marked MR. ROBERTS. Martin studied him with concentration, knowing that
this man through whom he might be placed demanded understanding, subtle
coyness and perhaps, beauty; for he saw a person hesitant in sex and yet
requiring it; a man lurid of cheek, yet pale; a contradiction with a
flush abnormal as its pallor. The look of Roberts was more theory than
fact; although Martin thought, amusedly, that certainly this personage,
most elegant, existed almost regally. The counselor’s eyebrows, alert
and thin and dark, commanded all his face. His deep-set cheeks and bold,
firm chin absolved too bright, too wide a pouting lower lip. His hair,
compressed and black, cut strongly in his temples and took away the color
from his eyes. “This masterpiece,” thought Martin, “should be done in
platinum; with alabaster, ebony and careful points of gold.” And then, he
found that he was next.
Roberts glanced at him.
“Sit down,” he said. “Are you waiting for a ship?” His eyes opened wide,
closed intimately, then opened wide again.
“No,” said Martin. “I want a job ashore.”
“Have you had college experience?”
“Yes. Five years.”
Roberts grew cautious.
“Really! Post-graduate work?”
“No. I was never graduated. It was off and on.”
“Why?”
Martin hesitated a moment.
“I suppose because the electives interested me much more than the
requisites.”
Roberts spoke impersonally.
“A diploma is quite valuable in getting a job,” he said.
Martin smiled.
“That’s right.”
The adviser looked at him questioningly.
“I wasn’t trying to be rude,” said Martin, “but the situation appeared
somewhat ridiculous.”
“I can well imagine,” answered Roberts, smiling back at him. “I wish
everyone out of a job could develop the same sense of humor.”
“It isn’t a sense of humor,” replied Martin. “It’s a form of
embarrassment. I used to see little girls act this way in school.”
The counselor nodded.
“An acute analysis,” he said.
“I didn’t mean that,” Martin added quickly.
“Of course not.” Roberts was thoughtful. His eyes had assumed a knowing
look. His voice was unprofessional and the color in his cheeks had become
more prominent. At last, he picked up a card. “What kind of work do you
prefer?” he asked.
“I’ve done a good many things.”
“Have you specialized in anything?”
“No.”
“That’s curious. One would think that a young man with your intelligence
would——”
Martin interrupted him.
“I’m not intelligent,” he said. “I’m imaginative. Sometimes it gives
the illusion of intelligence.” Then, slightly bewildered by his own
statement, Martin reflected on this uncalled-for abstraction until he
forgot where he was and sat absently, with an appearance so unusual that
Roberts, who was watching him keenly, spoke one word half under his
breath; and Martin, taken from his musing by the unexpected character of
the exclamation, said sharply, “What was that?”
But the adviser, disregarding the question, shrugged his
shoulders—basilisk in state once more.
“Are you really ingenuous,” he asked, “or are you kidding me? One would
think that a young man of your—education—then, would have prepared
himself to meet inevitable economic problems.”
“No.” Martin shook his head. “I’m not ingenuous, either. I’m conscious.
I’m too conscious; it makes me brittle. Nor am I kidding you. I told you
the truth. It is curious that I didn’t adjust myself. I tried to think
about it occasionally but it didn’t do any good. Other things seemed more
important.”
Roberts was listening intently.
“What other things?” he asked.
“Oh—pretending. Sometimes other things; but mostly just pretending.”
“Pretending what?”
“Pretending that I was everything except what I am—that things were
different from what they are. I thought that life would move on and
somehow carry me with it. I have no way to substantiate this; but all my
life I’ve known that the finish was illusive—that it was best for me to
float with the current until an eddy whirled me into my right course.”
“Have you struck the eddy?”
Again Martin felt the intimacy of Roberts’ tone and frowned.
“Perhaps you misinterpreted my question,” said the adviser coolly. “I
asked if you were in your proper medium.”
Martin flushed and started to rise; but Roberts lifted his hand in a
gesture of restraint.
“I really know how you feel,” he said gently. “Perhaps that’s why I spoke
as I did. In your capacity as a job hunter, however, there can be no room
for individual conflict; particularly in your relationship with one who,
understanding, offers both his professional facilities and,” he said more
slowly, “his friendship—” all the time looking directly at Martin with
the strange color coming and going as he spoke.
“Cheeks—like a lost woman,” said Martin, trying to stop the sentence
before it was out of his mouth.
Roberts stared at him for a second in astonishment. Then he went into
uncontrollable laughter.
But Martin remained unsmiling.
“I’m sorry I said that,” he remarked severely. “I really can’t excuse it
or explain it.”
