William Faulkner, SANCTUARY – WordPress.com - literature save 2

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 head, a huge
diamond in his black cravat, followed by the bouncer, a thick, muscle-bound, bulletheaded
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 Cant 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
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."