Трумэн Капоте - Other Voices, Other Rooms

Beyond the ballroom, and in what had once been Mrs. Cloud's private apartment, were two simply furnished spacious rooms, both beautifully clean, and this was where Little Sunshine lived: the evident pride he took in these quarters increased the charm of their surprise, and when he closed the door he made nonexistent the ruin surrounding them. Firelight polished sherry-red wood, gilded the wings of a carved angel, and the hermit, bringing forth a bottle of homemade whiskey, put it where the light could lace its comforting promise. "It is been a mighty long while since you come here, Mister Randolph," he said, drawing chairs about the fire. "You was justa child, like this sweet boy." He pinched Joel's cheeks, and his fingernails were so long they nearly broke the skin. "Usta come here totin them drawin books; I wisht you'd come again like that." Randolph inclined his face toward the shadows of his chair: "How silly, my dear; don't you know that if I came here as a child, then most of me never left? I've always been, so to speak, a non-paying guest. At least I hope so, I should so dislike thinking I'd left myself somewhere else." Joel slumped like a dog on the floor before the hearth, and the hermit handed him a pillow for his head; all day, after the weeks in bed, it had been as if he were bucking a whirlpool, and now, lullabyed to the bone with drowsy warmth, he let go, let the rivering fire sweep him over its fall; in the eyelid-blue betweenness the wordy sounds of the whiskey-drinkers spilled distantly: more distinct and real were whisperings behind the walls, above the ceiling: rotate of party slippers answering a violin's demand, and the children passing to and fro, their footsteps linking in a dance, and up and down the stairs going-coming humming heel-clatter of chattering girls, and rolling broken beads, busted pearls, the bored snores of fat fathers, and the lilt of fans tapped in tune and the murmur of gloved hands as the musicians, like bridegrooms in their angel-cake costumes, rise to take a bow. (He looked into the fire, longing to see their faces as well, and the flames erupted an embryo; a veined, vacillating shape, its features formed slowly, and even when complete stayed veiled in dazzle; his eyes burned tar-hot as he brought them nearer: tell me, tell me, who are you? are you someone I know? are you dead? are you my friend? do you love me? But the painted, disembodied head remained unborn beyond its mask, and gave no clue. Are you someone I am looking for? he asked, not knowing whom he meant, but certain that for him there must be such a person, just as there was for everybody else: Randolph with his almanac, Miss Wisteria and her search by flashlight, Little Sunshine remembering other voices, other rooms, all of them remembering, or never having known. And Joel drew back. If he recognized the figure in the fire, then what ever would he find to take its place? It was easier not to know, better holding heaven in your hand like a butterfly that is not there at all.)Goodnight ladies, sweet dreams ladies, farewell ladies, we're going to leave you now! Farewell sighs of folding fans, the brute fall of male boots, and the furtive steps of tittering Negro girls tiptoeing through the vast honeycomb snuffing candles and drawing shades against the night: echoes of the orchestra strum a house of sleep.

Then over the floors an earthly clangclang dragging commenced, and Joel, wide-eyed at this uproar, turned to the others; they'd heard it, too. Randolph, flushed with whiskey and talk, frowned and put down his glass. "It be the mule," said Little Sunshine with an inebriated giggle, "he out there walkin round." And Joel recalled the spittoon they'd tied to John Brown's leg: it banged on the stairs, seemed to pass overhead, become remote, grow near.

"How'd he get up yonder?" said the hermit, worried now. "Ain't no place for him to be: damn fool gonna kill hisself." He held a hunk of kindling in the fire. Using it as a torch, he stumbled out into the ballroom. Joel tagged bravely after him. But Randolph was too drunk to move.

Around the torch swooped white choirs of singing wings which made to leap and sway all within range of the furious light: humped greyhounds hurtled through the halls, their silent shadow-feet trampling flowerbeds of spiders, and in the lobby lizards loomed like dinosaurs; the coral-tongued cuckoo bird, forever stilled at three o'clock, spread wings hawk-like, falcon-fierce.

They halted at the foot of the stairs. The mule was nowhere to be seen: the banging of the telltale spittoon had stopped. "John Brown… John Brown," Joel's voice enlarged the quiet: he shivered to think that in every room some sleepless something listened. Little Sunshine held his torch higher, and brought into view a balcony which overlooked the lobby: there, iron-stiff and still, stood the mule. "You hear me, suh, come down offen there!" commanded the hermit, and John Brown reared back, snorted, pawed the floor; then, as if insane with terror, he came at a gallop, and lunged, splintering the balcony's rail. Joel primed himself for a crash which never came; when he looked again, the mule, hung to a beam by the rope-reins twisted about his neck, was swinging in mid-air, and his big lamplike eyes, lit by the torch's blaze, were golden with death's impossible face, the figure in the fire.

Morning collected in the room, exposing a quilt-wrapped bundle huddled in a corner: Little Sunshine, sound asleep. "Don't wake him," whispered Randolph who, in rising, knocked over three empty whiskey bottles. But the hermit did not stir. As they crept out through the hotel Joel closed his eyes, and let Randolph lead him, for he did not want to see the mule: a sharp intake of breath was Randolph's only comment, and never once did he refer to the accident, nor ask a question: it was as if from the outset they'd planned to return to the Landing on foot. The morning was like a slate clean for any future, and it was as though an end had come, as if all that had been before had turned into a bird, and flown there to the island tree: a crazy elation caught hold of Joel, he ran, he zigzagged, he sang, he was in love, he caught a little tree-toad because he loved it and because he loved it he set it free, watched it bounce, bound like the immense leaping of his heart; he hugged himself, alive and glad, and socked the air, butted like a goat, hid behind a bush, jumped out: Boo! "Look, Randolph," he said, folding a turban of moss about his head, "look, who am I?"

But Randolph would have no part of him. His mouth was set in a queer, grim way. As if he walked the deck of a tossing ship, he lurched forward, leaning from side to side, and his eyes, raw with bloodshot, acted as a poor compass, for he seemed not to know in which direction he was going.

"I am me," Joel whooped. "I am Joel, we are the same people." And he looked about for a tree to climb: he would go right to the very top, and there, midway to heaven, he would spread his arms and claim the world. Running far ahead of Randolph, he shinnied up a birch, but when he reached the middle branches, he clasped the trunk of the tree, suddenly dizzy; from this altitude he looked back and saw Randolph, who was walking in a circle, his hands stretched before him as if he were playing blind man's bluff: his carpet slippers fell off, but he did not notice; now and then he shook himself, like a wet animal. And Joel thought of the ant. Hadn't he warned him? Hadn't he told him it was dangerous? Or was it only corn whiskey swimming in his head? Except Randolph was being so quiet. And drunk folks were never quiet. It was peculiar. It was as though Randolph were in a trance of some kind.

And Joel realized then the truth; he saw how helpless Randolph was: more paralyzed than Mr Sansom, more childlike than Miss Wisteria, what else could he do, once outside and alone, but describe a circle, the zero of his nothingness? Joel slipped down from the tree; he had not made the top, but it did not matter, for he knew who he was, he knew that he was strong.