carson mccullers - the heart is a lonely hunter-第45节

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watch；　and　his　fountain　pen。　Then　he　folded　his　clothes　neatly　
over　the　back　of　his　chair。　His　gray…flannel　pajamas　were　
warm　and　soft。　Almost　as　soon　as　he　pulled　the　blankets　to　his　


chin　he　was　asleep。　
Out　of　the　blackness　of　sleep　a　dream　formed。　There　were　dull　
yellow　lanterns　lighting　up　a　dark　flight　of　stone　steps。　
Antonapoulos　kneeled　at　the　top　of　these　steps。　He　was　naked　
and　he　fumbled　with　something　that　he　held　above　his　head　
and　gazed　at　it　as　though　in　prayer。　He　himself　knelt　halfway　
down　the　steps。　He　was　naked　and　cold　and　he　could　not　take　
his　eyes　from　Antonapoulos　and　the　thing　he　held　above　him。　
Behind　him　on　the　ground　he　felt　the　one　with　the　mustache　
and　the　girl　and　the　black　man　and　the　last　one。　They　knelt　
naked　and　he　felt　their　eyes　on　him。　And　behind　them　there　
were　uncounted　crowds　of　kneeling　people　in　the　darkness。　
His　own　hands　were　huge　windmills　and　he　stared　fascinated　
at　the　unknown　thing　that　Antonapoulos　held。　The　yellow　
lanterns　swayed　to　and　fro　in　the　darkness　and　all　else　was　
motionless。　Then　suddenly　there　was　a　ferment。　In　the　
upheaval　the　steps　collapsed　and　he　felt　himself　falling　
downward。　He　awoke　with　a　jerk。　The　early　light　whitened　the　
window。　He　felt　afraid。　
Such　a　long　time　had　passed　that　something　might　have　
happened　to　his　friend。　Because　Antonapoulos　did　not　write　to　
him　he　would　not　know。　Perhaps　his　friend　had　fallen　and　hurt　
himself。　He　felt　such　an　urge　to　be　with　him　once　more　that　he　
would　arrange　it　at　any　cost—and　immediately。　
In　the　post…office　that　morning　he　found　a　notice　in　his　box　
that　a　package　had　come　for　him。　It　was　the　gift　he　had　
ordered　for　Christmas　that　did　not　arrive　in　time。　The　gift　was　
a　very　fine　one。　He　had　bought　it　on　the　install…186　

187　

ment　plan　to　be　paid　for　over　a　period　of　two　years。　The　gift　
was　a　moving…picture　machine　for　private　use；　with　a　half…
dozen　of　the　Mickey　Mouse　and　Popeye　comedies　that　
Antonapoulos　enjoyed。　
Singer　was　the　last　to　reach　the　store　that　morning。　He　handed　
the　jeweler　for　whom　he　worked　a　formal　written　request　for　
leave　on　Friday　and　Saturday。　And　although　there　were　four　
weddings　on　hand　that　week；　the　jeweler　nodded　that　he　could　
go。　
He　did　not　let　anyone　know　of　the　trip　beforehand；　but　on　


