Sanctuary

arrivals as they entered and found seats. The negro waiters, in black

shirts beneath their starched jackets, were already moving in and out

with glasses and bottles of ginger ale. They moved with swaggering and

decorous repression; already the scene was vivid, with a hushed, macabre

air a little febrile.

The archway to the dice-room was draped in black. A black pall lay upon

the crap-table, upon which the overflow of floral shapes was beginning

to accumulate. People entered steadily, the men in dark suits of decorous

restraint, others in light, bright shades of spring, increasing the

atmosphere of macabre paradox. The women, the younger ones, wore bright

colors also, in hats and scarves; the older ones in sober gray and black

and navy blue, and glittering with diamonds: matronly figures ,resembling

housewives on a Sunday afternoon excursion.

The room began to hum with shrill, hushed talk. The waiters moved here

and there with high, precarious trays, their white jackets and black

shirts resembling photograph negatives. The proprietor went from table

to table with his bald

138 WILLIAM FAULKNER

head, a huge diamond in his black cravat, followed by the bouncer, a

thick, musclebound, bullet-headed man who appeared to be on the point of

bursting out of his dinner-jacket through the rear, like a cocoon.

In a private dining-room, on a table draped in black, sat a huge bowl of

punch floating with ice and sliced fruit. Beside it leaned a fat man in

a shapeless greenish suit, from the sleeves of which dirty cuffs fell

upon hands rimmed with black nails. The soiled collar was wilted about

his neck in limp folds, knotted by a greasy black tie with an imitation

ruby stud. His face gleamed with moisture and he adjured the throng about

the bowl in a harsh voice.

"Come on, folks. It's on Gene. It dont cost you nothing. Step up and

drink. There wasn't never a better boy walked than him." They drank and

fell back, replaced by others with extended cups. From time to time a

waiter entered with ice and fruit and dumped them into the bowl; from a

suit case under the table Gene drew fresh bottles and decanted them into

the bowl; then, proprietorial, adjurant, sweating, he resumed his harsh

monologue, mopping his face on his sleeve. "Come on, folks. It's all on

Gene. I aint nothing but a bootlegger, but he never had a better friend

than me. Step up and drink, folks. There's more where that come from."

From the dance hall came a strain of music. The people entered and found

seats. On the platform was the orchestra from a downtown hotel, in dinner

coats. The proprietor and a second man were conferring with the leader.

"Let them play jazz," the second man said. "Never nobody liked dancing

no better than Red."

"No, no," the proprietor said. "Time Gene gets them all ginned up on free

whisky, they'll start dancing. It'll look bad."

"How about the Blue Danube?" the leader said.

"No, no; dont play no blues, I tell you," the proprietor said. "There's

a dead man in that bier."

"That's not blues," the leader said.

"What is it?" the second man said.

"A waltz. Strauss."

"A wop?" the second man said. "Like hell. Red was an American. You may

not be, but he was. Dont you know anything American? Play I can't Give

You Anything but Love. He always liked that."

"And get them all to dancing?" the proprietor said. He glanced back at

the tables, where the women were beginning to talk a little shrilly. "You

better start off with Nearer, My God, To Thee," he said, "and sober them

up some. I told Gene it was risky about that punch, starting it so soon.

My suggestion was to wait until we started back to town. But I

SANCTUARY 139

might have knowed somebody'd have to turn it into a carnival. Better start

off solemn and keep it up until I give you the sign.,,

"Red wouldn't like it solemn," the second man said. "And you know it."

"Let him go somewheres else, then," the proprietor said. "I just done this

as an accommodation. I aint running no funeral parlor."

The orchestra played Nearer, My God, To Thee. The audience grew quiet. A

woman in a red dress came in the door unsteadily. "Whoopee," she said, "so

long, Red. He'll be in hell before I could even reach Little Rock."

"Shhhhhhhh!" voices said. She fell into a seat. Gene came to the door and

stood there until the music stopped.

"Come on, folks," he shouted, jerking his arms in a fat, sweeping gesture,

"come and get it. It's on Gene. I dont want a dry throat or eye in this

place in ten minutes." Those at the rear moved toward the door. The

proprietor sprang to his feet and jerked his hand at the orchestra. The

cornetist rose and played In That Haven of Rest in solo, but the crowd at

the back of the room continued to dwindle through the Aoor where Gene stood

waving his arms. Two middle-aged women were weeping quietly beneath

flowered hats.

They surged and clamored about the diminishing bowl. From the dance hall

came the rich blare of the cornet. Two soiled young men worked their way

toward the table, shouting "Gangway. Gangway" monotonously, carrying suit