Part Two-9

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    Yah Freedom and pirates. Yah Capital and Democrats, says the ugly oh the mustache. Then he tradicts himself and says, Freedom is the greatest of all ideals. I just got to get a ce to write this musi me and be a musi. I got to have a ce says the girl. We are not allowed to serve, says the black Doctor. That is the Godlike need for my people. Aha, says the owner of the New York Cafe". He is a thoughtful one.

    That is the way they talk when they e to my room. Those words in their heart do not let them rest, so they are always very busy. Then you would think when they are together they would be like those of the Society who meet at the vention in Ma this week. But that is not so. They all came to my

    room at the same time today. They sat like they were from different cities. They were even rude, and you know how I have always said that to be rude and not attend to the feelings of others is wrong. So it was like that. I do not uand, so I write it to you because I think you will uand. I have queer feelings. But I have written of this matter enough and I know you axe weary of it. I am also.

    It has been five months and twenty-one days now. All of that time I have been alohout you. The only thing I  imagine is when I will be with you again. If I ot e to you soon I do not know whatSinger put his head down on the bend rested. The smell and the feel of the slick wood against his cheek reminded him of his schooldays. His eyes closed and he felt sick. There was only the face of Antonapoulos in his mind, and his longing for his friend was so sharp that he held his breath. After some time Singer sat up and reached for his pen.

    The gift I ordered for you did not e in time for the Christmas box. I expect it shortly. I believe you will like it and be amused. I think of us always and remember everything. I long for the food you used to make. At the New York Cafe it is much worse than it used to be. I found a cooked fly in my soup not long ago. It was mixed with the vegetables and the noodles like letters. But that is nothing. The way I need you is a loneliness I ot bear. Soon I will e again. My vacation is not due for six months more but I think I  arra before then.

    I think I will have to. I am not meant to be alone and without you who uand.

    Always,JOHN SI was two oclo the m before he was home again.

    The big, crowded house was in darkness, but he felt his way carefully up three flights of stairs and did not stumble. He took from his pockets the cards he carried about with him, his watch, and his fountaihen he folded his clothes ly over the back of his chair. His gray-flannel pajamas were warm and soft. Almost as soon as he pulled the blao his

    he was asleep.

    Out of the blaess of sleep a dream formed. There were dull yellow lanterns lighting up a dark flight of stoeps.

    Antonapoulos k the top of these steps. He was naked and he fumbled with something that he held above his head and gazed at it as though in prayer. He himself k halfway doweps. He was naked and cold and he could not take his eyes from Antonapoulos and the thing he held above him.

    Behind him on the ground he felt the oh the mustache and the girl and the black man and the last ohey k naked and he felt their eyes on him. And behind them there were unted crowds of kneeling people in the darkness.

    His own hands were huge windmills aared fasated at the unknown thing that Antonapoulos held. The yellow lanterns swayed to and fro in the darkness and all else was motionless. Then suddenly there was a ferment. In the upheaval the steps collapsed and he felt himself falling downward. He awoke with a jerk. The early light whitehe window. He felt afraid.

    Such a long time had passed that something might have happeo his friend. Because Antonapoulos did not write to him he would not know. Perhaps his friend had fallen and hurt himself. He felt su urge to be with him once more that he would arra at any cost—and immediately.

    In the post-office that m he found a noti his box that a package had e for him. It was the gift he had ordered for Christmas that did not arrive in time. The gift was a very fine one. He had bought it on the install-ment plan to be paid for over a period of two years. The gift was a moving-picture mae for private use, with a half-dozen of the Mickey Mouse and Popeye edies that Antonapoulos enjoyed.

    Singer was the last to reach the store that m. He hahe jeweler for whom he worked a formal written request for leave on Friday and Saturday. And although there were four weddings on hand that week, the jeweler hat he could go.

    He did not let anyone know of the trip beforehand, but on

    leaviacked a o his door saying that he would be absent for several days because of business. He traveled at night, and the train reached the place of his destination just as the red winter dawn was breaking.

