Nathanael West - The Day of the Locust [44]
“I can’t.”
“Why…?”
“I just can’t. I’m sorry, darling. I’m not a tease, but I can’t like that.”
“I love you.”
“No, sweetheart, I can’t.”
They danced until the number finished without saying anything else. He was grateful to her for having behaved so well, for not having made him feel too ridiculous.
When they returned to the table, Homer was sitting exactly as they had left him. He held the folded napkin in one hand and the empty brandy glass in the other. His helplessness was extremely irritating.
“You’re right about the brandy, Faye,” Homer said. “It’s swell! Whoopee!”
He made a little circular gesture with the hand that held the glass.
“I’d like a Scotch,” Tod said.
“Me, too,” Faye said.
Homer made another gallant attempt to get into the spirit of the evening.
“Garsoon,” he called to the waiter, “more drinks.”
He grinned at them anxiously. Faye burst out laughing and Homer did his best to laugh with her. When she stopped suddenly, he found himself laughing alone and turned his laugh into a cough, then hid the cough in his napkin.
She turned to Tod.
“What the devil can you do with a slob like that?”
The orchestra started and Tod was able to ignore her question. All three of them turned to watch a young man in a tight evening gown of red silk sing a lullaby.
“Little man, you’re crying, I know why you’re blue, Someone took your kiddycar away; Better go to sleep now, Little man, you’ve had a busy day…”
He had a soft, throbbing voice and his gestures were matronly, tender and aborted, a series of unconscious caresses. What he was doing was in no sense parody; it was too simple and too restrained. It wasn’t even theatrical. This dark young man with his thin, hairless arms and soft, rounded shoulders, who rocked an imaginary cradle as he crooned, was really a woman.
When he had finished, there was a great deal of applause. The young man shook himself and became an actor again. He tripped on his train, as though he weren’t used to it, lifted his skirts to show he was wearing Paris garters, then strode off swinging his shoulders. His imitation of a man was awkward and obscene.
Homer and Tod applauded him.
“I hate fairies,” Faye said.
“All women do.”
Tod meant it as a joke, but Faye was angry.
“They’re dirty,” she said.
He started to say something else, but Faye had turned to Homer again. She seemed unable to resist nagging him.
This time she pinched his arm until he gave a little squeak. “Do you know what a fairy is?” she demanded.
“Yes,” he said hesitatingly.
“All right, then,” she barked. “Give out! What’s a fairy?” Homer twisted uneasily, as though he already felt the ruler on his behind, and looked imploring at Tod, who tried to help him by forming the word “homo” with his lips.
“Morro,” Homer said.
Faye burst out laughing. But his hurt look made it impossible not to relent, so she patted his shoulder.
“What a hick,” she said.
He grinned gratefully and signaled the waiter to bring another round of drinks.
The orchestra began to play and a man came over to ask Faye to dance. Without saying a word to Homer, she followed him to the floor.
“Who’s that?” Homer asked, chasing them with his eyes.
Tod made believe he knew and said that he had often seen him around the San Berdoo. His explanation satisfied Homer, but at the same time set him to thinking of something else. Tod could almost see him shaping a question in his head.
“Do you know Earle Shoop?” Homer finally asked. “Yes.”
Homer then poured out a long, confused story about a dirty black hen. He kept referring to the hen again and again, as though it were the one thing he couldn’t stand about Earle and the Mexican. For a man who was incapable of hatred, he managed to draw a pretty horrible picture of the bird.
“You never saw such a disgusting thing, the way it squats and turns its head. The roosters have torn all the feathers off its neck and made its comb all bloody and it has scabby feet covered with warts and it cackles so nasty when they drop it into the pen.”
“Who drops it into what pen?’
“The Mexican.