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In Which Night is Mentioned

"There's Nothing I Like More," She said, "than walking, with the rain on my face, the wind in my hair."

I looked at her carefully tended features and thought of rain streaking powdered cheeks, imagined wind pecking an expensive coiffure.

"Yes?" I said.

"Yes," she said, "and the night too. Don't you love the night? You know—the dark, the—the moon, the stars—and all that?"

"C'mon, let's go," I said.

She caught my arm.

"Why, what's wrong?" she whined, "What have I said?"

"Everything," I said, "Night—the dark, the moon, the stars—what else is there?"

So we walked away wondering what else there is . . . . . .

Night faces flicker for a moment in our eyes and then go forever—the laughing face of a fair-haired girl on whose lips laughter dies even as you look, the dull apish mask of an old crumpled man vomiting carefully into the gutter, the flabby cheeks of a stubby businessman announcing pontifically, "Last-year,-I-made-the-worst-mistake-of-my-life," the heavily powdered features of a big-hipped dark-haired girl who says "Yeah—an' then he smiled. You know how he smiles. He's gotta nice smile."

Night is the time of the tough who rocks back and forth on the edge of the pavement, who spits aristocratically through a hole in his front teeth; the time of the chunky blonde who cries to her friend in virtuous reproof, "You bastard! I've been here a quarter of an hour!" It is the time of the girls in dance frocks who click by breathing "Oh, he's a scream! a real scream!" It is the time of the fierce little fanatics who hold you with hard, horny hands and vehemently repeat the old catch cries, "I tell yuh, son, it's the system!"—the capitalist system! Sa-ay! In Russia . . . . ."

It is the time of the sulky cop who breaks up the groups on the corners, saying "Cuhmon! Move along! Move along!"

At night the melancholy drunks tell their stories. Perhaps it is a small woman teetering awkwardly, who mutters thickly "Sir, wouldja be so good as to help a lady? Would you kindly see me home? I'm afraid I'm a little tight—but I'm a lady, sir, I'm a lady!"

Or it is an Irishman, with whom you drink beer in an alleyway. He drains half a bottle at a gulp. "Y'know, son," he says, "I was a good fellow once. I had a good job. I worked well. I had money. And I st everything. And it wasn't because I was bad—there really isn't much bad in me. It was only one thing."

Sensing the drama of the situation, he holds up the empty bottle. "And there it is!" he says theatrically. "Ole Man Booze! It's been my curse and my ruin. And I know it. But I still hit it."

"It's all crazy," he says.

"And sad," you say.

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"What?" he says.

'"Nothing," you say.

Or it is a stumpy fellow who talks enthusiastically on religion as he leans uncertainly against a post.

"I'm a Presbyterian," he claims proudly. "The Presbyterian Church! That's the church! That's the church for success! Am I right or am I wrong?"

"You're right!" you say. Yes, indeed. He must be right. Look at the success it has brought him—56 years old, ragged, charming, shiftless, drunk.

"Yes, that's the church!" he repeats. "That's the church for success! Ain't it, eh?"

"Ain't it, though?" you agree piously. "Ain't it though?"—

Night is the time of voices—the lisping voice of a dull-eyed Greek waiter; the voice of a trim little prostitute who tells "how she started" and "why she does it"; the wheedling voice of the towering man, ragged, unshaven, foulsmelling who says, "Can you give me a sixpence, mate? Only sixpence, mate? Sixpence for a shave in the morning?"; the voice of a friend who says with apparent sincerity that your friendship is fine and forever.

Night is the time of the smoky stench in the billiard saloons. It is the time of the boxing gymnasiums where you listen to the heavy panting and laboured shuffle of a has-been, see the nimble dance and sneering face of a rising youngster, hear the crisp stir of flat shoes in resin and smell the sharp odour of oils.

It is the time of the brightly lit theatres, of the dramatic performances and the musical concerts where among others, sham seekers after culture gather.

"Yes," one will say with well-practised uncertainty (for he has made this judgment a hundred times), "the whole composition is—is, well it's so chaotic!—so utterly chaotic! Why, it's got no—no melodic line!"

"Yes," the others chorus in eager agreement, "that's it! It's got no melodic line!" And they cluck wisely in smug pride at their discovery.

At night the cabarets fill; exhibition dancers bow with studied skill and spectators clap frigidly; a drummer, tapping mechanically, gazes over the crowded floor with a waxen idiotic smile; artificial eyebrows register artificial surprise; a stout little Jew gyrates grimly in a lugubrious waltz; men gather in noisy groups; the rough laughter of bawdry is heard.

But night is the time of so much more. It brings the nepenthe of dark, the moon, the stars—and all that. It is the time of the eternally beautiful renewal of the broken family-pattern—the time too of furtive crime, of the lover's tryst and the foul assignation.

It is the time of the lost people who haunt the city till the darkness fades and the frosted clip-clop-clang of horses' hooves is heard in lonely streets. It is the time of departing ships telling in their whistle's note, a Pied Piper's tale of distant lands. It is the time when a boy, listening to the soft heart-beat of the city, wonders fearfully what will be his destiny.

It is the time of doubt and despair—it is the time of healing and hope for the new day.