Down the stairwell, out of sight, someone trills after the manner of a
bird. At regular intervals, adopting a
pitch guaranteed to grate on one’s nerves. Eulalie descends so as to determine
her next move and does not reappear again until the following Tuesday. Her
voice has all but disintegrated and to make herself understood she blinks her
eyes and raps her knuckles on the table in what seems at first like some sort
of code, but the more attention I give to deciphering it, the less sense it
makes. The patterns that emerged initially turn out to be specters, remnants of
whatever organizational storms swept over the gray surface plains of my mind
after a night drinking the tequila with the skeletons on the bottle. And
brandishing the swords we discovered in the basement. They are heavier than I
would have expected and tarnished by water or wind or soil, gorgeous antique
things just as likely, I suspect, to break in half as sever a limb and the
sound they make when you strike them one against the other puts me in mind of
the north rim of a crater I visited once overseas. The macaws nested there so
as to receive direct sunlight in the morning and they moved about in the sky in
twos and threes without ever really seeming to flap their wings. People came
from all corners to have a look at them and they went away invariably
disappointed. I don’t know what we expected but the evenings were free for
revelry and a certain staring away into space that was extremely popular. You
couldn’t go a hundred yards down the avenue in either direction without it
seeping into you, without it hijacking your face for its own nefarious
purposes. What does it matter? Eulalie exclaims when she has gotten her voice
back, or at least that portion of it that belongs solely to her, that portion
you could never find in the admixture of anyone else’s voice, with its polished
under-surface like garnets and its distinctive scent that does not assault the
nostrils, doesn’t even so much as enter them, but you pick it up nonetheless
much as you might pick up the words in a beautiful woman’s eyes, or a trumpet
when someone else, someone in your family, has left it on the floor in disgust
because it is much more difficult to make whole tones with only your lips and
the movement of your fingers than that person might have supposed. It’s at
moments such as these that we come face to face with what used to be called
destiny back when such enormous words did not yet have the power to embarrass
us. Now we keep them concealed in other words that don’t have any power whatsoever, that don’t even manage to mean
what they were intended to mean but instead just manage to lie there, inert and
fundamentally pointless, like constellations.
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