Samedi the Deafness

by Jesse Ball

  —Good-bye, said James.

  He hung up the phone. The girl who was folding towels had stopped. She was looking at him curiously.

  —Who were you talking to? she asked.

  —I wasn't really talking to anyone, he said. The phone doesn't work. It's just a toy phone, made out of wood.

  And it was true. The phone was made entirely out of wood.

  James lifted it off the wall hook and set it on the table. The girl and he looked together then at the wooden phone.

  —I wonder who made it, she said.

  —And why, said James.

  —It must have been a very long time ago, said the girl, before there were ever phones. This probably only resembles a phone by chance, and in fact, in tribal culture had an entirely different significance. Perhaps it was used to feather arrows or bring to term unwilling births.

  —I should think so, said James.

  Suddenly the ringing of a bell. The two froze where they stood.

  David Graham came into the hall. He rang the bell again. Everyone stood quietly as they counted together to fifteen. Then Graham came up to James. He was smiling and his pants were soaking wet.

  A Visit from Sermon

  —We've been looking all over for you, James, he said. Sermon's coming. He'd like a word with you.

  —Certainly, said James. When?

  —It's unclear right now, said Graham. But be ready. Also, don't worry—you can tell him anything. Doctor-patient confidentiality and all that. He won't have to testify.

  —I was going to ask you, said James. The police . . .

  —Yes, said Graham. It's a bad business. A bad business. They keep coming around. I know it must worry you, but it really shouldn't. After all, he was just some drug dealer. Estrainger knew him, hated him. The whole building knew he was beating his wife. No one's sorry he's dead. But the police have to do their job, I suppose. Yes, it's good you're here. They won't find you here, you know. We'll keep them away.

  He patted James on the shoulder.

  —It's best today, I think, said Graham, that you zip around and explore the place. See what you can see. Get comfortable. Navigating can be a bit of a problem. You see, the hospital wing has some mechanized hallways that switch occasionally. But there's an hour-schedule for it all in the book. Have you read the book?

  James confessed that he had not yet read the whole book.

  —Well, do that as soon as you can. It'll really be worthwhile. And, of course, there are some people around here it wouldn't do to offend. No, not at all. Very sensitive. Yes, read up. Read up.

  He walked away.

  An Hour Passed

  and James sat in an interior room with the shades drawn. An older man, apparently a permanent resident, was seated and playing rovnin.

  Rovnin! It was so rare to find anyone who even knew the game, though of course in the sixteenth, the seventeenth, the eighteenth centuries, Swedes and Danes and Russians lived and died in its mad dictates.

  FIRST:

  a sort of stringed set of sticks with markers

  a calling out of numbers

  a switching between systems: base ten, base nine, base seven

  the creation of “proxies,” fictional players who aid, abet, or at times foil one's own newmade schemes

  There were books in James's childhood home on rovnin. His father had loved the game. James remembered the days they would spend in the cottage, playing at rovnin in the long hours, and roaming the fields and wood. He cleaned himself, preened himself in this memory as a bird might in a puddle. And as a bird, he had no notion of the true size of the world, or of its careening path through the larger sky beyond the sky.

  It was then he remembered Cecily

  The girl Cecily. Her hair brushed back, wet from a swim. The dress over her arm as she stands naked on a past day as though crossing a stream. Take off your dress, Cecily, it is too fine and the stream will ruin it. Take it off and cross the stream. In the dimness of it he saw how lovely she had been, how young. He had held up the stem of some flower and she had followed him, saying nothing. Her voice now was lost to him. So many other voices he could conjure, even speak with. But Cecily's was lost there in the dimness of the water. Her body and the light gone trailing after.

  Years of this, years of remembering Cecily. James had read somewhere that the truly fine and beautiful always die as children. They can't grow up. Something won't allow them.

  About Rovnin

  The man beat him the first time, easily, and laughed.

  —Not very good, are you? he said.

  —I don't get much chance to play, said James evenly.

  —So that's your excuse, said the man, and laid the strings and rods back into their initial positions.

  He leaned back in his chair and looked James up and down.

  —It's not an easy game, he said finally. No one knows how to play it, anyway.

  —I have some books, said James. I like to play through the old games.

  —Old games are useless, said the man.

  He spit into his hand and rubbed the top of his head.

  —If you want, I can teach you to play well. It will take me one day. But it will cost you some money. James looked at the man warily.

  —Do you think I'm some kind of fool? he asked. You're not that much better than me.

  The man only laughed. Looking past James he called out,

  —Next!

  James turned to see who was there.

  Obviously, no one was.

  The man laughed again.

  —Come back if you want, said the man. We'll play. But don't let the others see that you're so miserable at it. Though I don't, of course, not me, no, the others might think less of you.

