Miss Carlo

by NATHANIEL LAMAR

EUDORA owns a dress shop, and the amazing thing is that she bought it when she was only twenty-three years old. She made the down payment with a little money that her father left when he died, and she has been in business thirty-two years. The smartest people in town get Eudora to do their dresses, because everybody says she can make any woman beautiful. Recently, for instance, she made a brocaded wedding dress for an ugly bride, and when the wedding day finally came the bride was as lovely as a mild snowstorm coming down the church aisle. These are facts.

The rest is like trying to estimate the price of some fantastic antique: everything depends on supposition. It seems that Eudora is lonely. For instance, when you see her you have the feeling that once there was a sudden flash of blue-andwhite lightning, and life went running past Eudora as a strange child runs past you on the street. She is an old maid now, and her eyebrows are deadly: they stretch across her forehead like the wings of a bird. And her neck is too long. The dresses she makes for herself are incredibly ugly, the shapes and colors of fallen leaves. She wants, more than anything, to change her hairdo. She wants, more than anything, to buy a hat with long plumes and a veil; but she does not do these things, and there is a reason. There is something unmentionable and unthought-of. There are underlying things that nobody knows.

This morning these things do not matter though, because Eudora is on her way across town. She is taking a dress to Miss Carlo, who has peculiar tastes and peculiar habits. Eudora has known Miss Carlo for almost twenty years. She lives in a broken-down apartment house although she is said to be quite wealthy. Miss Carlo must be wealthy because she is not a prostitute, yet she only does those things that give her pleasure. It is also rumored that she invites all sorts of queer people to her apartment: artistic types who enjoy her hospitality and amuse her in the evenings. Eudora is not sure if this is true because in all her years of sewing for Miss Carlo she has never seen or met any such people.

Miss Carlo is very kind to Eudora. For instance, when they have finished a fitting she makes Eudora take a glass of wine. Somehow she has discovered that jazz music is Eudora’s secret love, which makes her almost a soothsayer, because jazz is something Eudora never mentions, never even hints about. Her father, who was a Baptist preacher and died of heart failure, thought that kind of music was too sensual and suggestive. But Miss Carlo always brings out her Graphophone and plays jazz records while Eudora sips the wine.

Miss Carlo has been South and has heard the best jazz in the world. She tells Eudora about beautiful Negro men who twirl gold watch-chains and wear false teeth made from pearls. “Fantastic,” begins Miss Carlo, and as she talks her voice gets dimmer and dimmer. She moves closer and closer to you, and for a minute you believe that she is ready to lead you into some kind of hidden world where certain things remain: the things that rightfully belong to you, memories of the experiences you never even had. But you never quite get there; you have been tricked and you blame Miss Carlo for leading you on. You wonder if she is a sorceress. “I was in a certain night club in the South,” says Miss Carlo, “and there was this boy. Every time he started playing his saxophone a bulge came out on each side of his neck. A bulge as big as a goose’s egg.” She stops talking and touches your neck with her cool finger. “Here. Just here on the neck,” she repeats. “I thought he might blow his lungs out of his body any minute.” When she talks like this you have the feeling she might be able to write poetry if she tried, but if you reflect you realize that what she says isn’t really poetic at all. Still, there is something about her. . . .

She is very beautiful, although she must be almost Eudora’s age. Her eyes are lavender, and she seems to know all about loneliness, but this may be just a false impression. She certainly never discusses loneliness. You wonder where she keeps the photographs of various men who have loved her. But Miss Carlo never mentions, never even gives a hint. She always talks about trivial things like flower bulbs and fabrics for dresses. Yet Miss Carlo causes trivia to come to life. She creates the present tense. She talks so beautifully that sometimes, when Eudora is down on her knees draping cloth around Miss Carlo’s hips, Eudora wants to say, “Would you let me get to know you? Would you, please?” But then Eudora decides, “No, the time’s not ripe. Next time I’ll say it.” The difficulty is this though: “next time” never comes. Miss Carlo seems so far away. You feel that she would melt with sympathy if you cut your finger. And you want her sympathy. You want any little scraps of feeling she’s willing to spare. Yet you don’t dare cut your finger.

