carson mccullers - the heart is a lonely hunter-第38部分

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on　the　slot　machines。　And　the　summer　afternoon　
Antonapoulos　went　downstairs　naked　to　get　the　paper。　He　
suffered　so　from　the　summer　heat。　They　bought　an　electric　
refrigerator　on　the　installment　plan；　and　Antonapoulos　would　
suck　the　cubes　of　ice　constantly　and　even　let　a　few　of　them　
melt　in　bed　with　him　as　he　slept。　And　the　time　Antonapoulos　
got　drunk　and　threw　a　bowl　of　macaroni　in　his　face。　
Those　ugly　memories　wove　through　his　thoughts　during　the　
first　months　like　bad　threads　through　a　carpet。　And　then　they　
were　gone。　All　the　times　that　they　had　been　unhappy　were　
forgotten。　For　as　the　year　went　on　his　thoughts　of　his　friend　
spiraled　deeper　until　he　dwelt　only　with　the　Antonapoulos　
whom　he　alone　could　know。　
This　was　the　friend　to　whom　he　told　all　that　was　in　his　heart。　
This　was　the　Antonapoulos　who　no　one　knew　was　wise　but　
him。　As　the　year　passed　his　friend　seemed　to　grow　larger　in　
his　mind；　and　his　face　looked　out　in　a　very　grave　and　subtle　
way　from　the　darkness　at　night。　The　memories　of　his　friend　
changed　in　his　mind　so　that　he　remembered　nothing　that　was　
wrong　or　foolish—only　the　wise　and　good。　
He　saw　Antonapoulos　sitting　in　a　large　chair　before　him。　He　


sat　tranquil　and　unmoving。　His　round　face　was　inscrutable。　
His　mouth　was　wise　and　smiling。　And　his　eyes　were　profound。　
He　watched　the　things　that　were　said　to　him。　And　in　his　
wisdom　he　understood。　
This　was　the　Antonapoulos　who　now　was　always　in　his　
thoughts。　This　was　the　friend　to　whom　he　wanted　to　tell　things　
that　had　come　about。　For　something　had　happened　in　this　year。　
He　had　been　left　in　an　alien　land。　Alone。　He　had　opened　his　
eyes　and　around　him　there　was　much　he　could　not　understand。　
He　was　bewildered。　
He　watched　the　words　shape　on　their　lips。　
We　Negroes　want　a　chance　to　be　free　at　last。　And　freedom　is　
only　the　right　to　contribute。　We　want　to　serve　and　to　share；　to　
labor　and　in　turn　consume　that　which　is　due　to　us。　But　you　are　
the　only　white　man　I　have　ever　en…174　
countered　who　realizes　this　terrible　need　of　my　people。　
You　see；　Mister　Singer？　I　got　this　music　in　me　all　the　time。　I　
got　to　be　a　real　musician。　Maybe　I　don't　know　anything　now；　
but　I　will　when　I'm　twenty。　See；　Mister　Singer？　And　then　I　
mean　to　travel　in　a　foreign　country　where　there's　snow。　
Let's　finish　up　the　bottle。　I　want　a　small　one。　For　we　were　
thinking　of　freedom。　That's　the　word　like　a　worm　in　my　brain。　
Yes？　No？　How　much？　How　little？　The　word　is　a　signal　for　
piracy　and　theft　and　cunning。　We'll　be　free　and　the　smartest　
will　then　be　able　to　enslave　the　others。　But！　But　there　is　
another　meaning　to　the　word。　Of　all　words　this　one　is　the　most　
dangerous。　We　who　know　must　be　wary。　The　word　makes　us　
feel　good—in　fact　the　word　is　a　great　ideal。　But　it's　with　this　
ideal　that　the　spiders　spin　their　ugliest　webs　for　us。　
The　last　one　rubbed　his　nose。　He　did　not　come　often　and　he　
did　not　say　much。　He　asked　questions。　
The　four　people　had　been　coming　to　his　rooms　now　for　more　
than　seven　months。　They　never　came　together—always　alone。　
And　invariably　he　met　them　at　the　door　with　a　cordial　smile。　
The　want　for　Antonapoulos　was　always　with　him—just　as　it　
had　been　the　first　months　after　his　friend　had　gone—and　it　
was　better　to　be　with　any　person　than　to　be　too　long　alone。　It　
was　like　the　time　years　ago　when　he　had　made　a　pledge　to　
Antonapoulos　（and　even　written　it　on　a　paper　and　tacked　it　on　
the　wall　above　his　bed）—a　pledge　that　he　would　give　up　


