双语·心是孤独的猎手 第二部分 4

“Who was that?”Jake Blount asked.“Who was the tall, thin colored man that just come out of here?”

The small room was very neat. The sun lighted a bowl of purple grapes on the table.Singer sat with his chair tilted back and his hands in his pockets, looking out of the window.

“I bumped into him on the steps and he gave me this look—why, I never had anybody to look at me so dirty.”

Jake put the sack of ales down on the table. He realized with a shock that Singer did not know he was in the room.He walked over to the window and touched Singer on the shoulder.

“I didn't mean to bump into him. He had no cause to act like that.”

Jake shivered. Although the sun was bright there was a chill in the room.Singer held up his forefinger and went into the hall.When he returned he brought with him a scuttle of coal and some kindling.Jake watched him kneel before the hearth.Neatly he broke the sticks of kindling over his knee and arranged them on the foundation of paper.He put the coal on according to a system.At first the fire would not draw.The flames quivered weakly and were smothered by a black roll of smoke.Singer covered the grate with a double sheet of newspapers.The draught gave the fire new life.In the room there was a roaring sound.The paper glowed and was sucked inward.A crackling orange sheet of flame filled the grate.

The first morning ale had a fine mellow taste. Jake gulped his share down quickly and wiped his mouth with file back of his hand.

“There was this lady I knew a long time ago，”he said.“You sort of remind me of her, Miss Clara. She had a little farm in Texas.And made pralines to sell in the cities.She was a tall, big, fine-looking lady.Wore those long, baggy sweaters and clodhopper shoes and a man's hat.Her husband was dead when I knew her.But what I'm getting at is this：If it hadn't been for her I might never have known.I might have gone on through life like the millions of others who don't know.I would have just been a preacher or a linthead or a salesman.My whole life might have been wasted.”

Jake shook his head wonderingly.

“To understand you got to know what went before. You see, I lived in Gastonia when I was a youngun.I was a knock-kneed little runt, too small to put in the mill.I worked as pin boy in a bowling joint and got meals for pay.Then I heard a smart, quick boy could make thirty cents a day stringing tobacco not very far from there.So I went and made that thirty cents a day.That was when I was ten years old.I just left my folks.I didn't write.They were glad I was gone.You understand how those things are.And besides, nobody could read a letter but my sister.”

He waved his hand in the air as though brushing something from his face.“But I mean this. My first belief was Jesus.There was this fellow working in the same shed with me.He had a tabernacle and preached every night.I went and listened and I got this faith.My mind was on Jesus all day long.In my spare time I studied the Bible and prayed.Then one night I took a hammer and laid my hand on the table.I was angry and I drove the nail all the way through.My hand was nailed to the table and I looked at it and the fingers fluttered and turned blue.”

Jake held out his palm and pointed to the ragged, dead-white scar in the center.

“I wanted to be an evangelist. I meant to travel around the country preaching and holding revivals.In the meantime I moved around from one place to another, and when I was nearly twenty I got to Texas.I worked in a pecan grove near where Miss Clara lived.I got to know her and at night sometimes I would go to her house.She talked to me.Understand, I didn't begin to know all at once.That's not the way it happens to any of us.It was gradual.I began to read.I would work just so I could put aside enough money to knock off for a while and study.It was like being born a second time.Just us who know can understand what it means.We have opened our eyes and have seen.We're like people from way off yonder somewhere.”

Singer agreed with him. The room was comfortable in a homey way.Singer brought out from the closet the tin box in which he kept crackers and fruit and cheese.He selected an orange and peeled it slowly.He pulled off shreds of pith until the fruit was transparent in the sun.He secitioned the orange and divided the plugs between them.Jake ate two sections at a time and with a loud whoosh spat the seeds into the fire.Singer ate his share slowly and deposited his seeds neatly in the palm of one hand.They opened two more ales.

“And how many of us are there in this country?Maybe ten thousand. Maybe twenty thousand.Maybe a lot more.I been to a lot of places but I never met but a few of us.But say a man does know.He sees the world as it is and he looks back thousands of years to see how it all come about.He watches the slow agglutination of capital and power and he sees its pinnacle today.He sees America as a crazy house.He sees how men have to rob their brothers in order to live.He sees children starving and women working sixty hours a week to get to eat.He sees a whole damn army of unemployed and billions of dollars and thousands of miles of land wasted.He sees war coming.He sees how when people suffer just so much they get mean and ugly and something dies in them.But the main thing he sees is that the whole system of the world is built on a lie.And although it's as plain as the shining sun—the don't-knows have lived with that lie so long they just can't see it.”

