Orpheus Emerged Read online

  They were walking on M street. Halfway

  towards the boulevard, Paul turned in at an

  iron gate and led the two others down a

  short flight of stone steps to an iron grill-

  work door beneath the landing of the sec-

  ond floor entrance to the building. A nar-

  row dusty hall led to a crude wooden door

  that opened with a loud scrape against the

  concrete basement floor.

  Sitting on Paul’s sagging cot was a gray-

  haired man of indeterminate age—he could

  have been anywheres from twenty-five to

  forty years old—who jumped up immediate-

  ly and greeted Paul.

  “Well, it’s Anthony!”

  “Paul!” repeated Anthony nervously,

  glancing at Leo and Arthur, who were

  depositing their books on the little table in

  the corner. “I came to see you about… Well,

  it’s…” and Anthony could only look rather

  rudely in the direction of the two students.

  Paul, sensing what was up, immediately

  handled the situation. “Go out and get the

  sandwiches, Leo, and you too Arthur. Get

  me some beer to drink with it. We’ll have

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  ORPHEUS EMERGED 38

  another of our provocative luncheons.. ”

  “Yes,” mocked Arthur, “in these, your

  luxurious chambers. All right, we’ll be back

  in a minute.” And with this, Leo and Arthur

  went out.

  Anthony was instantly back on the couch

  with his hands over his face. Paul went over

  and sat at the table, and pretended to be

  absorbed in the examining of the tall oil

  lamp.

  “I hit her!” Anthony announced, on the

  point of sobbing. “This morning. I’ve been

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  ORPHEUS EMERGED 39

  looking for you since. I’m dying of… I can’t

  face it!”

  Paul smiled. “All right, all right. Let’s get

  to the point of this.”

  Anthony had begun to weep.

  “None of that!” snapped Paul. “Till you’ve

  told me the details.”

  “Will you help me?”

  “Of course, if I can.”

  “Oh,” cried Anthony, starting to sob

  again, “my brother, my brother!”

  “To the point!”

  “Well—” and Anthony rose to walk back

  and forth across the little room.

  “I struck Marie

  this morning;

  it was a stupid

  little argument

  over little

  things, but she

  had gotten the

  best of me, and

  I was suddenly

  enraged at her.

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  Why? Can I tell

  you why? Can

  anyone explain

  why a man

  should suddenly

  strike his

  wife?

  By all let this be known, you know…the

  brave man—killing the one you love—with

  sword or kiss—in Oscar Wilde…”

  “Go on!” cried Paul impatiently.

  “Well—and I was a little drunk—”

  “Is that all?” Paul shouted. “Then there’s

  no problem. Go back to her this very

  minute and kiss her hand and weep there,

  not here.. ”

  “I can’t do it!”

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  Paul came over to Anthony and smiled at

  him. “Nonsense. You can. And Marie is

  accustomed to that sort of thing, anyway—

  she told me so herself. You struck her, you

  remember, about a month ago, when I first

  met you. Did Marie hold it against you? Did

  …. But this is all a waste of time. Now, Tony,

  go immediately to Marie and do as I say.

  And don’t be a baby!”

  Anthony’s lip was quivering.

  “You’re in a terribly nervous state,” Paul

  added. “Otherwise you would realize how

  simple the whole thing is. Are you going

  now?”

  Anthony hesitated. Then he started

  towards the door, shuffling his feet patheti-

  cally as though wishing to arouse his

  friend’s sympathy. “Yes,” he said, “I am.”

  “Goodbye. I’ll see you tonight.”

  Anthony turned. “And we were supposed

  to go to the party tonight, now everything is

  terrible!—” He was almost on the verge of

  crying again.

  “You’ll make up, and you’ll be at the party

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  tonight. Goodbye! I’ll see you when you’re

  not in one of your neurotic moods, then we

  can have a talk about things, and enjoy a

  few drinks together.”

  Anthony began to chuckle. “I guess

  you’re right. I’ll go now. And without the

  fortitude of a drink, too. Watch me.”

  “All right.” There was a minute or two of

  brooding silence…

  “A la vue! ” Anthony now flung carelessly.

  Then he paused again: “But it’s going to be so

  hard. You don’t understand me, Paul, although

  you claim to. You’re too young! I’m older than

  you are, and I’m more complex…”

  Leo and Arthur were at the door, pushing

  it in. They had packages of food with them.