leaving　he　tacked　a　note　to　his　door　saying　that　he　would　be　
absent　for　several　days　because　of　business。　He　traveled　at　
night；　and　the　train　reached　the　place　of　his　destination　just　as　
the　red　winter　dawn　was　breaking。　
In　the　afternoon；　a　little　before　time　for　the　visiting　hour；　he　
went　out　to　the　asylum。　His　arms　were　loaded　with　the　parts　of　
the　moving…picture　machine　and　the　basket　of　fruit　he　carried　
his　friend。　He　went　immediately　to　the　ward　where　he　had　
visited　Antonapoulos　before。　
The　corridor；　the　door；　the　rows　of　beds　were　just　as　he　
remembered　them。　He　stood　at　the　threshold　and　looked　
eagerly　for　his　friend。　But　he　saw　at　once　that　though　all　the　
chairs　were　occupied；　Antonapoulos　was　not　there。　
Singer　put　down　his　packages　and　wrote　at　the　bottom　of　one　
of　his　cards；　'Where　is　Spiros　Antonapoulos？'　A　nurse　came　
into　the　room　and　he　handed　her　the　card。　She　did　not　
understand。　She　shook　her　head　and　raised　her　shoulders。　He　
went　out　into　the　corridor　and　handed　the　card　to　everyone　he　
met。　Nobody　knew。　There　was　such　a　panic　in　him　that　he　
began　motioning　with　his　hands。　At　last　he　met　an　interne　in　a　
white　coat。　He　plucked　at　the　interne's　elbow　and　gave　him　the　
card。　The　interne　read　it　carefully　and　then　guided　him　
through　several　halls。　They　came　to　a　small　room　where　a　
young　woman　sat　at　a　desk　before　some　papers。　She　read　the　
card　and　then　looked　through　some　files　in　a　drawer。　
Tears　of　nervousness　and　fear　swam　in　Singer's　eyes。　The　
young　woman　began　deliberately　to　write　on　a　pad　of　paper；　
and　he　could　not　restrain　himself　from　twisting　around　to　see　
immediately　what　was　being　written　about　his　friend。　

Mr。　Antonapoulos　has　been　transferred　to　the　infirmary。　He　is　
ill　with　nephritis。　I　will　have　someone　show　you　the　way。　

On　the　way　through　the　corridors　he　stopped　to　pick　up　the　
packages　he　had　left　at　the　door　of　the　ward。　The　basket　of　
fruit　had　been　stolen；　but　the　other　boxes　were　intact。　He　
followed　the　interne　out　of　the　building　and　across　a　plot　of　
grass　to　the　infirmary。　
Antonapoulos！　When　they　reached　the　proper　ward　he　saw　
him　at　the　first　glance。　His　bed　was　placed　in　the　middle　of　the　
room　and　he　was　sitting　propped　with　pillows。　He　wore　a　
scarlet　dressing…gown　and　green　silk　pajamas　and　a　turquoise　


ring。　His　skin　was　a　pale　yellow　color；　his　eyes　very　dreamy　
and　dark。　His　black　hair　was　touched　at　the　temples　with　
silver。　He　was　knitting。　His　fat　fingers　worked　with　the　long　
ivory　needles　very　slowly。　At　first　he　did　not　see　his　friend。　
Then　when　Singer　stood　before　him　he　smiled　serenely；　
without　surprise；　and　held　out　his　jeweled　hand。　
A　feeling　of　shyness　and　restraint　such　as　he　had　never　known　
before　came　over　Singer。　He　sat　down　by　the　bed　and　folded　
his　hands　on　the　edge　of　the　counterpane。　His　eyes　did　not　
leave　the　face　of　his　friend　and　he　was　deathly　pale。　The　
splendor　of　his　friend's　raiment　startled　him。　On　various　
occasions　he　had　sent　him　each　article　of　the　outfit；　but　he　had　
not　imagined　how　they　would　look　when　all　combined。　
Antonapoulos　was　more　enormous　than　he　had　remembered。　
The　great　pulpy　folds　of　his　abdomen　showed　beneath　his　silk　
pajamas。　His　head　was　immense　against　the　white　pillow。　The　
placid　composure　of　his　face　was　so　profound　that　he　seemed　
hardly　to　be　aware　mat　Singer　was　with　him。　
Singer　raised　Ms　hands　timidly　and　began　to　speak。　His　
strong；　skilled　fingers　shaped　the　signs　with　loving　precision。　
He　spoke　of　the　cold　and　of　the　long　months　alone。　He　
mentioned　old　memories；　the　cat　that　had　died；　the　store；　the　
place　where　he　lived。　At　each　pause　Antonapoulos　nodded　
graciously。　He　spoke　of　the　four　people　and　the　long　visits　to　
his　room。　The　eyes　of　his　friend　were　moist　and　dark；　and　in　
them　he　saw　the　little　rectangled　pictures　of　himself　that　he　
had　watched　a　thousand　times。　The188　

