Part 2 (1/2)
A combination of Burmese dancer and Babylonian priest. I ask for nothing more.”
He laughed. He had half consciously tried to give words to an image the girl had stirred in him. She interrupted,
”That's me.”
He looked at her face in a momentary surprise.
”I hate people, too,” she said. ”I would like to be like one of those women.”
”Or else a huntress riding on a black river in the moon. I was trying to draw a picture of you. And perhaps of myself. You have a faculty of ...
of ... Funny, things I say are usually only reflections of the people I talk to. You don't mind being a psychopathic barbarian?”
”No,” she laughed quietly, ”because I understand what you mean.”
”I don't mean anything.”
”I know. You talk because you have nothing to say. And I like to listen to you because I understand.”
This was somewhat less jarring, though still a bit crude. Her admiration would be more pleasant were it more difficult to discover. He became silent and aware of the street. There had been no street for several minutes--merely vivid eyes and dark lips. Now there were people--familiar unknowns to be found always in streets, their faces withholding something, like unfinished sentences. He had lost interest and felt piqued. His loss of interest in his talk was perhaps merely a reflection of her own.
”I remember hearing you were a socialist. That's hard to believe.”
There was no relation between them now. He would have to work it up again.
”No, my parents are. I'm not.”
”Russians?”
”Yes. Jews.”
”I'm curious about your ideals.”
”I haven't any.”
”Not even art?”
”No.”
”A wingless little eagle on a barren tree,” he smiled. ”I advise you to complicate life with ideals. The more the better. They are more serviceable than a conscience, in which I presume you're likewise lacking, because you don't have to use them. A conscience is an immediate annoyance, whereas ideals are charming procrastinations. They excuse the inanity of the present. Good Lord, what do you think about all day without ideals to guide you?”
Dorn looked at her and felt again delight with himself. It was because her interest had returned. Her eyes were flatteries. He desired to be amusing, to cover the eager child face beside him with a caress of words.
”I don't think,” she answered. ”Do people ever think? I always imagine that people have ideas that they look at and that the ideas never move around.”
”Yes,” he agreed, ”moving ideas around is what you might call thinking.
And people don't do that. They think only of destinations and for purposes of forgetting something--drugging themselves to uncomfortable facts. I fancy, however, I'm wrong. It's only after telling a number of lies that one gets an idea of what might be true. Thus it occurs to me now that I can't conceive of an intelligent person thinking in silence.
Intelligence is a faculty which enables people to boast. And it's difficult boasting in silence. And inasmuch as it's necessary to be intelligent to think, why, that sort of settles it. Ergo, people never think. Do you mind my chatter?”
”Please ...”
A perfect applause this time. Her sincerity appealed to him as an exquisite mannerism. She said ”Please” as if she were breathless.