cigarettes；　beer；　and　meat　for　one　month。　The　first　days　had　
been　very　bad。　He　could　not　rest　or　be　still。　He　visited　
Antonapoulos　so　much　at　the　fruit　store　that　Charles　Parker　
was　unpleasant　to　him。　When　he　had　finished　all　the　engraving　
on　hand　he　would　dawdle　around　the　front　of　the　store　with　
the　watchmaker　and　the　salesgirl　or　wander　out　to　some　soda　
fountain　to　drink　a　Coca…Cola。　In　those　days　being　near　any　
stranger　was　better　than　thinking　alone　about　the　cigarettes　
and　beer　and　meat　that　he　wanted。　
At　first　he　had　not　understood　the　four　people　at　all。　They　
talked　and　they　talked—and　as　the　months　went　on　they　talked　
more　and　more。　He　became　so　used　to　their　lips　that　he　
understood　each　word　they　said。　And　then　after　

175　
a　while　he　knew　what　each　one　of　them　would　say　before　he　
began；　because　the　meaning　was　always　the　same。　
His　hands　were　a　torment　to　him。　They　would　not　rest。　They　
twitched　in　his　sleep；　and　sometimes　he　awoke　to　find　them　
shaping　the　words　in　his　dreams　before　his　face。　He　did　not　
like　to　look　at　his　hands　or　to　think　about　them。　They　were　
slender　and　brown　and　very　strong。　In　the　years　before　he　had　
always　tended　them　with　care。　In　ihe　winter　he　used　oil　to　
prevent　chapping；　and　he　kept　the　cuticles　pushed　down　and　
his　nails　always　filed　to　the　shape　of　his　finger…tips。　He　had　
loved　to　wash　and　tend　his　hands。　But　now　he　only　scrubbed　
them　roughly　with　a　brush　two　times　a　day　and　stuffed　them　
back　into　his　pockets。　
When　he　walked　up　and　down　the　floor　of　his　room　he　would　
crack　the　joints　of　his　fingers　and　jerk　at　them　until　they　
ached。　Or　he　would　strike　the　palm　of　one　hand　with　the　fist　of　
the　other。　And　then　sometimes　when　he　was　alone　and　his　
thoughts　were　with　his　friend　his　hands　would　begin　to　shape　
the　words　before　he　knew　about　it。　Then　when　he　realized　he　
was　like　a　man　caught　talking　aloud　to　himself。　It　was　almost　
as　though　he　had　done　some　moral　wrong。　The　shame　and　the　
sorrow　mixed　together　and　he　doubled　his　hands　and　put　them　
behind　him。　But　they　would　not　let　him　rest。　
Singer　stood　in　the　street　before　the　house　where　he　and　
Antonapoulos　had　lived。　The　late　afternoon　was　smoky　and　


gray。　In　the　west　there　were　streaks　of　cold　yellow　and　rose。　A　
ragged　winter　sparrow　flew　in　patterns　against　the　smoky　sky　
and　at　last　came　to　light　on　a　gable　of　the　house。　The　street　
was　deserted。　
His　eyes　were　fixed　on　a　window　on　the　right　side　of　the　
second　story。　This　was　then…front　room；　and　behind　was　the　
big　kitchen　where　Antonapoulos　had　cooked　all　their　meals。　
Through　the　lighted　window　he　watched　a　woman　move　back　
and　forth　across　the　room。　She　was　large　and　vague　against　
the　light　and　she　wore　an　apron。　A　man　sat　with　the　evening　
newspaper　in　his　hand。　A　child　with　a　slice　of　bread　came　to　
the　window　and　pressed　his　nose　against　the　pane。　Singer　saw　
the　room　just　as　he　had　left176　

