Jesse Ball - Samedi the Deafness

James went down the stairs slowly. Through the curtain he could see some kind of deliveryman standing on the porch. He opened the door.

— Delivery for Sim.

The man held out a small, flat package.

James took the package and signed for it. With a nod, the deliveryman went away, back into the world of large, empty trucks and small, flat packages.

James shut the door and sat down on the hall-bench. He had always wanted to have such a bench. As he grew older, slowly he had procured for himself more and more of the things he had wanted slightly. Finally, it was the bench's turn, and he had procured it and set it down in this hall. Really, he never sat on it. Certainly, this was the most momentous thing that had ever befallen the bench.

James opened the package. Inside there were two smaller packages.

James opened the first. It was a letter that had been folded upon itself many times. He unfolded it.

It was quite short and forcefully clear:

Dear James Sim,

Your inquiries are not desired. Neither are they appreciated. You have once been warned against continuing, yet still you continue. This is one-half of your final warning.

The letter was not signed.

James opened the other small package. Something soft was inside. For a moment, he was afraid it was human skin, but his recoiling was checked by the smell of rubber. He pulled the rubber-thing out and let it hang. It was some kind of mask, some kind of Halloween mask. He held it up. It looked like a human face, but what sort he could not say. A man's, certainly.

He went in front of the hall mirror and tried the mask on.

With horror, he realized it was a rubber mask of his own face. They had sent him a rubber mask of his own face. He tore it off, but could not bring himself to throw it in the garbage.

How had they made it? For how long had he been observed?

There was nothing to do but to bury the thing.

James's Fear of Masks

Over the cradle in which James had lain, it had been the habit of James's father to make peculiar faces. The young child, unbeknownst to himself or his father, had then formed a deep-seated fear of masks that would plague him all the years of his life. His mother, witnessing these displays, would often chide his father roughly, saying, Come away from there, Morris; you'll only make him cry . Which was ridiculous too in its own way, as James Sim had been the most clement of babies, and was never known to cry, even when provoked or tortured, as he often was, by father and brother.

The Hall Mirror

The hall mirror too, in its way, had been guest to a series of uncomfortable events. Previous to its life above the bench in the front hall of James's house, it had been owned by a procuress, being that it was such a fine and beautiful mirror, so nice to look upon. She had required that the various women who came beneath her hand smile gently into the mirror whenever they passed it in that house of assignation. It was thus the receptacle of a great many lovely likenesses and mocking eyes.

James stood then in the hall, holding the note. He became aware suddenly of a feeling in himself — he was being watched. He looked slowly over his left shoulder into the mirror, and through the mirror, through the hall door into the kitchen and the window beyond. Sure enough, there was a face there. He did not give away this sudden knowledge, but pretended to examine his face in the mirror. He turned away then, and took a step down the hall. Whoever it was at the window could now not see him. He ran quickly to the cellar stair and down into the cellar. Across the cellar he ran. Slowly he unbolted the second side door. He could see the coated figure of the snoop through the narrow windows that ran the length of the cellar.

What to do?

He opened the door, jumped through it, and tackled the man from behind.

The man fell beneath him. It was not a man. It was a girl. But she had not shrieked or made any move to escape.

Now, quite quietly and simply, she spoke.

— Would you mind getting up? You really don't know me well enough for this yet.

He got to his feet. She did as well.

She was wearing now a sort of prefabricated factory coverall drawn tight around the waist. Over it, a coat with a high collar.

— What's the meaning of this? he asked. Why are you snooping about?

— What do you mean? she asked. Nobody's snooping. I've just got a crush on you, and I've come around to see if you'll take me on a date.

— That's a lie, said James. Who sent the rubber mask?

— I did, said Anastasia. I thought it would be funny.

— It's not funny at all, said James. And furthermore, you're part of. . something else. I know you are. This business in the paper.

— Well, that's not a very nice thing to accuse a girl of, just after having met her, and her having returned to you your wallet that you dropped, and furthermore her having come around to your place. And besides, I'm not the sort of girl who chases after men. You should feel lucky that I'm being so forward with you.

To this James said nothing, but looked at her with narrowed eyes.

It was his favorite toy. What was it? A little wooden bird painted the color red. It was a red color, it really was, a shining lovely red such as a boy might dream upon, looking at it in sunlight, in shadow, with candles, and at firesides. But do not suppose that it was a songbird or any such frivolous sort. No, his bird was an owl. He had found it one day when Ansilon told him to look under the floorboards of his room by knocking everywhere with his hammer. When he found the red owl, Ansilon was pleased. It is your father's owl, he said. Do not let him see it. He left it there many years ago with a filament of his bone wrapped around a piece of ivory at the toy's heart. He believed it would bring him good luck, and it has. But now, my little friend, that luck will be yours. Oh, thank you, James had said. Thank you. No one ever had a friend like you. Nor will they, said Ansilon, nor will they. And when he would take the red owl to the seashore, he would hide it from his father in a Russian fur hat which James insisted upon wearing at all times. No one but James and Ansilon understood this absurd practice. Why was the boy wearing a Russian fur cap to the seashore? But James was always finding things, old coins, arrowheads, and such, which he gave away freely and generously, and so no one said anything to him about the fur cap until one day his father burned it while he was off at school. Regrettably, the bird was inside. That day his father became very ill and was never the same again. In fact, he died within the hour.

IN THE KITCHEN

Anastasia sat at the kitchen table. She no longer spoke with an accent. She confessed that her name was not Anastasia. It was, she said, Lily Violet.

— You've obviously made up that name, said James, who was busy setting the pot to boil on the stove.

— No one would make up a name like that, said Lily Violet. It's too far-fetched.

James considered this. Perhaps she was right.

Lily had taken her coat off. She came over and stood behind James.

James turned around and pushed her away.

— What's the big idea? he said loudly.

— Nothing, she said, and sat down again. What is it? You don't like girls?

James ignored this question.

— So, your position is that you are not a part of the plot that's in the newspaper, that furthermore, you have nothing to do with it, and that you have met me only by chance?

— I have met you, said Lily Violet, only by chance. The rest is too silly for me to even answer. Anyway, don't you think I'm a nice sort?