with courtly precision. They wrote mysterious messages on the chart at the foot of her bed. They gathered in huddles and murmured outside her door. They brought in fresh white slabs of clean starched sheets. They distributed pills and tiny paper cups filled with lukewarm water. They administered enemas. Their wedding bands glowed on their smooth white hands. And they tactfully ignored the presence of the champion, to all intents and purposes didn’t see him at all. And so, of course, they couldn’t notice how, when the wheelchair, which would take their patient back to the lobby where Harold was waiting, appeared at the door, a man in skin-tight clothing put down his barbells and scratched the back of his neck, just as he might have had an insect landed there.
Gift
M onsieur Delacour was certain that it was spring. “Spring is here,” he announced, silently, to himself. The thought rattled in the rafters of his brain, avoiding altogether the area phrenologists label
voice
. Monsieur Delacour hadn’t had a voice for years. Some mysterious being or event had snatched it away from him and, the truth was, Monsieur Delacour couldn’t have cared less.
He also didn’t care about his left side. Whoever or whatever had snatched away the voice part of his brain had also made off with the area that controls the left arm and leg. And so Monsieur Delacour got around with the aid of a wooden crutch and his wonderful talent for hopping. A long, thin man, who had always resembled a large wading bird, Monsieur Delacour had adjusted, years ago, to his one-legged method of transportation. It suited him just fine. Later a doctor would actually remove the non-functioning left leg. But, at the moment, it was still attached to Monsieur Delacour. Still, he didn’t care about it. Not one bit.
He did, however, care about spring, and now, despite the winter chill that still hung in the air, he knew it was spring. His stubborn belief was based on the fact that today, for the first time in six months, a tiny feeble ray of sun had entered the damp octagonal square where Monsieur Delacour’s house occupied a corner. The sunbeam had paused briefly on a mouldy stone wall and then had quickly disappeared as if it were in a hurry to visit more attractive places; where grasses, or even weeds, were conceivable.
But sun, you say, can enter enclosed spaces even in winter. Not these spaces, not those winters. The sun had barely the strength to drag itself above the horizon, never mind the bravery to invade the narrow twisting streets and the slimy paved piazzas of Monsieur Delacour’s home town. Tall mossy walls everywhere, grey-green vegetation of the parasitic variety, everyone relocated or dead of the plague in the year 1527; that’s what it was like. We tourists love places like this. We think they look like the environments of fairy tales. We have never lived there.
But Monsieur Delacour loved it too—because it was his home town and because it provided him with a corner in which to live. Here he did what he could with his chickens and rabbits, did what he could with his wife. It had become apparent, early in his relationship with her, that whoever or whatever had snatched away the parts of his brain labelled
voice, left arm
, and
left leg
, had decided to leave the area marked
privates
totally unaltered. Hence Monsieur Delacour could do a great deal with his wife. And at the moment that we find him watching the sun on the wall he had eight children. And there would be more.
Monsieur Delacour’s wife was a handful. “She’s a handful,” said Monsieur Delacour, silently. Then he chuckled to himself.Like everything else the chuckle rattled in the rafters of his brain, refused, as it was, the release of vocal cords. A large woman, whose remaining teeth had been seriously eroded by the constant assault of chocolate, Madame Delacour was interested in everything: from weather to underwear, from school to defecation, from witches to astronauts,
Gift
M onsieur Delacour was certain that it was spring. “Spring is here,” he announced, silently, to himself. The thought rattled in the rafters of his brain, avoiding altogether the area phrenologists label
voice
. Monsieur Delacour hadn’t had a voice for years. Some mysterious being or event had snatched it away from him and, the truth was, Monsieur Delacour couldn’t have cared less.
He also didn’t care about his left side. Whoever or whatever had snatched away the voice part of his brain had also made off with the area that controls the left arm and leg. And so Monsieur Delacour got around with the aid of a wooden crutch and his wonderful talent for hopping. A long, thin man, who had always resembled a large wading bird, Monsieur Delacour had adjusted, years ago, to his one-legged method of transportation. It suited him just fine. Later a doctor would actually remove the non-functioning left leg. But, at the moment, it was still attached to Monsieur Delacour. Still, he didn’t care about it. Not one bit.
He did, however, care about spring, and now, despite the winter chill that still hung in the air, he knew it was spring. His stubborn belief was based on the fact that today, for the first time in six months, a tiny feeble ray of sun had entered the damp octagonal square where Monsieur Delacour’s house occupied a corner. The sunbeam had paused briefly on a mouldy stone wall and then had quickly disappeared as if it were in a hurry to visit more attractive places; where grasses, or even weeds, were conceivable.
But sun, you say, can enter enclosed spaces even in winter. Not these spaces, not those winters. The sun had barely the strength to drag itself above the horizon, never mind the bravery to invade the narrow twisting streets and the slimy paved piazzas of Monsieur Delacour’s home town. Tall mossy walls everywhere, grey-green vegetation of the parasitic variety, everyone relocated or dead of the plague in the year 1527; that’s what it was like. We tourists love places like this. We think they look like the environments of fairy tales. We have never lived there.
But Monsieur Delacour loved it too—because it was his home town and because it provided him with a corner in which to live. Here he did what he could with his chickens and rabbits, did what he could with his wife. It had become apparent, early in his relationship with her, that whoever or whatever had snatched away the parts of his brain labelled
voice, left arm
, and
left leg
, had decided to leave the area marked
privates
totally unaltered. Hence Monsieur Delacour could do a great deal with his wife. And at the moment that we find him watching the sun on the wall he had eight children. And there would be more.
Monsieur Delacour’s wife was a handful. “She’s a handful,” said Monsieur Delacour, silently. Then he chuckled to himself.Like everything else the chuckle rattled in the rafters of his brain, refused, as it was, the release of vocal cords. A large woman, whose remaining teeth had been seriously eroded by the constant assault of chocolate, Madame Delacour was interested in everything: from weather to underwear, from school to defecation, from witches to astronauts,
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