countertops—these actions calmed her. But.
She rather missed the dog now. She wouldn’t quite admit it, but she rather missed the noise.
She wouldn’t mind, she decided, even if one of the children or a looter came to stand outside and shout at the walls.
Then, after a moment, she realized that they just might be outside that very moment and that, unless she looked, she would never know.
So she looked. And sure enough, eight boys stood in a semicircle in the front yard. Their shouts, amplified (or so she imagined) by hollowed-out plastic drinking cups, warmed the air around her house. Standing on the porch, she removed her sweater.
They must be very young,
she thought.
Their voices haven’t changed, or else they are hoarse from hours of shouting, weeks of shouting.
The damage their voices caused was negligible.
Still, the grass at their feet browned, and the plants closest to them wilted under the weight of their breath. It was obvious they were trying their best. But in the end, their wasted efforts only depressed her further.
Dressed in her space suit, she walked protected through the neighborhood for the first time in months. She waved at her neighbors’ houses. She smiled at the sunshine. Twice, she stopped her walk to bend down to the earth and unroot the small blades of grass pushing through cracks in the sidewalk.
If looters whistled at her, she took no notice. One or two children ran up to her, throwing their voices at her, and then ran away, unsettled, frightened when nothing happened, when she showed neither sign of fear or anger.
The suit wasn’t meant for space, she knew, but
space suit
had become a loving term between her and her husband.
Put on your space suit and we can sit outside,
he’d say.
Let’s put on our suits so we can make love.
There were no real space suits, just as there was no real space.
But before, even wearing the suit, even wearing two suits, she wouldn’t have dared walk outside for such a prolonged time. No matter how protected her body, no amount of fabric or material could protect her ears. The small predatory birds, in order to survive, had learned the construction of angles and reflection, refraction of sound that could pierce even the most secure ear-covers. Furthermore, the rustle of leaves, the crack of twigs, the rushing sound of a strong wind—any of these could be harmful, or fatal, even.
How the children and the looters had survived these past few months, she never managed to discover.
The wind swept tattered pieces of soundproofing and insulation past her and down the street. She looked at the other houses surrounding hers, which seemed as cracked and chipped and crumbling as her own. At one point, a small bird fell from the sky to land just feet away from her, knocked unconscious, she assumed, only then to be jawed by an emaciated cat, which must have screeched and hissed the bird out of the sky. She had hoped getting out of the house would have done her some good, calmed her down, made her feel somehow less guilty, but being a witness to all of this had only exhausted and saddened her. She was glad her husband couldn’t have come with her.
She had decided to turn around and walk home then, to go back to him, to tend to him as best she could, when something struck her in the small of her back. She turned around, startled, expecting to see someone with a bullhorn or some other voice amplifier, something strong that could punch through her suit. Instead she saw a huddle of boys with rocks and sticks, made timid by the unfamiliar speed of thrown objects. They stood silent at her. Then, one of the boys lifted his hand and threw, his rock glancing her shoulder, then another boy, and then the rush of them, like a dam bursting open, each of them picking up new stones or collecting those already thrown, flooding over her, each with his mouth closed.
The Artist’s Voice
I.
I first met Karl Abbasonov after he had been transferred from the
She rather missed the dog now. She wouldn’t quite admit it, but she rather missed the noise.
She wouldn’t mind, she decided, even if one of the children or a looter came to stand outside and shout at the walls.
Then, after a moment, she realized that they just might be outside that very moment and that, unless she looked, she would never know.
So she looked. And sure enough, eight boys stood in a semicircle in the front yard. Their shouts, amplified (or so she imagined) by hollowed-out plastic drinking cups, warmed the air around her house. Standing on the porch, she removed her sweater.
They must be very young,
she thought.
Their voices haven’t changed, or else they are hoarse from hours of shouting, weeks of shouting.
The damage their voices caused was negligible.
Still, the grass at their feet browned, and the plants closest to them wilted under the weight of their breath. It was obvious they were trying their best. But in the end, their wasted efforts only depressed her further.
Dressed in her space suit, she walked protected through the neighborhood for the first time in months. She waved at her neighbors’ houses. She smiled at the sunshine. Twice, she stopped her walk to bend down to the earth and unroot the small blades of grass pushing through cracks in the sidewalk.
If looters whistled at her, she took no notice. One or two children ran up to her, throwing their voices at her, and then ran away, unsettled, frightened when nothing happened, when she showed neither sign of fear or anger.
The suit wasn’t meant for space, she knew, but
space suit
had become a loving term between her and her husband.
Put on your space suit and we can sit outside,
he’d say.
Let’s put on our suits so we can make love.
There were no real space suits, just as there was no real space.
But before, even wearing the suit, even wearing two suits, she wouldn’t have dared walk outside for such a prolonged time. No matter how protected her body, no amount of fabric or material could protect her ears. The small predatory birds, in order to survive, had learned the construction of angles and reflection, refraction of sound that could pierce even the most secure ear-covers. Furthermore, the rustle of leaves, the crack of twigs, the rushing sound of a strong wind—any of these could be harmful, or fatal, even.
How the children and the looters had survived these past few months, she never managed to discover.
The wind swept tattered pieces of soundproofing and insulation past her and down the street. She looked at the other houses surrounding hers, which seemed as cracked and chipped and crumbling as her own. At one point, a small bird fell from the sky to land just feet away from her, knocked unconscious, she assumed, only then to be jawed by an emaciated cat, which must have screeched and hissed the bird out of the sky. She had hoped getting out of the house would have done her some good, calmed her down, made her feel somehow less guilty, but being a witness to all of this had only exhausted and saddened her. She was glad her husband couldn’t have come with her.
She had decided to turn around and walk home then, to go back to him, to tend to him as best she could, when something struck her in the small of her back. She turned around, startled, expecting to see someone with a bullhorn or some other voice amplifier, something strong that could punch through her suit. Instead she saw a huddle of boys with rocks and sticks, made timid by the unfamiliar speed of thrown objects. They stood silent at her. Then, one of the boys lifted his hand and threw, his rock glancing her shoulder, then another boy, and then the rush of them, like a dam bursting open, each of them picking up new stones or collecting those already thrown, flooding over her, each with his mouth closed.
The Artist’s Voice
I.
I first met Karl Abbasonov after he had been transferred from the
Similar Books