  Without a word, Anthony walked past them

  and out, giving a show of resoluteness and

  purpose. Arthur motioned his thumb after

  the departing Anthony and said to Paul,

  “He’s in a strange state! What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing, as usual,” Paul said. “Now,

  let’s eat.”

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  II

  AS FAR AS

  MAUREEN WAS

  CONCERNED,

  Paul was by the way of being an unwel-

  come guest in her apartment—nay, an

  intruder. He was always neglected in his

  habits, and left cigarette butts around the

  house, sometimes in her flowerpots.

  When Paul called at three o’clock that

  afternoon, Michael was out.

  “Where is he?”

  “He went out for a walk,” answered

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  Michael’s mistress, disdaining to open the

  door any wider. “He’s probably sitting in the

  park meditating or something.”

  “Well, then—” Paul reflected.

  “No one is here,” Maureen added

  unpleasantly. She was a woman in her late

  twenties, buxom, sensual—yet strangely

  maternal in her attitude towards the boy

  who lived with her. At times, however, her

  earthiness got the better of her maternal

  instinct, and she was wont to minimize the

  intellectualism of her lover.

  Paul turned and started down the stairs.

  Then he paused and seemed to reflect again.

  “In the park,” Maureen reminded him.

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  Paul turned his face up to her. “Don’t

  worry, Maureen, I don’t want to come into

  your
house. I was just thinking.”

  “All of you are crazy,” Maureen

  remarked sweepingly. She too had now

  begun to reflect. “All of you. I wonder

  sometimes what I’m doing here.”

  The boy grinned and went down a few

  more steps; then he stopped again.

  “Maureen,” he said, “I won’t come into your

  house if you don’t want me to. I only come to

  see Michael, and if he’s not in…” Maureen

  was silent. “So don’t worry. I’m leaving now.”

  “Goodbye,” said Maureen. “It’s only that

  you dirty up the house.”

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  “Yes,”

  admitted Paul,

  “houses don’t

  mean anything

  to me. If I had

  one, the wind

  would blow

  through it all

  year, round and

  it would get

  all dusty and

  I’d freeze to

  death.”

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  “All of you are crazy,” Maureen repeated.

  “Back home, the kids aren’t like all of you

  around here. They enjoy life, they have

  good times…”

  “I’m looking for Michael,” Paul put in.

  “You can tell me of your past the next time I

  come. I’m in a hurry now.” Maureen

  slammed the door before he could finish,

  and so he descended the stairs and was

  presently out on the street. It was warmish

  April afternoon, pregnant already with the

  sunny and lyrical thaw of an early spring.

  Paul walked rapidly towards the park

  and scanned all the benches. He could not

  find Michael on any of them. Then he went

  back towards the campus, and crossed the

  street to go into the Boulevard Bar. Anthony

  was there, reeling in front of the counter

  and holding a glass of beer in his hand.

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  “This gentleman,” Anthony announced

  as soon as he saw Paul, “has been kind

  enough to buy me drinks this afternoon. He

  is a sailor, a man of the sea.” Paul nodded to

  the man who sat on a stool next to Anthony.

  “Reason? Because he has a social thirst, and

  craves to converse with a man well steeped,

  as I am, in Western culture.”

  “Largely Slavic,” said the man, whose eyes

  seemed a trifle crossed, which gave him an

  appearance of zaniness. “Largely Slavic!” he

  repeated, for he too was drunk and repetitive.

  “Your friend, sir,” he addressed to Paul, “is a

  man of learning and manners.”

  Paul threw a coin on the counter and

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  asked for a glass of beer.

  “Your friend and I have been indulging in

  intellectual conversation this long afternoon,”

  the man went on. “At sea, where there is but

  silence and ennui, a man develops a social

  thirst; and as soon as he reaches land, his first

  impulse is to venture forth to meet kindred

  spirits of his like, with whom to discuss and

  share the various beauties of wisdom.”

  Paul inwardly winced. He thought the

  man insane, for a moment, although he had

  a great deal of money with him. He had

  extracted a large bill from his wallet, and

  with a flourish, was ordering two more

  drinks for himself and his friend Anthony.

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  “Anthony”

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  “Anthony,” Paul said. “Have you gone to

  her today?”

  Anthony did not answer.

  “Have you?” But Anthony still did not

  deign to answer.

