Latest / The Best Short Stories of 1917 / Laughter. By Charles Caldwell Dobie

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Laughter. By Charles Caldwell Dobie · The Best Short Stories of 1917

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Section seven of the Best Short Stories of nineteen seventeen. This is a LibriVox
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recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or
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to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. Read by Christine Rucker, The
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Best Short Stories of nineteen seventeen by Various Laughter by Charles Caldwell Dobie. As
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Suvaroff neared his lodgings, he began to wonder whether the Italian who had the
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room next him would continue to grind out tunes all night. Upon his accordion,
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the thought made Suvaroff shudder. What in Heaven's name possessed people to grind
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out tunes? Suveroff found himself inquiring unless one earned one's living that way.
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Certainly, this weather beaten Italian was no musician. He smelled too strongly of
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fish for anyone to mistake his occupation. He tortured melody from choice blandly for
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the pure enjoyment of the thing, was Suvaroff. It was different if he
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did not play, he did not eat. Suvarov's head had ached all day.
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The cafe where he scraped his violin from early afternoon until midnight had never
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seemed so stuffy, so tawdry, so impossible. All day he had sat
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and played and played while people ate and chattered and danced. No, that
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did not describe what people did. They gorged and shrieked and gyrated, like
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decapitated fowls, accomplishing everything with a furious energy, primitive, abandoned, disgusting.
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He wondered if he would ever again see people eat quietly and simply like
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normal human beings. If only the Italian would go away, or decide to
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sleep or die. Yes, Suvaroff would have been glad to have found his
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neighbor quite dead, anything to still that terrible accordion, which had been pumping
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out tunes for over a week at all hours of the day and night.
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The music did not have the virtue of an attempt at gaiety. Instead,
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it droned out prolonged wails, melancholy and describably discordant. The night was damp,
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a typical San Francisco midsummer night. The drizzling fog had swept in from
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the ocean and fell refreshingly on the gray city. But the keenness of the
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air irritated Suvaroff's headache instead of soothing. It he felt the wind upon his
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temple as one feels the cool cut of a knife. In short, everything
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irritated Souvaroff, his profession, the cafe where he fiddled, the strident streets
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of the city, the evening missed, the Hotel de Alps mayor Times where
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he lodged, and the Italian fishermen, and his doleful accordion. Turning off
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Kearney Street into Broadway, he had half a notion not to go home,
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but his dissatisfaction was so inclusive that home seemed at once quite as good and
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as hopeless a place to go as any other. So he pushed open the
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door of his lodging house and stamped rather heavily upstairs. Although midnight the first
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sound which greeted Suvaroff was the wheezing of the Italian's accordion. Now muttered Suveroff,
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I shall suffer in silence no longer. Nobody in this city, much
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less in these wretched loggings, has an ear for anything but the clink of
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money and the shrill laughter of women. If fifty men were to file saws
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in front of the entrance of any one of these rooms, there would not
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be the slightest concern. Everyone would go on sleeping, as if they had
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nothing more weighty on their conscience than the theft of a kiss from a pretty
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girl. He tossed his hat on the bed and made for the Italian's door.
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He did not wait to knock, but broken noisily. The accordion stopped
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with a prolonged wail. Its owner rose visibly frightened. Ah, cried the
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Italian. It is you. I am glad of that. See I have
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not left the house for three days. There was a genial simplicity about the
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man. Suvaroff felt overcome with confusion. What is the matter? Are you
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ill? He stammered, closing the door. No, I am afraid to
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go out. There's somebody waiting for me. Tell me, did you see
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a cripple standing on the corner near Bolo's wine shop as you came in?
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Suvaroff reflected, Well, not a cripple exactly, but I saw a hunchback
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with with yes, yes, cried the other excitedly. A hunchback with a
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handsome face. That is he. I'm afraid of him. For three days
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he has sat there waiting for you. How absurd? Why would anyone do
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such a ridiculous thing. The Italian slipped his hands from the accordion and laid
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it aside. Nobody but one who is mad would do it. But he
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is mad, there is no doubt about that. Suvaroff began to feel irritated.
