Ray Bradbury Stories, Volume 1 (96 page)

‘Well?’ called a far voice.

‘Nora!’ I cried. ‘Come here. There’s nothing to fear! It’s still daylight!’

‘No,’ said the far voice sadly. ‘The sun is going down. What do you see, Charlie?’

‘Out in the hall again, the spiral stairs. The parlor. Not a dust speck on the air. I’m opening the cellar door. A million barrels and bottles. Now the kitchen, Nora, this is lunatic!’

‘Yes, isn’t it?’ wailed the far voice. ‘Go back to the library. Stand in the middle of the room. See the Gainsborough
Maidens and Flowers
you always loved?’

‘It’s there.’

‘It’s not. See the silver Florentine humidor?’

‘I see it.’

‘You don’t. See the great maroon leather chair where you drank sherry with Father?’

‘Yes.’

‘No,’ sighed the voice.

‘Yes, no? Do, don’t? Nora, enough!’

‘More than enough, Charlie. Can’t you guess? Don’t you
feel
what happened to Grynwood?’

I ached, turning. I sniffed the strange air.

‘Charlie,’ said Nora, far out by the open front door, ‘…four years ago,’ she said faintly. ‘Four years ago…Grynwood burned completely to the ground.’

I ran.

I found Nora pale at the door.

‘It
what
!?’ I shouted.

‘Burned to the ground,’ she said. ‘Utterly. Four years ago.’

I took three long steps outside and looked up at the walls and windows.

‘Nora, it’s standing, it’s all here!’

‘No, it isn’t, Charlie. That’s not Grynwood.’

I touched the gray stone, the red brick, the green ivy. I ran my hand over the carved Spanish front door. I exhaled in awe. ‘It can’t be.’

‘It is,’ said Nora. ‘All new. Everything from the cellar stones up. New, Charles. New, Charlie. New.’

‘This
door
?’

‘Sent up from Madrid, last year.’

‘This pavement?’

‘Quarried near Dublin two years ago. The windows from Waterford this spring.’

I stepped through the front door.

‘The parqueting?’

‘Finished in France and shipped over autumn last.’

‘But, but, that
tapestry
!?’

‘Woven near Paris, hung in April.’

‘But it’s all the
same
, Nora!’

‘Yes, isn’t it? I traveled to Greece to duplicate the marble relics. The crystal case I had made, too, in Rheims.’

‘The library!’

‘Every book, all bound the same way, stamped in similar gold, put back
on similar shelves. The library alone cost one hundred thousand pounds to reproduce.’

‘The same, the same, Nora,’ I cried, in wonder, ‘oh God, the same,’ and we were in the library and I pointed at the silver Florentine humidor. ‘That, of course, was saved out of the fire?’

‘No, no, I’m an artist. I remembered, I sketched, I took the drawings to Florence. They finished the fraudulent fake in July.’

‘The Gainsborough
Maidens and Flowers
!?’

‘Look close! That’s Fritzi’s work. Fritzi, that horrible drip-dry beatnik painter in Montmartre? Who threw paint on canvas and flew them as kites over Paris so the wind and rain patterned beauty for him, which he sold for exorbitant prices? Well, Fritzi, it turns out, is a secret Gainsborough fanatic. He’d kill me if he knew I told. He painted this
Maidens
from memory, isn’t it
fine
?’

‘Fine, fine, oh God, Nora, are you telling the truth?’

‘I wish I weren’t. Do you think I’ve been mentally ill. Charles? Naturally you might think. Do you believe in good and evil, Charlie? I didn’t used. But now, quite suddenly. I have turned old and rain-dowdy. I have hit forty, forty has hit me, like a locomotive. Do you know what I think?…the house destroyed
itself
.’

‘It
what
?’

She went to peer into the halls where shadows gathered now, coming in from the late day.

‘When I first came into my money, at eighteen, when people said Guilt I said Bosh. They cried Conscience. I cried Crapulous Nonsense! But in those days the rain barrel was empty. A lot of strange rain has fallen since and gathered in me, and to my cold surprise I find me to the brim with old sin and know there
is
conscience and guilt.

‘There are a thousand young men in me, Charles.

