Firecrackers/Chapter 4
At five o'clock—even a little before—Paul planted himself squarely in front of the shop of Morris Shidrowitz. It was dusk and all the windows along the street were illuminated. Crowds of young clerks, stenographers, and office-boys were pressing forward towards the gaping jaw of the subway. They jostled Paul uncomfortably and, in self-protection, he took up his position on the edge of the kerb. The exodus from the shop of Shidrowitz had begun. The pimply-faced clerk was the first to emerge, giving Paul a searching and somewhat impertinent stare before he was swept into the human stream, so like a river thickly peopled with a swimming school of salmon, soon to be netted and packed tightly in cans. The show-window, Paul observed, was unoccupied, but still O'Grady delayed. It was growing colder and the brisk wind which had blown up penetrated the light coat Paul was wearing. Once or twice, after the manner of a mummer impersonating a farmer in a down east melodrama, he extended his algid arms and then brought them together across his chest with a resounding thwack.
At last! His face lighted up with pleasure as O'Grady approached him. Shaking hands, the fellow apologized: I'm sorry to have kept you waiting.
Apparently by common consent, although the direction had actually been chosen by Gunnar, they began to walk rapidly towards the east, against the tide of humanity that swarmed to the subway Moloch. Paul did not know whither they were bound or why they were going anywhere, but it was certainly more comfortable to walk than to stand still in the nipping air, especially as O'Grady had the manner of a person with a destination in view.
I'm delighted to meet you again, the ex-boiler-mender cheerfully volunteered. You know, I have two books of yours.
O, I didn't give a damn about the books, Paul stammered, but I did want to find you. I've tried every way I could think of to get in touch with you. I've even advertised in the papers. He grinned.
O'Grady returned the grin but it was confused on his face with an expression of astonishment. Why, he declared, I would have come back. You should have known that. I had to return the books. I wanted to look them over, and I suddenly remembered an engagement, and you were away so long—I might have left a note.
You didn't leave anything except a trail of unsatisfied curiosity.
Still curious? Well, this is a happy ending. Come home with me this time.
Where do you live? They were moving in the general direction of Chatham Square.
Uptown. East Twenty-seventh Street. I wanted to get out of the crowd. It's easier walking this way.
You don't intend to walk home! Paul protested.
Why not? Lalwaysdo. It hardens the muscles and sends the blood spinning through your veins . . . but if you want to ride . . .
I've walked so much today already, Paul explained.
You can't walk too much, O'Grady rejoined sternly, but he paused to hail a passing taxi, in the grand manner, Paul was interested to observe, of a Venetian gallant requisitioning a gondolier in a drawing by Longhi.
Once installed, Paul sighed with relief, offered Gunnar a cigarette which the fellow gently rejected, and lighted one for himself. This, he reflected, was the perfect ending of a chaotic, maudlin day. He felt very tired.
We didn't finish our conversation, he put forward as an excuse for opening another.
Nobody ever did finish a conversation, Gunnar replied. His high spirits seemed tralatitiously to lift the roof off the moving vehicle. It's impossible to do that. There's always so much more to say. Hamlet would be talking yet if Shakespeare hadn't killed him. Conversations are only concluded arbitrarily. The novelist brings a conversation to a full stop by surprisingly closing a chapter or by introducing the character of Death. It's the same in life. Conversations are only interrupted; they are never concluded.
Paul paid no attention to the sense of this harangue. I want to know, he persisted, why you were working as a furnace-mender, and why you quit. The boss of the company told me he would be willing to pay you double. He said you were the most efficient workman he had ever engaged.
So you went around there to look me up! Gunnar's wonderment increased.
That's nothing. I have been looking you up ever so many places. I don't think I should have stopped looking for you until I discovered you. I was lucky, that's that. But it's all so queer. Today I find you engaged in another unlikely occupation, and I suppose tomorrow . . . Well, what are you going to do tomorrow? It's none of my business, perhaps, but . . .
