Specimen Days. Michael Cunningham

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СКАЧАТЬ gift, do you know that?”

      He thought for a moment that she meant the bowl. It was in fact a terrible gift. It should have cost nothing, but he’d paid for it with money meant for food. And what use did Catherine have for a bowl like this? Lucas stood with his blood racketing and his hands outstretched. He was the boy who had bought the bowl, and he was the boy who had sold it. Would that boy, the other, be now returning to his own family with food? Lucas could be only this, the one who had bought it. He could only stand before Catherine with a terrible gift in his hands.

      Gently (he thought he had never known such gentleness) she took the bowl from him. She held it in her own hand.

      “What are we to do with you?” she said. “How will your mother and father live?”

      He said, “This hour I tell you things in confidence, things I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you.”

      “Hush, hush.”

      “The dead sing to us through machinery. They are with us still.”

      “Stop. Speak as yourself.”

      “Simon wants to marry you in the land of the dead. He wants you there with him.”

      Sadly, she shook her head. “Listen to me,” she said. “It’s wonderful of you to want to buy me a gift like this. You are a sweet, generous boy. I’m going to keep the bowl safe tonight, and tomorrow I am going to sell it and give you the money. Please, don’t be offended.”

      “You must not trust your sewing machine. You must not listen if it sings to you.”

       “Shh. If we make such a racket every night, we’ll be thrown out.”

      “Do you take it I would astonish? Does the daylight astonish? Or the early redstart twittering through the woods?”

      “Go home now. Come to me tomorrow, after work.”

      “I cannot leave you. I will not.”

      She put her hand on his head. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Be careful until then.”

      “It’s you who must be careful.”

      She seemed not to hear or understand. With a rueful smile she opened the door and went back inside.

      Lucas remained for a while before the door, like a dog waiting to be let in. Then, because he could not bear being like a dog, he went away. He passed the tiny woman, who said, “No mischief, then?” He told her there had been no mischief. But there had been mischief, hadn’t there? There was the bowl and what the bowl had cost. There were other crimes.

      He made his way home, because he had money now (he had some left), and his mother and father must eat. He bought a sausage from the butcher and a potato from an old woman on the street.

      The apartment was as always. His mother slept behind her door. His father sat at table, because it was time to do so. He put his lips to the machine, breathed Simon’s ghost song into his lungs.

      “Hello,” Lucas said. His voice was strange in the quiet room, like a bean rattling in a jar.

      “Hello,” his father said. Had his voice changed slightly, from his chest being filled with Simon? It might have. Lucas could not be sure. Was his father turning into a machine, with Simon inside him?

      Lucas cooked the sausage and the potato. He gave some to his father, took some in to his mother, who slept fitfully but slept. He decided it was best not to disturb her. He left the food on the bedside table, for when she awoke and wanted it.

      After his father had finished, Lucas said, “Father, it’s time for bed.”

      His father nodded, breathed, nodded again. He rose. He took the machine with him.

       Lucas left his father in the doorway to the bedroom. His mother murmured within. His father said, “She cannot stop dreaming.”

      “She sleeps. It’s what’s best for her.”

      “She doesn’t sleep. She only dreams.”

      “Hush. Go to sleep now. Good night, Father.”

      His father went into the dark. The machine’s little feet scraped on the floorboards after him.

      I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women,

      And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps.

      What do you think has become of the young and old men?

      And what do you think has become of the women and children?

      Lucas read his passage. He put out the light and went to sleep.

      He dreamed he was in a room, an enormous room and clangorous. It was the works but not the works. It was full of silvery dusk like the works but empty of all save the noise, a deafening sound, not like what the machines produced, not quite that sound, though it resembled it. Lucas understood that the machines were gone but would return soon, as cattle return to a barn. He was to wait here. He was to see them home. He looked up—something told him to look up—and saw that the ceiling was covered in stars. There were the Great Horse, the Hunter, the Pleiades. He knew then that the stars were machinery, too. There was nowhere to go that was not the world, that was not the room. The stars moved mechanically, and something was descending, a dark shape from high in the night sky …

      He turned and looked into a face. Its eyes were black pools. Its skin was stretched taut over its skull. It said, “My boy, my boy.”

      His mother’s face was pressed to his. He was dreaming of his mother. He struggled to speak, but couldn’t speak.

      The face said again, “My poor boy, what they done to ye.”

      He was awake. His mother crouched beside his bed, with her face to his face. He felt her breath on his lips.

       “I’m all right, Mother,” he said. “Nothing’s been done to me.”

      She held the music box, cradled close. She said, “Poor child.”

      “You’re dreaming,” Lucas told her.

      “My poor, poor boys. One and then another and another.”

      “Let me take you back to bed.”

      “It’s greed that done it. Greed and weakness.”

      “Come. Come back to bed.”

      He rose and took her arm. She yielded, or did not resist. He led her out of the bedroom and through the parlor, where the faces watched. Her feet shuffled on the floor. He took her into the other bedroom. His father wheezed and gagged in his sleep.

      Lucas helped his mother into bed, pulled the blanket up. Her hair was spread over the pillow. In the fan of dark hair her face was impossibly small, no bigger than his fist.

      She said, “I should be dead with him.”

      Lucas СКАЧАТЬ