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What are you talking about? Have you lost your senses? If he
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is waiting for you, why do you not go out and send him away?
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Go out and pay him what you owe him, the Italian wrote,
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and began to shudder. I owe him nothing. He is waiting for me
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to kill me. Nonsense, cried Suvaroff. What is his reason? He
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is waiting to kill me because I laughed at him. That is ridiculous,
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said Suvaroff. Nevertheless, it is true, replied the Italian. He kills
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everyone who laughs at him. Three days ago I laughed at him, but
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I ran away. He followed me. He does not know where I lodge,
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but he has wit enough to understand that if he waits long enough,
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he will find me out. In Heaven's name, my friend, can you
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not help me? See? I am a simple soul. I cannot think
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quickly. I have prayed to the Virgin, but it is no use.
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Tell me what can I do to escape. Why do you not see a
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policeman, The Italian let his hands fall hoplessly. A policeman? What good
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would that do? Even you do not believe me? A chill seized souver
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Off. He began to shake, and in the next instant a fever burned
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his cheeks. His head was full of little darting pains. He turned away
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from the Italian impatiently. You must be a pretty sort of man to let
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a hunchback frighten you. Good night, and with that Souvaroff went out,
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slamming the door. When Suvaroff got to his room, he felt dizzy.
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He threw himself on the bed and lay for some time in a stupor.
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When he came to his senses again, the first sound to greet him was
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the wail of his neighbor's accordion. What a fool I am, he muttered.
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Here I go, bursting into this Italian's room for the purpose of asking
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him to quit this abominable noise, And I listen like a dumb sheep to
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his bleedings, and so forget my Errand the noise continued, grew more insistent,
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became unbearable. Suvaroff covered his ears with a comforter. His head was
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throbbing so violently that even the ticking of a clock upon the table by his
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bed cut his senses like a two edged sword. He rose, stumbled about
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with a feeling of indescribable weakness. What was the matter? Why did he
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feel so ill? His eyes burned, his legs seemed weighted, His throat
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was so dry that there was no comfort when he swallowed. All this he
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could have stood if it had not been for the fiendish noise which he began
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to feel was being played merely for his torture. He put on his hat
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and stumbled downstairs out into the night. Crossing the street, he went at
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once to Bolo's wine shop. The hunchback was sitting on a garbage can almost
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at the entrance. At the sight of this misshapen figure, the irritating memory
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of the Italian and his impossible music recurred to Suvaroff. A sudden, sinister
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cruelty came over him. He felt a wanton ruthlessness that the sight of ugliness
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sometimes engenders in nature's sensitive to beauty. He went up to the hunchback and
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looked searchingly into the man's face. It was a strangely handsome face. Its
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incongruity struck Suvaroff. Had nature been weary or merely in a satirical mood when
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she fashioned such a thing of horror? For Suvaroff found that the handsome face
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seemed even more horrible than the twisted body. So sharp and violent was the
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contrast. The hunchback returned Suvarof's stare with almost insulting indifference. But there was
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something in the look that quickened the beating of Souvaroff's heart. You are waiting
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here, began Souvaroff, for an Italian who lodges across the street. Would
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you like me to tell you where he may be found? The hunchback shrugged.
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It does not matter in the slightest one way or another. If you
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tell me where he lodges, the inevitable will happen more quickly than if I
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sat and waited for the rat to come out of his hole. Waiting has
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its own particular interest. If you have ever waited as I wait, now
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you know the joy that the cat feels. Expectation is two thirds of any
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game. Souverrof shuddered. He had an impulse to walk away, but the
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eyes of the other burned with a strange fascination. Nevertheless, said Souvroff,
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I shall tell the hunchback, waved him to silence. Do whatever you wish,
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my friend, but remember, if you do tell me this thing,
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you and I will be forever bound by a tie that it will be impossible
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to break with me. It does not matter, but you are a young
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man, and all your life you will drag a secret about like a dead
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thing chain to your wrist. I am Flavio Minetti, and I kill everyone
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who laughs at me. This Italian of whom you speak has laughed at me.
