Reflections in a Golden Eye by Carson Mccullers Page B

Six
     hundred men are waiting for me. And look, just please take a glance, at what he brings me!'
    The boots indeed were a sorry sight. It looked as though they had been rubbed over with
     flour and water. She scolded Anacleto and stood over him as he cleaned them properly. He
     wept piteously, but she found the strength of mind not to console him. When he had
     finished, Anacleto mentioned something about running away from home and opening a linen
     shop in Quebec. She carried the polished boots up to her husband and handed them to him
     without a word, but with a look that took care of him also. Then, as her heart bothered
     her, she went back to bed with her book.
    Anacleto brought her up her coffee and then drove over to the Post Exchange to do the
     marketing for Sunday. Later in the morning, when she had finished her book and was looking
     out the window at the sunny autumn day, he came to her room again. He was blithe, and had
     quite forgotten the scolding about the boots. He built up a roaring fire and then quietly
     opened the top bureau drawer to do a bit of meddling. He took out a little crystal
     cigarette lighter which she had had made from an old fashioned vinaigrette. This trinket
     so fascinated him that she had given it to him years ago. He still kept it with her
     things, however, so that he would have a legitimate reason for opening the drawer whenever
     he wished. He asked for the loan of her glasses and peered for a long time at the linen
     scarf on the chest of drawers. Then with his thumb and forefinger he picked up something
     invisible and carefully carried this speck over to the wastebasket. He was talking away to
     himself, but she paid no attention to his chatter.
    What would become of Anacleto when she was dead? That was a question that worried her
     constantly. Morris, of course, had promised her never to let him be in want but what
     would such a promise be worth when Morris married again, as he would be sure to do? She
     remembered the time seven years ago in the Philippines when Anacleto first came to her
     household. What a sad, strange little creature he had been! He was so tormented by the
     other houseboys that he dogged her footsteps all day long. If anyone so much as looked at
     him he would burst into tears and wring his hands. He was seventeen years old, but his
     sickly, clever, frightened face had the innocent expression of a child of ten. When they
     were making preparations to return to the States, he had begged her to take him with her,
     and she had done so. The two of them, she and Anacleto, could perhaps find a way to get
     along in the world together but what would he do when she was gone?
    'Anacleto, are you happy?' she asked him suddenly.
    The little Filipino was not one to be disturbed by any unexpected, intimate question.
     'Why, certainly,' he said, without a moment's consideration. 'When you are well.'
    The sun and firelight were bright in the room. There was a dancing spectrum on one of the
     walls and she watched this, half listening to Anacleto's soft conversation. 'What I find
     it so difficult to realize is that they know,' he was saying. Often he would begin a
     discussion with such a vague and mysterious remark, and she waited to catch the drift of
     it later. 'It was not until after I had been in your service for a long time that I really
     believed that you knew. Now I can believe it about everybody else except Mr. Sergei
     Rachmaninoff.'
    She turned her face toward him. 'What are you talking about?'
    'Madame Alison,' he said, 'do you yourself really believe that Mr. Sergei Rachmaninoff
     knows that a chair is something to be sat on and that a clock shows one the time? And if I
     should take off my shoe and hold it up to his face and say, “What is this, Mr. Sergei
     Rachmaninoff?” then he would answer, like anyone else, “Why, Anacleto, that is a shoe.” I
     myself find it hard to realize.'
    The Rachmaninoff recital