“Well, I’m not sorry,” said Roberts, leaning forward. “It’s the first
genuine fun I’ve had in a long time. I’d like more of it. But I’ll
confess—it’s disruptive to the morale of the office.” Still amused, he
glanced around him. His speech was high and unbalanced. “However,” he
went on, becoming more practical, “I’m going to get you a job.”
“Well—” said Martin.
“No, no,” insisted Roberts. “I’m glad I’m in a position to help you.”
Once more, he looked swiftly around him and continued in a lower voice.
“I think it’s wonderful to be able to help people. Don’t you?”
“Yes.”
Roberts hesitated.
“It’s about the only thing there is in the world,” he said in a still
lower tone. “Isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
He wrote his address on the card and handed it to Martin.
“I want you to come to my residence this evening. There, we’ll work out
your economic destiny.” He smiled faintly.
Martin accepted the card, smiling also, wondering if he really looked
this subjective and, if not, why Roberts’ obvious attitude.
“Very well,” he said, facing with curiosity a phenomenon before its
occurrence. “What hour?”
“Nine.”
Martin stood up and nodded slightly. It seemed to him that the employees
were watching him evasively as he left.
* * * * *
The great city arose with Martin and marched to its hysteria of noon.
Then, slowly falling till evening, burst into flame, quieted and slept.
Gigantic presses told of her neurosis. In this immutable turning flashed
black lines of the growth of the disease. Its people, wooden-eyed,
marionette, accepted with grimness; their minds numb and evasive. They
held their buildings higher in the air—pointed them like caricatures of
things that had gone, of things still to come. But their thoughts were
buried. Hidden under music and dust and smothered in light, the precious
balance died....
* * * * *
The moon, free of clouds, shone through the blinds and into the
living-room of Roberts’ apartment. A crystal vase, without flowers,
directed the dim light into a corner. Small ebon figures held out
their arms. Roberts was wearing a dark Russian blouse. To Martin, he
appeared more fabulous and crystalline than in his office. His flush
was constant—so determinate that Martin guessed it artificial, noticing
however, that the native, restless color had moved into his eyes. There
it remained, fluctuating and searching until it seemed disturbingly
like the luminant phosphorus of uncertain, yet violent leaves and
shadows Martin had avoided in the tropics. Roberts had been ambiguous
throughout the evening and Martin felt that he knew him no better. But
he watched the adviser closely—watched each apparent banality for a
_double entendre_ and speculated upon the inevitable. He countered each
triviality; and made no attempt to acquiesce in a secretive understanding.
Roberts now grew silent for long intervals. With a compelling, but a
quiet vision, he observed his young friend. The room had become warmer
and frost was forming on the window panes. Once, Roberts arose and ran
his finger across the glass, leaving a clear, narrow trail from which
fell small drops of moisture.
“It’s colder outside,” he said.
“Much colder,” replied Martin.
Roberts came over and sat down near him.
“Then I take it the warmth of our civilization has its appeal after all?”
In a different fashion Martin confused the scene in as remote and
complex a pattern as his friend. Deeply muscled by the sea, he
nevertheless was finely drawn as a lady’s slipper and as quick of kicking
to the notice. Roberts was aware of this and other features that, to
him, were more demanding and elemental; for in his bleached eyes Martin
carried the ocean; there was the smell of salt about him—and, Roberts
thought, in a sort of painful hysteria, probably sand in his hair. His
face, out of the Indies, with its stain from the sun and from his youth,
should not hold dignity; and yet it did, in such a steady, high intensity
that Roberts caught his breath on it. Martin rubbed his foot over the rug.
“‘Warmth’—of your civilization?” he repeated. “I’m astonished.”
“Perhaps the word was ill-chosen,” answered Roberts. “But whatever our
qualities may be, I hope that you prefer them to those which emanate
from the fo’c’sle of a West Indian freighter. Now, it is my turn to be
astonished. Why did you say ‘_your_ civilization’? Are you not—” Roberts
hesitated, “one of us?”
“I’m a seaman. We don’t fit in anywhere on land.” Roberts changed—seemed
more severe in the passing light.
“This bold and masterful deception of all seamen is, to me, Martin,
a shabby thing. I see it as a trite avoidance of each standard
which, although sometimes unbeautiful, is present in the world. Such
life, irrelevant and irreverent of all doctrine, is but a switching
of responsibilities—a turning of the back that’s shielded by mere
boastfulness. In honesty to myself, I must admit that there’s a
careless beauty in its physical, sweet shape—the wrap of dungarees—and
forgetfulness in song. And yet, it’s impotent. Quite sterile in its
loveliness.... And finally, I see the man—the dungarees—the very songs
in pity.” The color surged into Roberts’ cheeks and he leaned nearer.