The red corded vein in Jake's forehead swelled angrily. He grasped the scuttle on the hearth and rattled an avalanche of coal on the fire.His foot had gone to sleep, and he stamped it so hard that the floor shook.

“I been all over this place. I walk around.I talk.I try to explain to them.But what good does it do?Lord God！”

He gazed into the fire, and a flush from the ale and heat deepened the color of his face. The sleepy tingling in his foot spread up his leg.He drowsed and saw the colors of the fire, the tints of green and blue and burning yellow.“You're the only one，”he said dreamily.“The only one.”

He was a stranger no longer. By now he knew every street, every alley, every fence in all the sprawling slums of the town.He still worked at the Sunny Dixie.During the fall the show moved from one vacant lot to another, staying always within the fringes of the city limit, until at last it had encircled the town.The locations were changed but the settings were alike—a strip of wasteland bordered by rows of rotted shacks, and somewhere near a mill, a cotton gin, or a bottling plant.The crowd was the same, for the most part factory workers and Negroes.The show was gaudy with colored lights in the evening.The wooden horses of the flying-jinny revolved in the circle to the mechanical music.The swings whirled, the rail around the penny throwing game was always crowded.From the two booths were sold drinks and bloody brown hamburgers and cotton candy.

He had been hired as a machinist, but gradually the range of his duties widened. His coarse, bawling voice called out through the noise, and continually he was lounging from one place on the show grounds to another.Sweat stood out on his forehead and often his mustache was soaked with beer.On Saturday his job was to keep the people in order.His squat, hard body pushed through the crowd with savage energy.Only his eyes did not share the violence of the rest of him.Wide gazing beneath his massive scowling forehead, they had a withdrawn and distracted appearance.

He reached home between twelve and one in the morning. The house where he lived was squared into four rooms and the rent was a dollar fifty per person.There was a privy in the back and a hydrant on the stoop.In his room the walls and floor had a wet, sour smell.Sooty, cheap lace curtains hung at the window.He kept his good suit in his bag and hung his overalls on a nail.The room had no heat and no electricity.However, a street light shone outside the window and made a pale greenish reflection inside.He never lighted the oil lamp by his bed unless he wanted to read.The acrid smell of burning oil in the cold room nauseated him.

If he stayed at home he restlessly walked the floor. He sat on the edge of the unmade bed and gnawed savagely at the broken, dirty ends of his fingernails.The sharp taste of grime lingered in his mouth.The loneliness in him was so keen that he was filled with terror.Usually he had a pint of bootleg white lightning.He drank the raw liquor and by daylight he was warm and relaxed.At five o'clock the whistles from the mills blew for the first shift.The whistles made lost, eerie echoes, and he could never sleep until after they had sounded.

But usually he did not stay at home. He went out into the narrow, empty streets.In the first dark hours of the morning the sky was black and the stars hard and bright.Sometimes the mills were running.From the yellow-lighted buildings came the racket of the machines.He waited at the gates for the early shift.Young girls in sweaters and print dresses came out into the dark street.The men came out carrying their dinner pails.Some of them always went to a streetcar café　for Coca-Cola or coffee before going home, and Jake went with them.Inside the noisy mill the men could hear plainly every word that was spoken, but for the first hour outside they were deaf.

In the streetcar Jake drank Coca-Cola with whiskey added. He talked.The winter dawn was white and smoky and cold.He looked with drunken urgency into the drawn, yellow faces of the men.Often he was laughed at, and when this happened he held his stunted body very straight and spoke scornfully in words of many syllables.He stuck his little finger out from his glass and haughtily twisted his mustache.And if he was still laughed at he sometimes fought.He swung his big brown fists with crazed violence and sobbed aloud.

After such mornings he returned to the show with relief. It eased him to push through the crowds of people.The noise, the rank stinks, the shouldering contact of human flesh soothed his jangled nerves.

