Coming Through Slaughter - Michael Ondaatje [36]
And then running down the stairs fast, almost crying, down two flights before he saw the figure in the main hall standing against the wallpaper looking up at him—the face pale and embarrassed. He must have heard them laughing in there, must have sat there for ten minutes and taken more than five minutes to walk down.
Yes or no, whatever it is, I’m not walking those stairs again.
I’ll carry you up then. So decide. Shouting as he ran down.
Bugger you fuck you shit those voices carry you know.
I know. But it’s ok. Nora will do it. He stood on the first stair looking at Bellocq, at Bellocq’s sweating face. It’s alright, she said she’s gonna do it ok? She’ll pose.
I heard them Buddy I heard them.
They didn’t understand man, it’s ok now come on. Come on.
Then he lifted the thin body of his friend and carried him up the three flights of stairs. Going slowly for he did not want to damage the camera or hurt the thin bones in the light body he was carrying. Still, he was tired and shaking and exhausted when he put him down on the top step.
She didn’t speak to him about Bellocq. Not till this last night. He asked her about Bellocq and she told him what Webb had said, that Bellocq was dead. Died in a fire.
This was about an hour after she found him sleeping in his red shirt with the children.
I only did that for you cos you know why?
No. Why?
Because you didn’t know what to say, you didn’t know how to argue me into it.
She threw in a taunt.
Tom Pickett could have hustled anyone to do what you asked in a minute.
No shit.
The last remark had flowed under him, he was thinking about Bellocq, crushed and scurrying to the front door that morning while the others had watched from the windows.
You didn’t feel sorry for him?
I hated him Buddy.
But why? He was so harmless. He was just a lonely man. You know he even talked to his photographs he was that lonely. Why do you hate him? You never even saw his pictures, they were beautiful. They were gentle. Why do you hate him?
She turned to face him.
Look at you. Look at what he did to you. Look at you. Look at you. Goddamit. Look at you.
The next morning his daughter saying, I had this awful dream. Mum made some food for us out of onions and hair and orange peels and we hated it and she said eat up it’s good for you.
Parade (5th Morning)
Coming down Iberville, warm past Marais Street, then she moves free of the crowd and travels at our speed between us and the crowd. My new red undershirt and my new white shiny shirt bright under the cornet. New shoes. Back in town.
Warning slide over to her and hug and squawk over her and shoulder her into the crowd. Roar. Between Marais and Liberty I just hit notes every 15 seconds or so Henry Allen worrying me eyeing me about keeping the number going and every now and then my note like a bird flying out of the shit and hanging loud and long. Roar. Crisscross Iberville like a spaniel strutting in front of the band and as I hit each boundary of crowd—roar. Parade of ego, cakewalk, strut, every fucking dance and walk I remember working up through the air to get it ready for the note sharp as a rat mouth under Allen’s soft march tune.
But where the bitch came from I don’t know. She moves out to us again, moving along with us, gravy bones. Thin body and long hair and joined by someone half bald and a beautiful dancer too so I turn from the bank of people and aim at them and pull them on a string to me, the roar at the back of my ears. Watch them through the sun balancing off the horn till they see what is happening and I speed Henry Allen’s number till most of them drop off and just march behind, the notes more often now, every five seconds. Eyes going dark in the hot bleached street. Get there