Gene Wolfe: Free Live Free

One of the tiles of the coping slipped under the witch’s feet. She nearly fell before it shattered on the pavement two floors below.

As the night wore on, the old house became cold. Barnes stripped the blankets from his bed, wrapping one about his shoulders, the other around his legs.

Dear Box 188B,

I do not know what else to call you so I will call you that. I think it is a nice name. The 1 means you are alone and I am 2. That is a pun I guess but I really am. The 88 makes me think of a piano which has 88 keys. I used to play and I bet you do too. To tell the truth I was never very good but I admire people who are. Now since I am a salesman and live in hotels I can never practice. B is for beautiful. It is a womanly letter to me and always has been. A & C is male and so is I. (More puns.) Since I said I was a salesman I bet your thinking I am one of those guys who goes on the road and cheats on a wife. I am single (divorced) I really am. Your ad says you are a JW. I am a GM. I am not prejudiced and do not see why you should. I am 35, 5 ft. 9 in. with black hair and mustache. But, I am not Black. I am White of course.

If you would like to have my picture send me yours and I will send mine right away.

Could be Yours

When he had inspected this letter and sealed it in its envelope, Barnes threw off the blankets, stood up, and stretched. For a moment he looked thoughtfully at the picture of the voluptuous blonde, now as thoroughly clothed as was possible for her. Then, shrugging, he flipped off the wall switch.

This time he was rewarded. Light gleamed from the hole, and he put his eye to it.

It penetrated the wall only a few inches above the top of the witch’s dresser, where some bulky object (he had never learned what it was) cast a shadow on it. From it he could see most of her bed, much of the rest of the room, and a part of the door.

The witch was seated on that bed, fully dressed, nervously smoking a long cigarette that boasted lavender paper and a scarlet tip. For an instant she seemed to look directly at him. She exhaled a stream of smoke and rose; he recoiled instinctively, half expecting to see the burning end of her cigarette come through the hole.

When he looked again, she was seated once more and holding a hairbrush. She drew long pins from her hair, which tumbled in a cascade of night. Under his breath, Barnes began to count the strokes with her. One, two, three … Then he realized she was not counting but brushing to the rhythm of verses she murmured in a foreign language.

He stopped counting, but he was sure she had gone far beyond a hundred when she threw down her cigarette and lowered her brush. A moment later he heard it clack on the dresser top. She came into sight again, head bent as she removed contact lenses.

He expected her to undress, and she did not disappoint him, first removing her boots. They were small and spike-heeled, apparently of black kid, now wet and much worn. She looked critically at the sole of each before putting it down.

Her dress she pulled over her head with one easy motion, then padded away to her closet, presumably to hang it up. Under it she wore a black corset with garters, and Barnes was in ecstasy.

At that point, however, she seemed to lose interest in the process. She paced her room, looking for all the world like a panther transformed by some incomplete magic. Barnes took the picture from its hook, straightened for a moment to ease his back, then looked again.

Her hand flashed past the peephole. An instant later he could actually smell the perfumed smoke. She had lit another cigarette, and with it she continued her pacing. Carefully, he grasped the back of the chair before his table and pulled it over, then found he could not sit on it and continue to look. He thought of his sample cases and was about to carry one over to put on the chair when the witch went to her closet again. He saw a flash of scarlet as she opened her door, then heard her knock at his own.

“Hello, Mr. Stubb,” Free said. “I hadn’t figured to see you in my kitchen this hour of the night, though you’re mighty welcome. Might I to ask what brings you here?”

“Hunger, sir,” Stubb told him. “Hunger and curiosity.”

The old man massaged his forehead with one big gnarled hand. “You’re seeking to shame me because we didn’t save you some of what Mr. Barnes brought this evening. You’re right to do it, and you’ve done it, Mr. Stubb. I’m most heartily sorry about that.”

Stubb waved the apology away. “From what I hear, it was the Serpentina woman’s money. Besides, you probably figured I ate somewhere else.”

“I didn’t figure, Mr. Stubb. That’s what it was. My mind was otherwhere, thinking about old times.”

“We all do that, sir,” Stubb said. “And I wasn’t trying to put you down when I said I was hungry. See, I got a little money tonight—I was able to help somebody out. The diner where I usually eat was closed, so I went to the all-night grocery and got a frozen TV dinner. It’s in your electric oven now. Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans. If you’d like to split it with me, you’re invited to.”

“No, no. I’ve had my dinner, thanks to Madame Serpentina and Mr. Barnes. Heat feels good, howsomever, and I wish you full enjoyment, Mr. Stubb. You’re welcome to my tea, if there’s any remaining.”

The old man began to back out of the room, but Stubb halted him with a gesture. “There was one other thing, sir. Curiosity, I said. Remember?”

“And what’s that, Mr. Stubb?”

“When I was getting dressed to go out, I heard some peculiar noises.”

“Old houses like this make such creakings,” Free said vaguely. “Stands to reason.”

“On windy nights they do, yes, sir. And just about any house will creak and groan when it cools down. But they hadn’t shut off the gas then, and I’ve been out twice tonight and haven’t noticed much wind either time, though it was windy earlier this afternoon. No, Mr. Free, I listened to those noises for a while and eventually I decided it was somebody walking on the roof above my head.”

The old man nodded, and crossing to the kitchen table where Stubb sat, pulled out a chair and sat down.

“It wasn’t Candy Garth, because I’d just left her. It wasn’t Barnes either. His room’s right across from mine, and all I had to do was stick my head out to hear his chair squeak and his pen scratch; he’d been in there writing something almost ever since you people ate. It could have been the Serpentina woman—her room was dark—but I didn’t think she was heavy enough. That left you, so I took a peek in your bedroom downstairs before I went out. You ought to learn to lock the door when you’re not in there.”

“I’m gone sometimes,” the old man explained softly. “Every blamed thing in there worth stealing has been taken long ago.”

“I’ve heard people talk like that before, but it was always before they got ripped off. Not afterward. Anyway, just as I was about to go out, a tile almost beaned me. I know it was a tile because I picked up a piece and had a look at it when I got to the grocery. I don’t think anybody was laying for me, because I hadn’t stepped through the doorway when it hit. Just the same, I was damn near killed, and I’d like to know what was going on.”

“You were correct about me,” the old man said. “I have no doubt it was my steps you heard. But you were wrong concerning Madame Serpentina. She was with me.”

“Ah,” Stubb said. He took off his glasses, breathed on them, and put them on again as if waiting to hear more.