“I’ll be god-damned!” he whispered, and turned away from Martin to stare out to sea. He stuck out his tongue and pulled at his ears. Then, after a moment, he settled back on the bench and regarded Martin with a worried expression. The sun disappeared behind a sailboat and in the bay, Liberty grew darker. A salt wind came up from the harbor and the shadow of the Aquarium now covered all that section of the Battery.
CHAPTER XXII
It was uncomfortably warm in the room where Martin was working on his type. He tried it awhile longer, then put aside his papers and went to the roof.
There were two women lying on a blanket taking a sun bath. They were in bathing suits and had the straps pulled down over their shoulders. Martin had to pass them to get to the opposite side of the porch. So he excused himself and only glanced at them briefly. But his presence apparently irritated them. One of the women, dark-haired and older than the other, seemed particularly annoyed. She laid her hand on the younger girl’s arm and whispered something audibly and caustically to her friend. The remark was in such bad taste that Martin turned around and surveyed them coolly.
A dog was lying on the blanket with the women. He was little and white. He was young and curious and friendly. He trotted over to Martin, observed his white slacks, then looked back at his own coat. He sniffed at the slacks and raised his head, and all the while, Martin stood quietly and looked at him. The dog’s eyes were brown. His legs were sturdy. Martin wanted to put his hand on the little head. He had done it before with animals. It was a sort of blessing. He wanted to say, “I like you. Don’t let yourself be destroyed by these people.” But he did not move. The women would object. They would speak sharply and the puppy would be ashamed.
Blood filled Martin’s head. He had worked late the night before and he was tired. Anger shook his mind. Once more he looked across the roof at the women. Then he knelt to the dog. Holding the nervous head between his hands he watched the brown eyes. In his own was reflected an heroic poem—an attainable star. Martin did not beg nor did he demand. He showed the small one something greater than pettings and soft food. He showed him hard winds, ice and sun; his wolf-like ancestors—their smoky, torn fur. The dog became quiet, watching intently. He made no sound.
Martin held him patiently, listening with him to the soft pad of feet on the leaves above and around them. The dog’s brown eyes grew wider, older, and became lost....
Martin stood up and regarded the women, thinking, “Symbols of a denatured civilization! Men linked together are strung, it is true, on the rock of a fool’s evolution. But in them tragedy, strength and beauty neutralize the distortion—while across from me, on the roof, grope the clowns, the mimics, playing music they can never understand. The chords they touch turn black....”