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I may wait a week, a month, it will be the same.
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No one has yet escaped me. An exquisite fear began to move sover
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Off. Nevertheless, he repeated again, I shall tell you where he lodges.
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You will find him upon the third landing of the Hotel de al Maritimes.
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There are no on the doors, but it will be impossible for you
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to mistake his room. All day and night he sits playing an accordion.
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Flavio Minetti took a cigarette from his pocket. Remember, my young friend,
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I gave you fair warning. I shall not forget, replied Suvaroff. Suvaroff
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climbed back to his room. He sat upon his bed, holding his head
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in his hands. The sound of the accordion seemed gruesome. Now presently he
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heard a step on the landing. His heart stood still. Sounds drifted down
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the passageway. The noise was not heavy and clattering, but it had a
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pattering quality, like a bird upon a roof. Above the wailing of the
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music, Suvaroff heard a door opened, slowly, cautiously. There followed a
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moment of silence. Suvaroff was frightened, but almost immediately the playing began again.
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Now thought Suverof why is the Italian not frightened? The door has been
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opened, and he goes on playing undisturbed. It must be that he is
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sitting with his back to the door. If this is so, God help
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him. Well, Why need I worry? What is it to me?
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It is not my fault if a fool like that sits with his door unlocked
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and his face turned from the face of danger and curiously, Suvrof's thoughts wandered
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to other things, and a picture of his native country flashed over him.
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Little Russia in the languid embrace of summer, green and blue, and golden.
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The soft notes of the balalayka at twilight came to him, and the
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dim shapes of dancing peasants whirling like aspen leaves in a fresh breeze. He
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remembered the noonday laughter of skylarks, the pear trees bending patiently beneath their harvest,
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the placid river winding its willow hedged way, cutting the plane like a
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thin silver knife. Now, suddenly it came upon him that the music in
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the next room had stopped. He waited, there was not a sound.
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After time, the door banged sharply. The pattering began again and died away,
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But still there was no music. Suvaroff rose and began to strip off
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his clothes. His teeth were chattering. Well. At last, he muttered,
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I shall have some peace. He threw himself on the bed, drawing
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the coverings up over his head. Presently a thud shook the house. He
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has slipped from his seat, said Suveroff. It is all over, and
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he drew the bedclothes higher and went to sleep. Next morning, Suvaroff felt
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better to be sure. He was weak, but he rose and dressed.
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What strange dreams people have when they are in a fever, he exclaimed,
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as he put on his hat. Nevertheless, as he left the house he
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did not so much as glance at the Italian's door. It was a pleasant
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morning. The mist had lifted, and the sky was a freshly washed blue.
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Souvaroff walked down Kearney Street and past the Portsmouth Square. At this hour,
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the little park was cleared of its human wreckage, and dowdy sparrows hopped
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unafraid upon the deserted benches. A Chinese woman and her child romped upon the
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green. A weather beaten peddler stooped to the fountain and drank. The three
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upler trees about the Stephenson Monument trembled to silver in the frank sunshine. Suvaroff
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could not remember when the city had appeared so fresh and innocent. It seemed
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to him as if the gray, cold drizzle of the night had washed away
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even the sins of the wine red town. But an indefinite disquiet rippled the
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surface of his content. His peace was filled with a vague suggestion of sinister
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things to follow, like the dead calm of this very morning, which soskillfully
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bound up the night wind in its cool, placid air, he would have
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liked to linger a moment in the park, but he passed quickly by and
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went into a little chop house for his morning meal. As he dawdled over
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his cup of muddy coffee, he had a curious sense that his mind was
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intent on keeping at bay some half formulated fear he felt, pursued as if
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by an indistinct dream. Yet he was cunning enough to pretend that this something
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was too elusive to capture outright, So he turned his thoughts to all manner
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of remote things. But there are times when it is almost as difficult to
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deceive oneself as to cheat others. In the midst of his thoughts, he
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suddenly realized that, under the stimulating influence of a second cup of coffee,
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he was feeling quite himself again. That is because I got such a good
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night's sleep, he muttered for over a week, this Italian in his wretched
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accordion. He halted his thoughts abruptly. What am I thinking about? He
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demanded. Then he rose, paid his bill and departed. He turned back
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to his lodgings at Bolo's wine shop. He hesitated on not of people stood
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at the entrance of the Hotel de Alps, Maritimes, and a curious wagon
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was drawn up to the curb. He stopped the child. What is the
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trouble, he inquired. The girl raised a pair of mournful eyes to him.
