‘Yeah, well lucky you don’t work,’ the barman quipped, ‘or you’d actually have to pay someone.’
‘I do work,’ Erland shouted, shaking his finger in the direction of where he thought the barman was. ‘I goddam work . . . when I can find it. It’s just that no one appreciates a farmhand with my experience. What with all the new threshin’ machines, they’re wantin’ mechanics instead of true blue men of the land.’ Erland snorted and swallowed back his spit. ‘But I tells ya, is a mechanic ever gonna tell ya “It’s never too hot to castrate a horse and never too cold to castrate a pig?” Is he? No, he goddam isn’t. But with my ear, no one’s gonna hire me.’
Nicanor, sitting at another table, rolled up his newspaper into something like a megaphone and shouted at Erland, ‘So, what-are-you-going-to-do-now?’
‘You don’t have to goddam shout,’ Erland shouted back, ‘I’m not completely deaf. Not in both ears, at least.’
‘Then quit your moanin’, Erland,’ said the barman. ‘I’m hard o’ hearin’, too, from blastin’ in the mine when I was young. And you don’t hear me gripin’ like a little baby.’
‘It’s not the goddam hearing,’ Erland responded. ‘It’s my balance. And my sight. It’s all messed up . . . somethin’ to do with the inside of the ear. I feel woozy, like I’m gonna be sick all the time. And this goddam noise in my head. . . . ’ and he started slamming the palm of his hand against his dead ear, like he was trying to bang ketchup out of a bottle.
‘You just said you couldn’t hear . . .’
‘Goddam it, man, can’t you pay attention?’ Erland barked. ‘I can’t hear nothin’ in my right ear. Nothin’ real. The doctor calls it “phantom sounds”, like phantom pains; you know, like a sailor who has his leg bitten off by a shark, but the pain still wakes him up at night.’
‘You ain’t never been near the sea.’ ventured Nicanor.
‘For Christ’s sakes, Nicanor,’ Erland said, ‘if you don’t want to show what a goddam ignoramus you are, then shut the hell up.’
‘Erland’s right’ said the barman. ‘I read about it once in the newspaper. An old sailor with a wooden leg. He couldn’t keep from rubbin’ it—the wooden leg, I mean—’cause he said it pained him.’
‘You see? You see?’ Erland said. ‘And what’s more, the doc said it’s more common than you think. Famous people, too, they have this phantom noise. That guy, Goya somethin’ or other. He had it too, and it damn near drove him crazy.’
‘Goya . . . Goya,’ Nicanor said, ‘Didn’t he fight for Santa Ana?’
‘Goddam it!’ growled Erland. ‘He weren’t no soldier. He was an artist o’ some sort. None o’ you got no culture, you know that?’
‘Saturn Eating his Children,’ mumbled Néstor, the old half-breed who perched perpetually at the table near the end of the bar. His head and shoulders were hovering over the damp table-top.
‘Shut up you old drunk!’ shouted the barman.
Néstor repeated, his words slurring, ‘Saturn Eating his Children. It’s a goddam painting by Francisco Goya, one o’ the most famous goddam artists in all o’ Spain. Lived durin’ 16 somethin’ or 17 somethin’.’ Before they could shout him down Néstor mumbled, ‘My Alicia’s got an old calendar at her place with that painting on it, hangin’ in the kitchen. Her favourite.’ He whispered, ‘Scares me half to death when I come back home at night, and I see that big, awful maw swallowin’ his own son whole.’ Néstor’s head banged down on the table and he was silent again.
‘Well, it’s a good thing she don’t never let you come back home,’ the barman said.
Erland let out a loud guffaw, although it made his ear hurt even more, and the strange static came crashing down on him in waves.
‘How ’bout you, Erland?’ asked the barman, winking at Nicanor. ‘Does your Kajsa like fine paintin’, too?’
Erland stopped laughing and growled, ‘Only when it has to do with me paintin’ the walls. Aw, don’t talk to me about that crazy woman, she’s the reason I fell off the roof . . . makin’ me fix the goddam gutters. And for what? They only overflow when we have a good, hard storm. She nags me, and she nags me. One a these days, I’m gonna give her the hidin’ she deserves.’
