Jesse Ball - Samedi the Deafness

She went out the door.

The waitress came over.

— She said you would pay for her meal. I hope it's true.

Her face was frank, and a little concerned.

— Of course, said James shortly. Of course.

The waitress gave him the two checks, his own and Anastasia's. Anastasia had ordered a ham sandwich cut into twelve pieces. This was specified on the receipt. There had been an additional charge of 40 cents for the cutting. She had also ordered a glass of pressed orange juice.

He pictured her in her yellow-dress eating the ham sandwich piece by piece, drinking the orange juice and watching him. He felt that he had been used in some way.

James uncrumpled the napkin and looked at it again.

He had had his wallet when he got off the bus. After all, he had used it when he bought the newspaper. The girl was lying. Where had she followed him from? If she was the agent of someone else, and they in turn were working for someone, then who, ultimately, had given the order to follow him? She wouldn't have done it on her own, not a girl like that.

Someone must have seen him speaking with McHale. But they mustn't be sure. They couldn't know how much he told me; otherwise they wouldn't let me walk about like this. It'd be too dangerous for them.

The one thing I have, then, he thought, is that they don't know what I know.

Fifteen minutes passed in this frame of mind. An hour. The diner was now full of different people, all seeming to be ordering, seeming to be eating, seeming to be conversing intently. James felt comprehensively suspicious.

And furthermore, the clouds had turned from their dispersing to gather again. Beyond the walls of the diner, sheets of rain were strung all through the streets, upon the houses, the buildings, the trees and yards. Such a rain seemed to conceal within its clothing things dangerous to James Sim. He was suddenly certain that the letter in the newspaper was real, that Samedi somehow did have a strange power, and could, if he chose, cause the catastrophe that was now contemplated. But could he really? Perhaps.

A trembling then, slight, at the ankle and thumb. Someone could say to someone else in a far place, once acquainted with all the facts of the case, that it had been he, James Sim, who could have done something to prevent it. This afterwards, of course, after the tragedy, in an altered world.

This far conversation in mind, James went out into the rain and was soon completely drenched.

As though at the announcement of his own accomplished execution,

James approached 2 Verit Street. This was the address he had found that morning when, instead of going in to work, he had begun his inquiries at the various theatres near the Chinese district.

Soon enough he had spoken to a girl who had auditioned for a part in a play directed by the man, Estrainger. She had gone to his home to do so. It was her considered opinion that the man was no good as a director, but that his plays were quite well written. She wondered how it was that anyone could write a play at all. Basing things on real life, she thought, was easy enough. But to make things up entirely, well, that was something else. I mean, it seems like you would have to be psychotic. How could you remember what was even real? James had loudly agreed with her; he too, he said, wondered how anyone might remember what was real. Then he disengaged himself from the conversation and left.

An hour later, he stood before 2 Verit Street.

None of the buzzers was marked. James looked them over slowly. A man was smoking a cigarette on the stoop. James turned to him.

— Do you know which is Estrainger?

— Going up to see Estrainger, eh, that old fox? You don't look the type, if you don't mind my saying.

The man spoke out of the corner of his mouth in a sort of insolently apologetic way.

James repeated his question.

— I could tell you which buzzer was his if I thought it would help you. But he won't let you in no matter what you say. He's terrified of the police. Are you a cop? You look like a cop. Man, it's bad to look like a cop if you ain't one. Is that your thing? You go around looking like a policeman? Wouldn't do it if I was you. Not for one hour. Not even for an hour. Get yourself hurt.

He threw his half-smoked cigarette on the ground, rubbed it into the ground with his foot, and then cocked his head to look at James.

Just then a boy came up, slipped in the door, and hit the buzzer. A man's voice, then, came through the intercom.

— Who is it?

— Willy. .

— Come on up.

The boy entered the building, and James followed, leaving behind his new acquaintance.

— Won't do you any good, the man said.

The Boy Had Entered the Apartment

James heard the door close after him. He had stayed behind on the stairs, so as not to arouse suspicion, and had listened carefully to hear which door it was. Now he stood in the passage outside. Through the door he could hear the sound of voices, arguing. A girl's voice, and the voice from the intercom. Must be Estrainger, thought James.

He waited. What was he going to do anyway, once he'd found him? Estrainger was supposed to be small. Maybe James could intimidate him into giving up the information. He stood in the hall. Should he knock?

A door opened behind him, and a voice whispered.

— Come, here, quick. Quick! You!

James spun around. The boy who had been downstairs was gesturing to him. James went through the door. Inside was a washing machine and a dryer. It was clearly the apartment's back door. The boy leaned against the closed door.

— You're with the police, right?

— No, said James. Not me.

— I know you are, said the boy. I want you to arrest the man in the next room. He's hit my mom. They're fighting right now.

Indeed, the noise of an argument could be heard quite clearly.

What an opportunity, thought James. He would burst in on Estrainger. The man would be confused, taken aback. He thought of the great advantage he would have over such a man at such a time.

He readied himself, threw open the door, and stepped through.

It was a rather shabby apartment that greeted his eyes. A man stood in the center of the room; a woman leaned against the wall, in tears. Both gasped as he came in.

— They've come for you, said the woman. And I don't mind a bit.

— You won't get me so easily, said the man.

There was a pistol on the dresser. He leapt for it, but James was quicker. In a moment the pistol was in his hand. He leveled it at the man.

— Now listen, said James.

— I won't go to jail, said the man. Not again.

In a second he was at the window; in another he had leapt through.

The woman screamed.

From outside, an impact, a loud noise, and screaming.

James went to the window. A tableau had been drawn below by a master draftsman. All the elements of careful composition were present. The body, at the drawing's center, splayed out on the concrete, and around it, in concentric circles, the varying degrees of affectedness. Already it seemed a crowd had gathered. People were looking up. James pulled back and drew the blinds.

The woman was looking at him.

— Are you going to get a medal for that? she asked.

She seemed profoundly unhappy. James did not remark on this. He couldn't believe Estrainger had jumped. It was a disaster. The gun he was holding he stuck in his pocket. He pulled open a drawer. A letter was in there. He took it out and examined the envelope.

Leonard Mayne

2 Verit Street

God damn it, thought James. Who is Leonard Mayne?

— The man who jumped, said James suddenly, turning towards the woman, what was his name?

— What was his name? she asked coldly. What kind of idiot are you? You come barging into an apartment and you don't even know the man's name?