    Iernoon, a little before time for the visiting hour, he went out to the asylum. His arms were loaded with the parts of the moving-picture mae and the basket of fruit he carried his friend. He went immediately to the ward where he had visited Antonapoulos before.

    The corridor, the door, the rows of beds were just as he remembered them. He stood at the threshold and looked eagerly for his friend. But he saw at ohat though all the chairs were occupied, Antonapoulos was not there.

    Singer put down his packages and wrote at the bottom of one of his cards, Where is Spiros Antonapoulos? A nurse came into the room and he handed her the card. She did not uand. She shook her head and raised her shoulders. He went out into the corridor and hahe card to everyo. Nobody khere was such a pani him that he began motio<bdo>..</bdo>ning with his hands. At last he met an interne in a white coat. He plucked at the internes elbow and gave him the card. The interne read it carefully and then guided him through several halls. They came to a small room where a young woman sat at a desk before some papers. She read the card and then looked through some files in a drawer.

    Tears of nervousness and fear swam in Singers eyes. The young woman began deliberately to write on a pad of paper, and he could not restrain himself from twisting around to see immediately what was being written about his friend.

    Mr. Antonapoulos has been transferred to the infirmary. He is ill with nephritis. I will have someone show you the way.

    On the way through the corridors he stopped to pick up the packages he had left at the door of the ward. The basket of fruit had been stolen, but the other boxes were intact. He followed the inter of the building and across a plot of grass to the infirmary.

    Antonapoulos! When they reached the proper ward he saw him at the first glance. His bed laced in the middle of the room and he was sitting propped with pillows. He wore a scarlet dressing-gown and green silk pajamas and a turquoise

    ring. His skin ale yellow color, his eyes very dreamy and dark. His black hair was touched at the temples with silver. He was knitting. His fat fingers worked with the long ivory needles very slowly. At first he did not see his friend.

    Then when Siood before him he smiled serenely, without surprise, and held out his jeweled hand.

    A feeling of shyness araint such as he had never known before came over Singer. He sat down by the bed and folded his hands on the edge of the terpane. His eyes did not leave the face of his friend and he was deathly pale. The splendor of his friends raiment startled him. On various occasions he had sent him each article of the outfit, but he had not imagined how they would look when all bined.

    Antonapoulos was more enormous than he had remembered.

    The great pulpy folds of his abdomen showed beh his silk pajamas. His head was immense against the white pillow. The placid posure of his face was so profound that he seemed hardly to be aware mat Singer was with him.

    Singer raised Ms hands timidly and began to speak. His strong, skilled fingers shaped the signs with loving precision.

    He spoke of the cold and of the long months alone. He mentioned old memories, the cat that had died, the store, the place where he lived. At each pause Antonapoulos nodded graciously. He spoke of the four people and the long visits to his room. The eyes of his friend were moist and dark, and in them he saw the little regled pictures of himself that he had watched a thousand times. Thewarm blood flowed back to his fad his hands quied.

    He spoke at length of the black man and the oh the jerking mustache and the girl. The designs of his hands shaped faster and faster. Antonapoulos nodded with slow gravity.

    Eagerly Singer leaned closer and he breathed with long, deep breaths and in his eyes there were bright tears.

    Then suddenly Antonapoulos made a slow circle in the air with his plump forefinger. His finger circled toward Singer and at last he poked his friend iomach. The big Greeks smile grew very broad auck out his fat, pink tongue.

    Singer laughed and his hands shaped the words with wild speed. His shoulders shook with laughter and his head hung

    backward. Why he laughed he did not know. Antonapoulos rolled his eyes. Singer tio laugh riotously until his breath was gone and his firembled. He grasped the arm of his friend and tried to steady himself. His laughs came sloainfully like hiccoughs.

