Текст книги "Dhalgren"

Автор книги: Samuel R. Delany

Соавторы: Samuel R. Delany
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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 60 страниц)

Kidd drank his beer, resentful at the long-windedness but curious about the man indulging it.

“The aesthetic equation,” Newboy mused. “The artist has some internal experience that produces a poem, a painting, a piece of music. Spectators submit themselves to the work, which generates an inner experience for them. But historically it’s a very new, not to mention vulgar, idea that the spectator’s experience should be identical to, or even have anything to do with, the artist’s. That idea comes from an over-industrialized society which has learned to distrust magic—”

“You’re here!” Lanya seized his arm. “You look so bright and shiny and polished. I didn’t recognize you!”

He pulled her against his shoulder. “This is Ernest Newboy,” glad of the interruption. “This is my friend Lanya.”

She looked surprised. “Kidd told me you helped him up at Mr. Calkins’.” She and Newboy shook hands across Kidd’s chest.

“I’m staying there. But I was let out for the evening.”

“I was there for days but I don’t think I ever got a night off.”

Newboy laughed. “There is that to it, yes. And where do you stay now?”

“We live in the park. You mustn’t look astonished. Lots of people do. It’s practically as posh an address as Roger’s, today.”

“Really? Do the two of you live there together?”

“We live in a little part all by ourselves. We visit people. When we’re hungry. Nobody’s come to visit us yet. But it’s better that way.”

Newboy laughed again.

Kidd watched the poet smile at her banter.

“I wouldn’t trust myself to hunt you out of your hidden spot. But you must certainly come and see me, some day during the afternoon.” Then to Kidd: “And you can bring your poems.”

“Sure.” Kidd watched Lanya be delightedly silent. “When?”

“The next time Roger decides it’s Tuesday, why don’t you both come around? I promise you won’t have the same problem again.”

He nodded vigorously. “All right.”

Mr. Newboy smiled hugely. “Then I’ll expect you.” He nodded, still smiling, turned, and walked away.

“Close your mouth.” Lanya squinted about. “Oh, I guess it’s okay. I don’t see any flies.” Then she squeezed his hand.

In the cage, neon flickered. Music rasped from a speaker.

“Oh, quick, let’s go!”

He came with her, once glanced back: the back of Newboy’s blue serge was wedged on both sides with leather, but he could not tell if the poet was talking or just standing.

“What have you been doing all day?” he asked on the cool street.

She shrugged closer. “Hanging out with Milly. I ate a lot of breakfast. Jommy is cooking this week so I really had more than I wanted. In the morning I advised John on a work project. Kibitzed on somebody’s Chinese Checker game. After lunch I took off and played my harmonica. Then I came back for dinner. Jommy is a love, but dull. How was your job?”

“Strange.” He pulled her close. (She brushed his big knuckles with her small ones, pensive, bending, removed.) “Yeah, they’re weird. Hey, Newboy asked us up there, huh?” She rubbed her head against his shoulder and could have been laughing.

Her arm moved under his hand. “Do you want this back now?”

“Oh. Yeah. Thanks,” and took the orchid, stopping to fix the longest blade in his belt loop. Then they walked again.

She did not demand a name. What does this confidence mean? Long in her ease and reticence, released from an effort to demand and pursue, there is an illusion of center. Already, presounded, I am armed with portents of a disaster in the consciousness, the failure to suspect, to inspect. Is she free here, or concerned with a complex intimacy dense to me? Or I excuse myself from her, lacking appellation. Some mesh, flush, terminal turned here through the larynx’s trumpet. The articulate fear slips, while we try to measure, but come away with only the perpetual angle of distortion, the frequency of an amazed diffraction.

In the half—or rather four-fifths—dark, the lions looked wet. He brushed his right knuckles against the stone flank in passing: It was exactly as warm as Lanya’s wrist, brushing his knuckles on the left.

How does she find her way? he wondered, but thirty steps on realized he had anticipated the last dark turn himself.

Distant firelight filigreed through near leaves. Lanya pushed them aside and said, “Hi!”

