Dark Carnival by Ray Bradbury Page B

neglect and an indifference upon the part of the listener. Not a silence at all! And there was a winter silence, but it was an encoffined silence, ready to burst free at the first nod of spring; things had a compressed, a not-for-long feel, the silence made a sound unto itself, the freezing was so complete it made chimes of everything or detonations of a single breath or word you spoke at midnight on the diamond air. No, it was not a silence worthy of the name. There were also other silences. For instance — a silence between two lovers, when there need be no words. Colour came in his cheeks, he shut his eyes. It was a most pleasant silence, even if not complete, because women were always spoiling it by complaining of some little pressure or lack of pressure. He smiled. But with Alice Jane even that was eliminated. He had seen to everything. Everything was perfect.
        Whispering.
        He hoped the neighbours hadn't heard him shrieking like a fool.
        A faint whispering.
        Now, about silences. . . The best silence was one conceived in every aspect by an individual, himself, so that there could be no bursting of crystal bonds, no electric-insect hummings; the human mind could cope with each sound, each emergency, until such a complete silence was achieved that one could hear one's cells adjust in one's hand.
        A whispering.
        He shook his head. There was no whispering. There could be none in his house. Sweat began to seep down his body, his jaw loosened, his eyes were turned free in their sockets.
        Whisperings. Low rumours of talk.
        'I tell you I'm getting married,' he said, weakly, loosely.
        'You're lying,' said the whispers.
        His head fell forward on its neck as if hung, chin on chest.
        'Her name is Alice Jane — ' he mouthed it between soft, wet lips and the words were formless. One of his eyes began to jitter its lid up and down as if blinking out a code to some unseen guest. 'You can't stop me from loving her. I love her — '
        Whispering.
        He took a blind step forward.
        The cuff of his pants leg quivered as he reached the floor grille of the ventilator. A hot rise of air hollowed his cuffs. Whispering.
        The furnace.
       
        He was on his way downstairs when someone knocked on the front door.
        He leaned against it. 'Who is it?'
        'Mr. Greppin?'
        Greppin drew in his breath. 'Yes?'
        'Will you let us in, please?'
        'Who is it?'
        'The police,' said the man outside.
        'What do you want? I'm just sitting down to supper!'
        'Just want a talk with you. The neighbours phoned. Said they hadn't seen your aunt and uncle for two weeks. Heard a noise a while ago — '
        'I assure you everything is all right.' He forced a laugh.
        'Well, then,' continued the voice outside, 'we can talk it over in friendly style if you'll only open the door.'
        'I'm sorry,' insisted Greppin. 'I'm tired and hungry, come back tomorrow. I'll talk to you then, if you want.'
        'I'll have to insist , Mr. Greppin.'
        They began to beat against the door.
        Grippin turned automatically, stiffly, walked down the hall past the cold clock, into the dining-room, without a word. He seated himself without looking at any one in particular and then he began to talk, slowly at first, then more rapidly.
        'Some pests at the door. You'll talk to them, won't you, Aunt Rose? You'll tell them to go away, won't you, we're eating supper? Everyone else go on eating and look pleasant and they'll go away, if they do come in. Aunt Rose, you will talk to them, won't you? And now that things are happening I have something to tell you.' A few hot tears fell for no reason. He looked at them as they soaked and spread in the white linen, vanishing. 'I don't know anyone named Alice Jane Bellerd. I never knew anyone named Alice Jane Bellerd! It was all — all — I don't know. I said I loved her and wanted to marry her to get