Pinkerton's Sister Page 11
Above SINCERITY! his teeth glinted with insincerely exposed fulsomeness.
For several enjoyable weeks, Emmerson Columbarian had striven to convince her — with supportive evidence — that Albert Comstock and his wife were really one and the same person, Humpty Dumpty (to whom each bore a remarkable resemblance) rather than Tweedledum and Tweedledee. There was something unfocused and distant about Albert Comstock’s face, as if his surroundings were not really there.
(“… We must not look at goblin men,
We must not buy their fruits:
Who knows upon what soil they fed
Their hungry thirsty roots?…”)
G. G. Schiffendecken — the hugely false-toothed dentist, all teeth fully on show — moved with co-ordinated grace under the glass canopies of the stores on the west side of Hudson Row. Dr. Wolcott Ascharm Webster, on the opposite side of the street, mirrored his movements, more complex and balletic than those of Albert Comstock. The occasional ambitious essay of an entrechat — G. G. Schiffendecken’s perfectly reflected in Dr. Wolcott Ascharm Webster’s — was interposed between elegantly executed pirouettes and pliés.
The shadows of the letters on the front of the canopy above the entrance to Albert Comstock’s cavernous emporium, the very first in his ever-expanding empire, the same as those displayed across the corseted bosom — COMSTOCK’S COMESTIBLES: “SERVICE WITH SINCERITY!” — were thrown onto the sidewalk. Alfred Eakins, one of the assistants, preparing for the day ahead, was briskly sweeping with a stiff-bristled broom. He must have been a very small child when Albert Comstock died, and yet here he was — the same age he was now, a youth, barely a young man — carrying out his duties on a day on which Albert Comstock danced. His first task of the day, every day, was to sand the wooden floor of the store with generously extended Parable-of-the-Sower gestures. His second task was to line up the chairs in front of the counters, preparing for swooning customers overcome by the splendors of the sausages on display, the charisma of the cheeses. His third task — they were always in the same order — was to brush the sidewalk.
He stood respectfully to one side, holding the broom handle like a salute, as G. G. Schiffendecken — executing a particularly dazzling sequence of arabesques — danced across in front of the store, his ample figure reflected in the gleaming windows. Every detail of the Carlotta model (its quiet, understated charm, its ageless sense of style, its convenient access in moments of — ahem — difficulty) moved gracefully across the neatly stacked cans and packets of prepared food, and the display (“Come buy our orchard fruits!”) of ripe plums, cherries, melons, peaches, and grapes, each single drop of oozing syrupy juice capturing the image of G. G. Schiffendecken, as his reflection moved across its surface from right to left.
(“… How fair the vine must grow
Whose grapes are so luscious;
How warm the wind must blow
Through those fruit bushes …”)
Outside Metheney’s Hardware Store, G. G. Schiffendecken paused for a moment, and turned to face Dr. Wolcott Ascharm Webster across the street. At the very same moment Dr. Wolcott Ascharm Webster turned to face G. G. Schiffendecken, gazing at him intently. All he saw in the world was the shadowed letter “S” across his bosom, like the emblem of some hidden sin, a sin that drew him powerfully toward it. He knew what the “S” meant. He — let’s be clear about it — was quite keen on what the “S” meant.
“‘S’ is for …” he whispered teasingly. “‘S’ is for …”
He didn’t spell out what the “S” was for.
(“S” was secret.
(“S” was seductive.
(“S” was saucy.)
People strolling in the street, picking their way carefully and unobtrusively between the heaped piles of bouquets and crumpled drawers — “Mind those bloomers, Brenda” — moved helpfully to one side.
