Henry Roth - Call It Sleep

now jutted out in stairs, concentric

ogives, bottomless steps. “Go down!

Go down!” The inexorable voice beat

like a hand upon his back. He

screamed, de— )

Jangle! Angle! Angle! Angle!

“Dere! It’s comin’!”

“Look! Look hod dere!”

“Orficer!”

Angle! Jang!

“Christ’s about time!”

The crowd split like water before a prow, reformed in the wake, surged round the ambulance, babbling, squall—

( scended. Down! Down into darkness,

darkness that tunneled the heart of

darkness, darkness fathomless. Each

step he took, he shrank, grew smaller

with the unseen panels, the graduate

vise descending, passed from stage

to dwindling stage, dwindling. At

each step shed the husks of being,

and himself tapering always downward

in the funnel of the night. And now

a chip — a step-a flake-a step-a shred.

A mote. A pinpoint. And now the seed

of nothing, and nebulous nothing, and

nothing, And he was not.… )

ing, stabbing the dark with hands. “Ppprrr!” Lips flickered audibly as the blue-coat rose. With one motion, palm wiped brow, dug under sweat-stained collar. Softly bald, the bareheaded, white garbed interne hopped spryly from the ambulance step, black bag swinging in hand, wedged whitely through the milling crowd. Conch-like the mob surrounded, contracted, trailed him within the circle, umbiliform—

“Lectric shot; Doc!”

“De hospital!”

“Knocked him cold!”

“Shock?”

“’Zee dead?”

“Yea, foolin’ aroun’ wid de—”

“Shawt soicited it, Doc!”

“Yea, boined!”

“Vee sin id Docteh!”

“Git back, youz!” The officer crouched, snarled, but never sprang. “I’ll spit right in yer puss!”

“Mmm!” The interne pinched the crease of his trousers, pulled them up, and kneel—

“Guess yuh better take ’im witchuh, Doc. Couldn’t do a goddam t’ing wit—”

“He’s gonna hea’ de heart! See?”

( But— )

ing beside the beveled curbstone, applied his ear to the narrow breast.

“Shoe’s boined. See it, Doc?”

( the voice still lashed the nothingness

that was, denying it oblivion. “Now find!

Now find! Now find!” And nothingness

whimpered being dislodged from night,

and would have hidden again. But out

of the darkness, one ember )

“Take it off, will you, let’s have a look at it.”

( flowered, one ember in a mirr— )

“Sure!” Blunt, willing fingers ripped the

( or, swimming without motion in the

motion of its light. )

buttons open,

“Hiz gonna look.”

( In a cellar is )

dragged the shoes off,

( Coal! In a cellar is )

tore the stocking down, re—

( Coal! And it was brighter than the

pith of lightning and milder than pearl, )

vealing a white puffy ring about the ankle, at

( And made the darkness dark because

the dark had culled its radiance for

that jewel. Zwank! )

“Is it boined?”

“Can’t see, c’n you?”

which the interne glanced while he drew

“Waddayuh say, Doc?”

a squat blue vial from his bag, grimaced, un-

( Zwank! Zwank! Nothingness beati-

fied reached out its hands. Not cold

the ember was. Not scorching. But as

if all eternity’s caress were fused and

granted in one instant. Silence )

corked it, expertly tilted it before

( struck that terrible voice upon the

height, stilled the whirling hammer.

Horror and the night fell away. Ex-

alted, he lifted his head and screamed

to him among the wires— “Whistle,

mister! Whistle! )

the quiet nostrils. The crowd fell silent, tensely watching.

“Amonya.”

“Smells strong!”

“Stinks like in de shool on Yom Kippur.”

( Mister! Whistle! Whistle! Whistle!

Whistle, Mister! Yellow birds! )

On the dark and broken sidewalk, the limp body gasped, quivered. The interne lifted him, said sharply to the officer. “Hold his arms! He’ll fight!”

“Hey look! Hey look!”

“He’s kickin’!”

(Whistle, mister! WHISTLE!”)

“W’at’s he sayin’?”

“There! Hold him now!”

(A spiked star of pain of consciousness burst within him)

“Mimi! He’s awright! He’s awright!”

“Yeh?”

“Yea!”

“No kiddin’! No kiddin’!”

“Yeh!”

“Yuh!”

“Yeh!”

“Oi, Gott sei dank!”

XXII

“THERE you are, sonny! There you are!” The interne’s reassuring drawl, reached him through a swirl of broken images. “You’re not hurt. There’s nothing to be scared about.”

“Sure!” the policeman was saying beside him.

David opened his eyes. Behind, between them and around them, like a solid wall, the ever-encroaching bodies, voices, faces at all heights, gestures at all heights, all converging upon him, craning, peering, haranguing, pointing him out, discussing him. A nightmare! Deliverance was in the thought. He shut his eyes trying to remember how to wake.

“How does that foot feel, sonny?” The routine, solicitous voice again inquired. “Not bad, eh?”

He was aware for the first time of the cool air on his naked leg, and below it a vague throbbing at the ankle. And once aware, he couldn’t shake off the reality of it. Then it wasn’t a dream. Where had he been? What done? The light. No light in the windows upstairs … His father. His mother. The quarrel. The whip. Aunt Bertha, Nathan, the rabbi, the cellar, Leo, the beads — all swooped upon him, warred for preeminence in his brain. No. It wasn’t a dream. He opened his eyes again, hoping reality would refute conviction. No it wasn’t a dream. The same two faces leaned over him, the same hedge of humanity focused eyes on his face.

“Looks like he’s still too weak,” said the interne.

“Yuh goin’ t’take him wid ye?”

“No!” Grimacing emphatically, the interne shut the black bag. “Why, he’ll be able to walk in less than five minutes. Just as soon as he gets his breath. Where does he live?”

“I don’ know. None o’ dese guys know— Say, w’ere d’yuh live? Huh? Yuh wanna go home, dontchuh?”

“N-nint’ street.” He quavered. “S-sebm fawdynine.”

“Nint’ Street.” The crowd reechoed. “Say ufficeh,” a coatless man came forward. “Det’s on de cunner Evenyuh D.”

“I know! I know!” The policeman waved him back with surly hand. “Say, Doc, will ye give us a lift.”

“Sure. Just pick him up.”

“Yea, ooops! Dere ye go!” Burly arms went under his knees and back, lifted him easily, carried him through the gaping crowd to the ambulance. His head swam again with the motion. He lay slack on a long leather cot between greenish walls, aware of faces whisking by the open doorway, peering in. The interne seated himself at the back, called to the driver. The bell clanged, and as the wagon jolted forward, the policeman mounted the low step in the rear. Behind the ambulance, rolling on rubber-tired wheels on the cobbles, he could hear the voices calling the way. “Nint’ Street! Nint’ Street!” The throb in his ankle was growing in depth, in dullness of pain, permeating upward like an aching tide within the marrow. What had he done? What had he done? What would they say when they brought him upstairs. His father, what—? He moaned.