Martin

by George A. Romero

  Martin drew closer to the radio. His ears seemed to perk up at the announcer’s soothing voice.

  “Do you believe that?” Christina said more for herself than Martin. “No phone. Well, Cuda and I had a terrible argument about that the other day, and I’m having one put in my room. As long as I pay for it and as long as the bell isn’t too loud.” She laughed her tinkling nervous laugh and thoughtfully turned to Martin.

  For a moment, with the potholder in her hand, she looked like a newly-wed preparing the first meal for her husband.

  “Say, would you like a phone?” she asked, then realized how foolish she was for asking him since he didn’t even speak to her. But she went on, determined to win at least one battle against Cuda’s rigidity.

  “An extension’s only a few more dollars. I’d be happy to make the arrangements . . . We can share the bill for the calls we make . . .”

  She reached out to him with her eyes. Martin was tempted to rush to her and say, “Yes, yes . . . anything that makes you happy,” but he contained himself, more out of fear than any lack of commitment.

  The sound of the front door slamming startled them both. Like two children “playing doctor,” they quickly moved to opposite sides of the room to await Tati Cuda’s entrance into the steaming kitchen.

  “Well . . . you tell me if you want it, OK?” Christina finished quickly.

  Nervously, Martin rushed to the back door, which opened onto the small backyard and Christina’s pitiful vegetable garden. Once out on the utility porch, he shut the door behind him. Christina was slightly puzzled by his overreaction, but she sensed that he was afraid of Cuda’s disapproval of their friendly contact.

  “Grandfather?” she asked.

  A familiar grunt emanated from the front hallway where Tati Cuda was involved in his nightly ritual of depositing his walking stick, jacket, and hat at the clothes tree.

  As he started toward the kitchen, Cuda rolled up the sleeves of his white cotton shirt. He was tired after the long day at the shop, worn out by the constant parade of black-clad women whose lined faces foretold the demise of his beloved town. All he could think about was his supper with his customary glass of Romanian wine, his easy chair, and the evening paper. He would decide what to do about his newly arrived cousin after he had digested his meal.

  Martin, meanwhile, was sitting on the back porch, pondering in his simple brain the physical location of Cuda’s house. He swung back and forth mechanically on an old wooden bench which hung from rusting hooks on an equally rusted and weak-looking chain. As if in prayer, his hands folded in his lap. He looked solemnly across the battered and drooping fences, through the smog-laden early evening summer sky, at neighbors busily depositing garbage and hoeing their small, barely productive gardens.

  Nearby, the stillness of the evening was disturbed by the revving of a motorcycle. Martin noticed a helmeted rider appearing from behind a hedgerow and squealing into the alleyway on a big Harley motorcycle. Martin followed him with his eyes, the only young person he had seen since his arrival except Christina. The cyclist pulled up to the fence and let his bike idle. A wide grin spread across his face as he recognized another youth, a countryman in a foreign land.

  “Hey man, what’s happening?” he asked in a friendly manner. Another person to get high with, he thought, to escape with from the stifling deadness of the town.

  But Martin only stared at him with vacant eyes as if he were looking right through him.

  That guy’s probably on his own personal trip, the cyclist thought as he revved his engine once again and pulled out of the alleyway like a cowboy reining a horse. Through the dust and flying gravel, Martin watched him go without a trace of remorse.

  Cuda’s thoughts, too, had been distracted by the sound of the motorcycle. He stood in the kitchen and cross-examined Christina as if she were on trial:

  “You saw him?”

  “He’s on the back porch.”

  Somewhat concerned by their close contact, the old man looked out the window at Martin to see for himself.

  “He’s so quiet,” Christina commented sympathetically. “He seems so . . . I don’t know so frightened of things . . . He’s afraid of his own shadow.”

  “He is the devil!” Cuda retorted violently. “The devil knows how to look innocent.”

  Christina was thoroughly disgusted by her grandfather’s obsession and ignorance. She turned her back on him and entered the diningroom to set the table for supper. “He’ll never change,” she thought sadly to herself, “so I must.”

