The Brass Bed

2

She lived on a place. I don’t know why it is that a private street is almost always called a place, but I’ve noticed that it’s true, and it was true of the street that Jolly lived on. You entered the street through a stone gate with fancy ironwork added here and there for effect, and the street itself was a long ellipse. You drove down one side and made a U-turn and came back the other side, and on both sides were houses with a parking between. There were a lot of flowers and shrubs growing on the parking, and in the center was a white stone statue of a naked boy playing a flute, and from the holes in the flute came thin streams of water that went up into the air and down into a wide stone basin that the naked boy was standing in. The water sparkled in the sun and was quite pretty, but all in all the statue made very little sense so far as I could see. All the houses on both sides of the ellipse were big, and the house that Jolly lived in was bigger than some and not so big as others. It was a phony Tudor, with timbers and stuff, and had cost a lot of money.

The front door was open, and the screen was unhooked. I opened the screen and walked down the hall to the entrance to the living room, which was on the left, and I could hear Jolly’s voice in the living room. She sounded angry. I turned through the entrance into the room, and there were some dark beams overhead that probably didn’t support anything, and facing me in a chair was Fran Tyler with her legs crossed and a martini in her hand and an absorbed expression on her face. She had a lot of leg, and it was all good. This was very fortunate, because her face was long and mulish with prominent teeth, and so the legs had quite a bit to make up for. They did a pretty good job of it though. On the strength of her legs she got along extremely well, and there were times when her face didn’t seem to have much importance one way or another.

She was looking at Jolly and Sid, and Sid was standing so that I could see his face over Jolly’s shoulder, but all I could see of Jolly was her back, which was very much worth the seeing, so far as that goes. She was wearing a white sheath dress without any shoulders, and her skin was brown from the sun, and her legs were just as good as Fran’s, if not better, and it was pretty obvious that she didn’t have much, if anything, under the dress. I couldn’t see her face, as I said, but I remembered from other times that it was a good face with eyes a little long and cheeks slightly hollow, and as a matter of fact it wasn’t good at all, it was perfect, it was the loveliest face in the world. That was one big difference between Jolly and Fran, among others. On legs they may have been in a dead heat, depending on your prejudices, but when it came to faces, Jolly was way out in front and no question about it.

This was more than you could say for Sid’s face, even if you were a woman and had a bias toward men’s faces as opposed to other women’s. At its best it was only so-so as faces go, and at this moment it was not at its best. It was red and glossy, as if he’d been working up a sweat in a steam bath, and I could see that he was angry and had been hurt by something Jolly had said to him, which is just another way of saying that he was sullen. Whatever it was Jolly had said, he was doing his best to take it like a gentleman, and he was practically certain to succeed in this because being a gentleman was very important to him, and whenever his Id and his Ego got to raising hell with each other, you could count on his Ego coming out on top every time.

Fran saw me and smiled and waved her martini glass at me.

“Sid says he’s a social drinker,” she explained, “and Jolly says social drinkers are pigs.”

Jolly had a black eye. When she turned around I could see it, and it was probably the most beautiful black eye I had ever seen up to that time or have seen since. From a deep blue-black, it shaded outward to a shining purple on her cheek bone.

“So they are,” Jolly said. “Social drinkers are pigs.”

“Why?” Sid said reasonably. “Tell me why in God’s name social drinkers are pigs.”

“Yes,” I said. “I’d like to know myself. Why are social drinkers pigs?”

“They are,” Jolly said. “They’re absolute pigs.”

“You just keep repeating it,” Sid said. “You don’t say why.”

“It should be perfectly apparent why.”

“Well, it’s not apparent. It’s not apparent at all.”

Jolly walked over to me suddenly and kissed me, which meant nothing much in itself, because she frequently kissed all kinds of people.

“Hello, darling,” she said. “I was so upset by this pig that I almost forgot.”

“I am not a pig,” Sid said.

“Of course you’re a pig. You just said so.”

“I didn’t. I said I’m a social drinker, that’s all I said.”

“It’s the same thing. A social drinker is a pig.” She appealed to me. “Darling, don’t you think a social drinker is a pig?”

“Well,” I said, “I came in late and may have missed something. Why don’t you just explain it to us?”

“Certainly. I’ll be happy to explain it. A social drinker is someone who drinks your liquor when he doesn’t even like it or really want it, and he thinks he’s doing you a big favor by being compatible or something.” She glared at Sid, and her black eye gave her a very ferocious look. “Fran likes liquor. Felix does too. And here you are with your damn sense of sociability drinking it up from someone who would enjoy it. Who the hell do you think you are to be taking the liquor right out of Felix and Fran’s mouths? The truth is, you’re not a who at all. You’re a what, that’s what. You’re a pig.”

