Страница 36 из 45
«Well, for one thing»-Black stuffed and lit his pipe and exhaled his aromatic concepts-' 'you might clear off this stump and plant a new tree.»
They had been circling the stump and kicking it for inspiration. Fentriss froze with one foot raised. «Say that again?!»
«I said-«
«Good grief, you genius! Let me kiss you!»
«Rather not. Hugs, maybe.»
Fentriss hugged him, wildly. «Friend!»
«Always was.»
«Let's get a shovel and spade.»
«You get. I'll watch.»
Fentriss ran back a minute later with a spade and pickax.
«Sure you won't join me?»
Black sucked his pipe, blew smoke. «Later.»
«How much would a full-grown tree cost?»
«Too much.»
«Yes, but if it were here and the birds did return?» Black let out more smoke. «Might be worth it. Opus Number Two: 'In the Begi
'In the Begi
«One of those.»
«Or-« Fentriss struck the stump with the pickax. « 'Rebirth.' « He struck again. «'Ode to Joy.' » Another strike.
'Spring Harvest.' « Another. «'Let the Heavens Resound.' How's that, Black?»
«I prefer the other,» said Black.
The stump was pulled and the new tree bought.
«Don't show me the bill,» Fentriss told his accountant. «Pay it.»
And the tallest tree they could find, of the same family as the one dead and gone, was planted.
«What if it dies before my choir returns?» said Fentriss. «What if it lives,» said Black, «and your choir goes elsewhere?»
The tree, planted, seemed in no immediate need to die. Neither did it look particularly vital and ready to welcome small singers from some far southern places.
Meanwhile, the sky, like the tree, was empty. «Don't they know I'm waiting?» said Fentriss. «Not unless,» offered Black, «you majored in cross-continental telepathy.»
«I've checked with Audubon. They say that while the swallows do come back to Capistrano on a special day, give or take a white lie, other migrating species are often one or two weeks late.»
«If I were you,» said Black, «I would plunge into an intense love affair to distract you while you wait.»
«I am fresh out of love affairs.»
«Well, then,» said Black, «suffer.»
The hours passed slower than the minutes, the days passed slower than the hours, the weeks passed slower than the days. Black called. «No birds?»
«No birds.»
«Pity. I can't stand watching you lose weight.» And Black disco
On a final night, when Fentriss had almost yanked the phone out of the wall, fearful of another call from the Boston Symphony, he leaned an ax against the trunk of the new tree and addressed it and the empty sky.
«Last chance,» he said. «If the dawn patrol doesn't show by seven a.m., it's quits.»
And he touched ax-blade against the tree-bole, took two shots of vodka so swiftly that the spirits squirted out both eyes, and went to bed.
He awoke twice during the night to hear nothing but a soft breeze outside his window, stirring the leaves, with not a ghost of song.
And awoke at dawn with tear-filled eyes, having dreamed that the birds had returned, but knew, in waking, it was only a dream.
And yet…?
Hark, someone might have said in an old novel. List! as in an old play.
Eyes shut, he fine-tuned his ears .
The tree outside, as he arose, looked fatter, as if it had taken on invisible ballasts in the night. There were stirrings there, not of simple breeze or probing winds, but of something in the very leaves that knitted and purled them in rhythms. He dared not look but lay back down to ache his senses and try to know.
A single chirp hovered in the window.
He waited.
Silence.
Go on, he thought.
Another chirp.
Don't breathe, he thought; don't let them know you're listening.
Hush.
A fourth sound, then a fifth note, then a sixth and seventh. My God, he thought, is this a substitute orchestra, a replacement choir come to scare off my loves?
Another five notes.
Perhaps, he prayed, they're only tuning up!
Another twelve notes, of no special timbre or pace, and as he was about to explode like a lunatic conductor and fire the bunch-It happened. Note after note, line after line, fluid melody following spring freshet melody, the whole choir exhaled to blossom the tree with joyous proclamations of return and welcome in chorus.
And as they sang, Fentriss sneaked his hand to find a pad and pen to hide under the covers so that its scratching might not disturb the choir that soared and dipped to soar again, firing the bright air that flowed from the tree to tune his soul with delight and move his hand to remember.
The phone rang. He picked it up swiftly to hear Black ask
if the waiting was over. Without speaking, he held the receiver in the window.
«I'll be damned,» said Black's voice.
«No, anointed,» whispered the composer, scribbling Cantata No.2. Laughing, he called softly to the sky.
«Please. More slowly. Legato, not agitato.»
And the tree and the creatures within the tree obeyed.
Agitato ceased.
Legato prevailed.
Exchange
1996 year
There were too many cards in the file, too many books on the shelves, too many children laughing in the children's room, too many newspapers to fold and stash on the racks …
All in all, too much. Miss Adams pushed her gray hair back over her lined brow, adjusted her gold-rimmed pince-nez, and rang the small silver bell on the library desk, at the same time switching off and on all the lights. The exodus of adults and children was exhausting. Miss Ingraham, the assistant librarian, had gone home early because her father was sick, so it left the burden of stamping, filing, and checking books squarely on Miss Adams' shoulders.
Finally the last book was stamped, the last child fed through the great brass doors, the doors locked, and with immense weariness, Miss Adams moved back up through a silence of forty years of books and being keeper of the books, stood for a long moment by the main desk.
She laid her glasses down on the green blotter, and pressed the bridge of her small-boned nose between thumb and forefinger and held it, eyes shut. What a racket! Children who finger-painted or cartooned frontispieces or rattled their roller skates. High school students arriving with laughters, departing with mindless songs!
Taking up her rubber stamp, she probed the files, weeding out errors, her fingers whispering between Dante and Darwin.
A moment later she heard the rapping on the front-door glass and saw a man's shadow outside, wanting in. She shook her head. The figure pleaded silently, making gestures.
Sighing, Miss Adams opened the door, saw a young man in uniform, and said, «It's late. We're closed.» She glanced at his insignia and added, «Captain.»
«Hold on!» said the captain. «Remember me?»
And repeated it, as she hesitated.
«Remember?»
She studied his face, trying to bring light out of shadow. «Yes, I think I do,» she said at last. «You once borrowed books here.»
«Right.»
«Many years ago,» she added. «Now I almost have you placed.»
As he stood waiting she tried to see him in those other years, but his younger face did not come clear, or a name with it, and his hand reached out now to take hers.
«May I come in?»
«Well.» She hesitated. «Yes.»
She led the way up the steps into the immense twilight of books. The young officer looked around and let his breath out slowly, then reached to take a book and hold it to his nose, inhaling, then almost laughing.