At Max's table, among his and six other elbows, a number of wet beer glasses, a book titled Twit Twit Twit and a copy of Mother Goose, lay The Vanity of Time. Max rose, and came over with it.
— What did you think of it? Otto asked, pleasantly, not getting up. He rescued the pages, and wiped off a couple of spots which were still wet.
— Well Otto, it's good, Max said doubtfully.
— But what? What did you think?
— Well, I'll tell you the truth. It was funny sometimes, reading it. Like I'd read it before. There were lines in it…
— You mean you think it's plagiarized? Otto named the word.
— Well, Max said, laughing like a friend.
— Look, you had it out, I mean, at the table. Did they… I mean, did all those other people see it?
— They were looking at it. I didn't think you'd mind, and you see, I did want to ask them what they thought, about. . recognizing it.
— Well? Otto opened his dispatch case, turning it away from view so that it was not apparent that the play went in to join its duplicates. — What did they think? Pretty much the same thing, I think, Max admitted. — George said he felt like he could almost go right on with one of the. . one of the lines. And Agnes. .
— Agnes Deigh? You mean you talked to her about it?
— Well, it came up in conversation. I was up at her office this morning, talking with her about my novel. It's coming out in the spring. She's trying to arrange the French rights now.
— But what did you think it was plagiarized from, if you're all so sure I stole it.
— Nobody said you'd stolen it, Otto. It was just that some of the lines were a little. . familiar.
— Yes but from what?
— That's the funny thing, nobody could figure it out, one of us would be just about to say, and then we couldn't put our finger on it. But don't worry about it, Otto. It's a good play. Then he straightened up, taking his hands from the table where he'd rested them, and said, — I'm showing some pictures this week, can you come to the opening?
— Yes, but…
— Thanks for letting me read it, Otto…
— There was one line I borrowed, I mean I put it in just to try it out. . Otto called after him, but Max was gone to his table, where he talked to the people seated with him. They looked up at Otto.
Esme ate quietly, across from Otto's silent fury, weighted now to sullenness with four glasses of whisky, before his veal and peppers had appeared.
— Hello Charles, Esme said looking up, kindly. — You look very well tonight. Charles smiled wanly. Silver glittered in his hair. His wrists were bandaged, his glass empty. — Do you want my glass of beer, Charles? Because I can't drink it. She handed it to him, and murmuring something, without a look at Otto, he left.
— Really, Esme.
— What is it, Otto? she said brightly.
— Well I mean, I can't buy beer for everybody in the place.
She smiled to him. — That's because you don't want to, she said.
— You're damned right I don't, he said, looking round, and back at his plate.
— Of course I know it's near Christmas, said someone behind him. — For Christ's sake, what do you want me to do about it, light up?
There was a yelp from the end of the bar; and a few, who suspected it of being inhuman, turned to see a dachshund on a tight leash recover its hind end from a cuspidor. The Big Unshaven Man stepped aside. — I'm God-damned sorry, he said. — Oh, said the boy on the other end of the leash, — Mister Hemingway, could I buy you a drink? You are Ernest Hemingway aren't you?
— My friends call me Ernie, said the Big Unshaven Man, and turning to the bar, — a double martini, boy.
Though the place appeared crowded beyond capacity, more entered from the street outside, crying greetings, trampling, excusing themselves with grunts, struggling toward the bar.
— Elixir of terpin hydrate with codein in a little grapefruit juice, it tastes just like orange Curacao. What do you think I was a pharmacist's mate for.
— When I was in the Navy we drank Aqua Velva, that shaving stuff. You could buy all you wanted on shipboard.
— Yeah? Well did you ever drink panther piss? the liquid fuel out of torpedoes?
The juke-box was playing Return to Sorrento. A boy with a sharp black beard sat down beside Esme. — Have you got any tea? he asked her. She shook her head, and looked up at Otto, who had not heard, had not in fact even noticed the person sitting half behind him. — Sometimes I really hate Max, he said, then noticed the beard. — I mean, I mistrust him. There were no introductions. — That poor bastard, said the beard. — He's really had it, man. So has she.
— Who? Otto asked incuriously.
— His girl, she's getting a real screwing. She wanted to marry him last year but she wanted him to be analyzed first. Max didn't have any money so she paid for it. Now his analyst says he's in love with her for all the neurotic reasons in the book. It don't jive, man. He's through with her but he can't leave her because he can't stop his analysis.
— Does she know it?
— Who, Edna? She…
— Edna who?
— Edna Mims, she's a blonde from uptown. He used to bring her down here to shock her, and then take her home and ball her. .
— Edna? said Otto, unable to swallow. — With him?
Everyone silenced for a moment at a scream of brakes outside, anticipating the satisfaction of a resounding crash. They were disappointed. Instead, as their conglomerate conversation rose again, Ed Feasley rode in upon its swell. Behind him a blonde adjusting a garter followed with choppy steps like a dory pulled in the wake of a yawl on a rough sea. — Get a drink, was all Ed Feasley could say, as he sat down at Otto's table.
Mr. Peddle was there. He stood with difficulty, his hand on the hip of a tall light-haired girl, her delicately modeled face and New England accent manifest of good breeding. — His mother is the sweetest little Boston woman, she said, — awfully interested in dogs, awfully anti-vivisection. They were looking at Anselm, who looked about to drop to his knees. Behind her, Don Bildow said, — He is an excellent poet, when he tries. He's been taking care of my daughter when we're out, my wife and I. I haven't looked at another woman since we were married. Then with his hand on the man's-shirted shoulder of the light-haired girl, — Do you find me attractive?
The beard at Otto's table said, — Is that Hemingway? Ed Feasley looked over at the Big Unshaven Man, who had just said, — No queer in history ever produced great art. Feasley looked vague, but said, — There's something familiar about him.
— That's the damnedest thing I ever heard, Otto said, looking at Max, partially recovered. He motioned for another drink. When he had finished it he said, — I've got to make a phone call. I may have to go to Peru and northern Bolivia.
— Tonight? said Feasley. — You going to fly down? I'd like to go with you, but. . say, if you can wait until tomorrow afternoon
. I've got to go to a wedding tomorrow, but…
— No, I mean I've just got to call my father now, Otto said casually as though he had known that man all his life.
— Say hello to the old bastard for me, Ed Feasley called after him.
Otto called, made a rendezvous for a week later with the anxious voice at the other end of the line. They would meet in the lobby of a midtown hotel, at eight (—If you'll wear that green scarf I sent you for Christmas two years ago, Otto, I have one just like it. We'll know each other that way. And I wear glasses. . said the voice, murmuring, after the telephone at the other end of the line was hung up, — Should I have said rimless glasses?). Otto had agreed quickly, he didn't know where his green muffler was but to push the thing further would have been too much, bad enough to need recourse to such a device to know your own father.