Samedi the Deafness

day the second

As though at the announcement of his own accomplished execution,

James approached 2 Verit Street. This was the address he had found that morning when, instead of going in to work, he had begun his inquiries at the various theatres near the Chinese district.

Soon enough he had spoken to a girl who had auditioned for a part in a play directed by the man, Estrainger. She had gone to his home to do so. It was her considered opinion that the man was no good as a director, but that his plays were quite well written. She wondered how it was that anyone could write a play at all. Basing things on real life, she thought, was easy enough. But to make things up entirely, well, that was something else. I mean, it seems like you would have to be psychotic. How could you remember what was even real? James had loudly agreed with her; he too, he said, wondered how anyone might remember what was real. Then he disengaged himself from the conversation and left.

An hour later, he stood before 2 Verit Street.

None of the buzzers was marked. James looked them over slowly. A man was smoking a cigarette on the stoop. James turned to him.

— Do you know which is Estrainger?

— Going up to see Estrainger, eh, that old fox? You don't look the type, if you don't mind my saying.

The man spoke out of the corner of his mouth in a sort of insolently apologetic way.

James repeated his question.

— I could tell you which buzzer was his if I thought it would help you. But he won't let you in no matter what you say. He's terrified of the police. Are you a cop? You look like a cop. Man, it's bad to look like a cop if you ain't one. Is that your thing? You go around looking like a policeman? Wouldn't do it if I was you. Not for one hour. Not even for an hour. Get yourself hurt.

He threw his half-smoked cigarette on the ground, rubbed it into the ground with his foot, and then cocked his head to look at James.

Just then a boy came up, slipped in the door, and hit the buzzer. A man's voice, then, came through the intercom.

— Who is it?

— Willy. .

— Come on up.

The boy entered the building, and James followed, leaving behind his new acquaintance.

— Won't do you any good, the man said.

The Boy Had Entered the Apartment

James heard the door close after him. He had stayed behind on the stairs, so as not to arouse suspicion, and had listened carefully to hear which door it was. Now he stood in the passage outside. Through the door he could hear the sound of voices, arguing. A girl's voice, and the voice from the intercom. Must be Estrainger, thought James.

He waited. What was he going to do anyway, once he'd found him? Estrainger was supposed to be small. Maybe James could intimidate him into giving up the information. He stood in the hall. Should he knock?

A door opened behind him, and a voice whispered.

— Come, here, quick. Quick! You!

James spun around. The boy who had been downstairs was gesturing to him. James went through the door. Inside was a washing machine and a dryer. It was clearly the apartment's back door. The boy leaned against the closed door.

— You're with the police, right?

— No, said James. Not me.

— I know you are, said the boy. I want you to arrest the man in the next room. He's hit my mom. They're fighting right now.

Indeed, the noise of an argument could be heard quite clearly.

What an opportunity, thought James. He would burst in on Estrainger. The man would be confused, taken aback. He thought of the great advantage he would have over such a man at such a time.

He readied himself, threw open the door, and stepped through.

It was a rather shabby apartment that greeted his eyes. A man stood in the center of the room; a woman leaned against the wall, in tears. Both gasped as he came in.

— They've come for you, said the woman. And I don't mind a bit.

— You won't get me so easily, said the man.

There was a pistol on the dresser. He leapt for it, but James was quicker. In a moment the pistol was in his hand. He leveled it at the man.

— Now listen, said James.

— I won't go to jail, said the man. Not again.

In a second he was at the window; in another he had leapt through.

The woman screamed.

From outside, an impact, a loud noise, and screaming.

James went to the window. A tableau had been drawn below by a master draftsman. All the elements of careful composition were present. The body, at the drawing's center, splayed out on the concrete, and around it, in concentric circles, the varying degrees of affectedness. Already it seemed a crowd had gathered. People were looking up. James pulled back and drew the blinds.

The woman was looking at him.

— Are you going to get a medal for that? she asked.

She seemed profoundly unhappy. James did not remark on this. He couldn't believe Estrainger had jumped. It was a disaster. The gun he was holding he stuck in his pocket. He pulled open a drawer. A letter was in there. He took it out and examined the envelope.

Leonard Mayne

2 Verit Street

God damn it, thought James. Who is Leonard Mayne?

— The man who jumped, said James suddenly, turning towards the woman, what was his name?

— What was his name? she asked coldly. What kind of idiot are you? You come barging into an apartment and you don't even know the man's name?

— What was it? he asked.

— Leonard, she said. Leonard Mayne. And if you want the pills, he kept them in the box under the bed. Six different kinds. A real big shot.

She spat openly on the ground.

— I'm glad he's dead, she said.

