aimless shambles, along MacDougal Street and into the somewhat limited
security of MacDougal Alley. Countless easels which held oils or studies
in crayon, finished or unfinished, were scattered about the sidewalks.
Odd bits of craftsmanship hung on the walls of buildings or were placed
for sale on the curbs. Caricaturists and cut-out artists in their batik
smocks were hawking their talents to the crowd, not with the loud,
raucous voices of sideshow barkers at a fair, but with proud and careful
gestures, and an occasional remark about art in general which most of the
crowd took seriously.
At the end of MacDougal Alley a hard, slim man who looked like Popeye was
daubing wildly at his canvas. Martin grinned and pulled Deane back by her
elbow, stopping her suddenly.
“Look at that old boy,” he said under his breath, all his melancholy
abstraction leaving him in an instant. “He’s mad as a hatter, and
dreaming of a Dutch ship he took one time out of Sumatra. See, honey?”
Martin grew more excited and pointed to the painting. “She’s built
like a sabot—equally stable in the North Sea or the South Pacific. The
Hollanders knew how!” He nodded wisely. “By God! I have a little of their
blood in my own veins,” he continued with pride. “The painting’s bad. But
the thing’s there, all right. The man has memories.” He jigged Deane’s
arm again. “I’m going to tell the old chap I’m a steamship man. Watch
him blow up. _He_ never sailed under anything but canvas.”
Deane grew concerned.
“Don’t make him angry, Martin,” she said, holding back.
“I won’t. Come on, darling,” and pulling her after him, he walked up
casually behind the old seaman.
“Ah!” said Martin, as though speaking to Deane, “_there’s_ a fine ship!”
“Ye don’t know her stem from her stern,” said the painter, turning round
to observe the speaker, then dabbing a ferocious spot of sea under his
ship’s bow.
“She’s beautiful,” insisted Martin. “That is—she would be, if she had
just a touch of steam.” He paused for a second. “There’s nothing like
steam in a calm, or if you need a head in the wind.”
The brush dropped out of the painter’s hand and his face turned the color
of brick.
“Steam!” he snorted. “_I_ went round the Horn with just me hat spread,
boy!” He picked up his brush, wiped it carefully and jabbed at the canvas
again. “I took me own ship round the Cape durin’ a gale! There was less
time than you’ll get in your liner—and it gave me a belly at fifty
_you’ll_ never see at thirty!”
Martin nodded.
“Canvas had its points, all right,” he agreed.
“Steam!” repeated the old master scornfully, not in the least mollified,
and spat upon the ground.
“Well,” persisted Martin, “I wish I could have tried your square-riggers.
I never quite trusted steam, myself.” His voice sounded a little
regretful.
The old master looked at him, suspicion in his eyes. Suddenly he stepped
nearer and brought his face up close to Martin’s.
“Do ye know where the Scylla Deeps be?” he asked mysteriously.
“A sea no sailor has found, sir,” answered Martin.
The old master continued to peer at him with mistrust.
“Where did me best rope hang, boy?”
“From the yardarm, sir.” Martin gave him a slow smile. “And it’s not all
that hung from there, sir,” he added, knowingly.
The master’s face turned into a series of amused lines and crevices. He
grabbed Martin’s arm and his white lips puckered into laughter.
“If I could’ve had ye as cabin boy, me lad, ye might’ve made a
sailor!—But no more steamship gab!” he warned, shaking his finger. He
turned once more to the painting. “Now ain’t she a beauty?” He pointed
with pride to the ship and over his ravaged face came a sorrowful and
faraway expression. “She was trim as a herring,” he said, so low they
could scarcely hear. “Trim as a herring, me boy.”
Martin spoke soberly, with an infinite respect.
“She was, sir. And she is. I’m glad you’re bringing her alive.”
The old master stared at him. His eyes seemed flaked with salt and he
brushed one rough hand across them.
Martin took Deane’s arm once more.
“Good-by, sir. A good trip, sir,” he said, pulling Deane along. But the
old master just kept staring as the two walked away.
“Why did he look like that?” Deane whispered, her own eyes full of tears.
“That ship went down, honey—and the master, also,” answered Martin.
On the next corner, standing in an erect, unnatural posture, was a man
with a full red beard. In one hand the man held a comb which occasionally
he used on his chin with a gesture at once contemptuous and desperate.