    Antonapoulos was the first to pose himself. His fat little feet had untucked the cover at the bottom of the bed. His smile faded and he kicked ptuously at the bla. Singer hasteo put things right, but Antonapoulos frowned and held up his finger regally to a nurse who assing through the ward. When she had straightehe bed to his liking the big Greek ined his head so deliberately that the gesture seemed one of beion rather than a simple nod of thanks.

    Theurned gravely to his friend again.

    As Sialked he did not realize how the time had passed.

    Only when a nurse brought Antonapoulos his supper on a tray did he realize that it was late. The lights in the ward were turned on and outside the windows it was almost dark. The other patients had trays of supper before them also. They had put down their work (some of them wove baskets, others did leatherwork or knitted) and they were eating listlessly.

    Besides Antonapoulos they all seemed very sid colorless.

    Most of them needed a haircut and they wore seedy gray nightshirts slit down the back. They stared at the two mutes with wonder.

    Antonapoulos lifted the cover from his dish and ied the food carefully. There was fish and some vege-tables. He picked up the fish and held it to the light in the palm of his hand for a thh examination. Thee with relish. During supper he began to point out the various people in the room. He poio one man in the er and made faces of disgust. The man s him. He poio a young boy and smiled and nodded and waved his plump hand.

    Singer was too happy to feel embarrassment. He picked up the packages from the floor and laid them on the bed to distract his friend. Antonapoulos took off the ings, but the mae did not i him at all. He turned back to his supper.

    Singer hahe nurse a note explaining about the movie.

    She called an interne and then they brought in a doctor. As the three of them sulted they looked curiously at Sihe news reached the patients and they propped up on their elbows excitedly. Only Antonapoulos was not disturbed.

    Singer had practiced with the movie beforehand. He set Dp the s so that it could be watched by all the patients. Then he worked with the projector and the film. The ook out the supper trays and the lights in the ward were turned off. A Mickey Mouse edy flashed on the s.

    Singer watched his friend. At first Antonapoulos was startled.

    He heaved himself up for a better view and would have risen from the bed if the nurse had not restrained him. Theched with a beaming smile. Singer could see the other patients calling out to each other and laughing. Nurses and orderlies came in from the hall and the whole ward was in otion. When the Mickey Mouse was finished Singer put on a Popeye film. Then at the clusion of this film he felt that the eai had lasted long enough for the first time. He switched on the light and the ward settled down again. As the inter the mae under his friends bed he saw Antonapoulos slyly cut his eyes across the ward to be certain that each person realized that the mae was his.

    Singer began to talk with his hands again. He khat he would soon be asked to leave, but the thoughts he had stored in his mioo big to be said in a short time. He talked with frantic haste. In the ward there was an old man whose head shook with palsy and who picked feeblytat his eyebrows. He ehe old man because he lived with Antonapoulos day after day. Singer would have exged places with him joyfully.

    His friend fumbled for something in his bosom. It was the little brass cross that he had always worn. The dirty string had been replaced by a red ribbon. Sihought of the dream aold that, also, to his friend. In his haste the signs sometimes became blurred and he had to shake his hands and

    begin all over. Antonapoulos watched him with his dark, drowsy eyes. Sitting motionless in his bright, rich garments he seemed like some wise king from a legend.

    The interne in charge of the ward allowed Sio stay for an hour past the visiting time. Then at last he held out his thin, hairy wrist and showed him his watch. The patients were settled for sleep. Singers hand faltered. He grasped his friend by the arm and looked ily into his eyes as he used to do each m when they parted for work. Finally Singer backed himself out of the room. At the doorway his hands signed a broken farewell and then ched into fists.

    During the moonlit January nights Singer tio walk about the streets of the town each evening when he was not ehe rumors about him grew bolder. An old Negro woman told hundreds of people that he khe ways of spirits e back from the dead. A certain piece-worker claimed that he had worked with the mute at another mill somewhere else iate—and the tales he told were uhe rich thought that he was rid the poor sidered him a poor man like themselves. And as there was no way to disprove these rumors they grew marvelous and very real. Each man described the mute as he wished him to be.

