Waste Land to a Scream: A Gay Science

Novel 013

“It is impossible to suffer without making someone pay for it; every complaint already contains revenge.” Nietzsche

The Pfauen, Zürich, March 1916

The beers were punched drunk as they clanked on the copper bar. Each one of them was chipped a maiore ad maius. The patrons were as thick as the glasses crowding thickly around the tables like flies sipping out sweetness from the acrid beer. And James held one in his hand though he winced at how often he was drinking between drinks. On his head perched his common hat which he wore everywhere even into the raucous stench of this restaurant. But then James never touched any food because that would be a sin to eat on Friday. But before getting back to drinking he looked at his words and found fault with all of them because they did not wrench what was true of the people nor of their situations as they presented their demeanor to the world and thus James scratched out many of the comments that he had jotted down because it was too true to be false.

Only the clock told and the exact time everyone else prevaricated in his own little way. It was only men because women were still not allowed in as was the custom in Europe at that point.

It was depressing to understand the psychology of everyone around him but not able to set it down in clear words or even in false words which had little to them. But then the double door swung open and an impressive tall man came waddling in. Many people knew him because he was a regular from time to time when he was not touring or composing, though perhaps it was the other way round: he could be said to be a professional drinker and took assignments of composing to keep up with the bill.

Either way, Ferruccio was a garrulous talker and raconteur though no one knew what was true and what was false when he said it, and in fact, he himself did not really know where the line would be drawn. But he immediately pulled a stool next to James, because he and James had the same innate problem that they wanted to know what other people thought. The difference was while James was extraordinarily quiet, Ferruccio was extraordinarily noisy in his investigations. he was dressed as any man of upper class would be, wearing a long gray coat with slacks that had been neatly done by a tailor.

“So James, what have you been doing since last I was here?” The announcement was a bit too abrupt for James because he did not have an adequate response but fumbled for a moment but then James started to say something but then another patron asked how the recent tour went and Ferruccio stirred himself into a five-minute long monologue of the trails of moving one’s piano up the stairs and down the stairs of various piano recitals in Europe. James listened to this intently because he wanted an inner sense of what someone famous would do in such a situation. Not that James was insignificant, in that his second novel was due to come out shortly, but it was a minor form of glow compared to Ferruccio Busoni, the famous pianist and composer. James still did not understand why Ferruccio would take such a length to him, perhaps it was just someone who would actually listen as opposed to hear, but truthfully James did not know.

Finally, James squeaked out: “I am searching for the truth hoping to find it in the faces that crowd around me.” James looked either way to grasp the inner truth of many who were imbibing.

It was at this point that Ferruccio gazed into his eyes: “Your gaze pierces far more intently than you realize.”

But the realization closed as quickly as it opened: there was a lesson between the two men but it quickly shut as a yawning precipice. And then there was silence. Of course, Ferruccio rapidly filled the void with his prattle but the two men still locked eyes wondering what the other had seen.

Then Ferruccio was called upon by some acquaintances to retell the stories that he had told before. And James looked at him standing erect and almost bellowing the words that were tripling upon the tongue watching him gesture up and down as if he were a pantomime giving a tale for his meal because James noticed that Ferruccio never paid for his beer at any given point. James wanted to again talk to Ferruccio but did not get another chance until Ferruccio bowed and left onto the wide street missing the white towers. And James was alone even though there were thousands of people around him gathering as if there were no reason to stop.

Then James went back to his papers crossing out any unnecessary verbiage to obtain some independent vestige.

And he wrote because there was nothing to say to anyone because while he knew everyone, no one knew him at all. Such was life in an outhouse.