They were all there, watching the dancing, the people of Longfellow Park: Charlotte and Linnaeus with Mrs. Chirikos; Dr. Twemlow and Miss Swanstrom, with the sour-faced Mrs. Twemlow interposing herself like a fearless bodyguard between her son and his beloved; Myrtle Comstock and Roland Birtle; Oliver Comstock and Arthur Vellacott; the Renwicks and Bertie; Mrs. Alexander Diddecott; Kate Calbraith’s parents; Hilde Claudia, Theodore, and Max Webster; Reynolds Templeton Seabright; Henry Walden Gauntlett; Elphinstone Dalhousie Barton (a trio of triple-deckered monikers grouped helpfully together like a subspecies); Dr. Severance of Staten Island (drawn out of his natural habitat by the presence of Alice); Miss Caulfeild, the senior schoolmistress at the grade school; Dr. Brown; Dr. and Mrs. Crowninshield; Mr. Rappaport; Mr. and Mrs. Scrivener; Mr. Caswell; the shifty-eyed Dibbo Daughters in full force; Miss Iandoli, the piano teacher; Mabel Peartree; Miss Wouldhave; Miss Ericsson; the Misses Isserliss; Miss Stein (there was a whole armada of Misses, all dressed in white, like the maidens in the May-Day dance in the second chapter of Tess of the d’Urbervilles; another Miss — Miss Stammers — hurtled past in the background, hauled by her enormous dogs: they seemed to regard her as a conveniently sized snack on legs, nibbling her in a way she liked to believe was affectionate); Carlo Fiorelli; Dr. Vaniah Odom; Dickinson Prud’homme; Harry Hollander; Highland Kinsolvin…
Others were pouring in from the adjoining streets.
Somewhere, half hidden in the shadows in an out-of-the-way corner, unnoticed by the crowds, there was Annie.
All of them, like the saints in the windows of All Saints’, bore emblems of themselves before them, held proudly forward, pilgrims inviting a blessing from a passing pope. (Not an image that would have gone down well with Dr. Vaniah Odom, the Goodchilds, or Mrs. Albert Comstock. The group of nuns from The House of the Magdalenes — provocatively gathered together behind Dr. Vaniah Odom, who kept glancing nervously around; when he had told Satan to get him behind him, he hadn’t meant it quite so literally — would have responded with more enthusiasm.)
Henry Walden Gauntlett wore the leopard-skin rug from his photographic studio slung over one of his shoulders, a Zulu warrior unaccountably carrying a camera instead of an assegai. Hilde Claudia, Theodore, and Max Webster fluttered their semaphore flags, wordlessly soliciting requests for them to spring into emblematic action, glumly enthusiastic to shape themselves into all the letters of the alphabet, and spell out coded messages. Cissie Isserliss carried a little wooden box with a slit in the lid, like a charity collecting box, rattling it in the faces of those around her like a menacing maraca, as Issie Isserliss rang a little tinkling silver bell, and pointed at the box meaningfully. Puns were not allowed chez Isserliss. Issie Isserliss rang the little hand-bell whenever anyone made a pun, and shouted, “Pun Warning! Pun Warning!” Cissie Isserliss called herself the Keeper of the Pun Box, and exacted a small fine from the perpetrator of the pun. This tended to inhibit the natural flow of relaxed conversation. Highland Kinsolvin, dressed in all the black solemnity that befitted his position of funeral director, held a huge black-ribboned wreath aloft, all ready to award it to the victor in some competition: the fastest sprinter in some serious-faced race, the sad-eyed poet whose panegyric had called forth the most tears. Dickinson Prud’homme, his beard, hands, and face, his upheld, well-soaked brushes, as pink as a brothel parlor with carelessly spilt paint, had the dazed, slightly dribbling look of a man who had been painting colossal nudes with considerable enthusiasm all night through. With an imperious Peep! Peep! — there went his whistle — Dr. Severance of Staten Island moved forward with his notebook, looking eager, pen poised …
In the distance the vastness of Mrs. Albert Comstock hove into sight, with Mrs. Goodchild dancing attendance. Behind them, characteristically scowling, was Serenity Goodchild, followed by a whole plague of frog-faced indistinguishable Goodchilds and Griswolds. Their parasols were being used with the same prod, prod, prod motions they employed with their umbrellas when they were out on patrol, the standard-bearers for moral standards, and their flags flew high, snapping in a brisk breeze. They hastened forward, as if late for their big number in
Florodora.
“Tell me, pretty maiden,
Are there any more at home like you?”
The parasols began to twirl flirtatiously.
“There are a few …”
Glances were exchanged.
If you studied Mrs. Albert Comstock carefully you could convince yourself that Emmerson’s theory was right, and that she really was Albert Comstock himself, in disguise. Those beefy biceps, those architectural thighs: they were unmistakable, and that Mount Kilimanjaro of a bosom (thick snow on the upper slopes) could readily be improvised.
