The Lesson

by Jesse Ball

  —It’s no use to look from here, said Mona, not unless you can see through that hill and out the other side.

  She laughed.

  —People are so stupid sometimes. Anyway, what I was saying is this: The new plots are doubled up. That Grish family died, all of ’em from blood poisoning. There were six of them and just three plots, so there was a big conversation here with the constabulary about if there should be a lottery between them to see which three would get the graves, because, of course, someone has to pay for them, or whether donations would be sought out, which likely wouldn’t come, as they weren’t well-respected. Leastways, it was decided to put them all in, and so the pairings had to be made. Now, this was a particular problem, as Gerard didn’t know them at all and didn’t have anything useful to say in the matter, but luckily Jan, our digger, he knew them in some small way. I don’t think he gets around very much, but he had some experience calling on them, and so he was brought in to say which of them might not mind being in the grave with which other, and so forth.

  Gerard had sat down on one of the stones. It did not look very comfortable. Loring sat too, but on the stair.

  —There were six of them, as I said, and so it would seem like putting the husband and wife together would make sense, except that it was ruled out immediately on the basis of their hating one another furiously (which perhaps was the cause of death). So, the mother, Celeste, was put with Jimmy, the third oldest, and the father with the youngest, Peter, who he had been seen with once at the fair (someone said) and had appeared to have been having a good time. That left the other two, Gladys and Rollins, who supposedly couldn’t stand to be in a room together. However, there wasn’t anything for it. Three coffins, three graves, six bodies, in they went. Not even money for stones. They all got one stone. It said, Grish Family, blood poisoned. I don’t really know what that means, do you?

  But by then night had fallen, and so the couple went off down the hill to their house, which was within the cemetery walls. (A cemetery watcher’s house within the cemetery walls: a fine thing!)

  —I will find my own way out, said Loring.

  The Weakness of Age

  was such that Loring was entirely exhausted by the time she reached the grave. She had to pick her way carefully. That night happened to be extremely dark. There was no moon and the clouds were sufficient to dull any impression of stars. She sat on the ground there and sank her fingers in the earth.

  —My love, she said.

  It will perhaps confuse you if I explain that as she sat there, she heard in her head the playing of a concert they once saw in Munich, in their middle age. Young people always assume that such things require great powers of memory or concentration, but of course, all things come with time and chance, and all things that come of their own accord are in that way blessed with great strength. So it is that one may suddenly be visited by a memory with great presence, whether it is that of music, or the feeling of a day, or a sight seen from afar, a face, a sense of a period of one’s life as though a foot is dipped into a pool of water—yes, you see what I mean. What she heard was not the music itself; that would be absurd. Instead, for her there: what she felt to hear that music, and the sense of the music happening. Do not believe, oh my friends, that this is counterfeit, either. It is what we have. The sense of music swelling up into the broad night, with little fists of stone graves littered on the hill around…

  So, she sat there awhile in the night until she was too tired to sit, and then she lay down, and soon fell asleep. When she woke it was the morning, and at least ten birds were in the tree above her head.

  They were doing that bird thing that involves sleeping with the head under one wing. Another way of writing the above sentence would be, when she woke it was the morning, and ten headless birds were draped throughout the tree above her head. Of course, that would be misleading in the extreme, as when she woke, they woke too, and one after another beheld the glittering day. For them it was a moment of true significance, and having no shame, they sounded their horns, and climbed about on the shoulders of the branches with great impetuousness.

  For Loring, it was a matter of sitting up again, and maneuvering to the tree, and sitting with her back to it. The gravestone was to her left, the greater part of the cemetery to her right. That there had been clouds in the sky the night before would in no way be evident any longer, as the endless blue whirling of the sky set about this way and that, and Loring closed her eyes again, and slept for another hour before the sun was full in her face, and drove her all the way home, though she went haltingly, weakly, and stopped often for rest. It is a difficulty, one might say, that the old who are strong willed do themselves harm with this will, for they never cease to demand too much until they no longer can and are swept away.

  The Third Visit

  Loring went to the door and opened it. Indeed, it was not Stan at all, but the town doctor, Matthews, with whom we have previously been concerned. It had become his habit, every now and then, to stop by and play a game of chess with Loring. Of course, she would always give him odds, pawn and move, or even knight odds, depending on her mood. Nonetheless, he was an excellent player, and a discreet one. His manners were impeccable.

  —John, why, hello.

  —Hello, Loring. Have you time for a game or two? I was just passing this way.

  —Yes, yes. A student is coming by, but that will be all right. Come in.

  She welcomed Dr. Matthews into the house, and took his heavy coat, which he wore, even in the summer heat, being a very superstitious man. One somehow assumes that by their nature doctors, scientist, etc., would be immune to such nonsense, but of course it isn’t the case at all. One might imagine a world of reason where all things fit into proper compartments, and then another, a hazy place of indistinct longings and infrequent arrivals—the first like a counting house, and the second like a train station during a land invasion. Is this hard to see—I am taking back my calling Dr. Matthew’s superstition nonsense. Superstitions may be quite useful.

