A Singular Man Part 37

"Should we shake hands."

"Yesh."

"I like your bedroom."

"I stretch and yawn here every morning for three hours."

"Wish I was here."

"Smithy I know. I know."

"I do."

"Be patient. You line up with a woman don't you. And you never leave her. You might add more women. You never leave any of them."

"Save a page."

"Of what."

"Your appointment diary. It's there, by the phone. Put me in."

"Sure. What day do you want."

"Any day."

"Afternoons on Thursdays. I'm not kidding."

"I'm not either."

"Smithy, let's have the now. Although the past is nice to have around as well. I want to grab it right now."

"Grab it."

"Wow. I yam der yingle. Ralph said you said."

"Shake it goodbye. You humperd.i.n.k."

"O gee. It's saying h.e.l.lo. It's shaking my hand."

"Sally, my G.o.d we're being watched."

"Whoops. Beat it Ralph."

"O yeah, sure."

Ralph, his back hiding a frown all over his face clicking the door closed behind these two lovers.

"Tell me, Smithy, is it true."

"What."

"About the machine you have installed. That claps and roars. Out of a loud speaker."

"Who told you that."

"I'm not telling. Does it really roar and cheer."

"Yes. At the end of a sentence."

"Why do you need it."

"When I'm lonely, sometimes, and feel powerless."

"O come on."

"Just nice to stand in my room in Dynamo. Switch it on, on a bereft Sat.u.r.day afternoon. Has a seeing eye. Shake a fist. Thirty five thousand voices roaring. It says on the label."

"And if you let this out. And waved it. Flashed it to the machine."

"Yes. Roars and claps."

"I'll join that, Smithy, you know when I tried to phone you the last day or two. I had dreams about you. You were wearing pyjamas and spectacles and you stood at a window after opening these heavy metal shutters. And you know what you were holding. A pneumatic drill."

"I beg your pardon."

"I was a street girl walking in front of an opera house. You came out with the drill. I came up to you talking another language and wagging my a.s.s. Followed you right by your shoulder, you didn't even look. Then I just stopped and watched a bunch of guys dressed in blue with big thick leather boots coming up out of a sewer in the road. They were saying hi to each other, like long lost friends. Some dream. A bellybuster. Don't go, now. Stay."

"I must."

"I keep leaving all my guests for you. Claude had to run out for a minute."

Smith's hand on Tomson's backside. Quiet light of her bedroom. A servants elevator up to this labyrinthine house of hers, touching the clouds. You sleep with a lot of men, said it was too much trouble to fight. Easier to let them in. Nearly kept me out. On an island surrounded by milk white water. See through the crack in your bathroom door, rozy marble and steps to a sunken bath. Feel poor. With a flick of your fingernail your world is so full of blue and gold. My bath stands on makeshift cast iron lion paws. And you step down into yours, like a beach with two tides a day. And all I have is a little rubber pillow to rest my head while I wallow. I need the cheering, roars of crowds. Once the machine went wrong, something slipped. Just as I was shouting Til win. And thirty five thousand voices went hee hee.

"Smithy will you ever put on diapers and baby's bonnet and go through the street blasting a trombone."

"Most certainly not."

"I like that. Say it again."

"Most certainly not."

"Come on stay for breakfast. Watch the sun come up. Right up over there it comes, red as anything."

Tomson leaning back against her bedroom wall, raises her slipper, scratches the back of her leg. Voice out there among her friends, says where's Sally. And toot toot down there on the river. Her back is shivering. Trembling. After our litde nuzzling. All without warning. She breaks in two. Precious. This flesh. One drop. A tear. Falls on my own black slipper, neatly between the bow. And what she is. As I held her head in darkness between my hands. Put my fingers around her throat. She didn't take them away. As Shirl always gently did. But left them there for me to kill her if I liked. To trust. Calms the nerves. Her death under my hands, a strange beauty.

"Smithy Til never get up the aisle. I know it."

"You will."

"I should have seen you in all those missing weeks. I wondered how you were holding out against the dear Sir, do not be a zurd. P.S. You know the letter we mean for Z. Smithy. I want to hand you one of my kidneys."

"You're tremendously nice."

"I'm sorry, behaving like this. You think, travel light and you'll get far. Should have given me over to you as a bargain, without labels or locks in some kind of phony closing down sale. Like I was a temperamental bankrupt."

"I'd say thank you very much."

"My hand's reaching right in for it. Guess a girl should say, I've never done this before."

