Blind Willie Read online

  Life seems to have stood still in Tangier. It had grown old, it is true, but it has

  not grown wiser or better. Or rather it seems not as if it had grown old, but as if it

  had never been young. To an artist — and many artists visit Tangier — it must be

  an enchanting place; but it would disgust a thrifty farmer or an enterprising

  trader, and make every hair of an inspection of nuisances stand on end.

  — AMELIA PERRIER, 1876

  Founding Editor

  PAUL BOWLES

  Founding Publisher

  DRUE HEINZ

  Associate Publisher

  JEANNE WILMOT CARTER

  Managing Editor

  ELLEN FOOS

  Publicity & Marketing

  WILLIAM CRAGER

  LISA ANN WEISBROD

  Production Manager

  VINCENT JANOSKI

  Assistant Editors

  HEATHER WINTERER

  CHRISTINA THOMPSON

  Contributing Editors

  ANDREAS BROWN JOHN HAWKES

  JOHN FOWLES STANLEY KUNITZ

  DONALD HALL W.S. MERWIN

  MARK STRAND

  Antaeus is published by The Ecco Press, 100 West Broad Street, Hopewell, NJ 08525

  Distributed by W.W. Norton & Company, Inc., 500 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10110, Ingram

  Periodicals, 347 Reedwood Drive, Nashville, TN 37217, and B. DeBoer, Inc., 113 East Centre

  St., Nutley, NJ 07110. Distributed in England & Europe by W.W. Norton & Compnay, Inc.

  ANTAEUS

  100 West Broad Street, Hopewell, NJ 08525

  Back issues available — write for a complete listing

  ISSN 0003-5319

  ISBN 0-88001-392-3

  Library of Congress Card Number: 70-612646

  Copyright (c) 1995 by ANTAEUS, Hopewell, NJ

  Cover art: Fresco from Giotto Chapel (detail)

  Cover design: Lorraine Louie

  Publications of this magazine has been made possible in part by a grant

  From the National Endowment for the Arts.

  Logo: Ahmed Yacoubi

  STEPHEN KING

  Blind Willie

  6:15 A.M.

  He wakes to music, always to music; the shrill beep-beep-beep of the clock-radio's alarm is too

  much for his mind to cope with during those first blurry moments of the day. It sounds like a

  dump truck backing up. The radio is bad enough at this time of year, though; the easy-listening

  station he keeps the clock-radio tuned to is wall-to-wall Christmas carols, and this morning he

  wakes up to one of the two or three on his Most Hated List, something full of breathy voices and

  phony wonder. The Hare Krishna Chorale or the Andy Williams Singers or some such. Do you

  hear what I hear, the breathy voices sing as he sits up in bed, blinking groggily, hair sticking out

  in every direction. Do you see what I see, they sing as he swings his legs out, grimaces his way

  across the cold floor to the radio, and bangs the button that turns it off. When he turns around,

  Sharon has assumed her customary defensive posture — pillow folded over her head, nothing

  showing but he creamy curve of one shoulder, a lacy nightgown strap, and a fluff of blonde hair.

  He goes into the bathroom, closes the door, slips off the pajama bottoms he sleeps in, drops

  them into the hamper, clicks on his electric razor. As he runs it over his face he thinks, Why not

  run through the rest of the sensory catalogue while you're at it, boys? Do you smell what I smell,

  do you taste what I taste, do you feel what I feel. I mean, hey, go for it.

  'Humbug,' he says as he turns on the shower. 'All humbug.'

  Twenty minutes later, while he's dressing (the dark grey suit from Paul Stuart this morning, plus

  his favorite Sulka tie), Sharon wakes up a little. Not enough for him to fully understand what

  she's telling him, though.

  'Come again?' he asks. 'I got eggnog, but the rest was just ugga-wugga.'

  'I asked if you'd pick up two quarts of eggnog on your way home,' she says. 'We've got the

  Allens and the Dubrays coming over tonight, remember?

