For some time she continued to gaze at him, watching the man, as vivid as
the tree itself against the snow. Then abruptly, the notion came to her
that his temperament might be flexible, and she lifted her head higher,
as though challenging him. Her eyes were sparkling.
Roberts seemed frightened at first at her audacity and turned away in
embarrassment. Then, looking back to meet her dancing eyes, he broke
into a choppy laugh of singular amusement which Deane echoed. During
the rest of the drive they were silent; but there was a tenuous bond of
understanding between them; and when they reached Deane’s apartment,
Roberts stopped the engine and placed his hand lightly on hers.
“Yes, you are a beautiful and an intricate woman,” he said quietly.
Deane quickly withdrew her hand. She was surprised at the instantaneous
feeling of revulsion which came over her. There had been no
possessiveness in Roberts’ action—no suggestion of desire or intimacy. It
had been the movement of a child. But the contact had chilled her. What
was the quality about him that disturbed her now? Could it be a strong
jealousy of his interest in Martin? She could see Roberts stiffen in the
semi-darkness.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, with hauteur. “My remark was entirely
impersonal.”
“I know,” she said gently. Then, annoyed with herself, she added, “I
was thinking of Drew. To-night he arrives in France. I wonder if it is
snowing there.”
The adviser dropped his shoulders.
“It is snowing everywhere,” he said gravely. And as he assisted Deane out
of the car, he repeated, “—everywhere.”
Feeling his wild and plaintive loneliness and his sorrow, Deane stepped
quite close to him, resting her gloved hand on his sleeve.
“William!” she murmured softly.
For one moment, their antipodal forces swung into parallel; and, so
going, Deane and Roberts smiled together.
* * * * *
When Martin came that evening, Deane said to him at once, “I saw Roberts
at the concert and he brought me home in his car. I liked him better than
ever before.”
“Well,” Martin was thoughtful, “I can’t say that I like it—oh, you
needn’t explain his charm! I’m quite aware of it. But I’m afraid of his
mind. I’m afraid of the way it works, and I wish to God he’d get out of
the picture. It’s getting a little too uncanny—the way he checks on me.”
Martin pulled his chair closer to Deane’s. “I found out that he tried
to block my part-time job. Still, with all of it,” he continued, “my
attitude toward him remains variable; for underneath his mask lies a real
and secret protest. This protest is limitless—and if I’m right, rather
beautiful.” Martin laughed shortly. “Odd as it may be, I’m certain that
I’m responsible for many of his appearances. His sickness, if he _is_
sick, is now abiding in a perfect culture.”
“And what is that?” asked Deane, looking at him with her large eyes.
“A medium of vicious love engendered by myself.”
Deane laughed without restraint.
“Darling,” she said, taking Martin’s face in her hands, “you want to be
so awfully bad, don’t you?”
Martin smiled with her and she was satisfied, promptly forgetting the
adviser.
“Drew looked very sad when he left, Martin,” she said. “Tell me—did he go
just because of you?”
“Deane,” Martin said quite seriously, “we mustn’t keep on thinking that
all these forces are created by me.” Martin was pale in the shadows.
“That would be a timeless, horrible thought—a possible eternity. Can
anything be more terrible than eternity? All this action is separate
from myself. It _must_ be. It’s not possible that my demand has been too
much!” He was speaking hoarsely when Deane put her arms around him.
“Darling,” she whispered, “I understand. Won’t you love me a little?”
By instinct she had given him that temporary haven where the mind of
man retreats after being frightened by its own infinite possibilities.
Deane’s gentle whisper and her fascinating implication of certain
physical contacts quieted his nerves abruptly and he felt as though a
sweet fire were crossing his spine. He closed his eyes, and allowing
Deane to lead him into the gray-paneled bedroom, he lay back on the
sheets, feeling her soft hands stroke his skin until he shivered.
“Delightful boy—delicious boy,” she said, her voice trembling and growing
fainter.
Martin tried to speak to her, but his mouth was dry. He lifted his arms
and held on to the rail of the bed, trying to pull away from the searing.
Then it overcame him. He rolled and pretended to fight, but in his brain
there was only an exultant shouting.