  —You are looking well.

  Loring was wearing an outfit that resembled nothing so much as a canvas sack with holes for the head and arms. To say that she had never troubled herself much over her appearance would be an understatement of the gravest sort. She had at one time had a great deal of youthful charm and exuberance. Now, in her latter days, utility was the matter foremost in her mind concerning clothing, and she would, in winter, wear as many as three dresses at the same time.

  —Thank you, John.

  They went into the parlor and sat down. The pieces were set up and Loring removed her queen’s knight.

  —Have you been playing much? she inquired.

  —Oh, a game here or there.

  They continued on and he soon blundered one piece and then another. He pushed his king over and smiled at her.

  —Again?

  And so they began again. The doctor loved to play in the romantic style of the nineteenth century. While such a style is delightful, scintillating, etc., it is generally effective only against weaker opponents. One must however appreciate that the character of their visits was enlivened by his archaic gambits, and she appreciated them in the spirit in which they were given.

  Midway through the third game, a loud knock. The boy had arrived.

  What did that meeting look like? The boy came in, wearing even then the sort of clothes a boy would wear to school; perhaps his parents were preparing him for that day which loomed in the near future, or perhaps all the clothes he owned were stiff and proper. In any case, he looked a boy with everything well in order. The doctor, of course, having delivered him, knew him well.

  —Why, Stan, he said, are you a chess player?

  Stan smiled.

  —Dr. Matthews, it doesn’t look like you’re doing very well.

  —She is relentless, said Matthews, grimacing. Don’t you think?

  —Oh, no, said Stan. She is very kind and helpful. A good teacher.

  —Well
, perhaps that is the problem, said the doctor. I come here for beatings and not for lessons. One of these days, Loring, you should give me some advice instead of spotting me a knight and beating the side of my head in.

  —I will consider it, she said.

  As the doctor’s eyes passed across the parlor, from the boy to the chess board, they lit on the photograph of Ezra and his eyes narrowed. He looked at the boy and again at the picture and then at Loring. She did not see him, for she was busy staring at the board.

  —Mate in five, she said. Unavoidable.

  Stan came over to the board.

  —Ah, said the doctor sadly. I see it now. My bishop here will fall when the rooks trade off, because of this intermediate queen check. At that point, it won’t be protected. After that, there’s nothing to be done. I can move this pawn, but, well…

  Stan patted the doctor on the shoulder. Matthews was staring at him very carefully. He said nothing.

  —Well, I am going to have to begin Stan’s lesson now, so if you don’t mind my kicking you out without tea…

  The doctor got to his feet.

  —I see, I see, he said. It’s no trouble. Thank you for the games.

  —I will see you to the door, said Loring.

  She fetched his coat, and together they stepped out into the street. The boy was still by the chessboard. The doctor motioned that she should shut the door.

  —Do you know, he said. Do you know how old that boy is?

  —Five years old.

  —Five years, four months, two days.

  Loring looked at him.

  —What do you mean?

  —I don’t mean anything at all. I delivered that boy on the very morning that,

  —I understand perfectly well, John. That must have been where you were when,

  —When I was called to this house with a certificate, yes. I came from there.

  —I see.

  They looked at each other for a moment longer, and then, unsure what to say, or if anything at all should be said, the doctor gave a curt half-bow, and tramped off down the street. Loring leaned against the door and looked up at the second floor of the house opposite. A fine web of ivy had overtaken the entire face and hung in strands, like hair from the withers of an ox.

  —Born at the very hour, she said.

  A woman was passing selling bread. She had a dark green shawl wrapped over her shoulders, and her basket had a thick leather strap that held it to her back.

  Loring bought a loaf of bread from the woman and took it indoors. It was still hot from the oven. The woman must just have come from baking. Yet she did not have the look of someone who had just baked something. Perhaps she was the sister of the baker. What should such a person look like?

  The Third Visit, 2

  —I have a question, the boy said.

  —What is it?

  —How did Ezra become so strong?

  —It was a part of him, of his habits, his style. He had enough will to force himself to do what he wanted to do. He arranged his life in such a way that all his activities supported his great hope, of being the champion. Even I, even my chess playing became arranged so that I would play in the way that would best serve the development of his skill. He wasn’t very nice, and he wasn’t very likeable. Not many people liked him. But being liked wasn’t what he wanted. Later, of course, he was very beloved, but that’s different from being liked. The main thing was, he beat them all, every last one.

  —Do you think I could do the same?

  The cloth of the boy’s sweater had pilled. Loring pulled at it and set the fragment on the table.

  —What do you mean?

  —Well, perhaps if I learned about him, it would help me to be like him, to become a master.

  —I can tell you many things about him, and show you, she said.

  And she thought, If you are listening, please go and sit in the chair on the other side of the room.

