selfish and adored though, of the two. It’s why I’ve loved you both,
though you the less. She is the most important now. She is the greater.”
The adviser raised his head in a final gesture of triumph. “Speak! Why
don’t you speak, Martin? Your tongue’s been loose enough before. But now
that each mad syllable could match the inarticulation in my own vast
lungs, you sit dumbly—like a passive Christ. Have you reformed?—or,
are you a dead man waiting for my company? For I’m a King. I have
great powers. Shall I have you tortured in my dungeons, or thrown from
my domain?—But no! I have no rack, no bed of agony to meet your own
inventions. And my domain’s a joke. You own it all, from the boiling
center of the earth unto the farthest, coldest star.”
Martin held him closer. He stared at Roberts until the sick man’s eyelids
lifted, showing the brief, unfocused glance. There was recognition,
but complete indifference. The vacant, polite smile was only a slight
movement of the lips. Had Martin not been blinded by his own fine
helplessness—his deepened affection, he would have seen another thing.
He would have noticed the oddly rounded chin with its slackness—its hint
of cogent lechery below the hungry bones that stretched the cheek of the
adviser. He would have seen the newly tapered lines, out of silhouette,
and the dense eyes, gaping; or the fibrous hair, the cocked head and
gently fluttering tongue. Instead, the generalities—vague outlines were
predominant. This swiftly perishing mask, to Martin’s eyes, could have
been a sallow apple—a melon broken from the vine—or an older moon in
autumn. There was no individuality or ego. There were damp breathings,
sonorous emanations from the bed and the faint, orgastic music of white
flowers in a tomb. Martin held his breath, held his own head lower and
asked for some release.... When he looked up again this blended, spectral
motion was gone forever. This mixture of sound and color, so horrible to
him, now drifted from the gently closing door.
_CHAPTER XXIX_
Martin knew that it was time to work again. He knew that there must be
some expression of his own to erase the unending march of Carol and
Roberts in his thoughts. The evolution of his type design had stopped,
each pattern seeming worse than the preceding one.
He was disturbed and hesitant upon regarding the sun. The clouds were no
longer poems and the sunset meant only darkness. Within himself alone
could he feel the yearnings and the beauty, the life chord pulling,
insisting. He was tormented with dreams. Sounds grew from the ground.
Proud women with dragons on their white shoulders walked in a death-like
mist. Behind the retreating curve of mountain he could hear Deane
laughing. Brought with the wind, the laughter became monotonous—something
at which to strike.
In the early morning there was peace. In the early morning when even the
birds were silent and the stars white, Martin would awaken and stand by
the window. During these moments he was elated and alive. But when he
went to sleep again, he fought among dreams that seemed both real and
unreal.
One daybreak he awoke and threw his arm across his eyes. The night’s
monsters were growing larger and more demanding. Perhaps it was
impossible to kill them by bending them into symbols—by throwing them on
paper. The units of the living and the dead must be presented to daytime
and the mind’s curiosity. He worked soberly, breeding the straight
line with the afflicted. He tried the medium of words, changing every
character, crossing their susceptible hands. He danced the ugly noises
with the sound of roses and blew a splintering rock into a wreath of
silver hair. Bravely he went to the night’s agony and blinding sweat
until he felt himself confused by so meaningless a gallantry that once
again he turned to Deane.
They sat beside each other in her home that night. Deane saw that he had
changed—she saw his quietude, the patient line between his eyes.
He kissed her lips.
“It’s restful here, darling,” he said. “A sweet, domestic anodyne—the
sweetest I have ever known. The transition has been swift. I ran with
wild men, smashed machines, climbed, waded and struggled toward an
impossible ideal. I was hard when Carol was murdered; and though little
chips were broken from me, the planets remained in their orbits—heat
meant one thing, and cold another. This is still true in one sense;
but my relationship to them has changed.... Roberts died in my arms.
He thought I loved him. Diseased, humiliated by our artificial sexual
codes, he made his own world. Quite happily he lived and dreamed in this
chimerical condition until unfortunately, I entered his last kingdom. It
had to be myself—the one man whose bitter defenses remained impregnable
to Roberts’ bold demands. However, as the albinic, antagonistic germ
bored into his brain, this mind became detached, severed; and I felt
the pent-up hatred of his frustration. I didn’t mind that—but suddenly,
consciousness was established again through some strange medium, and he
told me it was my world—that he belonged to me. He told me of my cruelty.
