“That’s what I needed.”
“They’ve all gone then.”
“Yeah.” Smiling, crouching I smoke. “They’ve all gone.”
FELIX 3
LIKE I WAS CRAZY or something. Not caring, this headache but not caring; strange with them and I thought, these small dark men, I thought they were gravediggers . . .
Uncertain; wind with turning Felix as grunting to their feet and hey, I said. “Hey, aren’t you.” Leaning to that yellow muck, aren’t they.
“What?”
“Aren’t you going to, I mean. Isn’t anybody going to, you know, cover him up. Or anything?” I thought, I really did, I was positive . . . Confused, my face to the grave, it’s indistinct for the snow is rising and their eyes. I really am, I’m sorry, unsure I’m . . .
“Not ours anymore.”
“Oh.” We turn, he gestures to figures from the mist in single file. Oh . . .
“He belongs to them now.” Others that crouch, peer from the edge, their voices in the snow . . . Belongs to them?
Then into this tunnel, walls as we go and it’s dry underfoot; dark up ahead and where are we going, what passage is this? It feels so dry and growing warm, I must be, thoughtless I follow just like I was drunk or something. What happened to Martin? An open door, they nodded and stepped into the earth, the earth for chrissakes! Right into the goddamn earth . . . A tunnel with cautious feet and unaccustomed eyes from light behind, this breath in my head, I’ll. “Don’t look back.”
God, “What?” This sudden admonition. “Why?” Pausing and is that light ahead?
“The eyes.” Yes it looks like, the eyes. “Won’t get used to the dark if you stare back at the light.”
“What is this anyway, where are we going?” His standing shape is clearer. “What is this?” But he shrugs and the others continue ahead; strong against, it must be light. Turning he shrugs and there are, that’s why it’s warm, yes pipes along the ceiling. Unzipping coat, a dry warmth and faster walking because he’s right: after the snow and blowing light, the eyes begin to see
easy in single file without him. Tombstones, grave still open plop. Feet. Worn path to the road, the car: and it’s done. Buried. Felix Oswald to the car. Door opens. Closes. Opens for them; closes. Waiting. Family passing, Crackell briefly. Disappear. Doors and voices, boom; cigarettes from the back seat. What did I leave back there? Moving plop, it’s done. Driving. The earth with trees on either side, the trees, the earth, the gates, the road, the heavy sky. It’s done. Seeing, not hearing: trees and houses, cars, the house somewhere, the road and cars, their house, Martin’s, a drink . . . it doesn’t matter. Give me a drink I left something . . .
Felix and Lucan Crackell in Martin’s house. He waits for me to speak. Sipping punch. Anything. About the funeral. Why didn’t you stop? Flunked me too. Felix straightens his shoulders, shrugs. Familiar faces grown strange: do I know them? No noise but movement on the steps, his; he doesn’t know me, offering pack, is he trying to know me? “Smoke?”
“Um.” His hand is trembling, why? Pinching to free c’mon, c’mon. “Thanks.” Hands, two hands. “Thank you.” Hand to my pocket, scratching, flame, his face with shadows, the eyes. Lifting smile, why does he smile? Curling paper with flame, blue as I inhale; the smoke in my lungs. Martin’s picture on the sideboard. His empty stare.
“Oswald, the um. How’s the, ah, that fellow. You know . . .” Felix inhaling. Accusing from the walls, laughter from empty eyes with Felix, can I laugh, why don’t I laugh, don’t I dare like that? Boy it’s pretty sad if, how? Can’t even laugh. How, I mean. “How is he?”
“Well” Jesus, he’s hah! Pause then words: “He’s got that bloodyawful bruise you know and stunned, he’s lucky, Christ . . .”
“No I mean. What’s going, you know. To happen to him, what’ll they do?”
“I don’t . . .” Gently he went. How? His stupid hat. “How should I know?” CAN’T MEET HIS GODDAMN EYES? Even the question: distant around the room, these people, that stare, his voice. What happened at the grave?
“Well thanks anyway.”
Beg your. “What . . . whatwhat” for what is he saying, why? I don’t understand.