"Shades are up."

"Sort of sad no one can look in my window, except from an airplane. They keep building the buildings. Higher. Everyone thinks it's progress and all it is are a few friendly c.o.c.kroaches infesting at the bottom, sneaking up to the top. They have to pull it all down to get rid of them. If I threw my life away on you. Sort of wasted it. Would you appreciate it. Don't laugh at me. I'm not kidding."

"Here, my noseblower. It's clean."

"I can use my sheet,"

"Use this, please, I'll cherish it."

"Smithy, would you do one thing for me."

"Sure."

"I know it doesn't sound sane."

"Tell me."

"Send me one of your dirty shirts."

"Sally."

"I mean it."

"What for."

"Please. Do it."

"All right."

"I'll wash and iron it."

"MissT."

"Would you do that. Really. For me."

"Yesh, I will. Sally."

"Thanks. But please don't kid me. Smithy."

Against the window panes, a wind. Cigarette smoke turned blue. Leavetaking. Swish of silk. Last tinkle of gla.s.s. Little laughters. I'll see you. At the races. In the tops of other high towers.

George Smith, dark strange shoulders in Herbert's coat. Children open their eyes in the dark. Little souls. Teddy bears and puppets. All their own. What you do for love. Take her hands put them on my shirt, shaking it in the suds. Iron it smooth. Send me out into the world. Fresh and neat. With just a wave. To her saying goodbye over the heads. Old fashioned Sally. Another ship. Toot. On the river. Bewildered by betrayals. Frozen your blue blue eyes. Each five little pressures of your hand. Blood pink nails. Kissed you, smack. On each cheek of your a.s.s. Easily pleased you say by beautiful things. And saidyesh to you.

That my Bitter root Were a big horn For you to Blow The tunes Of the wide world Were there Such melody For bitter root Or horn.

25.

AFTERNOON city covered with dark western clouds. Light dry snow flakes falling. Street lamps light up. Smith stepping out from the dreadnaught under the green canopy of Merry Mansions. Which in a wind a week ago, floated right away up into the sky and landed, a big green gra.s.shopper in a roof garden. Now anch.o.r.ed safely from jumping once more. city covered with dark western clouds. Light dry snow flakes falling. Street lamps light up. Smith stepping out from the dreadnaught under the green canopy of Merry Mansions. Which in a wind a week ago, floated right away up into the sky and landed, a big green gra.s.shopper in a roof garden. Now anch.o.r.ed safely from jumping once more.

Herbert waving out the window as the dreadnaught glided away. Two days ago, the warning from Mr. Browning. Completion day delayed by the hurricane. Revised invitations sent out for the last Thursday of November. Her Majesty declined to attend. Said the night of Miss Tomson's party, my nerve knew no bounds.

Look down at this blue carpet up these steps. Times numbered that I will walk into Flat Fourteen. I hear a hymn. Matilda. Right through the steel door. Singing. Strange how we've stuck together. In her heart cooks all the grief and sporty hysterical games, in one big pot.

A key in this door. Whirring little gyroscope, steady as it opens. Matilda's bare foot prints across the film of dust on the hardwood floor. Table with my wax dog wood flower. Stack of letters under a free sample can of baked beans.

Flick on the light. Evening coming, afternoon going. Out the window, the snow thickens. Sent two shirts to Miss T. One pink, one light blue. Goldminers upstairs left three weeks ago on a long cruise. I asked if I could visit their altar for a little prayer I wanted to say. They looked at me. As if I had made an exposure. Said it was blessed and sacred. I put up my nose as high as I could. Two wretched hypocrites. And on the way to the pier I watched as Hugo helped them into their car. They were crying like babies.

"Mr. Smith. What are you doing here."

"I live here, Matilda."

"O sure. But I thought you was at the world championship rodeo."

"No."

"O Mr. Smith, what are they doing to you. Let me get you a whiskey. Never you mind, those guys will come to a smelly standstill."

"Have a whiskey with me, Matilda."

"Thanks, I was going to do that."

Matilda in her green silk. Slit up the side. Her big bosoms. Two vast dark waterfalls. Stand under an umbrella. And still get soaking wet. Gla.s.ses look clean. Two soda bottles.

"Thanks Matilda."

"Mr. Smith I've been looking all over and don't blame me. I swear I didn't burn them."

"What."

"Two shirts. I swear they were right on the top of the hamper. I know because it's the tabernacle colors. Pink and blue."

"They may be at Dynamo."