Samedi the Deafness (3 page)

James spun around. The boy who had been downstairs was gesturing to him. James went through the door. Inside was a washing machine and a dryer. It was clearly the apartment's back door. The boy leaned against the closed door.

—You're with the police, right?

—No, said James. Not me.

—I know you are, said the boy. I want you to arrest the man in the next room. He's hit my mom. They're fighting right now.

Indeed, the noise of an argument could be heard quite clearly.

What an opportunity, thought James. He would burst in on Estrainger. The man would be confused, taken aback. He thought of the great advantage he would have over such a man at such a time.

He readied himself, threw open the door, and stepped through.

It was a rather shabby apartment that greeted his eyes. A man stood in the center of the room; a woman leaned against the wall, in tears. Both gasped as he came in.

—They've come for you, said the woman. And I don't mind a bit.

—You won't get me so easily, said the man.

There was a pistol on the dresser. He leapt for it, but James was quicker. In a moment the pistol was in his hand. He leveled it at the man.

—Now listen, said James.

—I won't go to jail, said the man. Not again.

In a second he was at the window; in another he had leapt through.

The woman screamed.

From outside, an impact, a loud noise, and screaming.

James went to the window. A tableau had been drawn below by a master draftsman. All the elements of careful composition were present. The body, at the drawing's center, splayed out on the concrete, and around it, in concentric circles, the varying degrees of affectedness. Already it seemed a crowd had gathered. People were looking up. James pulled back and drew the blinds.

The woman was looking at him.

—Are you going to get a medal for that? she asked.

She seemed profoundly unhappy. James did not remark on this. He couldn't believe Estrainger had jumped. It was a disaster. The gun he was holding he stuck in his pocket. He pulled open a drawer. A letter was in there. He took it out and examined the envelope.

Leonard Mayne
2 Verit Street

God damn it, thought James. Who is Leonard Mayne?

—The man who jumped, said James suddenly, turning towards the woman, what was his name?

—What was his name? she asked coldly. What kind of idiot are you? You come barging into an apartment and you don't even know the man's name?

—What was it? he asked.

—Leonard, she said. Leonard Mayne. And if you want the pills, he kept them in the box under the bed. Six different kinds. A real big shot.

She spat openly on the ground.

—I'm glad he's dead, she said.

From the door, the boy had watched the whole scene. He looked at James with a kind of happy awe.

—Is he gone, is he really gone? he asked.

—Yeah, kid, he's gone, said James.

2 Verit Street, again

Once, at the zoo, when he was a small boy, James had watched his older brother torture a large monkey. The monkey, some kind of chimpanzee, had bounded around its cage squealing, as James's brother threw rocks. His brother had a good arm, and many of the rocks struck the monkey, knocking it down repeatedly. In fact, James remembered how bloody it had been. He had never seen so much blood. When his parents came, they took James and his brother away, and left the zoo immediately, without a word. The incident was never spoken of, but when James's brother was run over by a bus less than a week later, James was sure he knew why.

The system of connections between things that brought about such a reprisal seemed to James somewhat visible, though it was not ever spoken of by others. He governed his actions carefully, according to the dictates of this system, being cautious to take into account the postulated feelings even of inanimate objects and carapaced insects.

James hurried away from the building. He had feared that the first man would still be there at the foot of the stair to laugh at him, but this fear was groundless; the man was gone when he reached the door.

Prudently, he did not go to look at the scene of Mayne's death. He had, after all, stood a moment in the window and might easily be recognized.

Was Leonard Mayne the same as Estrainger? Now that he had time to think it through, he remembered that Estrainger was supposed to have been older, fifty or sixty years old. It was certainly not the same man. But now James would have to keep away from 2 Verit Street. Did he feel even a little bad about causing the man's death? No, no, thought James. The boy had been so happy. Certainly a boy could not be made happy over James having done a truly bad thing. The woman had not been happy, but she had not been sad either. Her worry was the worry of now having to decide what to do next. Ultimately, yes, James said to himself in a conciliatory fashion, you have acted well today, yes, rather well.

But he knew too that he had made an awful mess of things. Just then, he reached the station. A newspaper stand was beside the turnstile. He could make out the headline.

SECOND THREAT FROM SAMEDI

James bought the newspaper and, when the train came, got into the third subway car.

SECOND WHITE HOUSE SUICIDE DRAWS INCREASED CONCERN

Washington, September 28: A man's suicide yesterday outside the gates of the White House renewed investigations by federal authorities into the possible existence of a potentially dangerous religious cult. The demise of the man, Albrecht Moran of Bethesda, mirrors that of William Goshen, a local psychologist who slashed his own throat in the same location on Sunday.

Moran, a distinguished professor of political science and philosophy in his home country of Ireland, had recently submitted an application, pending at the time of his death, for American citizenship.

Like Goshen, Moran's body was found with a cryptic note, signed by an entity called “Samedi.”

