else.
ELLISON: Of course, that’s true.
bridge
Everyone knew that I was the kidnapped baby from Los Angeles, but as Steimmel had pointed out to Boris, their crimes, though perhaps not as grave, were serious enough, and none of them had any interest in turning in Steimmel. Least of all, Jelloffe. His business hinged on complete confidentiality and his crimes, cumulatively, were no doubt the greatest. What he had condoned and so conveniently overlooked made him at least an accomplice after the fact.
Steimmel was becoming more nervous and crazier by the day, not because she feared what I have already stated was so unlikely, namely being given up to the police, but because she didn’t know how to proceed with her dissection of me. My answers to her questions, though frequently truthful, were proving unhelpful, and so she resorted to performing the same tests on me, once more, over and over again with results so varied that she even once broke down and fell to her knees crying. Boris and I watched her descent together and, as my reading had suggested, such mutual witnessing caused us to become close. Perhaps not quite friends, but more like two sailors, one from the galley and the other from the engine room, awaiting rescue while clinging to the same floating deck chair.
ens realissimum
It was not a few times that I saw the face of Davis pressed up against the window of my room. I don’t how much she was able to see or how much she could have inferred if she had seen everything. She saw me doing my exercises and she saw me reading through one or another of the many books Boris had been bringing me from the institute’s rather nicely endowed library, but for all I knew she was aware only of my ability to turn a page. Perhaps, finally, that’s all I really did, having assumed that condition which was far too familiar, intense boredom. At least, at home I was sometimes amused by Inflato’s posturing and lack of self-consciousness about it, but Steimmel was the same, same, same every day, every hour. I hesistated to call her predictable, because that would have implied the possibility of something different. She was like gravity or the second law of thermodynamics. So, Davis’s face, and her ape’s, were actually somewhat welcomed. Finally, when it was clear that I was in the room alone or that Boris was sound asleep on his cot, Davis would tap on the panes and wave to me. And she would have Ronald wave, too. I just stared at them, realizing that perhaps the muscles of my baby face didn’t allow the range of expression I would have liked.
exousai
Boris sat at the desk, either making notes or playing crosses and naughts with himself. He was bored, the symptoms were unmistakable: listless sighing, absent scratching at the back of the head, overstated widening of the eyes as if to keep them open. It had been two weeks since our arrival and, though the communal meals had proven wooden, tedious, vapid, and stultifying, I, and apparently Boris as well, missed them, since Steimmel had decided that we shouldn’t attend because it was likely someone might figure out my real secret. Boris might even have been asleep and his hand working without him at the desk, because when a knock sounded at the door he nearly popped from his skin, then looked at the pencil in his hand as if to wonder what it was doing there. The knock came again. Boris went to the door and listened.
“Dr. Steimmel?” he said, softly.
“No, it’s me, Dr. Davis.”
Boris looked over at me and then put his ear back to the door. “Dr. Steimmel isn’t here.”
“I came to see you.”
Boris cleared his throat and grimaced. “Dr. Steimmel isn’t here and you really should go away.”
“Come on, let me in,” Davis said. “I’ve brought you a little something. And something for the little boy as well.”
Boris looked again at me, then wiped his hands on his trousers. “I’m going to open the door, but I’m telling you, you’ve got to get out of
ELLISON: Of course, that’s true.
bridge
Everyone knew that I was the kidnapped baby from Los Angeles, but as Steimmel had pointed out to Boris, their crimes, though perhaps not as grave, were serious enough, and none of them had any interest in turning in Steimmel. Least of all, Jelloffe. His business hinged on complete confidentiality and his crimes, cumulatively, were no doubt the greatest. What he had condoned and so conveniently overlooked made him at least an accomplice after the fact.
Steimmel was becoming more nervous and crazier by the day, not because she feared what I have already stated was so unlikely, namely being given up to the police, but because she didn’t know how to proceed with her dissection of me. My answers to her questions, though frequently truthful, were proving unhelpful, and so she resorted to performing the same tests on me, once more, over and over again with results so varied that she even once broke down and fell to her knees crying. Boris and I watched her descent together and, as my reading had suggested, such mutual witnessing caused us to become close. Perhaps not quite friends, but more like two sailors, one from the galley and the other from the engine room, awaiting rescue while clinging to the same floating deck chair.
ens realissimum
It was not a few times that I saw the face of Davis pressed up against the window of my room. I don’t how much she was able to see or how much she could have inferred if she had seen everything. She saw me doing my exercises and she saw me reading through one or another of the many books Boris had been bringing me from the institute’s rather nicely endowed library, but for all I knew she was aware only of my ability to turn a page. Perhaps, finally, that’s all I really did, having assumed that condition which was far too familiar, intense boredom. At least, at home I was sometimes amused by Inflato’s posturing and lack of self-consciousness about it, but Steimmel was the same, same, same every day, every hour. I hesistated to call her predictable, because that would have implied the possibility of something different. She was like gravity or the second law of thermodynamics. So, Davis’s face, and her ape’s, were actually somewhat welcomed. Finally, when it was clear that I was in the room alone or that Boris was sound asleep on his cot, Davis would tap on the panes and wave to me. And she would have Ronald wave, too. I just stared at them, realizing that perhaps the muscles of my baby face didn’t allow the range of expression I would have liked.
exousai
Boris sat at the desk, either making notes or playing crosses and naughts with himself. He was bored, the symptoms were unmistakable: listless sighing, absent scratching at the back of the head, overstated widening of the eyes as if to keep them open. It had been two weeks since our arrival and, though the communal meals had proven wooden, tedious, vapid, and stultifying, I, and apparently Boris as well, missed them, since Steimmel had decided that we shouldn’t attend because it was likely someone might figure out my real secret. Boris might even have been asleep and his hand working without him at the desk, because when a knock sounded at the door he nearly popped from his skin, then looked at the pencil in his hand as if to wonder what it was doing there. The knock came again. Boris went to the door and listened.
“Dr. Steimmel?” he said, softly.
“No, it’s me, Dr. Davis.”
Boris looked over at me and then put his ear back to the door. “Dr. Steimmel isn’t here.”
“I came to see you.”
Boris cleared his throat and grimaced. “Dr. Steimmel isn’t here and you really should go away.”
“Come on, let me in,” Davis said. “I’ve brought you a little something. And something for the little boy as well.”
Boris looked again at me, then wiped his hands on his trousers. “I’m going to open the door, but I’m telling you, you’ve got to get out of
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