Read Online The Hours by Michael Cunningham - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Michael Cunningham
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But, you see, I seem to have gone into the future, too. I have a distinct recollection of the party that hasn’t happened yet. I remember the award ceremony perfectly.’’
‘‘Did they bring your breakfast this morning?’’ she asks.
‘‘What a question. They did.’’
‘‘And did you eat it?’’
‘‘I remember eating it. But it’s possible that I only meant to. Is there a breakfast lying around here somewhere?’’
‘‘Not as far as I can see.’’
‘‘Then I suppose I managed to eat it. Food doesn’t matter much, does it?’’
‘‘Food matters a great deal, Richard.’’
He says, ‘‘I don’t know if I can bear it, Clarissa.’’
‘‘Bear what?’’
‘‘Being proud and brave in front of everybody. I recall it vividly. There I am, a sick, crazy wreck reaching out with trembling hands to receive his little trophy.’’
‘‘Honey, you don’t need to be proud. You don’t need to be brave. It’s not a performance.’’
‘‘Of course it is. I got a prize for my performance, you must
6 2
kno w that. I got a prize for having AIDS and going nuts and being brave about it, it had nothing to do with my work.’’
‘‘Stop this. Please. It has everything to do with your work.’’
Richard draws and exhales a moist, powerful breath. Clarissa thinks of his lungs, glistening red pillows intricately embroidered with veins. They are, perversely, among his least compromised organs—for unknowable reasons, they have remained essentially unharmed by the virus. With that potent breath his eyes seem to focus, to gain greener depths.
‘‘You don’t think they’d give it to me if I were healthy, do you?’’ he says.
‘‘Why, yes, as a matter of fact, I do.’’
‘‘Please.’’
‘‘Well, then, maybe you should refuse it.’’
‘‘That’s the awful thing,’’ Richard says. ‘‘I want the prize. I do. It would be far easier if one cared either more or less about winning prizes. Is it here somewhere?’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘The prize. I’d like to look at it.’’
‘‘You haven’t gotten it yet. It’s tonight.’’
‘‘Yes. That’s right. Tonight.’’
‘‘Richard, dear, listen to me. This can be simple. You can take simple, straightforward pleasure in this. I’ll be there with you, every minute.’’
‘‘I’d like that.’’
‘‘It’s a party. It’s only a party. It will be populated entirely by people who respect and admire you.’’ ‘‘Really? Who?’’
6 3
‘‘Yo u know who. Howard. Elisa. Martin Campo.’’
‘‘Martin Campo? Oh, my lord.’’
‘‘I thought you liked him. You’ve always said you did.’’
‘‘Oh, well, yes, I suppose the lion likes the zookeeper, too.’’
‘‘Martin Campo has steadfastly published you for over thirty years.’’
‘‘Who else is coming?’’
‘‘We’ve been over and over this. You know who’s coming.’’
‘‘Tell me one more name, won’t you? Tell me the name of someone heroic.’’
‘‘Martin Campo is heroic, don’t you think? He’s sunk his entire family fortune into publishing important, difficult books he knows won’t sell.’’
Richard closes his eyes, leans his gaunt head back against the worn, oily nubble of the chair. ‘‘All right, then,’’ he says.
‘‘You don’t need to charm or entertain. You don’t need to put in a performance. These people have believed in you for a long, long while. All you have to do is appear, sit on the sofa with or without a drink in your hand, listen or not listen, smile or not smile. That’s it. I’ll watch out for you.’’
She would like to take him by his bony shoulders and shake him, hard. Richard may (although one hesitates to think in quite these terms) be entering the canon; he may at these last moments in his earthly career be receiving the first hints of a recognition that will travel far into the future (assuming, of course, there is any future at all). A prize like this
‘‘Did they bring your breakfast this morning?’’ she asks.
‘‘What a question. They did.’’
‘‘And did you eat it?’’
‘‘I remember eating it. But it’s possible that I only meant to. Is there a breakfast lying around here somewhere?’’
‘‘Not as far as I can see.’’
‘‘Then I suppose I managed to eat it. Food doesn’t matter much, does it?’’
‘‘Food matters a great deal, Richard.’’
He says, ‘‘I don’t know if I can bear it, Clarissa.’’
‘‘Bear what?’’
‘‘Being proud and brave in front of everybody. I recall it vividly. There I am, a sick, crazy wreck reaching out with trembling hands to receive his little trophy.’’
‘‘Honey, you don’t need to be proud. You don’t need to be brave. It’s not a performance.’’
‘‘Of course it is. I got a prize for my performance, you must
6 2
kno w that. I got a prize for having AIDS and going nuts and being brave about it, it had nothing to do with my work.’’
‘‘Stop this. Please. It has everything to do with your work.’’
Richard draws and exhales a moist, powerful breath. Clarissa thinks of his lungs, glistening red pillows intricately embroidered with veins. They are, perversely, among his least compromised organs—for unknowable reasons, they have remained essentially unharmed by the virus. With that potent breath his eyes seem to focus, to gain greener depths.
‘‘You don’t think they’d give it to me if I were healthy, do you?’’ he says.
‘‘Why, yes, as a matter of fact, I do.’’
‘‘Please.’’
‘‘Well, then, maybe you should refuse it.’’
‘‘That’s the awful thing,’’ Richard says. ‘‘I want the prize. I do. It would be far easier if one cared either more or less about winning prizes. Is it here somewhere?’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘The prize. I’d like to look at it.’’
‘‘You haven’t gotten it yet. It’s tonight.’’
‘‘Yes. That’s right. Tonight.’’
‘‘Richard, dear, listen to me. This can be simple. You can take simple, straightforward pleasure in this. I’ll be there with you, every minute.’’
‘‘I’d like that.’’
‘‘It’s a party. It’s only a party. It will be populated entirely by people who respect and admire you.’’ ‘‘Really? Who?’’
6 3
‘‘Yo u know who. Howard. Elisa. Martin Campo.’’
‘‘Martin Campo? Oh, my lord.’’
‘‘I thought you liked him. You’ve always said you did.’’
‘‘Oh, well, yes, I suppose the lion likes the zookeeper, too.’’
‘‘Martin Campo has steadfastly published you for over thirty years.’’
‘‘Who else is coming?’’
‘‘We’ve been over and over this. You know who’s coming.’’
‘‘Tell me one more name, won’t you? Tell me the name of someone heroic.’’
‘‘Martin Campo is heroic, don’t you think? He’s sunk his entire family fortune into publishing important, difficult books he knows won’t sell.’’
Richard closes his eyes, leans his gaunt head back against the worn, oily nubble of the chair. ‘‘All right, then,’’ he says.
‘‘You don’t need to charm or entertain. You don’t need to put in a performance. These people have believed in you for a long, long while. All you have to do is appear, sit on the sofa with or without a drink in your hand, listen or not listen, smile or not smile. That’s it. I’ll watch out for you.’’
She would like to take him by his bony shoulders and shake him, hard. Richard may (although one hesitates to think in quite these terms) be entering the canon; he may at these last moments in his earthly career be receiving the first hints of a recognition that will travel far into the future (assuming, of course, there is any future at all). A prize like this
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