Through the static of his dead ear Erland thought he heard Néstor say, ‘Reminds me of my old man . . . awful bastard . . . used to beat me with all sorts of things . . . no one ever helped me . . .’
‘What was that?’ Erland asked, surprised that he could hear him at all. He heard Néstor continue, still with his head flat on the table, looking towards the wall away from the rest of them, ‘. . . until that day huntin’ in the woods . . . I was so scared . . . but I pulled the trigger and I buried him, and no one’s ever been the wiser.’
Erland’s vision was clearing, bit by bit, and he could just make out Néstor’s body slumped over on his table. Erland said, ‘What did you just say?’ but there was no response. ‘Néstor? Néstor?’ he called.
‘He said,’ the barman put in, ‘that this guy Goya was a painter, and somethin’ about him swallowin’ his son.’
‘Naw, naw,’ Erland said, waving him away, ‘after that.’
The barman and Nicanor shook their heads.
‘Aw . . . you ain’t no use,’ Erland said. He pushed himself off the table and stumbled towards Néstor; it felt like he was walking through molasses. He finally reached Néstor and tapped him on the shoulder. Néstor didn’t respond, so he tapped him again.
Erland heard something faraway and soft, like bird’s wings scraping against a windowpane. He bent his dead ear down to Néstor and said, ‘What did you just say ’bout your father?’
Erland heard, ‘I’m glad . . .’ but the words faded away. Erland stuck his pinky finger into his dead ear and wriggled it about. He heard Néstor say, more clearly, ‘. . . the bastard’s dead . . . and now so am I.’ Erland pushed the old drunk’s head to the side a bit and saw that his face was bloated and blue, his eyes open and staring. He let go quickly and Néstor’s head thumped against the tabletop. Erland stumbled back and stuttered ‘H-he’s dead. Néstor’s dead!’
The barman rushed over. Nicanor dropped his newspaper and did the same, knocking Erland back against the bar. The two men worked quickly, unbuttoning Néstor’s shirt and laying him out on the floor. They fished into his mouth, pulling back his bloated tongue with a spoon.
Néstor just lay on the floor, motionless.
Erland’s lower jaw began to tremble and he stuttered, ‘H-he talked to me! He was dead, I swear to you! He goddam talked to me . . . but he was already dead!’
‘Will you shut up?’ the barman shouted, ‘and go get the doctor.’
Erland was already headed out the door, trying to escape as best he could. He ran headlong down the street, some sense of balance restored but terrified by what he’d just heard. He rushed by the pastor’s house and the grain store, dodging and weaving around the working people who were out enjoying their day off.
He brushed past a young man with chiselled Indian features, dressed in overalls. He was chatting with a portly young Mexican maid on a park bench. With his good ear, Erland overheard a fragment of their conversation, ‘No, my little rose, it’s nothin’ like that. I just wanted to come over and give you some company.’ But with his dead ear, Erland heard, ‘Just give me the goddam keys, you stupid cow. I’m going steal your master’s jewels while he’s out, and if you give me any trouble I’ll slit your throat as well.’
Erland ran on and on, cupping his hand over his ear, trying desperately to stuff it up. As he crossed the corner, he ran in front of a wagon. The driver pulled in his reins hard, but the wagon struck Erland a glancing blow. Erland rolled to the kerb in pain. Although the driver’s mouth was closed, he heard him say ‘I could have killed you, you son-of-a-bitch! Why . . . that’s it, I could make it look like an accident! Next time I drive out to meet her at the trysting tree, I could say she ran right out in front of me. After all, she’s not very far along, and no one’s ever seen us toget
her. She’s not going to wreck my family. She’s not!’
Erland picked himself up and gripped his shoulder where the wagon had hit him. He hobbled as fast as he could into the town square. There was no one there. He sat down, exhausted, on the steps of the fountain and splashed the cold water on his face. ‘It’s the phantom voices, nothin’ more,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘They’re not real.’
The sky was azure, the sun sparkled on the water. The cement frog statuettes sprayed streams of water into the basin. This was normal, normal and nothing to be afraid of. There’d been a lot of stress with the fall, and losing his job and all. And he hadn’t had a drink yet. The world was coming into focus again. Now he felt better.
