head to one shoulder and then the other, admiring the rippling art there. Then he looked Otto over.
Otto lit a cigarette. It was too late to get up and put on a pair of trousers.
— Why don't you get out and build yourself up a little? Jesse Franks returned to his own splendor. — That's a real man, hunh?
— Yes, it's just.
— Hunh? What do you think of that, hunh? Then he looked at the scribbled papers sticking to his forearm on the table. — What's all this crap?
— That's my play.
— That's your play, hunh? There, he said, getting a handful of the papers and pushing them to Otto, — read me your play.
— Well I… this act isn't.
— Read me your play.
— "Gordon: Wit, my dear Priscilla, is the vulgar currency of — wisdom.
"Priscilla: But darling, no one could accuse you of being vulgar. Though to tell the truth, there are moments when I feel absolutely suffocated by witty people.
"Gordon: You are surrounded by people who take a half-truth» deliberately misunderstood to be one of the privileges of wit." It's not quite… I mean this act is…
— Read another act.
— "Priscilla: You know I love you, Gordon. Do you fear it? "Gordon: Any rational person fears romance, my dear Priscilla.
"Priscilla: And so you will not marry me, because I love you.
"Gordon: Romantic love, my dear, romantic love. The most difficult challenge to the ideal is its transformation into reality, and few ideals survive. Marriage demands of romantic love that it become a reality, and when an ideal becomes a reality it ceases to be an ideal. Someone has certainly commented on the seedy couple Dante and Beatrice would have made after twenty years of badly cooked meals. As for the Divine Comedy, it's safe to say that the Purgatorio would have been written, though perhaps a rather less poetic version. But Heaven and Hell rejuvenated, I think not, my dear. There is a bit of verse somewhere on this topic concerning Petrarch and his Laura, but I cannot recall it. But even Virginia, you may remember, preferred drowning before the eyes of her lover to marrying him. Paul at least had the pleasure of seeing her drown nude, but she knew what she was doing. A wise girl, Virginia.
"Priscilla: But then, what you're saying is. "
— What the hell is he saying?
— Well, Gordon is saying that love, I mean romantic love.
— That's all they do, talk?
— Well, it's a play, and I mean.
— When does he slip it to her?
— Well on the stage you can't very well.
— So they get married?
— Well no, I mean not really, but they.
— But he's been slipping it to her anyway, hunh?
— Well he… I mean…
— Who's Gordon, anyway?
— Well he's the hero of the play.
— The hero? He don't sound like much of a hero. Why don't you write about Jesse?
— Well I…
— You want something to write about? O.K., take this down. Gordon was the kind of guy that walked into. shouldered his way into a bar. He came in and got what he wanted. If anybody wanted to make trouble… no. He was a nice guy, but if anybody wanted to make trouble… you got that?
— Yes, Otto said with a pencil.
— If anybody was looking for trouble. no, that don't sound so good. Leave that out. He watched Otto's pencil to be sure it was marking out. —O.K. now start with this. I was around in Chilano Bay in Colombia with no money of the country, see? I had some money, I had about a hundred dollars, but no money of the country, see? But I have to have a little to get around the country. I was on a boat with a contraband cargo. So I run into a chuleta. You know what a chuleta is?