From the door, the boy had watched the whole scene. He looked at James with a kind of happy awe.

— Is he gone, is he really gone? he asked.

— Yeah, kid, he's gone, said James.

2 Verit Street, again

Once, at the zoo, when he was a small boy, James had watched his older brother torture a large monkey. The monkey, some kind of chimpanzee, had bounded around its cage squealing, as James's brother threw rocks. His brother had a good arm, and many of the rocks struck the monkey, knocking it down repeatedly. In fact, James remembered how bloody it had been. He had never seen so much blood. When his parents came, they took James and his brother away, and left the zoo immediately, without a word. The incident was never spoken of, but when James's brother was run over by a bus less than a week later, James was sure he knew why.

The system of connections between things that brought about such a reprisal seemed to James somewhat visible, though it was not ever spoken of by others. He governed his actions carefully, according to the dictates of this system, being cautious to take into account the postulated feelings even of inanimate objects and carapaced insects.

James hurried away from the building. He had feared that the first man would still be there at the foot of the stair to laugh at him, but this fear was groundless; the man was gone when he reached the door.

Prudently, he did not go to look at the scene of Mayne's death. He had, after all, stood a moment in the window and might easily be recognized.

Was Leonard Mayne the same as Estrainger? Now that he had time to think it through, he remembered that Estrainger was supposed to have been older, fifty or sixty years old. It was certainly not the same man. But now James would have to keep away from 2 Verit Street. Did he feel even a little bad about causing the man's death? No, no, thought James. The boy had been so happy. Certainly a boy could not be made happy over James having done a truly bad thing. The woman had not been happy, but she had not been sad either. Her worry was the worry of now having to decide what to do next. Ultimately, yes, James said to himself in a conciliatory fashion, you have acted well today, yes, rather well.

But he knew too that he had made an awful mess of things. Just then, he reached the station. A newspaper stand was beside the turnstile. He could make out the headline.

SECOND THREAT FROM SAMEDI

James bought the newspaper and, when the train came, got into the third subway car.

SECOND WHITE HOUSE SUICIDE DRAWS INCREASED CONCERN

Washington, September 28: A man's suicide yesterday outside the gates of the White House renewed investigations by federal authorities into the possible existence of a potentially dangerous religious cult. The demise of the man, Albrecht Moran of Bethesda, mirrors that of William Goshen, a local psychologist who slashed his own throat in the same location on Sunday.

Moran, a distinguished professor of political science and philosophy in his home country of Ireland, had recently submitted an application, pending at the time of his death, for American citizenship.

Like Goshen, Moran's body was found with a cryptic note, signed by an entity called “Samedi.”

DAY THE SECOND

MAN LIVES THE WAY HE WANTS TO LIVE. WHEN HIS WANTS CHANGE, SO TOO CHANGE HIS METHODS, SO TOO CHANGE HIS CONDITIONS. WE LIVE THUS NOT BECAUSE WE MUST, BUT BECAUSE WE HAVE LEARNED TO. BUT THERE ARE OTHER WAYS THAT CAN BE LEARNED. AN EXAMPLE IS TO BE MADE HERE. THOSE WHO HAVE BEEN DEAF SHALL BE DEAF. A PLACE SHALL BE MADE FOR THOSE WHO HAVE WAITED IN THE EAVES.

SAMEDI

A handwriting analysis confirmed that the two notes came from the same hand.

No connection has been found between the two men, apart from their high degree of education. Any threat posed by “Samedi” is currently being considered “not a high priority,” according to White House officials.

James held the Phone Book Open

and sat upon his bed. The phone book read:

Seph, Yaqin 546-445-4493 Sepwin, Russell 546-948-3321 Sepwith, Morris 492-889-0093 Sepwith, Nancy Smith 492-337-3309 Sepwith, Shep 492-349-8893 Seril, M. 492-228-3384 Seril, Theodore 393-818-0989 Seril, Wendy 492-349-2304 Sermon, Bill 492-405-4483 Sermon, Dr. L. N. Xavier 492-817-8717 Sernick, Anthony 492-576-4004 Sernick, Elinore 546-298-3038 Sernick, William 492-889-5807

Sermon, thought James to himself. That's the lead. He closed the phone book, gathered himself a moment, and called the number. It rang once, and was picked up.

— Office of Dr. Xavier Sermon. This is reception.

— Yes, I'd like to make an appointment.

— The Doctor does not take any forms of health insurance, also he insists on seeing patients only during weekday afternoons. We have a spot open tomorrow afternoon, well, let me see, three. How is three? Can you do three?

— Three is fine. The address?

— Forty-nine Octavo Place. That's at the corner of the park. We're on the third floor. What is your name?

