His fingers moved toward her temple. And for the first time he touched her hair. It gave him a shock, a sudden surge that rushed up his spine, chilling him. How strange her hair felt! The countless strands.
Carl bent down. She was deep in sleep. He watched her breast rise and fell, under her flowered blouse. In the dim light the red of the flowers had deepened almost to black. Black flowers, great awesome orchids of purple and black. He could see that her blouse was silk. Through the fabric he could make out the line of straps. Her slip. And her—her bra. That was what it was called. He gazed at the line of her bra, rising and falling evenly.
He studied her neck. Her ears. The strange way her lips were parted, as she breathed. Her eyelashes. What a vast and complex mystery a woman was! There were so many things to take in, to consider and meditate over. Already he had seen enough to occupy his mind for days to come. So many strange and almost mystical things.
Mystical—that was the word for it. He caught his breath. He had felt that way outside. All the way, through the darkness, a feeling of religious awe. The temple, the offering. The solemn procession. And this—
His hands became rigid. His body tensed. He did not even breathe. The silent girl, lying asleep on the bed. Here was where the spirit was. He could feel it all around her. The aura. A radiation that seemed to pulse from every part of her.
He drew back and sat, not touching her at all, but only watching. A vigil. The idea captivated him. He was keeping a vigil over her. The Guardian. He was a protector. One who watched, endlessly, beside the holy fire. Beside the fire burning around the sacred couch, on which the sleeping goddess lay.
Carl sat, feeling the warmth from her, the glow of life that lay over her, rising from her. Time passed. He did not move. He could only sit and watch. He was rigid, silent, held spellbound by the sight, the sleeping woman before him. The holy fire surrounding her like an invisible cloud.
And then, slowly, almost invisibly, another idea crept into his mind. As he sat, watching the sleeping girl, a thought came to him that completely staggered him. It drove everything else out of his mind. It came soundlessly, inexorably. He could not tell from where it came. All at once it was there, within his mind. And there was nothing else.
He was amazed. Sweat broke out on his face, on his hands and neck. He began to shake. He licked his lips again and again. Down inside his shirt his heart began to thud loudly, painfully. Where had the thought come from? Why? He gazed down at the sleeping girl, at her half-parted lips. The orchids of her blouse seemed to have darkened even more. Her skin was light in contrast, a pale, glowing hue, rich and warm.
Carl leaned down. Would she wake up? Perhaps she would. But the idea could not be put down. It could not be denied, not now. Now it was too late. It had come. There was no turning back. It controlled him. It acted through him. He was a puppet. Even if she woke—
He bent over her, twisting to one side, toward the wall. His head dropped, lower and lower. And behold—
He peeked down the front of her blouse.
Barbara opened her eyes. Carl pulled himself up quickly. He flushed with embarrassment. The girl sat up slowly, blinking and rubbing her eyes. She looked around, at him, at the room.
“What—what did you say?” Her voice was thick with sleep. “I heard something. Did I—I didn’t fall asleep, did I?”
“Just for a moment,” Carl muttered.
“Did I?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Carl.” She was silent. “I’m so sorry. I’m so terribly sorry.”
Carl looked away in confusion. He said nothing. Did she know? Had she seen? He shut the memory out of his mind. Shame flooded up into his cheeks, burning them scarlet. He stood up quickly, taking out his handkerchief and blowing his nose.
On the bed, Barbara watched him, pulling herself up nervously. “Please forgive me, Carl. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I was listening.”
He nodded, putting his handkerchief away.
“Will you forgive me?”
“Of course. It doesn’t matter.”
“It does.” She stood up beside him. “Here, do you want some more of your wine?”
“No.” Carl wandered around the room, not looking directly at her.
“Had—had you finished reading?”
“Yes.”
“Would you read the last part again?”
Carl waved his hand impatiently. “It’s not worth reading again.”
“Don’t be mean to me, Carl.”
But he meant it. The treatise seemed remote to him, a thing far away. He did not care about it. He had forgotten that it existed. A strange, vague restlessness moved through him, making him walk about. He could not stay still. What was it? Shame? Guilt? He did not know. Whatever it was, he had never felt it before. Not that he could remember.
“What’s wrong?” Barbara asked softly.
“Nothing.”
“I can tell something’s wrong.”
“No.” He went on pacing. What was it? Suddenly he turned toward her. She had sat down again, on the edge of the bed. The sight of her, her soft features, the bright silk of her blouse, made a rush of color climb to his cheeks again.
“You’re still angry, aren’t you?” Barbara said.
“No.”
“What, then?”
“Nothing!” He went to the window and pulled the shade back. He stood looking out. After a time he became aware of Barbara standing silently behind him, standing very close to him. He could almost feel her breath against his neck.
“Carl?”
“Yes?”
“Will you ever forgive me? I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
Carl smiled a little. The treatise. It was a good thing she hadn’t—hadn’t seen him. She thought he was angry at her for falling asleep. “Forget it.”
He went back to looking out the window. The sky was full of stars, tiny bright stars. The sight of them made him feel more restful. They were so cold, so cold and remote. Like bits of distant ice.
