“Childs', Fifty-ninth Street,” at eight o'clock of any morning differs from its sisters by less than the width of their marble tables or the degree of polish on the frying-pans. You will see there a crowd of poor people with sleep in the corners of their eyes, trying to look straight before them at their food so as not to see the other poor people. But Childs', Fifty-ninth, four hours earlier is quite unlike any Childs' restaurant from Portland, Oregon, to Portland, Maine. Within its pale but sanitary walls one finds a noisy medley of chorus girls, college boys, débutantes, rakes, filles de joie—a not unrepresentative mixture of the gayest of Broadway, and even of Fifth Avenue.
In the early morning of May the second it was unusually full. Over the marble-topped tables were bent the excited faces of flappers whose fathers owned individual villages. They were eating buckwheat cakes and scrambled eggs with relish and gusto, an accomplishment that it would have been utterly impossible for them to repeat in the same place four hours later.
Almost the entire crowd were from the Gamma Psi dance at Delmonico's except for several chorus girls from a midnight revue who sat at a side table and wished they'd taken off a little more make-up after the show. Here and there a drab, mouse-like figure, desperately out of place, watched the butte flies with a weary, puzzled curiosity. But the drab figure was the exception. This was the morning after May Day, and celebration was still in the air.
Gus Rose, sober but a little dazed, must be classed as one of the drab figures. How he had got himself from Forty-fourth Street to Fifty-ninth Street after the riot was only a hazy half-memory. He had seen the body of Carrol Key put in an ambulance and driven off, and then he had started up town with two or three soldiers. Somewhere between Forty-fourth Street and Fifty-ninth Street the other soldiers had met some women and disappeared. Rose had wandered to Columbus Circle and chosen the gleaming lights of Childs' to minister to his craving for coffee and doughnuts. He walked in and sat down.
All around him floated airy, inconsequential chatter and high-pitched laughter. At first he failed to understand, but after a puzzled five minutes he realized that this was the aftermath of some gay party. Here and there a restless, hilarious young man wandered fraternally and familiarly between the tables, shaking hands indiscriminately and pausing occasionally for a facetious chat, while excited waiters, bearing cakes and eggs aloft, swore at him silently, and bumped him out of the way. To Rose, seated at the most inconspicuous and least crowded table, the whole scene was a colorful circus of beauty and riotous pleasure.
He became gradually aware, after a few moments, that the couple seated diagonally across from him with their backs to the crowd, were not the least interesting pair in the room. The man was drunk. He wore a dinner coat with a dishevelled tie and shirt swollen by spillings of water and wine. His eyes, dim and blood-shot, roved unnaturally from side to side. His breath came short between his lips.
“He's been on a spree!” thought Rose.
The woman was almost if not quite sober. She was pretty, with dark eyes and feverish high color, and she kept her active eyes fixed on her companion with the alertness of a hawk. From time to time she would lean and whisper intently to him, and he would answer by inclining his head heavily or by a particularly ghoulish and repellent wink.
Rose scrutinized them dumbly for some minutes until the woman gave him a quick, resentful look; then he shifted his gaze to two of the most conspicuously hilarious of the promenaders who were on a protracted circuit of the tables. To his surprise he recognized in one of them the young man by whom he had been so ludicrously entertained at Delmonico's. This started him thinking of Key with a vague sentimentality, not unmixed with awe. Key was dead. He had fallen thirty-five feet and split his skull like a cracked cocoanut.
“He was a darn good guy,” thought Rose mournfully. “He was a darn good guy, o'right. That was awful hard luck about him.”
The two promenaders approached and started down between Rose's table and the next, addressing friends and strangers alike with jovial familiarity. Suddenly Rose saw the fair-haired one with the prominent teeth stop, look unsteadily at the man and girl opposite, and then begin to move his head disapprovingly from side to side.
The man with the blood-shot eyes looked up.
“Gordy,” said the promenader with the prominent teeth, “Gordy.”
“Hello,” said the man with the stained shirt thickly.
Prominent teeth shook his finger pessimistically at the pair, giving the woman a glance of aloof condemnation.
“What'd I tell you Gordy?”
Gordon stirred in his seat.
“Go to hell!” he said.
Dean continued to stand there shaking his finger. The woman began to get angry,
“You go way!” she cried fiercely. “You're drunk, that's what you are!”
