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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
275
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
277
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