“You’ve abused yourself, Martin. There’s been dishonesty in plenty for
yourself. And what, dear boy, quite comes of it?”
“Perhaps I do it to hear you drain yourself,” said Martin dryly.
Roberts answered with immediate fierceness.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever talked this way before. But I’ll use your
method now, Martin. You need a job. From your card I noticed that you’ve
been a printer. Can you operate a linotype?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll arrange things. Now, in heaven’s name—let’s leave this
miserable economic status. It’s impossible.”
Martin frowned slightly.
“But isn’t that why I’m here? You said—”
Roberts’ blue eyes became darker.
“Why not quote our professional introduction literally?” he asked. “You
were trying to amuse yourself, not help yourself. Why did you do it?
Why do you do it now?” With difficulty he restrained his anger. “A job
should be considered first, before this premature folly.” He stopped,
put out his cigarette and waited, only to be startled by Martin’s sudden
laughter. He raised his shoulders arrogantly. “You are entertained then,
by emotion?”
“No,” said Martin. “Rather, by a grotesque episode.”
“Grotesque?” Roberts seemed more contemptuous than indignant.
“Indeed,” said Martin, inflamed by this dry attitude. “Grotesque. Absurd.
A farcical horse-opera of a lost decade revived in different ribbons,
different sex. This renovated melodrama is enough to make one sick!—a
pale girl with a stack of mortgage documents fastened in her long, blonde
hair, arguing for her virtue with a Russian blouse!”
Roberts listened with fascination. His eyes became solicitous. The tenor
of the room altered swiftly.
“You _could_ have been, Martin,” he said in a breath and quite excitedly.
“Yes, you could have been.” And then, between his lips, and with no
intended insult, Roberts spoke the same one word that he had whispered to
Martin that afternoon.
Martin looked at the man and knew this exclamation had never been so
used. Without changing his expression he reconstructed Roberts’ face from
the fragments of thought that had suddenly charged the room. The pink,
hairless mask moved closer—without eyes, without nose, with a single hole
in the lower part and a single, dreadful sound protruding.
Along the blinds lay a few ravelings of light. The face regained its
natural shape. Only an undermovement of greediness and a distant, crying
sound remained.
Roberts walked over to a cabinet and brought back a colored liqueur which
he offered to Martin, pouring it slowly and meticulously into Holland
glass. He was once more the host, aloof, charming, courteous.
“How do you think you will like your job?” he asked. “I’m sending you to
a friend of mine—a Mr. Jackson. He’ll see that you get along.”
“There’s no reason to lie,” Martin answered. “I won’t like it. It’ll be
wretched—sitting there, pounding a machine that is more efficient than I
am.”
“Then tell me—why do you want a job ashore? Why don’t you go back to
sailoring? Or, do you really like that sort of thing after all?”
“It’s a free life,” Martin answered slowly.
“And this is not?”
“I don’t know. But your evaluations interest me.”
Roberts became genuinely curious. All of the coldness left his face and
only the deeper lines of his integrity remained.
“What is it that disturbs you, Martin?” he asked gently. “The past or the
future? Or the shadow behind the lamp?”
“I imagine the shadows are worst.”
“You intensify them, don’t you?”
“Perhaps I even create some of them. We demand contrast.”
“Mmm.” Roberts, his head nodding loosely, studied him. “You have
something in your eyes, Martin,” he said. “If you were a woman I would
forget my business, my complacency. I would want to run away with you—if
you were a woman.”
Martin hesitated a moment before answering.
“If I were a woman—you would not be interested,” he said at last.
Roberts’ face grew white under the rouge.
“You are candid. But my temperament should not disturb our friendship.”
Martin leaned over, closing his hand about the adviser’s wrist and
holding it tightly.
“What do you mean by ‘temperament’?” he asked.
The insolent red came back into Roberts’ cheeks.
“That was young, Martin, my lad. It was cruel.” Then, sensing the flux of
blood upon his wrist more keenly, he felt curiously strong. Happiness,
nostalgia and strength merged and fused until his mind turned slowly and
hung staring down upon the stages of his life. Two pale stars drifted
upward and dimmed. Roberts looked into his mother’s eyes.
_CHAPTER V_
Rio lay on a bed in a room on Fourteenth Street. He was in a bad humor.
A back tooth ached and he sucked hot smoke from a cigarette against it.