“So's he,” suggested Dean, staying the motion of his finger and pointing it at Gordon.
Peter Himmel ambled up, owlish now and oratorically inclined.
“Here now,” he began as if called upon to deal with some petty dispute between children. “Wha's all trouble?”
“You take your friend away,” said Jewel tartly. “He's bothering us.”
“What's 'at?”
“You heard me!” she said shrilly. “I said to take your drunken friend away.”
Her rising voice rang out above the clatter of the restaurant and a waiter came hurrying up.
“You gotta be more quiet!”
“That fella's drunk,” she cried. “He's insulting us.”
“Ah-ha, Gordy,” persisted the accused. “What'd I tell you.” He turned to the waiter. “Gordy an' I friends. Been tryin' help him, haven't I, Gordy?”
Gordy looked up.
“Help me? Hell, no!”
Jewel rose suddenly, and seizing Gordon's arm assisted him to his feet.
“Come on, Gordy!” she said, leaning toward him and speaking in a half whisper. “Let's us get out of here. This fella's got a mean drunk on.”
Gordon allowed himself to be urged to his feet and started toward the door. Jewel turned for a second and addressed the provoker of their flight.
“I know all about you!” she said fiercely. “Nice friend, you are, I'll say. He told me about you.”
Then she seized Gordon's arm, and together they made their way through the curious crowd, paid their check, and went out.
“You'll have to sit down,” said the waiter to Peter after they had gone.
“What's 'at? Sit down?”
“Yes—or get out.”
Peter turned to Dean.
“Come on,” he suggested. “Let's beat up this waiter.”
“All right.”
They advanced toward him, their faces grown stern. The waiter retreated.
Peter suddenly reached over to a plate on the table beside him and picking up a handful of hash tossed it into the air. It descended as a languid parabola in snowflake effect on the heads of those near by.
“Hey! Ease up!”
“Put him out!”
“Sit down, Peter!”
“Cut out that stuff!”
Peter laughed and bowed.
“Thank you for your kind applause, ladies and gents. If some one will lend me some more hash and a tall hat we will go on with the act.”
The bouncer bustled up.
“You've gotta get out!” he said to Peter.
“Hell, no!”
“He's my friend!” put in Dean indignantly.
A crowd of waiters were gathering. “Put him out!”
“Better go, Peter.”
There was a short struggle and the two were edged and pushed toward the door.
“I got a hat and a coat here!” cried Peter.
“Well, go get 'em and be spry about it!”
The bouncer released his hold on Peter, who, adopting a ludicrous air of extreme cunning, rushed immediately around to the other table, where he burst into derisive laughter and thumbed his nose at the exasperated waiters.
“Think I just better wait a l'il' longer,” he announced.
The chase began. Four waiters were sent around one way and four another. Dean caught hold of two of them by the coat, and another struggle took place before the pursuit of Peter could be resumed; he was finally pinioned after overturning a sugar-bowl and several cups of coffee. A fresh argument ensued at the cashier's desk, where Peter attempted to buy another dish of hash to take with him and throw at policemen.
But the commotion upon his exit proper was dwarfed by another phenomenon which drew admiring glances and a prolonged involuntary“Oh-h-h!” from every person in the restaurant.
The great plate-glass front had turned to a deep blue, the color of a Max field Parrish moonlight—a blue that seemed to press close upon the pane as if to crowd its way into the restaurant. Dawn had come up in Columbus Circle, magical, breathless dawn, silhouetting the great statue of the immortal Christopher, and mingling in a curious and uncanny manner with the fading yellow electric light inside.
