按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
words of many syllables。 He stuck his little finger out from his
glass and haughtily twisted his mustache。 And if he was still
laughed at he sometimes fought。 He swung his big brown fists
with crazed violence and sobbed aloud。
After such mornings he returned to the show with relief。 It
eased him to push through the crowds of people。 The noise；
the rank stinks； the shouldering contact of human flesh
soothed his jangled nerves。
Because of the blue laws hi the town the show closed for the
Sabbath。 On Sunday he got up early in the morning and took
from the suitcase his serge suit。 He went to the main street。
First he dropped into the New York Cafe and bought a sack of
ales。 Then he went to Singer's room。 Although he knew many
people in the town by name or face； the mute was his only
friend。 They would idle in the quiet room and drink the ales。
He would talk； and the words created themselves from the
dark mornings spent in the streets or hi his room alone。 The
words were formed and spoken with relief。
The fire had died down。 Singer was playing a game of fools
with himself at the table。 Jake had been asleep。 He awoke with
a nervous quiver。 He raised his head and turned to Singer。
'Yeah；' he said as though in answer to a sudden question。
'Some of us are Communists。 But not all
of us。 Myself； I'm not a member of the Communist
Party。 Because in the first place I never knew but one of them。
You can bum around for years and not meet Communists。
Around here there's no office where you can go up and say
you want to join—and if there is I never heard of it。 And you
just don't take off for New York and join。 As I say I never
knew but one—and he was a seedy little teetotaler whose
breath stunk。 We had a fight。 Not that I hold that against the
Communists。 The main fact is I don't think so much of Stalin
and Russia。 I hate every damn country and government there
is。 But even so maybe I ought to132
joined up with the Communists first place。 I'm not certain one
way or the other。 What do you think？'
Singer wrinkled his forehead and considered。 He reached for
his silver pencil and wrote on his pad of paper that he didn't
know。
'But there's this。 You see； we just can't settle down after
knowing； but we got to act And some of us go nuts。 There's
too much to do and you don't know where to start It makes
you crazy。 Even me—I've done things that when I look back at
them they don't seem rational Once I started an organization
myself。 I picked out twenty lint…heads and talked to them until
I thought they knew。 Our motto was one word： Action。 Huh！
We meant to start riots—stir up all the big trouble we could。
Our ultimate goal was freedom—but a real freedom； a great
freedom made possible only by the sense of justice of the
human souL Our motto； 〃Action；〃 signified the razing of
capitalism。 In the constitution （drawn up by myself） certain
statutes dealt with the swapping of our motto from 〃Action〃 to
〃Freedom〃 as soon as our work was through。'
Jake sharpened the end of a match and picked a troublesome
cavity in a tooth。 After a moment he continued：
〃Then when the constitution was all written down and the first
followers well organized—then I went out on a hitch…hiking
tour to organize component units of the society。 Within three
months I came back； and what do you reckon I found？ What
was the first heroic action？ Had their righteous fury overcome
planned action so that they had gone ahead without me？ Was
it destruction； murder； revolution？'
Jake leaned forward in his chair。 After a pause he said
somberly：
'My friend； they had stole the fifty…seven dollars and thirty
cents from the treasury to buy uniform caps and free Saturday
suppers。 I caught them sitting around the conference table；
rolling the bones； their caps on their heads； and a ham and a
gallon of gin in easy reach。'
A timid smile from Singer followed Jake's outburst of
laughter。 After a while the smile on Singer's face grew
strained and faded。 Jake still laughed。 The vein in his forehead
swelled； his face was dusky red。 He laughed too long。 Singer
looked up at the clock and indicated the time—
half…past twelve。 He took his watch； his silver pencil and pad；
his cigarettes and matches from the mantel and distributed
them among his pockets。 It was dinner…time。
But Jake still laughed。 There was something maniacal in the
sound of his laughter。 He walked about the room； jingling the
change in his pockets。 His long； powerful arms swung tense