A shirtless man, holding a shovel, stood knee deep in a…half-dug grave?

Another man in a denim shirt, unbuttoned, stood on the lip. A young woman in a serape, her chin balanced on both fists, sat on a log, watching.

“Are you still at this?” Lanya asked. “You were this far along when I was here this morning.”

“I wish you’d let me dig,” the young woman said.

“Sure,” the bare-chested man with the shovel said. He shook blond hair from his shoulders. “Just as soon as we get it going.”

The woman dropped her fists between her patched knees. Her hair was very long. In the distant light it was hard to see where its color fell between bronze and black.

“I wonder where John gets the idea for these projects,” the man in the denim shirt on the lip said. “I was just as happy running off to squat in the bushes.”

The guy with the shovel made a face. “I guess he’s worried about pollution. I mean, look at all this!” The shovel blade swung.

But other than the dozen people standing or sitting over near the flaming cinderblocks, Kidd could see nothing outside the bubble of night the flames defined.

“Can you actually see what you’re doing there?” Lanya asked.

“Enough to dig a God-damn latrine!” The shovel chunked into earth again.

“You know,” the one on the lip said, “I could be in Hawaii right now. I really could. I had a chance to go, but I decided I’d come here instead. Isn’t that too fucking much?”

As though she’d heard this too many times, the woman on the log sighed, palmed her knees, stood up, and walked off.

“Well, I really could.” He frowned after her, then back at the pile of dirt. “Did your old lady really want to dig?”

“Naw.” Another shovelful landed. “I don’t think so.”

Slap-slap, slap-slap, slap-slap went a rolled Times against a thigh. John walked up, cutting out more light.

Chunk-shush, chunk-shush went the shovel.

“They’re digging it awfully close to where everybody stays,” Kidd said to Lanya, “for a latrine.”

“Don’t tell me,” Lanya said. “Tell them.”

“I’ve been wondering about that too,” John said, and stilled his paper. “You think we’re digging it too close, huh?”

“Shit,” the one who wanted to be in Hawaii said and glared at Kidd.

“Look,” Kidd said, “you do it your way,” then walked off.

And immediately tripped over the foot of somebody’s sleeping bag. Recovering himself, he just missed another’s head. Millimeters beyond the circle of darkness were chifforobes, bureaus, easy-chairs, daybeds, waiting to be moved from here, to there, to someplace else…He blinked in the fireplace’s heat and put his hand in his back pockets. Standing just behind three others, he watched the curly-headed boy (Jommy?) wrestle a barrel—“Isn’t this great, man? Oh, wow! Look at this. When we found this, I just didn’t believe it—It’s flour. Real flour. And it’s still good. Oh, hey thanks, kid. Yeah, push it this…yeah, this way.”—around the end of the picnic table.

“Here?” Kidd asked, and grunted. The barrel weighed two hundred pounds at least.

“Yeah.”

Others stepped back a little more.

Both grunting now, Kidd and Jommy got it in place.

“You know,” Jommy said, standing back, smiling, and wiping his forehead, “if you’re hungry around here, man, you should ask for something to eat.”

Kidd tried to figure out what that referred to when Milly and Lanya walked up. “It’s awfully nice to see you here again and helping out,” Milly said, passing between Kidd and the fire. The hot places just above his eyes cooled in her shadow. She passed on.

Lanya was laughing.

“Why’d we come here?” he asked.

“I just wanted to talk to Milly for a moment. All done.” She took his hand. They started walking through the blanket rolls and sleeping bags. “We’ll go sleep back at my spot, where we were last night.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Your blankets still there?”

“If nobody moved them.”

“Hawaii,” somebody said ten feet off. “I don’t know why I don’t take off for there right now.”

Lanya said: “John asked me if you wanted to take charge of the new commune latrine work project.”

“Jesus—!”

“He thinks you have leadership qualities—”

“And a feeling for the job,” he finished. “I’ve got enough work to do.” Blinking away after-images of firelight, he saw that the blond-haired guy, with no shirt now, stood on the lip, shoveling dirt back in the hole.