And that’s how he died.... I love you, Deane, but I’ll go back to the
midstrip of the world where my toes bubble, oiling the hot deck of a
ship, before I’ll hurt you. That’s my country—isolation in body, but not
in mind. And when I touch land it will be a dark whore.” Martin’s face
had not changed expression nor had his voice gathered volume. But his
self-contempt and his visualizations against the soft, purple shadows
of the quiet room and the chained refractions of the woman’s beautiful
face beside him pressed Heaven and Hell together and there was no breath
around them.
Deane held back her tears.
“You’re bleeding yourself, Martin,” she said, “and for no reason. I’m
in love with you, too, and I love your fantasies. But please don’t
talk of things which are absurd—of the South Seas—of dirty ships and
dirtier islands. Your sound effects about black women are not dramatic,
darling—they’re just a little irrational. Oh, no!—Martin, I’m not
trusting your libido or your discrimination. To be candid, it isn’t
a question of trust. You must have your stage, your setting and your
actors. I don’t mind that—and I’ll be part of the whole scheme although I
don’t understand it. I’ve run wild, too, though in a different way. But
I found out how meaningless it was, how much it hurt me without helping
anyone else and I’ve stopped, just as you’ll do. There will always be
violence in your dreams, and that will be some outlet. And there are
gymnasiums and little fishing boats where you can break your neck in a
more restrained fashion.” Deane closed her hands on his, and spoke with
a desperate gravity. “And you can always swear loudly to me about the
world’s tyranny—perhaps I’ll swear a little, also. But you can’t go back
to bad ships and worse men, and be part of an organized brutality. I want
you here with me. I want you to work on your beautiful ideas and build
a solid foundation for both of us. You look different, Martin. You look
more mature. I think you’re tired of that other world. Dearest,” she went
on, touching her lips to his cheek, “we can’t dismiss our life together
even though it has been brief.” She turned to Martin with a sudden
passionate insistence. “Let’s go on from this point together, darling.
Let’s dismiss philosophy, ideals that can be forgotten in a night,
other people’s helplessness and drama.” She held Martin more tightly.
“We must stop thinking about these terrible people,” she repeated.
“What do we care about them?” Deane’s lips trembled. “Carnality!” she
exclaimed. “The vile, damnable beasts! Pouncing from house to house and
bedroom to bedroom like a disjointed Roman carnival. Give them any veil
of understanding you possess and they still exist in the flatlands—the
tilted, undernoted lowlands where not even slime comes to birth! A
driveling code of introduction from one land to the other and a rotten
horde of Young America comes alive! What have we to do with that?” Deane
was weeping; and as though symbolical of her blazing words, her hair had
spread over her shoulders—had spread, thought Martin as he touched it,
“like the flame of a torch in the dark waters of a lost lagoon.”
“‘What have we to do with that?’” he repeated. “Nothing, Deane. Nothing
can touch us now. But first I have to go from you. I don’t know for how
long, or how far. It’s part of the scheme. And remember, I didn’t build
it; but I know the undertows, the ebb tides and the breakers. There is a
distant sun on our horizon, and I won’t go into happiness or unhappiness
until it’s reached. Don’t you think I’ll miss those lights?” He pointed
out of the window. “But I’ll have stars around that will bring this room
to me. I’m a dreamer, and they have luck. So forget the dull months or
the aching ones. Give my picture a bath once a day until it’s white;
and I’ll stay that way.” Martin’s voice broke and he stood up. “I can’t
say ‘Good-bye, Mrs. Smith—’ and bow and strain until my sharp, black
coat sticks out, nor turn and smile ‘It’s been a pleasant afternoon—I’ll
call you soon.’”[5] His voice became harsh. “These fools’ farewells and
wet good-byes are as thick and viscous as a glue pot, Deane. Sentiment
rises in me easily and I’m ashamed that my hand seems blurred against the
dress that covers your knee. That’s why I curse such weakness and yearn
to leave my beloved with my hat over my nose, yelling blasphemously at a
wall-eyed, pot-bellied moon.”
“You sound like a drunken Irish tenor,” exclaimed Deane, covering her
celibate pain at once with the same quick irony.
“By God, I _am_ drunk!” cried Martin. “Drunk on your hair and the
moisture of your lips and the way you look at me. Drunk with hatred
because I won’t see them or taste them again until the same dark wind
that takes me away brings me back.”
