CHAPTER XXII
It was uncomfortably warm in the room where Martin was working on his type. He tried it awhile longer, then put aside his papers and went to the roof.
There were two women lying on a blanket taking a sun bath. They were in bathing suits and had the straps pulled down over their shoulders. Martin had to pass them to get to the opposite side of the porch. So he excused himself and only glanced at them briefly. But his presence apparently irritated them. One of the women, dark-haired and older than the other, seemed particularly annoyed. She laid her hand on the younger girl’s arm and whispered something audibly and caustically to her friend. The remark was in such bad taste that Martin turned around and surveyed them coolly.
A dog was lying on the blanket with the women. He was little and white. He was young and curious and friendly. He trotted over to Martin, observed his white slacks, then looked back at his own coat. He sniffed at the slacks and raised his head, and all the while, Martin stood quietly and looked at him. The dog’s eyes werebrown. His legs were sturdy. Martin wanted to put his hand on the little head. He had done it before with animals. It was a sort of blessing. He wanted to say, “I like you. Don’t let yourself be destroyed by these people.” But he did not move. The women would object. They would speak sharply and the puppy would be ashamed.
Blood filled Martin’s head. He had worked late the night before and he was tired. Anger shook his mind. Once more he looked across the roof at the women. Then he knelt to the dog. Holding the nervous head between his hands he watched the brown eyes. In his own was reflected an heroic poem—an attainable star. Martin did not beg nor did he demand. He showed the small one something greater than pettings and soft food. He showed him hard winds, ice and sun; his wolf-like ancestors—their smoky, torn fur. The dog became quiet, watching intently. He made no sound.
Martin held him patiently, listening with him to the soft pad of feet on the leaves above and around them. The dog’s brown eyes grew wider, older, and became lost....
Martin stood up and regarded the women, thinking, “Symbols of a denatured civilization! Men linked together are strung, it is true, on the rock of a fool’s evolution. But in them tragedy, strength and beauty neutralize the distortion—while across from me, on the roof,grope the clowns, the mimics, playing music they can never understand. The chords they touch turn black....”
The older woman called the dog to her. She put her arm around him and called him “Willie.” It was not the word. It was her eyes, and her mouth, and the way her hands worked. “It is an indictment of womanhood,” thought Martin. The woman looked at him; and seeing him stand so cold and full of hatred, she held the dog tighter. She held his fur and his body tighter; but Willie had gone. He was standing by a campfire. His hair was singed and there was a red line across his shoulders. His eyes were tired and glad with dreams.
Every woman feels biological change. It is her first lesson and her last. Although she often misinterprets her intuitive strength, she possesses it. This woman looked at Willie. She could not smell the singed hair nor see the red line; but she did see his eyes. A sadness, a real sorrow was in her. She turned from the dog to Martin who stood contemptuous and erect, and she turned away.
“Now am I right,” Martin asked himself, observing in spite of his anger this dark woman’s passion, “to condemn the ovary that cries out for its sister?—and absolve by ritual the formulated counterpart in man?” He stood there, pondering in this procession of new thought. “And am I wrong, that I can’t feel the love that topples ethics, puts wire in soft fingers with one breath!... Why can’t I feel the music of one breast upon another? And why do I call such music ‘black,’ when I might tastemuch softer lips than mine upon much softer lips?... These dismal cries—two sheer stockings ripped from their garters and one frightened voice saying, ‘God! Make it straight with me!’—while the other, frantically tries syntheses and fluctuating pose....” Martin watched the slender clouds beyond the black roofs for a moment, then went below.
Martin was drowsing on the couch in his room when there was a rap at the door which he had left open. He glanced up sleepily. Roberts was standing there, an attempted smile only accentuating his moroseness.
“Come on in,” said Martin cordially, sitting up. “Have a chair. That one’s the most comfortable.” He pointed to the rocker.
“Damn comfort,” replied Roberts, nevertheless sitting down. He was thinner. There was an harassed expression on his face which Martin had never seen before. “I dare say you’re surprised at my coming here,” he continued.
“No,” said Martin, frankly good-humored. “And I’m glad to see you.”
The adviser waved the words away.
