“That was another one. She’s got two daughters. Hold me, big boy; I’m heading for the henhouse.”
They didn’t go to sleep for some time that first night, what with the strange bed and room and the voices. They could hear the city, evocative and strange, imminent and remote; threat and promise both — a deep, steady sound upon which invisible lights glittered and wavered: colored coiling shapes of splendor in which already women were beginning to move in suave attitudes of new delights and strange nostalgic promises. Fonzo thought of himself surrounded by tier upon tier of drawn shades, rose-colored, beyond which, in a murmur of silk, in panting whispers, the apotheosis of his youth assumed a thousand avatars. Maybe it’ll begin tomorrow, he thought; maybe by tomorrow night . . . A crack of light came over the top of the shade and sprawled in a spreading fan upon the ceiling. Beneath the window he could hear a voice, a woman’s, then a man’s: they blended, murmured; a door closed. Someone came up the stairs in swishing garments, on the swift hard heels of a woman.
He began to hear sounds in the house: voices, laughter; a mechanical piano began to play. “Hear them?” he whispered.
“She’s got a big family, I reckon,” Virgil said, his voice already dull with sleep.
“Family, hell,” Fonzo said. “It’s a party. Wish I was to it.”
On the third day as they were leaving the house in the morning, Miss Reba met them at the door. She wanted to use their room in the afternoons while they were absent. There was to be a detective’s convention in town and business would look up some, she said. “Your things’ll be all right. I’ll have Minnie lock everything up beforehand. Aint nobody going to steal nothing from you in my house.”
“What business you reckon she’s in?” Fonzo said when they reached the street.
“Dont know,” Virgil said.
“Wish I worked for her, anyway,” Fonzo said. “With all them women in kimonos and such running around.”
“Wouldn’t do you no good,” Virgil said. “They’re all married. Aint you heard them?”
The next afternoon when they returned from the school they found a woman’s undergarment under the washstand . . . Fonzo picked it up. “She’s a dressmaker,” he said.
“Reckon so,” Virgil said. “Look and see if they taken anything of yourn.”
The house appeared to be filled with people who did not sleep at night at all. They could hear them at all hours, running up and down the stairs, and always Fonzo would be conscious of women, of female flesh. It got to where he seemed to lie in his celibate bed surrounded by women, and he would lie beside the steadily snoring Virgil, his ears strained for the murmurs, the whispers of silk that came through the walls and the floor, that seemed to be as much a part of both as the planks and the plaster, thinking that he had been in Memphis ten days, yet the extent of his acquaintance was a few of his fellow pupils at the school. After Virgil was asleep he would rise and unlock the door and leave it ajar, but nothing happened.
On the twelfth day he told Virgil they were going visiting, with one of the barber-students.
“Where?” Virgil said.
“That’s all right. You come on. I done found out something. And when I think I been here two weeks without knowing about it—”
“What’s it going to cost?” Virgil said.
“When’d you ever have any fun for nothing?” Fonzo said. “Come on.”
“I’ll go,” Virgil said. “But I aint going to promise to spend nothing.”
“You wait and say that when we get there,” Fonzo said.
The barber took them to a brothel. When they came out Fonzo said, “And to think I been here two weeks without never knowing about that house.”
“I wisht you hadn’t never learned,” Virgil said. “It cost three dollars.”
“Wasn’t it worth it?” Fonzo said.
“Aint nothing worth three dollars you caint tote off with you,” Virgil said.
When they reached home Fonzo stopped. “We got to sneak in, now,” he said. “If she was to find out where we been and what we been doing, she might not let us stay in the house with them ladies no more.”
“That’s so,” Virgil said. “Durn you. Hyer you done made me spend three dollars, and now you fixing to git us both throwed out.”
“You do like I do,” Fonzo said. “That’s all you got to do. Dont say nothing.”
Minnie let them in. The piano was going full blast. Miss Reba appeared in a door, with a tin cup in her hand. “Well, well,” she said, “you boys been out mighty late tonight.”