In the other hand there was a ragged paper upon which something was
written—and this, he wore as though it were a part of him. When any
passed too close he would draw back the manuscript, hastily covering the
words, the beer stains and perhaps tears with his palm. His bold chin
under its red blanket would jut angrily; he would hunch his shoulders,
and his eyes, which were a little blurred, would narrow in agony and
hatred. Martin, ashamed for all mankind that it had shamed this artist
and his work, walked by with an impassive glance, understanding full well
the torment of beauty which must be held within itself. But the man,
sensing some kinship within Martin, or feeling some belligerent contempt,
held out to him the sheaf of paper containing all the golden words born
of himself in adoration, hunger and distrust. His speech was rapid,
barely articulate.
“Twenty-five cents, _sir_?” he called out mockingly. “A block of my heart
for twenty-five cents!”
Deane pressed against Martin and he knew that she was frightened. He
tried, without speaking, to tell her not to be, and walked on with a
strolling deliberation, eyes ahead without expression, minimizing as far
as possible the high chain of laughter behind them. He visualized the
rotten teeth—the long hysteria——
And then they came upon a flower man, a small Sicilian with an olive skin
and a charming, wistful face. He was standing by his little cart, his
hands down by his side as though in a mild passion with his lot among the
flowers. There were cornflowers and mignonette; crisp French marigolds
and early cosmos. Deane made her choice.
“Buy me the marigolds,” she asked of Martin. “You remember?—they were
your first gift to me.”
The little olive gentleman bowed and smiled; and carefully selecting the
freshest marigolds from his stock, twisted a strip of tinfoil around
their stems before handing them to Deane.
Shortly after they left him, Deane looked back. He was standing by
his little cart, still smiling, his hands down by his side in gentle
obsequiousness.
Touched deeply by this profound and infinite patience, Deane thought
of all the things she had seen that day—one man with a phantom ship,
one with a poem, and one—She glanced sideways at Martin, and suddenly,
unnoticed by him, the tiny bunch of marigolds which she was clutching
fell from her grasp....
Later, in the soft candlelight within the apartment, Martin sat on the
arm of Deane’s chair, quietly twisting the ring upon his finger. The
small red stone on its field of black looked at him speculatively. The
tender perception which had been Deane’s all that evening now gave way to
a definite and fearful prescience.
“What is it, darling?” she asked, for Martin had not spoken in some time.
“I love you,” he said simply.
“I love you, too. But what disturbs you, Martin?”
He avoided her eyes.
“It was only a dream,” he said at last. “But it has worried me. I dreamt
I died and found myself at the crossroads of Heaven and Hell—there to
make my decision as to which path I should walk.”
“What? A dream—worry you?” Deane sighed with relief and ran her hand
across his cheek. Then she arose and led him to the divan. One by one the
candles had gone out and like a specter, the pallid light of the full
summer moon crept into the apartment. “Go on, my darling,” she whispered,
half closing her eyes and stretching luxuriously against him.
“I died,” he repeated. “And I found myself at the crossroads of Heaven
and Hell. I was undecided as to which road to take. Then suddenly I knew
the answer. I knew they diverged only for a time.”
“What do you mean?” In Deane’s voice was a note of dismay.
“I knew that whichever road I took, it would end in pain.”
“Oh, no!”
“Yes, I knew that the end would be the same; so, impudently, I took the
road marked HEAVEN. I walked for days among winding mountain paths.
Giant trees sang to me in the wind, and the air was fragrant with pine
and wild rose. Little creeks ran past me, twisting over mossy rocks; and
there were narrow falls of water spinning white and silver. In shadowy
places where the water eddied dark green and gold, I stopped to rest and
drink. A long time I walked through this country. By day, the sun struck
blindly through the limbs of trees; and at night, a moon showed. Then I
came to a valley where I saw broad fields of grain, shining yellow, and
checkerboards of green pasture and plowed field. I was confused by the
intermittent sound of bells which rang through the air.
“On one block of green pasture there was a great multitude. I went down
the trail, leaving the forest behind, and descended into the lowland.
As I approached the congregation, I saw to my amazement that they were
all children. I wondered at their quietness. They were so silent and
unmoving that I would have thought them dead had it not been that they
were facing me, a sweet, desperate expression on their faces. The macabre
quality in these little ones gave me an unpleasant thrill. No murmur
sounded from this congress of children—no movement of arm, knee or head.
“Full of a presentiment of evil, I walked closer and looked down into
their eyes. Row after row of these spectral organisms were before me,
reaching, it seemed, to the horizon. Thousands of bright, curly heads
shone faintly in the haze of the sun. Their wide eyes, blue or brown,
were directed at me.
“My mouth was hot. I tried to smile.
“‘Have I reached Heaven?’ I asked them.
“The answer seemed to be projected from a thousand throats, but it
reached my ears as a whisper. This tired wind, blowing so, held only
compassion. It was unbearable. And it said—‘We love you.’”