    HY？

    The question flowed through Biff always, unnoticed, like the blood in his veins. He thought of people and of objects and of ideas and the question was in him. Midnight, the dark m, noon. Hitler and the rumors ofwar. The price of loin of pork and the tax on. beer. Especially he meditated on the puzzle of the mute. Why, for instance, did Singer go away orain and, when he was asked where he had been, pretend that he did not uand the question? And why did everyone persist in thinking the mute was exactly as they wanted him to be —when most likely it was all a very queer mistake? Singer sat at the middle table three times a day. He ate what ut before him—except cabbage and oysters. In the babbr></abbr>ttling tumult of voices he alone was silent. He liked best little green soft butter beans and he

    stacked them in a  pile on the prongs of his fork. And sopped their gravy with his biscuits.

    Biff thought also of death. A curious i occurred. One day while rummaging through the bathroom closet he found a bottle of Agua Florida that he had overlooked when taking Lucile the rest of Alices etics. Meditatively he held the bottle of perfume in his hands. It was four months now since her death—and each month seemed as long and full of leisure as a year. He seldom thought of her.

    Biff uncorked the bottle. He stood shirtless before the mirror and dabbled some of the perfume on his dark, hairy armpits.

    The st made him stiffen. He exged a deadly secret glah himself in the mirror and stood motionless. He was stunned by the memories brought to him with the perfume, not because of their clarity, but because they gathered together the whole long span of years and were plete. Biff rubbed his nose and looked sideways at himself. The boundary of death. He felt in him each mihat he had lived with her. And now their life together was whole as only the past  be whole. Abruptly Biff turned away.

    The bedroom was done over. His entirely now. Before it had been tacky and flossy and drab. There were always stogs and pink rayon knickers with holes in them hung on a string across the room to dry. The iron bed had been flaked and rusty, decked with soiled lace boudoir pillows. A bony mouser from downstairs would arch its bad rub mournfully against the slop jar.

    All of this he had ged. He traded the iron bed for a studio couch. There was a thick red rug on the floor, andhe had bought a beautiful cloth of ese blue to hang on the side of the wall where the cracks were worst. He had unsealed the fireplad kept it laid with pine logs. Over the mantel was a small photograph of Baby and a colored picture of a little boy i holding a ball in his hands. A glassed case in the er held the curios he had collected—spes of butterflies, a rare arrowhead, a curious rock shaped like a human profile. Blue-silk cushions were oudio couch, and he had borrowed Luciles sewing-mae to make deep

    red curtains for the windows. He loved the room. It was both luxurious ae. Oable there was a little Japanese pagoda with glass pendants that tinkled with strange musical tones in a draught.

    In this room nothing reminded him of her. But often he would uncork the bottle of Agua Florida and touch the stopper to the lobes of his ears or to his wrists. The smell mingled with his slow ruminations. The sense of the past grew in him.

    Memories built themselves with almost architectural order. In a box where he stored souvenirs he came across old pictures taken before their marriage. Alice sitting in a field of daisies.

    Alice with him in a oe on the river. Also among the souvenirs there was a large bone hairpin that had beloo his mother. As a little boy he had loved to watch her b and knot her long black hair. He had thought that hairpins were curved as they were to copy the shape of a lady and he would sometimes play with them like dolls. At that time he had a cigar box full of scraps. He loved the feel and colors of beautiful cloth and he would sit with his scraps for hours uhe kit table. But when he was six his mother took the scraps away from him. She was a tall, <cite></cite>strong woman with a sense of duty like a man. She had loved him best. Even now he sometimes dreamed of her. And her wold wedding ring stayed on his finger always.