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A man has been killed, she answered. Suvaroff turned quickly and walked
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in another direction. He went to the cafe where he fiddled. At this
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hour it was like an empty cavern. A smell of stale beer and tobacco
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smoke pervaded the imprisoned air. He sat down upon the deserted platform and pretended
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to practice. He played erratically feverishly. The waiters, moving about their morning
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preparations with an almost uncanny quiet, listened attentively. Finally, one of them
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stopped before him. What has come over you, Suvaroff questioned the man.
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You are making our flesh creep. Oh pardon me, cried Suvaroff. I
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shall not trouble you further. And with that he packed up his violin and
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left. He did not go back to the cafe, even at the appointed
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hour. Instead, he wandered aimlessly about all day. He tramped the streets.
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He listened to street fakers, peered into shop windows, threw himself upon
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the grass of the public squares and stared up at the blue sky. He
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had very little personal consciousness. He seemed to have lost track of himself.
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He had an absurd feeling that he had come away from somewhere and left behind
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a vital part of his being. Souvaroff, suvaroff. He would repeat over
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and over to himself, as if trying to recall the memory of someone whose
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precise outline had escaped him. He caught a glimpse of his figure in the
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mirror of a shop window. He went closer, staring for some moments at
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the face opposite him. There followed an infantismal fraction of time when his spirit
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deserted him, as completely as if he were dead. When he recovered himself,
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he had a sense that he was staring at the reflection of a stranger.
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He moved away, puzzled was he going mad? Then suddenly everything grew
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quite clear. He remembered the Italian, the accordion, the hunchback, characters,
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circumstances, sequences all stood out as sharply as the skyline of a city
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in the glow of sunset. He put his fingers to his pulse. Everything
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seemed normal, His skin was moist and cool. Yet last night he had
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been very ill. That was it, last night he had been ill.
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What strange dreams people have when they are in a fever, he exclaimed for
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the second time that day. He decided to go home. I wonder,
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though, thought he, whether the Italian is still playing that awful instrument.
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Curiously enough, the idea did not disturb him in the least, I shall
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teach him a Russian tune or two, he decided cheerfully. Then maybe his
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playing will be endurable. When he came again to his lodgings, he was
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surprised to find a knot of curious people on the opposite side of the street,
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and another before the entrance. He went up the stairs, his landlady
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came to meet him. Mister Sueroff, she began, at once, have
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you not heard what has happened? The man in the next room to you
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was found this morning dead. He did not pretend to be surprised, well,
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he announced brutally, at least we shall have no more of dreadful music.
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How did he kill himself? The woman gave way to his advance with
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a movement of flattering confusion. The knife was in his side she answered,
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in his side toward the back. Ah, then he was murdered. Yes,
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he was mounting the second flight of stairs when his landlady again halted him.
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Mister Souvaroff, she ventured, I hope you will not be angry.
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But his mother came early this morning. All day she has sat in your
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room weeping. I cannot persuade her to go away. What am I to
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do? Suvaroff glared at her for a moment. It is nothing, he
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announced as he passed on, shrugging. The door of his room was open.