Nostrils were flared — you could have had Ben-Hur chariot races in and out of Mrs. Albert Comstock’s Hoosac Tunnel-sized nostrils — and all senses were on full alert.
They’d heard that French was being sung, and they all knew what French meant. French meant filth. French meant licentiousness and poor drains. French meant the complete collapse of all moral standards, and the end of dignity and decorum, accompanied by a strong whiff of garlic. You just knew it meant something repugnant. Mrs. Albert Comstock had once been to Paris for a week, and was verging on the bilingual. She couldn’t actually speak French — “Nong parley Frongsey, me,” she could announce proudly, virtuously, like Justice Hare in East Lynne — but she had acquired a few French phrases, some of them from restaurant menus, and used them (shuddering as she did so) more or less at random, when she felt that the occasion required it, a conny-sewer of cringing. She spoke them with a nudgingly portentous, threatening note, the voice of someone saying “Carpe diem” at the very moment a comet arrived to bring an end to all life on earth. “Tabble-dhoti,” she would announce warningly, adding the taste of an Indian loincloth to a French meal, and improving the flavor significantly, “fetter-complee, tetter-tet, garsong, wee, mersewer” — trust the French to bring sewers into something — “swarry, sheff der cwiseen, a bean tote, servees non compree, day-core, chick.” (To be told that she was wearing a very chick — her preferred pronunciation — dress was one thing; to be told that it was chic, with recognizable French intonation, and flirtatiously straining eyebrows, was quite another. This was the unmistakable signal for the fan to be produced, the bone-jarring whacks to be administered, and the room hastily evacuated.) On her return from Paris (thankful to have survived, that was the message) she demonstrated her cosmopolitan sophistication by stringing what appeared to be whole sentences together, to the wonderment of Mrs. Goodchild and Mabel Peartree.
“Lah platt dew jewer,” she remarked meaningfully — this was one of her more ambitious utterances — a philosopher detecting a subtle nuance in one of the more obscure passages of Descartes. (Her lips moved with shuddering distaste: this platt would not contain anything nice, that was for sure.)
(Applause from oh-my-goodnessing Mrs. Goodchild and Mabel Peartree.)
“Entry interdite. Ne pas deeranger silver play. Pelouse interdite.”
(Thunderous applause. Gasps of astonishment.)
It was one thing for Mrs. Albert Comstock to speak French in this effortless fashion. (“Aren’t the French peculiar?” That was what she was saying. “Why on earth can’t they speak English?” That was the true translation of all she spoke.) It was quite another thing for anyone else to speak French in her hearing. She could, wincing, sense when French was in the vicinity. If you whispered gàteau or chàteau she would instantly recognize that it was French, and her sucked-lemons expression of appalled disgust would spring into action. Fin de siÈcle: sucked lemons (she’d approached the new century with permanent sourness); ici on parle français: sucked lemons; petits pois à la Française: the taste of lemon completely drowned the flavor of the peas; plus ça change: sucked lemons (no change here). If you whispered “apple pie” in a French accent, it would have the same effect.
Mrs. Albert Comstock and her grim-faced guardians of niceness had definitely heard — faintly, ahead of them as they hastened to Hudson Row — the word l’amour (a lemon-lemon-lemon slot machine jackpot of an expression from Mrs. Albert Comstock), panicked slightly, and broken into a waddling sprint. Their parasols strained at an identical angle in front of them, hauling them forward like the leashes of eager bloodhounds sniff-sniffily seeking out sin.
L’amour was a single word to these fearless defenders of public morality. They wouldn’t have recognized amour, but l’amour — oh yes, yes, yes (simultaneous shudders at this point) they knew exactly what that word meant, thank you very much, and they didn’t like what they knew. They didn’t like it at all. When these women were in the right mood, they spoke almost exclusively in italics. The sharp edges seemed to cut at the insides of their mouths, and give them pained, incensed expressions. They’d heard l’amour — quite distinctly — more than once. There’d been a une (this was definitely French) and — loud and clear, as if challengingly emphasized — a provocative je t’aime. Je t’aime! It was whispered behind cupped hands from ear to ear, a secret pornographic password being passed on. First l’amour and now je t’aime! Before much longer they’d be hearing a le or a la, and it was but a small step from a la to an Ooh la la!, and they were there to put a stop to any hint of that sort of thing. They’d arrived not a moment too soon. Alfred Eakins, in his long apron, continued with his sweeping, the stiff bristles moving backward and forward over the same section, as if he were trying to erase the shadowed letters SIN. His service was to remove SIN with celerity.
