And yet she seemed so cheerful, except when she was sad, which was not so often. Perhaps her painting showed that other side of her in bolder relief, as the saying goes. Zupan was not an expert in these things. He barely knew himself. He was like a spectator at a carnival or a pedestrian in the street, never knowing what awaited him in the city of his troubled mind. And he was like a viper in a den that might strike and strike some figure moving in the shadows. And he was like a bird of prey that might swoop down and seize some creature in its claws and tear its flesh away. It aroused him to think that she slept without clothes. He brought a bottle of wine and they drank it together. Her speech became slurred, her movements became heavy. He laid her in the bed. He watched her until she fell asleep.
Then she was gone. He walked to the Library and saw the women waiting on the steps. He rode in the subway and had the feeling that he might never get off the train, riding forever into the night, seeking her through all eternity. And he had the feeling that she might be in some other world, behind an invisible wall, never to be seen again. The dead are like that, he thought. And he could hear that music now.
The snow fell in flurries. Gusts of wind blew her hair across her face. They sat before a blazing fire and watched the rain beat against the windowpane. Her woolen hat was wet. Her woolen sweater was damp. She changed her clothes and brought him a dry shirt. They drank cocoa or wine. He thought of them as occupying a snowbound cottage, magically supplied with all their needs for all the days of their lives, though he might fish or hunt. Then the rifle shots would reverberate through the forest and the leaves would rustle in the trees.
And he was like a viper in a den. And he was like a bird of prey. And he would strike and strike and cut and cut. And fall exhausted by the river’s edge where the brown women came to bathe. In the mirror his eyes were gray, metallic. And he could hear that music now.
In that time and that place he had been alone. Then she had appeared as in a dream and then she was gone though he had not dreamed her. Her hair was red. Her arms and legs were almost thin. They ate in the Automat and saw a show. It was a perfect day and they has talked for a long while in the street when everything was steeped in shadow and then dusk had fallen and suffused the hot, still air and evening came and then the night. And the night was warm and women came out on their fire escapes and the voices rose from the crowded street in a steady hum or drone and the sound of traffic far away was like the promise of another life.
He waited for the phone to ring. He waited for the knock on the door. He strained his senses to penetrate the silence of the empty rooms. He stood in the dark hesitating to move. Everything that ever was or would ever be was contained in the silence of those rooms, straining against it, straining within him as in some undisclosed dimension of the universe. He could not touch it. It was beyond his grasp, and yet it moved in him.
And he desired her. And he did not see her as she was. He saw her as in a dream, but he did not dream her. And the gun was heavier than he had thought it would be. He cradled the gun in his arms and looked up and down the street. He spilled out the shells on the bed. He went to the hardware store with a list of things to get. Then he counted the hours and the days. Then he covered his eyes with his hands. Then he made a cup of coffee and drank it standing up.
She did not come back. He wondered where she was. Had she changed her clothes? Had she worn her woolen hat and woolen sweater? It was the Christmas season. Snow covered the ground. There was blood in his mouth. The knife was in the kitchen. He paced the floor and prowled the rooms as though something had slipped his mind and he could not think what it was. Then he stopped, as though remembering, and looked toward the bed.
He waited through the night. He slept curled up like a ball. The sunlight came streaming through the window. The air was hot and still. He had a good feeling now. It had been a long time since he felt so good. He looked at his watch. He looked at the empty balcony across the yard, through the trees where the sparrows flew among the leaves. He looked toward the bed. He was not sure what he saw or what it meant. He paused again, remembering, but nothing came. He filled a box or bag with things he thought he’d need. He had a cup of coffee. He took some paper from his desk and wrote a note. He waited for the phone to ring. He waited for the knock on the door. The room was no longer empty. It was alive with him. The floorboards creaked, a door slammed, the windows slid up and down. The room was part of him. It no longer had a life of its own. The sounds of the street came through the open window. He thought he heard Mr. McGuire’s voice, and then children’s laughter. It was noon, an especially restful time of day. Perhaps it was the heat of the sun that slowed things down. He thought about these things for a while, about the seasons and the different times of day, and then the night. He could not escape these thoughts. They always brought him back to himself, no matter how or where he began. One thought led to another, following a prescribed path, one traced out long ago when he heard the sound of a woman’s heels against the pavement or the drone of a plane in the summer sky, wedding memory to desire and waiting to be entered like the silence of an empty room. And then he was at the Library, and then he saw her on the steps, or thought he did, and they went home on the subway, and her hair brushed his cheek, and her hair was damp and fell across her face, and her soft, full breasts rose and fell, and her legs were bare. And her face was raw and wet. And the scars were long and deep. And her mouth was not a mouth. And her nose was not a nose. And her face was not a face. “Touch me, touch me,” she said, and held him with her gaze and took his hand with a tremor like a sob and drew it to her breast and he felt enfolded in her and the cry of love that issued from her throat was unlike any human sound he had ever heard, and he could not answer her.