He moved with her into dark.

Once more he wondered how she found her way. Yet once more, in the dark, he stopped first when he realized they had arrived.

“What are you doing?”

“I hung the blanket up over a limb. I’m pulling it down.”

“You can see?”

“No.” Leaves roared. Falling, the blanket brushed his face. They spread it together. “Pull down on your left…no, your right corner.”

Grass and twigs gave under him as he lurched to the center on his knees. They collided, warm. “You know the Richards?” Artichokes…

He frowned.

She lay down with him, opened her fist on his stomach. “Um?”

“They’re stark raving twits.”

“Really?”

“Well, they’re stark. They’re pretty twitty too. They haven’t started raving, but that’s just a matter of time. Why do I have this job, anyway?”

She shrugged against him. “I thought, when you took it, you were just one of those people who has to have one.”

He humphed. “Tak took one look at me and decided I’d never worked in my life. I don’t need the money, do I?”

She put her hand between his legs. He let his legs fall open and put his own hand on top, thick fingers pressing between her thin ones. “I haven’t needed any yet.” She squeezed.

He grunted. “You wouldn’t. I mean, people like you. You get invited to places, right?” He looked up. “He’s a systems engineer, she’s a…housewife, I guess. She reads poetry. And she cooks with wine. People like that, you know, it’s funny. But I can’t imagine them screwing. I guess they have to, though. They’ve got kids.”

She pulled her hand away, and leaned up on his chest. “And people like us.” Her voice puffed against his chin. “Screwing is the easiest thing to imagine us doing, right? But you can’t think of us with kids, can you?” She giggled, and put her mouth on his, put her tongue in his mouth. Then she stiffened and squeaked, “Owww.”

He laughed. “Let me take this thing off before I stab somebody!” He raised his hips and pulled his orchid from the belt loops, pulled his belt out.

They held each other, in long lines of heat and cool. Once, on his back, naked, under her, while his face rubbed her neck, and he clutched her rocking buttocks, he opened his eyes: Light came through the jungle of their hair. She halted, rising. He bent back his head.

Beyond the trees, striated monsters swayed.

The scorpions passed, luminous, on the path below.

More trees cut out their lights, and more, and more.

He looked up at her and saw, across the top of her breasts, the inprint of his chain, before darkness. Then, like a two-petaled flower, opened too early at false, fugitive dawn, they closed, giggling, and the giggling became long, heavy breaths as she began to move again. After she came, he pulled the corner of the blanket over them.

“You know, he tried to cheat me out of my money.”

“Mmm.” She snuggled.

“Mr. Richards. He told Madame Brown he’d pay me five dollars an hour. Then he just gave me five for the whole afternoon. You know?” He turned.

When he pushed against her leg she said, “For God’s sakes, you’re still all hard…” and sucked her teeth.

“He did. Of course they fed me. Maybe he’ll settle up tomorrow.”

But she took his hand and moved it down him; again meshed, their fingers closed on him and she made him rub, and left him rubbing. She put her head down on his hip, and licked and nipped his knuckles, the shriveled scrotal flesh. He beat, till her hair on his thighs was nearly lost in some vegetative horror, then grunted, “Okay…” His fist hit her face three times, before he let her take him. She slid her arms behind his hip, put her legs around his, while he panted and let go of her hair.

Anxiety lost outlines beneath glittering fatigue. Once he did something like wake to her back against his stomach. He reached beneath her arm to hold her breast, the nipple a button on his palm. She took his thumb as gently, he realized, as she possibly could, in case he slept.

So he slept.

There was grey light after a while. On his back, he watched leaves appear in it. Suddenly he sat, in one motion, to his knees. He said:

“I want to be a poet. I want to be a great, famous, wonderful poet.”

As he looked toward the hem of darkness beneath grey streakings, something caught in his stomach. His arms began to shake; he was nauseated; and his head throbbed; and throbbed; and throbbed. He opened his mouth and breathed roughly through it. He shook his head, felt his face shaking, and dragged his breath back in. “Wow,” he said. The pain receded, and let him smile. “I don’t think they…make poets as great as I want to be!” That only came out as a hoarse whisper. Finally he rose, naked, to a squat and looked back at her.