  'Christmas,' he says, checking his hair carefully in the mirror. He no longer looks like the

  glaring, bewildered man who sits up in bed to the sound of music five mornings a week —

  sometimes six. Now he looks like all the other people who will ride into New York with him on

  the 7:40, and that is just what he wants.

  'What about Christmas?' she asks with a sleepy smile. 'Humbug, right?

  'Right,' he agrees. 'All humbug.'

  'If you remember, get some cinnamon too — '

  'Okay.'

  ' — but if you forget the eggnog, I'll slaughter you, Bill.'

  'I'll remember.'

  'I know. You're very dependable. Look nice too.'

  'Thanks.'

  She flops back down, then props herself up on one elbow as he makes a final minute

  adjustment to the tie, which is a dark blue. He has never worn a red tie in his life, and hopes he

  can go to his grave untouched by that particular virus. 'I got the tinsel you wanted,' she says.

  'Mmmmm?'

  'The tinsel,' she says. 'It's on the kitchen table.'

  'Oh.' Now he remembers. 'Thanks.'

  'Sure.' She's back down and already starting to drift off again. He doesn't envy the fact that she

  can stay in bed until nine — hell, until eleven, if she wants — but he envies that ability of hers to

  wake up, talk, then drift off again. She says something else, but now she's back to ugga-wugga.

  He knows what it is just the same, though: have a good day hon.

  'Thanks,' he says, kissing her cheek. 'I will.'

  'Look very nice,' she mumbles again, although her eyes are closed. 'Love you, Bill.'

  'Love you too,' he says and goes out.

  His briefcase — Mark Cross, not quite top of the line but almost — is standing in the front hall,

  by the coat tree where his topcoat (from Barney's on Madison) hangs. He grabs the case on his

  way by and takes it into the kitchen. The coffee is all made — God bless solid state electronics

  and microchips — and he pours himself a cup. He opens the briefcase, which is entirely empty,

  and picks up the ball of tinsel on the kitchen table. He holds it up for a moment, watching the

  way it sparkles under the light of the kitchen fluorescents, then puts it in his briefcase.

  'Do you hear what I hear,' he says to no one at all and snaps the briefcase shut.

  8:15 A.M.

  Outside the dirty window to his left, he can see the city drawing closer. The grime on the glass

  makes it look like some filthy, gargantuan ruin — Atlantis, maybe, just heaved back to the

  surface. It's a grey day with a load of snow caught in its throat, but that doesn't worry him much;

  it is just eight days until Christmas, and business will be good.

  The car reeks of morning coffee, morning deodorant, morning aftershave, morning perfume,

  and morning stomachs. There is a tie in almost every seat — even the women wear them these

  days it seems. The faces have that puffy eight o'clock look, the eyes both introspective and

  defenseless, the conversations halfhearted. This is the hour at which even people who don't drink

  look hung over. Most people just stick to their newspapers. He himself has the Times crossword

  open in front of him, and although he's filled in a few squares
, it's mostly a defensive measure.

  He doesn't like to talk to people on the train, doesn't like loose conversation of any sort, and the

  last thing in the world he wants is a commuter buddy. When he starts seeing the same faces in

  any given car, when people start to nod to him or say 'How you doin today?' as they go to their

  seats, he changes cars. It's not that hard to remain unknown, just another commuter, one who is

  conspicuous only in his adamant refusal to wear a red tie. Not that hard at all.

  'All ready for Christmas?' the man in the aisle seat asks him.

  He looks up, almost frowning, then decides it's not a substantive remark, but only the sort of

  empty time-passer some people seem to feel compelled to make. The man beside him is fat and

  will undoubtedly stink by noon no matter how much Speed Stik he used this morning . . . but he's

  hardly even looking at his seatmate, so that's all right.

  'Yes, well, you know,' he says, looking down at the briefcase between his shoes — the

  briefcase that contains a ball of tinsel and nothing else. 'I'm getting in the spirit, little by little.'