As Deane knelt at the foot of the bed she looked down at Martin and
thought of the White Peacock; of the Gargoyle; and of their relation to
this man; and she felt the lustful brooding of this trilogy which was
dominant in her life. Her breasts rubbed against the fine hair of his
knees and each touch made her wilder. Pulling at him, she crawled up
beside him, her fingernails scratching the sheets. Then, from her throat
came a strange cry, a small cry, like the wail of a new-born child.
* * * * *
The snow kept piling against the windshield. Once, Roberts had to get
out and wipe it off from the outside. As he stepped back into the car
his foot slipped on something. Deane’s violets! He flung them into
the snow. In his imagination he saw Martin and Deane together—saw her
laughingly repeat their conversation of the afternoon. He visualized
Martin’s shrug, and contemptuous remarks. Roberts’ cheeks burned in
the dark and he drove more recklessly. At this very moment the woman
was probably in Martin’s arms.... Martin, with his sultry gray eyes
and tanned face. Martin, outlined like a flame before him.... Roberts
breathed the cold wind and spoke aloud. “He deserves nothing but my
hatred. If I could make him suffer as he has made me suffer! His picture
before me always!—superior, contemptuous and desirable! The night he sat
with me in my apartment, fresh from the sea—wind and salt in his eyes
and hair, I thought I had found life. My happiness stretched into the
horizon of his understanding. Solemn and patient, he spoke to me and
laughed with me. Now, he speaks of me, and laughs _at_ me—with her! I
can hear him laughing—” Roberts voice rose more fiercely. “He is saying,
‘What?—tried to hold your hand? What the devil would he want with that?’”
The irritating, superior tones rang in Roberts’ imagination. “Yes, I
can hear them: ‘Poor old Roberts—what a pity—chap must lead an awful
life—imagine going around with that handicap—not that there’s any moral
application, just a matter of convenience—continually frustrated.’”
Roberts pounded the steering wheel with his fist. “The cattle!” he
whispered hoarsely. “As if they could understand—as if _anyone_ could
understand. Damn them—their laughter and their insufferable attitude!
Damn their happiness.... Drink it, Roberts!—That I should measure my
life in terms of one night! One night with Martin, with his young face
and old eyes. With his laughter and his understanding. What agony to be
born one night and die the same! Better not to be born at all.... Why,
Martin, did you swagger through the door with your flapping dungarees
and proud head?... Angels dancing in the eyes that hold only devils now.
Such insolence! A bright, beautiful distillation of evil. Martin—the
god of selfishness, salt to the desire. A blinding picture that grows
with absence. A dust that burns the eyes and chokes the appetite....
Delete the image!—step upon it, crush it only to see it rise anew, more
beautiful and vicious than before.” Hot tears distorted Roberts’ vision.
He drew his hand across his face angrily. In a flashing, intolerable
whiteness, he saw himself swinging on the tapestry of his heritage.
“God!” he cried into the night. “Predestination—crucified in the womb!”
The image grew more hateful in his mind. The cold wind dried his tears.
Slowly his mouth narrowed into a fanatical line. “He has made me suffer.
Moving relentlessly, superficially, over people and life—eating life and
dripping its tantalizing crumbs from an overstuffed mouth—ruthless and
immaculate, he has made me suffer.” Roberts’ face was white in the light
from the windshield. White, unsmiling and purposeful.
_CHAPTER XX_
Martin met few people; but there was an atmosphere of tension everywhere
he walked. It didn’t make any difference what color their eyes were—blue
or brown or clay, there was action. Mostly it was antipathy engendered
by something the fulcrum of this hate could not understand. Sometimes,
however, it was love—a piercing, shrill movement that fell, ageless and
sexless, over his shoulders.
He did well with his work at the printing plant and was finally
transferred to a night shift where he found, to his relief, that the
hours were shorter, thus giving him precious moments that he could spend
with Deane or devote to the perfecting of his type design. He liked
also the quality of concentrated activity during these working hours
at the plant, occasioned in part by the darkness which enveloped the
building and grounds. He had no contact with the men around him except at
coffeetime; and they, in turn, sensed an indivisible chasm where their
thoughts and his whirled in confusion above them.
Once, during the evening, a machine squirted. The operator, swearing
loudly, kicked back his chair and was picking the lead from his trousers
when Martin glanced up, a phrase from the copy still in his mind. He went
to the man at once to help him; but the molten metal, already hardened
into splinters, had entered the fleshy part of the operator’s leg, and
the man, in considerable discomfort, nodded his thanks to Martin and
still swearing, softly now to himself, limped out of the room and down
the hall.