“You know, for arranging.” Sudden again to his side. “You must have been at your persuasive best ha, I mean. Since we don’t have to go in. To see them.” Cigarette stub and trembling. “Just a” turning to the ashtray. Me thanking, Christ! diving past a face, so white, staring, I was sure. The bastard! Pumping grotesque, writhing, his blood, the snow. Watching, yes watching he’d hardly see and driving, he’d drive right past! Leaning to his toes, rising, teetering there, rocking back on his heels. Sipping and rocking. Professional level gaze; studied pause and swallow, what’s he, for Christ’s sake? Wine glistening, pulpy lip protrudes, invites some terrible, yes some confidence I’m sure, my life: eyes hooded, smiling eyes for me I will not speak, I don’ wanna play for chrissakes maybe, oh maybe he’d let me write an exam! Blurring room, voices barely reaching; settle down I must and work . . . if he’d only let me . . .
Walking, again I do not feel, cannot, what am I going. Empty body, walking rooms, walking sillybugger! Youth, indulgence yes, with rain to my eyes this hah, oh Christ! You silly bugger, if I’d only, boy if I’d got to Hungary I’d have had something . . . to write about or . . .
What’ll I do if I fail? Another fucking, this stone, the words drop through me I can’t write, another failure. Depressed with closing lights, windows, I have nothing to say . . . I don’t know anything, I don’t feel . . . Anything! Muscles, air, lungs, throat I WANT smog-yellow, sky absurd, his hands and touch: guilty looking, and close to tears I don’t do anything at all. Guilty he pauses, peering sillybugger through the night but nothing, silence and rain on my face. There’s nothing here for me, no sign or no hope: what am I? Night, windows and rain. Sort of an anguish yes, I qualify; because, who is this Felix, frightened (a virgin for chrissakes) what’ll I ever . . . underground. “You’re doing some writing.” Sudden pain and glaring, I . . . Nodding, and. It’s crap, all crap he.
“Yeah.” Ducking my head, thinking, I’ve been thinking. Uncertain and smiling.
“How’s it going?” Who told him, shifting; how does he know?
“Well, uhm,” it’s . . .
“Difficult, yes.” Rocking he bends, he smiles with laughter in the room. “Particularly in Canada it seems,” what? “Have you read, do you know Brown’s essay?” He doesn’t wait. “A sound analysis, it seems. Rather helpful. Yes. It’s difficult alright and he suggests, well. The problems of a real Canadian literature.” Sudden silence. “Do you know the piece?”
“No I’m afraid, I . . .”
“Never mind, but you might. It’s well worth.” Hand to his eyes, shaking head, fingers massage. “His point is, one of his points, that.” Beer is it? Alert for jeez, the bugger has he . . . “Goddamn Puritan mentality doesn’t simply you know, inhibit the development of naturalism or anything no! No sir.” Swallowing, glaring he swells, he grows. “It fears, that’s the thing, it demeans the very role of art itself!” Muttering “bastards” and that’d explain, if he has, the smile, his nod because he did, I’m sure . . . “andandand the, it’s the same with, with what he calls the frontier mentality, yes. YOU’VE GOT TO PAY YOUR WAY!” Afraid because he shouts, and they stare with Felix, I’m aloof, not involved no sir not me, notme in faces, empty eyes. That’s why. Earnest leaning. “That’s why,” confidentially, “I’m making a change.” Embarrassing voice is hoarse. “That’s right, I’m going to make . . .” Abruptly scanning, searching for, nodding to Susan and her smile. What?
“What sort of . . .”
“I can’t just tell you the details yet, but . . .” Winking for chrissakes, what? “But you’ll see soon enough, I’m going . . . Well.” He must be; emptying glass, he’s drunk or . . . Clutching my arm. Urgent voice. “You see the time’s already come,
you understand? Put it off and I’m lost, I’ve got to. Climb, that’s it, back out because there’s nothing . . .” Why does he tell me this and hold my, he’s got my arm alright. Why, what does he mean? “Do you know why I’m telling you this?”
