and this morning.”
“Will you come again? Bird, it’s possible we may need each other.”
If suddenly a mute had screamed, Bird would not have been more astonished. Himiko was looking up at him with her thick eyelids lowered and her brow creased.
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe we do need each other.”
Like an explorer tramping marsh country, Bird made his way in trepidation over thorny stems and scratchy bits of wire through the darkness of the living room; and when finally he bent forward in the vestibule, he hurried into his socks and shoes, afraid that nausea might set in.
“So long,” Bird called. “Sleep well!” Himiko was silent as a stone.
Bird stepped outside. A summer morning filled with light as sharp as vinegar. As Bird passed the scarlet MG, he noticed the key in theignition switch. One of these days a thief would make off with the car with no trouble at all. The thought saddened him. Himiko! How could such a diligent, careful, and astute co-ed have been transformed into this flawed personality? The girl had married only to have her young husband kill himself, and now, after the catharsis of racing her car far into the night, she saw dreams that made her moan in terror.
Bird started to take the key out of the switch. But if he returned to the room where his friend lay in the darkness, frowning in silence with her eyes shut tight, getting back outside again promised to be difficult. Bird let go of the key, and looked around; there were no car thieves lurking in the vicinity, he consoled himself, at least not at the moment. On the ground next to one of the spoke wheels was a cigar butt. That little man with an egg for a head must have dropped it there last night. The group looking after Himiko on more intimate terms than Bird was certain to be large in number.
Bird shook his head roughly and took a few deep breaths, trying to defend himself against the crawfish of his hangover, armored in a host of threats. But he was unable to rid himself of a bludgeoned feeling, and he stepped out of the glistening alley with his head bowed.
Nonetheless, Bird cunningly managed to hold up all the way to and through the school gate. There was the street, the platform, then the train. Worst was the train, but Bird survived the vibrations and the odor of other bodies despite his parched throat. Of all the passengers in the car, Bird alone was sweating, as if full summer had rushed in to occupy the square yard around him only. People who brushed bodies with him all turned back to stare suspiciously. Bird could only cringe and, like a pig that had glutted a crate of lemons, exhale citric breath. His eyes restlessly roamed the car, searching for a spot to which he could dash in case of an urgent need to vomit.
When he finally arrived at the school gate without having been sick to his stomach, Bird felt like an old soldier exhausted by a long retreat from battle. But the worst was still to come. The enemy had circled and lay in wait ahead.
Bird took a reader and a chalk box out of his locker. He glanced at the Concise Oxford Dictionary on top of the shelf, but today it looked too heavy to carry all the way to class. And there were several students in his class whose knowledge of idioms and rules of grammar far exceeded his own. If he encountered a word he had never seen, or adifficult phrase, he would only have to call on one of them. The heads of Bird’s students were so crammed with knowledge of details they were as complicated as hyper-evolved clams: the minute they tried to perceive a problem integrally, the mechanism tangled in itself and stalled. It was accordingly Bird’s job to integrate and summarize the entire meaning of a passage. Yet he was in constant doubt close to an incombustible fixation about whether his classes were of any use when it came to college entrance examinations.
Hoping to avoid his department chairman, a personable, keen-eyed University of Michigan graduate who had risen, it was clear,
“Will you come again? Bird, it’s possible we may need each other.”
If suddenly a mute had screamed, Bird would not have been more astonished. Himiko was looking up at him with her thick eyelids lowered and her brow creased.
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe we do need each other.”
Like an explorer tramping marsh country, Bird made his way in trepidation over thorny stems and scratchy bits of wire through the darkness of the living room; and when finally he bent forward in the vestibule, he hurried into his socks and shoes, afraid that nausea might set in.
“So long,” Bird called. “Sleep well!” Himiko was silent as a stone.
Bird stepped outside. A summer morning filled with light as sharp as vinegar. As Bird passed the scarlet MG, he noticed the key in theignition switch. One of these days a thief would make off with the car with no trouble at all. The thought saddened him. Himiko! How could such a diligent, careful, and astute co-ed have been transformed into this flawed personality? The girl had married only to have her young husband kill himself, and now, after the catharsis of racing her car far into the night, she saw dreams that made her moan in terror.
Bird started to take the key out of the switch. But if he returned to the room where his friend lay in the darkness, frowning in silence with her eyes shut tight, getting back outside again promised to be difficult. Bird let go of the key, and looked around; there were no car thieves lurking in the vicinity, he consoled himself, at least not at the moment. On the ground next to one of the spoke wheels was a cigar butt. That little man with an egg for a head must have dropped it there last night. The group looking after Himiko on more intimate terms than Bird was certain to be large in number.
Bird shook his head roughly and took a few deep breaths, trying to defend himself against the crawfish of his hangover, armored in a host of threats. But he was unable to rid himself of a bludgeoned feeling, and he stepped out of the glistening alley with his head bowed.
Nonetheless, Bird cunningly managed to hold up all the way to and through the school gate. There was the street, the platform, then the train. Worst was the train, but Bird survived the vibrations and the odor of other bodies despite his parched throat. Of all the passengers in the car, Bird alone was sweating, as if full summer had rushed in to occupy the square yard around him only. People who brushed bodies with him all turned back to stare suspiciously. Bird could only cringe and, like a pig that had glutted a crate of lemons, exhale citric breath. His eyes restlessly roamed the car, searching for a spot to which he could dash in case of an urgent need to vomit.
When he finally arrived at the school gate without having been sick to his stomach, Bird felt like an old soldier exhausted by a long retreat from battle. But the worst was still to come. The enemy had circled and lay in wait ahead.
Bird took a reader and a chalk box out of his locker. He glanced at the Concise Oxford Dictionary on top of the shelf, but today it looked too heavy to carry all the way to class. And there were several students in his class whose knowledge of idioms and rules of grammar far exceeded his own. If he encountered a word he had never seen, or adifficult phrase, he would only have to call on one of them. The heads of Bird’s students were so crammed with knowledge of details they were as complicated as hyper-evolved clams: the minute they tried to perceive a problem integrally, the mechanism tangled in itself and stalled. It was accordingly Bird’s job to integrate and summarize the entire meaning of a passage. Yet he was in constant doubt close to an incombustible fixation about whether his classes were of any use when it came to college entrance examinations.
Hoping to avoid his department chairman, a personable, keen-eyed University of Michigan graduate who had risen, it was clear,
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