He thought she would have slept through: Her head was propped on her hand. She watched him!

He whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

She pulled the blanket across her arm and put her head down.

He turned for his shirt, took the pen. He opened the notebook to what he had written at the bar. Cross-legged on the blanket’s edge, he readied to recopy. The paper was blued with halfdawn. While he contemplated the first word, distractions of book jackets, printed praise, receptions by people who ranged from Richards to Newboys…The twig under his ankle brought him back. He shook his head again, shifted his ankle, again bent to recast fair copy. His eyes dropped in a well of Time magazine covers (“Poet Refuses Pulitzer Prize”), the audience’s faces as he stood on Minor Latham’s stage where he had consented to give a rare reading. He hauled himself back before the fantasies’ intensity hit pain. Then he laughed, because he had still not re-copied a word. He sat a while more, unable to write for thinking, amused at his lack of control, but bored with its obvious lesson.

Self-laughter did not stop the fantasies.

But neither could the fantasies stop self-laughter.

He looked in the lightening sky for shapes. Mist bellied and folded and coiled and never broke. He lay back beside her, began to rub her under the blanket. She turned to him and hid in his neck when he tried to kiss her. “I don’t think I taste very good,” she murmured. “I’m all sleepy—” He licked her teeth. When he put his thumb in her cunt, she began to laugh through the kiss, till she caught her breath at his cock and another finger. His knees outside of hers, he swung his hips. His wet hand held her shoulder, his dry one her hair.

Later, he woke again with his arms tight around her, the blanket wound around them from rolling. The sky was lighter. “You know, I shouldn’t go back to that God-damn job,” he said. “What do I need a job for, here?”

“Shhh,” she said. “Shhhhhh,” and rubbed his shaven cheek. “Now shhhhhh.”

He closed his eyes.

“Yes, who is it?” with a timbre of complaint.

“It’s Kidd. Look, if it’s too early, I’ll come back—”

The chain rattled.

“No. No. It’s all right.” Mrs. Richards, in a green bathrobe, opened the door.

“Isn’t anybody up yet? I didn’t know how early it was.”

“It’s all right,” Mrs. Richards repeated. “It’s probably about eight.” She yawned. “Would you like some coffee?”

“Thanks, yes. Can I use your bathroom.” He stepped by before she finished her sleepy nod. “You know you got a letter in your mailbox, airmail?”

“I thought the boxes were broken.”

“Your box is okay.” He paused with his hand on the bathroom door jamb. “And there’s a letter in it.”

“Oh dear!”

He had already lathered for shaving before he registered her voice’s despair.

June, in blue slacks and a pink sweater, a daisy embroidered near the collar, brought full coffee cups to the table as he sat. “Good morning.”

“Were you up?”

“In my room. I’m always the early riser in this family. What have you been doing since yesterday?”

“Nothing. This morning, before I came here, I copied out a poem I wrote last night.”

“Read it to me?”

“No.”

She looked disappointed. “I guess I wouldn’t want to read anything I wrote to other people either.”

He held his cup in both hands, sipping.

“Is that strong enough for you?” Mrs. Richards asked from the kitchen doorway. “I’ve got the jar of instant right here.”

“It’s fine.” Black coffee hung in his mouth’s emptied center, losing heat.

“Is Bobby up yet?” Mrs. Richards asked from the kitchen.

“I heard him moving. What about Daddy?”

“Let your father sleep, dear. He had a hard day yesterday.”

June asked: “Do you want some more coffee?”

He shook his head, and with his movement the bitter taste spread over her yellow hair, the plants in their brass pots, the plastic handles on the green drapes’ pull. He smiled and swallowed it all.

Apartment 19-B was open, abandoned, and perfectly ordinary:

Appliances in the kitchen, bathmat over the tub edge, the beds unmade. And there was not one book. Well, it would hold furniture. The legs of the easy chair roared in the hall. Silly, he mulled in the echo. Why don’t I ask them where they want it. Fuck—! Tilt the chair to get it in.