Martin’s face became severe and rigid as he told this.
“Go on, Martin,” Deane urged.
“I can’t.”
“It was a dream, Martin. Finish the dream.”
“It was destiny!” he cried. “I murdered ten thousand innocents! I asked
them if I was in Heaven, and they answered that they loved me. To
wheedle, to coax a smile into their weakening, passive faces, I asked a
question....
“They told me that they loved me,” Martin repeated tiredly, and once
more, Deane felt a prescience of terror.
“I wanted to raise my hand,” Martin went on. “I wanted to shout, to
jump into the air, to sing a song—anything to dissipate the irrevocable
impression of death that carved each face into the appearance of a dying
flower.
“I was desperate and I felt that I was wrong.
“‘Children,’ I said, ‘I have hurt you. Tell me the poison, the action, or
the mood that has brought you this pain.’
“I can’t explain how they looked. It wasn’t sadness, nor was it
condemnation. It was a death’s joke and I was horrified. Again the wind
of their minds moved restlessly in my ears.
“‘Pain you prophesied,’ it said.
“‘It was a prophecy of pain for myself,’ I told them. ‘I didn’t mean to
condemn you.’
“This time,” said Martin, “there was no answer; no audible answer. But
for the first time the children moved, dropping gently on their knees.
They lowered their eyelids, accentuating the pallor of their faces.
“I cried out to them. I begged their forgiveness. I cursed myself, tore
open my shirt and looked for a weapon, reasoning that my death would
bring life to the children.”
As Martin said this, he caught his breath and projected a swift pain
into the woman. Deane held him gladly—drawing in his venom—half fainting.
But Martin, pressing deeper into his mind, continued furiously.
“At each of my gestures—at each syllable, the children sank closer to the
grass. Their eyes closed with precision until only the fringe of lash
showed where the eyes had been. Watching this slow death of thousands,
I stopped speaking and stood rigid, my jaws locked. I glared at them. I
saw each movement become fainter until each tortured flower-face lay on
the ground, their chins propped up to me. Their cheeks were like wilted
petals, their white, reedy arms were extended above them, and each
child-finger was pointed toward me.”
Martin stopped speaking. Deane lay quiet within his arms. She felt
his face against her throat, felt her own arms pinioned and her agony
intensified. Compassionately she kissed the thick perspiration from his
forehead.
_CHAPTER XXIV_
Martin pushed his chair away from the linotype, waiting for copy. He
leaned back and spoke to Rio who was sitting on the windowsill behind him.
“Smell that sulphur?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s from the plant across the way. Gets sweet about this time every
night. You’ve probably noticed it before.”
“It don’t make no difference,” said Rio. “This is one hell of a place any
way you look at it. Noise and dirt.” He spat out the window.
Martin yawned and stretched in his chair, but made no answer.
“It ain’t no place for me,” continued Rio grimly. “Some of the boys look
restless. Is it the strike you’re worryin’ about?”
“The strike may not come off, Rio. There’s always a lot of talk. And if
it does, it’s no worse than the waterfront.”
“Well, anyway, I’m goin’ out for a smoke.” Rio walked into the little
hallway, calling back over the banisters to Martin to find out how much
longer he had to wait.
Martin glanced at his watch.
“I’ll be through in twenty minutes,” he said. “We can stop down the
street for a nightcap.”
“I’ll be outside,” Rio mumbled, and went on down the stairs.
He was sitting on the steps when Martin joined him. His huge frame filled
the doorway and as he arose lazily, Martin wondered, as he had wondered
many times before, at the harmony of his movements.
Far beyond the reaches of the sulphur fumes, the soft tread of these men,
accustomed as they were to the intricate, woven fabric of the sea, made
scarcely a sound in the night.
Rio sniffed.
“New York,” he said, as they walked along. “It smells different this time
of year.”
And Martin, through his friend, felt a definite, new motion in the
color of the air—a deliberate music brought by the full season. In both
retrospect and in the moment, Martin watched Huysmans, that frightened
older brother, break the skyline into small patches of dim lights between
the darkened buildings.
So still was the atmosphere that the two friends felt annoyed at the
sight of a lighted tavern. But they stopped in for a drink nevertheless,
then went on slowly toward Martin’s rooming house.
“Say, Martin,” said Rio finally. “I been thinkin’ over that act you
pulled with Roberts. I don’t get it.” He laughed. “It’s funny, though.”
“It really wasn’t an act,” replied Martin.
Rio looked at him through the darkness.