It was two o’clock in the morning and time for the men to knock off. In
the awkward blue light Martin wiped a smear of oil from his cheek. The
mirror was so distorted and the light so penetrating that his face seemed
one sided and all the lines about his mouth and eyes were pulling in
the wrong directions. He washed his hands and face, glanced again into
the crazy mirror, buttoned his pea-jacket and headed for his room in
Greenwich Village.
His street was in a dimly lighted section made up of rooming houses
occupied chiefly by small tradesmen. He had walked several blocks before
he stopped to light a cigarette. It was very quiet and through the shabby
elms the night seemed beautiful and lonely. As he started on he heard
someone behind him. From the sound of the step, it was a woman. Vaguely,
he wondered about her; but he walked on briskly, enjoying this brief,
cold freedom, then stopped again, looking with interest straight overhead
at the same stars he had watched move in different latitudes and from
different ships. For the second time he heard the steps behind him and
turned round. At this, they broke off sharply, but not before Martin had
caught a distinctive note in them. They had a giddy pitch that was not
purely feminine. His curiosity was aroused. He started down the street
once more, walking slowly now, with a precise, even stride. Then he
stopped abruptly. The feet behind him tapped on for a second, fluttered,
hesitated and stopped again. Suddenly, in Martin’s mind, the unmusical
gait gathered motif, meaning and form. He remembered a repulsively ardent
smile.... “Carol!” he shouted. There was no answer. Again he tried. “Hi!
Carol!” This time his follower ran quickly toward him.
“How did you know it was me, Martin?” asked the boy excitedly, all smiles.
Martin, chameleon-like, studied the dregs of his memory for similar
situations or, he thought grimly, singular opportunities; for this was
not an element to be faced, but one to be absorbed.
“We all have our characteristics, Carol,” he answered evenly.
“Do you like mine, Martin?” Carol’s plaintive tone softened the eager,
beseeching import of his question.
Again Martin hesitated. He well knew that the middle path was not as the
Romans had worked it out—a smooth highway, without deviation. He knew
that the middle path must fluctuate with both extremes to deserve the
term—which in this case, he observed to himself further with a certain
cynical amusement, was between a bitch and a son-of-a-bitch. He took hold
of the young man’s arm and spoke to him in a friendly fashion.
“Let’s go on up to my place, Carol,” he said.
On the dark stairs Carol followed close at his heels. Martin could
feel little tugs at his coat as the young man hung on to him in a sort
of childish panic and Martin had a distinct impression that Carol was
groping for his hand. He could feel the boy’s breath on the back of his
neck as they continued to climb; and when they reached the dark landing
just outside Martin’s room, Carol was still hanging on to him feverishly.
Martin fumbled for the keyhole, succeeded in finding it at last, opened
the door and turned on a dim light. Carol followed him into the room,
sighed with relief and closed the door quickly behind them.
He stood there, just inside, his hand still on the doorknob, gazing
around him with wide eyes and obviously taking notes. There was a pallet
on the floor in one corner, an old couch across from it and a writing
desk in the center of the room. He could see a T-square, erasers and
jumbled pieces of paper on the desk beside a miniature of Deane. He
turned his head away suddenly at sight of the picture. In another corner
of the room was a washbowl with a screen half around it. There was a
general air of carelessness about the place which apparently made him
nervous. Martin could see him straightening up things in his mind.
“It’s really more comfortable than it looks, Carol,” he said, trying to
put his guest more at ease. “They keep the rooms warm and that bed sleeps
better than it appears.” He unbuttoned his pea-jacket and hung it on a
nail on the wall. “Take off your coat, Carol, won’t you?—and tell me what
it’s all about. Two o’clock’s an odd time to go creeping after people.
Why didn’t you call out?”
“I was afraid you wouldn’t like it,” answered the boy, biting his lip. He
removed his thickly woven plaid overcoat, looked for a moment at the nail
where Martin’s jacket hung, then folded his own coat meticulously, gave
it a final pat and placed it with the utmost care over the back of the
rocker.
“I don’t like it, when it’s handled that way,” said Martin, keeping his
voice smooth. “I prefer a ‘hello.’”
Carol spoke softly.
“I had to follow you. Deane told me where you worked.”