And the days and the months drifted by like the clouds on a summer day, and the music drifted on and on, soulful,
mellow, mesmerizing. It flowed and flowed, so soft and mellow. This was the drift of the world on a summer day. This was the drift of time and memory. And he had a good feeling that day. He could hear that music now.
And now it came faster and he was on the train again and it was racing down the tracks and there was so much to see. All the world was going by. On and on it went and everyone rocked and swayed and slowly it rose into the mountain, slowly it pulled itself along, slowly it rolled over the top, through the pass. Faster and faster it came down. She was there too. Was she fat? Was she thin? They were on a rollercoaster and they began to dance. They took two steps forward and three to the left, two steps forward and three to the right. Faster and faster they went. It was like a rollercoaster. So fast they wanted to scream. Marie, Marie, he said, hold on tight.
And still the train went on, over the flatlands now, picking up speed, into the night, never stopping, sounding its horn. Day and night it goes on and on. It does not stop. It goes on and on. And all the world to see.
And then the dance begins again. We stamp our feet, we turn to the left, we turn to the right, we mark time, we advance, we rock, we sway. She is dancing too. I can hear that music now. And then everything begins to roll. We are going forward and there is a long sigh or cry that does not end, and the music of the dance.
And then we come out of the tunnel and into the sun. We are racing and racing and then the train begins to pull again and almost stands still, higher we climb again, slowly we climb the hill. She leaned against me and her hair touched my cheek. “Look! Look!” I said. “Down below, it’s the sea!” And then we moved along the water’s edge, the long train chugging lazily along in the summer sun. So much to see, so much to see! The fields running up to the tracks and vanishing beyond the horizon, endless green and golden fields and all the world before us. And she was there. And we almost fell asleep but then the train picked up speed, almost
imperceptibly, and we were alert again. It sped up and slowed down and sped up and slowed down. We rode all day and into the night and through the next day and the next. I can he
ar that music now.
And now we climb again and the scenery changes and we enter a forest and it is dark. We see our faces in the glass and the cars are full. We could be going anywhere. We go on and on, deep into the forest and the tangled branches and the creeping vines and sometimes sunlight slanting through the trees. We go on and on in a journey without end. The earth is soft and damp. Drops of water glisten on the leaves. And fields again, and a river too, and hills and dales. And again we drop down to the level of the sea and the salt air caresses our skin and the heat warms our bodies.
And everything begins to swirl, our heads are spinning, it is as if we’ve entered a maelstrom. Round and round we go. I try to catch her hand. It is like a carousel, and someone winding it with a giant key. And we are riding it. Round and round we go. On two white horses we go round and round, and there are children there and they are screaming, “Look! Look! Look how fast we go!” And then a different key and we stand up and hold on to the bar with a single hand and swing out above the ground. People watch us but their faces are a blur. And then another bar and bells are ringing and we dip and spin and grab the ring that is hanging in the air, faster and faster we go, until it stops.
And now we mount those horses and begin to ride beside the train. Can you hear that music now? A great herd of horses is in our train. They turn as one and follow us. The sound of hoofbeats pounded in our ears. The wind blew back her hair. She closed her eyes and let the wind blow back her hair. And then a long, smooth gallop on the endless plain and rainclouds swirling in the air but the sun still hot. It is so smooth a ride, I could go on forever. Forever and ever on the endless plain. And she was there beside me. And we rode faster into the wind. And I wanted to scream. I wanted to shout. And her breath came hard and fast and she screamed too. Is this the way the world ends? Is this an apocalypse? And then her voice. Again and again she asks the same question. She is saying, Love me, love me, do you love me, do you really love me?
And we gallop on and on and our horses rear up and we see the sea below and the trains running back and forth bringing people to the shore and the sun and the salt sea air and children playing with a ball and we swoop down, we are flying on our own like bats or golden birds and fly out over the sea and swoop down and down and all around. The sea is full of eddies and rippling little waves that beat against the sand. We are flying across the sea, soaring, sailing, gliding, dancing on the waves, and see the dolphins and the whales and little boats. We come close to the fluted water and then soar up again, higher and higher toward the sun, faster and faster through the blue delirious air. We do not tire, we bat our wings, we fold them against our bodies to sail like missiles through the air. Violet mists and purple sprays hide the drunken little boats that leap across the waves. Storm clouds gather but we are not deterred, and then we sight land and make for it, an island in the milky sea, and there we rest.