“You mean——”
“Good Lord, no!” interrupted Martin. “I’ll admit, it’s difficult to
understand—even for me. But the way he stood, the way he smiled, and
his new threat (remember, he’s carried them out before!) made me break
loose. I kept thinking, as I looked at him, that he’d always asked me for
something that he didn’t want. When I called him, I must have known he
wasn’t real. For when I pretended a consummation he was frightened and
ashamed.”
Rio shook his head.
“You’re a brave lad. It makes me sick to think about it.”
Martin’s tone was peculiar.
“I was poisonous,” he said.
Rio looked at him again and shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, I guess it cured him.”
Martin thought a moment.
“I don’t know. I suppose that when it comes down to it I don’t understand
him at all.... By the way, Rio, what made him take such a dislike to you?”
“Nothin’ much. I asked him about you once and when I found out he lied,
I shook him up.” Rio closed his fist in the dark. “I wish I’d shook ’im
harder now,” he added, half under his breath.
“Damn it! That’s the pay-off!” said Martin angrily.
Rio turned to him.
“If you mean you’re fed up messin’ with this queer outfit, I’m with
you.” He began to walk more rapidly. “I wish to God I was back——”
Martin interrupted.
“I know. Sometimes I wish we were at sea again.”
“What about Deane?” asked Rio.
Martin’s voice was as even as his steps.
“I wouldn’t mention her name, Rio,” he said. “We never think about a
little thing like that the first time.” His voice was trembling now. “But
I wouldn’t ever see her, or mention her name again.”
They walked along Eighth Street without speaking for a few blocks until
Rio turned to his friend.
“Is that all you’re goin’ to say?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m a miserable bastard, Martin. I wish I was in Santa de Marina. By
God!—I think I’ll go.”
Rio sounded so unusually plaintive that Martin had to laugh.
“I don’t blame you. Why don’t you return to the family? Your money won’t
last them forever and you could make out all right down there.”
They had reached Washington Square and were about to turn down Martin’s
street when Rio stopped him.
“Let’s go in and sit down for awhile, buddy. There’s a few things I’d
like to ask you.”
Martin walked beside him until they came to the large circular rim of
the fountain. They sat down on the low concrete wall and Rio put out
his cigarette, grinding it under his heel on the pavement. It seemed
difficult for him to speak.
“Y’know,” he said, finally, “I been around more than most men. I been
places and seen funny practices, and ugly ones, among the heathen. And I
know Berlin better’n I do New York. The same goes for a few other cities.
I thought I’d scraped most people and most happenin’s. Then I had the
luck of bumpin’ into you.”
“Good, or bad?” asked Martin.
“Bad, I guess, or I’d have missed it.”
“Why bad?”
“Well, because I had a few ideas that I believed in. Somehow, you’ve
managed to mess ’em up.”
“That’s all right,” said Martin, emphasizing his words with a quick
movement of his hand. “If you were on a weak foundation you shouldn’t
mind having your opinions reversed. If you had a strong one I couldn’t
change it.”
“It ain’t one or the other,” said Rio in disgust. “You can take an idea,
right or wrong, and squeeze it like butter.” His tone grew deeper and
Martin felt that he was frowning in the semi-darkness. “I’m goin’ to ask
you a question, Martin. Don’t get sore; and I don’t mean it hard. But I
got to know. We’ve kidded each other a lot since we met. You stood by
me—” Rio’s voice faltered. He swallowed and stopped for a moment. Martin
could hear his heavy breathing.
“Get rid of it, Rio,” he said.
“It’s god-damned crazy,” said Rio, swearing to hide his embarrassment.
“But listen, Martin. Are you——”
Martin half closed his eyes.
“Oh,” he thought. He watched his friend struggling through this viscous
medium in a painful attempt to absorb most of its ugliness himself. But
he gave the man no clue, no help. He merely closed his eyes tighter and
listened.
“Are you—” continued Rio. Then, his voice stronger and more demanding,
“Are you a god-damned fairy with your god-damned eyes and the way you
look at people? You looked queer in that draggy dress at the party,
and you acted queer.” Rio hesitated. “Oh, I know you took care of me
afterward. But when I seen you leanin’ on the piano like a girl, I went
crazy. If you’re a queen, tell me!” His voice had become so husky that he
could scarcely speak. “And if you ain’t—what are you? Let me know. Let me
know damned fast!” He was breathing still harder and Martin could hear
his hands rubbing against the concrete.
He slipped off the side of the fountain and faced Rio. In the quiet
night, without a moon, the open stars drew their icy shine across his
eyes. He lit a cigarette and in the brief flare, Rio could see the drawn
lips, the contemptuous silhouette and the sharp lines in his face.