The chair roared; the daybed mattress on its side Ssssssssed. He left it leaning against the flowered couch, and went back out into the hall for the chifforobe.

Two elevator doors opened. From one came wind, from the other, Mr. Richards. “Hi, there. Thought I’d stop up before I went out.” His tie dropped, severe and indigo, between worsted lapels. “What are you doing with all the junk?”

Kidd worked his feet on sandal sole and vinyl tile. “I…well, I was putting it in the apartment down the hall.”

Mr. Richards walked past him, looked into 19-B. “It doesn’t matter too much.” He looked back. “Does it?”

They went together into 19-A.

“I figure I can get all this stuff out by tonight, Mr. Richards.” Kidd was relieved there was no protest. “Then I’ll get the floors and everything mopped. I’ll have it really nice. She’ll like it. I’ll do a good job.”

Mr. Richards frowned up at the dead bulbs.

“If you’d rather, I could take the stuff into the cellar.” Relaxed enough to offer, he knew the offer would be refused.

“Only if you want.” Mr. Richards took a breath, and came in. His cordovan ground on the piled glass. He looked down. “Don’t see any need. To take it all the way to the cellar. I don’t know what’s in that cellar, anyway.” Not moving his foot, he looked at the remaining furniture. “She’ll like it. Yes.” He took his hand from his pocket. “Why don’t you get your other shoe on, boy? You’ll cut your foot all to hell.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Richards stepped away from the sweepings, shook his head.

“Mr. Richards—?”

“You know, I’ve been thinking—” Mr. Richards fingered his collar at his heavy neck; he might once have been a heavy man—“I mean if it’s a good idea for us to move. For Mary. What do you think? She takes to you, you know. That’s good. I was wondering what Edna was going to send us. She has some funny friends. Wondered about you too, until I saw you out from under all that dirt. But you seem like a nice kid. What do you think?”

“Your downstairs neighbors are pretty rough.”

“Do you think it’ll do any good, coming up here?”

It occurred to him to accuse: You don’t. But he shrugged.

“What do you think? Go on. You can tell me. The situation we’re all in now, we have to make ourselves be honest. I’ll admit, it’s hard for me. But you try.”

“Why do you stay in the city?”

“Do you think she’d go? No, we live here: she wouldn’t be able to do it.” Then a breath that had been held in him broke away painfully. Mr. Richards raised his thumbs to his belt. “Do you know, in here, in this house, I almost have the feeling that none of it’s real? Or just a very thin shell.”

Kidd wanted to frown. But didn’t. Honest, he thought.

“Mary lives in her world of cooking and cleaning and the children. I come home. And nothing looks…I can’t describe it. A man’s home is supposed to be—well, a place where everything is real, solid, and he can grab hold. In our home, I just don’t know. I come in from that terrible world, and I’m in some neverland I just don’t believe in. And the less I believe in it, the more it slips. I think it’s me, sometimes. Mary’s always been a strange woman; she hasn’t had it that easy. She tries so hard to be…well, civilized. We both do. But what with this…” He nodded toward the open balcony doors. Outside, layers of mist pulled from mist. “She’s got imagination. Oh, that she’s got, all right. It was the thing I first saw in her. My work, well, it’s interesting. But it doesn’t require that much what you’d call creativity. At least you probably wouldn’t think so. But we get things done. Still, I like to come home to somebody who’s got all sorts of ideas, reads books and things. But—” Mr. Richards’ hands rubbed at his hips, searching for pockets—“suddenly you begin to feel she’s changing the world into her own ideas. She doesn’t go out, now; but who could blame her. And once you get inside the door, it’s all hers.”

“She keeps a nice house,” Kidd offered.

“Oh, she does much more than that. She keeps us too. We all say things for her, you notice? Everybody who comes in there. She projects this…well, nervousness. And then you start to try and figure out what she wants you to say; and you say it. At first so you won’t get her upset. Then, out of habit. You don’t think so?”

“I don’t…well, not much.”