Everything is everybody's business, O'Grady asserted solemnly, only you've got to make it your business and not mere vulgar curiosity in some one else's. Why, every woman should be interested when another woman bears a child, because she should feel impelled to learn how to do it herself in the most efficient way, but if a woman is only interested in childbirth in relation to the question as to whether the offspring is by-blow or legitimate, then there's something wrong with her. He shook his head ominously.
But I don't get you yet! Paul cried. You seem to have discovered a philosophy of life or a mode of living that makes you happy, or healthy, or at least amuses you, and perhaps it would have this effect on me too, if I understood it. Perhaps, it would become my business.
It certainly is your business, his companion replied heartily.
Then explain it!
What do you want me to do? O'Grady questioned him sadly, peering at the same time out into the steel-blue atmosphere, splashed with the warm glow of the street-lamps. A feeble voice in the distance could be heard calling, Sex Weekly! Sex Weekly! . . . Shall I, Gunnar went on after a pause, take a chair at Columbia? I have already informed you that I am no preacher or professor . . . His air became even more serious . . . Nor would it do you any good if I were. You can't spread good tidings by talking. Why, Margaret Sanger has actually turned a great many people against birth-control, and William Jennings Bryan has probably interested a great many people in drinking, and John Roach Straton and John Sumner are excellent guides to the pseudo-vices, and the Republicans make men good Democrats, and the Democrats make men good Republicans. No, you can't disseminate a philosophy by vaunting its efficacy. Sometimes—his gaze was now full on Paul—you might do a good deal by just acting, living your life, and maintaining a strict silence in regard to it. That might interest a few. Or you might warn your potential disciples mot to live the way you did; if you had faith in your manner of living, that might reasonably be better. But preach? Never!
Paul relinquished the siege. I think, perhaps, he admitted, that you are right.
Right! Nobody is ever right! I haven't pretended that I was right! I haven't said anything that had any right or wrong to it! Right! That would be preaching. I was merely conversing.
Then there's more? Paul brightened.
More! Enough to keep us busy talking through the ages!
Paul mentally noted that apparently there was a superior method, to that which involved interrogation, of getting under this fellow's conception of existence, an alternate approach to an eventual comprehension. In what exactly this method consisted O'Grady had not as yet made clear, but patience was essential in any real adventure, and his present experience seemed to Paul as clear-cut an example of adventure as any substitute that his not too fertile imagination was capable of conceiving.
Silence fell between them now, as the taxi-driver pursued his skilful route, threading dextrously in and out among the heavy motor-trucks and limousines that moved aimfully up and down the narrow thoroughfares they were traversing, and when he turned, artfully avoiding the wrong one-way streets. O'Grady was again gazing out of the window, and Paul followed his example, occasionally varying the monotony of this procedure by leaning back and exhaling cigarette smoke in a lazy manner, until, at last, the taxi stopped.
Here we are! Gunnar cried. They had halted before an old factory or office-building, the ground floor of which was occupied by a dealer in secondhand household goods, who esteemed his stock sufficiently so that he had caused to be painted across the window: Andrew Malony: Dealer in Antiques. In the midst of the jumble of old rugs, bronze statues, tabourets, fake majolica, and mahogany chairs, upholstered in rep, which cluttered the space behind the glass, Paul descried a desk, an excellent example of Chippendale, which afforded him an additional reason for memorizing the address.
They mounted the stairs, unlighted at this hour, save by a single jet of gas burning on the first landing, O'Grady swiftly darting up ahead through the gloom, shouting down when he had gone too far in advance, It's safe enough if you're familiar with it. Take your time if you want to, but you won't stumble. There's nothing to stumble over. Five flights had been ascended in this crazy fashion, O'Grady alternately flying ahead and then waiting until his more meticulous companion had made up the intervening distance, when Paul's eyes were solaced by a line of light glimmering under a door on the landing in front of him. O'Grady was already assaulting this portal with lusty blows. It was soon opened wide and Paul stood facing a man with superb physical development, his bare, muscular arms protruding from the openings in his gymnasium shirt, his legs encased in white flannel trousers.