Because of the blue laws in the town the show closed for the Sabbath. On Sunday he got up early in the morning and took from the suitcase his serge suit.He went to the main street.First he dropped into the New York Café　and bought a sack of ales.Then he went to Singer’s room.Although he knew many people in the town by name or face, the mute was his only friend.They would idle in the quiet room and drink the ales.He would talk, and the words created themselves from the dark mornings spent in the streets or in his room alone.The words were formed and spoken with relief.

The fire had died down. Singer was playing a game of fools with himself at the table.Jake had been asleep.He awoke with a nervous quiver.He raised his head and turned to Singer.“Yeah，”he said as though in answer to a sudden question.“Some of us are Communists.But not all of us—Myself, I'm not a member of the Communist Party.Because in the first place I never knew but one of them.You can bum around for years and not meet Communists.Around here there's no office where you can go up and say you want to join—and if there is I never heard of it.And you just don't take off for New York and join.As I say I never knew but one—and he was a seedy little teetotaler whose breath stunk.We had a fight.Not that I hold that against the Communists.The main fact is I don't think so much of Stalin and Russia.I hate every damn country and government there is.But even so maybe I ought to joined up with the Communists first place.I'm not certain one way or the other.What do you think?”

Singer wrinkled his forehead and considered. He reached for his silver pencil and wrote on his pad of paper that he didn't know.

“But there's this. You see, we just can't settle down after knowing, but we got to act.And some of us go nuts.There's too much to do and you don't know where to start It makes you crazy.Even me—I've done things that when I look back at them they don’t seem rational.Once I started an organization myself.I picked out twenty lintheads and talked to them until I thought they knew.Our motto was one word：Action.Huh！We meant to start riots—stir up all the big trouble we could.Our ultimate goal was freedom—but a real freedom, a great freedom made possible only by the sense of justice of the human soul.Our motto，‘Action，’signified the razing of capitalism.In the constitution（drawn up by myself）certain statutes dealt with the swapping of our motto from‘Action’to‘Freedom’as soon as our work was through.”

Jake sharpened the end of a match and picked a troublesome cavity in a tooth. After a moment he continued：

“Then when the constitution was all written down and the first followers well organized—then I went out on a hitch-hiking tour to organize component units of the society. Within three months I came back, and what do you reckon I found?What was the first heroic action?Had their righteous fury overcome planned action so that they had gone ahead without me?Was it destruction, murder, revolution?”

Jake leaned forward in his chair. After a pause he said somberly：

“My friend, they had stole the fifty-seven dollars and thirty cents from the treasury to buy uniform caps and free Saturday suppers. I caught them sitting around the conference table, rolling the bones, their caps on their heads, and a ham and a gallon of gin in easy reach.”

A timid smile from Singer followed Jake's outburst of laughter. After a while the smile on Singer's face grew strained and faded.Jake still laughed.The vein in his forehead swelled, his face was dusky red.He laughed too long.

Singer looked up at the clock and indicated the time—half past twelve. He took his watch, his silver pencil and pad, his cigarettes and matches from the mantel and distributed them among his pockets.It was dinner-time.

But Jake still laughed. There was something maniacal in the sound of his laughter.He walked about the room, jingling the change in his pockets.His long, powerful arms swung tense and awkward.He began to name over parts of his coming meal.When he spoke of food his face was fierce with gusto.With each word he raised his upper lip like a ravenous animal.

“Roast beef with gravy. Rice.And cabbage and light bread.And a big hunk of apple pie.I'm famished.Oh, Johnny, I can hear the Yankees coming.And speaking of meals, my friend, did I ever tell you about Mr.Clark Patterson, the gentleman who owns the Sunny Dixie Show?He's so fat he hasn't seen his privates for twenty years, and all day he sits in his trailer playing solitaire and smoking reefers.He orders his meals from a short-order joint nearby and every day he breaks his fast with—”

Jake stepped back so that Singer could leave the room. He always hung back at doorways when he was with the mute.He always followed and expected Singer to lead.As they descended the stairs he continued to talk with nervous volubility.He kept his brown, wide eyes on Singer's face.