“You do, unless you just fit into it naturally. She used to always like musicians. And suddenly everybody who came to see us was a musician, or remembered that they used to play in the high school band, or something. And that was fine until she had some people over to play some chamber music stuff—” He raised his head and laughed. “That was funny. They were terrible. Mary and I laughed about it for weeks.” He lowered his chin. “But that was the end of the music. Now—well, she’s been reading that fellow you were talking about—”

“Ernest Newboy?” Kidd resolved not to mention meeting him again.

“Yeah. And you’re here. Once she tried to get interested in engineering. I brought home a few of our younger men. And their wives. I brought the ones who had the ideas—like she said. That didn’t last too long.” He shook his head. “But she makes it all go her way. Which would be fine if I thought…thought that it was real. That if I touched anything, it wouldn’t just crumble, like eggshell, like plaster. You think I should talk to Edna?” He smiled: his hands found his pockets, finally, and sank in them. “Maybe it is just me.” He looked around the room again. “I hope moving does some good.”

“Is Mrs. Richards happy?”

“Not as happy as I’d like to see her. You know we used to have another—well, that’s none of your affair. I won’t put it on you. I’ve gone on too long already.”

“That’s okay.”

“Better go. Have to be in the office by ten and the warehouse by eleven thirty.”

“Hey, Mr. Richards?”

Mr. Richards turned in the doorway.

“You’ve got a letter in your mailbox. Airmail.”

“Ah!” Mr. Richards nodded. “Thanks.” He went out.

“—and Mr. Richards?” When there was no answer, he went to the hall. Both elevators were closed.

He put his hand in his pocket and felt the moist, crushed bill. He shook his head and started to work a dresser toward the door. Three feet, and he decided to take the drawers out.

After he’d moved furniture for a long time, he went out on the balcony. On the building across, smoke coiled. The mist to his right was bright as ivory. When he looked down, the top of a tree was just visible in pooling haze.

He moved the final large pieces of furniture; then, two at a time, he lugged off the cane-bottom chairs. On the last lay the notebook.

He rubbed his shirt pocket, wondering if he should take a break. The pen slipped under the cloth. He looked at the emptied room. In the doorway was the pail, the mop, the soap box. He moved his teeth on one another, took up the book and sat.

He wrote slowly. Every little while he looked sharply up, toward the door, and even toward the window. Eight lines later he put the pen in his pocket. The already enlarged front knuckle of his left middle finger was sore and dented from the pen. He yawned, closed the book, and sat for a while watching the fog stretch and constrict. Then he tossed the book on the floor, stood up, and carried his chair into 19-B.

He used a piece of cardboard for a dustpan, and carried the sweepings into the other apartment. Finding no can, he dumped them into a bureau drawer. Back in the kitchen, he clanked the pail into the sink. The water crashed on the zinc, swirled up in suds; crashing diminished to roaring, muffled more and more in foam.

“I just don’t know what I was thinking of!”

“It’s all right, ma’am. Really—”

“I just don’t know what’s the matter with me. Here they are—”

“That’s all right, Mrs. Richards.”

“Right in the icebox.” She swung the door back. “See. I made them. I really did.”

Three sandwiches, each with corner hole, lay on a plate.

He laughed. “Look, I believe you.”

“I made them. Then I thought I’d send June and Bobby up. Then I thought again, Oh no, it must be too early for lunch; so I put them in the icebox. And then—” She closed the icebox door halfway—“I forgot about them. You could eat them now.”

“Thank you. That’s fine. All I wanted to tell you is I got the furniture all out, and the back two rooms mopped, and the back bathroom.”

“Take them.” She opened the door again. “Go ahead. Go inside and eat. Oh!” The icebox door slammed and just missed knocking the plate from his hand. “Coffee! You’ll want coffee. There, I’ll start the water. Go on. I’ll be in in a minute.”

Maybe she is mad (he thought and went into the living room), too.

He sat on the L-shaped couch, put the plate on the coffee table, and peeled up the bread corners, one after the other: peanut butter and jelly, spam and mustard, and—? He stuck his finger in it, licked: Liver pâté.