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He went in. A gnarled old woman sat on the edge of the
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bed a feende. My male consoler was on either side. At the sight
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of Suveroff, the mourner rose and stood trembling before him, rolling a gaudy
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handkerchief into a moist bundle. My good woman, said Suvaroff, kindly,
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do not stand. Sit down, kind gentlemen. The old woman began,
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kind gentleman. She got no further because of her tears. The other women
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rose and sat her down again. She began to moan. Suvaroff, awkward
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and disturbed, stood as men do in such situations. Finally the old woman
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found her voice. Kind gentleman, She said, I am a poor old
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woman and my son h I was washing his socks when they came after me.
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You see what has happened. He was a good son. Once a
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week he came to me and brought me five dollars. Now, what am
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I to do, my kind gentleman, Suvaroff said nothing. She swayed back
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and forth and spoke again. Only last week, he said, there is
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a man who lodges next to me who plays music. Yes, my son
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was fond of you because of that, he said. I have seen him
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only once. He plays music all day and night so that he may have
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money enough to live on. When I hear him coming up the stairs,
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I take down my accordion and begin to play. All day and night.
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He plays for others, so I think, now it will be nice to
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give him some pleasure. So I take down my accordion and play for him.
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Yes, yes, he was like that all his life. He a
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good son. Now what am I to do? A shudder passed over Suvaroff.
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There was a soft tap upon the door. The three women and Suvaroff
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looked up. Flavio Minetti stood in the doorway. The three women gave the
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hunchback swift inclusive glances such as women always use when they measure a newcomer,
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and speedily dropped their eyes. Souveroff stared silently at the warped figure. Minetti
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leaned against the door. His smile was at once both cruel and curiously touching
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at length, Minnetti spoke. The sound of his voice provoked a sort of
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terror in the breast of Suvaroff. I have just heard, he said benevolently,
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from the proprietor of the wine shop across the way. They her neighbor
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has been murdered. The landlady tells me that his mother is here. The
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old woman roused herself. Yes, you can see for yourself that I am
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here. I am a poor old woman, and my son ah I was
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washing his socks when yes, yes, interrupted the hunchback, advancing into the
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room. You are a poor old woman. Let me give you some money
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in all charity. He threw gold into her lap. She began to tremble.
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Suvero saw her hands greedily close over the coins, and the sight sickened
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him. Why did you come, Suvof, demanded of Minetti. Go away,
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You are not wanted here. The three women rose. The old woman
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began to mumble a blessing. She even put up her hand in the fashion
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of bestowing a benefit. Souverroff fancied that he saw Minnetti WinCE he was a
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good son. The old woman began to mutter. As they led her out
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at the door. She looked back. Suveroff turned away. Once a week
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he came to me and brought me five dollars, she said, quite calmly.
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He was a good son. He even played his music to give pleasure
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to others. Yes, yes, he was like that all his life.
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When the women were gone, Suverroff felt the hunchback's hands upon his Suvroff turned
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a face of dry eyed hopelessness toward his Tormentor did you not sleep peacefully last
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night, my friend, Minnetti inquired mockingly. After the thud, I knew
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nothing, replied Suvroff. The thud fell from his chair. Of course,
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that was to be expected. Just so you see for yourself what you have
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done. Fancy, this man has a mother. See it is just as
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I said. Already, you are dragging this dead thing about chain to your
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wrist. Come forget it. I should have killed him anyway, That is
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not the point. The point is, my God, tell me in what
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fashion do these people laugh at you? Tell me how it is done.
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Laughter cannot be taught, my friend, Then Heaven help me, for I
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should like to laugh at you. If I could but laugh at you,
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it would be over, ah, said the hunchback. I see at the
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end of the week. Minetti came to soufer Off one evening and said,
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not unkindly, why don't you leave? You are killing yourself. Go away
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miles away. It would have happened anyway. Suvarov was lying upon his bed.
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His face was turned toward the wall. He did not trouble to look
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at Minetti. I cannot leave, You know that as well as I do.