  A moment passed. Another. The glass of the windows looked suddenly very thin to Loring and she wondered how it could be that none of the panes had ever broken, not in all the years the house had stood.

  The boy went and sat in the chair. He was holding something in his hand.

  —What’s that? asked Loring.

  —It’s an apple, he said.

  She pried open his hand. It was the core of an apple.

  —That’s not an apple, she said. It was an apple.

  —It is an apple to me, said Stan.

  —I am going to cut this bread, she said. Would you like some?

  They went then into the kitchen, and something stops us from following.

  Nonetheless, my love, I hold out my hand only to you as the train departs!

  By what notion Loring had preserved that sense of herself which was her husband’s, we cannot say. Perhaps that was what was in the box, for certainly it was nothing she knew of. Yet, the sense remained, she was the same person, and in the same way, as though he were still beholding her and keeping her to the idea of her that he had always had.

  They used to say to each other, when one would leave the house, the one staying would say:

  Nonetheless, my love, I hold out my hand only to you as the train departs!

  And the other would smile and go.

  That There Should Be a Game of Sorts

  did Loring decide. That the boy should be encouraged to play, but slowly, slowly—that also was decided. But none of it was in the nature of persuasion. Loring was not trying to persuade herself of anything, and certainly, she did not want to persuade the boy of something that wasn’t true. Rather, she was investigating, and the thing she saw was terrifying, entrancing.

  —I do not believe there is any other world, she said.

  —Another world? asked Stan.

  They were speaking of metaphysical matters. Stan was continually asking questions about dreams.

  —Yes, there are many who will tell you about it, but it must not be true.

  —Why is that?

  —Not because no one has come back from it, said Loring. But, because…

  And here she paused.

  —Because why?

  Loring fussed with the edge of the tablecloth a moment.

  —Because nothing is ever that way—the way people guess it will be. And so many want it to be that way, that there is another world. There mustn’t be. Do you see?

  —Could we sit out on the lawn a bit?

  She found a cloth from some hamper and tucked it under her arm.

  They went together out the front door and around. To get to the back of the house they actually had to go down a lane that curved out and behind, past many other houses. There was no immediate access to the back. When they reached the next road, they turned and came along past a ridge of rock or an old stonewall, it was hard to say which it was. Then there was a long grassy rise, and there in its heart, the back of the house. Of course, they could have reached it just as well by climbing down through the trapdoor, but Loring was not much good at climbing down through trapdoors anymore, and besides, it was not the same thing—to take someone out to sit on the grass and to take someone through a trapdoor to go out and sit on the grass. Someone like Loring was skilled at nearly everything, and she did not get that way through imprecision. Therefore, they went the long way around.

  —This is a book of photographs of him, taken by the artist Glisseau. He was very famous, and known for choosing his subjects very carefully. He has a book of photographs of Mussolini from his early days, and he photographed Pierre Solon on the day of his suicide.

  She turned the pages for him, showing him photograph after photograph. In fact, she had not looked at the book in years, and it pained her to do so. She had forgotten a little what her husband had looked like to others.

  —What are these things he’s wearing?

  —Those are spats—to keep one’s boots clean. Although, really people wore them more for style than anything else.

  In the photograph, Ezra was standing
in front of some villa, holding a violin. Loring was looking out the window at him.

  —He didn’t play the violin, she said. It was someone else’s. Oh, it was his.

  She had turned the page and Ezra was standing with his arm around another man. Someone else was buried up to his neck, and the two were laughing at him.

  —That’s Federico Marz. He was a terrible chess player, but a wonderful man. They used to play great practical jokes on the other masters. The one in the ground is Garing. I believe they gave him sleeping pills and buried him while he was asleep. When he woke, he was in the ground, and they had hired dancing girls to dance around and tease him. Somehow they didn’t make it into the picture. But he was a long-suffering fellow. He didn’t hold a grudge.

  —Buried him to his neck—that’s awful, said Stan. Isn’t it, isn’t it awful?

  —He was only like that for ten minutes, I think, said Loring defensively. See, here they are a week later—all friends.

  Garing, Marz, Ezra, and Loring were in an high-backed carriage of some sort. It was a broad, open day and they were all four very young.

  —Anna must have taken this. There are no photographs of her, though. She avoided it at all costs. She was Glisseau’s wife, but she loved someone else. It was never clear whom. Glisseau was more like her brother.

  A man in the background was holding a donkey.

  —That’s Glisseau there, sneaking into the picture. He had a sense of humor, too, of course, and liked being in his own pictures.

  —I haven’t been photographed, said Stan.

  —That is probably not true, said Loring.

  She turned another page. There, Ezra was standing with a very beautiful girl in a garland of flowers who was giving him some kind of plate covered in gold. It was raining very heavily in the photograph and the crowd before them bristled with umbrellas. The girl was very wet and laughing. She had committed her whole self to this enterprise of giving him the gold plate. Ezra had no expression whatsoever on his face.