“No, I’m . . . I’m not completely sure. I . . .”
“You don’t?” Staring and waiting. “C’mon Oswald, try . . . at least you could try!”
“But I,” my voice. “Really I don’t, I haven’t . . .”
“Well you should, by God you should!” Gentle touch, almost gentle hand. Christ! this is silly for chrissakes, stupid: shaking awkward for I don’t know, why should I, bastard he’s drunk or something flipped . . . “You’ve got to learn to live in the wind.” Live in the what? Be stronger, shit; I don’t know!
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You will.” Relieved to look with him, it’s Uncle Martin: respectful nod, my parents’ child. The wind for . . . hot air and why? Abruptly, slight bow with a glance at me, he excuses “excuse me” waving his glass and mocking, he leaves me with this uncle, me defensive yes, uncertain; it can’t be, it’s, no it’s not fear! Of what? Whatwashe, talking about for chrissakes? What, what . . .
“I have, I thought you’d like.” Faint wheezing: “There’s a bottle of something stronger, you know. For the pallbearers. That is, if you’d like.” Soft difficult breath and this remarkably fine gesture, I’m. Grinning to him, happy yes.
“That would be very nice sir.”
“For the cold and snow.” Relieved and all I can do is smile.
“Thank you.”
“You just ah, come with me then.” His round head away; very decent, a decent sort of . . . A pleasant calm. Don’t seem so bad, not to easier Felix; like a cat, lithe as a cat and ready, expectant I pad, see me pad, I’m strong, a famous (or dangerous; good?), a figure look at him, who, who is that? tall, thin, look at him, bearded
behind them, pausing in mild surprise, but more like curiosity on the threshold of a huge goddamn room, a cathedral ceiling: it’s huge and this is where the light comes from. Flickering light and the smell of kerosene; two small lamps at either end. As he approaches on the uneven floor, he sees that the lamp is on a triangular table, and chairs are clustered about two sides of it: against the wall there are rectangular frames of some sort. Two of them arrange the chairs, then sit, the hunchback (was one of them deformed?) goes to the frames and reaches under a pillow: then returning with a bottle, he gestures Felix to his chair. Waiting and watching until they drink and lifting the glass, sweet yet musky, fruit wine and nodding appreciatively, that’s good gentlemen, “thank you” and sipping again, rolling it on the tongue and savouring, rinsing the teeth a bit, that’s good alright; drinking and hearing movement in the dark. Shading his eyes and leaning to peer beyond this circled light, straining to see and rising, these few steps with my shadow from the table, both hands up like blinkers, bending from the waist and there! figures, walking and standing, small and stocky figures; they cluster two or three at a time and whisper, that’s the rustling noise, like the wind. Felix surprised, he’s still walking, careful from his drink and coat for there’s something interesting, a stall or bench and yes, a sign ahead. Growing accustomed and they’re not frightened as I come although, it’s true, they drift away whenever I remove my eyes; not when I’m looking, not when I see, for they’ve all stopped moving, they’re silent and posed like mannequins; yet when I look again they’re further off. But they’re smiling I can tell, I can feel that as I move among them to the sign and what does it say? Two words and squinting hos, lips clumsy forming dolhosp
DOLL HOSPITAL
Pausing with gentle sounds and movement again but he doesn’t turn: funny to see this shop, because it is a shop (doll hospital?); how funny there’s no glass. Closer he can see there are no walls behind this storefront, false front, stage set propped before the cluttered tables and shining, what’s shining? Hurrying around the side and excited, there’s a, sitting on a stool, his rough voice sudden: “You might’ve come in the door, it’s usual isn’t it? to use the goddamn door!”
“Oh I’m . . .” Startled and jumping back for I’ve offended, quickly around to the front, but what can I say? Maybe I’d better, reaching, maybe I can buy something; digging for change, pushing in at the door with cowbell jangling at my head, horrific it springs “excuse me” oh! but he’s reading, now he doesn’t look up! While it dies, thank God and there are two tables, one a workbench with the lamp beside him surly bugger and the other’s for display. Leaning to see, fascinated to pink and broken bodies, plaster-chipped this jumble of limbs, these silent shapes: a shattered head, skull and sockets. Felix staring back at faces, some eyes closed, half closed and one with no lids at all: compelled to try and isolate the heads among these bodies, limbs and tangled hair, I try but can’t, I have to turn away . . .