A wraith-like smile hovered on Deane’s lips.
“The wind that brings you home, Martin, won’t be dark. It will be light
and gentle and perhaps will carry a few white clouds on its back.”
“No.” He shook his head. “I want it dark and heavy and raging. I want it
so fierce it will bring me home much faster.”
“Let me have it my way, Martin,” she urged softly. “I want it gentle so
that no part of you will be hurt. I’ve never been patient about most
things; but I will be—about this.” Deane spoke so tenderly that the cool
night wind stopped blowing, and a moment of such stillness ensued that
all outside was hidden—all sound, all waves of sound and color—everything
was hidden.
“Almighty God!” whispered Martin, staring at her—staring at her coral
cheeks and swollen bosom. “The Scylla Deeps—a sea no man has found—”
Aloud he cried, “It will be done your way, Deane. In the end, it will
always be your way.” The tears were coming into his eyes without
restraint. He opened the door, saw the silhouette of the woman sitting
quietly on the couch, looked for a moment through the window at the
lights which seemed to be nodding to him and went into the hall.
Outside, in the street, he hesitated, then turned toward the river. For a
long time he wandered about the waterfront. Wearily, at last, he sat down
on one of the piers and watched the moon set. When dawn came he got up
stiffly and went to the Seaman’s Institute.
_CHAPTER XXX_
Martin went into the large main room of the Institute, found a vacant
chair, sat down and looked at the men. He couldn’t recognize a single
face although the seamen were going through the usual formulas. Some of
them were lined up before the marble bar, drinking coffee and eating
doughnuts. Others stood in groups, talking to each other; while a few,
like himself, sat quietly, knowing themselves on the fringe of the
stream. Some of these few were regarding their history—pressing their
falls and errors out of the past. Some were rubbing the small change in
their pockets, wondering whether to buy “smoke” and for a brief period
drift into the senseless drunkenness and blindness of the poison, or to
try again—to use this precious remnant of their money for getting to a
pier already lined with men as desperate to ship out as themselves.
A man walked in, brown-skinned, alert. He went, in turn, to several
groups of seamen. They welcomed him and he shook their hands. “I wonder
how long he’ll last,” thought Martin. “A week, I guess, if he’s paid
off.” He heard the men question the newcomer about the ship—the food.
Had he seen Ella in Coconut Grove?... Was Charlie’s Punch Bowl as alive
as ever?... Had he paid off?... The man grinned when they mentioned Ella,
nodded his head vigorously about Jamaica; but said “No!” about paying off.
“I can’t get that way again, boys.” He pointed to a few deadheads,
snoring in their chairs. His finger swung to Martin. “For Christ’s sake,”
he said, walking rapidly to him. For a moment he stood in front of him,
shaking his head, his hands on his hips. “You look like one of them
crawlers we used to swat in Morocco. Is your short-arm jammed?”
Martin managed a thin smile.
“I’ve spent a winter in New York—that’s all.”
The sailor bent over him.
“Listen—I been up at the Hall. I heard what you done the other night.
There’s two ships in you can make. One is your old pal, the _Verda_. We
need two men. Can you get Rio? I still got his oilskins.”
“What happened to the little ordinary, Al?” Martin asked.
The sailor looked puzzled.
“The ordinary?” Al thought a moment. “Oh—you mean that little screw that
was aboard when you and Rio piled off. Damned if I know. He only made one
more trip. Say,” he said, looking at Martin queerly, “we sail at five.
There ain’t no time to lose. Git hold of Rio and beat it to the Hall.”
“All right,” said Martin, getting up. He went out quickly, nodding to
the policeman by the entrance, then hurried to Rio’s room and knocked on
the door. Rio opened it. He looked half-asleep.
“What’s up?” he asked, rolling back on the bed. “James don’t bring coffee
till eleven.”
“I’m shipping on the _Verda_ this evening. Do you want to come along?”
“Nuts again, eh?” said Rio, yawning.
Martin turned to go.
“Wait a minute,” called Rio, sitting up. “How do you know we can make
her?”
“We’re the fair-haired boys after the other night. Al told me about the
ship. But we have to hurry.”
“Are you leavin’ Deane?” asked Rio incredulously.
“Don’t ask me that,” said Martin, his face turning white.
“But I don’t want the damned _Verda_. I’m going to Santa de Marina.”
“Rio,” Martin opened the door, “this is the last trip we can ever make
together. I don’t want the _Verda_ either, but she’ll get me to Panama.
