Everyone assembled in Raymond’s studio as usual that evening. Raymond took up a collection and sent Paul out for gin and gingerale. Eustace in the inevitable green dressing gown stalked the open spaces of the room, spouting puns, humming spirituals. Stephen was preoccupied and gruff. He continually pushed Aline away from him and when she insisted upon putting her arms around his neck, abruptly left his usual seat on the daybed and sat on the floor beside the surprised Janet. Aline in a huff perched herself jealously on the arm of the wicker chair to which Raymond was seemingly rooted. Bull and Lucille occupied the other wicker chair, wrapped in one another’s arms.
They were all waiting for Euphoria. She had gone to consult the saffron elegant, who it seemed was her attorney and had been sent by her to defend the luckless Pelham. Until she returned their ignorance of details concerning Pelham’s case was abysmal and irritating.
Paul returned with three quarts of gin and an equal amount of pale dry gingerale. He placed his bundles on the table in the alcove and sauntered back into the room, taking his usual place on the floor. Simultaneously it occurred to almost everyone in the room that Pelham was not present to mix the drinks. All eyes focussed themselves on Paul, but he ignored their silent request and fumbled for a match with which to light his cigarette. Raymond slumped deeper into his chair. Stephen yawned. Bull scowled. Eustace stopped his meandering.
“What hoë No ganymede? Guess I’ll have to drix the minks.” He plunged into the alcove and began his task, humming, All God’s Chilians Got Wings the while.
Conversation was desultory until after the fourth round of drinks and was stimulated then only because Paul happened to twit Eustace about his unpredictable range of voice.
“Your voice is changing.”
“Changing?”
“Urn hum, second childhood. It goes up and down.”
“That was the song, idiot, not my voice.”
“Have it your way.”
Eustace was exasperated. He turned to Raymond:
“Why will Paul discuss things about which he knows nothing? He’s always talking about my voice and he knows nothing about music.”
“I know I like Debussy better than Strauss. That George Antheil is a genius and that Ravel is infinitely superior to Schubert.”
“Preposterous,” Eustace made a deprecating gesture. “There are no modern musicians worthy of a seat beside Schubert.”
“Here, here,” Stephen interpolated. “You’re a bloody blue stocking.”
“I know music.”
“Oh, yeahë I suppose that’s why you sang a hymn by Handel and told Pelham it was an exercise by Brahms.” Paul’s voice was crooningly sarcastic. Everyone laughed except Bull who continued to scowl and Eustace who pulled the cord of his dressing gown more tightly about his waist, and enunciated in his most freezing manner:
“I never argue with ignorance. Let’s dake another trink.” Then visibly amused by his own witty victory, he began to collect the empty glasses, belligerently singing softly to himself all the while.
There was a knock at the door and Euphoria was in the room. She threw her hat on the table and leaned against the door.
“What’s up?” Raymond inquired for all. Euphoria took a deep breath.
“Well, the sap’s in for it.”
“Did he really rape her?” Stephen still could not believe it.
“He says he didn’t. And the doctor says there is no evidence that this is the first time she’s been tampered with.”
“The hussy,” Eustace muttered disdainfully.
“They can’t hold him, then,” Raymond was hopeful.
“They are holding him,” Paul reminded him impertinently.
“And they’re going to hold him for trial. He’s sunk. You ought to see the stuff he’s written her. It’sawful.” She ran her words wearily together.
“Was it signed?” Lucille asked.
“No, but she proved it was his handwriting.”
“How?”
“Well, she had him write her a special poem. She had found the other stuff. And with his signed poem she hastened to the police station.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Stephen gasped, as did Paul and Raymond. They all remembered how faithfully Pelham had worked on that poem because the lady was appreciative and anxious to help him gain public honor and prestige.
“Ay God, the girl was clever. Sorry I can’t say as much for Pelham. But why such Machiavellian tactics? Being true to her art, I suppose.” Stephen mused more to himself than to the others in the room.
“He oughta go to jail and stay there,” Bull growled. “What the hell’s he messin’ with a minor for? They oughta give him life.”
“Can’t,” Lucille spoke quickly. “There’s really no proof he actually raped her, is there?”
“Wait’ll you hear the stuff he wrote her. Maybe he didn’t rape her, but there has been some sort of relationship and you must remember she’s under the age of consent. I didn’t know he was such an imbecile. I got to see him at the Tombs. He cried all the time I was there and swore he hadn’t harmed her. I asked him why he wrote her such stuff. Said he was trying to write like Paul.”
“Good Godë” Paul gasped. “Such blasphemy.”
Euphoria continued.
“Pat, the lawyer, saw the poems in prose. They were the worst. Talked about kissing her in secret places and churning butter in the lily cup.”
“That is plagiarism, eh, Paul?” Stephen inquired, then quoted from memory:
“Your body is an index of uncut leaves
Which my searing kisses will burn apart,
An elusive packet of lilies churned
By love to make perfume.”
“Yours was bad enough. I’d love to see Pelham’s. But can’t they see,” he grew serious, “that it’s only what he thinks is poetry.”
“In the past tense, old dear, with remarks to the effect of what had happened and how much more enjoyable it would be in the future once she had the hang of it. One to three years is what he’ll get.”
Everyone sobered except Paul, who advanced consolingly:
“Well, at least we’ll have a trial to go to.”
“Heartless wretch.” Lucille glared at him.
“Well,” he made a fanciful gesture with his left hand, “there is nothing we can do about it and I’ve always wanted to see someone I know on trial.”
“Why don’t you take Pelham’s place?” Eustace suggested.
“First of all, I haven’t raped anyone, and, secondly, I wouldn’t be so commonplace. When I go on trial …”
“Which will be soon,” Eustace persisted.
Paul ignored the interruption. “It will be in the grand manner like Wilde or Villon or Dostoievsky’s near execution. You see, I’m a genius.” And he sipped contentedly from his half empty glass.