“Don’t be social, in heaven’s name. It isn’t in your make-up. And ifyou’renot surprised, I am, considering the attitude you’ve taken toward me lately.”
Martin laughed, stood up and stretched and offered him a cigarette.
“Don’t be a damned grouch, Roberts. You never gotan attitude you didn’t ask for. Light up, and I’ll show you some work I’m doing. It’s too hot to fight.”
“Stop talking like a hussy,” said the adviser as he took the cigarette. His face was damp and his hand was shaking.
Martin half-closed his eyes and there was a curious line about his mouth. Then he laughed again and held out a lighted match.
“What’s so amusing?” asked Roberts, holding his hand against his cheeks which seemed to be burning. “Is it this squalor you’re living in, or is it I? You’re steeped in sin, Martin; but this is the first time I’ve felt the flatness of hypocrisy.” There lay his mistake. He’d struck a heel softer than he knew. For with every flaw Martin had, he hated the word just spoken the most. His entire appearance changed and his cheeks became as white as Roberts’ were red.
“Are you here as a friend?” he asked.
The changed timbre of Martin’s voice seemed to stabilize Roberts.
“As a friend.” The adviser was serious. “I have something that should interest you vitally.” He regarded Martin, who still seemed unresponsive. “Don’t underestimate this,” Roberts continued severely. “I happen to know that Carol is following you.” He waited intently for the effect of this speech upon his listener.
“I suspected as much,” answered Martin. “In fact, I found him at it one night and asked him up.”
“What?” cried Roberts, shocked, amazed, with everythread of jealousy burning in his face. “Good God, Martin! The man’s dangerous. I know him better than you do. He’s pathological. He’ll stop at nothing. And you permitted him—you saw him here, alone?”
“Yes,” said Martin dryly. “All, all alone.”
Roberts stood up, propped his stick in a corner and walked the length of the room. His head was lowered; he was absorbed as if debating with himself. At last, he turned swiftly.
“You don’t want to die, do you?” he asked, staring.
“No.”
“Then watch out.”
“For what?”
“For that kind of impudence which incurs my displeasure.”
Martin leaned back against the head of the couch, put his chin on his hands and looked solemnly at his visitor.
“Have you lost your mind?” he asked.
Roberts’ mouth opened and shut as though he were in rarefied air. Then he sat down again and looked at his hand which was still shaking.
“Martin,” he whispered, “I’m frightened.”
“I’m not astonished at that.” Martin sat up. “Roberts!” he cried earnestly. “It’s imperative that you get your thoughts out of this channel!”
“Thereisno other channel,” interrupted the adviser. “I’m humiliated, degraded—but there is no other channel.”
“Very well,” said Martin. “I won’t try to persuade youto think differently then. But I do ask you to give me the real purpose of this call.”
“I came to warn you.”
“Against Carol, or yourself?”
Roberts did not answer. His face was set and all the color had drained out of it.
Martin observed him closely.
“You’ve had some bad nights, my friend.”
The adviser wiped his forehead.
“Yes. Bad nights. That I should live—for this!” He looked about him wildly.
Martin sat up straighter.
“Overlook the This, my mad companion, and look for That!”[4]
Roberts stared at him with amazement rising to horror.
“Destroyer of words!” he said. “My God! You destroyer of sand and clay and rock that make the brilliant hills!”
“Yes. Destroyer.” Martin nodded in agreement.
Roberts got up, holding unsteadily to the arm of the chair.
“I’ll leave you to your destiny!” he cried with savage vehemence.
“Unless it’s interwoven,” answered Martin coldly.
The adviser’s eyes grew bright as though with fever.
“Again, your hatred in your words.”
Martin nodded once more.
“That’s right.”
“What will you do if I don’t permit you——” Roberts stopped.
“Propose something,” commanded Martin, rising.
“I do.” The adviser picked up his stick and walked uncertainly toward the door. As he turned, he seemed to be smiling. “Ihaveproposed something.”
With an easy stride Martin went to him. He took the stick from his hand and placed it against the wall. He reached for the door and closed it. Deliberately, he caught Roberts by the waist and bent him backwards until he fell. Then he poured one bitter kiss after another—his teeth cutting the adviser’s tender lips and cheeks, his sweat falling like molecules of light.
Roberts screamed and turned his face away.