Корнелл Вулрич - A Treasury of Stories (Collection of novelettes and short stories)

Man (wistfully): It’s late — again.

Girl: Later than it should be. Every night the same story. They keep me working on overtime.

(He picks up the little clock, which has no glass over its face. Does not look at it but explores the hands delicately with his fingertips, holding it down flat over his lap instead of upright as others would.)

Man: We talk to each other, this little clock and I. all through the lonely hours of waiting. Its conversation is limited. But then — (smiles across the room at her) — so is my vision. We come out about equal. I say to it, ‘Will she be here soon?’ and it answers me, ‘Tikk’. That stands for yes. I say to it, ‘Is that her step out there now, far off down the quiet street?’ and it answers me, ‘Tokk.’ That stands for maybe. That’s all it ever says, yes and maybe, never no. But that’s something, don’t you think?

(Her outline on the wall stands still for a moment, lowers its face, covers it with both hands.)

Man: I put my fingers to it, and I can hear its little heart going inside, beating for someone like mine does.

(She enters the scene, back to camera, going toward him. And then she turns. Her clothes are the clothes of the woman who leaped from the rock, whose life this is. Her face is the face of the woman who stood at the roulette-table, of the woman who consulted the clairvoyant. She takes down a small cannister from the shelf. She takes something from out of the top of her stocking and puts it into the cannister, giving him a quick look as she does so.)

He: They paid you tonight at the factory?

Girl (softly, and with a shudder): Yes.

He: It was getting very empty in there, wasn’t it?

Girl (with despair): Very. Did you...?

He: Yes, I shook it once, when you were out. I knew you were worried. I’d heard you pick it up and put it down again, twice, before you left, but without opening it.

(Her hand goes into the cannister. It brings out several metal bolts and washers, holds them up in its palm. Drops them in again. They clink like coins would.)

Girl: But now it isn’t empty any more. It’s all right now. Bread. Those little sausages. The wine for the meals. Maybe even a package of Caporals for you—

(Her voice trails off disconsolately.)

He (leaning forward expectantly, face held up, trying to find her): Aren’t you going to kiss me? You haven’t yet.

Girl (wincing, backing her hand to her mouth as though to keep it from him, looking away from him as she does so): This minute. This very minute. First, just let me—

(Goes off. Sound of a little water being poured into a washbasin. Then sound of it trickling off someone’s fingers. She enters again, drawing a cloth across her lips. Back and forth, over and over again, as though she could never get them clean enough. Throws it away behind her, goes to him, drops to her knees, tilts her face up toward his, and their lips meet in a long, desperate kiss, like two lost souls.)

He (slowly, as their lips finally part): My darling. My sweetheart. My wife.

Girl (slowly): My love. My husband. My life.

He: Why are there drops on your cheeks like that?

Girl: It’s the water from the basin. My face gets grubby from — the factory.

He: But we only have cold water — and these are warm.

Girl: Is the loneliness over now? That’s all that matters.

He: I can’t remember it. What was it like?

Girl: Shall I fix you something?

He: I don’t want food. I don’t need food — now. Just stay here close. Close to me. Close. The time we have is so little. The terrible loneliness of love. (His fingers lightly trace and stroke her hair .) Love is loneliness. Even if I had eyes, it would still be loneliness.

Girl: A cigarette?

He: You’re here with me. I need no third thing to intrude upon us.

Girl: Did the little boy from downstairs come and take you out as usual?

He: He found a nice bench for me, around where the fishing boats lie. I sat there in the sun. Then he came back for me and brought me home again when it got dark.

Girl: He’s a good little boy. He’s kind.

He: He told me his older sister works there at the same factory you do. She hasn’t seen you there in over a month.

(She closes her eyes. Keeps them closed for a moment. Finally opens them again)

Girl (quietly): She works days, I work nights, that’s why. You know that. They transferred me to the night-shift about a month ago. I told you at the time. Some they let out altogether, but me — I work nights now. ( Her voice trails off) I work nights now. ( She drops her head suddenly, as if overcome, then raises it again ) Don’t talk to the neighbors in the house too much. They mean no harm, but— People are people. Sometimes people say things that might hurt you. I don’t want anyone to hurt you.

He: They’re just voices I pass on the stairs. Voices without faces.

No one exists for me, only you. (His fingers explore her face, lightly passing over her forehead, her cheeks, the turn of her chin ) You haven’t changed. You’re still the same. Still the same as that last time I ever saw you, before the light went out.

Girl: Everything changes. Everything has to. Only one thing never does. Never does. Love. But even the very one who loves, even she changes too.

He: Not you. You’ll always be as you were in the beginning. When love was new, and I was a brand-new husband, and you were my brand-new wife. And we had the brand-new little house, remember? I’d come back at the end of the day, and you’d meet me out in the garden, holding newly cut flowers in your arms. Something so clean and fresh about the way you looked, always. So unspoiled.

Girl (pleading): Not those words. Some others. Any others. Gay. Youthful. Even beautiful, if you want. Not those.

He: But it was that about you, always that, more than anything else. You were not the most beautiful girl in the world. Anyone can be that. A red crayon at the mouth, a black one at the eyes, can make that. You were the freshest-looking — what other word can I use? — the cleanest-looking vision that ever appeared before the eyes of a man in love—

Girl (moans): Don’t. Not that word.

He: Clean as sunlight on dew. Clean as a crystal waterfall cascading into a rock-pool. Clean as little puff-ball clouds after a summer shower has washed the sky. When you came into a room, the April breeze came in with you. Clover came in with you. That was the girl my love was, that was the girl my love is.

(A long pause follows)

He: What is it? You’re so still. You almost don’t seem to breathe— There’s distress, pulsing at me, beating at me. I can feel it.

(She crumples, slides gradually downward to the floor, crouches there on hands and knees, her head hanging over. His hand that had been caressing her hair remains extended, empty. As if so stricken she cannot rise, she begins to pull herself away from him, still along the floor on hands and knees. She reaches the door and pulls herself upright against it by grasping the knob with trembling hands. First her back is to the room, to him. Then with great effort, still holding onto the door, she turns to face him.

(His face gives a half-turn to this side, a half-tum to that, trying to locate her.)

He (bewildered): What have I said? Only tell me, tell me, and I’ll unsay it, I’ll take it back!

Girl: It’s too late. You’ve pulled me apart with just one word, just one. Now nothing can ever put me together again.

He (with mounting alarm): You’re standing by the door now. I can hear your voice sound against the wooden panel. What are you thinking of, where are you going?

Girl (softly): Goodbye, my love.

He (fully frightened now, terrified): Paule, the door is open now! I hear the emptiness of the stairs in back of your voice!