Read Online The Facades: A Novel by Eric Lundgren - Free Book Online
Authors: Eric Lundgren
Ads: Link
burden of disappointment and loneliness
that had made them Pinkies in the first place. I could only guess at this loneliness, its rarefied depths, but I assume it
was the reason I finally met one of them.
My mother had just humbled me at Scrabble once again, and I was making my way from the lounge to the Staircase of Reflection.
I was stopped on the landing by a whispered “pssst”from the doorway behind me. “Pssst, pssst, pssst,” said the voice, and I turned to see a ragged shape of a man in the doorway.
The gold plate on his door read THE ROBERT WALSER ROOM . A pink-robed arm flailed, gesturing me in. “Pssst, pssst,” it said, and I ended my hesitation on the landing. As rumored,
the room was spacious and bright, with a comfortable-looking gray loveseat, a brown leather recliner, and a walnut desk which
hoisted a manual typewriter and a tall stack of manuscript paper. French doors led to the balcony overlooking the pond. Sunset
was maudlin: rays of blood orange and purple tinged the water and the wooden ducks.
My host closed the door behind us, knelt and pressed his eye to the knobless hole. “This is strictly against regulations,
you understand, so stay quiet,” he said. With his permanent hunch, swooping gestures, and pink plumage, he looked like an
aged but defiant bird of prey.
“I am Vollstrom.” He pointed to the white
V
embroidered on the breast pocket of his robe.
“Norberg,” I said. “My mother lives in the …”
“Of course. A beauty, your mother, if you don’t mind me saying so. God knows why she is fraternizing with that asinine old
poseur, Harris.”
“I agree.”
“Give me your cigarettes,” Vollstrom said, extending an unsteady hand.
After taking one for myself, I handed him the pack.
“How am I supposed to work if they keep taking my cigarettes?”
The room appealed to me. It had a clarity and brightness. Objects were sharp and distinct, and appeared to be lit fromwithin. Sitting at the walnut desk, in the silence and sunlight, drinking French press coffee brewed by an attractive hausfrau,
I might finally be able to sort through the unraveled text of my life and give it shape.
“You have a beautiful view,” I said.
He laughed bitterly. “That is what they say! But you only repeat that trite observation because you did not see what happened
to the ducks. Pssst,” he said, waving his unlit cigarette. I handed him my matches.
“But the ducks are—”
“Fake? They haven’t
always
been fake.” Vollstrom raised a trembling flame, his drawn cheeks becoming skull-like as he sucked. His gray hair had congealed
into a greasy hook across his temple. He shuffled to the window, his robe fluttering around his spindly, bruised legs. Long
hooked toenails showed through his transparent slippers. “When I passed the tests and was admitted here,” he said, flashing
a yellow smile of accomplishment, “there were twelve ducks on the pond. Real ducks, mallards, not the
wood ducks
you see now. A male, a female, and ten chicks. Fluffy yellow chicks, the kind you might find in a sentimental painting at
Bernhard’s mall. They rode on their mother’s back quite charmingly. I can still hear them peeping.” He shuddered. “Out of
sheer boredom—this place is detestably
boring
, above all—I used to count them as I ate my breakfast. One morning I noted that there were only nine chicks, that one of
them was missing, as they say. I found myself intrigued by this mystery, if only because time passes so slowly here.”
“You write,” I said. “You have an excellent library.”
“Yes, my child, but there was some
actual life
happening right outside this window.” Vollstrom jammed his hands into hisrobe pockets. “I went to the balcony with my binoculars. To witness the magnified horror. The male duck plucked one of the
chicks from the mother’s feathers. He tipped back his head and broke the chick’s neck with his beak, tossing the corpse
that had made them Pinkies in the first place. I could only guess at this loneliness, its rarefied depths, but I assume it
was the reason I finally met one of them.
My mother had just humbled me at Scrabble once again, and I was making my way from the lounge to the Staircase of Reflection.
I was stopped on the landing by a whispered “pssst”from the doorway behind me. “Pssst, pssst, pssst,” said the voice, and I turned to see a ragged shape of a man in the doorway.
The gold plate on his door read THE ROBERT WALSER ROOM . A pink-robed arm flailed, gesturing me in. “Pssst, pssst,” it said, and I ended my hesitation on the landing. As rumored,
the room was spacious and bright, with a comfortable-looking gray loveseat, a brown leather recliner, and a walnut desk which
hoisted a manual typewriter and a tall stack of manuscript paper. French doors led to the balcony overlooking the pond. Sunset
was maudlin: rays of blood orange and purple tinged the water and the wooden ducks.
My host closed the door behind us, knelt and pressed his eye to the knobless hole. “This is strictly against regulations,
you understand, so stay quiet,” he said. With his permanent hunch, swooping gestures, and pink plumage, he looked like an
aged but defiant bird of prey.
“I am Vollstrom.” He pointed to the white
V
embroidered on the breast pocket of his robe.
“Norberg,” I said. “My mother lives in the …”
“Of course. A beauty, your mother, if you don’t mind me saying so. God knows why she is fraternizing with that asinine old
poseur, Harris.”
“I agree.”
“Give me your cigarettes,” Vollstrom said, extending an unsteady hand.
After taking one for myself, I handed him the pack.
“How am I supposed to work if they keep taking my cigarettes?”
The room appealed to me. It had a clarity and brightness. Objects were sharp and distinct, and appeared to be lit fromwithin. Sitting at the walnut desk, in the silence and sunlight, drinking French press coffee brewed by an attractive hausfrau,
I might finally be able to sort through the unraveled text of my life and give it shape.
“You have a beautiful view,” I said.
He laughed bitterly. “That is what they say! But you only repeat that trite observation because you did not see what happened
to the ducks. Pssst,” he said, waving his unlit cigarette. I handed him my matches.
“But the ducks are—”
“Fake? They haven’t
always
been fake.” Vollstrom raised a trembling flame, his drawn cheeks becoming skull-like as he sucked. His gray hair had congealed
into a greasy hook across his temple. He shuffled to the window, his robe fluttering around his spindly, bruised legs. Long
hooked toenails showed through his transparent slippers. “When I passed the tests and was admitted here,” he said, flashing
a yellow smile of accomplishment, “there were twelve ducks on the pond. Real ducks, mallards, not the
wood ducks
you see now. A male, a female, and ten chicks. Fluffy yellow chicks, the kind you might find in a sentimental painting at
Bernhard’s mall. They rode on their mother’s back quite charmingly. I can still hear them peeping.” He shuddered. “Out of
sheer boredom—this place is detestably
boring
, above all—I used to count them as I ate my breakfast. One morning I noted that there were only nine chicks, that one of
them was missing, as they say. I found myself intrigued by this mystery, if only because time passes so slowly here.”
“You write,” I said. “You have an excellent library.”
“Yes, my child, but there was some
actual life
happening right outside this window.” Vollstrom jammed his hands into hisrobe pockets. “I went to the balcony with my binoculars. To witness the magnified horror. The male duck plucked one of the
chicks from the mother’s feathers. He tipped back his head and broke the chick’s neck with his beak, tossing the corpse
Similar Books