He became calmer. The color drained from his cheeks. The flush of shame was gone, or whatever it had been. What had it been? Maybe he would never know. It was awful not to understand. What had happened to him? Why had he done such a thing? It was incredible! It was beyond belief. Incomprehensible.
He turned abruptly away from the window.
“I wish I could make you feel better,” Barbara said. “Won’t you tell me what it is?”
“Forget it.”
“The wine didn’t make you sick, did it?”
“No.”
“Do you want some more?” She picked his glass up. “I’ll pour you some more.”
“No. No more wine.” He had to get hold of himself. Gather himself together. He had to think. That was it. He had to think. Restore his reason. He had lost his reason for a while.
Carl sat down on the bed, picking up his papers from the table. He began to wrap the brown paper around them rapidly. Barbara watched him tie the string hurriedly into place, his hands trembling.
“Are you leaving?”
“I think I should.” He got up, moving toward the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow. At breakfast.”
“But why?”
Carl shook his head. He was dazed. All he could think of was getting away. The sooner the better. Leave, get away. Where no one would see him. He had to get out before he did something else. Something awful. Fear leaped through him.
“Goodbye.” He caught hold of the doorknob.
“You’re really going?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes were bright and wide. For a moment she stood facing him. Then she turned away. “Good night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Carl hesitated. “I—”
“Good night.”
“I’ll see you in the morning. At breakfast. We can talk then. All right? Tomorrow morning. Thanks a lot for the wine. Good night.”
Suddenly Barbara’s face twitched. She stiffened, rigid. “Wait.”
Carl waited, puzzled.
“Did you hear it?”
Carl shook his head. “No. What?”
“Listen!”
They listened. Carl could hear nothing except his own breathing. His fingers tightened around the knob. He wanted to go. “Barbara—”
And then he heard it.
Outside the building someone was coming up the porch steps. The sound came again, distant, faint. A dragging sound. Slow steps, someone going up step by step, far below them, climbing slowly and ponderously.
“Somebody’s down there,” Carl said.
“Shhhh!”
The person was inside the building, now. Time passed, endless time. Then the person moved across the corridor to the inside stairs.
“He’s coming up.”
Barbara’s face was strangely hard. Her eyes had narrowed. “Yes. He’s coming up.”
“Who is it? Is it Verne?” Carl spoke almost in a whisper. What was the matter with Barbara? She was rigid, hard. Her face was bleak. Like stone. “Is it Verne?” he said again.
She did not answer. The person had reached the top of the stairs. He was coming down the hall, walking slowly, a little way at a time, his steps heavy and uneven.
“Is he carrying something?” Carl asked.
“He is.”
The steps came closer. The person halted, just outside the door. Carl strained, listening. He could hear breathing. Short, thick breathing, like an animal.
Barbara crossed to the door. Carl stepped back. She grabbed hold of the knob, pulling the door open wide.
In the middle of the hall stood Verne Tildon. He stood strangely, his hands shoved way down in his pockets, rocking back and forth. His glasses were on wrong, far out on his nose. He was gazing at them over his glasses. His shirt tail was out. His tie was loose. The top buttons of his shirt were unfastened.
What was the matter? Carl moved back. What was he doing out in the hall? Verne rocked back and forth, on his heels, gazing first at Carl, then at Barbara. His gaze was dim and vacant. He seemed to sag, as if all the stuffing inside him were settling. He smiled strangely, a complex, enigmatic smile.
“Well,” Verne said. “How are you?” He came slowly into the room. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongues?”
There was silence.
“Or perhaps I should say, cats got your tongue?” Verne cleared his throat “Or perhaps—”
“All right,” Barbara said sharply. She closed the door after him. “Sit down.”
“Thank you.” Verne bowed deeply. “Thank you.” He looked uncertainly around the room.
“Over there.” Barbara indicated a chair.
“Thank you.” Verne walked unsteadily over to it. He sat down heavily, with a whoosh of air. “I hope that you don’t mind a visitor coming to see you so late.”
Barbara said nothing.
“What time is it?” Carl looked around for a clock. “Is it getting late?”
He made a move toward the door, clutching his brown paper package.
“Don’t go,” Barbara said quietly.
“No. Don’t go. Stay.” Verne belched suddenly, his eyes filming over. “Please stay.”
Carl put the manuscript down on the dresser. He walked over and stood uncertainly by Barbara.
In the straight chair, Verne Tildon gazed silently up at them, his arms resting on the chair arms. No one spoke. At last Verne sighed. He removed his glasses, and bringing out a handkerchief he began to clean the lenses, slowly and carefully, getting each speck of dust off. He put the handkerchief back in his pocket and adjusted his glasses on his nose. He crossed his legs, leaning back in the chair and looking up at them, smiling distantly, pleasantly.
“What’s been happening?” he said.
They did not answer. Carl looked down unhappily at him, not knowing what to say. Barbara walked over to the dresser and took a cigarette from the package. She lit up and returned to the bed.
“Well, Verne?” She sat down. “What brings you here so late?”
Verne frowned, concentrating. “Springtime.”
“Oh?”