The Relief authorities had told him that Martin had signed up, but had
disappeared without report. Had he left New York, or had he found a job?
Had he changed his mind and caught a ship—Martin was too slippery for an
idea to hold on to. Rio’s irritation increased.
“He never was solid,” he said to the girl sitting across the room.
“What do you care?” she answered. “You ain’t in love with him.”
Rio dropped the cigarette butt, pressed his thumb on the coal and rubbed
it into the floor.
“Don’t get mad now, sweetheart,” the girl said. “I try to be funny. And
that’s more than you done.”
Rio sat up, took his coat and left. There was another chance. Martin
might have registered at the Employment Station. Rio walked along Third
Avenue, watching faces, stopping frequently to glance inside the saloons.
A long line of men, waiting outside one of the Relief restaurants,
attracted him. One of the men held out his hand.
“Two for a nickel, buddy,” he said, holding his fingers over the
meal-tickets.
“Three for a nickel, pisan,” said Rio, walking on.
It was late afternoon when he reached the Employment Station. Roberts was
at his desk when Rio approached. He was turning over the cards in some
files and did not look up immediately. Rio, a rollicking expression in
his eyes, put his hands on his hips and began to pose slightly. He looked
like a male bear under morphine. The adviser glanced at him briefly, saw
the attitude and dismissed it.
“Come back to-morrow. It’s five o’clock,” he said.
“I don’t want to sign up,” answered Rio, grinning now. “I’m lookin’ for a
shipmate.”
Roberts shook his head.
“They’ll help you at Central Relief Headquarters. This is Employment.” He
spoke peremptorily.
“I know,” said Rio. “He signed up over there and never checked out, but
he ain’t around. I thought maybe he found a job here.”
“Five o’clock,” Roberts repeated, looking annoyed. “My secretary will
check over the list for you.”
“His name is Devaud,” insisted Rio. “Martin Devaud. He’s a sort of young
guy.”
“Devaud?” Roberts’ eyes were round. “Have I heard the name? A thin,
crippled fellow?”
“No.”
Roberts took a pencil and filled in a blank card.
“We aren’t permitted to give information concerning these men, but if
such a person should ever come in, I’ll give him your name.”
“My name’s Rio.”
“What shall I tell him you wanted—if I see him?”
Rio stuck his thumb against his chin.
“You don’t need to tell him nothin’.” He leaned on the desk.
Roberts looked at him stiffly. The color surged into his cheeks.
“Is that all? I’m accustomed to accepting, not giving information. Unless
you give me the particulars I need, it will be impossible to coöperate
with you. Is this boy wanted for any misdemeanor?”
Rio’s face turned a heavy red.
“This boy ain’t wanted for ‘any misdemeanor.’ This boy’s a friend of
mine. He’s on the beach. I want to see him.”
Roberts dropped the card on his desk. He showed the stamp of discipline.
“Have you ever been thrown out of anywhere?”
“Not by ten like you.”
“Fortunately there are gentlemen here vested with that privilege.” The
adviser nodded across the room at several policemen.
Rio laughed.
“Fortunately? Gentlemen?” He walked away, then turned. “I’ll see you
later, Mister!”
Roberts watched him leave. Powerful brute, he thought. Rio! A shipmate. A
friend. How good a friend? Roberts put his finger to his lips. Certainly
not a good contact for Martin. Damn the intimacy of the sea—like prison,
like Devil’s Island, holding men together, destroying all the niceties
of camaraderie.... Were those stories true about men on ships? A sordid
subject exaggerated out of all proportion—still, some of it must be true.
That big fellow. Was he? He had been unwarrantedly excited.
Rio left the Station. Mr. Fish inside would look good with his teeth out.
Strictly fruit, huh? By God, these governors! Well, what of it?... Where
to look now? Martin wasn’t trying to ship. He wasn’t at the Hall or on
the docks. He wasn’t on Relief. He hadn’t got a job at the Station—or was
Roberts lying. “Gentlemen here vested with that privilege!”
Rio took a train to Forty-second Street. The bright, flashing lights of
Broadway shut out the early stars. The hurrying expanse of faces had
less individuality than waves. There was no bond between their eyes and
his, impassionate. They were as eternal, as indestructible as ants. They
passed him, died, were born and passed again; a long, driving throng,
pale and imperishable, typed and counterparted into immortality. Rio
turned away, disgusted. Martin wasn’t there. He’d die in such a sea. God
bless sailors and their drifted lives.
Rio returned to his room and lay down on the bed, nervous from its quiet.
He saw the unused pitcher—one of dignity; with whiteness and good height.