And the natives come out in grassy skirts and begin to dance. They dance in a circle, some just run. They run and dance around us. They take each other’s hands. They have grassy skirts and wooden spears. The women’s breasts are bare. We dance too. I put my hand on her shoulders. She puts her hands on my hips. We do a little jig. Everyone is laughing. Everyone is dancing. Round and round they go. So fast, so fast, I’m getting dizzy. And now more natives come out, hundreds, thousands from all the huts, all the village, all the people of the island, and they are dancing too. A great multitude of people are dancing on the beach. Their feet throw up the sand. And we are dancing too. I’ve never danced so fast. Our feet barely touch the ground. Oh, it’s too fast for me, but magically I keep up, and she is dancing too. O the pounding drum. O the beating hearts. It is like madness. It is like madness. And she is dancing too. And she sticks out her tongue at me. She is smiling, she is laughing, the wind is in her hair, and I am spinning her and whirling her in the salt sea air. O the madness. O the wind blowing in her hair. I cannot breathe. I cannot see. It goes on and on and I am free.
And then it all winds down and softens and we begin to drift again, we are floating like the clouds and swooping in and out of fantastic places, never seen before, fabulous El Dorados of the mind, and we catch the train and we cross the plain. There is no one in the train now, just we. I know this place. I’ve seen it before. I know the lowlands and the highlands, the forest and the sea. We cannot stop the train. We are bound to it. It swings up toward the mountains, it crosses an enchanted valley, it sounds its horn, and there are figures at the roadside, they throw flowers in the air as if to greet us, they bow to us and smile. And we go higher still, to the smoky mountain top, and cross from peak to peak. It is as if we are riding in the air. And lose a little height. And make big turns in a figure eight. And climb again. Up and down we go. Around and around we go, like fish playing in the water or like fireflies turning in the air. And her voice is like a sigh. Help me, it says. Help me.
And now we pick up speed. It is like a train, it is like a carousel, so fast, so furious, we go on and on, and I hear her voice again. She takes one step forward and spreads her arms and sings her song, over and over again she sings her song. And I can hear that music now.
XI
Murder, madness, suicide—are these not the definitive acts that cut the cord that binds us to the world? Think of the moment when the shots ring out, the body plunges toward the abyss, the final scream issues from the throat. Terrible to lose the world! Terrible to be without a world or the hope of a world!
Years passed. Children came. He heard their voices in the street. The Horns went out to Hollywood. He grew a mustache and read the Wall Street Journal in slippers and a smoking jacket. Harriet put on weight. Sometimes he went away on hunting trips. Spinelli moved to Paris. He had a new car and a big villa, now that he was director of operations for all of Western Europe. His blonde wife was learning French. “Voulez-vous de bubble gum?” she said.
Then it was autumn again and he remembered a certain ancient melody. It must have been the music of a violin. Harriet watched him clean his gun and then went back to baking her cake. He washed his hands and mixed a drink, staring into space when he heard the click of the ice cubes in the glass. They drove upstate and had lunch on the road and it was almost dark when they got back. She leaned against him for a moment as they stood there in the street, her hair brushing his cheek and her eyes so big. And they talked for a long while in the cool of the afternoon when the streets was steeped in shadow and the air was very still. And they might have come to an understanding on that perfect day so long ago. And when it rained he liked to listen to the raindrops beat against the shingled roof and breathe the heavy air outside. And they danced without music and lay on a blanket on the floor while the radio broadcast a ballgame from the city that he could not hear for all the static in the air and the pounding of his heart. Her lips were rough and oddly chapped when they touched his.
And one summer he found himself alone in the city and met a friend who took him out to eat. It was such a grown-up thing to do. And later, in the kitchen, as he sat on the window sill so high above the street, he saw a woman in a window, behind a half-raised window shade.
He liked the peas and beets and mashed potatoes in the Automat, all mixed together when he took the last forkful now all red and had blueberry pie with a glass of milk amid the clatter of dishes and the hum of voices all around, and afterwards they took him to see Sinbad the Sailor at the Radio City Music Hall.
He wore a sailor suit and stood saluting by his bike with the sea behind him and the pennants flapping in the summer breeze above the boardwalk pavilions. And when a little girl wouldn’t give him her ice cream cone he felt so bad he could have cried.
He could not hear the cars that came to park behind his house when he lay in bed but saw the lights moving on his wall and ceiling in the grid the shadows made when cast across the room by the slatted blinds. And then he dreamed of the world outside and of the mysteries of the night.
On Sundays the
y all went to the crowded park where the grass ran down a gentle slope between the trees and children swam in a shallow pool and the air was full of children’s voices and then they heard the lazy, distant drone of a passing plane high overhead in the cloudless summer sky.
The lobby was dark and smelled of rotten oranges and the men came with a stretcher and left with a body bag. And when they painted the house it smelled of paint for weeks and he shot a cap gun at his father and his father dabbed some ketchup on his face to make him think his aim was good and then his mother called him to the bath.
He watched the snow falling in big flakes that made the sky glow though it was nearly midnight and in the morning they built a snowman in the street with coal black eyes.
They waded in the brook where he came to fish and when she raised herself up to the mossy bank he saw that there were leaches on her legs and she screamed and screamed and kicked her feet until he picked them off. And afterwards he touched her small, soft breasts beneath the clinging bathing suit.
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