He carried the sheaf of clean papers over to a chair. The words were beautiful. The letters themselves were beautiful. His handwriting, in careful notes along occasional margins to give the thing a casual look, was beautiful. He read at familiar random, smiling to himself. Every page, beautiful, except one which would have to be retyped, he had killed a cockroach on it. Or perhaps, perhaps it had style in itself, that dark smudge. There were (though he had never seen one) tarantulas in Central America. Or was it black widows? And would a black widow make a brown smudge?
Then he raised his face to the empty door. The obsequious smile was gone. Left eyebrow up, lips moistened, slightly parted and curled, he waited while a producer approached, welcoming hand extended. Otto eyed the vision, nodded casually, reached for a cigarette. There were none in the linen suit. He was interrupted while he went to the dirty striped shirt for the necessary property; and returned to the chair the long way round the room, pausing (at the mirror) to light the cigarette. Putting the papers on the publisher's desk he fumbled a little, able to use but one hand. — Here, let me help you, the publisher said. — Nothing serious, I trust? — Nothing, nothing at all, Otto answered, elbowing the sling back under his jacket. — A scratch. Central America, you know.
He read a few lines in the second act and blew a perfect smoke ring on the quiet air. There was Esther. Where would he meet her? At the apartment? But he did not want to see her husband again. The thought of that man barely ten years his senior made him curl inside, the man who had seemed at first almost a father, then a fool, finally near maniac. It would be better to call Esther for a drink. Or for luncheon. Better still to meet her casually, by carefully prearranged accident.
— How wonderful you look, Otto.
— A little color. How have you been?
— Oh the same old things, you know, but without you it's been so dull and so lonely. But you, what about you? And what's happened to your hand?
— A revolution. Just one of those things, a regular occupational hazard down there. Possibly you saw something of it in the papers?
— Oh I never read them, you know that, not any more. But they tell me you've written a wonderful play.
And then as he took off his shirt and his trousers, — And you're so brown, all of you, and all in white.
Outside the sun poured its heat over the endless green of the fan-leaved banana trees. As Otto struggled down the porch carrying two suitcases and his typewriter, a voice came from an open door, — Hey come here, I want to show you some pictures.
— I've got to get the train for the port, he called to the man with the kewpie doll tattooed on his forearm. — It leaves in twenty minutes.
— Come here. I want to show you some pictures.
Otto had, on occasion, pictured fine man-to-man farewells, close handclasps, and a few words of curt but constant friendship. He put his bags down in the door and entered. Snapshots of all sizes and degrees of fading surrounded the man sitting on the rumpled bedcover. — I'm putting them in an album, he said. He could hardly sit up. — See this one? This here is me with my first car, in Pennsylvania. He put glue all over the back of it, and then took an envelope of those black art corners used to mount snapshots in albums, and stuck them on the corners. As he licked them they came off in his mouth, and the glue on his chin, colored with dry chili. — See this one here? he went on, blowing the art corners out of his mouth and getting fresh ones. — This is me with my old man. That's my first car behind us. That was 1931, see that? A new car. Even then I wasn't doin so bad. On the pages he had completed, snapshots were firmly stuck with artistic disregard for angles, size, and number of art corners. All were consistent in one thing, however: —This is me. This is me in a bar in Brooklyn with some Greek sailors, one of them had a camera, I was workin in the Navy Yard. This is me in Panama, I worked in the Canal Zone before I came up here.
This is me in Darien on a hunting trip with some Indians. Here, this is me with some Sand Blast Indians.
— I have to go, I have to get that train. It leaves in about ten minutes.
— Here, look at this one. By now he had got glue over most of his chin, and art corners stuck to his wrists and arms, framing the kewpie doll. — This is me… he started as Otto went toward the door. — Look can you hand me that bottle on the table before you go, I don't want to get up and make a mess of all this. My grandchildren.
As Otto started down the porch, there was the rending sound of breaking wind from the room behind him, and the voice, — There's a goodbye kiss for you, kid.
The fine particles of ash in the air settled on his white linen as he hurried.
The small town of the port might have had but one place in this world of time, and that to make itself presentable for Otto's departure, after which it could settle down to a long and uninterrupted decline. He walked in and out of its streets, looking about casually, pausing only when he saw his sudden reflection in a shop window. Stopping at the shops he appeared to be looking at the goods spread before him, while his stare got no farther than the image in the glass. Then he crossed to the shaded side of the street. On a veranda as he passed three black men were playing cards. When they saw him they pointed up, over their heads, smiling, nodding. On the open porch above a girl stood, as black and smiling "as those below. She was wrapped only in a white towel, held together with one hand. He did not turn. — You want chikichigî one of the men asked. — Boy change you luck, called another after him where he walked on. — Pretty boy get all what he want.
The whiteness of the Company boat was a glitter in the strong sun. Few passengers were in sight, but the pier was crowded with people selling and begging and looking for a penny's worth of work. Their colors rose from a soft tan to hearty black. They were dressed in clothes which they had never seen new, and each carried something worthless, a basket of dolls made of straw, bundles of papers, inedible confections.
— La limpia, a child cried at Otto, pointing to his shoes, and then lost interest. Those shoes were perfect. The white linen suit had got becomingly crumpled on the trip down, and in this blazing light the gray tinge from the ashes did not show, clearly the definition of cultivated diffidence. He had a French book, labeled Adolphe, in a side pocket which he carried when he traveled and appeared to read in public places. As he started toward the dock with a boy who came barely to his waist carrying his bags, the sun cast his shadow striding with vain certainty before him.
Beside the boat, he took the change from his pocket to count. There were a few coins of the republic which he was leaving, mixed in with E Pluribus Unum dimes and quarters, odd-looking shiny coins (he had made certain to put aside new ones) which he would drop on New York bars, by mistake. He felt a hand touch his arm, and turned to see a black face of sudden age which held no beauty for him.
— Una limosnita, por el amor de Dios. The face had tufts of hair at chin and lips, so separately white that they looked to have been stuck there a moment before. Otto looked at his coins. The shiny two-and-one-half-cent piece looked like a dime. He felt that the beggar would make the same mistake, or think that he had made it unwittingly. He gave the lesser coin into the old hand and turned away. — Dios se lo pague, said the voice, in beneficent threat.
The luggage and its carrier disposed of, Otto walked through the town, into the wide open plaza of cement benches and palm trees. In the center was a dry fountain, and children who would seem to have nothing to laugh at laughed at nothing. They quieted for a moment when the priest passed. He was a long black-skirted affair with magenta buttons from throat to feet, five magenta buttons on each cuff. Around the largest part of him came a wide sash of glorious purple. His round black hat carried a purple corded band. He made no sign, marching toward the cathedral.