  8:40 A.M.

  He comes out of Penn Station with a thousand other topcoated commuters and commuterettes,

  mid-level executives for the most part, sleek gerbils who will be running full tilt on their exercise

  wheels by noon. He stands still for a moment, breathing deep of the cold grey air. Madison

  Square Garden has been tricked out with greenery and Christmas lights, and a little distance

  away a Santa Claus who looks Puerto Rican is ringing a bell. He's got a pot for contributions

  with an easel set up beside it. HELP THE HOMELESS THIS CHRISTMAS, the sign on the

  easel says, and the man in the blue tie thinks, How about a little truth in advertising, Santa? How

  about a sign that says, HELP ME SUPPORT MY CRACK HABIT THIS CHRISTMAS?

  Nevertheless, he drops a couple of dollar bills into the pot as he walks past. He has a good

  feeling about today. He's glad Sharon remembered the tinsel — he would have forgotten,

  himself; he always forgets stuff like that, the grace notes.

  He walks five short blocks and then comes to his building. Standing outside the door is a young

  black man — a youth, actually, surely no more than seventeen — wearing black jeans and a dirty

  red sweater with a hood. He jives from foot to foot, blowing puffs of steam out of his mouth,

  smiling frequently, showing a gold tooth. In one hand he holds a partly crushed Styrofoam coffee

  cup. There's some change in it, which he rattles constantly.

  'Spare a little?' he asks the passersby as they stream toward the revolving doors. 'Spare a little,

  sir? Spare a little, ma'am? Just trying to get lil spot of breffus. Than you, gobless you, merry

  Christmas. Spare a little, sir? Quarter, maybe? Than you. Spare a little, ma'am?'

  As he passes, Bill drops a nickel and two dimes into the young black man's cup.

  'Thank you, sir, gobless, merry Christmas.'

  'You, too,' he says.

  The woman next to him frowns. 'You shouldn't encourage them,' she says.

  He gives her a shrug and a small, shamefaced smile. 'It's hard for me to say no to anyone at

  Christmas,' he tells her.

  He enters the lobby with a stream of others, stares briefly after the opinionated bitch as she

  heads for the newsstand, then goes to the elevators with their old-fashioned floor dials and their

  art deco numbers. Here several people nod to him, and he exchanges a few words with a couple

  of them as they wait — it's not like the train, after all, where you can change cars. Plus, the

  building is an old one, only fifteen stories high, and the elevators are cranky.

  'How's the wife, Bill?' a scrawny, constantly grinning man from the fifth floor asks.

  'Andi? She's fine.'

  'Kids?'

  'Both good.' He has no kids, of course — he wants kids about as much as he wants a hiatal

  hernia — and his wife's name isn't Andi, but those are things the scrawny, constantly grinning

  man will never know.

  'Bet they can't wait for the big day,' the scrawny man says, his grin widening and becoming

  unspeakable. Now he looks like an editorial cartoonist's conception of Famine, all big eyes and

  huge teeth and shiny skin.

  'That's right,' he says, 'but I think Sarah's getting kind of suspicious about the guy in the red

  suit.' Hurry up, elevator he thinks, Jesus, hurry up and save me from these stupidities.

  'Yeah, yeah, it happens,' the scrawny man says. His grin fades for a moment, as if they are

  discussing cancer instead of Santa. 'How old's she now?'

  'Eight.'

  'Boy, the time sure flies when you're having fun, doesn't it? Seems like she was just born a

  year or two ago.'

  'You can say that again,' he says, fervently hoping the scrawny man won't say it again. At that

  moment one of the four elevators finally gasps open its doors and they herd themselves inside.

  Bill and the scrawny man walk a little way down the fifth floor hall together, and then the

  scrawny man stops in front of a set of old-fashioned double doors with the words

  CONSOLIDATED INSURANCE written on one frosted-glass panel and ADJUSTORS OF

  AMERICA on the other. From behind these doors comes the muted clickety-click of computer

  keyboards and the slightly louder sound of ringing phones.