  She watched him as he stared out the window at Martin, who sat very still. Spread across the old man’s face was an expression of deepest hatred and revulsion.

  “Let’s eat,” Christina said as she placed the last glass on the table. She wanted to get the meal over with as soon as possible. Arthur was coming over and she didn’t want him to see her waiting hand and foot on the grumpy old man and the brooding, melancholy boy. She hoped he would see her relaxed and coolly poised—a desirable woman, not a frazzled hag.

  She went back to the kitchen and tapped on the window to let Martin know that supper was on the table. He rose slowly, as if the effort was too great, and meandered into the kitchen.

  Cuda was already seated in the diningroom, and was noisily slurping at his stuffed cabbage, wiping the plate clean with great slabs of dark bread and stuffing it into his mouth until it would hold no more. Martin hardly ate anything at all. He had picked disinterestedly at the cabbage, not even touched the salad, and managed a few sips of the deep red Romania wine that Cuda was now sloshing around in his mouth. Christina tried to eat delicately and turned a deaf ear to her grandfather’s cacophony of belches and loud chewing. With a great thud, Cuda let his hands fall on the table, signaling the end of the meal for him and consequently the end of Christina’s. In the distance, the clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour of eight, and the old man ceremoniously checked, his vest-pocket watch for accuracy.

  Over the clatter of dishes in the sink, Martin’s soft voice traveled like a gentle breeze.

  “Do you have a dollar?” he asked no one in particular.

  The old man and his granddaughter looked at him in surprise and then quickly at each other. Christina sat down again.

  “You need money, Martin?” Christina was the first to react. “I can loan you some money.”

  “Christina,” Tati Cuda said with annoyance. He could see that Martin was playing on her compassionate nature. “Martin has a job. I can give you money tomorrow morning,” he said to the young man. “An advance.”

  “I just want a dollar bill,” Martin replied insistently. “I want to show you something. I’ll give it right back.”

  Tension hung over the room like a leaden curtain. Christina reacted to it by jumping up and moving into the hall in search of her purse, which she had removed from the kitchen table during the preparation of the meal. Annoyed by the young man’s impertinence, Cuda tried to stare him down, but Martin merely returned the stare with a calm smile. He was confident that he now had them under his power and control, as if they were toy soldiers in a game of war.

  Christina returned to the room, her face flushed from a combination of the heat of the kitchen and nervousness. Martin grabbed the dollar eagerly and began to fold it into a small square. He looked up at Cuda and Christina with an impish expression on his face. His tongue darted out of his mouth and curled over his upper lip like a snake. He concentrated on his task like a small child demonstrating a new trick.

  Fascinated by Martin’s sudden vitality, Christina sat back down in her chair and leaned her chin on her hands, propped up on her elbows. Cuda gave a supercilious grunt and leaned back in his chair, but his eyes revealed his curiosity.

  After Martin completed folding the dollar bill into a square, he stood up and pulled a large handkerchief from his pocket. He set the folded bill on the back of one hand and covered it with the handkerchief. He blew on the spot and pulled the cloth off. The bill, miraculou
sly, had disappeared.

  The old man’s expression remained unchanged, as if he had witnessed nothing. Christina reacted politely, as if she were encouraging a child.

  “Wow . . . that’s good, Martin,” she said, “very good.”

  As if on stage, Martin held up a finger to say, “Wait . . . that’s not all, folks.” He rushed into the kitchen and returned with the bowl of walnuts. Then placing it before Christina, he removed the bogus walnut and presented it to her with a nutcracker. Christina looked up at him incredulously. He was a different person from the morose boy whom she had tried to draw out earlier. His face was softened by a healthy glow of excitement, his dark eyes danced with anticipation.

  She grasped the nutcracker with one hand and maneuvered the nut inside the two jagged edges with the other. The nut cracked more easily than most and she was genuinely surprised to see a dollar bill, folded exactly as hers was, laying inside.

  “Oh, oh . . . that’s great,” she told him, sharing his moment of joy. “That’s really great. How did you do that?”