— Caleb Morton.

— And. . phone number, in case anything changes.

— I don't have a phone. But I'll be there at that time.

— Well, actually, you should come fifteen minutes early, because the Doctor will want you to fill out a form with your previous history, etc., and a description of the present ailment.

— Then at quarter to, said James. Good-bye.

— Have a good day, Mr. Morton, said the receptionist cheerfully.

James was alone in the room again. It occurred to him that things were happening very slowly. What would Thomas McHale think, were he still alive? What had McHale's plan been, anyway? Presumably to go to the police. McHale knew all the details; he had been a conspirator; he would be believed. What did James know? Nothing. And now he certainly could not go to the police — he would have to explain the suicide of Mayne.

He picked up the newspaper again and read through the front-page article, entitled “Identity of Samedi Unknown.”

It seemed the police, the FBI, the government in general, had little to go on, and were so far unsuccessful in their hunt.

There was a short letter to the editor saying that Samedi was really no threat at all. It was the position of that writer that the newspaper should under no circumstances continue to publish the letters.

That's foolishness, thought James. The letters are clearly news, and as long as they continue to be, the newspaper will print them. He turned to the next page. It was an extensive article on the work of handwriting analysis that had been done on the notes.

A profile of Samedi followed, describing him as: an older man, highly educated, vain, used to having his own way. Certainly wealthy, perhaps born to wealth. Right-handed, or ambidextrous, with an injury to the right wrist. Exceptionally long fingers. A nonsmoker. Most likely no history of criminal involvement.

The phone rang. James picked it up.

— Excuse me, this is Dr. Sermon's office calling to confirm an appointment for tomorrow afternoon at three o'clock.

— Please do not call this number, said James. It's my work, and they're very touchy about such things.

He hung up the phone.

Immediately, he thought, I have not gone to work in two days.

Then he thought, Going to work now would be useless.

At that Moment, the Doorbell Rang

James went down the stairs slowly. Through the curtain he could see some kind of deliveryman standing on the porch. He opened the door.

— Delivery for Sim.

The man held out a small, flat package.

James took the package and signed for it. With a nod, the deliveryman went away, back into the world of large, empty trucks and small, flat packages.

James shut the door and sat down on the hall-bench. He had always wanted to have such a bench. As he grew older, slowly he had procured for himself more and more of the things he had wanted slightly. Finally, it was the bench's turn, and he had procured it and set it down in this hall. Really, he never sat on it. Certainly, this was the most momentous thing that had ever befallen the bench.

James opened the package. Inside there were two smaller packages.

James opened the first. It was a letter that had been folded upon itself many times. He unfolded it.

It was quite short and forcefully clear:

Dear James Sim,

Your inquiries are not desired. Neither are they appreciated. You have once been warned against continuing, yet still you continue. This is one-half of your final warning.

The letter was not signed.

James opened the other small package. Something soft was inside. For a moment, he was afraid it was human skin, but his recoiling was checked by the smell of rubber. He pulled the rubber-thing out and let it hang. It was some kind of mask, some kind of Halloween mask. He held it up. It looked like a human face, but what sort he could not say. A man's, certainly.

He went in front of the hall mirror and tried the mask on.

With horror, he realized it was a rubber mask of his own face. They had sent him a rubber mask of his own face. He tore it off, but could not bring himself to throw it in the garbage.

How had they made it? For how long had he been observed?

There was nothing to do but to bury the thing.

James's Fear of Masks

Over the cradle in which James had lain, it had been the habit of James's father to make peculiar faces. The young child, unbeknownst to himself or his father, had then formed a deep-seated fear of masks that would plague him all the years of his life. His mother, witnessing these displays, would often chide his father roughly, saying, Come away from there, Morris; you'll only make him cry. Which was ridiculous too in its own way, as James Sim had been the most clement of babies, and was never known to cry, even when provoked or tortured, as he often was, by father and brother.

The Hall Mirror

The hall mirror too, in its way, had been guest to a series of uncomfortable events. Previous to its life above the bench in the front hall of James's house, it had been owned by a procuress, being that it was such a fine and beautiful mirror, so nice to look upon. She had required that the various women who came beneath her hand smile gently into the mirror whenever they passed it in that house of assignation. It was thus the receptacle of a great many lovely likenesses and mocking eyes.

James stood then in the hall, holding the note. He became aware suddenly of a feeling in himself — he was being watched. He looked slowly over his left shoulder into the mirror, and through the mirror, through the hall door into the kitchen and the window beyond. Sure enough, there was a face there. He did not give away this sudden knowledge, but pretended to examine his face in the mirror. He turned away then, and took a step down the hall. Whoever it was at the window could now not see him. He ran quickly to the cellar stair and down into the cellar. Across the cellar he ran. Slowly he unbolted the second side door. He could see the coated figure of the snoop through the narrow windows that ran the length of the cellar.