“You asked her?” For the first time, Martin was genuinely annoyed.
Carol smiled unhappily.
“I had to, Martin. I think you’re wonderful.” His round face was ruddy
and glowing and his eyes, bright and intent, were fixed on his host.
“Sit down, Carol.” Martin opened the window, pulled his own chair from
under the desk and sat down facing him. “That’s strange,” he went on, a
bit puzzled. “I thought you disliked me.” He brushed back his hair where
the cold wind had rumpled it and sat quietly, staring out the window into
the darkness.
Carol shuffled uneasily.
“I did at first. You were mean. I nearly hated you.” He sat forward, well
on the edge of his chair. “But I don’t now. I’m different now.”
“Not at all,” said Martin, shaking his head quite seriously. “You’ll feel
the same at the last as you did at the first. I’m sure of it.”
“I won’t change, dear Martin. I think you’re God,” the boy answered
solemnly.
Martin nodded. Through the insufficient light within the room, the bronze
tints of his skin deepened.
“Perhaps I am,” he said.
“Please don’t joke,” said Carol. His voice had acquired a pathetic,
pleading quality. “I mean you really are—to me.” He shifted his position
so that he could not see Deane’s picture.
“She won’t bite,” said Martin bluntly.
Carol twisted his hands.
“Can’t you see it my way a little bit, Martin?” The boy spoke now with
a definite urgency, his words forming an aggressive prayer. “Can’t you
change _some_?”
“No,” Martin answered. “I can’t see the advantage.”
“_I_ know the advantage,” said Carol softly. “I wish you’d try and change
just a little bit.” He hesitated, his eyes shining. “I can’t tell you—but
I could teach you, Martin.”
“How did this begin, Carol?”
The boy gave him a fond, acquisitive glance.
“It began that afternoon at Deane’s. You took my part. And then, at the
drag, you were so beautiful in your yellow gown that I fell in love right
away. How did you do your hair? It was perfect!”
“Damned if I know,” said Martin. He stared out the window again.
Carol lowered his head, pouting.
“But it wasn’t fixed the same way after you came down with Drew.”
“No?” asked Martin absently.
“No,” said Carol. “It was pinned different.”
Martin smiled.
“Are you sure,” he asked, “that it wasn’t Drew about whom you were
concerned?”
“Oh!” said Carol, flushing, “I never felt that way about Drew. I just
_love_ to talk with him and be a pal; but I never felt about him—like
this—” His lips trembled a little. “Maybe I was a little flirty—he’s been
so sweet to me; but then I’ve been that way before, and I’ve never been
in love. It was all puppy stuff before.”
Martin slumped down in his chair.
“I’ve changed quite a bit in my opinions about things too, Carol,” he
said. “But it hasn’t boiled over and I don’t believe it ever will. You
know, Carol, that I love Deane.”
The boy leaned forward eagerly.
“Oh, I know lots of boys that like girls,” he replied, nodding his head
wisely. “But they like boys, too.” With a timid gesture he reached out
and touched Martin’s hand. The back of Martin’s scalp tingled and he felt
like shivering; but he did not move.
“It’s no go, Carol,” he said, with finality. “It damned well gives me the
creeps.”
Carol leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.
“God,” he said, “I wish you’d try.” He bent forward again, making no
attempt to restrain his sorrowful desire.
Martin jumped up, a kind of dull horror building into rage. He took Carol
roughly by the shoulders.
“God damn you! What’s wrong with you? What the hell’s wrong with all of
you? Don’t you like the feel of a woman’s breast? Don’t you like a mouth
that’s soft and sweet, instead of a god-damned beard?” He noticed that he
was shaking Carol and stopped. He moved back a pace, his face shaded, the
perspiration pouring from his brow in streams. “Do you think it’s smart
to be this way? Do you think it’s clever?” He closed his fists. “Give me
Eve, god damn you! Give me Eve, and take your Adam!”
Carol was weeping softly.
“God,” he said. “I don’t think it’s smart.... Oh, Martin, I’m so lonely.
I can’t help how I feel.... Don’t be mad.... I won’t do anything....
Please—” He was rocking back and forth in his helpless grief.
Martin sat down again. His face, which had hardened in the previous
moment, lost its straight lines and the color came back to his cheeks. He
ran his hand, which was trembling slightly, across his eyes. He sat very
straight and stiff.