From there I can make it to the East Indies. And as far as Santa de
Marina is concerned, the _Verda_ goes to Puerto Colombia. You can swim
from that point.”
Without a word Rio got up and began to put on his clothes. His bag was
packed and Martin didn’t ask him why. When he was dressed they went
to the Hall and saw the agent again. This time he greeted them more
cordially.
“I was hopin’ you boys would come. That was great stuff,” he said,
looking significantly at the end of his own nose. “You earned this
jelly.” He made out two forms for the mate of the _Verda_ and gave them
to Martin and Rio. “Get there by three P.M. drunk or sober.” One of his
eyes twitched nervously.
“O.K.,” said Rio.
He and Martin put their slips in their pockets and left the Hall.
“Is your gear ready, Martin?”
“It won’t take long. But I have a note to write, so we’ll make it fast.”
Once in his room, Martin packed his clothes with Rio’s help, saw that his
sneakers were rotten and threw them away. Then he sat down at his desk,
folded his drawings and put them in an envelope addressed MRS. IDARA. For
a few moments he sat there, staring at the name, a shameless grief upon
his face. After a little, he took a piece of paper and a pen and wrote:
“Dearest....”
Rio walked up and down, smoking one cigarette after another, stopping at
intervals to glance somewhat anxiously at Martin.
When Martin finally got up, his eyes were red; but he looked straight at
Rio.
“That’s that, my bonny friend. We’re going to the _Verda_.”
* * * * *
On the deck of the _Verda_ they found the mate. He looked at the papers
sent from the Hall and at the men’s discharges and lifeboat tickets.
“You can take the eight to twelve, Martin. And you, Rio, the four to
eight. The bos’n won’t mind. He’s sleeping some of it off. We sail at
five and if you go ashore, for God’s sake don’t get too drunk. Somebody
has to handle those derricks. Al and Pete’s ashore, and the ordinaries
came from Mr. Fizz in the office. They won’t know a block from a winch.”
“I’m not going ashore,” said Martin.
“Me neither,” said Rio.
The mate looked at them in some astonishment as they went aft. Then he
shook his head.
It was like all ships at sailing time. The sailors cursed the lines and
the mates cursed the sailors. The ordinaries didn’t know what to do,
but they hopped gallantly from one side of the deck to the other in a
cold sweat of pretense. Pete’s arm was nearly pulled from its socket
when Al gave the winch too much steam. A linesman on the dock shook his
fist at the ship and the captain walked up and down the bridge, saying
little, but looking at his watch frequently. A longshoreman got his
finger caught, working at one end of the hatch, and yelled frantically in
Italian.... But finally it was done, as it is, always. And the _Verda_
backed into the current with a tugboat pushing against an impossible
weight and barking angrily through her whistle. It was almost eight when
the last hatch had been battened and the lines coiled. Martin went back
to the fo’c’sle and washed his hands and face. Then he rubbed his back
and chest, put on a clean shirt and was on the ladder to the bridge in
time to hear eight bells struck.
* * * * *
Martin grew into the relativity of time. Was it a day?—a month?—a year
that he had been in these warm waters?... The stars grew deeper in the
night; the constellations spread their tails above the ship; the moon,
more arrogant than ever, called from the sky and filled his eyes with
dust. It was the same. The dark, fast knife of cloud that ran at him
was welcomed as a friend. This monster might blot out, in mercy, the
silhouette of Deane.... When pressure, rain and cracked, dry lightning
burned his eyes, he held his hands—his arms into the wind, that it might
bring him solitude from dreams.... And when the squall had passed he
turned to Rio.
“That entity was beautiful and clean. It swept out all the clammy, dirty
things.... You see that cloud?” He pointed to the swift, retreating
sky. “It had more tears in one brief moment, Rio, than both you, and
I, and all our comrades in a lifetime. And once again, when life is
sticky—seminant with lies, we’ll find a ship, and find that cloud and
hold it....”
Rio sighed.
FOOTNOTES
[1] _Dynamic Symmetry_, by Dr. J. Hambidge (Yale University Press).
[2] Stravinsky.
[3] Music by Charles T. Griffiths, based on the poem by William Sharp.
[4]
“How long, how long, in Infinite Pursuit
Of This and That endeavor and dispute?”
—_Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám._
[5] Allusion to mood of _Portrait of a Lady_, by T. S. Eliot.