“Yessum,” Fonzo said, prodding Virgil toward the stairs. “We been to prayer-meeting.”
In bed, in the dark, they could still hear the piano.
“You made me spend three dollars,” Virgil said.
“Aw, shut up,” Fonzo said. “When I think I been here for two whole weeks almost . . .”
The next afternoon they came home through the dusk, with the lights winking on, beginning to flare and gleam, and the women on their twinkling blonde legs meeting men and getting into automobiles and such.
“How about that three dollars now?” Fonzo said.
“I reckon we better not go over tonight,” Virgil said. “It’ll cost too much.”
“That’s right,” Fonzo said. “Somebody might see us and tell her.”
They waited two nights. “Now it’ll be six dollars,” Virgil said.
“Dont come, then,” Fonzo said.
When they returned home Fonzo said: “Try to act like something, this time. She near about caught us before on account of the way you acted.”
“What if she does?” Virgil said in a sullen voice. “She caint eat us.”
They stood outside the lattice, whispering.
“How you know she caint?” Fonzo said.
“She dont want to, then.”
“How you know she dont want to?”
“Maybe she dont,” Virgil said. Fonzo opened the lattice door. “I caint eat that six dollars, noways,” Virgil said. “Wisht I could.”
Minnie let them in. She said: “Somebody huntin you all.” They waited in the hall.
“We done caught now,” Virgil said. “I told you about throwing that money away.”
“Aw, shut up,” Fonzo said.
A man emerged from a door, a big man with his hat cocked over one ear, his arm about a blonde woman in a red dress. “There’s Cla’ence,” Virgil said.
In their room Clarence said: “How’d you get into this place?”
“Just found it,” Virgil said. They told him about it. He sat on the bed, in his soiled hat, a cigar in his fingers.
“Where you been tonight?” he said. They didn’t answer. They looked at him with blank, watchful faces. “Come on. I know. Where was it?” They told him.
“Cost me three dollars, too,” Virgil said.
“I’ll be durned if you aint the biggest fool this side of Jackson,” Clarence said. “Come on here.” They followed sheepishly. He led them from the house and for three or four blocks. They crossed a street of Negro stores and theatres and turned into a narrow, dark street and stopped at a house with red shades in the lighted windows. Clarence rang the bell. They could hear music inside, and shrill voices, and feet. They were admitted into a bare hallway where two shabby Negro men argued with a drunk white man in greasy overalls. Through an open door they saw a room filled with coffee-colored women in bright dresses, with ornate hair and golden smiles.
“Them’s niggers,” Virgil said.
“‘Course they’re niggers,” Clarence said. “But see this?” he waved a banknote in his cousin’s face. “This stuff is color-blind.”
xxii
ON THE THIRD day of his search, Horace found a domicile for the woman and child. It was in the ramshackle house of an old half-crazed white woman who was believed to manufacture spells for Negroes. It was on the edge of town, set in a tiny plot of ground choked and massed with waist-high herbage in an unbroken jungle across the front. At the back a path had
been trodden from the broken gate to the door. All night a dim light burned in the crazy depths of the house and at almost any hour of the twenty-four a wagon or a buggy might be seen tethered in the lane behind it and a Negro entering or leaving the back door.
The house had been entered once by officers searching for whiskey. They found nothing save a few dried bunches of weeds, and a collection of dirty bottles containing liquid of which they could say nothing surely save that it was not alcoholic, while the old woman, held by two men, her lank grayish hair shaken before the glittering collapse of her face, screamed invective at them in her cracked voice. In a lean-to shed room containing a bed and a barrel of anonymous refuse and trash in which mice rattled all night long, the woman found a home.
“You’ll be all right here,” Horace said. “You can always get me by telephone, at—” giving her the name of a neighbor. “No: wait; tomorrow I’ll have the telephone put back in. Then you can—”
“Yes,” the woman said. “I reckon you better not be coming out here.”
“Why? Do you think that would — that I’d care a damn what—”
“You have to live here.”
