Jesse Ball - Samedi the Deafness

James said that he had not killed Mayne, not at all. Mayne had jumped, he maintained. There was no reason for him to kill Mayne. It made no sense at all.

— But why were you in the apartment in the first place? she asked. That's what no one understands. Not that we need to. No one would ever ask you about it. It's your business, of course.

In fact, don't answer. Don't feel that you need to. Anyway, come back to bed. It's cold here by the window.

She hopped back over to the bed, flopped onto it, and crawled under the covers.

James continued looking out the window. It was Wednesday, he thought. Wednesday. Three days till Saturday. He wished he could speak to McHale again, and judge if the man was mad or not.

He turned. Grieve was up on one elbow, looking at him. Her bare shoulder and arm were out of the sewn bag. What fine skin.

Grieve cocked her head, and made a noise like a crow.

— That's the noise, she said, that crows make to warn the other crows when something that isn't a crow is coming through the woods.

The Garden

In the center of the house there was a garden. James stood by it and watched a man with scissors. First the scissors were sharpened for a very long time. The noise was somehow cruel.

Never, thought James, would I want to hear such noise through a window, to hear such a noise and not know why it had come.

The shears trimmed the plants held by the man. So sharp were they that they did not seem to touch that which they cut. The man did not look at James. All his great attention was spread throughout the garden. He was broad of face and feature, broad of limb and leg. He moved with a slow precision. Nothing seemed to escape him. His effect on the garden was noticeable. As he moved it seemed to order itself around him.

James was sure that it was Samedi. Never had he felt so lessened by the presence of another. Like a child, James turned in his own hand. Like a window he shut.

He stepped back, stepped back again, and found himself at the door. He stepped back through it, shut it, and leaned against the other side.

— What do I know? asked James. What do I give myself to know?

And he knew then that the task before him was too large, that a man like Samedi could entertain him like a passing notion, but would never be persuaded by his speech or swayed by his actions.

A gravity then, as of a sickroom bound to the passing of its few.

James went along the hallways, went upon the stairs. What he would do he did not know, but at times he heard the ringing of bells; at times he froze. Yet none came to him, and there were no words in his head but those he himself spoke in indecision.

Today he said, I will explore the house. I will learn what I can, and then make my escape.

Upon the porch he passed McHale, dressed as though returning from town. James made as if to speak, but McHale scowled and passed, shaking his head.

Good lord, thought James. I forgot the rule. He looked at the bell in his hand.

James had breakfast on the porch. It was brought to him by the maid, Grieve, but he pretended that he did not know her. He supposed she would have been fired if it was found out that she was helping him. So, he gave her the cold shoulder. This seemed correct; she did the same to him.

The omelet was quite good. He ate it with satisfaction. Peppery, he thought. And the toast had been buttered while still hot. Perfect.

On the grass, children were playing. Where could they have come from? thought James.

And then he realized that there were children everywhere. Children on the porch, children on the lawn, children behind him in the house. Never had he seen so many children in one place.

— Why so many children? James asked the man seated next to him.

As if out of a long sleep, the old man answered slowly:

— It is a field trip. Every year the children come. Oh, how we who live here long for and await this day. Can you see their little hats, their little shirts? Have you ever seen a shoe so small?

The old man snatched at one of the children running past, catching the back of the little fellow's overalls and dragging him to him.

— No! said a nurse, suddenly appearing out the doorway.

She slapped the old man's hand with a ruler. He let go of the child, who ran off happily to the lawn.

The nurse gave a long, considered look to the old man.

— Olsen, we don't want to put you back in, do we?He said nothing, but grumbled quietly and looked into his lap.

— I said, we don't want to put you back in, do we? Do we, Olsen?He said that he did not want to go back in. Not for any reason.

— Good, said the nurse. Good.

It was the afternoon, and James went down a long staircase. He found it at the back of a linen closet, with a sign posted:

WINE CELLAR

Certainly James wanted to see the wine cellar. For instance, what might be in the wine cellar? Hidden things, etc.

James proceeded down the staircase that was one long unbroken stair, perhaps two stories long, with very flat slanted steps. It was virtually a chute. At the bottom, a small room for coats and such. He was not wearing a coat. He proceeded past the coatroom.

The next room was a while in coming, for his eyes had to adjust to the low light. Small pulsing bulbs were set into the ground. The wine cellar was enormous and stretched away into the darkness.

— The best of what we have is near the back, said a voice.

James turned.

A man was standing there, handsome but severe. James recalled McHale's description.

— Hello, he said. I came down to—

— No, no, said the man. No need to explain anything to me. I'm not the one in charge of you.

— You say, said James, the good wines are at the back?

He looked away down the long aisles.

— Yes, said the man. By the way, I'm James, James Carlyle.

— Sim, said James Sim. James Sim. But I guess you—

— Know that, yes. We've been having our little chats about you. Yes, we have.

He gave James a certain knowing look. He was severe as McHale had described, severe in the way that one expects from someone who devotes himself to an unrewarded discipline, a discipline not unrewarding in itself, but unrewarded by the world in general. The strangeness of meeting the world's greatest botanist in the late twentieth century; the strangeness of a tailor who makes clothing only for puppets. These people are severe on themselves because no one else will be severe on them, and if they are not, then their art will no longer exist in its fullness.

Yes, thought James, I like his sort.

They walked together down the aisles, not speaking.

— I wonder, said Carlyle, what it would be like to be shut up in glass and tucked away in the ground like this. To have one's redness of blood sway slightly at the world's turn, at the pull of the moon, at the tremor of a near footstep. But to be passed again and again and never chosen. Do you think they want to be chosen, James?

— I couldn't say, said James. For myself, I would want to be broken against the side of a ship by a distinguished-looking older man in front of a cheering crowd prior to the sailing of said ship on its maiden voyage, which would also be its last, as the ship would sink when it reached deep water and no one would survive. Songs would be sung of the ship. In that way I would survive.

— Well, said Carlyle, I can see why Grieve likes you.