John Gardner - The Sunlight Dialogues

He dreamed that night that he was back at sea, standing on the bridge plotting his ship’s course by the stars. It was a wooden ship that rode low in the water, perhaps because its planks were heavy as boards that have lain in the earth for years. But the sea was calm as oil in a barrel, and all was in control. The crew was restless, below and behind him, darting here and there like shadows on the deck and below the deck, or staring up at him anxiously out of their lifeboats. He knew well enough what their trouble was. Unbelievers, heretics, usurers, perverts, suicides. But he had them in control, everything in control. All was well. However, there was a storm coming, he knew by the fact that, one by one, the stars were going out. Far in the distance he could hear a mighty wind rising, a sound of sighs and wails and shrieks reverberating in the blackness, a babble of languages. “Steady on course,” he said soberly. “Full speed ahead.” Now the struggling winds were like groans of pain and there were thudding noises as the winds buffeted the sea, sounds like clubs banging on backs, sometimes cracking bones, an ungodly racket. It was closer now — he kept his ship steady on — exhilaration filling his chest — and the howls like agony and rage rained down on him and up from his sailors like pebbles and sand before a whirlwind. “Steady on!” he roared. And now he could see the other ship, not approaching, as he’d thought, but fleeing like a pirate toward the calmer water he saw glowing, deep red-gold, on the horizon. The captain in black was bent forward like an ape, whipping his sailors, urging them to still greater effort, and the speed of his flight made his beard whip over his shoulder. His red eyes rolled. Clumly cupped his mouth between his hands and howled, “Beware, beware, you guilty souls!” He raised his pistol, steady on, and fired. The bearded man sank like a shadow through the ship and down into the sea. It was suddenly daylight, and both ships’ crews were singing. He felt serene. The round-backed old sailor at his side, bearded and scarred from many wars and many wives, was smiling. “What sea is this?” asked Clumly, with a comfortable sense of authority. The sailor looked down, inspecting its texture. He smiled again, a man perhaps not to be trusted. He said thoughtfully, “Metaphysics.”

Clumly sat up in the blackness of the bedroom, wringing his hands. “What’s the meaning of this?” he asked crossly. Then, understanding, he whispered to himself, “A dream. Just a damned dream!” He was hungry as the devil, and the room stunk like an outhouse. His wife slept on.

At the hospital, just then, a boy fifteen was being admitted through Emergency with multiple lacerations. He’d been drinking with his friends and had been pushed through a glass door during a fight. Later an old woman named Rohn poisoned a neighbor’s dog.

5

On the evening of the sixth day, the police brought in a drunk-and-disorderly, an oldish man named Bob Boas. They put him in the cell beyond the thief, and he sang. The bearded man sat in a brown study, ignoring the man, only now and then throwing an irritable glance in his direction. Then something made the bearded man change. Maybe there was someone listening in the hall. Nick Slater couldn’t tell from where he was, but Boyle, over in position to see, had the look of an animal being watched. The bearded man began to sing with the drunk, falsetto, waving his arms and shuffling around obscenely in his stocking feet in the cell. He called the drunk Herr Robert. The drunk — he was pale and effeminate and quick to wrath — would stop singing at this, as though the name Herr Robert had some meaning the others didn’t catch. He would sink into violent, bristling gloom. Then suddenly the song would break out again by itself, like a howl of rage.

Mm lady come in, mmm assed for a cake,

Mm assed er wat kine she’d adore,

Mmm “layer” she said, mmm layer I did,

An I don’t work there any more.

While the drunk sang, the Sunlight Man whispered to him earnestly, and after a moment the singing stopped again.

“Look out!” the Sunlight Man suddenly yelled, and he pointed to the floor at the drunk’s feet. There was something there — even Nick saw it, but he didn’t catch what it was. The same instant it appeared it vanished. The drunk clung to the bars, throat convulsing, then vomited. The Sunlight Man dusted his hands.

“Holy Christ,” Verne said.

It was a full five minutes before it was really clear in Nick’s mind that it had all been a trick, some kind of illusion. But it was amazing, just the same. Then it came to him that the most amazing thing of all was the bored calm of the thief, Walter Boyle. He lay on his pallet with his skinny legs crossed and his hands behind his head, seeing nothing.

Verne, too, noticed it. “He’s something else,” he said, nodding toward Boyle.

Nick sat with his chin on his fists.

“How’d they catch him — you hear?” Verne asked.

Nick shook his head.

The Sunlight Man was playing with those tiny stones of his again. It was as if he’d completely forgotten about the drunk. He was mumbling something, mumbo-jumbo of some kind. They watched him for a while.

“Must be waiting for his trial, like us,” Nick’s brother said, looking at Boyle again. He pursed his lips and thought about it, then nodded. Neither of them felt easy talking about the Sunlight Man or his magic. “That’s what it is, he’s waiting for his trial.” He bit the tip of his tongue.

“Mr. Hodge defend him, you think?” Nick asked. It came out by accident, merely because it had flitted into his mind. He was wondering, really, why Will Hodge Sr had not yet come to talk to them. Had the Sunlight Man told them the truth? Will Hodge hadn’t been at the hearing, even, though they’d phoned his office the first thing in the morning, after the night they were arrested. Maybe he was waiting to see if the woman would die. None of them had come, even to visit, not Will Hodge the lawyer or Luke or even Ben. Not even Vanessa.

The smell of the vomit in the end cell was terrible, but the drunk was singing again. Nick struggled to ignore it. As abruptly as it had started the singing stopped, and the bearded man yelled, “Excellent, mein herr!” and clapped his hands together smartly. The hallway door opened as if at the Sunlight Man’s command, and the guard stuck his head in. “Keep it down.” The one watching in the hallway said something to him, very quiet.

The bearded man bowed to the drunk. The scar tissue and the bushy beard made his eyes seem smaller than they were. The guard went out, and the drunk began talking, tortuously reasoning with the Sunlight Man, who ignored him.

Later, the drunk vomited again, this time without help from the bearded man, and the thief groaned and sat up and pressed his hands to the sides of his bald head as though he were afraid he would explode. He looked at the mess but remained expressionless, then sat with his elbows on his knees and stared at his feet.

“I’m sorry,” the drunk said. He was white as a sheet, leaning against the bars between his cell and the thief’s.

The thief waved the apology off almost sociably.

“S’like a sickness,” the drunk said. “S’like something wrong with me. I go on the wagon for maybe two muths …” He closed his eyes and stood unnaturally still.

“Don’t mention it,” the thief said. “Happens to everybody.”

“I got a daughter in high school. If she saw me now she’d be so ashamed—” He grimaced as if about to cry, but he was too sick. He gripped the bars.

“Go to sleep,” the thief said. “Talk about it in the morning.”

The drunk looked over at his pallet and seemed to think about whether he could make it that far. Then he leaned away from the bars and took two steps and fell toward his bed. He sprawled half on it and half off, motionless for a long time. All at once he sang out, “I use to work in Chicago, in a department store” and then, mechanically, he pulled himself onto the bed and went to sleep.