He ate that one first.

“Here you are!” She put down his cup and sat on the other leg of the L, to sip her own.

“It’s very good,” he mumbled with a full mouth, joggled the sandwich demonstratively.

She sipped awhile more. Then she said: “You know what I want?”

“Mmm?”

She looked down at the notebook lying on the couch and nodded. “I want you to read me one of your poems.”

He swallowed. “Naw, I should go upstairs and finish mopping. Then clean up the kitchen. You can start getting your stuff together, and I’ll take some of it up this evening.”

“Tomorrow!” she cried, “Oh, tomorrow! You’ve been working terribly hard. Read me a poem. Besides, we don’t have a thing ready.”

He smiled and contemplated murder.

And here, he thought, it would be so much easier to get away with…“I don’t think you’d like them.”

Hands together in her lap, she leaned forward: “Please.”

He dragged the book into his lap (like I was covering myself, he thought. I could kill her). “All right.” Something tickled the underside of his thigh. It was sweat catching on the chain that bound him. “I’ll read…” He opened the book, coughed: “This one.” He took a breath, and looked at the paper. He was very hot. The chains across his back pulled: he was hunching his shoulders. When he opened his mouth, for a moment he was sure no voice would come.

But he read.

He dropped word after word into the room’s silence.

Meaning peeled away from his voice and raveled.

Sounds he had placed together to evoke a tone of voice mis-sounded. The mouth’s machinery was too clumsy to follow what his eye knew. He read each word, terribly aware how the last should have fallen.

Once he coughed.

For one phrase he grew quieter, easier. Then, frantically, at a place where his voice closed out a comma, he wondered, Why did I choose this one! I should have chosen any one except this!

Hoarsely he whispered the last line, and put one hand on his stomach to press away the small pain. He took some more deep breaths and sat back. The back of his shirt was sopping.

“That was lovely.”

He wanted to and didn’t laugh.

“…Lost inside your eye…” she misquoted. No, paraphrased.

His stomach tightened again.

“Yes, I liked that very much.”

He arched his fingers there, and said: “Thank you.”

“Thank you. I feel…”

He thought: I’m too tired to kill anyone.

“…feel that you have given me something of yourself, a very precious thing.”

“Uhh.” He nodded vaguely. Tension finally forced the laugh: “You just like it because you know me.” With the laugh, some of the tiredness went.

“Definitely.” She nodded. “I don’t know anymore about poetry than Arthur does. Really. But I’m glad you read it. For the trust.”

“Oh.” Something more terrifying than the possibility of murder happened in him. “You really are?” A cold metallic wire sewed somewhere, taking small stitches. “I better get back up to finish the mopping.” He began to move on the couch, preparing to stand.

“I’m very glad you read that poem to me.”

He stood. “Yeah. Sure. I’m glad you…liked it,” and hurried for the door. It closed behind him far too loud. In the hall, his face heating, he thought: She was going to say something else to me! What else was she going…? He hurried to the elevator.

In 19-A he filled the pail again, kicked off his sandal, and slushed the mop in suds. Foam, mop-strands, and water returned him to varied beaches. He mopped angrily, remembering waves.

The water slopped his feet. It had been warm when he put it in the pail. Each stroke wet the baseboard further along.

They’re cheating me, he thought and twisted the mophead. Among failing suds the water was black. I’ve got to tell them, he thought, that I know it. At least ask them why they’re not paying me what they said. Of course they didn’t say it to me. Not that I need the money, even…That made him even angrier.

He sloshed up more beaches in his mind, moving from room to room.

I don’t have a name, he thought. Tides and tides rolled from the tangled cords. These things I’m writing, they’re not descriptions of anything. They’re complex names. I don’t want her to believe what they say. I just want her to believe I said them. Somewhere (Japan? Yeah…) I walked up the wharf from where the little boats were tied and the black rocks gave out to sand. And everything, even the sand slipping back under my feet, looked miles away like it used to all the time when I was tired, when I was a kid. One of the other fellows from the ship called to me. What did he call me? And how could I have possibly answered?