Samedi the Deafness (13 page)

—I don't mind, said James. For we shall have such adventures!

Everyone was looking at him. They were waiting for him to speak. Their patience seemed inexhaustible.

Behind James then, the maids' door opened. The maid who had opened it saw the scene, squealed, and shut the door. Within the room then, more squeals, and the sound of feet.

—I was just, said James, looking for the fourth window in my room. It's strange, you know, to have a window go missing. I believe it can be reached by ladder, perhaps from the space behind . . .

—Do you see what I mean? McHale said to Sermon.

—Precisely, said Sermon.

Leonora Loft shook her head.

—I think, said Sermon, we should have our little talk sooner rather than later, James. There's been a problem. The police have come again. They're outside.

—Outside? said James. But I didn't do anything. Why are they looking for me?

—Didn't do anything? said McHale. You told me yourself you pushed Mayne out the window.

—I never said that.

James looked helplessly back and forth. What was going on? Why were they all down here in the first place?

—Well, I suppose you didn't, but it was obvious. After all, why would you be in his room, in his home?

—We should go downstairs, said McHale. The police are waiting.

James looked from face to face. Leonora looked intrigued by the whole thing. McHale was impassive. Sermon was grave. And Grieve's father, a large man with a mole, whose presence seemed to fill the hallway, Grieve's father was smiling.

—I know you're the ones, said James. I know you killed McHale, and I know that you, he said, pointing his finger at Grieve's father. I know you're SAMEDI.

Grieve's father laughed.

—My daughter, he said, thinks very highly of you. I understand that you've been put into a series of trying positions, and that certainly in such positions no one would look their best. Nonetheless, I had hoped to see you do a bit better. Of course the police are not outside; of course we will not give you up to them. Have you not already been assured of that much? Here we find you listening at doors, and not even at the doors of influence and power, instead at such a trivial door as this? The speech of maids is like the speech of jaybirds, giving nothing, taking nothing away. A chattering, a noiseless, noiseful clatter. And you listen to it through a glass?

He sighed, and ran one of his hands across the other.

—We shall, of course, be speaking more before long. You understand very little of what goes on here, and your head is full of poor Tommy's foolish words. If only he had been kept here, that unfortunate accident would never have occurred.

The others all looked at one another in sadness.

—However, he continued, you are here, and here to stay, I assume. My daughter speaks of a trip abroad with you. Well, it can occur; I will not say it cannot occur. But as for your making yourself useful, your finding some useful employment, well, I should think a man like you would want to do that, would want to do more than simply hang around a place all day doing nothing, living off the work of others. You wouldn't want that, would you?

James admitted that he did not like to be a burden on others. In fact, he did not intend to be.

—Then I suggest you come and speak to me, tomorrow, about ten in the morning. The light in my rooms is quite fine then and encourages clear thinking and lucidity of action. We shall come up with something for you then. After all, you are quite talented, I hear. Is it true, as Grieve says, that you memorized my entire book?

There was a general gasping in the hall. McHale and Sermon looked at each other incredulously.

—It can't be, said Sermon.

—He is one of the best, said Grieve's father. We have his dossier from Beckman's.

Let them think that over, thought James proudly, very pleased with the looks on McHale's and Sermon's faces. He slipped the glass tumbler into his pocket.

—Yes, I have it, he said.

—Tomorrow, then.

The group moved off down the hall and was lost to sight. James heard a knocking.

—Are they gone?

A Gift

—Yes, said James. They're gone.

The door to no. 53 opened, and the sallow man came out again. James took a step back. The man did not smell very good.

He was holding a drawing in his hand.

—I did this for you, he said, just now.

James looked at the drawing.

There was an elephant, and its features vaguely resembled his own. The elephant was being eaten by many small furred devils, who also vaguely resembled him. They were led, however, by a man with a large baton. His face was entirely blank.

—Who is this supposed to be? asked James.

—Don't let them do that to you again, said the man. I couldn't bear it. I just couldn't.

He shut his door, leaving James with the gift of a drawing.

James went back over to the maids' door. He took out the glass, thought better of it, and simply placed his ear against the door.

—Grieve, said one voice. What happened out there, did you hear?

—No, Grieve, said another. I didn't hear a thing.

—But, Grieve, said still a third, I think it's all got to do with that James Sim.

Grieve's voice came then.

—I wish you wouldn't talk about him.

The others began to sing a sort of song they had made up to make fun of Grieve for liking James.

They
are
like children, thought James. He started back down the hall. There was another door on the other side of no. 53.

James approached it. The doorknob turned easily. Behind it was a small passage, and a mild light fell all along it. The passage was lined with small paintings, each no larger than a book, but well-done and obviously expensive and old. Many were landscapes, some impressionist, some more figurative. James looked at them. One he recognized as Cézanne. It must be an original, he thought.

The passage was only five feet wide. He continued on. At the end there was a turn. The passage continued back until the point where it would be immediately below James's room. There was indeed a ladder.

Up the ladder James went.

He emerged into a tiny room, a room even tinier than the previously tiny room that he had inhabited. The room was full of pillows, and the window to the outside was thrown open. On the walls were sort of old-fashioned devices for listening and seeing into the room beyond. Into his room!

But the most surprising thing was that he was not alone in the little room. There was someone in among the pillows.

—I knew you would find me here, she said. I longed for you to find me here, and I said to myself, if he is such a man as can find me here, then I will give myself to him. Not today, you understand, but one day, perhaps, provided that you continue to show yourself to such advantage.

It was, of course, Grieve, Lily Violet, Anastasia, among the pillows.

—I love you, she said. I find it splendid to have dropped you like a witful lobster into this boiling pot. But you are learning your way out. You are. Come here! she said.

James sat down in the pillows. She pulled him on top of her.

—Why is this room here? asked James.

—I should think, said Grieve, it would be obvious.

And she bit him very hard on the neck.

—If you like, we can take off our clothes, but we cannot sleep together, and if you do anything I don't like I will scream and someone will come immediately.

—I wouldn't want that to happen, said James, thinking of the scene in the hall.

—So be good, said Grieve, and began to unbutton his shirt.

day the fifth

When James woke, it was dark. He was still lying in the tiny room. A small light came down from the moon, found purchase in the glass of the window, and met with him and with the walls.

Grieve was gone. James was naked. In fact, his clothes were gone as well.

He went over to the wall where the listening and seeing apparatuses hung. He flicked open the seeing apparatus and looked through it. He was looking at his own bed, on which Grieve lay sleeping soundly.

The devil, he thought. She got up and left me here sleeping. What kind of girl would do that?

And across the end of the bed he saw his clothes, neatly folded. That's not right, he said. That girl is not right in the head.

He thought of the walk he would have to make, along the hallway and up the stairs. It wasn't far. He could make it if he hurried, perhaps, at this hour, without seeing anyone.

He would try. He had better, he thought. Otherwise he would be stuck until she took mercy on him. Somehow he thought that it would not do to be at the mercy of Grieve Cochrane.