From the entrance of Columbarian & Horowitz, two doors away, a complete orchestra began to play the Cigarette Girls’ song. The musicians were rather crammed in, at awkward angles, and the necks of cellos and violins protruded untidily above the heads of the woodwind section, which squatted down on the polished tiles just inside the door. Brass glinted from the inner dimness. The elderly Misses Isserliss, who had never smoked in their lives (indeed, smoking, like punning, was a proscribed peccadillo in their house on Hudson Heights), drew expertly on the cigarettes hanging casually from their lips, and began to sing, swaying in perfect unison. Cissie rattled the coins in the wooden box; Issie rang the little silver bell, as an improvised percussion accompaniment to the music.
Mrs. Albert Comstock and Mrs. Goodchild, despite their best efforts, were seduced from their high purpose by the closer proximity of French. Showing an unexpectedly sensitive response to the Spanish setting of Carmen (Mrs. Albert Comstock did not have a box at the Metropolitan Opera for nothing) they removed their false teeth, and began to utilize them as castanets, humming along with the music.
Look at us! they were saying.
We can afford G. G. Schiffendecken false teeth! they were saying.
They moved their bodies sensually from side to side — it was not a sight for the easily nauseated — as their grin-filled hands clicked up and down with manic glee, sending sprays of spit flying for yards. It brought a welcome coolness to those in the immediate vicinity, like a gentle summer shower.
“Dans l’air, nous suivons des yeux
La …”
There was a la! There was a la! Expressions of dawning horror spread across the faces of the denture-wielding dancers. What were they thinking of? What madness had possessed them?
“…fumée
Qui vers les cieux
Monte, monte parfumée.
Dans l’air nous suivons des yeux
La …”
Again!
Teeth were crammed back into mouths with gestures of firm resolve, and parasols were once more grasped firmly, leaping forward at the sound of the la, seeking out the evils of Frenchness. The bloodhounds snuffled with whimpering excitement, a low, warning growl beginning deep in their throats. They were close. They were really close to the fountainhead of filth. They would cry “Havoc!” and let slip the dogs. Mrs. Albert Comstock was not quite sure what this meant — she was not bilingual in Shakespeare — but it sounded the right sort of idea: teeth, blood, ripping sounds, obliteration, that kind of thing. They would not falter in their purpose a second time. They’d lay about them with their parasols, a scything massacre of
muckiness pour encourager les autres.
Damn!
They’d just used French.
Shit!
They’d just said “Damn!”
You just couldn’t help being corrupted when these Frenchies were out in full froggy force. Come on, girls! Time to dagger a dago!
“… fumée,
La …”
The parasols were grasped with grim determination, as if they were stakes about to be hammered through the hearts of a whole vault full of vampires. After the stakes through the hearts came the beheadings. There’d be no problem finding the garlic — Phew!, Fah!, Faugh!, Teuch!: all the exclamatory sounds of disgust — to stuff in the mouths of the severed heads with all this French around.
“… fumée,La
…”
Filth! Filth!
“… fumée,
La …”
They held their parasols before them like Crusaders brandishing crosses in the faces of the infidels. They would valiant be ’gainst all disaster, get in a few good whacks, and go down fighting against the rising tide of — the italics sprang back into action — filth.
The troops of Midian were upon them.
They were prowling and prowling around.
They would strive.
They would tempt.
They would lure.
They would goad into sin.
Onward, Mrs. Albert Comstock!
Ever onward, Mrs. Goodchild!
Get prodding with those parasols!
Fight the good fight with all thy might!
Faint not nor fear!
“… fumée …”
Dr. Wolcott Ascharm Webster moved first. Gazelle-like, he leaped from his position outside the Manhattan & Brooklyn Bank, lingering for a shy moment, as if to allow the Ethel model to display the suppleness for which it was universally noted and respected by the discriminating, and then began to skip out across the street. With a coy grace, G. G. Schiffendecken, like an object drawn to its reflection, moved toward Dr. Wolcott Ascharm Webster, and Dr. Wolcott Ascharm Webster moved toward him.