Read Online Let's All Kill Constance by Ray Bradbury - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ray Bradbury
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elevator. He took forever opening the wine with a corkscrew, sent by Leo, from down below. There was only one glass.
"One," he apologized. "You first. I'm not afraid of catching anything."
"I got nothing for you to catch." I drank and handed the glass over. He drank and I could see the relaxation move his body.
"And now?" he said. "Let me show you some clips I glued together. Why? Last week a stranger called from down below. That voice on the phone. Was once Harry Cohn's live-in nurse, never said yes, but yes, yes, Harry, yes! Said she was looking for Robin Locksley. Robin Hood. Searching for Robin of Locksley. An actress took that name, a flash in the pan. She disappeared in Hearst's castle or his backside kitchen. But now this voice, years later, asks for Locksley. Spooked me. I ran through my cans and found the one film she made in 1929, when sound really took over. Watch."
He fitted the film into the projector and switched on the lamp. The image shot down to flood the big screen.
On the screen a circus butterfly spun, flirting her gossamer wings, dropping, to pull the bit from her smile, laugh, then run, pursued by white knights and black villains. "Recognize her?"
“Nope.”
"Try this." He spun the film. The screen filled with a smoldering bank of snow fires, a Russian noblewoman, smoking long languid cigarettes, wringing her handkerchief, someone had died or was going to die.
"Well?" said Clyde Rustler hopefully.
"Nope."
"Try again!"
The projector lit the darkness with 1923; a tomboy climbing a tree to shake down fruit, laughing, but you could see small crab apples under her shirtfront.
" Tomboy Sawyer. A girl! Who? Damn!"
The old man filled the screen with a dozen more images, starting with 1925, ending with 1952, open, shut, mysterious, obvious, light, dark, wild, composed, beautiful, plain, willful, innocent.
"You don't know any of those? My God, I've racked my brain. There must be some reason why I've saved these damned clips. Look at me, dammit! Know how old I am?"
"Around ninety, ninety-five?"
"Ten thousand years! Jesus. They found me floating in a basket on the Nile! I fell downhill with the Tablets. I doused the fire in the burning bush. Mark Antony said, 'Loose the dogs of war'; I loosed the lot. Did I know all these wonders? I wake nights hitting my head to make the jelly beans shake in place. Every time I've almost got the answer, I move my head and the damned beans fall. You sure you don't remember these clips or the faces on the wall? Good grief, we've got a mystery!"
"I was about to say the same. I came up here because someone else came. Maybe that voice that called from down below."
"What voice?"
"Constance Rattigan," I said.
I let the fog settle behind his eyes.
"What's she got to do with this?" he wondered.
"Maybe she knows. Last time I saw her she was standing in her own footprints."
"And you think she might know who all these faces belong to, what all the names mean? Hold on. Outside the door ... I guess it was today. Can't be yesterday. Today she said, 'Hand 'em over!'"
"Hand what over?"
"Hell, what do you see in this damn empty place worth handing over?"
I looked at the pictures on the wall. Clyde Rustler saw my look.
"Why would anyone want those?" he said. "Not worth nothing. Even I don't know why in hell I nailed them there. Are they wives or some old girlfriends?"
"How many of each did you have?"
"I don't have the fingers to count."
"One thing for sure, Constance wanted you to hand 'em over. Was she jealous?"
"Constance? You got road rage in the streets, she had bed rage. Wanted to grab all my lovelies, whoever in hell they were, and stomp, tear, and burn them. Go on. Finish the wine. I got things to do."
"Like what?"
But he was rethreading the film clips in the projector, fascinated by a thousand and one nights past.
I moved along the wall and scribbled furiously, writing down the names under all of the pictures, and then said:
"If Constance comes back, will
"One," he apologized. "You first. I'm not afraid of catching anything."
"I got nothing for you to catch." I drank and handed the glass over. He drank and I could see the relaxation move his body.
"And now?" he said. "Let me show you some clips I glued together. Why? Last week a stranger called from down below. That voice on the phone. Was once Harry Cohn's live-in nurse, never said yes, but yes, yes, Harry, yes! Said she was looking for Robin Locksley. Robin Hood. Searching for Robin of Locksley. An actress took that name, a flash in the pan. She disappeared in Hearst's castle or his backside kitchen. But now this voice, years later, asks for Locksley. Spooked me. I ran through my cans and found the one film she made in 1929, when sound really took over. Watch."
He fitted the film into the projector and switched on the lamp. The image shot down to flood the big screen.
On the screen a circus butterfly spun, flirting her gossamer wings, dropping, to pull the bit from her smile, laugh, then run, pursued by white knights and black villains. "Recognize her?"
“Nope.”
"Try this." He spun the film. The screen filled with a smoldering bank of snow fires, a Russian noblewoman, smoking long languid cigarettes, wringing her handkerchief, someone had died or was going to die.
"Well?" said Clyde Rustler hopefully.
"Nope."
"Try again!"
The projector lit the darkness with 1923; a tomboy climbing a tree to shake down fruit, laughing, but you could see small crab apples under her shirtfront.
" Tomboy Sawyer. A girl! Who? Damn!"
The old man filled the screen with a dozen more images, starting with 1925, ending with 1952, open, shut, mysterious, obvious, light, dark, wild, composed, beautiful, plain, willful, innocent.
"You don't know any of those? My God, I've racked my brain. There must be some reason why I've saved these damned clips. Look at me, dammit! Know how old I am?"
"Around ninety, ninety-five?"
"Ten thousand years! Jesus. They found me floating in a basket on the Nile! I fell downhill with the Tablets. I doused the fire in the burning bush. Mark Antony said, 'Loose the dogs of war'; I loosed the lot. Did I know all these wonders? I wake nights hitting my head to make the jelly beans shake in place. Every time I've almost got the answer, I move my head and the damned beans fall. You sure you don't remember these clips or the faces on the wall? Good grief, we've got a mystery!"
"I was about to say the same. I came up here because someone else came. Maybe that voice that called from down below."
"What voice?"
"Constance Rattigan," I said.
I let the fog settle behind his eyes.
"What's she got to do with this?" he wondered.
"Maybe she knows. Last time I saw her she was standing in her own footprints."
"And you think she might know who all these faces belong to, what all the names mean? Hold on. Outside the door ... I guess it was today. Can't be yesterday. Today she said, 'Hand 'em over!'"
"Hand what over?"
"Hell, what do you see in this damn empty place worth handing over?"
I looked at the pictures on the wall. Clyde Rustler saw my look.
"Why would anyone want those?" he said. "Not worth nothing. Even I don't know why in hell I nailed them there. Are they wives or some old girlfriends?"
"How many of each did you have?"
"I don't have the fingers to count."
"One thing for sure, Constance wanted you to hand 'em over. Was she jealous?"
"Constance? You got road rage in the streets, she had bed rage. Wanted to grab all my lovelies, whoever in hell they were, and stomp, tear, and burn them. Go on. Finish the wine. I got things to do."
"Like what?"
But he was rethreading the film clips in the projector, fascinated by a thousand and one nights past.
I moved along the wall and scribbled furiously, writing down the names under all of the pictures, and then said:
"If Constance comes back, will
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