Green Shadows, White Whales. Ray Bradbury

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      “Mr. Kelly,” I said, “do you count the turf that Mr. O’Gavin cuts out of his bog?”

      As everyone laughed, Kelly said: “That is a common tourist’s error. I am an expert on the races. I breed a few horses—”

      “He sells Irish Sweepstakes tickets,” said someone.

      “A bookie,” said Finn.

      “But ‘turf accountant’ has a gentler air, does it not?” said Kelly.

      “It does!” I said.

      “And here’s Timulty, our art connoisseur.”

      I shook hands with Timulty. “Art connoisseur?”

      “It’s from looking at the stamps I have the eye for paintings,” Timulty explained. “If it goes at all, I run the post office.”

      “And this is Carmichael, who took over the village telephone exchange last year.”

      Carmichael, who knitted as he spoke, replied: “My wife got the uneasies and she ain’t come right since, God help her. I’m on duty next door.”

      “But now tell us, lad,” said Finn, “what’s your crisis?”

      “A whale. And … ” I paused. “Ireland!”

      “Ireland?!” everyone cried.

      Mike explained. “He’s a writer who’s trapped in Ireland and misunderstands the Irish.”

      After a beat of silence someone said: “Don’t we all!”

      To much laughter, Mr. O’Gavin leaned forward. “What do you misunderstand, specific like?”

      Mike intervened to prevent chaos. “Underestimates is more the word. Confused might be the sum! So I’m taking him on a Grand Tour of the Worst Sights and the Most Dreadful Truths.” He stopped and turned. “Well, that’s the lot, lad.”

      “Mike, there’s one you missed.” I nodded to a partition at the far end of the bar. “You didn’t introduce me to … him.”

      Mike peered and said, “O’Gavin, Timulty, Kelly, do you see someone there?”

      Kelly glanced down the line. “We do not.”

      I pointed. “Why, it’s plain as my nose! A man—”

      Timulty cut in. “Now, Yank, don’t go upsetting the order of the universe. Do you see that partition? It is an irrevocable law that any man seeking a bit of peace and quiet is automatically gone, invisible, null and void when he steps into that cubby.”

      “Is that a fact?”

      “Or as close as you’ll ever get to one in Ireland. That area, no more than two feet wide by one deep, is more private than the confessional. It’s where a man can duck, in need of feeding his soul without converse or commotion. So for all intents and purposes, that space, until he breaks the spell of silence himself, is uninhabited and no one’s there!”

      Everyone nodded, proud of Timulty.

      “Fine, Timulty, and now—drink your drink, lad, stand alert, be ready, watch!” said Mike.

      I looked at the mist curling through the door. “Alert for what?”

      “Why, there’s always Great Events preparing themselves out in that fog.” Mike became mysterious. “As a student of Ireland, let nothing pass unquestioned.” He peered out at the night. “Anything can happen … and always does.” He inhaled the fog, then froze. “Ssst! Did you hear?”

      Beyond, there was a blind stagger of feet, heavy panting coming near, near, near!

      “What …?” I said.

      Mike shut his eyes. “Sssst! Listen! … Yes!”

Chapter 4

      Shoes pounded the outside steps, drunkenly. The double wing doors slammed wide. A battered man lunged in, reeling, holding his bloody head with bloody hands. His moan froze every customer at the bar. For a time you heard only the soft foam popping in the lacy mugs, as the customers turned, some faces pale, some pink, some veined and wattle red. Every eyelid down the line gave a blink.

      The stranger swayed in his ruined clothes, eyes wide, lips trembling. The drinkers clenched their fists. Yes! they cried silently. Go on, man! What happened?

      The stranger leaned far out on the air.

      “Collision,” he cried. “Collision on the road.”

      Then, chopped at the knees, he fell.

      “Collision!” A dozen men rushed at the body.

      “Kelly!” Heeber Finn vaulted the bar. “Get to the road! Mind the victim—easy does it! Joe, run for the Doc!”

      “Wait!” said a quiet voice.

      From the private stall at the end of the pub, the cubby where a philosopher might brood, a dark man blinked out at the crowd.

      “Doc!” cried Heeber Finn. “Was you there all the time?”

      “Ah, shut up!” cried the Doc as he and the men hustled out into the night.

      “Collision …” The man on the floor twitched his lips.

      “Softly, boys.” Heeber Finn and two others gentled the victim atop the bar. He looked handsome as death on the fine inlaid wood, with the prismed mirror making him two dread calamities for the price of one.

      Outside on the steps, the crowd halted, shocked as if an ocean had sunk Ireland in the dusk and now bulked all about them. Fog in fifty-foot rollers and breakers put out the moon and stars. Blinking, cursing, the men leaped out, to vanish in the deeps.

      Behind, in the bright doorframe, I stood, dreading to interfere with what seemed village ritual. Since arriving in Ireland, I could not shake the feeling that at all times I was living stage center of the Abbey Theatre. Now, not knowing my lines, I could only stare after the rushing men.

      “But,” I protested weakly, “I didn’t hear any cars on the road.”

      “You did not!” said Mike, almost pride fully. Arthritis limited him to the top step, where he teetered, shouting at the white tides where his friends had submerged. “Try the crossroad, boys! That’s where it most often does!”

      “The crossroad!” Far and near, footsteps rang.

      “Nor,” I said, “did I hear a collision.”

      Mike snorted with contempt. “Ah, we’re not great ones for commotion, or great crashing sounds. But collision you’ll see if you step on out there. Walk, now, don’t run! It’s the devil’s own night. Running blind you might СКАЧАТЬ