2

AT THIS minute Eudora is walking along with Miss Carlo’s new ball gown in a silver pasteboard box. The morning is hot and misty, and it is almost eleven o’clock. Eudora has left a sign saying “Closed” on the door of her shop. The shades at the windows are drawn, and the shop is full of green darkness. If you are watching Eudora at this moment you wonder where are the important things. They are gone. They are obviously missing. Has Eudora hidden them? Not exactly. They are not in her mind, and they are not in her heart.

Eudora is thinking about Miss Carlo now. “ What are you doing now? What will you be wearing, Miss Carlo? The chintz dress? I hope the chintz dress.” The chintz is a heavy cotton with big blue flowers on a white background. It is the dress that Miss Carlo brought back from that Caribbean cruise she took last winter. It suggests nothing more, nothing less, than love. LOVE, and Miss Carlo puts on her gold hoop earrings when she wears it. They are frightening earrings, but they are also the most beautiful things Eudora has ever seen. They are so big and heavy! The lobes of Miss Carlo’s ears have been pierced especially so that she can wear them: the gold hoops pass right through the flesh. This is the part that frightens Eudora. It causes her to imagine Miss Carlo with bleeding ears. “My friend! Oh, my friend!” Eudora says these little words wildly, between her teeth, but it is slightly ridiculous because, after all, Miss Carlo is not her friend. Not really.

She has just arrived at Miss Carlo’s apartment now. “She’s so pale. I want to tell her to use more rouge,” thinks Eudora. “When I get to know her better, I’ll tell her.” She has just rung the little bell at the front door — and who is this young man? He stands in the doorway. He does not even ask Eudora to come in.

“I’m Miss Eudora. I’m Eudora, and I’ve brought her dress.” Why does she speak so softly? Is it because he reminds her of some man she once knew ?

“Would you please come in?” he says finally. But he seems so nervous. Who is he? He has heavy eyelids and long eyelashes. The strangest thing about him is that his hair is prematurely gray. It comes down into a widow’s peak on the forehead.

Eudora has never seen the tall girl before, either. The girl who is sitting over there on Miss Carlo’s little love seat. “I only have one good dress,” she is saying to an old man with white hair. “It has red sequins at the neck. I can’t wear that.”

The room is full of flowers, and the windows have not been opened today. Miss Carlo has not appeared. Miss Carlo has obviously had a bang-up all-night party, which explains why there are so many drooping flowers. There are roses. There are gardenias. There are snapdragons. And on the baby grand piano is a row of empty wine bottles. The disorder is almost fantastic. Eudora has never seen Miss Carlo’s apartment in such a condition. Plates of half-eaten ham and chicken on the floor.

But in a moment everything will be all right. In a moment Miss Carlo will come into this room. She will come from her bedroom, where she is probably freshening up. Or she will come out of the little room over there. That door is ajar: she is in there, where she keeps all her books. She reads incessantly — nothing but novels in foreign tongues. She will be wearing the chintz dress with gold rings through her ears. In a moment you will hear the clicking of amber bracelets, and the swish of crinolines under her wide Caribbean skirt.

But in the meantime look at these three strangers. They are such queer arty types, yet Eudora is not completely surprised. It has long been rumored that Miss Carlo keeps such people near her for recreation and amusement.

The old man calls himself Bird. His white hair is like corn silk, and he is unwashed. The room is full of his smell: the gamy odor of a handsome pheasant. Berries and feathers. The only wellgroomed and immaculate thing about Bird is his white beard, which is slender and silky. There is something about him that makes Eudora think of her dead father, except that her dead father was a devout minister and always denied passion of any kind. It is obvious that old Bird here would never deny passion. If you look at him long enough you can imagine him as a young man, kissing women on summer evenings. He is almost eighty years old and still lecherous. When Eudora walked into this room he saw all her potentialities immediately, then gave her a lecherous wink. It was the first time Eudora had been winked at since the young assistant preacher, the one who was her father’s helper in the Baptist Church. . . . But this is an unfinished thought. It is one of the important things which have not been alive for years. It is not in Eudora’s mind nor in her heart. She simply does not remember.

But if you should ask Bird he could remember, He can tell you about the most important relationships in his life. His account begins and ends with Miss Carlo. He is a piano tuner, and one day he came here to tune Miss Carlo’s baby grand. The first time he saw her she was wearing a white dress with big blue flowers in it. It was obvious that she was vain and conceited. Who but a vain woman or a whore would wear such gold hoops in her ears? Who but a vain woman or a whore would wear purple eye-shadow ?

