carson mccullers - the heart is a lonely hunter-第66节

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addition　there　was　a　deluxe　basket　of　fruits　done　up　in　
cellophane　and　a　crate　of　late…shipped　strawberries。　On　the　
morning　before　his　departure　Singer　cleaned　his　room。　In　his　
ice　box　he　found　a　bit　of　left…over　goose　liver　and　took　it　out　
to　the　alley　for　the　neighborhood　cat。　On　his　door　he　tacked　
the　same　sign　he　had　posted　there　before；　stating　that　he　would　
be　absent　for　several　days　on　business。　During　all　these　
preparations　he　moved　about　leisurely　with　two　vivid　spots　of　
color　on　his　cheekbones。　His　face　was　very　solemn。　
Then　at　last　the　hour　for　departure　was　at　hand。　He　stood　on　
the　platform；　burdened　with　his　suitcases　and　gifts；　and　
watched　the　train　roll　in　on　the　station　tracks。　He　found　
himself　a　seat　in　the　day　coach　and　hoisted　his　luggage　on　the　
rack　above　his　head。　The　car　was　crowded；　for　the　most　part　
with　mothers　and　children。　The　green　plush　seats　had　a　grimy　
smell。　The　windows　of　the　car　were　dirty　and　rice　thrown　at　
some　recent　bridal　pair　lay　scattered　on　the　floor。　Singer　
smiled　cordially　to　his　fellow…travelers　and　leaned　back　in　his　
seat。　He　closed　his　eyes。　The　lashes　made　a　dark；　curved　
fringe　above　the　hollows　of　his　cheeks。　His　right　hand　moved　
nervously　inside　his　pocket　
For　a　while　his　thoughts　lingered　in　the　town　he　was　leaving　
behind　him。　He　saw　Mick　and　Doctor　Copeland　and　Jake　
Blount　and　Biff　Brannon。　The　faces　crowded　in　on　him　out　of　
the　darkness　so　that　he　felt　smothered。　He　thought　of　the　
quarrel　between　Blount　and　the　Negro。　The　

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nature　of　this　quarrel　was　hopelessly　confused　in　his　mind　—but　each　
of　them　had　on　several　occasions　broken　out　into　a　bitter　tirade　
against　the　other；　the　absent　one。　He　had　agreed　with　each　of　them　in　
turn；　though　what　it　was　they　wanted　him　to　sanction　he　did　not　
know。　And　Mick　—her　face　was　urgent　and　she　said　a　good　deal　that　
he　did　not　understand　in　the　least。　And　then　Biff　Brannon　at　the　New　
York　Caf6。　Brannon　with　his　dark；　iron…like　jaw　and　his　watchful　
eyes。　And　strangers　who　followed　him　about　the　streets　and　
buttonholed　him　for　unexplainable　reasons。　The　Turk　at　the　linen　
shop　who　flung　his　hands　up　in　his　face　and　babbled　with　his　tongue　
to　make　words　the　shape　of　which　Singer　had　never　imagined　before。　
A　certain　mill　foreman　and　an　old　black　woman。　A　businessman　on　
the　main　street　and　an　urchin　who　solicited　soldiers　for　a　whorehouse　
near　the　river。　Singer　wriggled　his　shoulders　uneasily。　The　train　


