Stanley said nothing; but hung his head without recognition as they passed in Washington Square. When Otto returned to Esme's door, he was uncertain whether to kiss her uproariously, formally, or not at all. The restraint of not-at-all would be best rewarded, eventually, for then she would believe that she wanted him to kiss her, and arrange an unequivocal opportunity. He adjusted his sling.
She opened the door and smiled at him, as she probably smiled at the janitor when he appeared there. Otto said good morning, and came in. He took off his green muffler and tossed it to a chair, where it fell on the floor behind. — How do you feel this morning? he asked her.
— Like I feel in the morning, Esme answered, smiling, unhesitating as a good child.
— I mean after last night.
— Morning is always after last night.
— No, I mean the party, and…
— Oh. I was. what did you call it? Plastered?
— You were pretty far gone. Otto stared at her face: how she must have scrubbed it, making its hollows more cleanly cut, and then applied the dark lines of the eyebrows and no other make-up. He reached for her waist. She moved away.
— Did you bring me home? she asked.
— Did / bring you home? Esme… He stared at her eyes, wide in innocent curiosity. — Is something the matter? she asked.
— Don't you remember?
— What?
— Don't you remember anything?
— The party? she asked, happily. — It was a lovely party. And then poor Anselm was walking around like a dog and saying funny things, and then that poor young man hit that girl. She stopped.
— Herschel hit Hannah. And then?
— Yes, she said, — Herschel hit Hannah. She stopped.
— But Hannah, I mean Esme, is that all you remember?
— Yes, it was a lovely party, and you were standing there pretending to read that old book. She was reeking of honesty.
— Esme.
— And you kept fooling with that funny thing you wear around your neck.
— Esme.
— What, Otto?
— Don't you remember coming back here with me?
— Then you did bring me home. Why didn't you tell me, instead of teasing me like that?
Otto's forehead drew together; the sling quivered. What is a conquest which goes unacknowledged by the conquered? Here was where he had dropped his coat, there the ashtray he had overturned. — Esme. knock knock knock
— But Esme.
— What is it? she said, on her way to the door, smiling.
— …?!
— Chaby! Esme said, as though delighted with what came in at that door. — This, she said to Otto, — is Chaby Sin-is-ter-ra, as though she were making up the words syllable by syllable.
— How do you do, said Otto, not wishing to be told. Nor was he.
Chaby was small, sharply boned. His chin was small and sharp, so were his eyes, and his teeth: everything about him, in fact, but his hair, a shiny black pompadour which he wore like a hat and continually adjusted with an unclean pocket comb missing a tooth, which left a ridge on the otherwise smooth metaled surface. His mustache was a thin line of black hairs drawn from his nostrils along his upper lip. Otto ran a fingertip along the straggling fullness of his own, and sat down. — What a friggin night I had, said Chaby. And his fingernails were black.
Otto lit an Emu and sat apparently absorbed with it, indicating that its complete enjoyment required all of his attention. He blew a ring of smoke one way, another another way, and another to the floor, where it sank and settled upon the carpet. The carpet ended halfway across the room in an indecision of color and design, its surface the flat and slightly ribbed lay of Aubusson because of the uneven texture of the floor. Its intricate design, beginning under the daybed where Otto sat, gave way to abstraction, threatening even worse where it came suddenly to an end, a sense of delirium in the hand of the painter who had painted it there, cross-stroking the warp and the weft with a two-inch brush. Chaby tapped a shiny foot, accompanying an evil rhythm which played endlessly within. Esme sat down on the arm of his chair. He got up and went to the radio, which he turned on with the casual thoughtlessness of long habit. The room was filled with the throbbing hesitations of a tango. In silent disdain, so watered down that it approached charity, Otto contrasted his own attire to the padded, pleated affair swaying across from him, until he realized that Chaby had taken off his coat and drawn Esme's waist closely and somewhat below his own. They were dancing. Otto followed the first intimacies of that tango with painful intentness. He adjusted his sling, as though to indicate that but for this injustice he might dance or do battle. Then he yawned; but the yawn did not succeed, simply left him sitting with his mouth open. With his unharnessed hand he reached for a book.
The first at his hand was new: In Dreams I Kiss Your Hand Madam, "An Anthology of Romantic Stories from Seven Centuries, by forty-six authors, gathered from thirty-one countries. Edited by Recktall Brown." The first page was blank, the second repeated the title, the fourth the title and the elucidations on the jacket, but Otto studied the third: "To / esme / whose unerring judgment / is responsible for whatever value / this book may have."
The tango ended in a long unwilling surrender on the radio, and a similar expression in the middle of the floor. Esme recovered. Laughing, she pushed her hair up from perspiring temples. — Chaby teaches dancing, she said to Otto, explaining what had just happened, smiling like the Baganda woman smiles in Central Africa, lain in the thick grass with a plantain flower between her legs, flower dislodged by her husband's rearing member before he takes her to dance in the gardens of friends, to encourage the plantain trees that grow in their gardens.
— Really, Esme said, — it must be illegal to dance like that. Her unruffled partner had opened his shirt to the waist, showing a silver medal swung on a chain from his neck.
— It should be, Otto muttered. — What Otto? She sat beside him now, and said over his shoulder, — Isn't that awful? when she saw what he was reading.
— Who's Recktall Brown? he asked back.
— He did that because he wanted to go to bed with me, she said cheerfully.
— Who is he?
— A terrible fat man who does things like that.
— How can he give you credit for the merit in a Maupassant story? he said, thumbing the pages to Bed Number 29, laying the fault on her.
— Because he just does, she explained. — He's going to publish my poems.
— Same reason?
— Yes. Just because he wants to go to bed with me. Isn't that funny? Isn't that disgusting? she said laughing.
— Yes it is, Otto agreed soberly.
— What's that funny smell? said Chaby. — I always smell it up here.
— What smell? Esme asked.
— Don't you smell nothing? Some funny smell, like oily flowers.
— I noticed it, Otto said to Esme. — It's lavender, he explained, condescending to glance across the room where Chaby sniffed, audibly, formed his lips in a silent obscenity which indicated that he understood, and lit an extra-length cigarette. He had not even looked over at Otto.
— Is it perfume? or is it from your clothes? Otto asked her. — Sachet, I mean. She was looking out the window absently. She turned quickly and said, — Oh, from my clothes I guess. I guess it's from my clothes.