Part 57 (2/2)

On the way I pa.s.sed the Purses. They were there; they were there. And yet they were not. They were there and they were not-there. Their heads had rolled backward on the sofa. Their shoulders diverged and did not touch. A periodic and garrulous eruption rose in a reverberating column straight from Purse's nose. He snored. Mrs. Purse dozed fragilely-she had struck the wooden blanket to the floor. It lay in furrows like a brown sea slung between the sofa and the piano. By now I could comprehend the dark. It was night in the house and blue evening outside of it. The Purselets had escaped into the last of the blue. I heard them loudly bleating among the tents, m.u.f.fled, aimless, violent. What game did they play?-out of the center of their barbarian voices came the high pure cry of the little G.o.d. Perhaps they would kill him. A G.o.d must die his little death or he is no G.o.d. At the piano I could see the phantom whiteness of a rod going up and down-it was Nick's finger on a key, going up and down. He was still there, trapped by the problem of silence. The key loosed a mechanical sigh and nothing more. He played it and played it-with concentration: the single unheard note. He put each finger of each hand to it in succession, as though if not one surely the other would call out the note's voice, if only he were patient enough. Patiently he played the note. No voice came. The Mahatma's voice came. It came and came, clean small screams, uttered with the concentration of a whole soul, like prayer.

The Purses did not revive.

”Tourist,” my father said. ”Now you've seen the works. What did I tell you? Filth. The whole thing filth.”

Up and down went the mute key.

”Why don't you get Mrs. Purse to fix it?” I said into the flowery air.

”Fix what?”

”That dead note.”

”You believe in the Resurrection? I knew it. A Christian. Look, this note's the only thing in the vicinity that isn't filth. At least it holds its tongue. Only item in the house that does. -Who, them? What about 'em? I did it with Brahms' Lullaby, I put it in A minor. -That little looker coming back down?”

I saw with astonishment that he had all the while been waiting for her.

”She's busy,” I said.

”That's right, occupied. Full up as we say.”

A long flute-like shriek toiled out of the tents.

I said: ”They're murdering that baby.”

”What's one more or less, she can always cough up another, call it Fabian. After the Fabian Society.”

Like a fool I fed him. ”They're not Socialists, they practically said so-”

”All right, then she can call it Thomas Malthus. That'll do it, fine old capitalist. Utopian enough for a whole population. You know why they slid off to beddy-bye? Wasn't Brahms. Embarra.s.sment, I'd say. Lovers went up the stairs, that walloped Purse. Faded right out, just like that. Meanwhile she spreads the blanket nice and cozy on the floor, an invitation, what else? Declined it with party manners-had my hands full of babies, chocolate and otherwise. She's all right, Mrs. Purse, ready at the drop of the old man's eyelids.”

”Then what put her to sleep?” I challenged.

”Shock,” he answered, ”when she sees me shake my head no. Poor woman pa.s.sed out cold. Meanwhile the baby's so upset at catching his ma flat out he unfolds his wings from inside his diaper and flies right out the window like a b.u.t.terfly. Doubtless they're sticking a pin through the middle of him this minute. Or a nail, crucifixion, why not?”

”Somebody ought to wake her-”

”No use. I drugged her myself. A little saltpeter for the nerves. For a woman of her years I always recommend celibacy. You might pa.s.s that along to Mrs. Vand. Though maybe she doesn't need it, considering the Amba.s.sador, hah? Hard in the brain, weak in the leg. The middle leg. An old saying y'know.”

Still the Purses did not wake. They reclined like big straw dolls, ludicrous but stern. Their feet were tangled. Their hands were vacant. One would think they had fallen asleep from some extraordinary fatigue. A magic had hold of them. A robust presence restrained them: love was in the house. Love enervates the loveless. Love blots out self-love. Hence the Purses' dimming; blazing first-knowledge had stunned them into the beginning of dissolution. Already they seemed half-erased. They sprawled in the darkness, incapable of malevolent peering, vaguely glimmering, like a pair of whitish smears, yet there; still there; palpable, visible, real. Nothing had been consummated. The instant of love's consummation had not yet struck.

”A fraud is what you are,” I told my father.

He did not turn. ”Evangelizing. A Christian, didn't I just say so? I can always spot 'em. St. Paul on the road. Five minutes ago she doesn't know what I am, all in the dark y'see, and now she knows.”

”I do know.”

”And now she has to tell. They always know. And when they know they tell.”

”A fraud,” I said.

”That's right, repet.i.tion makes truth. Look, fraud's your mother's theme song, it's dogma by now. Always expect dogma. Straight from Mrs. Vatican, what else? Only say it the way you said it before.”

”I didn't say it before. I didn't know it before.”

”Did. The Gospel according to St. Allegra. I don't notice any new revelations. Yesterday you said blackmailer.”

”No,” I said, ”I don't mean that.”

He lifted an ingratiating shoulder. ”Well why not? Girlie, I've sucked 'em. I get what I can-if it wouldn't be Nick it would be someone else. Remember that. It's the balance that counts, not who's in the scales. They do it for the balance, not for love, you follow?”

The word stopped me.

He saw that it did. ”Love,” he said, ”you've got a point there. That's right, so say they do it for love. Especially the Amba.s.sador, he's the biggest lover of 'em all. Not that he loves people-just ideas about people. You think he can feel anything, that politician? Cold and hot out of the tap's about ah.”

”Enoch isn't a politician.”

”Isn't he though. You want me to believe he's that much different from the old days? Well, I believe in change. The world changes, girlie, that's a fact.”

”You don't.”

”Who says so?”

”You're just the same.”

”That's nice. Same as what?”

I could not answer.

”Look,” he said, ”Mrs. Vacuum told you fraud, you go ahead and stick to it. Be like me, stick to a thing.”

I said intently, ”She believes everything you tell them. She thinks you mean what you say.”

”Sure. I tell the truth about what's fake.”

”You don't mean any of it.”

”All right, so I tell lies about what's true, is that it? Girlie, take your pick. Either I'm a fraud or not a fraud.”

”Not.”

”Ha,” he said, ”not. I like that. First yes, now not. Not not, who's there?-not the same is what you mean, right? Changed like the rest of the sons of b.i.t.c.hes.”

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