  I love, said James to himself, this idea of the doctor being pitted against death in a game of chess. The patient is between them, the night is long. Some village girl is standing near. She is concerned but cannot speak. Perhaps she cannot see death where he crouches beside the bed. But they are old enemies, death and the village doctor, met a thousand times. In the doctor's eye are the memories of the encounters he has won, and beside them, the encounters he has lost, larger in size, but unfocused. This is his strength, but also his weakness, for death is without memory, holding in a gray place the world's passing. It is a fallacy that death judges. He chooses, but does not judge. The doctor knows this. Delicately, he makes his move. The curtains blow in a sudden gust of wind. Death is gone from the room. The patient has been saved.

  James went out to the porch. He sat down in a rocking chair. Out of the pocket of his suit, he took a small knife. He leaned down out of the rocking chair and cut a thin line in the wood of the porch all around his chair so that he was sitting then in a sort of circle, broken by the chinks between the planks. But serviceable still.

  What do I know? asked James.

  He had seen Samedi pruning the garden. As a mnemonist he had learned to trust his intuition. The gathering of facts created lattices of meaning that could not be known, but only trusted. He was sure of it. What was the disaster? Should James send an anonymous letter to the police, revealing his accusations? How could he even get off the grounds, though? Could he get off the grounds? Would they allow him? Perhaps he should test them on that point.

  James stood up, brushed himself off, crossed the porch and proceeded down the driveway. As he went, he thought about something Grieve had mentioned that morning.

  The Idea Was That

  there were three types of people. The first were those who became immediately angry about what had just happened, and who then thereafter lessened in their anger. Any danger from such a person came in the moments after the first difficulty.

  The second type seemed only slightly angry about what had happened. They might even say to you, Oh, don't worry about it. It's just fine. It's fine. But as time passes they become more and more angry. An hour after the incident, they are steaming. Two hours and they would murder you with their bare hands if they could
. Their anger then enters into a long winter, hibernating, and when and if they can, they will do you unconscionable and incommensurate wrong.

  The third type is not troubled much by what you did. Although it was in fact one of their favorite belongings, and although they realize precisely what it meant to them, precisely how sad it is that the object in question is gone, and also precisely how inconsiderate you must have been to have broken the thing in the first place, nonetheless they forgive you for it, and the matter is not spoken of again, save perhaps in soft and gentle jest.

  At the foot of the driveway, a gate. The gate, locked. There was, however, an intercom.

  James pressed the button.

  —Hello, he said.

  —This is the house, said a man's voice.

  —I'd like the gate opened, said James. It's me, James Sim.

  —Right, said the man. Hold on a moment.

  A few seconds passed.

  —Give me actually two minutes.

  The line went dead.

  James stood quietly between the lines of hedge. It was like a glass panel, like an inked negative, the day spread out in glorious colors of leaves and hours. He began to hum to himself.

  BZZZZZ!

  The gate began to swing open. James jumped back, for it was heading straight for him with its massive iron arms.

  A car pulled through. When the driver saw James, he stopped. Torquin was driving. James flinched.

  The back window of the car rolled down. A young doctor, dressed nattily, was seated in the back. Beside him, a very beautiful woman could be seen.

  —Sim? he asked.

  —Yes, said James.

  This must be Sermon, he thought to himself.

  —Have you come to speak with me? asked James.

  —For that, and other reasons. Do you have a moment?

  —Of course, said James.

  —Get in, then, get in, said Sermon. On the other side.

  James went around to the other side of the limousine. The door was unlocked. He opened it and got in.

  The girl had slid into Sermon's lap to make room. The doctor looked at him inquisitively.

  —So, out for a walk?

  —Yes, said James.

  Sermon ran his hand up and down the girl's leg.

  —It's nice to go for a walk, he said.

  —I like walks, too, said the girl. I'm Leonora, she said, Loft. Leonora Loft. We haven't been properly introduced.

  —Of course, said Sermon, how cruel of me. Leonora, James, James, Leonora. Leonora, he said, is the authority on Prussia. Aren't you?

  —An authority, said Leonora patiently. Frederick the Great. You know, he was good friends with Voltaire.

  —I didn't know that, said James.

  —Xavier, said Leonora, is a psychologist. Be careful what you tell him. He reads volumes in specks and specks in volumes.

  —My life, said Sermon to no one in particular, is a battle against sarcasm. No one understands the dangers of irony. If only we could all be like the aborigines or the Hopi, living unfettered by other states than the immediate.

  The car had stopped in front of the house.

  —Shall we talk here? asked James. Or do you want to go inside?

  —We shall talk, said Sermon, over a coffee, if you don't mind.

  —Frederick the Great, said Leonora, drank enormous amounts of coffee. He hated sleeping, and tried to go for as long as possible drinking coffee and not sleeping. He was forced to stop, however, when he began to hallucinate.

  Sermon's hand had crept up beneath her skirt.

  —Have you no tact? she said. We just met this man.

  —He might as well, said Sermon, know how things are around here.

  She opened the door and slid out.

  Sermon shook his head.

  —It's a long life. People say that life is short, but I don't believe it. One day, one long day after another, and nothing to fill the days but complexities and cancers. Do you know, the word cancer was once used for any illness that could not be cured?