rocked　with　a　smooth；　easy　motion。　His　head　nodded　to　rest　on　his　
shoulder　and　for　a　short　while　he　slept。　
When　he　opened　his　eyes　again　the　town　was　far　behind　him。　The　
town　was　forgotten。　Outside　the　dirty　window　there　was　the　brilliant　
midsummer　countryside。　The　sun　slanted　in　strong；　bronze…colored　
rays　over　the　green　fields　of　the　new　cotton。　There　were　acres　of　
tobacco；　the　plants　heavy　and　green　like　some　monstrous　jungle　
weed。　The　orchards　of　peaches　with　the　lush　fruit　weighting　down　the　
dwarfed　trees。　There　were　miles　of　pastures　and　tens　of　miles　of　
wasted；　washed…out　land　abandoned　to　the　hardier　weeds。　The　train　
cut　through　deep　green　pine　forests　where　the　ground　was　covered　
with　the　slick　brown　needles　and　the　tops　of　the　trees　stretched　up　
virgin　and　tall　into　the　sky。　And　farther；　a　long　way　south　of　the　
town；　the　cypress　swamps—with　the　gnarled　roots　of　the　trees　
writhing　down　into　the　brackish　waters；　where　the　gray；　tattered　moss　
trailed　from　the　branches；　where　tropical　water　flowers　blossomed　in　
dankness　and　gloom。　Then　out　again　into　the　open　beneath　the　sun　
and　the　indigo…blue　sky。　
Singer　sat　solemn　and　timid；　his　face　turned　fully　toward　the　window。　
The　great　sweeps　of　space　and　the　hard；　elemental　coloring　almost　
blinded　him。　This　kaleidoscopic　variety　of　scene；　this　abundance　of　
growth　and　color；276　

seemed　somehow　connected　with　his　friend〃。　His　thoughts　
were　with　Antonapoulos。　The　bliss　of　their　reunion　almost　
stifled　him。　His　nose　was　pinched　and　he　breathed　with　quick；　
short　breaths　through　his　slightly　open　mouth。　
Antonapoulos　would　be　glad　to　see　him。　He　would　enjoy　the　
fresh　fruits　and　the　presents。　By　now　he　would　be　out　of　the　
sick　ward　and　able　to　go　on　an　excursion　to　the　movies；　and　
afterward　to　the　hotel　where　they　had　eaten　dinner　on　the　first　
visit。　Singer　had　written　many　letters　to　Antonapoulos；　but　he　
had　not　posted　them。　He　surrendered　himself　wholly　to　
thoughts　of　his　friend。　
The　half…year　since　he　had　last　been　with　him　seemed　neither　
a　long　nor　a　short　span　of　time。　Behind　each　waking　moment　
there　had　always　been　his　friend。　And　this　submerged　
communion　with　Antonapoulos　had　grown　and　changed　as　
though　they　were　together　in　the　flesh。　Sometimes　he　thought　
of　Antonapoulos　with　awe　and　self…abasement；　sometimes　
with　pride—always　with　love　unchecked　by　criticism；　freed　of　
will。　When　he　dreamed　at　night　the　face　of　his　friend　was　


always　before　him；　massive　and　gentle。　And　in　his　waking　
thoughts　they　were　eternally　united。　
The　summer　evening　came　slowly。　The　sun　sank　down　behind　
a　ragged　line　of　trees　in　the　distance　and　the　sky　paled。　The　
twilight　was　languid　and　soft。　There　was　a　white　full　moon；　
and　low　purple　clouds　lay　over　the　horizon。　The　earth；　the　
trees；　the　unpainted　rural　dwellings　darkened　slowly。　At　
intervals　mild　summer　lightning　quivered　in　the　air。　Singer　
watched　all　of　this　intently　until　at　last　the　night　had　come；　
and　his　own　face　was　reflected　in　the　glass　before　him。　
Children　staggered　up　and　down　the　aisle　of　the　car　with　
dripping　paper　cups　of　water。　An　old　man　in　overalls　who　had　
the　seat　before　Singer　drank　whiskey　from　time　to　time　from　a　
Coca…Cola　bottle。　Between　swallows　he　plugged　the　bottle　
carefully　with　a　wad　of　paper。　A　little　girl　on　the　right　combed　
her　hair　with　a　sticky　red　lollipop。　Shoeboxes　were　opened　
and　trays　of　supper　were　brought　in　from　the　dining…car。　
Singer　did　not　eat。　He　leaned　back　in　his　seat　and　kept　
desultory　account　of　all　that　went　on　around　him。　At　last　the　
car　settled　down。　Children　lay　on　the　broad　plush　seats　and　
slept；　while　men　and　women　