Robin, O'Grady cried, I've brought a friend. You don't mind, do you?
I should say not. The stranger's voice was cordial. Come in! Come in!
Accepting this invitation, Paul was immediately presented to Robin and Hugo, the Brothers Steel, Gunnar explained, and then to Mrs. Hugo.
The four-winkled room, which extended half the depth of the loft, appeared to be utilized for all the domestic and professional rites performed by, this curious quartet. At first view, with its silver trapezes swung on white ropes from beams in the high ceiling, its horizontal bars, its horses, its punching bags, its flying rings, its dumb-bells and Indian clubs, its padded mats, the chamber appeared to be a gymnasium, but gradually, in the shadows—the room was illuminated solely by gas-fixtures set in the wall, two on each side—Paul discerned a pair of cots, neatly made up—there was space for another bed behind a curtained recess—a broad rectangular table of unpainted pine, round which stools were arranged, a cook-stove, warmed for action, on which pots were steaming and away from the immediate vicinity of which it was distinctly chilly, and a cupboard or two, one open, displaying shelves neatly piled with plates and bowls and cups and saucers. On a clothes-line extending across a corner, from one wall to that which joined it at right angles, several sets of costumes were drying, tights and shirts of sky-blue, bright pink, and red, while the trunks which completed these outfits, lemon, black, and cerise satin, tricked out with tinsel gewgaws and bows of ribbons of the same shades, were heaped on the broad flat top of a dresser, where also reposed a loaf of bread in an envelope of glazed tissue, and a yellow bowl, harbouring apples and oranges.
The inmates, Paul fancied, were even odder than the room. Robin and Hugo, dressed precisely alike, also bore such an astonishing resemblance one to the other, that it was not difficult to come to the conclusion that they must be twins. Their rosy faces were round, their eyes soft and melting. Both flaunted bushy, black moustaches which would have given less naïve countenances an expression of the wildest ferocity but which, in the case of the Brothers Steel, simply seemed to be an incongruous detail. Both had parted their hair in an eccentrically barbered style with a mound of curls brushed carefully up over the right brow. The woman was not pretty, but her face was good-natured and pleasant—she reminded Paul of a little Roumanian dressmaker who had worked for Vera—and her plain serge frock was almost completely concealed under a blue and white striped apron. These details Paul was able to take in during his first fifteen minutes in this novel environment.
Well, boys, O'Grady cried out lustily from the curtained recess, where he was changing his clothes, how about a little exercise?
We ain't feelin' so good, Robin volunteered.
Nothin' extra, Hugo groaned.
You two sick! Impossible! O'Grady urged.
No, we ain't sick, Robin admitted.
Except to heart, was Hugo's amendment.
What's the matter? O'Grady demanded.
We don't know as your friend'd be interested.
Paul made an effort to dispel this mistaken point of view.
It's this way, Robin began, as Gunnar, clad in gymnasium togs similar to those worn by the brothers, emerged from behind the concealing curtain; layin' off this week on account o' no bookin' till next week when we go back on big time agin, we thought 'twouldn't do no harm to give a few acts the once over.
So, put in Hugo, we was to the Palace.
To see, Mrs. Hugo continued, that new act o' the Samson Family.
We didn't go to crib nothin'. Robin again was speaking. You know we ain't that kind. We always lived a good, clean, Christian life, tendin' our own personal business, and ain't never tried to pinch no novelties from outside artists.
We are—we always been—originators and innovators, Hugo announced proudly.
That's the way we always been billed, declared Mrs. Hugo, who, although not a member of the act, always spoke of it as We.
I know that, O'Grady averred sympathetically.
Well, you could a knocked us down, Robin moaned.
They copped our double backhand spring and return, Hugo explained.
That's the climax of your act! Gunnar cried excitedly.
The same. Now you know we ain't no more like the Samsons than soup's like wild honey. We're honest, clean professionals. Well, we tried that new stunt last week on the Pantages.
