Samedi the Deafness (2 page)

—What's this Samedi's name? asked James. Who are these people?

—It's useless, said McHale, it's useless.

He trailed off, mumbling.

—They've ended me, ended me. I knew they would. I told Thomas. I told him they would; he put me away.

—What are you saying? asked James. I don't understand.

—The daughter, Grieve, said McHale. The handler, Torquin. Many of them in a house, I can't even say where. I was held there. I jumped the wall, ran for hours.

His speech trailed off again into a mumbling of names and phrases. James could not make them out. All around McHale the grass bore the deep stamp of his bleeding. His chest heaved and bucked and slowed. McHale was right—there wouldn't have been time for an ambulance. But who was to blame? The thought came closer, became more definite. Whoever had done it must still be near.

James stood and looked hastily about him. No one was upon the meadow or on the near paths. He could see past the second bridge, but not all the way to the first. There were boats upon the river, but too far to make out figures. There were people on the bridge. None seemed to be watching, though in truth he couldn't tell.

The best thing to do, of course, was to leave immediately. This is what comes of going out for a walk in the morning. Anyone who leaves their house deserves what they get.

McHale was absent when James looked back; his body, unmoving, was now more a part of the ground than of the world itself.

I shouldn't stay, thought James. Again, he hesitated. He felt better now that the man could no longer demand anything of him. By being dead, he had made himself no longer James's business.

And so James hurried away, and when he had reached the street and boarded a bus, and ridden the bus for seven blocks, he felt much better, and for the next hour he pretended that none of it had happened.

The Hour After That

James bought a newspaper—the first was still on the bench where he had left it.

AN ITEM IN THE NEWS:

QUESTIONS REMAIN OVER MAN'S SUICIDE OUTSIDE WHITE HOUSE

Washington, September 27: Federal authorities have commenced a probe into a suicide yesterday that occurred outside the White House gates.

According to eyewitnesses, at nine
A.M.
, William Goshen, thirty-eight, a native of Washington and practicing psychologist, cut his own throat with a knife as he stood facing the White House. He was pronounced dead upon the arrival of paramedics.

The letter, which gives no addressee, was made public at an afternoon White House press conference:

SEVEN DAYS AND THEN THE ROD. PATHS THAT HAVE BEEN TAKEN ARE WRONG AND MUST BE CORRECTED. THOSE WHO CAN SHOULD NOW DO WHAT THEY WILL TO CHANGE THE WORLD AND LEAVE THEIR NATION IF THEY DO NOT LIKE WHAT IT DOES.

SEVEN DAYS, THEN. SEVEN DAYS AND THEN THE ROD.

SAMEDI

As of press time, authorities have few insights into the incident. The signature “Samedi” has returned no clues, and it is unclear whether the moniker refers to Goshen himself, or some other member of a possible organization. Despite exhaustive research, Goshen has not been linked to any terrorist groups or fringe religious organizations.

Goshen is survived by a wife, from whom he separated earlier this year, and a son, age nine.

A Few Minutes Passed, Then James

motioned with his hand. The waitress, sitting at the far end of the counter, rose and came over.

—What'll it be, then?

Her mouth was pursed as she said this. She was of the sort who purse their mouths in order to defend themselves from a thing that people cannot defend themselves against. This undefined thing, this bleakness, arises much in those who work late at night in places lit by fluorescent lights, places attended by people who are strangers to each other and will always remain so.

—More hot water for the tea. Also . . .

James tapped the menu above a particular item. In this way he made it clear that he preferred to be served rather than to speak. He prized such gestures, and kept them in a sort of wooden box. That is, he thought of them as being kept in a wooden box. It was his specialty, of course, to think of things in particular ways, and thus have hold of them whenever he should need to.

What Should Be Done

There was a pencil on the counter. James wrote on the back of a napkin:

What should be done?

Beneath it, he wrote:

nothing

This he crossed out. Beneath that:

tell someone, the police.

He looked at the napkin. He felt then that there were two of them in the room, he and the napkin, and that one of them would have to go. He crumpled up the napkin.

The waitress came back. She had with her the specified items. James took them. He felt somehow that by placing them upon the counter in some way, a solution would unfold itself. He poured more hot water into his cup. Steam rose. That was good, he thought. Steam was good. It had often been a solution to problems. Why not now? The eggs and toast that he had ordered no longer interested him. He ate them methodically, looking up every now and then as one does in public places to see if anyone was watching him. Someone was.

Someone Was

a girl in a well-tailored yellow dress came over when their eyes met.

—Say, James, she began.

—I'm sorry, he said, do I know you?

Certainly he had never seen the girl before.

—I shouldn't think so, she said.

Her face was framed by short black hair. She spoke with a thick accent. I will not marry you, thought James. You are not suitable at all. I don't like your yellow-dress. I don't like your hair-cut, and I don't like your approaching-of-men in public places. But, he was smiling.

—You dropped this, I think.

She was holding James's wallet.

James took it from her. He examined the contents. Nothing was missing.

—Nothing is missing, she said.

He took a long look at her.

—How could you know that? he asked. Someone could have taken something before you found it.

—Not true, she said. I saw you drop it, and then I picked it up.

—When was this? James asked.

—On the bus.

