Peter Rabe - The Box

“Doesn’t hurt, Quinn. Just a little sting.”

And the man comes over and carries the syringe and a needle. A small, cold-looking thing like that and I’ve never been so scared in my life.

“Ryder, what in hell- ”

“No violence, Quinn, nothing like it. But you’ll end up a changed man.”

“Where’ll I put it?” said the one with the needle.

“Any place. What’s the difference?”

“Come on already,” said the one holding Quinn doubled over. “He’s trying to struggle or something.”

“Ryder! What is it? ”

“Trip around the world for you, Quinn. In a coffin. Ever hear of the method?”

“My God, Ryder-”

“You’ll be a changed man, Quinn. Maybe a better one. Give it to him, Jimmy.”

Ryder, for heaven’s sake-and I didn’t even feel it, didn’t feel anything at the start of such an important-Letting go of me now? You let go too soon. Watch what I mean by you let go too soon-too thick this air, too thick in the brain, but you, Ryder, I get you, don’t float away, Ryder, oh my God please don’t leave…

“How he sweats.”

“But he’s lying still now. Put the fan in the door, Marie.”

“Mercy, how that sirocco screams.”

“Not yet, really. It will get worse…”

Dead. Dead? Nonsense. I wouldn’t ask if I were. But this nonsense of not knowing what’s up or down. Drug in the head explains it, explains everything. Yes. Feeling fine. Feel fine with gray cotton inside of me and black cotton outside of me. Ah, not cotton at all but space to move. Black space to move. Closet? Of course, of course. Everything else is pure nonsense. For the moment I can only remember sheer nonsense. Everything will be all right- all right! There must be a door, must- I must stop screaming Fine now. At the bottom of panic it is very quiet. No, no. There is no need to move. Careful now, leisurely so as not to frighten. I am not frightened. I can say it. Say box. You see? Since box, by any other name, still makes no sense-Easy, please, please And I remember as a matter of fact that a Seventeenth-Century nobleman who had displeased his king was made to spend nine, was it nine? Was made to spend all those years in a cage, having fewer conveniences, fewer water cans. I am sure, no little cabinets full of provisions, no little pills. And for example once a child was found in a closet without light, the child moon-white and lemur-eyed, but it got out! Got Out! Got to get out!

— How dull inside my head. But better this way, much better and thank you, little pill. And though dull, I will check again, check the entire universe, all the cans, all the boxes in boxes what blessed certainty One, two, three, five… Watch it.

One two, two, three… No! I insist on the right count, left count, right, twoop, threep, foa, one twoop, rip, rip to pieces, I am ripping apart!

— And cannot stand the screaming any more, I can’t any more, can’t, though wish I were more tired. Dead tired. No! Don’t go out! Please, little flame, don’t go out! And please stay little inside your egg and then sometime when it cracks, little flame, you can leap more-Crack? Wait! Don’t go out, little flame, jump a little Jump, little one, JUMP!

“Call Doctor Mattieux! Quick!”

“What is it?”

“He’s violent! Call Mattieux!”

And then Renee, the older nurse, waited for the doctor. She had prepared the morphine injection, but when Doctor Mattieux finally arrived, he decided, no, I think this time we shall let him be awake.

Three days after Quinn woke up, Whitfield came to see him in the hospital. Things had been a little unusual-the sirocco, for instance, and a great deal of dull time with no dock work possible-and therefore Whitfield walked carefully with a three-day hangover. He felt that he carried it very well and only hoped that Quinn would not be difficult.

“Is he ready?” he asked the nurse in the corridor.

She said he was ready and that his clothes would be brought into his room. Then Whitfield went to see Quinn.

Whitfield, of course, did not recognize him. Only Quinn’s hair, which was thick and black, seemed familiar.

Quinn sat in his bed, doing nothing. He wore a night shirt which was split down the back and his hands looked bony and his arms were thin. Not really thin, thought Whitfield, but rather lean, because there are all those muscles.

Quinn crossed his legs and leaned on his knees. He watched Whitfield come in and said nothing.

Empty eyes, thought Whitfield, but then he changed his mind. I’ll be damned if they don’t look innocent.

“Eh, how do you do?” said Whitfield.

Quinn nodded.

“I’m Whitfield. We met, you know. You don’t remember? We met at your-uh-resurrection.”

“I couldn’t see too well.”

“Yes. A blinding day.”

“You the one that hit me?”

“Oh no. I’m the one whom you choked.”

“Oh.”

When Quinn did not say anything else Whitfield, unexpectedly, felt embarrassed. He took care of that by thinking of Quinn as an idiot. The way he stares, he thought, and then of course that thick hair. All the idiots I’ve known have invariably had this very thick hair. All this while Whitfield smiled, but when Quinn did not smile back or say anything else, Whitfield went to the window as if to look out. He could not look out because of the sun shutters, so he looked at the window sill. There was some sand lying along the edge of the frame.

“Some blow we had there, wasn’t it?” and he turned back to the bed.

As expected, Quinn was looking at him. Talk of the weather, thought Whitfield, and now I feel like an idiot.

“Are you from the police?” Quinn asked.

“Police? Oh no, nothing of the sort. They have been here, haven’t they?”

They had been by Quinn’s bed several times, and only afterwards had it struck Quinn how docile he had felt towards them and that somehow cop hadn’t meant cop to him, the way he had been used to it in the past. I’m still a little bit weak, he had explained to himself, not quite myself. And he had started to answer everything: name, James Quinn; occupation, lawyer; residence, New York.

Then, the matter with the box. At that point, Quinn had slowed down. His hands under the sheet had started to tremble a little, but it had not been the thought of the box so much as the thought of Ryder. So he had left Ryder out, and told them the box thing had been an act of revenge, something cruel dreamt up by a man who, however, was dead now. Quinn had wished this were true.

“How do you know this, Mister Quinn?”

“He was dead before, before I left.”

“Who was he?”

“You wouldn’t know him. Besides, there were several.”

“Are you trying to confuse us, Mister Quinn?”

“I’m confused.”

“Of course. Understandable. Tell us, Mister Quinn, is this type of-uh-punishment usual in your circles?”

“What circles?”

“You are a criminal, aren’t you, Mister Quinn?”

“I have no record.”

“Hm. A very good criminal then, eh?”

Quinn thought that with no record he was either a very good criminal or no criminal at all, and perhaps it came to the same thing. He had not been very much interested in deciding on this because other things meant more to him. Whether he had been smart or stupid, for example, and here the decision was simple. He had been very stupid with Ryder, but that, too, was a little bit dim, since he, Quinn, was here and Ryder was not. Maybe later, more on this later, but now first things first.

He sat up in bed and said, “I’m here without papers. Illegal entry and no identification, you told me. And that is all the business you have with me, isn’t it?”

He wondered what had made them ask if he was a criminal.