and awkward。 He began to name over parts of his coming
meal。 When he spoke of food his face was fierce with gusto。
With each word he raised his upper lip like a ravenous animal。
'Roast beef with gravy。 Rice。 And cabbage and light bread。
And a big hunk of apple pie。 I'm famished。 Oh； Johnny； I can
hear the Yankees coming。 And speaking of meals； my friend；
did I ever tell you about Mr。 Clark Patterson； the gentleman
who owns the Sunny Dixie Show？ He's so fat he hasn't seen
his privates for twenty years； and all day he sits in his trailer
playing solitaire and smoking reefers。 He orders his meals
from a short…order joint nearby and every day he breaks his
fast with'
Jake stepped back so that Singer could leave the room。 He
always hung back at doorways when he was with the mute。 He
always followed and expected Singer to lead。 As they
descended the stairs he continued to talk with nervous
volubility。 He kept his brown； wide eyes on Singer's face。
The afternoon was soft and mild。 They stayed indoors。 Jake
had brought back with them a quart of whiskey。 He sat
brooding and silent on the foot of the bed； leaning now and
then to fill his glass from the bottle on the floor。 Singer was at
his table by the window playing a game of chess。 Jake had
relaxed somewhat。 He watched the game of his friend and felt
the mild； quiet afternoon merge with the darkness of evening。
The firelight made dark； silent waves on the walls of the room。
But at night the tension came in him again。 Singer had put
away his chess men and they sat facing each other。
Nervousness made Jake's lips twitch raggedly and he drank to
soothe himself。 A backwash of restlessness and desire
overcame him。 He drank down the whiskey and began to talk
again to Singer。 The words swelled with him and gushed from
his mouth。 He walked from the window to the bed and back
again—again and again。 And at last the134
deluge of swollen words took shape and he delivered them to
the mute with drunken emphasis：
'The things they have done to us！ The truths they have turned
into lies。 The ideals they have fouled and made vile。 Take
Jesus。 He was one of us。 He knew。 When He said that it is
harder for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for
a rich man to enter the kingdom of God —he damn well meant
just what he said。 But look what the Church has done to Jesus
during the last two thousand years。 What they have made of
him。 How they have turned every word he spoke for their own
vile ends。 Jesus would be framed and in jail if he was living
today。 Jesus would be one who really knows。 Me and Jesus
would sit across the table and I would look at him and he
would look at me and we would both know that the other
knew。 Me and Jesus and Karl Marx could all sit at a table
and…
'And look what has happened to our freedom。 The men who
fought the American Revolution were no more like these
D。A。R。 dames than I'm a pot…bellied； perfumed Pekingese dog。
They meant what they said about freedom。 They fought a real
revolution。 They fought so that this could be a country where
every man would be free and equal。 Huh！ And that meant
every man was equal in the sight of Nature—with an equal
chance。 This didn't mean that twenty per cent of the people
were free to rob the other eighty per cent of the means to live。
This didn't mean for one rich man to sweat the piss out of ten
thousand poor men so that he can get richer。 This didn't mean
the tyrants were free to get this country in such a fix that
millions of people are ready to do anything—cheat； lie； or
whack off their right arm—just to work for three squares and
a flop。 They have made the word freedom a blasphemy。 You
hear me？ They have made the word freedom stink like a skunk
to all who know。'
The vein in Jake's forehead throbbed wildly。 His mouth
worked convulsively。 Singer sat up； alarmed； Jake tried to
speak again and the words choked in his mouth。 A shudder
passed through his body。 He sat down in the chair and pressed
his trembling lips with his fingers。 Then he said huskily：
'It's this way； Singer。 Being mad is no good。 Nothing we can
do is any good。 That's the way it seems to me。 All we
。
135
can do is go around telling the truth。 And as soon as enough of
the don't knows have learned the truth then there won't be any
use for fighting。 The only thing for us to do is let them know。
All that's needed。 But how？ Huh？'
The fire shadows lapped against the walls。 The dark； shadowy
waves rose higher and the room took on motion。 The room
rose and fell and all