Samedi the Deafness (9 page)

He stepped back, stepped back again, and found himself at the door. He stepped back through it, shut it, and leaned against the other side.

—What do I know? asked James. What do I give myself to know?

And he knew then that the task before him was too large, that a man like Samedi could entertain him like a passing notion, but would never be persuaded by his speech or swayed by his actions.

A gravity then, as of a sickroom bound to the passing of its few.

James went along the hallways, went upon the stairs. What he would do he did not know, but at times he heard the ringing of bells; at times he froze. Yet none came to him, and there were no words in his head but those he himself spoke in indecision.

Today he said, I will explore the house. I will learn what I can, and then make my escape.

Upon the porch he passed McHale, dressed as though returning from town. James made as if to speak, but McHale scowled and passed, shaking his head.

Good lord, thought James. I forgot the rule. He looked at the bell in his hand.

James had breakfast on the porch. It was brought to him by the maid, Grieve, but he pretended that he did not know her. He supposed she would have been fired if it was found out that she was helping him. So, he gave her the cold shoulder. This seemed correct; she did the same to him.

The omelet was quite good. He ate it with satisfaction. Peppery, he thought. And the toast had been buttered while still hot. Perfect.

On the grass, children were playing. Where could they have come from? thought James.

And then he realized that there were children everywhere. Children on the porch, children on the lawn, children behind him in the house. Never had he seen so many children in one place.

—Why so many children? James asked the man seated next to him.

As if out of a long sleep, the old man answered slowly:

—It is a field trip. Every year the children come. Oh, how we who live here long for and await this day. Can you see their little hats, their little shirts? Have you ever seen a shoe so small?

The old man snatched at one of the children running past, catching the back of the little fellow's overalls and dragging him to him.

—No! said a nurse, suddenly appearing out the doorway.

She slapped the old man's hand with a ruler. He let go of the child, who ran off happily to the lawn.

The nurse gave a long, considered look to the old man.

—Olsen, we don't want to put you back in, do we?He said nothing, but grumbled quietly and looked into his lap.

—I said, we don't want to put you back in, do we? Do we, Olsen?He said that he did not want to go back in. Not for any reason.

—Good, said the nurse. Good.

It was the afternoon, and James went down a long staircase. He found it at the back of a linen closet, with a sign posted:

WINE CELLAR

Certainly James wanted to see the wine cellar. For instance, what might be in the wine cellar? Hidden things, etc.

James proceeded down the staircase that was one long unbroken stair, perhaps two stories long, with very flat slanted steps. It was virtually a chute. At the bottom, a small room for coats and such. He was not wearing a coat. He proceeded past the coatroom.

The next room was a while in coming, for his eyes had to adjust to the low light. Small pulsing bulbs were set into the ground. The wine cellar was enormous and stretched away into the darkness.

—The best of what we have is near the back, said a voice.

James turned.

A man was standing there, handsome but severe. James recalled McHale's description.

—Hello, he said. I came down to—

—No, no, said the man. No need to explain anything to me. I'm not the one in charge of you.

—You say, said James, the good wines are at the back?

He looked away down the long aisles.

—Yes, said the man. By the way, I'm James, James Carlyle.

—Sim, said James Sim. James Sim. But I guess you—

—Know that, yes. We've been having our little chats about you. Yes, we have.

He gave James a certain knowing look. He was severe as McHale had described, severe in the way that one expects from someone who devotes himself to an unrewarded discipline, a discipline not unrewarding in itself, but unrewarded by the world in general. The strangeness of meeting the world's greatest botanist in the late twentieth century; the strangeness of a tailor who makes clothing only for puppets. These people are severe on themselves because no one else will be severe on them, and if they are not, then their art will no longer exist in its fullness.

Yes, thought James, I like his sort.

They walked together down the aisles, not speaking.

—I wonder, said Carlyle, what it would be like to be shut up in glass and tucked away in the ground like this. To have one's redness of blood sway slightly at the world's turn, at the pull of the moon, at the tremor of a near footstep. But to be passed again and again and never chosen. Do you think they want to be chosen, James?

—I couldn't say, said James. For myself, I would want to be broken against the side of a ship by a distinguished-looking older man in front of a cheering crowd prior to the sailing of said ship on its maiden voyage, which would also be its last, as the ship would sink when it reached deep water and no one would survive. Songs would be sung of the ship. In that way I would survive.

—Well, said Carlyle, I can see why Grieve likes you.

James turned his head sharply. Carlyle, surprisingly, seemed to blush slightly.

—We've been friends since childhood, he explained, and she confides in me.

Finally they reached the last row of bottles. There must be thousands of bottles down here, thought James. He had never seen so much wine in one place.

—I am told, said Carlyle, that this is one of the finest collections outside of France. Of course, it is not just wine. There are fine sherries, cognacs, whiskeys. Stark delights in waiting for the experts to declare that there are no more bottles of such and such left in the world. Then he produces one and sells it for a huge price, and then gives the money to charity. He is a great man.

—How did you meet him? asked James.

He turned down the last aisle and walked along, running his hand over the wine bottles. In the low light it was hard to tell, but they certainly looked old. He took one out. ST. GROUSARD, 1806,it said.

—That's certainly not drinkable, said Carlyle. Just for show, for pleasure. Did you know that when Napoleon lost and the vineyards of France were stripped bare, the wine cellars robbed of all their bottles, it turned out to be a sort of boon, because after the great mass of armies had receded to Germany, to Austria, to England, to Russia, to Poland, to Spain, after some years had passed, and France was rebuilding itself, orders began to pour into the same vineyards that had been robbed. The soldiers, the officers, they remembered the glorious wines they had found, and they wanted more.

James felt himself liking this odd young man. He repeated his question.

—How did you meet this Stark?

Carlyle twitched at the word
Stark
.

He must not have meant to reveal that, thought James. I've gained something.

—My parents died when I was quite young, said Carlyle. He took me in and raised me as his son. I always thought I would marry Grieve, but then, five years ago, I began to get horrible headaches. I changed. I became withdrawn, refused to speak to anyone. Stark had doctors come. They told him I had a tumor in my head the size of a fist, and that I would die within the month.

—But that was five years ago?

—I didn't die that month, said Carlyle.

A gentle smile touched his lips.

—Nor any of the months after that. But my ideas changed. I decided I would not betroth myself to anything, not to an idea, not to a person. That's when I began my studies in earnest.

He looked away into the dark and nodded to himself.

—I always thought, said James, that a sudden death would be best.

—They say mine will be preceded by days of intense headache culminating in a blinding pain that feels, as others have described it, like the light of the sun descended into one's eyes. I have read accounts of it, accounts of such deaths. I do not envy myself what's to come.

—But it's been five years, said James. The tumor must have shrunk.

—I have it looked at every now and then. On my birthday, actually. It's a sort of joke. It hasn't shrunk. Not a bit. But it hasn't grown.

James thought it over.

—So you and Grieve used to, you know . . .

—No, said Carlyle, laughing. We only thought we would be for each other, one day, long into the future.

James and he had begun the walk back to the stairs. He continued laughing.

—You are welcome to try keeping her happy. No one, of course, has ever succeeded in that.