John Banville - Nightspawn

‘He’s Hel— Mrs Kyd’s brother.’

‘Ah yes, of course. And would it be permitted to ask what kind of lessons you are giving him?’

‘English.’

‘I see. Hum.’

‘What did you think?’

‘Oh nothing, nothing. But I thought you might have some useful lessons to teach him from your long years in the university of life.’

‘I teach him English.’

In spite of his sarcasm, I think that Rabin really liked me. He shrugged, and stamped away to his desk at the back of the shop. I followed him. He opened his hands over a book lying before him on the desk, the bitter lines of his old face softening.

‘Is it not exquisite?’ he murmured. ‘I got it for, as you would say, a song.’

The book was indeed a beautiful thing. I left him alone with his love, and went behind the counter in front of the shop and sat down on my three-legged stool. The hours danced slowly away, and the sun reached its angle where, for five minutes, it sent a sliver of dusty yellow light plunging into the floor beside me. A few customers came and went, tourists for the most part, they came slowly and went hastily, and one of them bought a book, a nasty little edition of the Kama Sutra. The door had a habit of slamming of its own volition, and each time someone went out, Rabin would give a faint squeak of protest as the thunderclap disturbed his day. I punched the till, let the coins trickle in, closed the drawer, sat down. The hours began their minuet again. Rabin came forward and paused irresolutely beside a step-ladder which leaned against the shelves, then grasped the uprights and scaled it with surprising speed. His ascension was brought to an abrupt halt when his shaggy head struck the ceiling with a thump. He stood stock still, astonished, and then indignant. He caught sight of me grinning at him, and scowled.

‘By the way,’ he said. ‘Someone was asking for you this morning.’

‘Who?’

He searched through the shelves, muttering to himself, leaning dangerously sideward to follow his fingers where they trotted among the titles. He drew out an enormous, ancient volume and jammed it under his arm. Its dislodgement brought down a cloud of dust on his descending head. Down from the heady heights once more, he paused, bent slightly forward, while a hand scampered in panic from pocket to pocket of his shiny suit. Up came a dirty red handkerchief, transcribed an arc, and met, just in time, coming from his face, a tremendous, shattering sneeze. He wiped his nose, like a dog shaking a rat.

‘Who was it?’ I asked.

‘Eh? Oh yes, what was his name … Ten … Tinbean?’

‘Twinbein?’

‘Yes, that was it. Extraordinary name.’

‘A German, was he?’

‘No, English, most definitely. A consumptive with spectacles, a friend of yours?’

‘No.’

‘Well, he seemed eager to find you. I told him… (a sly smile) … that you were in bed… (a cackle)… ahem.’

He returned to his desk, tittering over his joke. It was rumoured that Rabin had a wife hidden away somewhere, by whom he had begotten an uncounted brood of children. Whenever I thought about that, I had a vision of a little army, clad in shiny black suits, marching across the city in single file, from toddler to octogenarian, each of them a replica of their father. It was an awesome image. The ancient telephone spoke. One could not say that it rang, for it had an oddly querulous, croaking call, like that of some awkward, ugly and sullen bird. Rabin answered it, jamming it against his ear and glaring down into the mouthpiece as though he could see there a tiny caller waving at him in urgent semaphore.

‘Yes yes,’ he snarled. ‘That is the number you called, is it not? Who? I cannot hear you. He is.’

The receiver, still gobbling, was thrust at me.

‘For you.’

‘Hello.’

A gloomy voice travelled its way through the wires.

‘Mr White?’

‘Yes.’

‘Colonel Sesosteris. Perhaps you could come to see me today?’

‘Well I —’

‘Good. My address. In an hour? Goodbye.’

Click. I had not thought that Aristotle could be so capable. I went down to where Rabin sat again by his desk.

‘Ahm … Doctor?’

‘Well?’

‘Can I have an hour off?’

He sat back on the chair and stared at me glumly. I could never win those staring contests of which Rabin was so fond. He was an old hand. When I had dropped my eyes, and was pawing at the floor with the toe of my sandal, he said sweetly,

‘Just one hour? The whole day, why don’t you take? The whole week? And tell me, what have you to do with this man Sesosteris?’

That was a surprise.

‘How did you?… I just know him. He’s a friend of a friend of mine.’

‘I suppose Weiss is involved? All right, don’t tell me, so it is no business of mine. But you should be careful.’

‘Why?’

‘You know why.’

‘Do I?’

‘One hour.’

‘And a half?’

‘Take the day, take the week, go on, go.’

I was halfway down the street when he came to the door and called me back. I retraced my steps.

‘Yes?’

‘I am going to have that telephone taken away,’ he growled, then turned, went into the shop, and slammed the door behind him. Inside, the little bell had hysterics.

My chronology is all wrong. No matter.

The house was old and shabby, colourless, with a minimum of furniture, square chairs, tables scratched and stained, fingermarks on the doors. In the room where I stood, wondering… all kinds of things, a pile of yellowed newspapers were wedged under a punctured couch, and a plate of spaghetti was slowly dying on the top of a bookcase. Aristotle entered. I had the impression that he was poured through the door, he was so pale and silent.

‘Mr White,’ he said. ‘Sit down. Would you like a drink? No? Just as well, I am not sure if there is anything in the house. I am sorry to have called you here so suddenly. But please sit down — no, not there. The leg, you see, has come off, ha ha. Take this chair.’

I took that chair. Which was not too sure of its legs either. His opening speech finished, Aristotle was at something of a loss. He clasped his hands, unclasped them, made an effort to smile, thought better of it, and suddenly sat down. We faced each other now across the cluttered top of a coffee table. Aristotle breathed heavily through his nose. A window framed a sunlit view of a stretch of road, a mudguard and one punctured wheel of a car, and, farther down the street, a man with an excited dog romping at his heels. I cleared my throat, and the noise knocked echoes from the walls.

‘I suppose you know why you are here?’ said Aristotle.

‘No.’

He nodded absently. His fretful gaze shifted, and he stood up.

‘Come outside,’ he said. ‘It’s cooler.’

But in the garden there was little coolness. The sun came raging down on the lawn, an uneven stretch of dry dust dotted with disconsolate tufts of grass, and nothing was still in the upward flowing ripples of heat. A broken deck chair lay on its side below the verandah, and in the grass two empty beer bottles leaned drunkenly neck to neck. But in the centre of that wasted place a long, deep swimming pool was cut, with a gleaming steel ladder, a brand new diving board; it lacked nothing, except water. In the deep end, a lizard was dying among brown leaves already dead. The little creature made regular, feeble efforts to scale the pale blue tiles. I think I could hear the painful rasp of its claws on the smooth enamel. Aristotle’s shoulders drooped. He looked around the garden and murmured,

‘My house is in ruins.’

‘There was in his voice another, smaller voice which said, I can take no more, treat me gently, for I am ready to break. He spent some time assembling a chair which wished to remain folded. We sat and looked at the pitted concrete wall behind the pool. Aristotle said,