无论哪一天上午八点钟,“蔡尔兹,五十九大街”都与其他连锁店不同,大理石桌没有那么宽,炒锅也没有那么亮。你可以看到一群睡眼蒙眬的穷人,两眼直勾勾地望着面前的食物,以便可以不去看别的穷人。但是,四个小时前,五十九大街上的蔡尔兹饭店和其他任何一家蔡尔兹连锁店——从俄勒冈的波特兰,到缅因州的波特兰——都不相同。在它那墙壁洁净的餐厅里,你能看到闹哄哄的一群人:合唱团的姑娘、大学生、初涉社交界的名媛、浪荡公子、风尘女子——由百老汇大街甚至是第五大街上最快乐的人们组成的、有代表性的一个混合体。
五月二日清晨,客人爆满。姑娘们围着大理石桌面的餐桌,低着头,一脸兴奋。她们的父亲各自独拥一处庄园。她们津津有味地吃着荞麦面包和炒蛋。四个小时后,她们绝对不可能在这同一个地方再这么大吃一顿了。
几乎所有人都是参加完戴尔莫尼科酒店的伽马普赛舞会来到这里的,只有几个合唱团的姑娘是例外,她们刚刚演完一场讽喻时事的午夜滑稽剧,坐在靠边的餐桌旁,后悔表演完后没有将脸上的脂粉洗掉点。偶尔有几个灰头土脸、贼眉鼠眼的人,与整个画面极不协调,他们疲倦、疑惑、好奇地注视着这些花枝招展的姑娘们。然而,这些灰头土脸的人也是例外。这是五月二日的清晨,空气里五一节的节日气氛犹存。
格斯·罗斯虽然还算清醒,但也有点晕晕乎乎,他必须被划到灰头土脸之人的行列。骚乱结束后,他一直都稀里糊涂的,几乎不知道自己是如何从四十四大街来到五十九大街的。他看见卡罗尔·基的尸体被抬上救护车带走了,然后,他就和两三个士兵离开了闹市。在四十四大街和五十九大街之间的某个地方,其他士兵遇见了一些女人,然后就消失了。罗斯游荡到哥伦布转盘广场,选择了这家灯光闪烁的蔡尔兹饭店,这里有他热衷的咖啡和炸面圈,他要解解馋。他走进饭店,坐下来。
他的周围飘荡着无关紧要的高谈阔论和肆无忌惮的欢声笑语。起初,他无法理解是怎么回事,困惑了五分钟后,方才意识到这是欢乐舞会的余温。一个坐不住的、乐不可支的年轻人友好而亲切地穿梭于餐桌之间,见人就握手,时不时地停下来,贫上几句嘴。激动的侍者们高高地擎着蛋糕和鸡蛋,心中暗暗地诅咒着他,把他从通道上推开。对于坐在最不起眼、人数最少的餐桌旁的罗斯而言,这整个场面就是一场多彩多姿的巡演,关于美和狂欢的巡演。
过了一会儿,他渐渐意识到,坐在他斜对面的一对情侣,背对着人群,是这个餐厅里最无趣的一对。男的喝醉了,他穿着晚礼服,领带和衬衫都皱巴巴的,衣服上满是酒水。他的眼睛呆滞,布满血丝,眼珠机械地左右滚动着,嘴巴急促地喘着气。
“这个人怎么醉成这个样子。”罗斯心想。
女的不算完全清醒,也可以说几乎是清醒的。她很漂亮,黑眼睛,面颊绯红,她那双灵动的眼睛盯着她的伴侣,像鹰一样警觉。她时不时地倾着身子,热切地对他说着悄悄话,而他偏着沉重的头,或者特别像食尸鬼似的、令人厌恶地挤一下眼,算是对她的回应。
罗斯木然地仔细瞧了他们一会儿,直到那个女的唰的一下丢给他一个厌恶的眼神,他才作罢;接着,他把注视的目光转向两个最扬扬得意、最滑稽的人身上,他们不厌其烦地在餐桌间周旋。令他吃惊的是,他认出了其中一个年轻人,他曾经在戴尔莫尼科酒店接受过这个年轻人非常荒唐的款待。这使他开始想念起基来,还带着那么点伤感,其中也不能说没有掺杂着敬意。基死了,他从三十五英尺高的地方摔下去,脑浆迸裂,像烂椰子一样。
“他是个真正的好人,”罗斯伤心地想,“他是个真正的好人,没错。他太不幸了。”
那两个来回穿梭的人走过来,在罗斯的餐桌和旁边的餐桌之间坐下来,和颜悦色地和朋友以及陌生人亲切交谈。罗斯突然看到那个黄头发的龅牙男停下脚步,眼光迷离地看着对面的那对男女,然后开始不以为然地摇起头来。
眼睛布满血丝的那个男人抬头看了看。
“戈登,”那个来回穿梭的龅牙男叫道,“戈登。”
“嗨。”那个满身酒污的男人说道。
龅牙男悲观地朝这对情侣晃晃手指,朝那个女人投去一个高高在上、不屑一顾的眼神。
“要我怎么说你呢,戈登?”
