Read Online Memory Wall: Stories by Anthony Doerr - Free Book Online
Authors: Anthony Doerr
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stimulator finally spits out the cartridge, Luvo feels as if he has been gone for days. Patches of rust-colored light float through his vision. He can still feel the monotonous, back-and-forth motion of the Land Cruiser in his body. He can still hear the wind, see the silhouettes of ridgelines in his peripheral vision, feel the gravity of the heights. Roger looks at him; he flicks a cigarette out the open window into the garden. Strands of fog pull through the backyard trees.
“Well?” he says.
Luvo tries to raise his head but it feels as if his skull will shatter.
“That was it,” he says. “The one you’ve been looking for.”
T ALL M AN IN THE Y ARD
Alma is thirsty. She would like someone to bring her some orange juice. She runs her tongue across the backs of her teeth. Harold is here. Isn’t Harold in the chair beside her? Can’t she hear his breathing on the other side of the lamp?
There are footfalls on the stairs. Alma raises her eyes. She is almost giddy with fear. The gun in her left hand smells faintly of oil.
Birds are passing over the house now, a great flock, harrying across the sky like souls. She can hear the beating of their wings.
The pendulum in the grandfather clock swings left, swings right. The traffic light at the top of the street sends its serial glow through the windows.
The fog splits. City lights wink between the garden palms. The ocean beyond is a vast, curved shield. It seems to boom outward toward her like a loudspeaker, a great loudspeaker of reflected starlight.
First there is the man’s right shoe: laceless, a narrow maw between the toe and sole. Then the left shoe. Dark socks. Unhemmed trouser legs.
Alma tries to scream but only a faint, animal sound comes out of her mouth. A man who is not Harold is coming down the stairs and his shoes are dirty and his hands are out and he is opening his mouth to speak in one of those languages she never needed to learn.
His hands are huge and terrible. His beard is white. His teeth are the color of autumn leaves.
His hat says Ma Horse, Ma Horse, Ma Horse.
V IRGIN A CTIVE F ITNESS
The bus grinds to a halt in Claremont and Temba sits up and looks out bleary-eyed and silent at Virgin Active Fitness, not yet open for the day. His gaze tracks the still-lit, unpopulated swimming pools through his eyeglasses. Submerged lights radiating out through green water.
The bus lurches forward again. Looking up through the window, the boy watches the darkness drain out of the sky. Thefirst rays of sun break the horizon and flow across the east-facing valleys of Table Mountain. Fat tufts of fog slide down from the summit.
A woman in the aisle stands with her back very straight and peers down into a paperback book.
“Paps?” Temba says. “My body feels loose.”
His father’s arm closes around his shoulders. “Loose?”
The boy’s eyes shut. “Loose,” he murmurs.
“We’re going to get you some medicine,” Pheko says. “You just rest. You just hang on, little lamb.”
D AWN
Luvo is detaching himself from the remote device when he hears Roger say, from the stairwell, “Now, wait one minute.” Then something explodes downstairs. Every molecule in the upstairs bedroom feels as if it has been jolted awake. The windows rattle. The cartridges on the wall quiver. In the shuddering concussion afterward Luvo hears Roger fall down the stairs and exhale a single sob, as if expelling all of his remaining breath at once.
Luvo sits paralyzed on the edge of the bed. The grandfather clock resumes its metronomic advance. Someone downstairs says something so quietly that Luvo cannot hear it. His gaze catches on a small, inexplicable watercolor of an airborne boat among the hundreds of papers on the wall in front of him, a sailboat gliding through clouds. He has seen it a hundred times before but has never actually looked at it. Sails straining, clouds floating happily past.
Gradually the molecules in the air around Luvo seem to return to their
“Well?” he says.
Luvo tries to raise his head but it feels as if his skull will shatter.
“That was it,” he says. “The one you’ve been looking for.”
T ALL M AN IN THE Y ARD
Alma is thirsty. She would like someone to bring her some orange juice. She runs her tongue across the backs of her teeth. Harold is here. Isn’t Harold in the chair beside her? Can’t she hear his breathing on the other side of the lamp?
There are footfalls on the stairs. Alma raises her eyes. She is almost giddy with fear. The gun in her left hand smells faintly of oil.
Birds are passing over the house now, a great flock, harrying across the sky like souls. She can hear the beating of their wings.
The pendulum in the grandfather clock swings left, swings right. The traffic light at the top of the street sends its serial glow through the windows.
The fog splits. City lights wink between the garden palms. The ocean beyond is a vast, curved shield. It seems to boom outward toward her like a loudspeaker, a great loudspeaker of reflected starlight.
First there is the man’s right shoe: laceless, a narrow maw between the toe and sole. Then the left shoe. Dark socks. Unhemmed trouser legs.
Alma tries to scream but only a faint, animal sound comes out of her mouth. A man who is not Harold is coming down the stairs and his shoes are dirty and his hands are out and he is opening his mouth to speak in one of those languages she never needed to learn.
His hands are huge and terrible. His beard is white. His teeth are the color of autumn leaves.
His hat says Ma Horse, Ma Horse, Ma Horse.
V IRGIN A CTIVE F ITNESS
The bus grinds to a halt in Claremont and Temba sits up and looks out bleary-eyed and silent at Virgin Active Fitness, not yet open for the day. His gaze tracks the still-lit, unpopulated swimming pools through his eyeglasses. Submerged lights radiating out through green water.
The bus lurches forward again. Looking up through the window, the boy watches the darkness drain out of the sky. Thefirst rays of sun break the horizon and flow across the east-facing valleys of Table Mountain. Fat tufts of fog slide down from the summit.
A woman in the aisle stands with her back very straight and peers down into a paperback book.
“Paps?” Temba says. “My body feels loose.”
His father’s arm closes around his shoulders. “Loose?”
The boy’s eyes shut. “Loose,” he murmurs.
“We’re going to get you some medicine,” Pheko says. “You just rest. You just hang on, little lamb.”
D AWN
Luvo is detaching himself from the remote device when he hears Roger say, from the stairwell, “Now, wait one minute.” Then something explodes downstairs. Every molecule in the upstairs bedroom feels as if it has been jolted awake. The windows rattle. The cartridges on the wall quiver. In the shuddering concussion afterward Luvo hears Roger fall down the stairs and exhale a single sob, as if expelling all of his remaining breath at once.
Luvo sits paralyzed on the edge of the bed. The grandfather clock resumes its metronomic advance. Someone downstairs says something so quietly that Luvo cannot hear it. His gaze catches on a small, inexplicable watercolor of an airborne boat among the hundreds of papers on the wall in front of him, a sailboat gliding through clouds. He has seen it a hundred times before but has never actually looked at it. Sails straining, clouds floating happily past.
Gradually the molecules in the air around Luvo seem to return to their
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