They looked at each other. James felt that he had been outmaneuvered. He did not like this feeling very much.

—Well, then, you must have followed me off the bus to here. You must have sat here against the wall a whole hour before deciding to give me my wallet back. Who would do such a thing?

He said this somewhat triumphantly.

—I did, she said. Only this moment did I decide to return your wallet to you. Before that, I was making up my mind.

To this James had no reply. Her eyes were like arrow slits. He shifted slightly on the stool.

—Anyway, she said. My name's Anastasia. Just like the murdered Tsarevna. I know all about you, but you don't have to worry.

She started to walk away.

—I mean, she continued, you shouldn't worry. There are always things to worry over, but we can't help that, can we? It's better not to get involved in things that we don't understand, I've always thought. I make it my business to understand only what's in front of me. I don't cause trouble, and trouble isn't caused me. Do you know what I mean? See you around.

She went out the door.

The waitress came over.

—She said you would pay for her meal. I hope it's true.

Her face was frank, and a little concerned.

—Of course, said James shortly. Of course.

The waitress gave him the two checks, his own and Anastasia's. Anastasia had ordered a ham sandwich cut into twelve pieces. This was specified on the receipt. There had been an additional charge of 40 cents for the cutting. She had also ordered a glass of pressed orange juice.

He pictured her in her yellow-dress eating the ham sandwich piece by piece, drinking the orange juice and watching him. He felt that he had been used in some way.

James uncrumpled the napkin and looked at it again.

He had had his wallet when he got off the bus. After all, he had used it when he bought the newspaper. The girl was lying. Where had she followed him from? If she was the agent of someone else, and they in turn were working for someone, then who, ultimately, had given the order to follow him? She wouldn't have done it on her own, not a girl like that.

Someone must have seen him speaking with McHale. But they mustn't be sure. They couldn't know how much he told me; otherwise they wouldn't let me walk about like this. It'd be too dangerous for them.

The one thing I have, then, he thought, is that they don't know what I know.

Fifteen minutes passed in this frame of mind. An hour. The diner was now full of different people, all seeming to be ordering, seeming to be eating, seeming to be conversing intently. James felt comprehensively suspicious.

And furthermore, the clouds had turned from their dispersing to gather again. Beyond the walls of the diner, sheets of rain were strung all through the streets, upon the houses, the buildings, the trees and yards. Such a rain seemed to conceal within its clothing things dangerous to James Sim. He was suddenly certain that the letter in the newspaper was real, that Samedi somehow did have a strange power, and could, if he chose, cause the catastrophe that was now contemplated. But could he really? Perhaps.

A trembling then, slight, at the ankle and thumb. Someone could say to someone else in a far place, once acquainted with all the facts of the case, that it had been he, James Sim, who could have done something to prevent it. This afterwards, of course, after the tragedy, in an altered world.

This far conversation in mind, James went out into the rain and was soon completely drenched.

day the second

As though at the announcement of his own accomplished execution,

James approached 2 Verit Street. This was the address he had found that morning when, instead of going in to work, he had begun his inquiries at the various theatres near the Chinese district.

Soon enough he had spoken to a girl who had auditioned for a part in a play directed by the man, Estrainger. She had gone to his home to do so. It was her considered opinion that the man was no good as a director, but that his plays were quite well written. She wondered how it was that anyone could write a play at all. Basing things on real life, she thought, was easy enough. But to make things up entirely, well, that was something else. I mean, it seems like you would have to be psychotic. How could you remember what was even real? James had loudly agreed with her; he too, he said, wondered how anyone might remember what was real. Then he disengaged himself from the conversation and left.

An hour later, he stood before 2 Verit Street.

None of the buzzers was marked. James looked them over slowly. A man was smoking a cigarette on the stoop. James turned to him.

—Do you know which is Estrainger?

—Going up to see Estrainger, eh, that old fox? You don't look the type, if you don't mind my saying.

The man spoke out of the corner of his mouth in a sort of insolently apologetic way.

James repeated his question.

—I could tell you which buzzer was his if I thought it would help you. But he won't let you in no matter what you say. He's terrified of the police. Are you a cop? You look like a cop. Man, it's bad to look like a cop if you ain't one. Is that your thing? You go around looking like a policeman? Wouldn't do it if I was you. Not for one hour. Not even for an hour. Get yourself hurt.

He threw his half-smoked cigarette on the ground, rubbed it into the ground with his foot, and then cocked his head to look at James.

Just then a boy came up, slipped in the door, and hit the buzzer. A man's voice, then, came through the intercom.

—Who is it?

—Willy . . .

—Come on up.

The boy entered the building, and James followed, leaving behind his new acquaintance.

—Won't do you any good, the man said.

The Boy Had Entered the Apartment

James heard the door close after him. He had stayed behind on the stairs, so as not to arouse suspicion, and had listened carefully to hear which door it was. Now he stood in the passage outside. Through the door he could hear the sound of voices, arguing. A girl's voice, and the voice from the intercom. Must be Estrainger, thought James.

He waited. What was he going to do anyway, once he'd found him? Estrainger was supposed to be small. Maybe James could intimidate him into giving up the information. He stood in the hall. Should he knock?

A door opened behind him, and a voice whispered.

—Come, here, quick. Quick! You!