Read Online Samedi the Deafness by Jesse Ball - Free Book Online
Authors: Jesse Ball
Tags: Fiction, Literary, General, Psychological fiction, Self-Help, Personal Growth, Memory Improvement, Terrorists, Mnemonics, Psychological Games, Sanatoriums
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we, Olsen?He said that he did not want to go back in. Not for any reason.
—Good, said the nurse. Good.
It was the afternoon, and James went down a long staircase. He found it at the back of a linen closet, with a sign posted:
WINE CELLAR
Certainly James wanted to see the wine cellar. For instance, what might be in the wine cellar? Hidden things, etc.
James proceeded down the staircase that was one long unbroken stair, perhaps two stories long, with very flat slanted steps. It was virtually a chute. At the bottom, a small room for coats and such. He was not wearing a coat. He proceeded past the coatroom.
The next room was a while in coming, for his eyes had to adjust to the low light. Small pulsing bulbs were set into the ground. The wine cellar was enormous and stretched away into the darkness.
—The best of what we have is near the back, said a voice.
James turned.
A man was standing there, handsome but severe. James recalled McHale's description.
—Hello, he said. I came down to—
—No, no, said the man. No need to explain anything to me. I'm not the one in charge of you.
—You say, said James, the good wines are at the back?
He looked away down the long aisles.
—Yes, said the man. By the way, I'm James, James Carlyle.
—Sim, said James Sim. James Sim. But I guess you—
—Know that, yes. We've been having our little chats about you. Yes, we have.
He gave James a certain knowing look. He was severe as McHale had described, severe in the way that one expects from someone who devotes himself to an unrewarded discipline, a discipline not unrewarding in itself, but unrewarded by the world in general. The strangeness of meeting the world's greatest botanist in the late twentieth century; the strangeness of a tailor who makes clothing only for puppets. These people are severe on themselves because no one else will be severe on them, and if they are not, then their art will no longer exist in its fullness.
Yes, thought James, I like his sort.
They walked together down the aisles, not speaking.
—I wonder, said Carlyle, what it would be like to be shut up in glass and tucked away in the ground like this. To have one's redness of blood sway slightly at the world's turn, at the pull of the moon, at the tremor of a near footstep. But to be passed again and again and never chosen. Do you think they want to be chosen, James?
—I couldn't say, said James. For myself, I would want to be broken against the side of a ship by a distinguished-looking older man in front of a cheering crowd prior to the sailing of said ship on its maiden voyage, which would also be its last, as the ship would sink when it reached deep water and no one would survive. Songs would be sung of the ship. In that way I would survive.
—Well, said Carlyle, I can see why Grieve likes you.
James turned his head sharply. Carlyle, surprisingly, seemed to blush slightly.
—We've been friends since childhood, he explained, and she confides in me.
Finally they reached the last row of bottles. There must be thousands of bottles down here, thought James. He had never seen so much wine in one place.
—I am told, said Carlyle, that this is one of the finest collections outside of France. Of course, it is not just wine. There are fine sherries, cognacs, whiskeys. Stark delights in waiting for the experts to declare that there are no more bottles of such and such left in the world. Then he produces one and sells it for a huge price, and then gives the money to charity. He is a great man.
—How did you meet him? asked James.
He turned down the last aisle and walked along, running his hand over the wine bottles. In the low light it was hard to tell, but they certainly looked old. He took one out. ST. GROUSARD, 1806,it said.
—That's certainly not drinkable, said Carlyle. Just for show, for pleasure. Did you know that when Napoleon lost and the vineyards of France were stripped bare, the wine cellars robbed
—Good, said the nurse. Good.
It was the afternoon, and James went down a long staircase. He found it at the back of a linen closet, with a sign posted:
WINE CELLAR
Certainly James wanted to see the wine cellar. For instance, what might be in the wine cellar? Hidden things, etc.
James proceeded down the staircase that was one long unbroken stair, perhaps two stories long, with very flat slanted steps. It was virtually a chute. At the bottom, a small room for coats and such. He was not wearing a coat. He proceeded past the coatroom.
The next room was a while in coming, for his eyes had to adjust to the low light. Small pulsing bulbs were set into the ground. The wine cellar was enormous and stretched away into the darkness.
—The best of what we have is near the back, said a voice.
James turned.
A man was standing there, handsome but severe. James recalled McHale's description.
—Hello, he said. I came down to—
—No, no, said the man. No need to explain anything to me. I'm not the one in charge of you.
—You say, said James, the good wines are at the back?
He looked away down the long aisles.
—Yes, said the man. By the way, I'm James, James Carlyle.
—Sim, said James Sim. James Sim. But I guess you—
—Know that, yes. We've been having our little chats about you. Yes, we have.
He gave James a certain knowing look. He was severe as McHale had described, severe in the way that one expects from someone who devotes himself to an unrewarded discipline, a discipline not unrewarding in itself, but unrewarded by the world in general. The strangeness of meeting the world's greatest botanist in the late twentieth century; the strangeness of a tailor who makes clothing only for puppets. These people are severe on themselves because no one else will be severe on them, and if they are not, then their art will no longer exist in its fullness.
Yes, thought James, I like his sort.
They walked together down the aisles, not speaking.
—I wonder, said Carlyle, what it would be like to be shut up in glass and tucked away in the ground like this. To have one's redness of blood sway slightly at the world's turn, at the pull of the moon, at the tremor of a near footstep. But to be passed again and again and never chosen. Do you think they want to be chosen, James?
—I couldn't say, said James. For myself, I would want to be broken against the side of a ship by a distinguished-looking older man in front of a cheering crowd prior to the sailing of said ship on its maiden voyage, which would also be its last, as the ship would sink when it reached deep water and no one would survive. Songs would be sung of the ship. In that way I would survive.
—Well, said Carlyle, I can see why Grieve likes you.
James turned his head sharply. Carlyle, surprisingly, seemed to blush slightly.
—We've been friends since childhood, he explained, and she confides in me.
Finally they reached the last row of bottles. There must be thousands of bottles down here, thought James. He had never seen so much wine in one place.
—I am told, said Carlyle, that this is one of the finest collections outside of France. Of course, it is not just wine. There are fine sherries, cognacs, whiskeys. Stark delights in waiting for the experts to declare that there are no more bottles of such and such left in the world. Then he produces one and sells it for a huge price, and then gives the money to charity. He is a great man.
—How did you meet him? asked James.
He turned down the last aisle and walked along, running his hand over the wine bottles. In the low light it was hard to tell, but they certainly looked old. He took one out. ST. GROUSARD, 1806,it said.
—That's certainly not drinkable, said Carlyle. Just for show, for pleasure. Did you know that when Napoleon lost and the vineyards of France were stripped bare, the wine cellars robbed
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