  —I don't think that's true, said James.

  —No, it's not, said Sermon. It's not true at all. The effect of untrue statements on casual conversation is one of my great loves, my great ongoing investigations. Shall we go inside?

  As they approached the house, McHale came out the front door. He rang his bell. Everyone froze. Leonora seemed in particular to take a severe pleasure in freezing even her expression. She stared off in a dazed fashion towards the gardens.

  After the count of fifteen, McHale approached Sermon.

  —Stark wants to speak to you.

  Sermon nodded.

  To Sim he said:

  —Later. I'll send a note.

  He held his arm out. Leonora took it, and the two followed McHale back into the house. McHale had not looked at James Sim at all. He had acted, in fact, as though Sim and Leonora were not present. Perhaps that was the proper way to use the bell technique. James thought back to Graham's behavior earlier in the day. Had Graham ignored the maid who was folding towels? He had, certainly he had. But then, everyone ignored the servants, so that meant nothing.

  He looked up at the exterior of the house. Many windows ran along it. Hmm, he thought, that's odd. There was a window on the outside of his room that was not on the inside. How could that be?

  The Eavesdropping Booth

  He went up to his room. Sure enough, there were only three windows. Yet from the outside there were four. And the fourth was plainly in the middle, as he could see his room through the other three, while the fourth was dark.

  There was a section where the room sloped in, but it was only half the height, perhaps two-thirds the height of the ceiling, and on an angle. A statue had been placed there, a wooden gargoyle seeming to climb through a lattice of carved leaves. Curious, thought James. The window is behind there.

  He went down one flight of stairs to the area beneath his room. There was a door, locked, where his door would have been. It was no. 53.

  The noise of his trying the door handle had disturbed the occupant. The door opened. A sallow-faced man stood looking at him.

  —Can't you read? he asked.

  —Read what? asked James.

  The man snorted. On the door James saw there was a drawing of an elephant being eaten by vultures. The elephant's eyes had that strange quality of some eighteenth-century portraits: they seemed to follow James from side to side.

  —Isn't that clear enough for you? asked the man.

  —I suppose, said James. I was wondering, is there a ladder in your room?

  —Look for yourself, said the man.

  He snorted again.

  James started to go past him into the room, but stopped. There was no room. There were no windows at all. A wall crossed, cutting the room off after only a few feet. There was only space for a pallet and a pillow, a sheet. The walls were covered with more drawings of elephants being eaten by various things. Pigeons, men, women, dogs. All the eyes were the same. The ceiling of the room also was sloped and low.

  —It's quite a small room, said James.

  —It's all they'll give me, said the man. But I'd like to see them live in it. Shut the door? he asked.

  —I'd rather not, said James.

  He stepped back out into the hall.

  —Suit yourself, said the man.

  He went back inside and curled up in an odd way on the bed with his leg sticking up. He leered at James and scratched his oddly rounded belly.

  James stared back.

  The man sat up suddenly.

  —Close the goddamned door, you little shit.

  James shut the door.

  Therefore, thought James, there must be another room beyond the first. But how to get to that room? Beside the door to the tiny room, there was another door. James knocked on it, three times, for a sudden visit.

  The sound of voices, then footsteps. The door opened.

  James looked in. There was a little table and a small win
dow. Several chairs were pulled up around the table, and in the chairs were perhaps four or five of the maids he had seen around the house. Grieve was there too. He pretended not to notice her. For her part, she looked at him with surprise.

  —I wonder, he said, if you could tell me . . .

  —You're not supposed to be here, said the maid who opened the door. Don't you know—

  —how to get to the room behind that room, said James, pointing to his right.

  The question put all the maids into a flurry.

  —You have to leave right now, said one.

  —Certainly, you must go.

  —Don't stand around. What if you're seen?

  The maids pushed him together softly out of the room and shut the door. He took from his pocket a glass tumbler and held it against the door, putting his ear to the glass. He could hear them talking.

  —How does he know about that room? Who told him?

  —Should we tell Mrs. Nagerdorn?

  He heard Grieve's voice then.

  —We should just forget it. Act like it never happened.

  —Oh, you're just saying that, said another voice, because you like him, don't you, Grieve? You like him so much. You like him, you like him, you like him. I've seen you mooning after him.

  —And I have too, said another. Why, I wouldn't be surprised if you think about him before you go to bed, if you know what I mean.

  —That's nonsense, said Grieve. I don't know him at all, and I don't know what you mean. I just think we should forget it.

  Then a voice came from behind James in the hall.

  —Interesting business, isn't it, listening at doors? One can find out many things. Many helpful things. Of course, they usually lead to tragedy. Small tragedy, small, yes, but tragedy nonetheless. Household tragedies, you understand.

  James spun around.

  The man standing there was none other than Samedi, or perhaps-Samedi, Stark, Grieve's father. Beside him stood Sermon. Beside Sermon, Leonora and McHale.

  —That's the maids' room, said McHale quietly.