Two little girls, one in a bright white communion dress, and a younger one in what looked like hand-me-downs, tiptoed up to the fountain. ‘Take that, Adela,’ said the older one, splashing the younger one in the face. ‘I’m christening you ’cause you’re a baby, you’re such a baby.’ Splaying out her pretty communion dress she said, ‘It’ll be years before you have a first communion like me.’
‘Oh, you’re so funny, Agda,’ the younger one laughed, adenoids stuffing up her nose. That was what Erland heard with his good ear. With his dead ear he heard the little one say, ‘Just you wait, you fat gris! When we get home, I’m going to drown the puppy Daddy gave you in the pool. We’ll see who laughs then!’
Erland shouted ‘No!’ and hobbled away as fast as he could. The little girls looked after him in surprise. He hurried along the gravel path towards the church. People in their Sunday best were dawdling about. Men stood with their hands in their pockets, scratched at their starched shirt collars, talking. Women embraced each another, smiling and adjusting their hatpins. As Erland brushed past them he tried to block out the whispers that came, more pronounced now, as if honing in on him.
‘. . . kept her head down, ’til the bubbles stopped . . . won’t never talk to me like that again.’
‘. . . pulled it out nice and slow and wiped it on my pants.’
‘. . . just like the old healing woman said . . . soaked the wire in alcohol . . . by Spring I’ll have my figure back.’
Clapping his hand over his dead ear Erland shrieked, ‘I can’t take it no more,’ and he shambled towards the church. Looking up and down the empty pews, Erland searched for sanctuary, or at least some place to hide. He hobbled up to the front, and the air turned perceptibly cooler. He sat in the front pew, staring at the stark wooden cross hanging there. Wisps of smoke curled up from the recently-extinguished candles. After a while his fuzzy eyes came into focus and in the darkness he could make out the shape of a man. He was leaning over the lectern, his head bowed, his hands on the Bible in front of him.
‘Oh, thank God you’re here, Father,’ Erland said.
‘How can I help?’ came the pastor’s voice, muffled and far away.
‘Oh, Father, Erland whimpered, ‘I swear to God, there’s somethin’ wrong with me. Maybe I’m possessed, like maybe the Devil’s in my ear. All I hear is people talkin’. But they ain’t really talkin’, it’s what they’re thinkin’. And the dead are talkin’ too, and they’re sayin’ awful things, like Néstor. . . . Oh, Father, please bless me or pour holy water in my ear or somethin’.’
‘There, there, that’s all right,’ the pastor said. ‘You know what you’re like when you’ve had a drink. You start blaming yourself.’
‘Godda . . .’ Erland began. ‘Why does everyone think I’m drunk? The widow Agata said the same thing this morning.’
‘Agata . . . now, she was a fine woman when she was younger. Not just a passing fancy, like that Indian girl. She brightens my dull nights at the reservation . . . but she’s a savage all the same.’
‘Yeah, I guess so,’ Erland said, puzzled.
The pastor continued, ‘When I first founded the church, she’d sit in the front row, so fresh-faced and eager. She confided in me, confessed to me. She told me about Frans, her good-for-nothing husband. We spent more and more time together; at the raffles, my visits to the infirm.’
‘Yeah . . . okay,’ Erland said. ‘But you get what I’m sayin’ about the dead, right? Oh, God . . .’
‘Oh, God,’ the pastor repeated, ‘the night of the fundraiser, she looked so beautiful, her lips painted, that flowered dress clinging to her hips. And when we were alone and counting the collection plates, her hand touched mine, and it just happened. . . .’
Erland sat bolt upright.
‘Afterwards, in a burst of remorse, she confessed everything to Frans. Everything! He was angry. He was going to tell the whole town, and we’d be ruined. We were so desperate. She . . . she was the first to suggest it, but I swear to God, I didn’t think she’d meant it seriously. I didn’t even know she’d actually put it in his medicine until after the funeral. It slowly made him sick, until he couldn’t take it anymore.’
Horrified, Erland stood up and rushed to the lectern. ‘F-father, ya ain’t dead, now, are you?’
As he approached the altar he saw that the pastor’s head was propped up against the Bible. Erland heard his deep, rhythmical breathing. He recognised the smell that came often enough from his own pores, of whisky and breath mints.
‘You!’ Erland shrieked, and poked the pastor in the head.