“I want you to do a good job for me, because I’m writing a sonata,”she said, obviously proud to be composing a sonata. “If I hear aftersounds in the strings I get distracted. If I hear even the tiniest aftersound in the strings I won’t be able to go on.”

Old Bird worked hard at tuning that baby grand. He put it into tiptop condition, and then Miss Carlo sat down and played a few dramatic bars of music, which, when you think about it, were not dramatic after all. It was just the mood and the expectation.

“I have trouble finishing my sonata,”said Miss Carlo.

And after that Bird began to come here often, just to talk to her. Of course while he was here he always found time to tighten the strings of the piano a little, to eliminate any discords. Miss Carlo never allowed him to come in the mornings, because that was when she was supposed to work on her sonata, but he was welcome in the evenings, when she found it inspiring to light tall candles and sip wine. He talked to her about his secret ambitions, his most unmentionable aspirations, because she had such a power of attentiveness. He could bury his secrets in her, so to speak.

3

IT IS her way of listening that attracts everyone. Her manner of listening is the most seductive thing you have ever seen. She sits close beside you, and as you talk she seems to see it all: everything. You feel that you have struck an important chord in her sonata, because suddenly her eyes flicker with tears. “ Yes. I know. I know. I know,” she croons.

But one day , just recently, Miss Carlo threw up her hands in desperation while old Bird was confiding in her. “Bird,”she said, “I don’t want to hear any more. All you do is talk about it. You never do the things you say you’re going to do. You never achieve anything, and your old lady” — meaning Bird’s wife, who is flat on her back from a paralytic stroke “thinks we’re having an affair. Please leave me, she said. “ I have to work on my sonata. I have to finish it.”Miss Carlo sounded almost pathetic, except that it is not reasonable to think that such a beautiful and powerful woman could ever be pathetic. Consider what a strong influence she is capable of exerting.

She has greatly influenced the life of the girl Lee -Lee who was talking about a dress when Eudora came into this room. Lee inspires jealousy in every woman she meets. Her long white legs are envied. At this very moment, for instance, Eudora is watching the legs jealously. And women envy Lee’s power to attract men of all ages. Eudora has only been in this room two minutes, yet already certain things begin to dawn upon her: something is going on between Lee and the boy with gray hair. Eudora suspects that they have danced close together, and she is right. They danced to jazz last night, right here in this room. It may seem incredible to anyone who has known Eudora for thirty-two years, but Eudora herself has danced, and with a young clergyman. This is beside the point though, except for the fact that certain important memories are rousing, now, like sleepy dogs.

Lee can tell you in detail about Miss Carlo’s sympathy and generosity. Miss Carlo’s generous impulses almost drove her crazy. Lee is a dancer, or would like to be one, and she is unlalented. Perhaps that is what softened Miss Carlo’s heart at first. And for months, up until last winter, Miss Carlo kept Lee by her side constantly. She paid for Lee’s dancing lessons with one of the best teachers in this city, and she made it known to everybody that Lee was her hand-picked favorite. “I have taken Lee under my wing,”said Miss Carlo.

Lee can tell you about a string of parties which Miss Carlo gave. There was one party in particular. Miss Carlo served fantastic drinks and all sorts of strange people came: friends past and present. There was an unfortunate alcoholic woman carrying a little hairless dog in her arms. It was rumored that Miss Carlo once supported that woman’s attempts at painting. Then there was a man from New Orleans who was reputedly able to whip the life out of a piano. Supposedly he too was helped by Miss Carlo; but he discovered that his star was rising and struck out on his own. Old Bird came, and Nicolas, the boy with prematurely gray hair.

Miss Carlo’s attitude took a strange turn after Lee met Nicolas. She acquired the habit of squeezing Lee’s hand, looking into her eyes, and murmuring desperate encouragement: “You have to work so hard, Lee. 1 almost despair for you. You have to be willing to sacrifice everything, if you want to be a good dancer.”There was always so much sincerity and sadness in Miss Carlo’s voice when she said these things. She always made it so painful for poor Lee, whose lovely long white legs inspire jealousy in every woman. Lee does not know, not even to this day, whether Miss Carlo realized what was going on between her and Nicolas. But she remembers Miss Carlo’s words. The things Miss Carlo said last winter just before the happening occurred between Miss Carlo and Nicolas: “Lee, have you ever thought how weak that boy Nicolas is? I’m afraid for him.”