  Even though Christina had asked the question, Martin turned toward the old man in response, piercing him directly with his eyes. Cuda’s face still wore its stern and suspicious expression like a cloak. Martin triumphantly pulled out his handkerchief. Turning it upside down, he revealed a length of Scotchtape underneath, which held Christina’s bill.

  Christina laughed. “But you shouldn’t show us how you do it. That was great.”

  Martin acted as if she hadn’t spoken. His interest was in the old man. In fact, the entire performance was for Cuda’s benefit. He persisted in gazing at the old man, who squirmed uncomfortably and wrinkled his mouth.

  “Things only seem to be magic,” Martin intoned like a religious incantation. “There is no real magic. There is no real magic ever.”

  The shrill sound of the doorbell disturbed the hushed quiet. Christina suddenly remembered that Arthur was due any moment, and realized that dirty dishes were still strewn over the table. Martin scurried off to the kitchen, pocketing his supplies and returning the bowl of nuts. When he returned to the diningroom, Christina was ushering in a large man in grimy overalls. Arthur’s face was ruddy and his light hair still damp from his long day’s work.

  He set down his lunch bucket and newspaper on the already cluttered table.

  “Hullo, Cuda,” he said in a deep voice. He slumped at the table awkwardly, as if he would have been more comfortable outdoors or at a bar than in the diningroom of a respectable old gentleman.

  “Good evening, Arthur,” Tati Cuda replied.

  “Arthur Bolanis,” Christina quickly introduced them, “this is my cousin Martin.”

  Martin eyed the big man suspiciously, and a twinge of jealousy passed unrecognized through his mind.

  As if he sensed Martin’s ingrained fear of strangers, Arthur did not extend his hand. Instead he sat at the table and said, “Hullo, Martin. From Indianapolis? That’s a good town. I hear there’s work there.”

  “There’s work everywhere, Arthur,” Cuda interrupted quickly, although he knew Martin wouldn’t have answered. “People just don’t bother to look for it.”

  “I’m talkin’ about decent work with decent money.” He turned to Christina, effectively cutting off the old man’s customary reply. “Any food left?”

  Christina sighed at their familiar banter. “Two stubborn old bulls,” she thought, “neither one willing to give an inch.”

  She moved the serving bowls closer to Arthur, and he immediately began to sample things directly from the serving spoons. Christina grimaced in revulsion at his habit, and as if in response to her reaction, Martin rushed out of the room.

  • • •

  An hour later, Martin lay on his bed, listening to the comforting drone of the radio talk show. An old woman discussing her recent operation in excruciating detail. Her voice sounded seductive, almost drunk while she flattered and cajoled the announcer in their private radio-wave romance.

  “They stitched me up like a glove,” she giggled, “and I couldn’t do anything, not even . . .”

  “Now, ma’am,” the announcer played with her, “there are some things we shouldn’t discuss on the air. But if you’ll meet me after the show . . .”

  “Oh, you,” she replied, loving every minute of their electronic tête-à-tête.

  Martin tuned them out. His ears perked up at the sound of the back screen door squeaking and the muffled pair of footsteps, one heavy, the other light, on the wooden slats. He turned the radio down so he could hear better.

  “I’m gonna live here,” insisted the deep, booming voice of Arthur, “and if I buy a house I ain’t buying no extra rooms for the old man. That’s it, Christina.”

  “But this is such a big old place,” Christina whined, her voice thin and meek in comparison. “And it’s gonna be mine some day. Why should we spend money on another house?”

  “It’s my money we’re talking about. And I ain’t livin’ in no house that belongs to my wife.”

  Martin heard a muffled whimper and then he became aware of another sound—a light tapping, then scraping and a little jingle like a small bell that cat owners put around their pet’s necks to frighten the birds.

  The sound emanated from outside his door. Martin strode across the room and opened the door roughly. Cuda had mounted a small bell, just like the one that announced customers to his store, to the outside of Martin’s door. It was another of his feeble attempts to protect the house from Martin’s presence.

  Martin took one look at the bell and then down into the old man’s eyes.

  “Nosferatu!” the old man spat at him.

  Martin gazed at him for a second, with a little bitterness in his eyes. Then he gently closed the door and returned to his bed. He closed his eyes and tried to organize his thoughts.