‘They thrust and buried themselves there. When they withdrew, Charles, I thought they withdrew. But no, no, now I’m sure there is not a single one whose barb, whose lovely poisoned thorn, is not caught in my flesh, one place or another. God, God, how I loved their barbs, their thorns. God, how I loved to be pinned and bruised. I thought the medicines of time and travel might heal the grip marks. But now I know I am all fingerprints. There lives no inch of my flesh, Chuck, that is not FBI file systems of palm print and Egyptian whorl of finger stigmata. I have been stabbed by a thousand lovely boys and thought I did not bleed but God I do bleed now. I have bled all over this house. And my friends who denied guilt and conscience, in a great subway heave of flesh have trammeled through here and jounced and mouthed each other and sweat upon floors and buckshot the walls with their agonies and descents, each from the other’s crosses. The house has been stormed by assassins. Charlie, each seeking
to kill the other’s loneliness with their short swords, no one finding surcease, only a momentary groaning out of relaxation.

‘I don’t think there has ever been a happy person in this house, Charles, I see that now.

‘Oh, it all
looked
happy. When you hear so much laughter and see so much drink and find human sandwiches in every bed, pink and white morsels to munch upon, you think: What joy! how happy-fine!

‘But it is a lie, Charlie, you and I know that, and the house drank the lie in my generation and Father’s before me and Grandfather beyond. It was always a happy house, which means a dreadful estate. The assassins have wounded each other here for long over two hundred years. The walls dripped. The doorknobs were gummy. Summer turned old in the Gainsborough frame. So the assassins came and went, Charlie, and left sins and memories of sins which the house kept.

‘And when you have caught up just so much darkness, Charles, you must vomit, mustn’t you?

‘My life is my emetic. I choke on my own past.

‘So did this house.

‘And finally, guilt-ridden, terribly sad, one night I heard the friction of old sins rubbing together in attic beds. And with this spontaneous combustion the house smouldered ablaze. I heard the fire first as it sat in the library, devouring books. Then I heard it in the cellar drinking wine. By that time I was out the window and down the ivy and on the lawn with the servants. We picnicked on the lake shore at four in the morning with champagne and biscuits from the gatekeeper’s lodge. The fire brigade arrived from town at five to see the roofs collapse and vast fire founts of spark fly over the clouds and the sinking moon. We gave them champagne also and watched Grynwood die finally, at last, so at dawn there was nothing.

‘It had to destroy itself, didn’t it. Charlie, it was so evil from all my people and from me?’

We stood in the cold hall. At last I stirred myself and said. ‘I guess so, Nora.’

We walked into the library where Nora drew forth blueprints and a score of notebooks.

‘It was then, Charlie. I got my inspiration. Build Grynwood again. A gray jigsaw puzzle put back together! Phoenix reborn from the sootbin. So no one would know of its death through sickness. Not you, Charlie, or any friends off in the world: let all remain ignorant. My guilt over its destruction was immense. How fortunate to be rich. You can buy a fire brigade with champagne and the village newspapers with four cases of gin. The news never got a mile out that Grynwood was strewn sackcloth and ashes. Time later to tell the world. Now! to work! And off I raced to
my Dublin solicitor’s where my father had filed architectural plans and interior details. I sat for months with a secretary, word-associating to summon up Grecian lamps, Roman tiles. I shut my eyes to recall every hairy inch of carpeting, every fringe, every rococo ceiling oddment, all, all brasswork decor, firedog, switchplates, log-bucket, and doorknob. And when the list of thirty thousand items was compounded, I flew in carpenters from Edinburgh, tile setters from Siena, stone-cutters from Perugia, and they hammered, nailed, thrived, carved, and set for four years, Charlie, and I loitered at the factory outside Paris to watch spiders weave my tapestry and floor the rugs. I rode to hounds at Waterford while watching them blow my glass.

‘Oh, Charles, I don’t think it has ever happened, has it in history, that anyone ever put a destroyed thing back the way it was? Forget the past, let the bones cease! Well, not for me, I thought, no: Grynwood shall rise and be as ever it was. But, while looking like the old Grynwood, it would have the advantage of being really new. A fresh start. I thought, and while building it I led such a
quiet
life, Charles. The work was adventure enough.

‘As I did the house over, I thought I did myself over. While I favored it with rebirth, I favored myself with joy. At long last, I thought, a happy person comes and goes at Grynwood.

‘And it was finished and done, the last stone cut, the last tile placed, two weeks ago.