It made him slightly sick. There was a girl’s bag on a chair; and one
article, too intimate, beside it. He rolled over. Suddenly the doorknob
rattled.
“What is it?” he called out, impatiently.
Two girls walked in, smiling, red-cheeked.
“Hello, Rio,” one of them said. “Did you find your buddy?”
“No.”
“That’s too bad, Rio.”
“Look here,” said Rio, unsmiling. “This is amateur night. Now beat it.”
_CHAPTER VI_
Martin worked into the routine of the printing plant. There were thirty
linotypes around him, shielding him with their clamor. He found retreat
in their noise and liked to feel that he was a lever or cam, bending or
turning inconspicuously in the tide of words. He hid his revulsion as an
automaton and mixed his sweat with the oil of the machinery. There was an
acrid taste of hot lead in the air, a taste of ink, the taste and rattle
of matrices. Martin could feel his shoulders bend into the machine—could
see the horizon shrink to the area of light on his copy. Type, type,
type—up with the line. Feel the grinding of the fellow, pressing,
digesting. Out with the slug, searing hot and good to calloused fingers.
When evening came and work was over, Martin straightened his back and
went to the wash-trough. The gritty soap smelled good, like candy. He
associated it with freedom. Outside, he felt like running—jumping a
hydrant, racing a car. He wanted to shout at the slanting sunlight.
He lived uptown, at one of the most inexpensive club-hotels for men. The
rooms were clean and, from the standpoint of his present earnings, the
cost was reasonable. Most of the residents were hard-working fellows who
needed a place to sleep. Martin read the recreational program; but women
were not included in its itinerary, so he remained in his room or walked
up and down the street.
He sat in his room, thinking to a point and back. The period seemed
interminable. The break, the nervous ejaculation that would throw him out
of this treadmill seemed further away than before. He remembered the sea
and ships upon it, hot rain, salt and rust and bubbling, rising life. The
memory filled his nose and lungs and mind.
“God damn,” he said, and struck the wall with his hand.
The buzzer in his room sounded and he went to the house-phone in the hall
to answer.
“Hello, Martin. How are you?”
“Hello, Roberts.”
“I have a surprise, Martin. There’s a little party and I’d like you to
come with me. Just a few people. Would you like to?”
“Yes. Yes, I’d like to.”
“Good. I’ll come by for you. It will all be very informal, very casual.”
“Indeed it will,” said Martin.
“What’s that?”
“I said, indeed it will.”
“What do you mean?”
Martin could feel Roberts’ eyes over the wire, slightly protruding, and
his eyebrows moving gently up and down.
“I meant nothing. When will you be here?”
“Oh. Soon. It’s unexpected.”
“Thanks,” said Martin. “Till then.”
He went back to his room and shaved. Next he put on one black sock and
one gray one—not for style’s sake, nor to be eccentric. When he was
dressed he looked earnestly in the mirror.
“Pale,” he said. He sat down on the bed and stared at the wall. It seemed
a long time to him before Roberts rapped on the door.
“I’m glad to see you,” Martin exclaimed with relief. “It’s you all
right—you and your intolerable verve.”
Roberts laughed.
“Good heavens! What finery!” he cried, looking at Martin’s suit, which
was pressed.
Roberts was wearing a Derby. There was a narrow beaver collar on his dark
topcoat and under the fur was a light, silken scarf. He carried white
knitted gloves. He stood for a few moments in the doorway looking at
Martin. Then, throwing his hat and gloves on the bed, he went over to the
mirror and adjusted his scarf, observing himself carefully.
Martin lay back in his chair and watched him, a twinkle in his eye.
“You’re beautiful, all right,” he said.
Roberts turned around and nodded seriously.
“I know I am,” he answered. “But there is more character than
feature—that’s what pleases me.”
Martin laughed good-naturedly and got out of his chair.
“Both qualities are necessary for complicity with women, aren’t they?”
Roberts gave him a slow, cynical smile and they left.
* * * * *
Martin was sorry that he had accepted the invitation to the party when
he met his hostess, for her immoderate greeting brought about a sudden
loneliness within him. Among the guests this feeling of desolation
grew stronger. Their faces and smiles seemed vaporous and foreign. One
large fellow grinned persistently, his eyes unfocused. Only the hostess
retained her buoyancy. She bounded from person to person with an amazing
levity. There were sentences all over the room, but they were incoherent,
more porous than the faces. Feeling helpless, Martin went to a corner and
sat down. One of the guests sang “_The Bells of St. Mary’s_” backwards,
and Martin began to doze.