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When I am absent from this room, I am in a fever until
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I get back to it again. I lie here and close my eyes and
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think. Whenever a thud shakes the house, I leap up, trembling.
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I have not worked for five days. They have given up sending for me
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from the cafe. Yesterday his mother came and sat with me. She drove
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me mad, but I sat and listened to her. Yes, he was
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a good sun. She peats this by the hour and rolls and unrolls her
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handkerchief. It is bad enough in the daytime. That night, God,
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if only the music would play again. I cannot endure such silence. He
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buried his face in the pillow. Minetti shrugged and left. In about an
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hour, Suvaroff rose and went out. He found a squalid wine shop in
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the quarter just below the Barbary coast. He went in and sat alone at
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a table. The floors had not been freshly sanded for weeks. A dank
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mildew covered the green wallpaper. He called for brandy, and a fat,
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greasy haired man placed a bottle of villainous stuff before him. Suvaroff poured out
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a drink and swallowed it greedily. He drank another and another. The room
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began to fill. The lights were dim, and the arrival and departure of
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patrons through an endless procession of grotesque silhouettes upon the walls. Souvaroff was fascinated
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by these dancing shadow They seemed familiar and friendly. He sat sipping his brandy,
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now with a quieter, more leisurely air. The shadows were indescribably fascinating.
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They were so horrible and amusing he began to wonder whether their antics would
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move him to laughter if he sat and drank long enough. He had a
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feeling that laughter and sleep went hand in hand. If he could but laugh
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again, he was quite sure that he would fall asleep. But he discovered
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a truth while he sat there. Amusement and laughter were often strangers. He
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had known this all his life, of course, but he had never thought
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of it. Once, when he was a child, an old man had
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fallen in the road before him in a fit. Suverof had stood rooted to
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the spot with amusement, but he had not laughed. Yet the man had
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gone through through the contortions of a clown. Well, then he was not
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to be moved to laughter after all. He wearily put the cork back in
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the bottle of brandy. The fat bartender came forward, Suveroff, paid him
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and departed. He went to the wine shop the next night, and the
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next began to have a hope that if he persisted, he would discover a
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shadow grotesque enough to make him laugh. He sat for hours drinking abominable brandy.
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The patrons of the shop did not interest him. They were squalid,
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dirty, uninteresting, But their shadows or things of wonder. How was it
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possible for such drab people to have even interesting shadows, and why were these
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shadows so familiar? Suveroff recognized each in turn as if it were an old
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friend that he remembered but could not name. After the second at night,
33:00
he came to a definite conclusion. They are not old friends at all,
33:05
he said to himself. They are not even the shadows of these people who
33:08
come here. They are merely the silhouettes of my own thoughts. If I
33:15
could but draw my thoughts, they would be as black and as fantastic.
33:21
But at another time he dismissed this theory. No, he muttered, they
33:25
are not the shadows of my thoughts at all. They are the souls of
33:30
these men. They are the twisted, dark, horrible souls of these men
33:36
that cannot crawl out except at nightfall. They are the souls of these men
33:42
seeking to escape, like dogs chained to their kennels. I wonder if the
33:46
Italian had such a soul. He rose suddenly. I am wasting my time
33:52
here, he said, almost aloud. One may learn to laugh at a
33:58
shadow. One may even and learned to laugh at the picture of one's thoughts.
34:02
But to laugh at a soul. No, a man's soul is too
34:07
dreadful a thing to laugh at. He staggered out into the night. On
34:13
his way home, he went into a pawn shop and bought a pistol.
34:17
He was in a fever to get back to his lodgings. He found Minetti
34:22
waiting for him. He tried to conceal the pistol, but he knew that
34:28
Minnetti had seen it. Minnetti was as pleasant as one could imagine. He
34:34
told the most droll stories of his life in London. It appeared that he
34:37
had lived there in a hot bed of exiled radicals, but he himself seemed
34:44
to have no convictions. Everything he described was touched with a certain ironic humor.
