Then, as the liquor tightened its grasp, another feeling came: optimism, or rather its blustering and uncertain ghost. Why the hell should he think he’d lost Marcia? Didn’t she love him? What difference did it make it she’d been trying to change his life and he wouldn’t let her? That just showed he was strong. He’d get her and take her somewhere else and they’d have some drinks and he’d explain everything to her. Tell her about the amnesia for one thing.
He threw open the door to the living room and strode across the dance floor just as the orchestra was starting a new number. He stared at faces. He didn’t care how rude he was. He just wanted to find Marcia.
Couples brushed him, but he did not move out of the way. What did he care for all these fools who so stupidly took no notice of him? For these pseudo-people who pretended not to notice a drunken man making a spectacle of himself! Smirking imbeciles! How he’d like to run amuck through them, knock down the men, rip the bright dresses off the women—especially those off-the-shoulder ones!
Then he saw Marcia.
She was on the other side of the dance floor, alone. He motioned urgently to her. Her eyes flashed past him with a smile.
She took some twirling steps, just by herself, as if to indicate how irresistible the music was. As she turned his way, he motioned again—an angry jerk of the forearm. But she ignored him.
Keaton Fisher danced past her with Katy Pendleton. Keaton called something to Marcia and she laughed.
She continued to twirl gracefully by herself—tauntingly, Carr felt. He grimaced at her and motioned a third time.
She smiled tantalizingly. Her arm seemed to rest on an imaginary shoulder, her back appeared to arch against an imaginary hand.
Carr thought she must be mocking him. It was as if she said, “This is fun. Don’t you wish you were here in my arms? Wouldn’t you give anything?”
And she kept it up, like an automation.
As if that thought had been a signal, all Carr’s feelings of the evening, his anxieties over Keaton Fisher, his agonies over his decision, his reactions to the whole Pendleton world, crystallized in one frozen instant of drunken awareness.
It was as if all the life-fluid in the figures before him had drained away through a huge single gash.
Sober people feel, for brief moments, that all life and meaning have suddenly gone out of everything around them—the sounds, the words, the people. To a drunken person it is more intense.
It seemed to Carr, as he swayed there squinting, that the Pendletons’ world wasn’t real. These were window dummies dancing. The jabbering voices from the library were recordings, droning up from the hollow insides of animated statues. And look at the orchestra! See how the rigid brown hand thumped the base viol, while two other hands jerked up and down above the piano keys and yet another pair shifted along the saxophone. One saw such trios, made of painted tin, in the windows of toyshops. These were larger and of infinitely more skillful workmanship, but the music still came from somewhere else.
Glass walls, had he thought? These people were behind glass walls, all right, the glass panels of a showcase. They were toys grown to a size where their clockwork racket out-dinned the universe.
Even Marcia was just an elaborate mechanical doll. Somebody had stuck a key in her side, wound her up, and now she whirled and whirled.
Like Keaton Fisher, they were all just ticking.
In a moment they would realize his presence. Enraged that a living man had blundered into the mechanical saturnalia, they would rush at him, a metal tide, glittering, flashing, clashing, flailing him with their metal arms, stamping him with their metal feet. Even now—
He flinched, spun around, saw the door to the stairs, lunged for it.
Carr stared at the bronze lion as if it were the one object in an otherwise empty universe. Then stone, shadow and night soared into being, dwarfing the turmoil of feelings that had been spinning his mind and speeding his feet.
He looked around a little foolishly, realizing that he was standing in front of the Art Institute, on the lakeward side of Michigan Boulevard. He remembered the walk downtown only as a progression of things seen without being noticed. A distant electric sign beamed the time at him—3:39. He felt chill dribbles of sweat on his cheeks. His evening shirt was wet under the armpits. He put his hand to his throat, gathering up the lapels of his tuxedo.
He walked up the stone steps an touched the lion, gingerly, as a child might.
A little later he felt the impulse to walk. But not drivingly—just to drift.
As he moved north along the tremendous boulevard, an occasional whizzing car curtsied apologetically at the cross streets. He was still drunk enough to have an illusion of being very tall and moving majestically.
He veered across the boulevard and stood in front of the dark entry of the public library. Suddenly he realized that something was pulling him through the night, drawing him along by an indefinite number of strands fastened deep in his brain and heart—strands so gossamer thin that one could never possibly become aware of them unless some other force were to oppose them.
The pulls felt very real. It almost seemed to him that he could lean back against them, trusting to their force to keep him from falling.
And they lured. They carried a promise of mystery.
He concentrated with the fixity of a mystic, clearing his mind of all random thoughts and letting his sensation float free, trying to feel and respond to the pulls.
He yielded to them.
The streets were deserted and there was no wind. He passed a bare newsstand. His foot rustled a torn sheet of newspaper.
The pulls continued, though without strengthening. As if a magnet drawing him on were receding as he walked, keeping always the same distance.
Halfway down this block the pull abruptly changed direction, drawing him into a narrow alley, a mere slit between giant walls.
It was too dark to see. He held his hands outstretched and felt ahead with each foot before trusting his weight to the large cobblestones. He could guide himself in a general way by the vertical streak of smoky light shot with strange blue glows at the far end.
After perhaps twenty steps he haled uncertainly. He began to hear muffled laughter and talk, strains of raucous music.
As he edged along the dark alley, he wondered what it could be that he was following. Some actual trail in the pavement or air—chemical or electrical traces that impinged on the senses too subtly for conscious recognition? Or was it submerged memories of something that had happened to him before—perhaps during one of the amnesia attacks? Or even some kind of posthypnotic suggestion?
But thinking interfered with his ability to sense the trail. He must make his mind like that of an amoeba that automatically drifts towards the shadows.
He emerged at the other end of the alley.
He found himself looking into the window of a music store, scanning by streetlight the sheet music and record albums and toy instruments. For a while he stood with his face pressed to the glass door, trying to make out what was inside.
From nowhere, a title dropped into his mind. The Moonlight Sonata. His thoughts bent and shuddered as if from a gust of wind. For a moment he was about to remember everything…