I told Robin we hadn't oughter done it, Hugo interpolated. I was for savin' it till we opened on big time.
You was right, his brother admitted from the lownesses of despair. Well, the Samsons was out front at Norfolk and they trimmed us. We ain't got nothin' new for big time now.
How about that balance stunt? O'Grady proffered the substitute.
Good, but not enough class, not enough pep. That's a nice quiet turn, but it ain't flashy enough for a finish. You gotta get their hands at the close. They'd be no healthy bend after that. They'd give us the raspberry. That double backhand spring and return was a wow!
It ain't strong enough, Hugo corroborated. How they got up in that double backhand spring and return so quick I can't figure out.
It's a shame, boys. Gunnar attempted to pacify them. Then, by way of encouragement, Show Moody what it is.
The Brothers Steel who had been sitting together on a bench, bowed statues of dejection, now called upon to excercise their agility, assumed at once a professional manner. Rising and expanding their chests, they ran to the edge of the mat, simultaneously lifting their right arms vertically over their heads. Retiring to the centre of the mat, Robin caught his brother by the right hand and, apparently without resorting to the use of strength, hoisted him to a standing posture on his shoulders. Robin now took a few rapid steps backwards and forwards to gain a perfect poise while Hugo skilfully balanced himself. Presently, with a cry of Allez houpla! Hugo sprang backwards, curling himself into the semblance of a ball which circled twice, landed on his feet, doubled under, and by some miracle of nimbleness projected himself back to his starting point. The feat was accomplished with as much skill and grace as Busoni would put into the performance of a Bach fugue. Paul was overcome by amazement and admiration.
Bravo! he cried.
Mrs. Hugo, occupied before the stove, preparing supper, turned, flushing with pleasure.
The Samsons can't do it like that, she announced. You know they're all wet.
Apple-sauce, Hugo rejoined. It don't matter how they do it. What matters is they done it. He assumed once more his non-professional air of dejection.
Well, cheer up, my lads, O'Grady urged. You'll have to think up a new one.
Yes, that's it! Robin echoed doubtfully. We gotta think of a new one.
We only got three days, Hugo deplored.
That's time enough, Gunnar declared. Come on, boys. Let's get to work.
Paul, more and more astonished, a picture of bright wonderment, indeed, now completely out of the scene, except as a spectator, sank into a chair and watched the maneuvres. Not altogether to his surprise, perhaps, for he had already received sufhcient evidence regarding O'Grady's versatile prowess so that the successful accomplishment of anything that young man might have attempted would not have astonished him too much, Gunnar signalled his entrance into the practice of his comrades by a spring across the mat, followed by a couple of light aerial somersaults. Thereafter, the three bodies were consecrated to intricate forms of movement, to which the gymnasts had so adjusted their capabilities that they invested the most hazardous evolutions with an appearance of simplicity. Sometimes all three appeared to soar in the air together; sometimes two lay on their backs, legs in air, like Japanese jugglers, while the third, apparently in a state of catalepsy, was kicked back and forth; sometimes they rose like a tower, the higher men's feet on the lower men's shoulders, only to make this pose the basis of a furious and complicated operation. Their finesse, their electric energy, their defiance of the laws of gravity, all won the ready eye and enthusiasm of Paul. He had, to be sure, witnessed the exploits of acrobats before, but never before such paragons under such intimate conditions. It was, he reflected, like hearing Kreisler play in one's bedchamber before breakfast.
In conclusion, the athletes formed a huge human hoop which rolled off the mat and down the length of the hall.
Supper's ready, Mrs. Hugo called out.
All right, mother.
You'll stay, Mr. Moody?
I . . .
Of course, you'll stay, O'Grady shouted. What do you think I brought you here for?
Course he'll stay, echoed Hugo and Robin. The three took turns at dousing their faces and arms with cold water at a sink in one corner of the room.
I'd like to, Paul declared, if you don't mind.
There's always enough for five, Mrs. Hugo promised him.
