could see the finger begin to tighten on the trigger.
But something had happened to the old man, perhaps the strain of climbing the stairs, perhaps some element of unexpectedness in his own situation that undercut his alertness no matter how refreshed and satisfied his face appeared. The gun wavered subtly in his hand as he was trying to get off the shot. Then, in slow-motion, he was able to bring the gun to fire, and Wulff, hitting the floor, rolling already on the floor in a spasm of reflex that might have saved him even if the shot had been accurate, heard the bullet hit the wall just above him, little showers of plaster coming down, spanging off his forehead.
“Son of a bitch!” the man said, “son of a bitch!” and Wulff could hear his breath, his little aimless kicks at the floor as he concentrated on the gun, trying to get off the second shot, but the second shot, when it came, did so only very slowly, this one hitting all the way above him, splattering the ceiling. Wulff, rolling, a fine sense of aimlessness as he spun on the floor, the revolutions a disconnection, reached into his pocket, got out his own gun and fired almost blindly, pumped a single shot into the place where he thought the man was standing. “Son of a bitch!” the man screamed again, “dirty bastard!” and got off yet one more shot, completely wild. Wulff now had him placed exactly and in one careful motion bore in on the man and shot him in the gun hand.
The man screamed, the gun fell from his hand like ash, and suddenly he was hurled in upon himself, covering his wrist, yanking it against his chest like a shopping bag, an expression of fine and discrete agony coming all through his face, opening that face to an almost youthful expression. He did not look sixty in his pain, but fifteen, a young man astonished at the violation of his body. Wulff was already on his feet, drawing up his knees underneath him, scrambling to a weaving, standing position, the gun dangling from his hand like a leaf. Then, instead of closing ground on the man who had caved into a corner, holding his wrist and squealing like a rabbit, he went to the door, kicked it shut, threw the bolt and chain on it, then came back to the center1 of the room and looked at the man once again, an inconsequential object huddled down against the wall, shrunken and, in some reversal, aged once again, his eyes spinning him through decades of chronology so that within seconds what looked at Wulff out of those eyes was again a very old man. “No,” he said, as he saw Wulff raise the gun, “no, don’t do it.”
“Don’t do it!” Wulff said. “How can I not do it?” He concentrated on the series of actions—death was very easy to bring if you looked on it only as a matter of mechanics; let the rest of it be a religious problem, he would concentrate on the technology of the administration of death—he pointed the gun at the old man, leveling it slowly, holding it locked in place by that knot of concentration, then tensing the body to deliver the torrent of death.
Everything locked into place, froze, drifted in a moment devoid of time, the old man’s mouth opening like a fish, his hands twisting, eyes fluttering; his attention seemed to shift from Wulff to something inside him then, as if death had announced itself from some secret place and was now stalking him, greeting him with upraised fist. The old man doubled into that knowledge. Holding the gun Wulff felt a sudden moment of indecision: the old man was dead now, he was dead as of this moment. If he were to pull the gun away and order him out of the room, the old man would go and never bother him again because in some intricate way he had been broken. But on the back of that was the insight that only death’s apprehension had broken the old man, only the sure, swift knowledge of his own death, and that came out of certainty; remove the certainty and it would be as if nothing had happened.
No. He could not tolerate that.
But something had happened to the old man, perhaps the strain of climbing the stairs, perhaps some element of unexpectedness in his own situation that undercut his alertness no matter how refreshed and satisfied his face appeared. The gun wavered subtly in his hand as he was trying to get off the shot. Then, in slow-motion, he was able to bring the gun to fire, and Wulff, hitting the floor, rolling already on the floor in a spasm of reflex that might have saved him even if the shot had been accurate, heard the bullet hit the wall just above him, little showers of plaster coming down, spanging off his forehead.
“Son of a bitch!” the man said, “son of a bitch!” and Wulff could hear his breath, his little aimless kicks at the floor as he concentrated on the gun, trying to get off the second shot, but the second shot, when it came, did so only very slowly, this one hitting all the way above him, splattering the ceiling. Wulff, rolling, a fine sense of aimlessness as he spun on the floor, the revolutions a disconnection, reached into his pocket, got out his own gun and fired almost blindly, pumped a single shot into the place where he thought the man was standing. “Son of a bitch!” the man screamed again, “dirty bastard!” and got off yet one more shot, completely wild. Wulff now had him placed exactly and in one careful motion bore in on the man and shot him in the gun hand.
The man screamed, the gun fell from his hand like ash, and suddenly he was hurled in upon himself, covering his wrist, yanking it against his chest like a shopping bag, an expression of fine and discrete agony coming all through his face, opening that face to an almost youthful expression. He did not look sixty in his pain, but fifteen, a young man astonished at the violation of his body. Wulff was already on his feet, drawing up his knees underneath him, scrambling to a weaving, standing position, the gun dangling from his hand like a leaf. Then, instead of closing ground on the man who had caved into a corner, holding his wrist and squealing like a rabbit, he went to the door, kicked it shut, threw the bolt and chain on it, then came back to the center1 of the room and looked at the man once again, an inconsequential object huddled down against the wall, shrunken and, in some reversal, aged once again, his eyes spinning him through decades of chronology so that within seconds what looked at Wulff out of those eyes was again a very old man. “No,” he said, as he saw Wulff raise the gun, “no, don’t do it.”
“Don’t do it!” Wulff said. “How can I not do it?” He concentrated on the series of actions—death was very easy to bring if you looked on it only as a matter of mechanics; let the rest of it be a religious problem, he would concentrate on the technology of the administration of death—he pointed the gun at the old man, leveling it slowly, holding it locked in place by that knot of concentration, then tensing the body to deliver the torrent of death.
Everything locked into place, froze, drifted in a moment devoid of time, the old man’s mouth opening like a fish, his hands twisting, eyes fluttering; his attention seemed to shift from Wulff to something inside him then, as if death had announced itself from some secret place and was now stalking him, greeting him with upraised fist. The old man doubled into that knowledge. Holding the gun Wulff felt a sudden moment of indecision: the old man was dead now, he was dead as of this moment. If he were to pull the gun away and order him out of the room, the old man would go and never bother him again because in some intricate way he had been broken. But on the back of that was the insight that only death’s apprehension had broken the old man, only the sure, swift knowledge of his own death, and that came out of certainty; remove the certainty and it would be as if nothing had happened.
No. He could not tolerate that.
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