34:51
When he rose to go, he said, quite simply, how are
34:54
things? Do you sleep nights? Now? No? I never expect to
35:00
sleep again. Minnetti made no comment. I see you have bought a pistol.
35:08
He observed, yes, replied Souverroff, you have wasted your money.
35:15
My young friend, declared the hunchback. You will never use it. With
35:21
that, Minnetti left the room. Souvrov laid the pistol on the table and
35:25
threw himself upon the bed. He lay there without moving until morning. Towards
35:31
six o'clock he rose. He went over to the table and deliberately put the
35:37
pistol to his temple. The coldness of the muzzle sent a kremer through him.
35:43
He put down the weapon in disgust. Souvroff stayed away from the wine
35:49
shop for two nights, but finally the memory of its fascinating shadows lured him
35:54
back. The fat bartender saw him enter and came forward with a bottle of
36:00
brandy. Suvaroff smiled grimly and said nothing. He turned his back upon the
36:06
company and began to watch the shadows enter and disappear. Tonight, the puppets
36:12
seemed more whimsical than grotesque, and once he nearly laughed. A shadow with
36:19
an enormous nose appeared, and a fly as big as a bumblebee lit upon
36:24
the nose and sat rubbing its legs together in insolent content. A hand Uprais
36:31
struck at the fly. The nose disappeared, as if completely annihilated by the
36:37
blow, while the fly hovered safely. Aloof Feeling encouraged, Surov took another
36:45
drink, but the more he drank, the less genial were the shadows,
36:50
and by midnight they all had become as sinister and terrible as ever. On
36:55
the way home to his room, Suvaroff suddenly remembered that he had a friend
37:00
who was a druggist. Perhaps he can give me something to make me sleep,
37:05
Suveroff muttered, But the drug store was closed. Suvaroff climbed wearily up
37:10
the stairs of the Hotel des Alps Maritimes. Minetti was sitting on the steps
37:19
near the third landing. I was preparing to go home, said the hunchback.
37:24
What kept you so late? I went around another way, answered Suvoff.
37:30
I thought I might get something from a druggist's friend to help me sleep.
37:36
They stood before the door of Suvarov's room. Souvaroff opened the door,
37:40
and they went in. Sleeping powders are dangerous, observed Minnetti, throwing his
37:47
hat upon the bed. So I fancied, replied Suvaroff dryly. Where do
37:54
you spend your nights, Minnetti demanded. Suddenly Suvaroff sat down watching shadows in
38:01
a wine shop. Ah, a puppet show. No, not exactly,
38:08
I will explain. No, come to think of it. There is no
38:13
explanation, but it is extremely amusing. Tonight, Princess, I nearly laughed.
38:19
Have you ever watched shadows upon a wall? Really? They are diverting
38:24
beyond belief? Yes, I have watched them often. They are more real
38:30
to me than actual people because they are uglier. Beauty is a lie.
38:37
A note of dreadful conviction crept into the hunchback's voice. Suvaroff looked at him
38:43
intently and said, quite simply, what a bitter truth you are, my
38:47
friend. MINITTI stared at Suvaroff as he rose. Perhaps I shall see you
38:54
at your puppet show some evening, he said, and without waiting for a
39:00
reply, he left the room. Suvarof lay again all night upon his bed,
39:06
staring in a mute agony at the ceiling. Once or twice, he
39:10
fancied, he heard the sounds of music from the next room. His heart
39:15
leaped joyfully, but almost instantly his hope sank back, like spent swimmers in
39:22
a relentless sea. It seemed as if his brain were thirsting. He was
39:28
in a pitiless desert of white, heated thought, and there was not a
39:32
cloud of oblivion upon the horizon of his despair, remembrance flamed like a molten
39:39
sun, greedily withering every green, refreshing thing in its path. How long
39:45
before this dreadful memory would consume him utterly? If I could only laugh,
39:52
he cried in his agony, If I could only laugh. All next day,
39:59
Suvaroff was in a fever, not a physical fever, but a mental
40:02
fever that burned with devastating insistence. He could not lie still upon his bed,
40:09
so he rose and stumbled about the city's streets, but nothing diverted him.