“Overcome by the smell of springtime, the budding of blossoms, and the unfolding of the little plants—” He paused. “I set out.” He smiled, touching his finger tips together. Like an ancient, benevolent teacher, Carl thought. Old. Too old. Nodding and murmuring in senility. He felt a vague sadness, looking down at the man in the chair.
“Go on,” Barbara said crisply.
“So I gathered myself up. And here I am.”
Silence.
“After all, with all the plants and animals enjoying the bliss of each other’s company, each other’s willing company, it doesn’t seem right for me to be lying in my cold room, between the cold sheets. Alone. All by myself.”
They said nothing.
“What’s the matter?” Verne looked up at them, raising an eyebrow. “I’m sorry if I’m casting a pall over things. You have a very nice room here, Barbara. You missed your calling. You should have been an interior decorator. You would have been great Too bad you strayed from your path. Of course, I realize this display is not a usual event. I realize that it is for special occasions, state functions and the like.” He paused for a long time, considering. “You know, when the sun goes down it gets very dark.”
They waited.
“Everything gets dark. Everything cools off. It gets cold. Cold and dark. It’s not nice at all. You can’t find your god damn way around anywhere when it’s dark.” He glanced up plaintively. “I had a hell of a time getting here. There isn’t any light to see by.”
His trousers were muddy at the knees. Bits of grass stuck out from the wool fibers.
“Easy to fall over things.” He rubbed his chin slowly, meditating. The expression on his face had changed. The enigmatic smile was gone. He was frowning, frowning as if he were in violent pain. His eyebrows knitted together, jerking tight. His fingers pressed against each other, suddenly twisting.
“I fell.” He bit his lip. “I fell.”
He reached into his coat pocket and felt slowly around, staring down at the floor. He turned to the other pocket, rummaging for an endless time. Carl and Barbara watched helplessly.
“What is it?” Carl said.
“What are you looking for?” Barbara demanded.
Verne went on, searching silently. He lurched to his feet, stumbling. Carl caught his arm. Verne pulled away. He moved off from them to the other side of the room. There he stood, staring fixedly down, still searching through his pockets, again and again.
“I’ve left or lost my pipe,” he said finally.
He looked up at them, his face drooping. Suddenly his features all seemed to melt and give way. He pushed his glasses up, wiping at his eyes.
“Want a cigarette?” Barbara said.
“I want my pipe.”
Carl moved hesitantly toward him. “It’s probably back in the room. You probably left it back there.”
“Don’t you suppose that’s where it is?” Barbara said.
Verne shook his head.
“Come on,” Carl said. “We can go over and get it.”
“Carl will walk back with you,” Barbara said. “How would that be?”
“I’ve lost it someplace,” Verne said.
Carl and Barbara looked helplessly at each other. No one spoke. Verne went over and sat down on the bed. The springs sagged under him. He took off his glasses and put them in his coat pocket.
Carl went over and stood by him, not knowing what to do. “Come on,” he said at last. “Let’s go look for it. Maybe you lost it on the way coming over.”
Verne set his mouth, grim and stubborn.
“Don’t you want to go look for it?” Carl said.
Verne said nothing. His small lined face was rigid.
“For God’s sake, Verne,” Barbara said. “Well, we can all go and look for it.”
“Forget the god damn pipe!” Verne stuck his chin out angrily. Then he rubbed his forehead wearily. �
��Let it go. Forget about it. I gave my lighter away, anyhow. Now they’re both gone.”
“Don’t you—”
“Forget it!”
Barbara stood with her arms folded, smoking. At last she put her cigarette out and got another from the pack on the dresser. She held the pack out to Verne.
“Cigarette?”
“I want my pipe.”
Barbara struck a match, lighting her cigarette. She slid the pack into the pocket of her blouse and folded her arms again.
Carl motioned to her, toward the door to the hall. The two of them went outside the room. Carl closed the door behind them. He caught a glimpse of Verne, still sitting on the bed, small and wan, staring ahead of him.
“What’ll we do?” Carl said in a low voice.
Barbara shrugged. “This has happened before. He’ll be all right by tomorrow.”
“Is he—is he going to stay here?”
“I guess he thinks so.”
“But he can’t!”
Barbara considered. “No. He can’t.”
“Then what’ll we do? We have to get him back.”
“Back?”
“To his own room.”
“I wouldn’t worry.”
“What do you mean? Why not?”
“He’ll pass out pretty soon and then you can carry him back. It’s happened before.”
“You don’t seem very worried.”
“Sorry. I—”
“What’s going on out there?” Verne bellowed suddenly, through the door.
“We better go back in,” Barbara said. She opened the door. Verne had put his glasses back on. He glared belligerently as they entered the room.
“Where did you go?”
“Out in the hall.”
“Why?”
“No reason.”
Verne grunted. He was silent for a time. “Well?” he said suddenly. “How have you two been getting along?”
“Fine,” Carl said.
“That’s good. What have you been doing?”
“We’ve been listening to Carl’s treatise,” Barbara said.
“That’s nice.”
“But we’ve finished that. Carl was about to go.”
“Why don’t we go back together?” Carl said to Verne. “We can walk back to the dorm together.”
“Oh, there must be something to do here,” Verne said.
Gather Yourselves Together Page 31
