Specimen Days - Michael Cunningham 10 стр.

Please, he said again.

Youre the sweetest boy in the world. You truly are. And tomorrow you must return it to the man on Broadway and get your money back.

I cant, he said.

Would you like me to go with you?

What is a man anyhow? What am I? And what are you?

Please, Lucas. Im touched, I truly am. But I cant accept it.

The man is gone.

Hell return tomorrow.

No. This was his last bowl. He said he was going away.

Oh, poor boy.

How could he tell her, what could he say, here in the dark of the hallway (where the goats skull still grinned), holding out to her the only treasure he could find, a treasure she didnt want?

He said, The spinning-girl retreats and advances to the hum of the big wheel.

Hush. Hush, now. Youll disturb the neighbors.

He hadnt meant to speak so loudly. He didnt mean to speak again, more loudly still.

The bride unrumples her white dress, the minute-hand of the clock moves slowly.

Stop. Please. Come inside, you mustnt rant like this in the hallway.

The prostitute draggles her shawl, her bonnet bobs on her tipsy and pimpled neck. The nine months gone is in the parturition chamber, her faintness and pains are advancing.

Catherine paused. She looked at him with a new recognition.

What did you say?

He didnt know. She had never before seemed to hear him when he spoke as the book.

Lucas, please repeat what you just said.

Ive forgotten.

You spoke of a spinning-girl. You spoke of a bride, and a prostitute. And a woman about to give birth.

It was the book.

But why did you say it?

The words come through me. I never know.

She leaned closer, gazing into his face as if words were written there, faint but discernible, difficult to read.

She said, You really dont know, do you? Oh, Lucas. I fear for you.

No. Please. You mustnt fear for me. You must fear for yourself.

You have some gift, she said softly. You have some terrible gift, do you know that?

He thought for a moment that she meant the bowl. It was in fact a terrible gift. It should have cost nothing, but hed paid for it with money meant for food. And what use did Catherine have for a bowl like this? Lucas stood with his blood racketing and his hands outstretched. He was the boy who had bought the bowl, and he was the boy who had sold it. Would that boy, the other, be now returning to his own family with food? Lucas could be only this, the one who had bought it. He could only stand before Catherine with a terrible gift in his hands.

Gently (he thought he had never known such gentleness) she took the bowl from him. She held it in her own hand.

What are we to do with you? she said. How will your mother and father live?

He said, This hour I tell you things in confidence, things I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you.

Hush, hush.

The dead sing to us through machinery. They are with us still.

Stop. Speak as yourself.

Simon wants to marry you in the land of the dead. He wants you there with him.

Sadly, she shook her head. Listen to me, she said. Its wonderful of you to want to buy me a gift like this. You are a sweet, generous boy. Im going to keep the bowl safe tonight, and tomorrow I am going to sell it and give you the money. Please, dont be offended.

You must not trust your sewing machine. You must not listen if it sings to you.

Shh. If we make such a racket every night, well be thrown out.

Do you take it I would astonish? Does the daylight astonish? Or the early redstart twittering through the woods?

Go home now. Come to me tomorrow, after work.

I cannot leave you. I will not.

She put her hand on his head. Ill see you tomorrow. Be careful until then.

Its you who must be careful.

She seemed not to hear or understand. With a rueful smile she opened the door and went back inside.

Lucas remained for a while before the door, like a dog waiting to be let in. Then, because he could not bear being like a dog, he went away. He passed the tiny woman, who said, No mischief, then? He told her there had been no mischief. But there had been mischief, hadnt there? There was the bowl and what the bowl had cost. There were other crimes.

He made his way home, because he had money now (he had some left), and his mother and father must eat. He bought a sausage from the butcher and a potato from an old woman on the street.

The apartment was as always. His mother slept behind her door. His father sat at table, because it was time to do so. He put his lips to the machine, breathed Simons ghost song into his lungs.

Hello, Lucas said. His voice was strange in the quiet room, like a bean rattling in a jar.

Hello, his father said. Had his voice changed slightly, from his chest being filled with Simon? It might have. Lucas could not be sure. Was his father turning into a machine, with Simon inside him?

Lucas cooked the sausage and the potato. He gave some to his father, took some in to his mother, who slept fitfully but slept. He decided it was best not to disturb her. He left the food on the bedside table, for when she awoke and wanted it.