    Along with the Agua Florida he found in the closet a bottle of lemon rinse Alice had always used for her hair. One day he tried it on himself. The lemon made his dark, white-streaked hair seem fluffy and thick. He liked it. He discarded the oil he had used to guard against baldness and rinsed with the lemon preparatiularly. Certainwhims that he had ridiculed in Alice were now his own. Why？

    Every m Louis, the colored boy downstairs, brought him a cup of coffee to drink in bed. Ofte propped on the pillows for an hour before he got up and dressed. He smoked a cigar and watched the patterns the sunlight made on the wall. Deep hi meditation he ran his forefinger between his long, crooked toes. He remembered.

    Then from noon until five in the m he worked

    downstairs. And all day Sunday. The business was losing mohere were many slack hours. Still at meal-times the place was usually full and he saw hundreds of acquaintances every day as he stood guard behind the cash register.

    What do you stand and think about all the time? Jake Blount asked him. You look like a Jew in Germany.’

    I am ah part Jew, Biff said. My Mrandfather was a Jew from Amsterdam. But all the rest of my folks that I know about were Scotch-Irish.’

    It was Sunday m. ers lolled at the tables and there were the smell of tobacd the rustle of neer.

    Some men in a er booth shot dice, but the game was a quiet one.

    Wheres Singer? Biff asked. Wont you be going up to his place this m?’

    Blounts face turned dark and sullen. He jerked his head forward. Had they quarreled—but how could a dummy quarrel? No, for this had happened before. Blount hung around sometimes and acted as though he were having an argument with himself. But pretty soon he would go—he always did—and the two of them would e in together, Blount talking.

    You live a fine life. Just standing behind a cash register. Just standing with your hand open.’

    Biff did not take offense. He leaned his weight on his elbows and narrowed his eyes. Lets me and you have a serious talk.

    What is it you want anyway?’

    Blount smacked his hands down on the ter. They were warm ay and rough. Beer. And one of them kittle packages of cheese crackers with peanut butter in the ihats not what I meant, Biff said. But well e around to it later.’

    The man uzzle. He was always ging. He still drank like a crazy fish, but liquor did n him down as it did some men. The rims of his eyes were often red, and he had a nervous trick of looking back startled over his shoulder. His head was heavy and huge on his thin neck. He was the sort of fellow that kids laughed at and dogs wao bite. Yet when

    he was laughed at it cut him to the quick—he gh and loud like a sort of . And he was always suspeg that somebody was laughing.

    Biff shook his head thoughtfully. e, he said. &quot;What makes you stick with that show? You  find somethier than that. I could give you a part-time job here.’

    Christamighty! I wouldnt park myself behind that cash box if you was to give me the whole damn place, lock, stock, and barrel.’

    There he was. It was irritating. He could never have friends or eve along with people.

    Talk sense, Biff said. Be serious.’

    A er had e up with his ched he made ge.

    The place was still quiet. Blount was restless. Biff felt him drawing away. He wao hold him. He reached for two A-l cigars on the shelf behind the ter and offered Blount a smoke. Warily his mind dismissed one question after another, and then finally he asked:If you could choose the time in history you could have lived, what era would you choose?’

    Blount licked his mustache with his broad, wet tongue. If you had to choose between being a stiff and never asking another question, which would you take?’

    Sure enough, Biff insisted. Think it over.’

    He cocked his head to one side and peered down over his long his was a matter he liked to hear others talk about.

    A Greece was his. Walking in sandals on the edge of the blue Aegean. The loose robes girdled at the waist. Children.

    The marble baths and the plations iemples.

    Maybe with the Incas. In Peru.’

    Biffs eyes sed over him, stripping him naked. Hesaw Blount burned a rich, red brown by the sun, his face smooth and hairless, with a bracelet of gold and precious stones on his forearm. When he closed his eyes the man was a good Inca. But when he looked at him again the picture fell away. It was the nervous mustache that did not belong to his face, the way he jerked his shoulder, the Adams apple on his thin neck, the bagginess of his trousers. And it was more than

    that.

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