戈登在座位上动了动。
“见鬼去吧!”他说。
迪恩继续站在那里摇着手指。那个女人开始发飙了。
“你,滚开!”她恶狠狠地说,“你喝醉了,你就是个醉鬼!”
“他也喝醉了。”迪恩说,依旧摇着手指,指着戈登。
彼得·希梅尔缓缓地站起来,现在,他面容严肃地准备发表演讲。
“啊,”他说道,好像是要处理孩子们鸡毛蒜皮的争吵一样,“这是怎么回事啊?”
“把你的朋友带走,”朱沃尔泼辣地说,“他在打扰我们。”
“到底是怎么回事啊?”
“你听到我说的话了吗!”她用刺耳的声音说道,“我说,把你那烂醉的朋友弄走。”
她那尖锐的声音响彻整个饭店,把所有的喧闹都压了下去。一名侍者赶忙走过来。
“你们得小点声!”
“那个家伙喝醉了,”她大声叫道,“他在侮辱我们。”
“啊——哈,戈登,”那个受到指责的人继续说道,“要我怎么说你好呢。”他转身对着侍者说:“我和戈登是朋友,我正在想办法帮他。是这样吗,戈登?”
戈登抬头看看。
“帮我?见鬼,根本不是!”
朱沃尔突然站起来,拉住戈登的胳膊,帮他站起来。
“来,戈登!”她说道,她贴近他,几乎是在耳语,“我们走吧,这个家伙喝醉了,在胡言乱语。”
戈登顺从地赶忙站起来,开始往门口走。有那么一刻,朱沃尔扭过头,对使他们不得不离开的肇事者说:
“我知道,这都是拜你所赐!”她凶神恶煞地说,“好朋友,是吧,呸!他可给我讲过你是个什么玩意儿。”
然后,她搀着戈登的胳膊,一起穿过好奇的人群,结了账,出去了。
“你得坐下。”他们走后,侍者对彼得说。
“什么?坐下!”
“是的——否则就出去。”
彼得扭着头看着迪恩。
“来,”他说道,“我们把这个侍者揍扁。”
“好。”
他们绷着脸,朝侍者走过去。侍者向后退着。
彼得突然把手伸到旁边桌子上的一个盘子里,抓起一把肉末抛向空中。肉末像雪花一样,悠然地画着抛物线,落在附近的人们头上。
“喂!老实点!”
“把他赶出去!”
“坐下,彼得!”
“把这些东西弄下来!”
彼得一边大笑,一边鞠躬。
“女士们,先生们,谢谢大家热烈的掌声。如果谁能再给我点肉末和一顶大礼帽,我就继续玩下去。”
门卫立刻赶过来。
“出去!”他对彼得说。
“见鬼,我不出去!”
“他是我朋友!”迪恩愤怒地插话。
一群侍者都聚拢过来。“把他轰出去!”
“最好出去吧,彼得。”
经过短暂的冲突,这两个人被推到门口。
“我的帽子和外套还在里面呢!”彼得叫道。
“好,去拿吧,快点!”
门卫放开彼得,彼得做出一副极其狰狞的荒唐面目,突然朝另一张桌子冲过去,轻蔑地放声大笑,对愤怒的侍者们表示出极度的不屑一顾。
“我想我最好再待一会儿。”他宣布道。
追逐游戏开始了。四个侍者被派遣过来切断一边的退路,另外四个侍者被派遣过来切断另一边的退路。迪恩抓住两个侍者的外套,又一场战斗打响了,追逐彼得的游戏开始了;在打翻一只糖罐和几杯咖啡后,他终于被扭住双臂。接着,在结账处发生了一场新的争吵,彼得想再买一盘肉末带走,准备扔到警察身上。
然而,他离开饭店的隆重仪式所引起的混乱与另一番景象比起来,简直是小巫见大巫。饭店里的每个人对那个景象纷纷投来钦慕的眼光,不由自主地拖着长音发出“啊——啊——啊!”的赞叹声。
饭店前面,一块巨大的厚玻璃变成了深邃的奶油蓝,马克斯菲尔德·帕里什画中的月光蓝——这种蓝色投射到窗玻璃上,似乎还要一股脑地倾泻到饭店里。魔术般令人吃惊的黎明降临到哥伦布转盘广场上,克里斯托弗那永垂不朽的伟大雕像的轮廓已清晰可见。黎明以其神秘、怪异的方式与饭店内微弱的黄色灯光浑然一体。