40:15
Before his eyes, a sheet of fire burned, and a blinding light
40:20
seemed to shut out everything else from his vision. Even his thoughts crackled like
40:25
dry faggots in a flame. When evening comes, he said, a breeze
40:30
will spring up, and I shall have some relief. But almost at once,
40:36
he thought, a breeze won't do no good. It will only make
40:40
matters worse. I have heard that nothing puts out a fire so quickly as
40:45
a shower. Let me see, is now the middle of August. It
40:51
does not rain in this part of the world until October. Well I must
40:57
wait until October. Then, no noll breeze that evening will do no good.
41:01
I will go and watch the shadows again. Shadows are cool affairs if
41:07
one sits in them. But how and he began to wonder how he could
41:13
contrive to sit in shadows that fell only on a wall. How he got
41:19
to the wine shop, he did not know. But at a late hour
41:22
he found himself sitting at his accustomed seat. His bottle of brandy stood before
41:28
him. Tonight, the shadows were blacker than ever, as if the fury
41:32
of the flames within him were providing these dancing figures with a brighter background.
41:39
These shadows are not pictures of my thoughts, he said to himself. Neither
41:45
are they chained souls seeking to escape. They are the smoke from the fire
41:51
in my head. They are the black smoke from my brain, which is
41:55
slowly burning away. He sat for hours staring at the wall. The figures
42:01
came and went, but they ceased to have any form or meaning. He
42:07
merely sat and drank and stared. All at once a strange shadow appeared,
42:14
a shadow, no, a phantom, a dreadful thing. Suvroff leaned forward,
42:22
His breath came quickly, his body trembled in the grip of a convulsion.
42:28
His hands were clenched. He rose in his seat, and suddenly,
42:32
quite suddenly, without warning, he began to laugh. The shadow halted in
42:37
its flight across the wall. Suvroff circled the room with his gaze. In
42:44
the center of the wine shop stood Flavio Minnetti. Souvrov sat down. He
42:51
was still shaking with laughter. Presently, Suvaroff was conscious that Minnetti had disappeared.
42:59
The fire in his rain had ceased to burn. Instead. His senses
43:04
seemed chilled, not disagreeably, but with a certain pleasant numbness. He glanced
43:10
about what was he doing in such a strange, squalid place, and the
43:15
brandy was abominable. He called the waiter, paid him what was owing,
43:21
and left at once. There was no mist in the air tonight. The
43:25
sky was clear, and a wisp of moon crept on its disdainful way through
43:31
the heavens. I shall sleep tonight, muttered Suveroff, as he climbed up
43:37
to his room upon the third story of the Hotel de Alps Mare Times.
43:43
He undressed deliberately. All his former frenzy was gone. Shortly after he had
43:49
crawled into bed, he heard a step upon the landing. Then, as
43:53
usual, sounds began to drift down the passageway, not in heavy and claud
44:00
uttering fashion, but with a pattering quality, like a bird upon a roof.
44:05
And curiously, Suvaroff's thoughts wandered to other things, and a picture of
44:10
his native country flashed over him. Little Russia in the languid embrace of summer,
44:16
green and blue and golden. The soft notes of the balalayka at twilight
44:22
came to him, and the dim shapes of dancing peasants whirling like aspen leaves
44:30
in a fresh breeze. He remembered the noonday laughter of skylarks, the pear
44:36
trees bending patiently beneath their harvest, the placid river winding its willow hedged way,
44:43
cutting the plane like a thin silver knife. A fresh current of air
44:49
began to blow upon him. He heard the creak of a rusty hinge.
44:54
He has opened the door, Suvaroff whispered. His teeth became and to chatter.
45:00
Nevertheless, I shall sleep tonight, he said to himself, reassuringly.
45:07
A faint footfall sounded upon the threshold. Suvaroff drew the bedclothes higher end of Section seven