Free Samedi the Deafness by Jesse Ball Page A

happy. He could tell that she was glad he had called.

    —Yes, you're asleep. I wouldn't worry about it. The covers had come off your feet. I put them right, and laid an extra blanket across the bottom. I think you'll sleep really well now. And besides, I'll be coming to bed in a minute, and then I'll wake you anyway and I will not have any clothes on and neither will you. That will be nice.

    —Yes, said James. That will be nice. I will look forward to that, then.

    —Good-bye, said James's wife. I love you.

    —Good-bye, said James.

    He hung up the phone. The girl who was folding towels had stopped. She was looking at him curiously.

    —Who were you talking to? she asked.

    —I wasn't really talking to anyone, he said. The phone doesn't work. It's just a toy phone, made out of wood.

    And it was true. The phone was made entirely out of wood.

    James lifted it off the wall hook and set it on the table. The girl and he looked together then at the wooden phone.

    —I wonder who made it, she said.

    —And why, said James.

    —It must have been a very long time ago, said the girl, before there were ever phones. This probably only resembles a phone by chance, and in fact, in tribal culture had an entirely different significance. Perhaps it was used to feather arrows or bring to term unwilling births.

    —I should think so, said James.

    Suddenly the ringing of a bell. The two froze where they stood.

    David Graham came into the hall. He rang the bell again. Everyone stood quietly as they counted together to fifteen. Then Graham came up to James. He was smiling and his pants were soaking wet.

 

    A Visit from Sermon

    —We've been looking all over for you, James, he said. Sermon's coming. He'd like a word with you.

    —Certainly, said James. When?

    —It's unclear right now, said Graham. But be ready. Also, don't worry—you can tell him anything. Doctor-patient confidentiality and all that. He won't have to testify.

    —I was going to ask you, said James. The police . . .

    —Yes, said Graham. It's a bad business. A bad business. They keep coming around. I know it must worry you, but it really shouldn't. After all, he was just some drug dealer. Estrainger knew him, hated him. The whole building knew he was beating his wife. No one's sorry he's dead. But the police have to do their job, I suppose. Yes, it's good you're here. They won't find you here, you know. We'll keep them away.

    He patted James on the shoulder.

    —It's best today, I think, said Graham, that you zip around and explore the place. See what you can see. Get comfortable. Navigating can be a bit of a problem. You see, the hospital wing has some mechanized hallways that switch occasionally. But there's an hour-schedule for it all in the book. Have you read the book?

    James confessed that he had not yet read the whole book.

    —Well, do that as soon as you can. It'll really be worthwhile. And, of course, there are some people around here it wouldn't do to offend. No, not at all. Very sensitive. Yes, read up. Read up.

    He walked away.

 

    An Hour Passed

    and James sat in an interior room with the shades drawn. An older man, apparently a permanent resident, was seated and playing rovnin.

    Rovnin! It was so rare to find anyone who even knew the game, though of course in the sixteenth, the seventeenth, the eighteenth centuries, Swedes and Danes and Russians lived and died in its mad dictates.

FIRST:

    a sort of stringed set of sticks with markers

    a calling out of numbers

    a switching between systems: base ten, base nine, base seven

    the creation of “proxies,” fictional players who aid, abet, or at times foil one's own newmade schemes

    There were books in James's childhood home on rovnin. His father had loved the game. James remembered the days they would spend in the cottage, playing at rovnin in the long hours, and roaming the fields and wood. He cleaned himself, preened himself in this memory as a bird might in a puddle. And as a