Free Samedi the Deafness by Jesse Ball Page B

bird, he had no notion of the true size of the world, or of its careening path through the larger sky beyond the sky.

 

    It was then he remembered Cecily

    The girl Cecily. Her hair brushed back, wet from a swim. The dress over her arm as she stands naked on a past day as though crossing a stream. Take off your dress, Cecily, it is too fine and the stream will ruin it. Take it off and cross the stream. In the dimness of it he saw how lovely she had been, how young. He had held up the stem of some flower and she had followed him, saying nothing. Her voice now was lost to him. So many other voices he could conjure, even speak with. But Cecily's was lost there in the dimness of the water. Her body and the light gone trailing after.

    Years of this, years of remembering Cecily. James had read somewhere that the truly fine and beautiful always die as children. They can't grow up. Something won't allow them.

 

    About Rovnin

    The man beat him the first time, easily, and laughed.

    —Not very good, are you? he said.

    —I don't get much chance to play, said James evenly.

    —So that's your excuse, said the man, and laid the strings and rods back into their initial positions.

    He leaned back in his chair and looked James up and down.

    —It's not an easy game, he said finally. No one knows how to play it, anyway.

    —I have some books, said James. I like to play through the old games.

    —Old games are useless, said the man.

    He spit into his hand and rubbed the top of his head.

    —If you want, I can teach you to play well. It will take me one day. But it will cost you some money. James looked at the man warily.

    —Do you think I'm some kind of fool? he asked. You're not that much better than me.

    The man only laughed. Looking past James he called out,

    —Next!

    James turned to see who was there.

    Obviously, no one was.

    The man laughed again.

    —Come back if you want, said the man. We'll play. But don't let the others see that you're so miserable at it. Though I don't, of course, not me, no, the others might think less of you.

 

    I love, said James to himself, this idea of the doctor being pitted against death in a game of chess. The patient is between them, the night is long. Some village girl is standing near. She is concerned but cannot speak. Perhaps she cannot see death where he crouches beside the bed. But they are old enemies, death and the village doctor, met a thousand times. In the doctor's eye are the memories of the encounters he has won, and beside them, the encounters he has lost, larger in size, but unfocused. This is his strength, but also his weakness, for death is without memory, holding in a gray place the world's passing. It is a fallacy that death judges. He chooses, but does not judge. The doctor knows this. Delicately, he makes his move. The curtains blow in a sudden gust of wind. Death is gone from the room. The patient has been saved.

 

    James went out to the porch. He sat down in a rocking chair. Out of the pocket of his suit, he took a small knife. He leaned down out of the rocking chair and cut a thin line in the wood of the porch all around his chair so that he was sitting then in a sort of circle, broken by the chinks between the planks. But serviceable still.

    What do I know? asked James.

    He had seen Samedi pruning the garden. As a mnemonist he had learned to trust his intuition. The gathering of facts created lattices of meaning that could not be known, but only trusted. He was sure of it. What was the disaster? Should James send an anonymous letter to the police, revealing his accusations? How could he even get off the grounds, though? Could he get off the grounds? Would they allow him? Perhaps he should test them on that point.

    James stood up, brushed himself off, crossed the porch and proceeded down the driveway. As he went, he thought about something Grieve had mentioned that morning.

 

    The Idea Was That

    there were three types of people. The first were