at every crossing. He kept thinking of something Louisa had told him, shortly after they’d met.
—Sometimes the gladness of a candle is all there is to a room, and it’s saved for the person who sees it from far away. Those in the room know nothing about it, and are sometimes themselves gone from the room, even while sitting there. Cold rooms. One doesn’t want to be there, except when they’ve been misunderstood, as when seen from outside. We mustn’t be that way.
He had assured her they would not. Looking back, there had been no danger of it. It was a strange thing, William thought, to be young now—he was young—and for Louisa to have been dead already years. To still be young. And all the many years still left. Too many. But for Molly, he would …
He ducked behind a tree. Two men, this time with flashlights. These were dressed in a military fashion. Some sort of night guard, and the only one who sees them is taken away. If he was in the situation, as Gerard had said, this situation that you are brought to by chance, would he be brave enough to act? Many things had suddenly made sense. All the recent trouble—it was due to an idea. A clean, clear idea. He had searched for such ideas, once, he and Louisa.
They were gone now. He came out from behind the tree and hurried on. It was a cold night. Against the houses ahead, he could see that the fire was still burning—had it been a police station?
Now, the last of it: he had to cross a broad stretch of pavement to get to his quarter. He broke into a run. It seemed a great distance he had to cover. It stretched away from him as he ran. He ran faster and it was farther.
—Hey, you! You!
William ran. He wanted to drop the violin, but it was useless. They would find it even if he dropped it, and he mustn’t drop it. Yet more precious were the documents, and those would consign him to death regardless. He could not let them go, no matter what it meant.
Cries went up behind him. There were three, no, four of them. They were gaining. The black ground sped past him. Lights whirred in the distance.
—There he is.
They were on either side. He ran into the park, and down a path. The dim, glowing bulbs of the park seemed to multiply shadows. He might do it. He might get away. Then, onto uneven ground, a moment, a moment, and then his feet were out from under him. The violin case was lost, it, too, was in the air, and then he hit the ground. The papers were gone. A second later and a body crashed into him, pinning him. Where had the papers gone? He struggled to get free.
—He’s here. I’ve got him. Here.
Rough hands were on him, and a great deal of weight. William lay, lungs heaving, face cut from the fall. He could not even see the people who had caught him. This was the sort of war they were in.
—I must get home. My daughter. I, I fell asleep. I didn’t realize what time it was. I was working late.
There was no response.
He said it again,
—I must get home. I have a child.
—No one is out now who doesn’t mean to be.
It was an awful voice. It gave nothing beyond itself.
—I, I beg you.
William tried to turn off his stomach, but the man pressed down harder. He could hardly breathe.
—The others will be here soon.
The hands that bent his own arm down into his back must belong to that voice, but for all that he knew, it could have come from anywhere. There was a creaking high up in the branches of the trees, and it would continue through the long night. It meant nothing, just that the wind was blowing. The action of a thing is the same as the naming of it—is, in fact, the real name. The trees creak and they are saying, trees creak through the long night . The long night—what is it? Trees creaking. There wasn’t anything that tied life’s moments together, except life. And when it was gone?
They were finishing their painting of the figures. They had been hours at it, or mostly Mr. Gibbons, who was an expert, and could fix a figure at a
—Sometimes the gladness of a candle is all there is to a room, and it’s saved for the person who sees it from far away. Those in the room know nothing about it, and are sometimes themselves gone from the room, even while sitting there. Cold rooms. One doesn’t want to be there, except when they’ve been misunderstood, as when seen from outside. We mustn’t be that way.
He had assured her they would not. Looking back, there had been no danger of it. It was a strange thing, William thought, to be young now—he was young—and for Louisa to have been dead already years. To still be young. And all the many years still left. Too many. But for Molly, he would …
He ducked behind a tree. Two men, this time with flashlights. These were dressed in a military fashion. Some sort of night guard, and the only one who sees them is taken away. If he was in the situation, as Gerard had said, this situation that you are brought to by chance, would he be brave enough to act? Many things had suddenly made sense. All the recent trouble—it was due to an idea. A clean, clear idea. He had searched for such ideas, once, he and Louisa.
They were gone now. He came out from behind the tree and hurried on. It was a cold night. Against the houses ahead, he could see that the fire was still burning—had it been a police station?
Now, the last of it: he had to cross a broad stretch of pavement to get to his quarter. He broke into a run. It seemed a great distance he had to cover. It stretched away from him as he ran. He ran faster and it was farther.
—Hey, you! You!
William ran. He wanted to drop the violin, but it was useless. They would find it even if he dropped it, and he mustn’t drop it. Yet more precious were the documents, and those would consign him to death regardless. He could not let them go, no matter what it meant.
Cries went up behind him. There were three, no, four of them. They were gaining. The black ground sped past him. Lights whirred in the distance.
—There he is.
They were on either side. He ran into the park, and down a path. The dim, glowing bulbs of the park seemed to multiply shadows. He might do it. He might get away. Then, onto uneven ground, a moment, a moment, and then his feet were out from under him. The violin case was lost, it, too, was in the air, and then he hit the ground. The papers were gone. A second later and a body crashed into him, pinning him. Where had the papers gone? He struggled to get free.
—He’s here. I’ve got him. Here.
Rough hands were on him, and a great deal of weight. William lay, lungs heaving, face cut from the fall. He could not even see the people who had caught him. This was the sort of war they were in.
—I must get home. My daughter. I, I fell asleep. I didn’t realize what time it was. I was working late.
There was no response.
He said it again,
—I must get home. I have a child.
—No one is out now who doesn’t mean to be.
It was an awful voice. It gave nothing beyond itself.
—I, I beg you.
William tried to turn off his stomach, but the man pressed down harder. He could hardly breathe.
—The others will be here soon.
The hands that bent his own arm down into his back must belong to that voice, but for all that he knew, it could have come from anywhere. There was a creaking high up in the branches of the trees, and it would continue through the long night. It meant nothing, just that the wind was blowing. The action of a thing is the same as the naming of it—is, in fact, the real name. The trees creak and they are saying, trees creak through the long night . The long night—what is it? Trees creaking. There wasn’t anything that tied life’s moments together, except life. And when it was gone?
They were finishing their painting of the figures. They had been hours at it, or mostly Mr. Gibbons, who was an expert, and could fix a figure at a
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