The afternoon was soft and mild. They stayed indoors.Jake had brought back with them a quart of whiskey.He sat brooding and silent on the foot of the bed, leaning now and then to fill his glass from the bottle on the floor.Singer was at his table by the window playing a game of chess.Jake had relaxed somewhat.He watched the game of his friend and felt the mild, quiet afternoon merge with the darkness of evening.The firelight made dark, silent waves on the walls of the room.

But at night the tension came in him again. Singer had put away his chess-men and they sat facing each other.Nervousness made Jake's lips twitch raggedly and he drank to soothe himself.A backwash of restlessness and desire overcame him.He drank down the whiskey and began to talk again to Singer.The words swelled with him and gushed from his mouth.He walked from the window to the bed and back again—again and again.And at last the deluge of swollen words took shape and he delivered them to the mute with drunken emphasis：

“The things they have done to us！The truths they have turned into lies. The ideals they have fouled and made vile.Take Jesus.He was one of us.He knew.When He said that it is harder for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God—he damn well meant just what he said.But look what the Church has done to Jesus during the last two thousand years.What they have made of him.How they have turned every word he spoke for their own vile ends.Jesus would be framed and in jail if he was living today.Jesus would be one who really knows.Me and Jesus would sit across the table and I would look at him and he would look at me and we would both know that the other knew.Me and Jesus and Karl Marx could all sit at a table and—

“And look what has happened to our freedom. The men who fought the American Revolution were no more like these D.A.R.dames than I'm a pot-bellied, perfumed Pekingese dog.They meant what they said about freedom.They fought a real revolution.They fought so that this could be a country where every man would be free and equal.Huh！And that meant every man was equal in the sight of Nature—with an equal chance.This didn't mean that twenty per cent of the people were free to rob the other eighty per cent of the means to live.This didn't mean for one rich man to sweat the piss out of ten thousand poor men so that he can get richer.This didn't mean the tyrants were free to get this country in such a fix that millions of people are ready to do anything—cheat, lie, or whack off their right arm—just to work for three squares and a flop.They have made the word freedom a blasphemy.You hear me?They have made the word freedom stink like a skunk to all who know.”

The vein in Jake's forehead throbbed wildly. His mouth worked convulsively.Singer sat up, alarmed, Jake tried to speak again and the words choked in his mouth.A shudder passed through his body.He sat down in the chair and pressed his trembling lips with his fingers.Then he said huskily：

“It's this way, Singer. Being mad is no good.Nothing we can do is any good.That's the way it seems to me.All we can do is go around telling the truth.And as soon as enough of the don't knows have learned the truth then there won't be any use for fighting.The only thing for us to do is let them know.All that's needed.But how?Huh?”

The fire shadows lapped against the walls. The dark, shadowy waves rose higher and the room took on motion.The room rose and fell and all balance was gone.Alone Jake felt himself sink downward, slowly in wavelike motions downward into a shadowed ocean.In helplessness and terror he strained his eyes, but he could see nothing except the dark and scarlet waves that roared hungrily over him.Then at last he made out the thing which he sought.The mute's face was faint and very far away.Jake closed his eyes.

The next morning he awoke very late. Singer had been gone for hours.There was bread, cheese, an orange, and a pot of coffee on the table.When he had finished his breakfast it was time for work.He walked somberly, his head bent, across the town toward his room.When he reached the neighborhood where he lived he passed through a certain narrow street that was flanked on one side by a smoke-blackened brick warehouse.On the wall of this building there was something that vaguely distracted him.He started to walk on, and then his attention was suddenly held.On the wall a message was written in bright red chalk, the letters drawn thickly and curiously formed：

Ye shall eat the flesh of the mighty, and drink the blood of the princes of the earth.

He read the message twice and looked anxiously up and down the street. No one was in sight.After a few minutes of puzzled deliberation he took from his pocket a thick red pencil and wrote carefully beneath the inscription：

Whoever wrote the above meet me here tomorrow at noon, Wednesday, November　29.Or the next day.

At twelve o'clock the next day he waited before the wall. Now and then he walked impatiently to the corner to look up and down the streets.No one came.After an hour he had to leave for the show.

The next day he waited, also.

Then on Friday there was a long, slow winter rain. The wall was sodden and the messages streaked so that no word could be read.The rain continued, gray and bitter and cold.