carson mccullers - the heart is a lonely hunter-第42部分

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glance　with　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　
complete。　Biff　rubbed　his　nose　and　looked　sideways　at　
himself。　The　boundary　of　death。　He　felt　in　him　each　minute　
that　he　had　lived　with　her。　And　now　their　life　together　was　
whole　as　only　the　past　can　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　stockings　
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　back　and　rub　mournfully　
against　the　slop　jar。　
All　of　this　he　had　changed。　He　traded　the　iron　bed　for　a　studio　
couch。　There　was　a　thick　red　rug　on　the　floor；　and192　

he　had　bought　a　beautiful　cloth　of　Chinese　blue　to　hang　on　the　
side　of　the　wall　where　the　cracks　were　worst。　He　had　unsealed　
the　fireplace　and　kept　it　laid　with　pine　logs。　Over　the　mantel　
was　a　small　photograph　of　Baby　and　a　colored　picture　of　a　
little　boy　in　velvet　holding　a　ball　in　his　hands。　A　glassed　case　
in　the　corner　held　the　curios　he　had　collected—specimens　of　
butterflies；　a　rare　arrowhead；　a　curious　rock　shaped　like　a　
human　profile。　Blue…silk　cushions　were　on　the　studio　couch；　
and　he　had　borrowed　Lucile's　sewing…machine　to　make　deep　


red　curtains　for　the　windows。　He　loved　the　room。　It　was　both　
luxurious　and　sedate。　On　the　table　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　canoe　on　the　river。　Also　among　the　
souvenirs　there　was　a　large　bone　hairpin　that　had　belonged　to　
his　mother。　As　a　little　boy　he　had　loved　to　watch　her　comb　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　
under　the　kitchen　table。　But　when　he　was　six　his　mother　took　
the　scraps　away　from　him。　She　was　a　tall；　strong　woman　with　
a　sense　of　duty　like　a　man。　She　had　loved　him　best。　Even　now　
he　sometimes　dreamed　of　her。　And　her　worn　gold　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　
preparation　regularly。　Certain　

193　

whims　that　he　had　ridiculed　in　Alice　were　now　his　own。　Why？　
Every　morning　Louis；　the　colored　boy　downstairs；　brought　
him　a　cup　of　coffee　to　drink　in　bed。　Often　he　sat　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　morning　he　worked　


downstairs。　And　all　day　Sunday。　The　business　was　losing　
money。　There　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　an　eighth　part　Jew；'　Biff　said。　'My　Mother's　grandfather　
was　a　Jew　from　Amsterdam。　But　all　the　rest　of　my　folks　that　I　
know　about　were　Scotch…Irish。'　
It　was　Sunday　morning。　Customers　lolled　at　the　tables　and　
there　were　the　smell　of　tobacco　and　the　rustle　of　newspaper。　
Some　men　in　a　corner　booth　shot　dice；　but　the　game　was　a　
quiet　one。　
'Where's　Singer？'　Biff　asked。　'Won't　you　be　going　up　to　his　
place　this　morning？'　
Blount's　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　come　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。　'Let's　me　and　you　have　a　serious　talk。　
What　is　it　you　want　anyway？'　
Blount　smacked　his　hands　down　on　the　counter。　They　were　
warm　and　meaty　and　rough。　'Beer。　And　one　of　them　kittle　
packages　of　cheese　crackers　with　peanut　butter　in　the　
inside。'194　