  When he had first heard the expression Nosferatu, he was still a child. The townspeople had taunted his ancestors with it.

  “What does it mean, Father?” the small pale child had asked.

  “It is only superstition, Son,” his father had answered patiently. “Ugly superstition that has plagued our family for many generations.

  “The word ‘Nosferatu’ means vampire,” he explained. “In the study of lycanthropy, from the Greek myth of Lycaon, the transformation of the shapes and behavior of men and women into those of animals, particularly the wolf, takes on two forms: voluntary and involuntary. It is believed, in our homeland, that our ancestors had chosen the former. They had deliberately, it was thought, given themselves to this demonic way by partaking of certain drugs.” He paused and looked into the widening eyes of his son. The boy was almost ten, and it was time he learned what his heritage held in store for him.

  “You might recall the book Dracula, which some of your schoolmates might have mentioned. It was published a few years ago, written by a Mr. Bram Stoker. It tells of a vampire who lived in a coffin by day and roamed the town, seeking out young women to inflict with his deadly bite, by night. Apparently it is the vogue today to perpetuate this myth of some diabolical being. This mythology is prevalent as far away as India and Africa. But from my studies, I have gathered that the French, as far back as 1598, were the first to recognize that lycanthropy was a form of insanity. At the trial of Jacques Roulet, a beggar who had been found at the body of a half-devoured fifteen-year-old boy, his fingernails bloodied and full of flesh, the Parlement of Paris committed him to the asylum of St.-Germain-des-Prés rather than to death.”

  His father’s words were far beyond the mental capabilities of the young boy’s mind, but when he grew older, although he only matured to a certain point, some sense of those words managed to seep into his brain.

  “It is not magic,” thought Martin as he drifted off to a fitful sleep. “It is not magic . . . it is sickness.”

  Chapter Four

  Martin awoke the next morning to the sound of sizzling bacon and the clamor of dishes as Christina hurriedly made breakfast before leaving f
or her job.

  When he turned to face the window, the streaming sunlight blinded him, so he reached for his sunglasses on the nightstand before getting out of bed. He poured cold water from the pitcher into the wash basin on the bureau. After splashing water on his face, he quickly dressed in his khaki cotton slacks and white nylon shirt. He hadn’t changed for a few days, but it wouldn’t have mattered since before he left he had purchased three each of the slacks and shirt to complete his meager wardrobe. The shirt was a little soiled and perspiration-stained from his train ride, but the slacks were fine. He hurried down the stairs and arrived in the kitchen just as Christina was pouring the old man a second cup of coffee. She had her sweater on and was rushing so she would be on time for work. Tati Cuda barely acknowledged his presence, and Christina gave him a weak smile as she dashed out the door.

  The old man sipped at his coffee while Martin walked to the stove where Christina had kept warm his breakfast of fried eggs and bacon. But one look at the yellow stain of the plate made him think of his first morning in the town, and he lost what little appetite he had.

  Without a word, Tati Cuda, dressed in his customary suit, put on his hat, picked up his walking stick, and left by the front door. Martin followed like an obedient dog, a few steps behind, unable to keep up with the old man’s brisk pace.

  As they passed through Commercial Street, with its spindly trees and asphalt sidewalks, Cuda warmly greeted the townspeople, who were shuffling off to their various jobs at what was left of the town’s industry. But Cuda proudly strutted down the street, his walking stick before him like a divining rod.

  When he reached the shop, he pulled out his key from its retractable chain and opened the door, never once looking back at his cousin. Martin entered behind him and stood helplessly in the middle of the shop, drawing patterns in the sawdust on the floor with his toe.

  With a slight tilt of his head, the old man indicated a bentwood chair in the corner. Martin sat in it and pulled a worn paperback, one on card tricks, from his pocket, and started to read. During the morning several customers came in, and Tati Cuda introduced Martin to them perfunctorily. The customers smiled pleasantly enough, but by now news of Martin’s arrival and of his slowness had spread through the news-hungry town like wildfire. The women were slightly suspicious, although he seemed harmless enough.