“I’m damned if I do. I’ve already let too many women run my affairs for me as it is, and if these uxorious . . .” But he knew he was just talking. He knew that she knew it too, out of that feminine reserve of unflagging suspicion of all people’s actions which seems at first to be mere affinity for evil but which is in reality practical wisdom.
“I guess I’ll find you if there’s any need,” she said. “There’s not anything else I could do.”
“By God,” Horace said, “dont you let them . . . Bitches,” he said; “bitches.”
The next day he had the telephone installed. He did not see his sister for a week; she had no way of learning that he had a phone, yet when, a week before the opening of Court, the telephone shrilled into the quiet where he sat reading one evening, he thought it was Narcissa until, across a remote blaring of victrola or radio music, a man’s voice spoke in a guarded, tomblike tone.
“This is Snopes,” it said. “How’re you, Judge?”
“What?” Horace said. “Who is it?”
“Senator Snopes, Cla’ence Snopes.” The victrola blared, faint, far away; he could see the man, the soiled hat, the thick shoulders, leaning above the instrument — in a drugstore or a restaurant — whispering into it behind a soft, huge, ringed hand, the telephone toylike in the other.
“Oh,” Horace said. “Yes? What is it?”
“I got a little piece of information that might interest you.”
“Information that would interest me?”
“I reckon so. That would interest a couple of parties.” Against Horace’s ear the radio or the victrola performed a reedy arpeggio of saxophones. Obscene, facile, they seemed to be quarreling with one another like two dextrous monkeys in a cage. He could hear the gross breathing of the man at the other end of the wire.
“All right,” he said. “What do you know that would interest me?”
“I’ll let you judge that.”
“All right. I’ll be down town in the morning. You can find me somewhere.” Then he said immediately: “Hello!” The man sounded as though he were breathing in Horace’s ear: a placid, gross sound, suddenly portentous somehow. “Hello!” Horace said.
“It evidently dont interest you, then. I reckon I’ll dicker with the other party and not trouble you no more. Goodbye.”
“No; wait,” Horace said. “Hello! Hello!”
“Yeuh?”
“I’ll come down tonight. I’ll be there in about fifteen—”
“‘Taint no need of that,” Snopes said. “I got my car. I’ll drive up there.”
He walked down to the gate. There was a moon tonight. Within the black-and-silver tunnel of cedars fireflies drifted in fatuous pinpricks. The cedars were black and pointed on the sky like a paper silhouette; the sloping lawn had a faint sheen, a patina like silver. Somewhere a whippoorwill called, reiterant, tremulous, plaintful above the insects. Three cars passed. The fourth slowed and swung toward the gate. Horace stepped into the light. Behind the wheel Snopes loomed bulkily, giving the impression of having been inserted into the car before the top was put on. He extended his hand.
“How’re you tonight, Judge? Didn’t know you was living in town again until I tried to call you out to Mrs Sartoris’s.”
“Well, thanks,” Horace said. He freed his hand. “What’s this you’ve got hold of?”
Snopes creased himself across the wheel and peered out beneath the top, toward the house.
“We’ll talk here,” Horace said. “Save you having to turn around.”
“It aint very private here,” Snopes said. “But that’s for you to say.” Huge and thick he loomed, hunched, his featureless face moonlike itself in the refraction of the moon. Horace could feel Snopes watching him, with that sense of portent which had come over the wire; a quality calculating and cunning and pregnant. It seemed to him that he watched his mind flicking this way and that, striking always that vast, soft, inert bulk, as though it were caught in an avalanche of cottonseed-hulls.
“Let’s go to the house,” Horace said. Snopes opened the door. “Go on,” Horace said, “I’ll walk up.” Snopes drove on. He was getting out of the car when Horace overtook him. “Well, what is it?” Horace said.
Again Snopes looked at the house. “Keeping batch, are you?” he said. Horace said nothing. “Like I always say, every married man ought to have a little place of his own, where he can git off to himself without it being nobody’s business what he does. ‘Course a man owes something to his wife, but what they dont know caint hurt them, does it? Long’s he does that, I caint see where she’s got ere kick coming. Aint that what you say?”
