carson mccullers - the heart is a lonely hunter-第41部分

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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　interne　out　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　was　placed　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　was　a　pale　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　Singer　stood　before　him　he　smiled　serenely；　
without　surprise；　and　held　out　his　jeweled　hand。　
A　feeling　of　shyness　and　restraint　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　counterpane。　His　eyes　did　not　
leave　the　face　of　his　friend　and　he　was　deathly　pale。　The　
splendor　of　his　friend's　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　combined。　
Antonapoulos　was　more　enormous　than　he　had　remembered。　
The　great　pulpy　folds　of　his　abdomen　showed　beneath　his　silk　
pajamas。　His　head　was　immense　against　the　white　pillow。　The　
placid　composure　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　rectangled　pictures　of　himself　that　he　
had　watched　a　thousand　times。　The188　

warm　blood　flowed　back　to　his　face　and　his　hands　quickened。　
He　spoke　at　length　of　the　black　man　and　the　one　with　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　in　the　stomach。　The　big　Greek's　
smile　grew　very　broad　and　he　stuck　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　continued　to　laugh　riotously　until　his　
breath　was　gone　and　his　fingers　trembled。　He　grasped　the　arm　
of　his　friend　and　tried　to　steady　himself。　His　laughs　came　slow　
and　painfully　like　hiccoughs。　
Antonapoulos　was　the　first　to　compose　himself。　His　fat　little　
feet　had　untucked　the　cover　at　the　bottom　of　the　bed。　His　smile　
faded　and　he　kicked　contemptuously　at　the　blanket。　Singer　
hastened　to　put　things　right；　but　Antonapoulos　frowned　and　
held　up　his　finger　regally　to　a　nurse　who　was　passing　through　
the　ward。　When　she　had　straightened　the　bed　to　his　liking　the　
big　Greek　inclined　his　head　so　deliberately　that　the　gesture　
seemed　one　of　benediction　rather　than　a　simple　nod　of　thanks。　
Then　he　turned　gravely　to　his　friend　again。　
As　Singer　talked　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　sick　and　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　inspected　the　
food　carefully。　There　was　fish　and　some　vege

189　
tables。　He　picked　up　the　fish　and　held　it　to　the　light　in　the　
palm　of　his　hand　for　a　thorough　examination。　Then　he　ate　with　
relish。　During　supper　he　began　to　point　out　the　various　people　
in　the　room。　He　pointed　to　one　man　in　the　corner　and　made　
faces　of　disgust。　The　man　snarled　at　him。　He　pointed　to　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　wrappings；　but　the　
machine　did　not　interest　him　at　all。　He　turned　back　to　his　
supper。　


Singer　handed　the　nurse　a　note　explaining　about　the　movie。　
She　called　an　interne　and　then　they　brought　in　a　doctor。　As　the　
three　of　them　consulted　they　looked　curiously　at　Singer。　The　
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　screen　so　that　it　could　be　watched　by　all　the　patients。　Then　
he　worked　with　the　projector　and　the　film。　The　nurse　took　out　
the　supper　trays　and　the　lights　in　the　ward　were　turned　off。　A　
Mickey　Mouse　comedy　flashed　on　the　screen。　
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。　Then　he　
watched　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　
commotion。　When　the　Mickey　Mouse　was　finished　Singer　put　
on　a　Popeye　film。　Then　at　the　conclusion　of　this　film　he　felt　
that　the　entertainment　had　lasted　long　enough　for　the　first　
time。　He　switched　on　the　light　and　the　ward　settled　down　
again。　As　the　interne　put　the　machine　under　his　friend's　bed　he　
saw　Antonapoulos　slyly　cut　his　eyes　across　the　ward　to　be　
certain　that　each　person　realized　that　the　machine　was　his。　
Singer　began　to　talk　with　his　hands　again。　He　knew　that　he　
would　soon　be　asked　to　leave；　but　the　thoughts　he　had　stored　
in　his　mind　were　too　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　feebly190　

t　

at　his　eyebrows。　He　envied　the　old　man　because　he　lived　with　
Antonapoulos　day　after　day。　Singer　would　have　exchanged　
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。　Singer　thought　of　the　dream　
and　he　told　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　Singer　to　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。　Singer's　hand　faltered。　He　grasped　his　friend　
by　the　arm　and　looked　intently　into　his　eyes　as　he　used　to　do　
each　morning　when　they　parted　for　work。　Finally　Singer　
backed　himself　out　of　the　room。　At　the　doorway　his　hands　
signed　a　broken　farewell　and　then　clenched　into　fists。　
During　the　moonlit　January　nights　Singer　continued　to　walk　
about　the　streets　of　the　town　each　evening　when　he　was　not　
engaged。　The　rumors　about　him　grew　bolder。　An　old　Negro　
woman　told　hundreds　of　people　that　he　knew　the　ways　of　
spirits　come　back　from　the　dead。　A　certain　piece…worker　
claimed　that　he　had　worked　with　the　mute　at　another　mill　
somewhere　else　in　the　state—and　the　tales　he　told　were　
unique。　The　rich　thought　that　he　was　rich　and　the　poor　
considered　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。　
8　

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　
morning；　noon。　Hitler　and　the　rumors　of　

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war。　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　on　the　train　and；　when　he　was　asked　where　he　
had　been；　pretend　that　he　did　not　understand　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　was　put　before　him—except　cabbage　
and　oysters。　In　the　battling　tumult　of　voices　he　alone　was　
silent。　He　liked　best　little　green　soft　butter　beans　and　he　


stacked　them　in　a　neat　pile　on　the　prongs　of　his　fork。　And　
sopped　their　gravy　with　his　biscuits。　
Biff　thought　also　of　death。　A　curious　incident　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　Alice's　cosmetics。　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　scent　made　him　stiffen。　He　exchanged　a　deadly　secret　
glance　with　himself　in　the　mirror　and　stood　motionless。　He　
was　stunned　by　the　memories　brought　to　him　with　the　
perf