'That's　not　what　I　meant；'　Biff　said。　'But　well　come　around　to　it　
later。'　
The　man　was　a　puzzle。　He　was　always　changing。　He　still　
drank　like　a　crazy　fish；　but　liquor　did　not　drag　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　wanted　to　bite。　Yet　when　


he　was　laughed　at　it　cut　him　to　the　quick—he　got　rough　and
loud　like　a　sort　of　clown。　And　he　was　always　suspecting　that
somebody　was　laughing。
Biff　shook　his　head　thoughtfully。　'Come；'　he　said。　〃What
makes　you　stick　with　that　show？　You　can　find　something
better　than　that。　I　could　give　you　a　part…time　job　here。
'
'Christamighty！　I　wouldn't　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
even　get　along　with　people。
Talk　sense；'　Biff　said。　'Be　serious。
'
A　customer　had　come　up　with　his　check　and　he　made　change。
The　place　was　still　quiet。　Blount　was　restless。　Biff　felt　him
drawing　away。　He　wanted　to　hold　him。　He　reached　for　two　A…
l
cigars　on　the　shelf　behind　the　counter　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
nose。　This　was　a　matter　he　liked　to　hear　others　talk　about。
Ancient　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　contemplations　in　the　temples。
'Maybe　with　the　Incas。　In　Peru。
'
Biff's　eyes　scanned　over　him；　stripping　him　naked。　He


saw　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　Adam's　apple　on　his
thin　neck；　the　bagginess　of　his　trousers。　And　it　was　more　than



that。
'Or　maybe　around　1775。
'
〃That　was　a　good　time　to　be　living；'　Biff　agreed。
Blount　shuffled　his　feet　self…consciously。　His　face　was　rough
and　unhappy。　He　was　ready　to　leave。　Biff　was　alert　to　detain
him。　'Tell　me—why　did　you　ever　come　to　this　town　anyway？
'
He　knew　immediately　that　the　question　had　not　been　a　politic
one　and　he　was　disappointed　with　himself。　Yet　it　was　queer
how　the　man　could　land　up　in　a　place　like　this。
'It's　the　God's　truth　I　don't　know。
'
They　stood　quietly　for　a　moment；　both　leaning　on　the　counter。
The　game　of　dice　in　the　corner　was　finished。　The　first　dinner
order；　a　Long　Island　duck　special；　had　been　served　to　the
fellow　who　managed　the　A。　and　P。　store。　The　radio　was　turned
halfway　between　a　church　sermon　and　a　swing　band。
Blount　leaned　over　suddenly　and　smelled　Biff's　face。
'Perfume？
'
'Shaving　lotion；'　Biff　said　composedly。
He　could　not　keep　Blount　longer。　The　fellow　was　ready　to　go。
He　would　come　in　with　Singer　later。　It　was　always　like　this。
He　wanted　to　draw　Blount　out　completely　so　that　he　could
understand　certain　questions　concerning　him。　But　Blount
would　never　really　talk—only　to　the　mute。　It　was　a　most
peculiar　thing。
〃Thanks　for　the　cigar；'　Blount　said。　'See　you　later。
'
'So　long。
'
Biff　watched　Blount　walk　to　the　door　with　his　rolling；　sailor…
like　gait。　Then　he　took　up　the　duties　before　him。　He　looked
over　the　display　in　the　window。　The　day's　menu　had　been
pasted　on　the　glass　and　a　special　dinner　with　all　the　trimmings
was　laid　out　to　attract　customers。　It　looked　bad。　Right　nasty。
The　gravy　from　the　duck　had　run　into　the　cranberry　sauce　and
a　fly；　was　stuck　in　the　dessert。196


'Hey；　Louis！'　he　called。　'Take　this　stuff　out　of　the　window。
And　bring　me　that　red　pottery　bowl　and　some　fruit。
'
He　arranged　the　fruits　with　an　eye　for　color　and　design。　At　last
the　decoration　pleased　him。　He　visited　the　kitchen　and　had　
a
talk　with　the　cook。　He　lifted　the　lids　of　the　pots　and　sniffed　the
food　inside；　but　without　heart　for　the　matter。　Alice　always　had



done　this　part。　He　disliked　it。　His　nose　sharpened　when　he　saw
the　greasy　sink　with　its　scum　of　food　bits　at　the　bottom。　He
wrote　down　the　menus　and　the　orders　for　the　next　day。　He　was
glad　to　leave　the　kitchen　and　take　his　stand　by　the　cash
register　again。
Lucile　and　Baby　came　for　Sunday　dinner。　The　l