  “You bungler,” Paul hissed. “But ah—that

  is you all over, that’s poor Anthony himself!”

  he added gloomily.

  Anthony had now turned, and he shouted

  loudly and emphatically into Paul’s face; “No,

  I did not go to see her!”

  “All right,” Paul said, and drank down his

  beer. “I’ll have to go and see her myself,

  although I should be doing something else.”

  “Are you?” Anthony breathed. “Are you, Paul?”

  — and suddenly he had begun to sob. The sea

  gentleman looked very confused at all this.

  “Excuse it all,” Paul told the stranger.

  “Buy Tony some more drinks. Sit him over

  there in the booth, sit with him and discuss

  the beauties of wisdom as you call them. I’ll

  arrange everything. There’s a private matter,

  you understand. Anthony’s meeting you

  saved him the emotional stress of executing a

  most painful…”

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  “I believe,” interrupted the man, holding

  up his hand with tense drama, “I believe I

  begin to comprehend the entire matter. I

  believe so. I see. This friend, Anthony, is

  full of sorrow, and you are his friend. Very

  well. I shall take care of him.”

  Paul went over to Anthony, who was still

  sobbing, and pulled on his ear. “Anthony,

  shut up. Sit with your friend. I’m going over

  to see her now and everything’ll be all right.”

  Anthony now

  sobbed more loud-

  ly than ever,

  and, having put

  his hand on

  Paul’s sleeve, he

  was clutching it

  desperately.

  ”You’re too good,

  Paul, too good.

  Your goodness

  will kill you."

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  “Likely!” scoffed Paul, his eyes gleaming.

  “My brother, my brother,” bawled

  Anthony, making no attempt to control him-

  self.

  Paul finished his beer and turned to the

  man. “Take care of him. I’m going there

  now.”

  “Anthony is a man of great learning,” the

  stranger pronounced. “And I understand he is a

  musician of no inconsiderable talent. I shall be

  honored to pay him my friendly respects for the

  remainder of the afternoon, perhaps far into the

  watches of the night indeed!..”

  “Yes,” Paul said.

  “So do not worry, young friend.

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  Everything—” Here, the man hiccuped and

  then turned his crossed, aimless glance

  back to focus in Paul’s general direction.

  “Everything is in firm hands.” Paul was cer-

  tain that this man was mad. “Everything

  will come safely to port. You have entrust-

  ed your friend well.…”

  Paul was out on the boulevard and as he

  began to walk toward Marie’s house, he

  caught sight of Michael emerging from a

  doorway across the street.

  “Michael!” he called, starting across the

  street in a half-trot. But Michael, at the

  same instant,
had caught sight of Paul, and

  he had begun to walk away very swiftly.

  Paul persisted in his chase, until Michael,

  turning to see that it was hopeless, decided

  to run—and run he did, so that in a few

  moments, he had disappeared around a

  corner and was gone.

  Paul gave it up and stopped in his tracks.

  He shrugged his shoulders and muttered

  under his breath.

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  “He will con-

  tinue to be

  stupid like

  that. He

  insists on

  running away,

  as though it

  were in any

  way possible.

  It’s all a

  waste of time,

  that’s all I

  care! Time.

  He’s having

  his so-called

  season in

  hell, ha-ha.”

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  Paul walked for awhile, thinking, until

  suddenly he realized that he had passed

  Marie’s house. He turned and hurried back

  towards his original destination. Breathless

  — for all the hurrying — he arrived in the

  lobby of her apartment house and glanced

  at the brass plates near the buzzers. He

  rang her buzzer and was soon admitted. He

  went up the stairs, where Marie had already

  left open her door, though she herself was

  not standing in the doorway. “May I come

  in?” Paul shouted through the open door.

  “Of course,” answered a quiet voice,

  Marie’s, from the front room.

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  Marie was

  wearing her

  rose-colored

  pajamas,seat-

  ed on the

  bright quilt

  laid out on

  the divan,

  and smoking

  a red-tipped

  cigarette.

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  The radio was on to a Bach organ fugue.

  “And where is my darling?” Marie said

  straight off, with mockery in her tone. “Did

  you close the door?”

  “I just saw him. Yes, I closed the door.

  Marie—he is weeping.”

  Marie snuffed down her nose contemp-

  tuously. “Shut up about that weeping! Do

  you think that when a thing is a rule, and

  not an exception, it’ll continue to move one?