Jesse Ball - Samedi the Deafness

— I will not marry you, said 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.

— You don't like my hair-cut? said Lily Violet, looking then at herself in the window. It had become dark outside, and the room was reflected and distorted in triplicate, for alongside of the kitchen there were three broad windows. She ran her hands through her short hair and looked at him.

— Well, to be fair, said James, it's all right.

He felt suddenly thoroughly tired. He felt he had been outmaneuvered again, but this time he did not even know how it had happened.

He went into the hall and sat down on the bench for the second time that day. The mask was still there. He didn't like it, not one bit. There are certain items that one does not want to have in one's vicinity, that when one learns of their existence, one feels a bit worried that perhaps one day they will be present in the vicinity of oneself. Such was this. But who would expect to be sent a rubber mask of one's own face?

— Really, said Lily, entering the hall. It isn't as bad as all that.

She sat beside him on the bench.

— Why don't I be your girlfriend, and take care of you, and we can go on little outings?

— What are you doing here? asked James. This is completely ridiculous.

— You ask so many questions, said Lily Violet.

She went and got her coat, then looked James carefully in the eye and curtsied in an exquisite and practiced manner. The door closed softly behind her, and James was left once more alone.

Shall we say, James did not arrive at his appointment at the doctor's office? He was at the door, at the door to the building, upon the stroke of three, having decided he would not bother to come early, when two men in large overcoats forced him into a waiting car.

An Item in the News

THIRD “SAMEDI” SUICIDE BAFFLES AUTHORITIES

Washington, September 29: The suicide of an unidentified man outside the White House yesterday, the third such death in as many days, has resulted in increased concern on the part of federal authorities, while yielding no further leads into the identity of “Samedi,” the author of the cryptic notes found with all three bodies.

The suicide of the man, whose face was mostly destroyed by the blast of the forty-four-caliber pistol that ended his life, differs slightly from the first two suicides, in which William Goshen and Albrecht Moran slashed their own throats. Nonetheless, the note found with the latest man has been confirmed through handwriting analysis as the work of the same author, signed “Samedi”:

TO GROW GOLD ON TREES FOR MEN WHO OWN ALREADY ALL THE ORCHARDS? HOW FAR HAVE OUR IDEALS, OUR PRINCIPLES FALLEN? AN EXAMPLE SHALL BE MADE, FOR THE LIVES OF MEN ARE LONGER THAN THE LIVES OF NATIONS.

SAMEDI

In a White House press conference today, the president decried the incidents. “We must not give in to fear, or the threat of violence,” he said. “Democracy is and always has been our right. Individuals cannot control the mechanisms of popular government.”

No further details into the nature of the investigation had been given as of press time.

The man in the front seat set the newspaper down.

— Quite a note, ain't it? he said to the one next to him.

— That it is, that it is. What does our new friend think? said the man, looking over his shoulder.

James sat in the backseat. Beside him, the third man.

— What do you think, sweetheart? asked the third man. It's written so nicely. So short. How could you not like it?

— I like it plenty, said James. Where are you taking me?

— He wants to know where we're taking him, said the third man to the second. Sweetheart wants to know.

— Of course he does, said the second man. Isn't it just like sweetheart to ask, and so nicely, where his new friends are taking him? Isn't it nice?

— Enough out of the two of you, said the first man. Everything worth saying already got said.

He seemed to be in charge. He put the car into gear and pulled out into traffic. The car had only traveled a few blocks after picking James up, for they'd stopped almost immediately thereafter to get the newspaper. Now they were heading in a northwest direction, out of the city center. That would be. . James closed his eyes and saw in his head a map of the city, clear as though he were looking at it set on a table before him; that would be. . towards the wealthy section, large houses, estates, and so forth. James had gone there before on the company dime. Of course, nothing was definite; the car could be going anywhere until it stopped.

James had thought about struggling against the men, but it had happened quickly, and something in their manner suggested that there would be no violence unless he began it. Such men were practiced at conveying such subtleties. Or perhaps it was a lie. Perhaps they would take him to an empty sump and bury him there, where he would never be found. In his head, James had memorized the faces of the men, the license plate, make, and model of the car. He knew their voices, each, by heart. But it was useless to even bother. The men hadn't frisked him; that much James knew. His hands were tied, but in his coat pocket he could feel the weight of the pistol he'd taken from 2 Verit Street.

Of course, he couldn't be sure that it was loaded. Mayne had gone for it as if it were, but that was no assurance. He should have checked last night. If he drew it now and it was empty, it would be his own fault. That and everything else.

It was a fine autumn day, really, and the air through the open windows smelled like life. James could feel on the backs of his hands and his face the crispness of the day. The car wound on pretty roads through hedged estates. They had indeed come where James thought they would. After many turns, all of which James marked in his head, they pulled up to a gate. The second man got out and walked up to an intercom where he spoke for a moment, presumably with a guard on the interior. The gate swung back, the man got back in, and the car drove on up a curving drive. The hedge ceased along the sides of the road; an immense lawn and a large mansion could be seen. There were several cars pulled up in front of it.

I wonder, thought James, am I being brought before Samedi? The weight of the pistol in his coat reassured him. Since they'd tied his hands in front of him, he could still reach it if he had to. Not that James had had much practice firing a pistol. But he felt he could, if he had to.

The car stopped. The men got out and pulled James upright.

— Into the house with you, said the first man.

He led James up the walk towards the house. Through the windows, James could see the vague outlines of people watching. Have they, he wondered, made up their minds about me? Then he thought of the letter in the paper. Perhaps it's not me at all they're looking at. After all, the future is always outside of the room one is in, beyond the windows, beyond the doors. If this is Samedi's house, who could live here and not think constantly of the seventh day?

James was taken to a sort of sitting room. His hands were unbound, and his coat was taken from him. It was hung over the back of a chair on the far side of the room. Too far, really, for James to jump for it. Anyway, this gun wasn't lucky for jumping at. Mayne had learned that lesson.

The room was done up in a sort of eighteenth-century style. Engravings on the wall, were they Hogarth?