Samedi the Deafness (16 page)

—Yes, said the maid. And the baby, too. She drowned herself in the bath. And her eight months pregnant. No one can say who the father is.

She began to cry.

Pregnant, thought James. Which Grieve was this?

—Do you mean, he said, a young girl, about . . .

He described the maid, Grieve, to this maid.

—Oh, said the maid, drying her eyes. Not her. No. Why, she is named Grieve also. That's why you thought that she had . . . Oh, no. I mean, I'm named Grieve too, but I haven't done myself in, now, have I?

—No, said James. You haven't.

He explained that he would have to be going.

—But you mark my words, said the maid. There'll be a penalty for this.

She shook her head violently from side to side like a bird in a leather trap.

—Mark my words.

Within a short while all the water had drained from the bath. The room was quiet. No room can be so quiet as a quiet bathroom in an empty house. Everyone has left for the country, James thought, though he knew it wasn't true. Everyone has left for the country and I am still here. And he remembered small things he had done wrong here and there throughout his life and felt that this was some accounting of blame—he was being paid back in kind. And then he thought of kind voices reading old stories. He thought of the ease of paper boats on a Victorian pond. He thought of marzipan and weasels, of Easter on easels and trees shed of last year's leaves. Many were present then in him, and one was his brother. I will say, said he, that the lily when it blossoms is the name of four-fold ovens. But that's meaningless. No, no. Four-fold ovens and the cleverness of hands. A man with the skill of setting traps. A bird with one eye because he has been painted only in profile. We shall not let him turn, not until he has sung his supper.

Is this the broom closet? wondered James. He took a piece of paper out of his coat pocket. The paper was very flat. It said:

Broom closet, Floor 3, Stair 7, Rear of Hospital.

He had made it through the hospital without incident. He had made it up the stairs without incident. Now he was before a closet. He presumed it was a closet. All the other rooms had numbers painted in neat black paint over dark wood. It must be, he thought.

And he opened the door.

Begin with me, said the bird. James reached out, took hold of the bird's neck and head, and gently but firmly twisted it off.

Within the little metal bird was a rolled-up piece of parchment.

It said:

I anticipate you as farmland anticipates the wilderness to come when all that's ordered is the sum of thought in a white wren's head as it flutters among red apples. Red red apples and the smell of blood.

—I saw in the distance a harbor approaching, a harbor walking arm in arm with the sea, and upon the sea great catastrophes of ships, constellations of storm and fright. Distances. How much then I knew that distance was always our greatest enemy; distance was always the obstacle that could not be overcome. Steam trains bring us closer. Airplanes. Elevators. Rockets. But how can we be beside the one we love on that particular day when it would suddenly, inexplicably, mean the most? For small distances, a street, a room, the length of an arm, these divide like a sword. They are the worst, the most devilish, the most puzzling. Ask me again when I go into the hall, will I hate to be parted from you, will I call out the moment I am finished with what I must do? Instead, my love, arrive. Arrive quietly as I finish. Surely that is within your power.

James put the book down. Carlyle was looking at him.

—That is beautiful, he said. What happens next?

—It's the book's end, said James. But I think it is a suicide. The woman is speaking to her lover who is far away.

—This taking leave of life, said Carlyle. For many it is not easy.

Carlyle was wearing a short brown jacket with dark wool pants and a white cotton shirt. He had a hat on indoors, slouched across his head, and had been writing in a book when James arrived.

—I finished reading the manual, said James. It's fascinating.

—Ah, the manual, said Carlyle. There are many opinions, like insects, about the manual. Some flutter but do not fly; some fly but do not flutter. Some stay close to the ground unmoving. It is an old book, you know. From the nineteenth century. The idea had been put into practice once, in England. But not since then, until Stark discovered it and realized it was the perfect way of treating today's illness of chronic lying. And, he thought, a sort of lovely way of living in general. At any rate, he likes it.

—Do you have all the rules memorized? asked James.

—God, no, said Carlyle. But one gets a sense of what one ought and ought not to do. After a while it becomes instinctive. Of course, every now and then there is a transgression, and when one is excited, one often doesn't count to fifteen, et cetera, but mostly, yes, the rules work just fine. It is very difficult, of course, to train the maids. But they like it very much here, I think. Certainly they get paid well. Everyone who comes into contact with this place is rewarded for it in some way.

Carlyle said this with a real belief.

I wonder if that's true, thought James.

—How did Stark make his money? he asked.

—I believe he inherited it. He's always had it, and there's never been an explanation, as long as I've known. Where he lived as a boy, these sorts of things are a mystery. He doesn't talk about himself very often. He's the kind of man who obsessively controls the work that he is upon, and thinks of it and only it.

—What is his work?

—Well, psychology, to start. But his writings are complicated and verge into social theory and other realms. He is the acting head of this hospital, the one that we are on the edge of here. It runs partly into the house, as Graham tells me you discovered in an unfortunate way.

Carlyle laughed when he said this.

—I was just trying to get some supper, said James. I didn't know where to go.

—The few of us who live here and are not patients generally eat in our rooms, or in the private dining rooms. But you know that if you've finished the manual.

James nodded.

Carlyle looked at his watch.

—I have to go. I have to meet someone.

He looked quickly at James, quickly away, and stood.

—Sorry to run off, he said.

—No worries, said James. He stood too.

Carlyle put his arm on James's shoulder.

—I like you, he said. I think we could be friends.

—I think so, said James.

—If you like, said Carlyle, I'm having supper with McHale and Grieve tonight in my room. You can come. I'll send a note.

—That would be fine, said James.

Next to the chair where Carlyle had been sitting was a pile of newspapers.

I should have a look, thought James.

Both yesterday's and today's were there. The Samedi matter was front-page news on both. There had been two more suicides and two more notes. The area of the White House was now sealed off for ten blocks in every direction.

The two men who had died were American citizens. The first, an Alfred Mitchell, had also shot himself in the face. The second name James recognized, and a chill ran up his spine.

Good God, he thought. I have been right all along.

The second man, who had poisoned himself, then staggered three blocks to die on the White House lawn, was Marvin Estrainger.