“I’m sorry, Carol,” he declared sincerely. “I lost my head. I understand.”
But Carol cried out, his palms against his temples, “You understand?
_You?_ You don’t understand at all.... The days! The long, wet days!—I
can’t stand them alone again!... You don’t know how I was born. How I
was raised. My mother died when I was born—Oh! I’d have loved her.... My
father took me to a mining camp. There weren’t any women. Even the cook
was a man. They played with me, and gave me money.... After my father
died, there were more men.... It’s my first thought, and my last.... I
wish you _did_ understand. Then you’d just _have_ to love me.”
And Martin looked at Carol, at the tears running down his cheeks, at the
pain that locked his face into the unknown agonies. He looked at the
desk, at the picture of Deane and back again at Carol. And to himself he
said repeatedly, “What good is compassion now!—What good is compassion
now!”
Strangely, he went to Carol, a dark line between his eyes, although there
was no frown except one for himself. For a moment he stood facing the boy
so steadily and patiently that Carol wet his lips in nervousness, waiting
in a kind of stolid anticipation for whatever was to come. Slowly, but
with no hesitation, and still regarding the boy with an indefinable
expression, Martin raised his hand and laid it on the other’s with such
feeling, yet such weight that Carol stepped away and bent his knee as
though he had been struck. Then, unresistant to Martin’s comprehensive
look—a look so full of search, and surely pain, and perhaps knowing—and
calmed by a hand that had found kindness in its power, Carol stepped
forward again and held himself as though he were bemused—for so he
was, with all his innocence and limitations conflicting with desire.
And all the hopeless libido went out of him before this other one who
was so straight and quiet and held him like—Carol thought, and thought
again—like—and then quite swiftly it was revealed to him; like one man
holds another. This chemical transmutation within him was so rapid that
even Martin failed to see it. Just the same, as Carol, firmly gripped by
Martin in equality, knew himself another man, he lifted his shoulders,
stiffened in his new pride as he beheld new vistas; and in an immediate
beauty smiled, unknowing that he had left Martin, who dropped his hand,
bewildered.
Martin helped the boy on with his coat.
“Carol,” he said, his arm around him, “I want you to know that I’m your
friend.” Impulsively he went to his desk and searched through a drawer.
He drew out a snapshot and handed it to Carol. “Here I am,” he said,
“climbing a king post at the beginning of a bad day.” It was a plain
little picture of a ship at a crazy tilt with the sea, and Martin hanging
tightly as he worked with a lashing; but Carol put it carefully in his
pocket and smiled happily.
_CHAPTER XXI_
The days were getting warmer. Rio stopped by Martin’s house in the early
afternoon and together they walked to the Battery where they sat down on
a bench out of the sun. People were pouring in and out of the Aquarium.
Boats leaving for Bedloe’s Island whistled and grunted against the docks.
Liberty herself, as statuesque as ever, shone from her spring cleaning
and seemed to hold her torch still higher and more independently.
Turning away from the water, Rio glanced at Martin’s hand, his attention
called to it, perhaps, by a ray of sunlight which fell slantingly upon a
flat block of black onyx with a point of ruby in one corner which Martin
wore upon his middle finger.
“I’ve always wanted to ask you about that funny ring you got there,” said
Rio, yawning. “Where’d you find it?”
Martin twisted the ring until it caught the sun more evenly before he
spoke.
“In the Red Sea,” he finally replied.
“Sounds like somethin’ back of it,” persisted Rio.
“There is.” Martin locked his hands around one knee and leaned forward
in an attitude of tenseness. “The year before I met you, Rio, I got
hurt on the old _Silver Cross_. She’s being scrapped now, and this was
when she made her last trip to the East. I was pretty bad in the Indian
Ocean, and the weather didn’t help any. I was worse at Aden; and they
had to take me off at Massaua. When I was getting well I met a fellow
named Nahrinja who was agent for a man who owned a pearl-fishing fleet. I
wanted to get out on one of the boats to see how the boys went about it.
So when I was better he gave me a knock-down to one of the Arab skippers
and we set out.
“The Sudanese divers all seemed to like me, for I took to their native
lute as though I’d played it all my life. In a few days I could do
their ancient chants on the tamboura—somehow, understanding this sad,
lost music. One Sudanese in particular, a boy named Sali, used to squat
silently on the deck and watch me by the hour.