Invisible man - Ralph Ellison [97]
WHO WAS YOUR MOTHER?
I looked at him, feeling a quick dislike and thinking, half in amusement, I don't play the dozens. And how's your old lady today?
THINK
I stared, seeing him frown and write a long time. The slate was filled with meaningless names.
I smiled, seeing his eyes blaze with annoyance. Old Friendly Face said something. The new man wrote a question at which I stared in wide-eyed amazement:
WHO WAS BUCKEYE THE RABBIT?
I was filled with turmoil. Why should he think of that? He pointed to the question, word by word. I laughed, deep, deep inside me, giddy with the delight of self-discovery and the desire to hide it. Somehow I was Buckeye the Rabbit . . . or had been, when as children we danced and sang barefoot in the dusty streets:
Buckeye the Rabbit
Shake it, shake it
Buckeye the Rabbit
Break it, break it . . .
Yet, I could not bring myself to admit it, it was too ridiculous -- and somehow too dangerous. It was annoying that he had hit upon an old identity and I shook my head, seeing him purse his lips and eye me sharply.
BOY, WHO WAS BRER RABBIT?
He was your mother's back-door man, I thought. Anyone knew they were one and the same: "Buckeye" when you were very young and hid yourself behind wide innocent eyes; "Brer," when you were older. But why was he playing around with these childish names? Did they think I was a child? Why didn't they leave me alone? I would remember soon enough when they let me out of the machine . . . A palm smacked sharply upon the glass, but I was tired of them. Yet as my eyes focused upon Old Friendly Face he seemed pleased. I couldn't understand it, but there he was, smiling and leaving witrr the new assistant.
Left alone, I lay fretting over my identity. I suspected that I was really playing a game with myself and that they were taking part. A kind of combat. Actually they knew as well as I, and I for some reason preferred not to face it. It was irritating, and it made me feel sly and alert. I would solve the mystery the next instant. I imagined myself whirling about in my mind like an old man attempting to catch a small boy in some mischief, thinking, Who am I? It was no good. I felt like a clown. Nor was I up to being both criminal and detective -- though why criminal I didn't know.
I fell to plotting ways of short-circuiting the machine. Perhaps if I shifted my body about so that the two nodes would come together -- No, not only was there no room but it might electrocute me. I shuddered. Whoever else I was, I was no Samson. I had no desire to destroy myself even if it destroyed the machine; I wanted freedom, not destruction. It was exhausting, for no matter what the scheme I conceived, there was one constant flaw -- myself. There was no getting around it. I could no more escape than I could think of my identity. Perhaps, I thought, the two things are involved with each other. When I discover who I am, I'll be free.
It was as though my thoughts of escape had alerted them. I looked up to see two agitated physicians and a nurse, and thought, It's too late now, and lay in a veil of sweat watching them manipulate the controls. I was braced for the usual shock, but nothing happened. Instead I saw their hands at the lid, loosening the bolts, and before I could react they had opened the lid and pulled me erect.
"What's happened?" I began, seeing the nurse pause to look at me.
"Well?" she said.
My mouth worked soundlessly.
"Come on, get it out," she said.
"What hospital is this?" I said.
"It's the factory hospital," she said. "Now be quiet."
They were around me now, inspecting my body, and I watched with growing bewilderment, thinking, what is a factory hospital?
I felt a tug at my belly and looked down to see one of the physicians pull the cord which was attached to the stomach node, jerking me forward.
"What is this?" I said.
"Get the shears," he said.
"Sure," the other said. "Let's not waste time."
I recoiled inwardly as though the cord were part of me. Then they had it free and the nurse clipped through the belly band and removed