All the King's Men - Robert Penn Warren [119]
While I drank the beer I looked up above the counter and saw another one of the signs, painted on a big slab of plywood, or something of the sort, hanging from a nail. The background of the sign was bright red, there were blue scrolls of flowers in relief in the upper corner, the lettering was in black, high-lighted in white. It said: Repent ye; for the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand. Matt., iii,2.
I pointed to the sign. “De el? I asked. “The old man’s huh?”
“Si, señor,” the old woman said. Then added irrelevantly, “Es como un santito.”
“He may be a saint,” I agreed, “but he is also nuts.”
“Nutz?”
She said nothing to that, and I continued with the beer until the old Mexican at the end of the bar suddenly said, “Look, here comes the old one!”
Turning, I saw the black-clothed figure through the dingy glass of the door; then the door pushed open and he entered, older than I remember, the white patches of hair hanging damply from under the old Panama hat, the steel-rimmed spectacles dangerously loose on the nose and the pale eyes behind, the shoulders stooped and drawn together as though pulled by the obscene, disjunctive, careful weight of the belly, as though it were the heavy tray, or satchel, worn by some hawker on a street corner. The black coat did not button across the belly.
He stood there, blinking gravely to me, apparently not recognizing me, for he had come from the last sunshine into the dimness of the restaurant.
“Good evening, señor,” the old Mexican said to the Scholarly Attorney.
“Buenas tardes,” the woman said.
The Scholarly Attorney took off his Panama and turned to the woman, and bowed slightly, with a motion of the head which stirred suddenly in my mind the picture of the long room in the white house by the sea, the picture of a man, the same but different, younger, the hair not gray, in that room. “Good evening,” he said to the woman, and then turning to the old Mexican, repeated, “Good evening, sir.”
The old Mexican pointed at me, and said, “He waits.”
At that the Scholarly Attorney first, I believe, really observed me. But he did not recognize me, blinking at me in the dimness. Certainly he had no reason to expect to find me there.
“Hello,” I said, “don’t you know me?”
“Yes,” he said, and continued to peer at me. He offered me his hand, and I took it, It was clammy in my grasp.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said.
“Do you want the bread?” the old Mexican asked.
The Scholarly Attorney turned to him. “Yes, thank you. If it is convenient.”
The Mexican rose, went to the end of the counter, and took a largish brown paper bag full of something, and handed it to the other.
“Thank you,” the Scholarly Attorney said, “thank you very much, sir.”
“De nada,” the Mexican said, bowing.
“I wish you a good evening,” the Scholarly Attorney said, and bowed to the man, then to the woman, with an inclination of the head which again twitched the old recollection in me of the room in the white house by the sea.
Then I followed him out of the restaurant, into the street. Across the street lay the little park of trampled brown grass, now glistening with moisture, where the bums sat on benches and the pigeons cooed softly like an easy conscience and defecated in delicate little lime-white pinches on the cement around the fountain. I looked at the pigeons, then at the bulged-open bag, which, I observed, was full of bread crusts. “Are you going to feed the pigeons?” I asked.
“No, it is for George,” he said, moving toward the doorway that led above.
“You keeping a dog?”
“No,” he said, and led the way into the vestibule, and up the wooden stairs.
“What is George, then? A parrot?”
“No,” he said, wheezily, for the steps were steep, “George is an unfortunate.”
That meant, I remembered, a bum. An unfortunate is a bum who is fortunate enough to get his foot inside a softy’s door and stay there. If he gets a good berth he is promoted from bum to unfortunate. The Scholarly Attorney had, on several occasions before, taken in unfortunates. One unfortunate had popped the organist down at the mission where the Scholarly Attorney operated. Another unfortunate had lifted his watch and Phi Beta Kappa key.