‘Huh . . . what?’ the old pastor murmured, his head wobbling a bit.
‘You were asleep the whole time!’
‘Huh. . . ?’ the pastor roused himself and wiped his eyes with his hands. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I was just taking a little rest after services. It was a long night at the Indian reservation. Erland, you look troubled.’ He yawned. ‘Would you like to share your burden with God?’
‘My burden?’ Erland asked, indignant. ‘My burden? What about yours? You just shared it with me, you hypocrite. And not just about that little Indian girl who keeps you warm at night, but the old widow and Frans. Your little tryst and murder. Your whole stinkin’ story.’
‘What are you talking about?’ the pastor asked, groggily.
‘I can hear your secrets. I can hear ’em all, right here,’ he said, tapping his dead ear. ‘And now that I know, I’m gonna expose you for the hypocrites you are. I’m gonna expose all of you!’
‘Erland?’ the pastor asked, squinting in the shadows. ‘What are you talking about? Are you all right?’
‘Don’t play dumb with me. I’m on to you. I’m not all right . . . but I’m gonna be!’ He jumped down from the altar and fled. He ran down the church steps, past the people milling around in the square, a sea of false smiles hiding murder, jealousy and revenge. ‘I’m on to you!’ he shrieked as he pushed past them, making a beeline for his house. ‘I’m on to you, and you’re all going down, I swear to God!’
A ripple of laughter came from the crowd. Someone shouted after him, ‘Crazy, old drunk!’
***
Kajsa pushed open the rickety door of the small squat shack. She picked up Erland’s muddy boots that lay in the narrow entranceway and kicked the welcome mat across the floor, trying to wipe away all the muddy footprints. She bent down and picked up his broad-rimmed hat and, sighing, hung it in its place on the wooden peg on the wall.
The kettle was whistling and sputtering in the tiny kitchen at the end of the hall. ‘Erland? Erland?’ she called, then muttered something under her breath. She stomped into the kitchen and, protecting her hand with a dish towel, took the kettle off the stove and placed it in the stone sink. ‘Erland,’ she called again, over her shoulder, as the kitchen filled with steam. As she turned, she started. Through the steam cloud she saw Erland sitting at the small table in the corner. He was still as stone. She could see a half-bottle of whisky, a grimy ice pick stabbed into the table, and his whip laid out in front of him.
‘Erland,’ she gasped, ‘what are you doing here?’
He didn’t respond.
‘Erland?’ she asked again.
‘I went to the doctor today.’
‘Yeah?’ she said, wiping her hands o
n her skirt. ‘What did he say?’
‘It’s dead. My ear’s dead. It’s all messed up inside. That’s what’s been makin’ me sick and losin’ my balance.’
‘Oh, that’s awful, Erland,’ Kajsa said. ‘Just awful. Do you want me to make you a sandwich or something?’ She opened up the icebox. ‘You shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach.’
‘I don’t think he’s right. I mean, he’s half right and he’s half wrong. You see, my ear is dead, so that’s why I’m startin’ to hear things from the other world. I got it figured out, you see. It’s dead, so I can hear things from the world of the dead, or about death and sin and such.’
‘Erland,’ Kajsa said. ‘You’re starting to scare me. You remember what we talked about? You can’t just show up here and start drinking. It never ends well.’
Erland continued, ‘You see, I was feeling sick and all ’cause it didn’t fit in with the other stuff I was hearin’. People pretend they’re nice, but deep down inside they’re murderers. There’s a whole wagonload of them judgin’ from the Sunday crowd. And they’re people you’d never even guess at. The widow Agata, and the pastor, and Néstor at the bar . . . of course, he’s dead now.’
‘What?’ Kajsa cried. Néstor Dominguez is dead?’
‘And all these years I been thinkin’ I’m the one who doesn’t fit in, I’m the one who’s the screw-up. I mean, that’s what you think, ain’t it? That’s what’s everyone’s been sayin’. “Why does Erland drink so much? Why don’t he get a job?” I been doin’ everythin’ I could to do what people say is right. But it’s been a big, fat joke all along, ain’t it? ’Cause here’s the kicker. It turns out I’m the best of the lot, compared to what everyone else is doin’. You should hear the twisted, sick things people think . . . and little girls, too.’
‘What do you mean, little girls?’
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