The group gathered around the table. The acrobats had drawn bathrobes about their heated bodies. Their faces were shiny. They even looked happier.
I'll tell you what it is, Hugo began, forking a steaming potato, you gotta go into the act next week, Gunnar.
Robin's mouth was full of stew, but he sputtered out a You bet!
But I'm just learning the profession, the young man protested.
Apple-sauce. You're better 'an we are now. Ain't he, mother?
Well, he's just as good.
There! cried Hugo. D'ya hear that? That means a whole lot from the little woman. She ain't the one to never say no more'n that.
What do you think? Gunnar demanded of Paul.
I think you can do anything! Paul cried. Why . . .
Gunnar signalled him a mute plea for silence.
Well, he considered aloud, I was going to some day. Why not next week? Where do you play?
We're billed at the Riverside. We close the show.
It takes a good act, Robin explained to Paul, to close the show and not have the customers walk out on you. Why, mother, he observed abruptly, there's peppers. I must feed Sophie Tucker. Impaling a pepper on a fork he carried it to a bird-cage which hung in a window. A canary fluttered to the bars. Robin held the pepper tantalizingly near to the beak of the bird, as he began to talk: Now, Sophie, d'ya want a pepper? Well, ask for it right. The fluttering canary began a prodigious twittering. Robin projected his lips until they touched the bars of the cage. Kiss me, Sophie, he begged. The bird flew back to her perch. Kiss me! Kiss me! he insisted. Returning, Sophie lightly pecked Robin's lips. There! Now you can have your pepper. Opening the door he dropped it into the cage.
We gotta work hard, Hugo remarked, as his brother returned to the table. We gotta practise every day for speed.
We oughter get more money for the act with three.
I don't want any salary, Gunnar cried out in dismay. I'm willing to go into this, but I refuse to accept payment.
Now see here, bo, Robin protested, you get one-third o' whatever we get. You're part o' the act from now on.
You work hard all day, said Hugo, and you been payin' us for stayin' here and learnin' the profession. It's only fair that you get one-third. It's only O. K., ain't it, mother?
Sure it's O. K.
Gunnar sighed. All right, boys, if you say so.
After dinner, while Mrs. Hugo washed the dishes and Robin dried them, Hugo produced an accordion and began to play, not modern jazz tunes, but sentimental ballads of an earlier day, Sweet Rosie O'Grady. The Sidewalks of New York, and. The Belle of Avenue A. In a mood of reverie, Gunnar half-reclined beside Paul on a cot. When Hugo broke into I've got rings on my fingers, bells on my toes, Robin began to sing, elephants to ride upon, my little Irish Rose. Paul, Gunnar requested, his voice covered by the music, don't tell them where you've seen me before. They don't know anything about me. I pay my way here. I study their art—yes, it is an art—and that's all they have to know.
Of course, I won't say a word, Paul assured him. I couldn't tell them very much about you, unless I made it up. I want to know more about you than they do. . . . He had forgotten his decision to ask no more questions. . . . I was curious enough when I first met you. Well, now my ears, eyes, and mouth are wide open. What does it all mean?
Gunnar gazed at him compassionately. You'll come again? he inquired.
I've got rings on my fingers and bells on my toes . . .
Will I? Rather! When?
Gunnar laughed at this burst of enthusiasm. If you don't mind, he suggested, wait until after my début. I'm not going back to Shidrowitz, but I've got to work hard here. I must do my part to put the team over. He laughed louder. It's funny when you think of it, he explained. The manager engaged two brothers, and he's getting three! Elephants to ride upon . . . I say! Will you come to see me perform?
I'll be at the Riverside Monday afternoon.
And after that whenever you like, if you like. Do you understand any better?
I'll be damned if I do, but it doesn't matter. It's interesting enough without understanding.
Gunnar rose from the couch. Paul noted to his amazement that tears glistened in the corners of the young man's eyes.
I had almost forgotten the books, he said.
O, keep them! Paul urged, with a brusqueness born of embarrassment.