it—with　the　large　bed　for　Antonapoulos　and　the　iron　cot　for　
himself；　the　big　overstuffed　sofa　and　the　camp　chair。　The　
broken　sugar　bowl　used　for　an　ash　tray；　the　damp　spot　on　the　
ceiling　where　the　roof　leaked；　the　laundry　box　in　the　corner。　
On　late　afternoons　like　this　there　would　be　no　light　in　the　
kitchen　except　the　glow　from　the　oil…burners　of　the　big　stove。　
Antonapoulos　always　turned　the　wicks　so　that　only　a　ragged　
fringe　of　gold　and　blue　could　be　seen　inside　each　burner。　The　
room　was　warm　and　full　of　the　good　smells　from　the　supper。　
Antonapoulos　tasted　the　dishes　with　his　wooden　spoon　and　
they　drank　glasses　of　red　wine。　On　the　linoleum　rug　before　the　
stove　the　flames　from　the　burners　made　luminous　reflections　
—five　little　golden　lanterns。　As　the　milky　twilight　grew　darker　
these　little　lanterns　were　more　intense；　so　that　when　at　last　the　
night　had　come　they　burned　with　vivid　purity。　Supper　was　
always　ready　by　that　time　and　they　would　turn　on　the　light　and　
draw　their　chairs　to　the　table。　
Singer　looked　down　at　the　dark　front　door。　He　thought　of　them　
going　out　together　in　the　morning　and　coming　home　at　night。　
There　was　the　broken　place　in　the　pavement　where　
Antonapoulos　had　stumbled　once　and　hurt　his　elbow。　There　
was　the　mailbox　where　their　bill　from　the　light　company　came　
each　month。　He　could　feel　the　warm　touch　of　his　friend's　arm　
against　his　fingers。　
The　street　was　dark　now。　He　looked　up　at　the　window　once　
more　and　he　saw　the　strange　woman　and　the　man　and　the　child　


in　a　group　together。　The　emptiness　spread　in　him。　All　was　
gone。　Antonapoulos　was　away；　he　was　not　here　to　remember。　
The　thoughts　of　his　friend　were　somewhere　else。　Singer　shut　
his　eyes　and　tried　to　think　of　the　asylum　and　the　room　that　
Antonapoulos　was　in　tonight。　He　remembered　the　narrow　
white　beds　and　the　old　men　playing　slapjack　in　the　corner。　He　
held　his　eyes　shut　tight；　but　that　room　would　not　become　clear　
in　his　mind。　The　emptiness　was　very　deep　inside　him；　and　
after　a　while　he　glanced　up　at　the　window　once　more　and　
started　down　the　dark　sidewalk　where　they　had　walked　
together　so　many　times。　
It　was　Saturday　night。　The　main　street　was　thick　with　people。　
Shivering　Negroes　in　overalls　loitered　before　the　windows　of　
the　ten…cent　store。　Families　stood　in　line　be

177　
fore　the　ticket　box　of　the　movie　and　young　boys　and　girls　
stared　at　the　posters　on　display　outside。　The　traffic　from　the　
automobiles　was　so　dangerous　that　he　had　to　wait　a　long　time　
before　crossing　the　street。　
He　passed　the　fruit　store。　The　fruits　were　beautiful　inside　the　
windows—bananas；　oranges；　alligator　pears；　bright　little　
cumquats；　and　even　a　few　pineapples。　But　Charles　Parker　
waited　on　a　customer　inside。　The　face　of　Charles　Parker　was　
very　ugly　to　him。　Several　times　when　Charles　Parker　was　
away　he　had　entered　the　store　and　stood　around　a　long　while。　
He　had　even　gone　to　the　kitchen　in　the　back　where　
Antonapoulos　made　the　candies。　But　he　never　went　into　the　
store　while　Charles　Parker　was　inside。　They　had　both　taken　
care　to　avoid　each　other　since　that　day　when　Antonapoulos　
left　on　the　bus。　When　they　met　in　the　street　they　always　turned　
away　without　nodding。　Once　when　he　had　wanted　to　send　his　
friend　a　jar　of　his　favorite　tupelo　honey　he　had　ordered　it　from　
Charles　Parker　by　mail　so　as　not　to　be　obliged　to　meet　him。　
Singer　stood　before　the　window　and　watched　the　cousin　of　his　
friend　wait　on　a　group　of　customers。　Business　was　always　
good　on　Saturday　night。　Antonapoulos　sometimes　had　to　work　
as　late　as　ten　o'clock。　The　big　automatic　popcorn　popper　was　
near　the　door。　A　clerk　shoved　in　a　measure　of　kernels　and　the　
corn　whirled　inside　the　case　like　giant　flakes　of　snow。　The