It was a devastating display of logic, and I was very relieved because now I could be on Jolly’s side logically as well as emotionally. Sid looked at her with his mouth open, and Fran looked at her with a kind of awe, and after a moment Sid lifted the martini he was holding and poured it into his open mouth.

“By God, that was wonderful!” Fran said. “Besides all that other nice stuff, this girl has brains!”

“Yes,” I said. “Sometimes it frightens you a little.”

“Just the same,” Sid said, “I am not a pig.”

“Oh, please don’t be so stubborn,” Jolly said angrily. “It has been explained to you quite clearly that you are a pig, and you just keep saying that you’re not.”

“All right, all right,” he said. “I’m sorry I drank the God-damn martini.”

“You needn’t swear,” she said. “It isn’t necessary to swear.”

“You swore. You said I have a damn sense of sociability, and you asked me who the hell I think I am.”

“That’s different. I had sufficient provocation. I only swear when there is sufficient provocation.”

“Don’t you think I have any provocation, for God’s sake?”

“Provocation! You? You behave like a pig and persist in denying it, and for some strange reason you seem to think this gives you the right to swear at other people. I simply can’t understand how your mind works, Sid. You must be paranoid or something.”

“Well, I give up. I absolutely give up.”

“That’s a sensible attitude. Now you are being reasonable. Why don’t you just pour yourself another martini and behave decently?”

“No, thanks,” he said bitterly. “I have no wish to be a bigger pig than I’ve already been.”

“Oh, I have no objection to your being a pig. I just don’t want you to deny it. It’s for your own good, you know. Everyone should face reality. That’s what all the psychologists say, and it’s true. If you persist in denying things, you wind up with a lot of repressions and things, and it’s very bad for you.”

“How about me?” I said. “Do I get a drink?”

“Darling, I’m so sorry.” Jolly was contrite. “Can you ever forgive me?”

“If you will give me the drink, I’ll see about it,” I said.

“Of course. Is there some left in the shaker, Fran?”

“Yes,” Fran said, “there’s quite a lot left.”

She uncrossed her legs and stood up and began to pour a martini for me, and I went over to get it. Jolly turned on Sid again.

“I hope you’re satisfied,” she said. “You’ve positively made me forget all my manners.”

Sid opened his mouth to say something, but then he must have considered the possible consequences, and he closed his mouth again and came over to get another martini for himself. I had the feeling that he wasn’t getting this one just to be sociable.

“The trouble is,” Fran said, “Sid’s in love with Jolly. He subconsciously enjoys having her give him hell about things. It’s a pleasure to him, I mean. I wonder if it’s a sexual pleasure. I’ve been wondering about that, and I’d like to know. Is it a sexual pleasure, Sid?”

“Cut it out, Fran,” Sid said.

“I’m only asking for information. I really feel very clinical about it. Sort of like Kinsley.”

“Kinsey,” Jolly said.

“Really? Is it Kinsey? I thought it was Kinsley.”

“No, it’s Kinsey. I’m quite sure of that.”

“Well, anyhow, I’d like to know. Is it, Sid?”

“Cut it out,” Sid said.

Fran poured another martini for herself and drank some of it. While she was drinking, she stared at Sid judicially.

“You know,” she said, “I believe this is significant. Your refusing to answer, I mean. I ask you a scientific question, and you refuse to answer. It shows that, under all that pretense of drinking to be congenial and everything, you are really quite antisocial. It is the duty of every good citizen nowadays to be scientific, and anyone who refuses is surely antisocial.”

Jolly was looking at Sid with interest. She looked as if she might be inclined to forgive him a little for being a social drinker.

“Are you in love with me, Sid?” she said. “It simply never occurred to me.”

“Of course he’s in love with you,” Fran said. “He’s simply wallowing in the filthy stuff. Couldn’t you tell? Actually couldn’t you? Even from the way he keeps looking at you and following you around and everything? It’s really rather disgusting, if you want to know the truth. Take the way he got so angry and all about your black eye. Didn’t you think that was really rather disgusting?”

“Speaking of the eye,” I said to Jolly, “I’ve been wondering about it.”

She smiled happily and touched it proudly with finger tips.

“Isn’t it beautiful?”

“It certainly is. It’s the most beautiful one I’ve ever seen. Where did you get it?”

“Kirby gave it to me. We were discussing something, and all at once he hit me right in the eye.”

