Robert Silverberg - Dying Inside

Judith says, “Claude Guermantes has invited me to go skiing with him in Switzerland over Christmas. I can leave the baby with a friend in Connecticut. But I won’t go if you need me, Duv. Are you okay? Can you manage?”

“Sure I can. I’m not paralyzed, Jude. I haven’t lost my sight. Go to Switzerland, if that’s what you want.”

“I’ll only be gone eight days.”

“I’ll survive.”

“When I come back, I hope you’ll move out of that housing project. You ought to live down here close to me. We should see more of each other.”

“Maybe.”

“I might even introduce you to some girlfriends of mine. If you’re interested.”

“Wonderful, Jude.”

“You don’t sound enthusiastic about it.”

“Go easy with me,” I tell her. “Don’t rush me with a million things. I need time to sort things out.”

“All right. It’s like a new life, isn’t it, Duv?”

“A new life. Yes. A new life, that’s what it is, Jude.”

The storm is intense, now. Cars are vanishing under the first layers of whiteness. At dinner time the radio weather forecaster talked of an accumulation of eight to ten inches before morning. Judith has invited me to spend the night here, in the maid’s room. Well, why not? Now of all times, why should I spurn her? I’ll stay. In the morning we’ll take Pauly out to the park, with his sled, into the new snow. It’s really coming down, now. The snow is so beautiful. Covering everything, cleansing everything, briefly purifying this tired eroded city and its tired eroded people. I can’t take my eyes from it. My face is close to the window. I hold a brandy snifter in one hand, but I don’t remember to drink from it, because the snow has caught me in its hypnotic spell.

“Boo!” someone cries behind me.

I jump so violently that the cognac leaps from the snifter and splashes the window. In terror I whirl, crouching, ready to defend myself; then the instinctive fear subsides and I laugh. Judith laughs too.

“That’s the first time I’ve ever surprised you,” she says. “In 31 years, the first time!”

“You gave me one hell of a jolt.”

“I’ve been standing here for three or four minutes thinking things at you. Trying to get a rise out of you, but no, no, you didn’t react, you just went on staring at the snow. So I sneaked up and yelled in your ear. You were really startled, Duv. You weren’t faking at all.”

“Did you think I was lying to you about what had happened to me?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then why’d you think I’d be faking?”

“I don’t know. I guess I doubted you just a little. I don’t any more. Oh, Duv, Duv, I feel so sad for you!”

“Don’t,” I say. “Please, Jude.”

She is crying softly. How strange that is, to watch Judith cry. For love of me, no less. For love of me.

It’s very quiet now.

The world is white outside and gray within. I accept that. I think life will be more peaceful. Silence will become my mother tongue. There will be discoveries and revelations, but no upheavals. Perhaps some color will come back into the world for me, later on. Perhaps.

Living, we fret. Dying, we live. I’ll keep that in mind. I’ll be of good cheer. Twang. Twing. Twong. Until I die again, hello, hello, hello, hello.