“She’s not here,” Horace said, “if that’s what you’re hinting it. What did you want to see me about?”
Again he felt Snopes watching him, the unabashed stare calculating and completely unbelieving. “Well, I always say, caint nobody tend to a man’s private business but himself. I aint blaming you. But when you know me better, you’ll know I aint loose-mouthed. I been around. I been there. . . . Have a cigar?” His big hand flicked to his breast and offered two cigars.
“No, thanks.”
Snopes lit a cigar, his face coming out of the match like a pie set on edge.
“What did you want to see me about?” Horace said.
Snopes puffed the cigar. “Couple days ago I come onto a piece of information which will be of value to you, if I aint mistook.”
“Oh. Of value. What value?”
“I’ll leave that to you. I got another party I could dicker with, but being as me and you was fellow-townsmen and all that.”
Here and there Horace’s mind flicked and darted. Snopes’ family originated somewhere near Frenchman’s Bend and still lived there. He knew of the devious means by which information passed from man to man of that illiterate race which populated that section of the county. But surely it cant be something he’d try to sell to the State, he thought. Even he is not that big a fool.
“You’d better tell me what it is, then,” he said.
He could feel Snopes watching him. “You remember one day you got on the train at Oxford, where you’d been on some bus—”
“Yes,” Horace said.
Snopes puffed the cigar to an even coal, carefully, at some length. He raised his hand and drew it across the back of his neck. “You recall speaking to me about a girl.”
“Yes. Then what?”
“That’s for you to say.”
He could smell the honeysuckle as it bore up the silver slope, and he heard the whippoorwill, liquid, plaintful, reiterant. “You mean, you know where she is?” Snopes said nothing. “And that for a price you’ll tell?” Snopes said nothing. Horace shut his hands and put them in his pockets, shut against his flanks. “What makes you think that information will interest me?”
“That’s for you to judge. I aint cond
ucting no murder case. I wasn’t down there at Oxford looking for her. Of course, if it dont, I’ll dicker with the other party. I just give you the chance.”
Horace turned toward the steps. He moved gingerly, like an old man. “Let’s sit down,” he said. Snopes followed and sat on the step. They sat in the moonlight. “You know where she is?”
“I seen her.” Again he drew his hand across the back of his neck. “Yes, sir. If she aint — hasn’t been there, you can git your money back. I caint say no fairer, can I?”
“And what’s your price?” Horace said. Snopes puffed the cigar to a careful coal. “Go on,” Horace said. “I’m not going to haggle.” Snopes told him. “All right,” Horace said. “I’ll pay it.” He drew his knees up and set his elbows on them and laid his hands Wait. Are you a Baptist, by any chance?” to his face. “Where is —
“My folks is. I’m putty liberal, myself. I aint hidebound in no sense, as you’ll find when you know me better.”
“All right,” Horace said from behind his hands. “Where is she?”
“I’ll trust you,” Snopes said. “She’s in a Memphis ‘ho’house.”
xxiii
AS HORACE ENTERED Miss Reba’s gate and approached the lattice door, someone called his name from behind him. It was evening; the windows in the weathered, scaling wall were close pale squares. He paused and looked back. Around an adjacent corner Snopes’s head peered, turkey-like. He stepped into view. He looked up at the house, then both ways along the street. He came along the fence and entered the gate with a wary air.
“Well, Judge,” he said. “Boys will be boys, wont they?” He didn’t offer to shake hands. Instead he bulked above Horace with that air somehow assured and alert at the same time, glancing over his shoulder at the street. “Like I say, it never done no man no harm to git out now and then and—”
“What is it now?” Horace said. “What do you want with me?”
“Now, now, Judge. I aint going to tell this at home. Git that idea clean out of your mind. If us boys started telling what we know, caint none of us git off a train at Jefferson again, hey?”
Complete Works of William Faulkner Page 121