After his father had finished, Lucas said, Father, its time for bed.

His father nodded, breathed, nodded again. He rose. He took the machine with him.

Lucas left his father in the doorway to the bedroom. His mother murmured within. His father said, She cannot stop dreaming.

She sleeps. Its whats best for her.

She doesnt sleep. She only dreams.

Hush. Go to sleep now. Good night, Father.

His father went into the dark. The machines little feet scraped on the floorboards after him.

Lucas read his passage. He put out the light and went to sleep.

He dreamed he was in a room, an enormous room and clangorous. It was the works but not the works. It was full of silvery dusk like the works but empty of all save the noise, a deafening sound, not like what the machines produced, not quite that sound, though it resembled it. Lucas understood that the machines were gone but would return soon, as cattle return to a barn. He was to wait here. He was to see them home. He looked up something told him to look up and saw that the ceiling was covered in stars. There were the Great Horse, the Hunter, the Pleiades. He knew then that the stars were machinery, too. There was nowhere to go that was not the world, that was not the room. The stars moved mechanically, and something was descending, a dark shape from high in the night sky

He turned and looked into a face. Its eyes were black pools. Its skin was stretched taut over its skull. It said, My boy, my boy.

His mothers face was pressed to his. He was dreaming of his mother. He struggled to speak, but couldnt speak.

The face said again, My poor boy, what they done to ye.

He was awake. His mother crouched beside his bed, with her face to his face. He felt her breath on his lips.

Im all right, Mother, he said. Nothings been done to me.

She held the music box, cradled close. She said, Poor child.

Youre dreaming, Lucas told her.

My poor, poor boys. One and then another and another.

Let me take you back to bed.

Its greed that done it. Greed and weakness.

Come. Come back to bed.

He rose and took her arm. She yielded, or did not resist. He led her out of the bedroom and through the parlor, where the faces watched. Her feet shuffled on the floor. He took her into the other bedroom. His father wheezed and gagged in his sleep.

Lucas helped his mother into bed, pulled the blanket up. Her hair was spread over the pillow. In the fan of dark hair her face was impossibly small, no bigger than his fist.

She said, I should be dead with him.

Lucas thought he could not help thinking of the bowl hed bought. There were nineteen cents now, to keep them until Friday next. There wouldnt be food for the week.

He said, Youre safe. Im here.

Oh, safe. If anyone were safe.

You must sleep now.

Do ye think sleeping is safe?

Shh. Just be quiet.

He sat with her. He couldnt tell if it was better to stroke her hand or refrain from stroking her hand. He rocked slightly, to calm himself. There was nothing so frightful as this. There was nothing, had been nothing, as terrible as sitting on his parents mattress, wondering if he should or should not touch his mothers hand.

He knew he had to take the music box away. But what of Simons other point of ingress, their fathers breathing machine? Father needed the machine. Or did he?

Lucas didnt know if the machine was crucial to his father or merely helpful. He hadnt been told. It was possible, it was not impossible, that the breathing apparatus, which had been given as a gift, was in fact a bane. Could it be sucking his fathers life away, when it pretended to help him? Did any machine seem to want the good of its people?

Lucas stood, went as quietly as he could to his fathers side of the bed, and took up the machine. Its iron pole was cool to his touch. It was full of its song, as steady and unmistakable as the mice inside the walls. Gingerly, as he would take up a mouse by its tail, he carried the machine through the parlor and put it in the hallway. Was that far enough away? He hoped it was. In the twilight of the hall the machine was as indistinct as the goats skull. Its bladder, the size and shape of a turnip, was gray but subtly luminous. Its tube and mouthpiece dangled.

He would leave it there overnight. He would bring it back in the morning, when hed seen how his father fared without.

He went into the parlor for the music box. He took it and put it in the hallway, beside his fathers machine, then returned to the parlor and locked the door. He checked to make sure it was fast.

When sleep found him again, it brought its dreams, though he recalled upon awakening only that they had involved children and a needle and a woman who stood far away, calling out across a river.

In the morning his father had not yet risen. Lucas went to his parents bedroom and cautiously opened the door. They were quieter than usual. His mother murmured over her dreams, but his father, who was ordinarily given to deep snorts and coughings, was silent.