‘And I sent invitations across the world, Charlie, and last night they all arrived, a pride of lion-men from New York, smelling of Saint John’s breadfruit, the staff of life. A team of lightfoot Athens boys. A Negro
corps de ballet
from Johannesburg. Three Sicilian bandits, or were they actors? Seventeen lady violinists who might be ravished as they laid down their violins and picked up their skirts. Four champion polo players. One tennis pro to restring my guts. A darling French poet. Oh God, Charles, it was to be a swell grand fine re-opening of the Phoenix Estates, Nora Gryndon, proprietress. How did I know, or guess, the house would not want us here?’

‘Can a house want or not want?’

‘Yes, when it is very new and everyone else, no matter what age, is very old. It was freshly born. We were stale and dying. It was good. We were evil. It wished to stay innocent. So it turned us out.’

‘How?’

‘Why, just by being itself. It made the air so quiet, Charlie, you wouldn’t believe. We all felt someone had died.

‘After a while, with no one saying but everyone feeling it, people just got in their cars and drove away. The orchestra shut up its music and sped off in ten limousines. There went the entire party, around the lake drive, as if heading for a midnight outdoor picnic, but no, just going to the airport
or the boats, or Galway, everyone cold, no one speaking, and the house empty, and the servants themselves pumping away on their bikes, and me alone in the house, the last party over, the party that never happened, that never could begin. As I said. I slept on the lawn all night, alone with my old thoughts and I knew this was the end of all the years, for I was ashes, and ashes cannot build. It was the new grand lovely fine bird lying in the dark, to itself. It hated my breath in the dooryard. I was over. It had begun. There.’

Nora was finished with her story.

We sat silently for a long while in the very late afternoon as dusk gathered to fill the rooms, and put out the eyes of the windows. A wind rippled the lake.

I said, ‘It can’t all be true. Surely you
can
stay here.’

‘A final test, so you’ll not argue me again. We shall try to spend the night here.’

‘Try?’

‘We won’t make it through till dawn. Let’s fry a few eggs, drink some wine, go to bed early. But lie on top your covers with your clothes on. You shall want your clothes, swiftly, I imagine.’

We ate almost in silence. We drank wine. We listened to the new hours striking from the new brass clocks everywhere in the new house.

At ten, Nora sent me up to my room.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ she called to me on the landing. ‘The house means us no harm. It simply fears
we
may hurt
it
. I shall read in the library. When you are ready to leave, no matter what hour, come for me.’

‘I shall sleep snug as a bug,’ I said.

‘
Shall
you?’ said Nora.

And I went up to my new bed and lay in the dark smoking, feeling neither afraid nor smug, calmly waiting for any sort of happening at all.

I did not sleep at midnight.

I was awake at one.

At three, my eyes were still wide.

The house did not creak, sigh, or murmur. It waited, as I waited, timing its breath to mine.

At three-thirty in the morning the door to my room slowly opened.

There was simply a motion of dark upon dark. I felt the wind draught over my hands and face.

I sat up slowly in the dark.

Five minutes passed. My heart slowed its beating.

And then far away below, I heard the front door open.

Again, not a creak or whisper. Just the click and shadowing change of wind motioning the corridors.

I got up and went out into the hall.

From the top of the stairwell I saw what I expected: the front door open. Moonlight flooded the new parqueting and shone upon the new grandfather’s clock which ticked with a fresh oiled bright sound.

I went down and out the front door.

‘
There
you are,’ said Nora, standing down by my car in the drive.

I went to her.

‘You didn’t hear a thing,’ she said, ‘and yet you heard something, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Are you ready to leave now, Charles?’

I looked up at the house. ‘Almost.’

‘You know now, don’t you, it is all over? You feel it, surely, that it is the dawn come up on a new morning? And, feel my heart, my soul beating pale and mossy within my heart, my blood so black, Charlie, you have felt it often beating under your own body, you know how old I am. You know how full of dungeons and racks and late afternoons and blue hours of French twilight I am. Well…’

Nora looked at the house.

‘Last night, as I lay in bed at two in the morning. I heard the front door drift open. I knew that the whole house had simply leant itself ajar to let the latch free and glide the door wide. I went to the top of the stairs. And, looking down. I saw the creek of moonlight laid out fresh in the hall. And the house so much as said, Here is the way you go, tread the cream, walk the milky new path out of this and away, go, old one, go with your darkness. You are with child. The sour-gum ghost is in your stomach. It will never be born. And because you cannot drop it, one day it will be your death. What are you waiting for?