What to do?

He opened the door, jumped through it, and tackled the man from behind.

The man fell beneath him. It was not a man. It was a girl. But she had not shrieked or made any move to escape.

Now, quite quietly and simply, she spoke.

— Would you mind getting up? You really don't know me well enough for this yet.

He got to his feet. She did as well.

She was wearing now a sort of prefabricated factory coverall drawn tight around the waist. Over it, a coat with a high collar.

— What's the meaning of this? he asked. Why are you snooping about?

— What do you mean? she asked. Nobody's snooping. I've just got a crush on you, and I've come around to see if you'll take me on a date.

— That's a lie, said James. Who sent the rubber mask?

— I did, said Anastasia. I thought it would be funny.

— It's not funny at all, said James. And furthermore, you're part of. . something else. I know you are. This business in the paper.

— Well, that's not a very nice thing to accuse a girl of, just after having met her, and her having returned to you your wallet that you dropped, and furthermore her having come around to your place. And besides, I'm not the sort of girl who chases after men. You should feel lucky that I'm being so forward with you.

To this James said nothing, but looked at her with narrowed eyes.

It was his favorite toy. What was it? A little wooden bird painted the color red. It was a red color, it really was, a shining lovely red such as a boy might dream upon, looking at it in sunlight, in shadow, with candles, and at firesides. But do not suppose that it was a songbird or any such frivolous sort. No, his bird was an owl. He had found it one day when Ansilon told him to look under the floorboards of his room by knocking everywhere with his hammer. When he found the red owl, Ansilon was pleased. It is your father's owl, he said. Do not let him see it. He left it there many years ago with a filament of his bone wrapped around a piece of ivory at the toy's heart. He believed it would bring him good luck, and it has. But now, my little friend, that luck will be yours. Oh, thank you, James had said. Thank you. No one ever had a friend like you. Nor will they, said Ansilon, nor will they. And when he would take the red owl to the seashore, he would hide it from his father in a Russian fur hat which James insisted upon wearing at all times. No one but James and Ansilon understood this absurd practice. Why was the boy wearing a Russian fur cap to the seashore? But James was always finding things, old coins, arrowheads, and such, which he gave away freely and generously, and so no one said anything to him about the fur cap until one day his father burned it while he was off at school. Regrettably, the bird was inside. That day his father became very ill and was never the same again. In fact, he died within the hour.

IN THE KITCHEN

Anastasia sat at the kitchen table. She no longer spoke with an accent. She confessed that her name was not Anastasia. It was, she said, Lily Violet.

— You've obviously made up that name, said James, who was busy setting the pot to boil on the stove.

— No one would make up a name like that, said Lily Violet. It's too far-fetched.

James considered this. Perhaps she was right.

Lily had taken her coat off. She came over and stood behind James.

James turned around and pushed her away.

— What's the big idea? he said loudly.

— Nothing, she said, and sat down again. What is it? You don't like girls?

James ignored this question.

— So, your position is that you are not a part of the plot that's in the newspaper, that furthermore, you have nothing to do with it, and that you have met me only by chance?

— I have met you, said Lily Violet, only by chance. The rest is too silly for me to even answer. Anyway, don't you think I'm a nice sort?

— I will not marry you, said James. You are not suitable at all. I don't like your yellow-dress. I don't like your hair-cut, and I don't like your approaching-of-men in public places.

— You don't like my hair-cut? said Lily Violet, looking then at herself in the window. It had become dark outside, and the room was reflected and distorted in triplicate, for alongside of the kitchen there were three broad windows. She ran her hands through her short hair and looked at him.

— Well, to be fair, said James, it's all right.

He felt suddenly thoroughly tired. He felt he had been outmaneuvered again, but this time he did not even know how it had happened.

He went into the hall and sat down on the bench for the second time that day. The mask was still there. He didn't like it, not one bit. There are certain items that one does not want to have in one's vicinity, that when one learns of their existence, one feels a bit worried that perhaps one day they will be present in the vicinity of oneself. Such was this. But who would expect to be sent a rubber mask of one's own face?

— Really, said Lily, entering the hall. It isn't as bad as all that.

She sat beside him on the bench.

— Why don't I be your girlfriend, and take care of you, and we can go on little outings?

— What are you doing here? asked James. This is completely ridiculous.

— You ask so many questions, said Lily Violet.

She went and got her coat, then looked James carefully in the eye and curtsied in an exquisite and practiced manner. The door closed softly behind her, and James was left once more alone.