She turned up a palm and made a fist and smacked the fist into the palm. “Pow!” she said.

“What were you discussing?” I said.

“I don’t quite remember. It must be that it sort of knocked it right out of my head when he socked me. Anyhow, it was apparently something that annoyed him.”

“Apparently. Did he knock you down?”

“Yes, he did. On the bed, that is. If the bed hadn’t been there, I’d have gone right down on the floor. I didn’t lose consciousness, though. I’m rather proud of that. It shows I’m pretty tough. I dare say lots of women would have simply blacked out.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Oh, it hurt, all right, but I didn’t cry. I believe that annoyed Kirby even more than what I must have said to make him do it. Are you angry about it?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t seem to be.”

“I don’t know that I like that. I think I would prefer that you be a little angry. Nothing excessive and disgusting like Sid, of course, but maybe just a little.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll keep thinking about it, and maybe after a while I’ll begin to get angry.”

“All right. All I ask is that you do your best.”

“It was beastly,” Sid said. “No one but a beast would hit a woman like that. He ought to be thrashed.”

Fran and Jolly turned on him simultaneously.

“Oh, please don’t start being disgusting again,” Fran said.

“Who the hell do you think you are,” Jolly said, “to be wanting my husband thrashed? Don’t you think a husband has the right to hit his wife in the eye now and then without having you try to interfere?”

“Besides,” Fran said, “why couldn’t you say beat up or kicked in the teeth or something sensible? Thrashed, for God’s sake! It makes you sound like a fairy or something.”

“When I want you to thrash Kirby for hitting me in the eye, I’ll let you know,” Jolly said.

“All right, all right,” Sid said.

Fran tried to pour another martini, but there wasn’t any left, and so she started putting gin and vermouth into the shaker. She was very good at it. She had gotten so good that she could measure the proportions with only her eye. It was her right eye that she used. She closed her left one and used the right one somewhat as if she were looking through a telescope.

“This conversation is getting dull,” she said. “Every time you get into a conversation, Sid, it immediately begins getting dull. I think it would be exciting to talk about Felix for a change. What have you been doing with yourself, Felix?”

“I’ve been teaching bright kids and schoolteachers about goliards,” I said.

“Seriously? I’m afraid that doesn’t sound so exciting after all. You are being a big disappointment to me, Felix.”

“Well, the kids and the schoolteachers aren’t much, I’ll admit, but the goliards are pretty exciting.”

“Do you mean it? Really exciting? What are they?”

“Not are. Were. They were mostly twelfth century clerics and students in the universities.”

“What’s so exciting about students in universities? What I’d like to know is, why should twelfth century students be more exciting than twentieth century students? You just said your own students aren’t so much, and it seems very unlikely to me that twelfth century students were any better.”

“From the standpoint of being interesting, they were much better. They wrote poetry about drinking and gambling and having love affairs.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so? I’ll agree that this puts a different light on the matter. Why are they called goliards?”

“They were supposed to have had a leader named Golias, but it is generally understood that Golias was a mythical figure. Some of the poetry is pretty good.”

“Is it all about drinking and love and stuff like that?”

“Mostly. They wandered around a lot, and there are some about how nice it was out on the open road and all that, and there are a few parodies of sacred hymns.”

“You say some of these goliards were clerics? Doesn’t that mean priests or something?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what I thought, and it seems to me very odd that they should have written that kind of poetry. I’m not at all sure that they should have done it.”

“I don’t agree,” Jolly said. “I think it’s very nice that they wrote poetry about drinking and love, especially if it has turned out to be interesting to Felix, but what I think was wrong is that they wrote parodies of sacred hymns. I’m very reverent myself, and I don’t think it was right to write parodies of sacred hymns.”

“Some of them are pretty vulgar,” I said.

“You see? Vulgar parodies of sacred hymns. That wasn’t right.”

“Could you recite one of the vulgar parodies?” Fran said.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Jolly said.

“Oh, come on, Jolly, be a sport,” Fran said. “Let’s hear it.”

“You needn’t argue about it,” I said, “because I don’t remember any of the parodies.”

“Good,” said Jolly. “I’m glad you don’t remember any. I’m very reverent, and I wouldn’t want to hear it.”

“Since when have you been so reverent?” Fran said.

“I’ve always been reverent,” Jolly said. “Didn’t you know that?”

“It isn’t very apparent,” Fran said.

“Well,” Jolly said, “I have been, just the same. I’m reverent by nature.”

“How about one about love?” Fran said. “Do you know one about love, Felix?”