warm　blood　flowed　back　to　his　face　and　his　hands　quickened。　
He　spoke　at　length　of　the　black　man　and　the　one　with　the　
jerking　mustache　and　the　girl。　The　designs　of　his　hands　shaped　
faster　and　faster。　Antonapoulos　nodded　with　slow　gravity。　
Eagerly　Singer　leaned　closer　and　he　breathed　with　long；　deep　
breaths　and　in　his　eyes　there　were　bright　tears。　
Then　suddenly　Antonapoulos　made　a　slow　circle　in　the　air　
with　his　plump　forefinger。　His　finger　circled　toward　Singer　
and　at　last　he　poked　his　friend　in　the　stomach。　The　big　Greek's　
smile　grew　very　broad　and　he　stuck　out　his　fat；　pink　tongue。　
Singer　laughed　and　his　hands　shaped　the　words　with　wild　
speed。　His　shoulders　shook　with　laughter　and　his　head　hung　


backward。　Why　he　laughed　he　did　not　know。　Antonapoulos　
rolled　his　eyes。　Singer　continued　to　laugh　riotously　until　his　
breath　was　gone　and　his　fingers　trembled。　He　grasped　the　arm　
of　his　friend　and　tried　to　steady　himself。　His　laughs　came　slow　
and　painfully　like　hiccoughs。　
Antonapoulos　was　the　first　to　compose　himself。　His　fat　little　
feet　had　untucked　the　cover　at　the　bottom　of　the　bed。　His　smile　
faded　and　he　kicked　contemptuously　at　the　blanket。　Singer　
hastened　to　put　things　right；　but　Antonapoulos　frowned　and　
held　up　his　finger　regally　to　a　nurse　who　was　passing　through　
the　ward。　When　she　had　straightened　the　bed　to　his　liking　the　
big　Greek　inclined　his　head　so　deliberately　that　the　gesture　
seemed　one　of　benediction　rather　than　a　simple　nod　of　thanks。　
Then　he　turned　gravely　to　his　friend　again。　
As　Singer　talked　he　did　not　realize　how　the　time　had　passed。　
Only　when　a　nurse　brought　Antonapoulos　his　supper　on　a　tray　
did　he　realize　that　it　was　late。　The　lights　in　the　ward　were　
turned　on　and　outside　the　windows　it　was　almost　dark。　The　
other　patients　had　trays　of　supper　before　them　also。　They　had　
put　down　their　work　（some　of　them　wove　baskets；　others　did　
leatherwork　or　knitted）　and　they　were　eating　listlessly。　
Besides　Antonapoulos　they　all　seemed　very　sick　and　colorless。　
Most　of　them　needed　a　haircut　and　they　wore　seedy　gray　
nightshirts　slit　down　the　back。　They　stared　at　the　two　mutes　
with　wonder。　
Antonapoulos　lifted　the　cover　from　his　dish　and　inspected　the　
food　carefully。　There　was　fish　and　some　vege

189　
tables。　He　picked　up　the　fish　and　held　it　to　the　light　in　the　
palm　of　his　hand　for　a　thorough　examination。　Then　he　ate　with　
relish。　During　supper　he　began　to　point　out　the　various　people　
in　the　room。　He　pointed　to　one　man　in　the　corner　and　made　
faces　of　disgust。　The　man　snarled　at　him。　He　pointed　to　a　
young　boy　and　smiled　and　nodded　and　waved　his　plump　hand。　
Singer　was　too　happy　to　feel　embarrassment。　He　picked　up　the　
packages　from　the　floor　and　laid　them　on　the　bed　to　distract　
his　friend。　Antonapoulos　took　off　the　wrappings；　but　the　
machine　did　not　interest　him　at　all。　He　turned　back　to　his　
supper。　


Singer　handed　the　nurse　a　note　explai