Рэй Брэдбери: The Man Upstairs

He remembered how carefully and expertly Grandmother would fondle the cold cut guts of the chicken and withdraw the marvels therein; the wet shining loops of meat- smelling intestine, the muscled lump of heart, the gizzard with the collection of seeds in it. How neatly and nicely Grandma would slit the chicken and push her fat little hand in to deprive it of its medals. These would be segregated, some in pans of water, others in paper to be thrown to the dog later, perhaps. And then the ritual of taxidermy, stuffing the bird with watered, seasoned bread, and performing surgery with a swift, bright needle, stitch after pulled-tight stitch.

This was one of the prime thrills of Douglas's eleven-year-old life span.

Altogether, he counted twenty knives in the various squeaking drawers of the magic kitchen table from which Grandma, a kindly, gentle-faced, white-haired old witch, drew paraphernalia for her miracles.

Douglas was to be quiet. He could stand across the table from Grandmama, his freckled nose tucked over the edge, watching, hut any loose boy-talk might interfere with the spell. It was a wonder when Grandma brandished silver shakers over the bird, supposedly sprinkling showers of mummy-dust and pulverized Indian bones, muttering mystical verses under her toothless breath.

«Grammy,» said Douglas at last, breaking the silence. «Am I like that inside?» He pointed at the chicken.

«Yes,» said Grandma. «A little more orderly and presentable, but just about the same…»

«And more _of_ it!» added Douglas, proud of his guts.

«Yes,» said Grandma. «More of it.»

«Grandpa has lots more'n me. His sticks out in front so he can rest his elbows on it.»

Grandma laughed and shook her head.

Douglas said, «And Lucie Williams, down the street, she…»

«Hush, child!» cried Grandma.

«But she's got…»

«Never you mind what she's got! That's different.»

«But why is _she_ different?»

«A darning-needle dragon-fly is coming by some day and sew up your mouth,» said Grandma firmly.

Douglas waited, then asked, «How do you know I've got insides like that, Grandma?»

«Oh, go 'way, now!»

The front doorbell rang.

Through the front-door glass as he ran down the hall, Douglas saw a straw hat. The bell jangled again and again. Douglas opened the door.

«Good morning, child, is the landlady at home?»

Cold gray eyes in a long, smooth, walnut-colored face gazed upon Douglas. The man was tall, thin, and carried a suitcase, a briefcase, an umbrella under one bent arm, gloves rich and thick and gray on his thin fingers, and wore a horribly new straw hat.

Douglas backed up. «She's busy.»

«I wish to rent her upstairs room, as advertised.»

«We've got ten boarders, and it's already rented; go away!»

«Douglas!» Grandma was behind him suddenly. «How do you do?» she said to the stranger. «Never mind this child.»

Unsmiling, the man stepped stiffly in. Douglas watched them ascend out of sight up the stairs, heard Grandma detailing the conveniences of the upstairs room. Soon she hurried down to pile linens from the linen closet on Douglas and send him scooting up with them.

Douglas paused at the room's threshold. The room was changed oddly, simply because the stranger had been in it a moment. The straw hat lay brittle and terrible upon the bed, the umbrella leaned stiff against one wall like a dead bat with dark wings folded.

Douglas blinked at the umbrella.

The stranger stood in the center of the changed room, tall, tall.

«Here!» Douglas littered the bed with supplies. «We eat at noon sharp, and if you're late coming down the soup'll get cold. Grandma fixes it so it will, every time!»

The tall strange man counted out ten new copper pennies and tinkled them in Douglas' blouse pocket. «We shall be friends,» he said, grimly.

It was funny, the man having nothing but pennies. Lots of them. No silver at all, no dimes, no quarters. Just new copper pennies.

Douglas thanked him glumly. «I'll drop these in my dime bank when I get them changed into a dime. I got six dollars and fifty cents in dimes all ready for my camp trip in August.»

«I must wash now,» said the tall strange man.

Once, at midnight, Douglas had wakened to hear a storm rumbling outside-the cold hard wind shaking the house, the rain driving against the window. And then a lightning bolt had landed outside the window with a silent, terrific concussion. He remembered that fear of looking about at his room, seeing it strange and awful in the instantaneous light.

So it was, now, in this room. He stood looking up at the stranger. This room was no longer the same, but changed indefinably because this man, quick as a lightning bolt, had shed his light about it. Douglas backed up slowly as the stranger advanced.

The door closed in his face.

The wooden fork went up with mashed potatoes, came down empty. Mr. Koberman, for that was his name, had brought the wooden fork and wooden knife and spoon with him when Grandma called lunch.

«Mrs. Spaulding,» he said, quietly, «my own cutlery; please use it. I will have lunch today, but from tomorrow on, only breakfast and supper.»

Grandma bustled in and out, bearing steaming tureens of soup and beans and mashed potatoes to impress her new boarder, while Douglas sat rattling his silverware on his plate, because he had discovered it irritated Mr. Koberman.

«I know a trick,» said Douglas. «Watch.» He picked a fork-tine with his fingernail. He pointed at various sectors of the table, like a magician. Wherever he pointed, the sound of the vibrating forktine emerged, like a metal elfin voice. Simply done, of course. He pressed the fork handle on the table-top, secretly. The vibration came from the wood like a sounding board. It looked quite magical. «There, there, and _there!_» exclaimed Douglas, happily plucking the fork again. He pointed at Mr. Koberman's soup and the noise came from it.

Mr. Koberman's walnut-colored face became hard and firm and awful. He pushed the soup bowl away violently, his lips twisting. He fell back in his chair.

Grandma appeared. «Why, what's wrong, Mr. Koberman?»

«I cannot eat this soup.»

«Why?»

«Because I am full and can eat no more. Thank you.»

Mr. Koberman left the room, glaring.

«What did you do, just then?» asked Grandma at Douglas, sharply.

«Nothing. Grandma, why does he eat with wooden spoons?»

«Yours not to question! When do you go back to school, anyway?»

«Seven weeks.»

«Oh, my land!» said Grandma.

Mr. Koberman worked nights. Each morning at eight he arrived mysteriously home, devoured a very small breakfast, and then slept soundlessly in his room all through the dreaming hot daytime, until the huge supper with all the other boarders at night.

Mr. Koberman's sleeping habits made it necessary for Douglas to be quiet. This was unbearable. So, whenever Grandma visited down the street, Douglas stomped up and down stairs beating a drum, bouncing golf balls, or just screaming for three minutes outside Mr. Koberman's door, or flushing the toilet seven times in succession.

Mr. Koberman never moved. His room was silent, dark. He did not complain. There was no sound. He slept on and on. It was very strange.

Douglas felt a pure white flame of hatred burn inside himself with a steady, unflickering beauty. Now that room was Koberman Land. Once it had been flowery bright when Miss Sadlowe lived there. Now it was stark, bare, cold, clean, everything in its place, alien and brittle.

Douglas climbed upstairs on the fourth morning.

Halfway to the second floor was a large sun-filled window, framed by six-inch panes of orange, purple, blue, red and burgundy glass. In the enchanted early mornings when the sun fell through to strike the landing and slide down the stair banister, Douglas stood entranced at this window peering at the world through the multicolored windows.