“Yes,” Jolly said, “I wouldn’t object at all to hearing one about love.”

“I know one called The Pretty Fruits of Love,” I said. “It’s about a pregnant girl whose lover has run away.”

“That doesn’t sound very interesting to me,” Jolly said. “I don’t believe I care to hear a poem on that subject.”

“I must say you are being quite difficult, Jolly,” Fran said. “It seems to me that a poem about a pregnant girl would be unusual and interesting.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Jolly said.

“Would you please explain why? Perhaps you are sensitive or something. Have you ever had an unfortunate experience along that line?”

“Not at all. The truth is, it would be quite impossible. Didn’t you know that? Kirby and I tried and tried, but nothing came of it, and Kirby was very depressed because he thought he might be the one, but we went to this doctor, and he said no, it was me. Poor Kirby was extremely relieved, but I couldn’t understand what difference it made. I mean, it takes two to accomplish anything, you see, and I couldn’t understand that it made any particular difference which one of us it was that couldn’t.”

“It’s psychological,” I said. “Men are peculiar that way.”

“Really? I absolutely can’t see the sense in it.”

“What I can’t see,” said Fran, “is why you continually don’t want to hear Felix recite a poem. Perhaps you could think of one that would please her, Felix.”

“Well,” I said, “there’s a good one about a university student who decides he should quit studying and have some fun, but I can only remember a few lines.”

“What kind of fun?”

“Fun with girls mostly.”

“How about that one, Jolly? Would you like to hear a poem about a university student who decides to have some fun with girls?”

“That one sounds quite charming, and I am willing to hear it.”

I recited one of the verses, and then Fran went around with the shaker again, pouring martinis into glasses. Sid shook his head and wouldn’t have any. His feelings were still hurt, and he looked out the window and pretended that he was indifferent to everything that happened. Jolly sipped her martini with a small smile on her lips. I liked her black eye, after getting used to it. Besides making her look ferocious at times, it also gave her a rather dashing look.

“I concede that it’s nice,” Fran said about the poem, “but I was hoping for something hotter.”

“I like that part about down among the maidens and the dancing feet. That has a very nice sound,” Jolly said.

“I’m dubious about the part about white limbs, though. Limbs has a kind of nasty sound. Prudish, you know. Why couldn’t he just say legs?”

“Well, maybe he didn’t mean just legs. Maybe he meant arms too.”

“Arms? Are arms limbs? I thought only legs were limbs.”

“Oh, no. I’m positive arms are also limbs. What do you say, Felix? Are arms limbs?”

“Yes,” I said, “arms and legs are both limbs.”

“In that case,” Fran said, “why couldn’t he have said arms and legs?”

“It wouldn’t scan,” Jolly said. “A poem has to scan.”

“Nevertheless,” Fran said, “I wish it had been hotter.”

“There is a whole book of them,” I said, “and some are as hot as you could want. Why don’t you read the book?”

“What’s the name of it?”

“It’s called Carmina Burana.”

“Really? What a strange name.”

“It’s a rather strange book, so far as that goes.”

“Perhaps I’ll read it.”

“It’s the truth that those goliards must have been pretty interesting,” Jolly said. “I can understand your finding them interesting, Felix.”

“I thought I might be able to write a novel about one,” I said, “but it hasn’t been going very well.”

“I’m so sorry. I don’t like it when things don’t go well for you.”

“Things frequently don’t go well for me.”

“I’m so terribly sorry. It makes me want to cry when things don’t.”

“Would there be any money in a novel about goliards?” Fran said.

“Not as much as there is in real estate,” I said.

“Oh, well,” she said, “there’s not as much money in anything as there is in real estate. That’s axiomatic or something.”

She sat down and crossed her legs again, looking up at Sid, who was still looking out the window.

“Why don’t you behave?” she said. “Why do you have to just go on and on sulking?”

“I’m not sulking,” Sid said. “I’m not sulking at all.”

He sat down on the arm of her chair, and they began to talk quietly. Jolly came over and took one of my hands in both of hers.

“Aren’t you glad you came?” she said.

“No,” I said.

“I was certain you’d be glad. Why aren’t you? Doesn’t it make you feel good to see me again?”

“It makes me feel terrible.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“Yes, I know, but tell me anyhow.”

“Because it’s an aggravation.”

“Do you think of me and want me when we’re apart?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“When is it worst? The thinking and wanting, I mean.”

“At night. When I’m lying in bed.”

“That’s true. I knew you’d say that because it’s worst then for me too. Is it any satisfaction to you to know that I’m lying in bed and wanting you too?”