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doubled　up　with　their　pillows　and　rested　as　best　they　could。　
Singer　did　not　sleep。　He　pressed　his　face　close　against　the　
glass　and　strained　to　see　into　the　night。　The　darkness　was　
heavy　and　velvety。　Sometimes　there　was　a　patch　of　moonlight　
or　the　flicker　of　a　lantern　from　the　window　of　some　house　
along　the　way。　From　the　moon　he　saw　that　the　train　had　turned　
from　its　southward　course　and　was　headed　toward　the　east。　
The　eagerness　he　felt　was　so　keen　that　his　nose　was　too　
pinched　to　breathe　through　and　his　cheeks　were　scarlet。　He　sat　
there；　his　face　pressed　close　against　the　cold；　sooty　glass　of　
the　window；　through　most　of　the　long　night　journey。　
The　train　was　more　than　an　hour　late；　and　the　fresh；　bright　
summer　morning　was　well　under　way　when　they　arrived。　
Singer　went　immediately　to　the　hotel；　a　very　good　hotel　where　
he　had　made　reservations　in　advance。　He　unpacked　his　bags　
and　arranged　the　presents　he　would　take　to　Antonapoulos　on　
the　bed。　From　the　menu　the　bellboy　brought　him　he　selected　a　
luxurious　breakfast—broiled　bluefish；　hominy；　French　toast；　


and　hot　black　coffee。　After　breakfast　he　rested　before　the　
electric　fan　in　his　underwear。　At　noon　he　began　to　dress。　He　
bathed　and　shaved　and　laid　out　fresh　linen　and　his　best　
seersucker　suit　At　three　o'clock　the　hospital　was　open　for　
visiting　hours。　It　was　Tuesday　and　the　eighteenth　of　July。　
At　the　asylum　he　sought　Antonapoulos　first　in　the　sick　ward　
where　he　had　been　confined　before。　But　at　the　doorway　of　the　
room　he　saw　immediately　that　his　friend　was　not　there。　Next　
he　found　his　way　through　the　corridors　to　the　office　where　he　
had　been　taken　the　time　before。　He　had　his　question　already　
written　on　one　of　the　cards　he　carried　about　with　him。　The　
person　behind　the　desk　was　not　the　same　as　the　one　who　had　
been　there　before。　He　was　a　young　man；　almost　a　boy；　with　a　
half…formed；　immature　face　and　a　lank　mop　of　hair。　Singer　
handed　him　the　card　and　stood　quietly；　his　arms　heaped　with　
packages；　his　weight　resting　on　his　heels。　
The　young　man　shook　his　head。　He　leaned　over　the　desk　and　
scribbled　loosely　on　a　pad　of　paper。　Singer　read　what　he　had　
written　and　the　spots　of　color　drained　from　his　cheekbones　
instantly。　He　looked　at　the　note　a　long　time；278　

his　eyes　cut　sideways　and　his　head　bowed。　For　it　was　written　
there　that　Antonapoulos　was　dead。　
On　the　way　back　to　the　hotel　he　was　careful　not　to　crush　the　
fruit　he　had　brought　with　him。　He　took　the　packages　up　to　his　
room　and　then　wandered　down　to　the　lobby。　Behind　a　potted　
palm　tree　there　was　a　slot　machine。　He　inserted　a　nickel　but　
when　he　tried　to　pull　the　lever　he　found　that　the　machine　was　
jammed。　Over　this　incident　he　made　a　great　to…do。　He　
cornered　the　clerk　and　furiously　demonstrated　what　had　
happened。　His　face　was　deathly　pale　and　he　was　so　beside　
himself　that　tears　rolled　down　the　ridges　of　his　nose。　He　
flailed　his　hands　and　even　stamped　once　with　his　long；　
narrow；　elegantly　shoed　foo