John Gardner - The Sunlight Dialogues

“You haven’t seen or heard anything?” he asked when they were getting ready to leave.

“Nothing,” she said feebly.

Luke was rubbing his eyes with both hands, and she could feel his frustration and anger like a shock running through her. She refused to be thrown off. I exist, no one else. …

“Ok,” Miller said. “Sorry to take your time.” He said something more, and she watched his mouth move, trying to concentrate on the words, but her mind seemed to have snapped off, she could not make herself listen to anything but the silence of the flooded cellar.

Then they were gone, and she and Luke were alone again, staring at each other with the old dull hostility, weary to the heart.

“Well, what more could I do?” she said.

“You could have winked,” he snapped. “You could have slipped him a note.”

“And you couldn’t?” she said.

Luke said nothing.

They heard something moving through the water in the cellar, then coming up the stairs.

3

He returned from the cellar a changed man — exuberant, expansive, tyrannical. He stalked back and forth through the kitchen in his bare feet, his wet shoes and stockings on the oven door beside Nick’s, and he bounced up and down as he walked, making a kind of dance of it, his huge rear end protruding and his beard jutting forward. “We were superb,” he said, “we were brilliant! Millie, I underestimated you!” But he would not let her have a cigarette or a drink. “Cigarette smoking may be hazardous to your health,” he said. “Get your mind off it. Sing after me.” He threw out his arms and sang, still in the false, high squeaky voice:

“Mae swn yn Mhortinllaen, swn hwylie’n codi,

Blocie i gyd yn gwichian,

Dafydd Jones yn gweiddi; Ni fedra’i aros gartre yn fy myw;

Rhaid i mi fynd yn llongwr iawn ar Fflat Huw Puw!”

He said: “That’s Welsh. Magnificent language. Magnificent song, too, as you can hear. All about Huw Puw’s boat. Let’s do it again now. First phrase. All together! Mae swn yn Mhortinllaen. . ” He drew himself up and glared at them. “I’ll say it just one more time.” The pistol appeared in his hand, and he aimed it at Millie. “Mae, swn, yn, Mhortinllaen. . ” She tried, feebly, to sing with him. He shook his fist. “What’s the matter with you people? You sing along with Mitch. I hear you. You sing along with Lawrence Welk. But I ask you to sing a simple little boatsong, the most ridiculous, simplest little song in the world, and you act like you’ve gotten a sliver through your tongue.” Abruptly he stomped away, curling his toes as he raised his feet. “Forget it,” he said. He whirled and pointed his finger at her, the gun in the other hand aimed at the ceiling like a starter’s pistol. “The trouble with you is, you’re rotten,” he said. “I see those magazines you read. ‘Horoscope for Weight-Watchers.’ ‘Barbara Walters Visits Princess Grace of Monaco.’ ‘FDR’s Secret Affair.’ ‘How James Bond Destroyed My Husband, by Mrs. Ian Fleming.’ ‘Foods Everyone Loves.’ ‘The Truth about the Best Seller List.’ ‘Why Teen-Agers Rebel.’ Gyuck! How can you improve your mind, reading tripe like that? Heads stuffed with cotton candy!” He bounded closer, like a fencer, and shook his finger under her nose. “Everyone should learn at least one Welsh song, if only for the double l ’s. The guttural noises clean out the throat and help to prevent brainless cooing. Now. One more time. He moved the revolver slowly toward her forehead until the metal pressed against her skin. Her heart pounded violently. “Repeat after me,” he said. “Mae swn yn Mhortinllaen, swn hwylie’n codi.”

She repeated it.

He smiled. “Good. Excellent! We may have discovered an important new educational method!” He swung away. “As I’ve said, my object is to make you a saint. I do what good I can as I pass, you know. After we’ve learned ‘Fflat Huw Puw’ we’ll learn ‘The Dream of the Rood’ in Old English.” He looked at his hand as if surprised. The gun was gone. He shrugged. “I understand how you feel,” he said. “But we mustn’t waste valuable time, simply because we’re imprisoned here. Keep the mind alert, I always say. Try to learn something new and significant every day.” He tipped his head, crafty. “What do you know about manure?” he said.

She waited and became aware that she was wringing her hands.

“A well-kept manure heap may be safely taken as one of the surest indications of thrift and success in farming,” he said in the voice of a lecturer. He leaned toward her. “Neglect of this resource causes losses which, though little appreciated, are vast in extent. According to recent statistics — or anyway recent in 1906—there are in the United States, in round numbers, 19,500,000 horses, mules, and burros, 61,000,000 cattle, 47,000,000 hogs, and 51,600,000 sheep. Think of it! If all these animals were kept in stalls or pens throughout the year and the manure carefully saved, the approximate value of the fertilizing constituents of the manure produced by each horse or mule annually would be $27, by each head of cattle $20, by each hog $8, and by each sheep $2. 1906 prices, of course. You didn’t know that, did you? You’d be surprised how much I could teach you about economy, the fine art of getting ahead if you ever catch up. Take burdocks — those weeds right out there across the driveway — also known as cockle button, cuckold dock, beggars’ buttons, hurrbur, stick button, hardock, and bardane. Worth money! Around 50,000 pounds of burdock root are imported annually from Belgium, for medical purposes. Or were in 1904. Or take common mustard. The imports into the United States of black and white mustard together during the fiscal year ended June 30, 1903, amounted to 5,302,876 pounds. Three to six cents per pound for the seeds. The Lord be praised!”

“Listen,” Luke said.

The Sunlight Man drew himself up. “It is interesting to note that in South Africa pumpkins are often given to horses as green feed.”

“I need a drink,” Millie said.

“Did Teresa drink? Did St. George drink? I withdraw the question.”

He went on and on, and whenever any of them tried to leave the room he stopped them and demanded their attention. Exactly at seven o’clock he bowed from the waist and said, “Students, I bid you good evening. I must go make a phonecall,” and without another word he went out. They watched him hurry down the driveway toward the road.

When he returned, half an hour later, he was again completely changed, it seemed to her. He was not wearing the stocking over his face now. He had a wide red hat embroidered in what might once have been white — it had gone through last night’s rain, apparently — and dark glasses. His suitcoat was stuffed with plants he’d found along the road. He began making supper.

“Where did you phone from?” Millie said.

“Phonebooth,” he said.

The nearest phonebooth was five miles away. “That’s impossible,” she said.

“Not at all. There’s a special kind of slug you use. The phone company spends millions a year on slug detection, but one little slug they just can’t beat. Like this.” He drew from his pocket a washer approximately the size of a quarter, with a little piece of tape across it. He winked.

“You’re a strange man,” she said thoughtfully.

“Have to live by my wits,” he said. He pointed at his temple. He laughed. “But then, don’t we all!”

“Can I help you with something?” she said. He was leaning over the sink now, washing the roots and leaves he’d brought in. But her mind was far away. He powerfully reminded her of something or of someone, or perhaps simply, in a general way, of her childhood.