“Very little. I try not to think of you lying in bed.”

“Oh. I see. Because Kirby’s there with me, you mean. Yes, I can see that it wouldn’t be pleasant for you to think of that.”

“Well, let’s quit thinking of it, then.”

“I’m quite sure I’d be miserable if it were the other way around and someone was lying with you.”

“No one’s been lying with me.”

“I expect that someone will, though, sooner or later, and I’ll be perfectly miserable about it. Do you think I ought to quit sleeping with Kirby?”

“It’s none of my business. I would like, please, not to think about it at all, one way or another.”

The front screen opened and shut. Footsteps approached in the hall, and Kirby Craig came into the room. He was wearing a white suit and white shoes, and he looked very rich and handsome and genial. Probably he was quite nice in his own way, and it was remarkable how much I hated him.

“Hello, you folks,” he said.

Jolly let go of my hand, and Sid got off the arm of Fran’s chair, and Fran stood up deliberately and set her empty martini glass on a table.

“Have you come to hit someone in the eye?” she said.

Kirby got red in the face, and suddenly he did not look at all pleasant. The red did not spread evenly under his skin, but had a kind of mottled appearance, like liver blotches, and seeing him like that gave me some satisfaction in a small way.

“Come off it, Fran,” he said. “You get fresh with me, I’ll spank your butt.”

“I believe you,” Fran said. “You are just the big, virile man to do it. I have never seen a bigger, more virile man in all this big, virile world. God, I admire you tremendously!”

“Just be a good girl, that’s all.”

“A man who would black his wife’s eye should be thrashed,” Sid said suddenly.

“Thrashed! Thrashed, for God’s sake!” Fran threw her arms up into the air and sat down again in the chair. “Why must you constantly interfere, Sid? I was absolutely confounding this big, virile man, and you have reduced the entire dramatic scene to an utter farce.”

Kirby was looking at Sid ominously.

“Who’s going to thrash me?” he said.

Sid stood up very straight and looked dignified. In spite of handicaps, he really did. He wasn’t big or impressive, but somehow he managed to look quite dignified.

“You needn’t try to terrify me,” he said. “I’m completely impervious to your brutish behavior.”

“You’re just a God-damn coward,” Kirby said. “You wouldn’t fight if I spit on you.”

“Fighting is vulgar,” Sid said. “I don’t fight.”

He walked over to the hall and turned.

“With neither men nor women,” he said.

He went out, and Fran began to laugh. On her face was an expression of mixed amazement and admiration.

“You know, that was damn good, wasn’t it? That remark about neither men nor women. I’m amazed that old Sid would think of something like that. It must have been irony or something, wasn’t it? Was it irony, Felix?”

I didn’t answer. Jolly went over and set her glass on the table beside Fran’s and then returned and faced Kirby.

“At the risk of being hit in the other eye,” she said, “I must say that Sid is right. You are very vulgar, Kirby.”

“Don’t needle me, Jolly,” Kirby said. “Just don’t needle me.”

“May I feel your muscle?” she said. “It would be a great thrill for me if I were permitted to feel your muscle.”

“All right, now,” Kirby said. “All right.”

“Hit her in the eye, Kirby,” Fran said.

Kirby turned and walked over to the table and picked up the shaker. It was empty again. He began putting gin and vermouth into it, and his hands were shaking badly. He was extremely frustrated and angry, and I could understand how it had happened that he’d lost his head and let Jolly have one.

“I think I’d better go,” I said. “Could I drop you somewhere, Fran?”

“No, thank you,” she said. “I’ll just stay here and see if anything interesting happens.”

“I’ll go to the door with you,” Jolly said.

“That isn’t necessary. I can find my way out.”

“Just the same, I’ll go with you. It’s quite time someone around here started remembering his manners.”

I went out into the hall and down to the door with Jolly following. At the door, I turned, and we stood there close together but not touching. She looked somehow small and very sad with her fine black eye.

“I love you,” she said. “Darling, darling, I love you.”

“That’s nice,” I said, “but it doesn’t seem to be getting us anywhere.”

“It’s because of Kirby,” she said. “It’s Kirby who keeps us from getting anywhere.”

“There is a legal and accepted way of eliminating Kirby,” I said.

“I know what you mean, and I have explained carefully that it is impossible.”

“I know you have, and so there is obviously no point in talking about it any more.”

“If only he were to die,” she said. “Everything would be so simple if he would only die.”

She said it quietly and wistfully, like a small child wishing for an impossible favor. I went on out to the Chevvie, which was still willing to run, and drove away.