Jesse Ball - Samedi the Deafness

— He never goes out in public, or in the sun. His skin is pale. He is with a younger man, who dresses well, scornful, black hair, a childish face.

— But how would I find them? asked James. What would be the point?

— First, look for a man, Estrainger, his name is. He lives near the Chinese district. Poses as a playwright, but really he's an agent of. . Samedi's. About fifty. Fifty or sixty. Gray hair. Small.

McHale's efforts were dwindling. He lay for a while, just breathing with his eyes closed. James decided to go for the ambulance. He started to move off, but McHale spoke again.

— Another under the name of Sermon. Supposedly a psychologist. Young and conceited. Surrounds himself with women.

— What's this Samedi's name? asked James. Who are these people?

— It's useless, said McHale, it's useless.

He trailed off, mumbling.

— They've ended me, ended me. I knew they would. I told Thomas. I told him they would; he put me away.

— What are you saying? asked James. I don't understand.

— The daughter, Grieve, said McHale. The handler, Torquin. Many of them in a house, I can't even say where. I was held there. I jumped the wall, ran for hours.

His speech trailed off again into a mumbling of names and phrases. James could not make them out. All around McHale the grass bore the deep stamp of his bleeding. His chest heaved and bucked and slowed. McHale was right — there wouldn't have been time for an ambulance. But who was to blame? The thought came closer, became more definite. Whoever had done it must still be near.

James stood and looked hastily about him. No one was upon the meadow or on the near paths. He could see past the second bridge, but not all the way to the first. There were boats upon the river, but too far to make out figures. There were people on the bridge. None seemed to be watching, though in truth he couldn't tell.

The best thing to do, of course, was to leave immediately. This is what comes of going out for a walk in the morning. Anyone who leaves their house deserves what they get.

McHale was absent when James looked back; his body, unmoving, was now more a part of the ground than of the world itself.

I shouldn't stay, thought James. Again, he hesitated. He felt better now that the man could no longer demand anything of him. By being dead, he had made himself no longer James's business.

And so James hurried away, and when he had reached the street and boarded a bus, and ridden the bus for seven blocks, he felt much better, and for the next hour he pretended that none of it had happened.

The Hour After That

James bought a newspaper — the first was still on the bench where he had left it.

AN ITEM IN THE NEWS:

QUESTIONS REMAIN OVER MAN'S SUICIDE OUTSIDE WHITE HOUSE

Washington, September 27: Federal authorities have commenced a probe into a suicide yesterday that occurred outside the White House gates.

According to eyewitnesses, at nine A.M., William Goshen, thirty-eight, a native of Washington and practicing psychologist, cut his own throat with a knife as he stood facing the White House. He was pronounced dead upon the arrival of paramedics.

The letter, which gives no addressee, was made public at an afternoon White House press conference:

SEVEN DAYS AND THEN THE ROD. PATHS THAT HAVE BEEN TAKEN ARE WRONG AND MUST BE CORRECTED. THOSE WHO CAN SHOULD NOW DO WHAT THEY WILL TO CHANGE THE WORLD AND LEAVE THEIR NATION IF THEY DO NOT LIKE WHAT IT DOES.

SEVEN DAYS, THEN. SEVEN DAYS AND THEN THE ROD.

SAMEDI

As of press time, authorities have few insights into the incident. The signature “Samedi” has returned no clues, and it is unclear whether the moniker refers to Goshen himself, or some other member of a possible organization. Despite exhaustive research, Goshen has not been linked to any terrorist groups or fringe religious organizations.

Goshen is survived by a wife, from whom he separated earlier this year, and a son, age nine.

A Few Minutes Passed, Then James

motioned with his hand. The waitress, sitting at the far end of the counter, rose and came over.

— What'll it be, then?

Her mouth was pursed as she said this. She was of the sort who purse their mouths in order to defend themselves from a thing that people cannot defend themselves against. This undefined thing, this bleakness, arises much in those who work late at night in places lit by fluorescent lights, places attended by people who are strangers to each other and will always remain so.

— More hot water for the tea. Also. .

James tapped the menu above a particular item. In this way he made it clear that he preferred to be served rather than to speak. He prized such gestures, and kept them in a sort of wooden box. That is, he thought of them as being kept in a wooden box. It was his specialty, of course, to think of things in particular ways, and thus have hold of them whenever he should need to.

What Should Be Done

There was a pencil on the counter. James wrote on the back of a napkin:

What should be done?

Beneath it, he wrote:

nothing

This he crossed out. Beneath that:

tell someone, the police.

He looked at the napkin. He felt then that there were two of them in the room, he and the napkin, and that one of them would have to go. He crumpled up the napkin.

The waitress came back. She had with her the specified items. James took them. He felt somehow that by placing them upon the counter in some way, a solution would unfold itself. He poured more hot water into his cup. Steam rose. That was good, he thought. Steam was good. It had often been a solution to problems. Why not now? The eggs and toast that he had ordered no longer interested him. He ate them methodically, looking up every now and then as one does in public places to see if anyone was watching him. Someone was.

Someone Was

a girl in a well-tailored yellow dress came over when their eyes met.

— Say, James, she began.

— I'm sorry, he said, do I know you?

Certainly he had never seen the girl before.

— I shouldn't think so, she said.

Her face was framed by short black hair. She spoke with a thick accent. I will not marry you, thought James. You are not suitable at all. I don't like your yellow-dress. I don't like your hair-cut, and I don't like your approaching-of-men in public places. But, he was smiling.

— You dropped this, I think.

She was holding James's wallet.

James took it from her. He examined the contents. Nothing was missing.

— Nothing is missing, she said.

He took a long look at her.

— How could you know that? he asked. Someone could have taken something before you found it.

— Not true, she said. I saw you drop it, and then I picked it up.

— When was this? James asked.

— On the bus.

They looked at each other. James felt that he had been outmaneuvered. He did not like this feeling very much.

— Well, then, you must have followed me off the bus to here. You must have sat here against the wall a whole hour before deciding to give me my wallet back. Who would do such a thing?

He said this somewhat triumphantly.

— I did, she said. Only this moment did I decide to return your wallet to you. Before that, I was making up my mind.

To this James had no reply. Her eyes were like arrow slits. He shifted slightly on the stool.

— Anyway, she said. My name's Anastasia. Just like the murdered Tsarevna. I know all about you, but you don't have to worry.

She started to walk away.

— I mean, she continued, you shouldn't worry. There are always things to worry over, but we can't help that, can we? It's better not to get involved in things that we don't understand, I've always thought. I make it my business to understand only what's in front of me. I don't cause trouble, and trouble isn't caused me. Do you know what I mean? See you around.