What to do?
He opened the door, jumped through it, and tackled the man from behind.
The man fell beneath him. It was not a man. It was a girl. But she had not shrieked or made any move to escape.
Now, quite quietly and simply, she spoke.
— Would you mind getting up? You really don't know me well enough for this yet.
He got to his feet. She did as well.
She was wearing now a sort of prefabricated factory coverall drawn tight around the waist. Over it, a coat with a high collar.
— What's the meaning of this? he asked. Why are you snooping about?
— What do you mean? she asked. Nobody's snooping. I've just got a crush on you, and I've come around to see if you'll take me on a date.
— That's a lie, said James. Who sent the rubber mask?
— I did, said Anastasia. I thought it would be funny.
— It's not funny at all, said James. And furthermore, you're part of. . something else. I know you are. This business in the paper.
— Well, that's not a very nice thing to accuse a girl of, just after having met her, and her having returned to you your wallet that you dropped, and furthermore her having come around to your place. And besides, I'm not the sort of girl who chases after men. You should feel lucky that I'm being so forward with you.
To this James said nothing, but looked at her with narrowed eyes.
It was his favorite toy. What was it? A little wooden bird painted the color red. It was a red color, it really was, a shining lovely red such as a boy might dream upon, looking at it in sunlight, in shadow, with candles, and at firesides. But do not suppose that it was a songbird or any such frivolous sort. No, his bird was an owl. He had found it one day when Ansilon told him to look under the floorboards of his room by knocking everywhere with his hammer. When he found the red owl, Ansilon was pleased. It is your father's owl, he said. Do not let him see it. He left it there many years ago with a filament of his bone wrapped around a piece of ivory at the toy's heart. He believed it would bring him good luck, and it has. But now, my little friend, that luck will be yours. Oh, thank you, James had said. Thank you. No one ever had a friend like you. Nor will they, said Ansilon, nor will they. And when he would take the red owl to the seashore, he would hide it from his father in a Russian fur hat which James insisted upon wearing at all times. No one but James and Ansilon understood this absurd practice. Why was the boy wearing a Russian fur cap to the seashore? But James was always finding things, old coins, arrowheads, and such, which he gave away freely and generously, and so no one said anything to him about the fur cap until one day his father burned it while he was off at school. Regrettably, the bird was inside. That day his father became very ill and was never the same again. In fact, he died within the hour.
IN THE KITCHEN
Anastasia sat at the kitchen table. She no longer spoke with an accent. She confessed that her name was not Anastasia. It was, she said, Lily Violet.
— You've obviously made up that name, said James, who was busy setting the pot to boil on the stove.
— No one would make up a name like that, said Lily Violet. It's too far-fetched.
James considered this. Perhaps she was right.
Lily had taken her coat off. She came over and stood behind James.
James turned around and pushed her away.
— What's the big idea? he said loudly.
— Nothing, she said, and sat down again. What is it? You don't like girls?
James ignored this question.
— So, your position is that you are not a part of the plot that's in the newspaper, that furthermore, you have nothing to do with it, and that you have met me only by chance?
— I have met you, said Lily Violet, only by chance. The rest is too silly for me to even answer. Anyway, don't you think I'm a nice sort?
— I will not marry you, said James. You are not suitable at all. I don't like your yellow-dress. I don't like your hair-cut, and I don't like your approaching-of-men in public places.
— You don't like my hair-cut? said Lily Violet, looking then at herself in the window. It had become dark outside, and the room was reflected and distorted in triplicate, for alongside of the kitchen there were three broad windows. She ran her hands through her short hair and looked at him.
— Well, to be fair, said James, it's all right.
He felt suddenly thoroughly tired. He felt he had been outmaneuvered again, but this time he did not even know how it had happened.
He went into the hall and sat down on the bench for the second time that day. The mask was still there. He didn't like it, not one bit. There are certain items that one does not want to have in one's vicinity, that when one learns of their existence, one feels a bit worried that perhaps one day they will be present in the vicinity of oneself. Such was this. But who would expect to be sent a rubber mask of one's own face?
— Really, said Lily, entering the hall. It isn't as bad as all that.
She sat beside him on the bench.
— Why don't I be your girlfriend, and take care of you, and we can go on little outings?
— What are you doing here? asked James. This is completely ridiculous.
— You ask so many questions, said Lily Violet.
She went and got her coat, then looked James carefully in the eye and curtsied in an exquisite and practiced manner. The door closed softly behind her, and James was left once more alone.
day the third
Shall we say, James did not arrive at his appointment at the doctor's office? He was at the door, at the door to the building, upon the stroke of three, having decided he would not bother to come early, when two men in large overcoats forced him into a waiting car.
An Item in the News
THIRD “SAMEDI” SUICIDE BAFFLES AUTHORITIES
Washington, September 29: The suicide of an unidentified man outside the White House yesterday, the third such death in as many days, has resulted in increased concern on the part of federal authorities, while yielding no further leads into the identity of “Samedi,” the author of the cryptic notes found with all three bodies.
The suicide of the man, whose face was mostly destroyed by the blast of the forty-four-caliber pistol that ended his life, differs slightly from the first two suicides, in which William Goshen and Albrecht Moran slashed their own throats. Nonetheless, the note found with the latest man has been confirmed through handwriting analysis as the work of the same author, signed “Samedi”:
TO GROW GOLD ON TREES FOR MEN WHO OWN ALREADY ALL THE ORCHARDS? HOW FAR HAVE OUR IDEALS, OUR PRINCIPLES FALLEN? AN EXAMPLE SHALL BE MADE, FOR THE LIVES OF MEN ARE LONGER THAN THE LIVES OF NATIONS.