DAY THE SECOND

MAN LIVES THE WAY HE WANTS TO LIVE. WHEN HIS WANTS CHANGE, SO TOO CHANGE HIS METHODS, SO TOO CHANGE HIS CONDITIONS. WE LIVE THUS NOT BECAUSE WE MUST, BUT BECAUSE WE HAVE LEARNED TO. BUT THERE ARE OTHER WAYS THAT CAN BE LEARNED. AN EXAMPLE IS TO BE MADE HERE. THOSE WHO HAVE BEEN DEAF SHALL BE DEAF. A PLACE SHALL BE MADE FOR THOSE WHO HAVE WAITED IN THE EAVES.

SAMEDI

A handwriting analysis confirmed that the two notes came from the same hand.

No connection has been found between the two men, apart from their high degree of education. Any threat posed by “Samedi” is currently being considered “not a high priority,” according to White House officials.

James held the Phone Book Open

and sat upon his bed. The phone book read:

Seph, Yaqin		546-445-4493
Sepwin, Russell		546-948-3321
Sepwith, Morris		492-889-0093
Sepwith, Nancy Smith		492-337-3309
Sepwith, Shep		492-349-8893
Seril, M.		492-228-3384
Seril, Theodore		393-818-0989
Seril, Wendy		492-349-2304
Sermon, Bill		492-405-4483
Sermon, Dr. L. N. Xavier		492-817-8717
Sernick, Anthony		492-576-4004
Sernick, Elinore		546-298-3038
Sernick, William		492-889-5807

Sermon
, thought James to himself. That's the lead. He closed the phone book, gathered himself a moment, and called the number. It rang once, and was picked up.

—Office of Dr. Xavier Sermon. This is reception.

—Yes, I'd like to make an appointment.

—The Doctor does not take any forms of health insurance, also he insists on seeing patients only during weekday afternoons. We have a spot open tomorrow afternoon, well, let me see, three. How is three? Can you do three?

—Three is fine. The address?

—Forty-nine Octavo Place. That's at the corner of the park. We're on the third floor. What is your name?

—Caleb Morton.

—And . . . phone number, in case anything changes.

—I don't have a phone. But I'll be there at that time.

—Well, actually, you should come fifteen minutes early, because the Doctor will want you to fill out a form with your previous history, etc., and a description of the present ailment.

—Then at quarter to, said James. Good-bye.

—Have a good day, Mr. Morton, said the receptionist cheerfully.

James was alone in the room again. It occurred to him that things were happening very slowly. What would Thomas McHale think, were he still alive? What had McHale's plan been, anyway? Presumably to go to the police. McHale knew all the details; he had been a conspirator; he would be believed. What did James know? Nothing. And now he certainly could not go to the police—he would have to explain the suicide of Mayne.

He picked up the newspaper again and read through the front-page article, entitled “Identity of Samedi Unknown.”

It seemed the police, the FBI, the government in general, had little to go on, and were so far unsuccessful in their hunt.

There was a short letter to the editor saying that Samedi was really no threat at all. It was the position of that writer that the newspaper should under no circumstances continue to publish the letters.

That's foolishness, thought James. The letters are clearly news, and as long as they continue to be, the newspaper will print them. He turned to the next page. It was an extensive article on the work of handwriting analysis that had been done on the notes.

A profile of Samedi followed, describing him as: an older man, highly educated, vain, used to having his own way. Certainly wealthy, perhaps born to wealth. Right-handed, or ambidextrous, with an injury to the right wrist. Exceptionally long fingers. A nonsmoker. Most likely no history of criminal involvement.

The phone rang. James picked it up.

—Excuse me, this is Dr. Sermon's office calling to confirm an appointment for tomorrow afternoon at three o'clock.

—Please do not call this number, said James. It's my work, and they're very touchy about such things.

He hung up the phone.

Immediately, he thought, I have not gone to work in two days.

Then he thought, Going to work now would be useless.

At that Moment, the Doorbell Rang

James went down the stairs slowly. Through the curtain he could see some kind of deliveryman standing on the porch. He opened the door.

—Delivery for Sim.

The man held out a small, flat package.

James took the package and signed for it. With a nod, the deliveryman went away, back into the world of large, empty trucks and small, flat packages.

James shut the door and sat down on the hall-bench. He had always wanted to have such a bench. As he grew older, slowly he had procured for himself more and more of the things he had wanted slightly. Finally, it was the bench's turn, and he had procured it and set it down in this hall. Really, he never sat on it. Certainly, this was the most momentous thing that had ever befallen the bench.

James opened the package. Inside there were two smaller packages.

James opened the first. It was a letter that had been folded upon itself many times. He unfolded it.

It was quite short and forcefully clear:

Dear James Sim,

Your inquiries are not desired. Neither are they appreciated. You have once been warned against continuing, yet still you continue. This is one-half of your final warning.