Coming Through Slaughter - Michael Ondaatje [23]
There’s about three of us at the window now and a strange feeling comes over me. I’m sort of scared because I know the Lord don’t like that mixing the Devil’s music with His music. But I still listen because the music sounds so strange and I guess I’m hypnotised. When he blows blues I can see Lincoln Park with all the sinners and whores shaking and belly rubbing and the chicks getting way down and slapping themselves on the cheeks of their behind. Then when he blows the hymn I’m in my mother’s church with everybody humming. The picture kept changing with the music. It sounded like a battle between the Good Lord and the Devil. Something tells me to listen and see who wins. If Bolden stops on the hymn, the Good Lord wins. If he stops on the blues, the Devil wins.’
4763 Callarpine Street. Where the Brewitts live.
Webb arrived in front of the house at 7.30 in the morning. He slept in the parked car till 9. Till he thought they would be awake. There would be Bolden and there would be Robin Brewitt. And maybe Jaelin Brewitt. Ugly trees on the lawn, he went by the side of the house and climbed the stairs to the first floor. Knocked at the door. No reply. He went into the apartment, could see no one. He knocked on a door in the hall and looked in. Robin Brewitt asleep in bed.
What?
Sorry. I’m looking for Buddy.
He’s up somewhere. Maybe the bathroom.
He nodded and closed the door quietly. Went down the hall. Knocked on the bathroom door.
Yep!
And went in and found him.
He sat on the edge of the tub where his friend was having a bath. At first Bolden was laughing. He couldn’t get over it. He wanted to know how. Webb gave him all the names. Nora. Cornish. Pickett. Bellocq! Yes Bellocq’s dead now, killed himself in a fire. What do you mean killed himself in a fire? He started a fire round himself.
They could hear Robin through the wall in the kitchen. And that’s Robin Brewitt? Bolden nodded into the water. And Jaelin Brewitt comes and goes. Bolden nodded. And your music. Haven’t played a note for nearly two years. Thought about it? A little. You could train in the Pontchartrain cabin. I don’t want to go back, Webb. You want to go back Buddy, you want to go back. Webb on the edge of the enamel talking on and on, why did you do all this Buddy, why don’t you come back, what good are you here, you’re doing nothing, you’re wasting, you’re —
Till Bolden went underwater away from the noise, opening his eyes to look up through the liquid blur at the vague figure of Webb gazing down at him gesturing, till he could hardly breathe, his heart furious wanting to leap out and Bolden still holding himself down not wishing to come up gripping the side of the tub with his elbows to stop him to stop him o god jesus leave me alone his eyes staring up aching, if Webb reaches down and tries to pull him up he will never come up he knows that, air! his heart empty overpowers his arms and he breaks up showering Webb, gulping everything he possibly can in.
Breathing hard, yes ok Webb ok ok ok. Hunched and breathing hard looking at the taps while Webb on his right tried to brush the wetness off his suit beginning to talk again and Buddy hardly listening to him, listening past him to Robin and the morning kitchen noises that he knew he would lose soon. Webb was releasing the rabbit he had to run after, because the cage was open now and there would always be the worthless taste of worthless rabbit when he finished.
Robin hit the door. Is he staying for breakfast, Buddy?
Silence. Like a huge, wild animal going round and round the bathroom. Just before he closed his eyes he saw her standing, years ago, holding two glasses of orange juice. Yes. He’s staying for breakfast.
Train Song
Passing wet chicory that lies in the fields like the sky.
Passing wet chicory that lies in the fields like the sky.
Passing wet chicory lies
like the sky,
like the sky like the sky