  'Have a good day, Bill.'

  'You too.'

  The scrawny man lets himself into his office, and for a moment Bill sees a big wreath hung on

  the far side of the room. Also, the windows have been decorated with the kind of snow that

  comes in a spray can. He shudders and thinks, God save us, every one.

  9:05 A.M

  His office — one of two he keeps in this building — is at the far end of the hall. The two offices

  up from it are dark and vacant, a situation that has held for the last six months and one he likes

  just fine. Printed on the frosted glass of his own office door are the words WESTERN STATES

  LAND ANALYSTS. There are three locks on the door: the one that was on it when he moved

  into the building nine years ago, plus two he has put on himself. He lets himself in, closes the

  door, turns the bolt, then engages the police lock.

  A desk stands in the center of the room, and it is cluttered with papers, but none of them mean

  anything; they are simply window dressing for the cleaning service. Every so often he throws

  them all out and redistributes a fresh batch. In the center of the desk is a telephone on which he

  makes occasional random calls so that the phone company won't register the line as totally

  inactive. Last year he purchased a fax, and it looks very businesslike over in its corner by the

  door to the office's little second room, but it has never been used.

  'Do you hear what I hear, do you smell what I smell, do you taste what I taste,' he murmurs,

  and crosses to the door leading to the second room. Inside are shelves stacked high with more

  meaningless paper, two large file cabinets (there is a Walkman on top of one, his excuse on the

  few occasions when someone knocks on the locked door and gets no answer), a chair, and a

  stepladder.

  Bill takes the stepladder back to the main room and unfolds it to the left of the desk. He puts

  his briefcase on top of it. Then he mounts the first three steps of the ladder, reaches up (the

  bottom half of his coat bells out around his legs as he does), and carefully moves aside one of the

&
nbsp; suspended ceiling panels.

  Above is a dark area which cannot quite be called a utility space, although a few pipes and

  wires do run through it. There's no dust up here, at least not in this immediate area, and no rodent

  droppings, either — he uses D-Con Mouseprufe once a month. He wants to keep his clothes nice

  as he goes back and forth, of course, but that's not really the important part. the important part is

  to respect your work and your field. This he learned in the Marines, and he sometimes thinks it is

  the most important thing he did learn there. He stayed alive, of course, but he thinks now that

  was probably more luck than learning. Still, a person who respects his work and his field — the

  place where the work is done, the tools with which it is done — has a leg up in life. No doubt

  about that.

  Above this narrow space (a ghostly, gentle wind hoots endlessly through it, bringing a smell of

  dust and the groan of the elevators) is the bottom of the sixth floor, and here is a square trap door

  about thirty inches on a side. Bill installed it himself; he's handy with tools, which is one of the

  things Sharon most appreciates about him.

  He flips the trap door up, letting in muted light from above, then grabs his briefcase by the

  handle. As he sticks his head into the space between the floors, water rushes gustily down the fat

  bathroom conduit twenty or thirty feet north of his present position. An hour from now, when the

  people in the building start their coffee breaks, that sound will be as constant and as rhythmic as

  waves breaking on a beach. Bill hardly notices this or any of the other interfloor sounds; he's

  used to them.

  He climbs carefully to the top of the stepladder, then boosts himself through into his sixth

  floor office, leaving Bill down on five. Up here he is Willie. This office has a workshop look,

  with coils and motors and vents stacked neatly on metal shelves and what looks like a filter of

  some kind squatting on one corner of the desk. It is an office, however; there's a computer

  terminal, an IN/OUT basket full of papers (also window dressing, which he periodically rotates

  like a farmer rotating crops), and file cabinets. On one wall is a framed Norman Rockwell print

  showing a family praying over Thanksgiving dinner. Next to it is a blowup of his honorable

  discharge from the marines, also framed; the name on the sheet is William Teale, and his