“Time doesn’t count, Rio. Kindly don’t be in a hurry.” Martin spoke
softly. “And remember, I’m talking about myself and not you, so don’t be
anxious. You’ve asked me a question in your manner, and I’ll answer it in
your manner, Rio. I am.”
“Damn you, you’re not!” Rio cried out.
“Then it’s for you to judge.”
“I don’t judge nothin’, Martin,” said Rio, standing and facing him. “But
if you ain’t, why d’you hang around them?”
“‘Them’?” asked Martin, with a bleak smile. “If you could see yourself
standing there, frightened of yourself, frightened of me, frightened of
symbols——”
“I tell you, I’m not like that!” interrupted Rio, his hands back of him.
“Perhaps you are,” said Martin quietly.
“Clear that up.” Rio was leaning slightly forward in dignified, yet
dangerously immobile restraint. “Clear that up fast.”
Martin spoke earnestly, without resentment.
“Before you ever ask another man that question, Rio, go to the mirror and
ask it of yourself. Perhaps the answer will be—‘thou, too’!”
Rio kept the same tense attitude.
“You mean _I_ am?” he asked slowly. “You better explain it well this
time. Show me your point.”
Martin looked at him indifferently.
“You asked me, didn’t you, if I was queer; and although you’re deathly
afraid of it yourself, you hold such people in contempt. Did you think I
was going to deny it as though it were intrinsically a shameful thing?”
“You say it ain’t shameful?” said Rio, not changing his position.
“It exists,” went on Martin calmly. “It’s part of life. It has its
particular and its important position in the world. It has its stages and
its stratas. Thus it is, Rio—this force was created.”
“Created for what?” demanded Rio. “For nightmares?” He wiped away the
sweat from his forehead.
“No,” said Martin. “Created for balance.”
“‘Balance,’ hell!—those upside down bastards?”
“I didn’t say they were balanced. I don’t know that, because I don’t know
where the average begins or ends. I said they were created for balance. A
necessary people forming a resilient salient between the rigidity of the
sexes.”
“I don’t see it,” said Rio heavily.
“Don’t bother, then,” said Martin. “And don’t make an issue of it.
I’ve looked at Carol and seen the reason, the essential purpose of his
destiny.”
“Go on,” said Rio.
“And I’ve looked at Drew,” Martin continued. “He made me wonder what the
word ‘normal’ meant.”
“God, you’re crazy,” whispered Rio.
“I’ve looked at Roberts,” confessed Martin, “until his helpless, sick
desire forced me into desperation, and I tasted the germ of his too
bright mouth.”
“God!” repeated Rio, horrified.
“And I’ve looked at you,” went on Martin.
“Yeah?” breathed Rio, straining forward.
“And I became less blind.”
Rio’s heavy shoe scraped the pavement.
“And I’ve looked at myself,” said Martin, lifting his voice. And still
more firmly, “I’ve looked at all of us and found us all so different—and
yet so much the same.”
“Holy Christ,” said Rio softly.
“Aye,” Martin nodded. “Holy Christ.”
They left the park and walked on silently, each thinking more of the
other’s thoughts than of his own. A wind from the south, carrying a
burned, sulphurous cloud, quickly hid the stars and descended until
even the solitary street lamps were darkened, became ominous and were
worse than none at all. It muffled the occasional sounds of late night
and was as forbidding as the attitude of these two silent men; for
except themselves, the streets were deserted, and their presence only
accentuated the desolation. It was a moment of such stillness that even
nature becomes disturbed and ultimately furious, and sharply moving her
wing, brings down a sudden and a violent sound.
A block away from Martin’s room an ambulance rushed past them, its siren
full and piercing. It drew up quickly before the house and an ambulance
doctor with white cap and trousers bent over a man who was lying on the
curb. A thin group of spectators had gathered. They were quiet, looking
on curiously. Martin’s landlady was standing by, shivering and crying.
Martin went to her and touched her arm.
“What is it, Mrs. O’Brien?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Mr. Devaud,” sobbed the woman. “I heard a noise. I guess
it was a shot. So I looked out the window and there he was.”
Martin hurried back to Rio.
“What does it look like?” he asked nervously. “I can’t see.”
Rio struck a match.
“I dunno. He can’t get no pulse.”
The doctor was still kneeling between them and the figure. At last,
he moved to one side and opened the man’s shirt, throwing a point of
light on a small, discolored spot under the heart. The man’s face was
in bas-relief. But above the wound, in a broken curve, lay a delicate,
golden necklace....
Martin leaned over swiftly and started to speak; but Rio stepped in front
of him.
“The guy’s dead, eh, Doc?” he asked solicitously, glaring at Martin all
the while over his shoulder.