Tittering is that laughter from the dark and do they know my thoughts? Revulsion in their searching breath, a cough, but how can they know my thoughts?
Past the bodies, faces, farther into the shop, I was right: a work bench and by his elbow another pile of hair and marbles, for chrissakes they’re eyes! Accusing as Felix turns to bars and wheels, what’s this? but he ignores me as I pass, what are they, weights? Good Jesus Christ they’re, that’s a . . . Felix awed, there must be hundreds of the goddamn things! A slanting bench with straps for the feet, and on each side there are weights for the hands: ropes piled by springs, they look like springs and carefully putting my feet between these bloody iron discs; they’ve simply been thrown, they look as if they’ve just been tossed into this corner and that’s it! They’re all brand new for chrissakes . . . Pausing to stare, bending to see: they look like boots, iron boots. On impulse, just to see but it’s too small for my shoe, so slipping it off and then cold metal, the stiff strap on his foot. That’s, that feels funny and balancing, other shoe off and stocking foot, careful into the left one hee, it’s cold hee-hee and Jesus Christ they’re heavy. Dragging his torture boots like Frankenstein and lurching, waving his arms for balance and clomping a step as they hold their breath: then another towards the huge weight on its frame, straining a third and thrashing for strength with his shadow broken on the wall. He is intent, slowmotion as he raises and reaches his arm and he cries, does he suddenly cry out now, for he staggers, he falls in rattling laughter: it reflects from the ceiling to where he waits, their scorn at Felix Oswald down and ready to cry. He waits, he should jump grinning to his feet but it hurts and I must get up so struggling, I must, get back for they’re closing in, I can hear the feet. Rolling desperate to my belly, grunting on all fours. Prepared. For the change. Then wildly erect with his face at me and I’m scared, I stare as he nods and tries to smile, then I’m away: I’m off, skinning out of his boots and light as light in my socks out the door I run, that’s the way! like the wind to my drink and coat; I’ve got to climb are they chasing I can’t look back but I can hear yes, Christ! and I hardly touch the ground, I fly with my body’s sound, the rush of my blood. The worst is over I’m sure, for they smile as I come and one of them is. He generously welcomes me and rises: welcoming eyes, and cradling his drink who’s that other? A figure mnemonic, who’s that leaving, vanishing along the wall? I know him, Felix shocked and knows too well but: who is it for chrissakes, calling “hey! hey where are you going, I know you. Who are you?” Brief turning face in the doorway “STOP” and reaching with my voice turned shrill: “Why are you leaving?” But he’s gone and I’m scared
plumply gasping, wheezing. “His skills, the hunter’s I mean. His daring you might say, initiative. Above all his. Initiative, why . . .” Nasty living-room and his mother. Susan. Christ! “Do you realize, a good hunter. You know. Very good hunters provided for the whole community. That’s right.” Cigarette. “They were the natural leaders; they were. And do you know why?” Sharper voice but I won’t. “I’ll tell you why. They knew,” fist cr
acking to his palm, “how to get things done!” Smiling. “That’s all.”
“Gee.”
“That’s right, that’s . . .”
“He’s right alright.”
“. . . Martin for you.”
“Look at the boy scouts.”
“Exactly. Get a boy out there in the woods you know, oh I’ve. Many’s the time I’ve . . .” Private laughter, what’s he? A bore, Uncle Martin you’re . . . “Early in the morning.”
“That’s right, none of your lollygagging about till noon.”
“Breathing in God’s air as He meant it to be you know. You’ve got a man. Patient,” convulsing face, grimacing smile. “And resourceful, dependable. For I’ve said it before: a good shot, and I’ll say it again. He’s a dependable man.”
“He is, and that’s the truth.” Nodding, agreement, muttering into drinks.
Five Legs Page 24