It is really Nicolas who knows Miss Carlo best. For instance, last night when they wanted to light the candles he knew where to find the matches, without Miss Carlo’s help. And when wine was wanted, he knew where to look for the wineglasses, again without Miss Carlo’s help. He has always yielded to Miss Carlo’s will, and that has been the root of his trouble. At least that is what the doctors decided last winter.

Nicolas was unable to resist her, even on the day he met her. She came to the university in the afternoons to take a course in the appreciation of literature. That was at a time when Nicolas was studying very hard. She was wearing a little hat covered with silver feathers the first time he saw her. Boys lying under trees reading dropped their books to look at her as she went by. On first impression Miss Carlo is everything any man could wish for: she is a mother, a bedmate, and a nun. Her ankles are delicate, and she wears shoes with very high heels. Nicolas would swear to you, at this very minute, that Miss Carlo is not the kind of woman who would ever stoop to jealousy. He will tell you that she has always been above such petty emotions.

He first saw Lee at one of Miss Carlo’s evening parties. “Have you ever written a poem?” asked Miss Carlo, but Nicolas was watching Lee across the room. “When you lie in the bed at night you can feel a poem above your head in the dark. If you can write down the important things—” Miss Carlo’s voice began to trail off into a croon, “the things you forget because they’re too good to remember— ” And all the while Nicolas was looking at Lee. He thought he was inspired by Lee. He did not realize that, after all, it was Miss Carlo. “Do you know that girl very well?" he asked.

“I do know her well,”said Miss Carlo. “I’m trying to help her. She’s unfortunate. She’s nntalented. But what about poems?” That was Miss Carlo’s clever way of changing the subject.

Before you realize it Miss Carlo is likely to overshadow everything else. It is necessary to be careful. Eudora can tell you how dangerous it is if once you admit Miss Carlo into your imagination. Everything in you begins to die slowly, because Miss Carlo remains only a potentiality forever. Eudora, on the basis of twenty years’ acquaintance, can tell you just how true this is.

Miss Carlo became like a mother to Nicolas. She also became his nurse and his nun; everything in the world except a poem. And yet she has refused, to this day, to say positively whether or not she loved him. She had a way of tempting him, a way of running her cool hand over his cheek, a way of saying, “That girl Lee hinders you. You’re talented. You’re inspired.” But never once did she say she loved him. Miss Carlo dallied with love; she trifled with it. That has been the root of Nicolas’ sadness. That is what sent him to a mental hospital last winter while Miss Carlo took a Caribbean cruise and enjoyed the tropical flowers.

That is also what makes these three people— these three arty types — so quiet and strange this very minute. Eudora thinks she will absolutely die of nerves unless she can make at least a word or two of conversation. She has been here five minutes, and Miss Carlo has not appeared yet.

“If Miss Carlo is too busy to see me this morning —” says Eudora timidly, “I’ll —”

“She died. Miss Carlo died,” replies Nicolas. “I was trying to think how to tell you,” he says, and there are other things he wants to say. He looks as if he is going to burst into tears any minute.

“She had to be rushed to the hospital day before yesterday,” says Lee. “And her cousin — her only living relative — refused to come. So we’re giving her her funeral this afternoon.” This peculiar girl is smiling.

“But I’ve brought her dress. The dress, don’t you see?” Poor Eudora. “I promised her last week that I’d fit it. For the ball. You know there’s a ball!”

“We sat up all night long,” says old Bird. “We were the only ones.” He knows it will not be long before he will “sit up all night long” with his wife, who is now flat on her back from a paralytic stroke.

“Did Miss Carlo die of—did she have heart failure?”

“No. An infection. Do you remember, last winter she had her ears pierced — ?”

“She was going to the ball with me,” says Nicolas.

“We know,” mumbles Bird. “We all know. So what’s the use of talking about it?” And he chuckles. But Eudora does not know. What does he mean? Eudora is still in the dark, so to speak.

“Do you want to see her, Eudora?”

“She’s in there, Eudora. In that room, Eudora.”

“ Will you stay with us, Eudora, for her funeral?”

Eudora. Eudora. It is strange: to look at her at this minute, to hear them calling her by her Christian name, you would think she had known these people twenty years or more. It is not only strange, it is shocking and confusing, as well.