either palm. The seashells rattled, rocking hardagainst their own pink reflected undersides; the brass statuettes stared down at themselves upended; there seemed exactly twice as much milk chocolate. The boys watched, interested, as the trinkets wobbled closer. Shivering slightly, droplets from the interrupted bath eased over each visible rib then down their long tanned legs. Chocolate, a statuette, a seashell. A set for you, and a set for you. For years and very quietly, giving boy after boy these inexpensive appreciated gifts. Chocolate, a statuette, a seashell.
The headmaster bit down on his folded handkerchief, then bit again.
As A CELLMATE , they have assigned me a burglar, a would-be jewel thief. He has a connoisseur’s love of gems, a child’s idea of how to steal them. He is agile, blond, casually corrupted, seventeen years old. His mind is tender and lurid as his scar. This mark begins at the center of his throat, twists up one side of his face, and narrows to a crescent which falls just short of hooking his childish mouth. Its almost perfect C-shape connects an adult’s throat to the indolent choirboy mouth. His scar complicates and redeems his commonplace good looks. When he is feverish or angry, I see the mark grow crimson,
scarlet
actually. Like a thermometer, it colors from the bottom upward.
He bathes himself with great care, with a jewel thief’s intelligent fingers. I lie on the bottom bunk, hands behind head, watching him. There is nothing else to look at in this cell and my staring seems acceptable. As he bathes, he whistles quite beautifully, warbling popular songs through his front teeth. In sunlight from the barred window, he soaps himself vigorously. Sections of his lathered back gleam in stripes. He whistles an accompaniment of chirps and complicated trills. Holding his long arms straight out, one at a time, he rubs soap along them. I glimpse the sheen and smooth translucence of certain marble Pietàs. His ribs, under tight shifting skin, curve one way, while lines of sun fall in quite another, so, as he moves, these stripes smoothly chafe each other, a crisscrossing matrix like plaid or basketry, till I see his whole torso light up, a radiant sieve.
In prison, I am trying to teach myself factual thinking. I am comforted in recalling how once at University, for a final examination, the great art historian, K. Blenheim, strode into the conference room where we, his favorite class, sat waiting. On the central revolving pedestal, he placed a homely object.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “please describe this. Leave your test booklets here when you are done. I have enjoyed associating with you for these three years.”
He turned and left; an outside door slammed, echoed down the hallway. We looked at one another, then the object, then again at one another. It was a copper float, part of a toilet’s workings. Ovoid, little larger than an orange, a serrated seam bound its center. During our three years of intense work with him, Blenheim had daily placed different sorts of relics on this pedestal: Persian enamels, a small beautifully preserved Greek vase, an eighteenth-century miniature of an English squire’s favorite spaniel, an Egyptian footstool. Now, several of my classmates, some of the most brilliant, pushed back their chairs, creased their examination booklets and stalked out, singly and in groups, some muttering, most silent.
“Art History?” a thin mustached man called over his shoulder in a breaking voice. “The history of art?” Others stayed seated, chuckling, bitter. As I watched, the boy beside me massaged the thin bridge of his nose and laughed quietly, eyes pressed shut. “Three years of my life,” he whispered. Still another fellow snapped his pencil, once then twice. He cupped the pieces in his fist, rattling these like dice as he left.
Some of us sat here looking at the pedestal and its toilet fixture. From the street came sounds of morning traffic, a man selling
The headmaster bit down on his folded handkerchief, then bit again.
As A CELLMATE , they have assigned me a burglar, a would-be jewel thief. He has a connoisseur’s love of gems, a child’s idea of how to steal them. He is agile, blond, casually corrupted, seventeen years old. His mind is tender and lurid as his scar. This mark begins at the center of his throat, twists up one side of his face, and narrows to a crescent which falls just short of hooking his childish mouth. Its almost perfect C-shape connects an adult’s throat to the indolent choirboy mouth. His scar complicates and redeems his commonplace good looks. When he is feverish or angry, I see the mark grow crimson,
scarlet
actually. Like a thermometer, it colors from the bottom upward.
He bathes himself with great care, with a jewel thief’s intelligent fingers. I lie on the bottom bunk, hands behind head, watching him. There is nothing else to look at in this cell and my staring seems acceptable. As he bathes, he whistles quite beautifully, warbling popular songs through his front teeth. In sunlight from the barred window, he soaps himself vigorously. Sections of his lathered back gleam in stripes. He whistles an accompaniment of chirps and complicated trills. Holding his long arms straight out, one at a time, he rubs soap along them. I glimpse the sheen and smooth translucence of certain marble Pietàs. His ribs, under tight shifting skin, curve one way, while lines of sun fall in quite another, so, as he moves, these stripes smoothly chafe each other, a crisscrossing matrix like plaid or basketry, till I see his whole torso light up, a radiant sieve.
In prison, I am trying to teach myself factual thinking. I am comforted in recalling how once at University, for a final examination, the great art historian, K. Blenheim, strode into the conference room where we, his favorite class, sat waiting. On the central revolving pedestal, he placed a homely object.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “please describe this. Leave your test booklets here when you are done. I have enjoyed associating with you for these three years.”
He turned and left; an outside door slammed, echoed down the hallway. We looked at one another, then the object, then again at one another. It was a copper float, part of a toilet’s workings. Ovoid, little larger than an orange, a serrated seam bound its center. During our three years of intense work with him, Blenheim had daily placed different sorts of relics on this pedestal: Persian enamels, a small beautifully preserved Greek vase, an eighteenth-century miniature of an English squire’s favorite spaniel, an Egyptian footstool. Now, several of my classmates, some of the most brilliant, pushed back their chairs, creased their examination booklets and stalked out, singly and in groups, some muttering, most silent.
“Art History?” a thin mustached man called over his shoulder in a breaking voice. “The history of art?” Others stayed seated, chuckling, bitter. As I watched, the boy beside me massaged the thin bridge of his nose and laughed quietly, eyes pressed shut. “Three years of my life,” he whispered. Still another fellow snapped his pencil, once then twice. He cupped the pieces in his fist, rattling these like dice as he left.
Some of us sat here looking at the pedestal and its toilet fixture. From the street came sounds of morning traffic, a man selling
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