热点推荐

查看: 13608|回复: 36

The Dead Father(by Donald Barthelme)

[复制链接]

0

主题

0

帖子

2

积分

革命小将

Rank: 1

积分
2
发表于 2006-7-30 01:57:23 | 显示全部楼层 |阅读模式
The Dead Father

by Donald Barthelme


1
Eleven o'clock in the morning. The sun doing its work in the sky.

The men are tiring, said Julie. Perhaps you should give them a break.

Thomas made the "break" signal waving his arm in a downward motion.

The men fell out by the roadside. The cable relaxed in the road.

This grand expedition, the Dead Father said, this waltz across an unknown parquet, this little band of brothers. . .

You are not a brother, Julie reminded him. Do not get waltzed away.

That they should so love me, the Dead Father said, as to haul and haul and haul and haul, through the long days and nights and less than optimal weather conditions. . .

Julie looked away.

My children, the Dead Father said. Mine. Mine. Mine.

Thomas lay down with his head in Julie's lap.

Many sad things have befallen me, he said, and many sad things are yet to befall me, but the saddest thing of all is that fellow Edmund. The fat one.

The drunk, Julie said.

Yes.

How did you come by him?

I was standing in the square, on a beer keg as I remember, signing people up, and heard this swallowing noise under my feet. Edmund. Swallowing the tap.

You knew, then. Before you signed him up.

He begged. He was abject.

A son of mine, nevertheless, said the Dead Father.

It would be the making of him, he said. Our march. I did not agree. But it is hard to deny someone the thing he thinks will be the making of him. I signed him up.

He has handsome hair, Julie said. That I've noticed.

He was happy to throw away the cap-and-bells, said Thomas. As we all were, he added, looking pointedly at the Dead Father.

Thomas pulled an orange fool's cap tipped with silver bells from his knapsack.

To think that I have worn this abomination, or its mate, since I was sixteen.

Sixteen to sixty-five, so says the law, said the Dead Father.

This does not make you loved.

Loved! Not a matter of love. A matter of Organization.

All the little heads so gay, said Julie. Makes one look a perfect fool, the cap. Brown-and-beige, maroon-and-gray, red-and-green, all bells chilattering. What a picture. I thought, What perfect fools.

As was intended, said the Dead Father.

And had I been caught out-of-doors without it, my ears cut off, said Thomas. What a notion. What an imagination.

A certain artistry, said the Dead Father. In my ukases.

Let us lunch, said Julie. Although it's early.

The roadside. The tablecloth. Ringle of dinnerbell. Toasted prawns. They disposed themselves around the cloth in this fashion:








Quite good.

Not so bad.

Is there mustard?

In the pot.

Something in it.

What?

Look there.

Pick it out with your finger.

Nasty little bugger.

Pass the prawns.

And for dessert?

Fig Newtons.

They sat contentedly around the cloth, munching. Ahead of them, the lunch fires of the men. The cable slack in the roadway.

Soon we will be there, said the Dead Father.

Fourteen days or fifteen days, I reckon, Thomas said. If we are headed right.

Is there any doubt?

There is always doubt.

When we are there, and when I wrap myself in its warm yellowness, then I will be young again, said the Dead Father. I shall once more be wiry.

Wiry! Julie exclaimed. She stuffed a part of the tablecloth into her mouth.

My dear, Thomas said. He extended a hand which of itself and without guidance grasped one of her handsome breasts.

Not in front of him.

Thomas removed the hand.

Can you tell us, he asked, what that hussar had done? The one we saw hanged by the neck from the tree back down the road a bit.

Disobeyed a ukase, said the Dead Father. I forget which ukase.

Oh, said Thomas.

Nobody disobeys a ukase of mine, said the Dead Father. He chuckled.

Smug, isn't he, said Julie.

A bit smug, said Thomas.

A bit, the Dead Father said.

They gazed at each other fondly. Three fond gazes roving like searchlights across the prawns.

They packed up. Thomas gave the signal. The cable jerked. The sun still. Trees. Vegetation. Wild gooseberries. Weather.

I'll let you have a wipe of it sometimes, the Dead Father said. Both of you.

Thanks, Julie said.

When I embrace or am embraced by its damned fine luster, the Dead Father said, all this will seem worthwhile.

He paused. Even the cable. Another pause.

Even those galoots you hired to haul on the cable.

Volunteers, every one, Thomas said. Delighted to be in your service. To be wearing your livery.

No matter. When I clutch its fine golden strands to my ancient bosom --

His hopes are got up, I'm afraid, Julie said.

Thomas flang his sword into a bush.

It's not fair! he exclaimed.

What's not fair?

Why do I feel so bad? he asked, looking round him in every direction, as if for an answer.

Are you ill?

I could use a suck of the breast, Thomas said.

Not in front of him.

They retired from the Dead Father's view, behind a proliferation of Queen Anne's lace. Julie seated herself on the ground and opened her blouse. Two bold breasts presented themselves, the left a little smaller than the right but just as handsome in its own way.

Ah! said Thomas, after a time. Nothing like a suck of the breast. Is there more?

While I live, beloved.

Thomas indulged himself further.

Julie buttoned her blouse. They emerged hand-in-hand from the Queen Anne's lace, Thomas swabbing his chops with the hand that was not hand-in-hand.

A bit left out, said the Dead Father. A bit. That is what I feel, at this moment.

Suffer, said Thomas, reclaiming his sword from the bush.

Excluded, said the Dead Father.

It is because you are an old fart, Julie explained. Old farts don't get much.

The Dead Father leaped to his feet and stormed off down the road, upon receiving this information. His golden robes flaring all about him. The cable trailing.

He has slipped his cable, said Thomas.

They stormed off after him. When they caught up, they found a terrible scene.

The Dead Father was slaying, in a grove of music and musicians. First he slew a harpist and then a performer upon the serpent and also a banger upon the rattle and also a blower of the Persian trumpet and one upon the Indian trumpet and one upon the Hebrew trumpet and one upon the Roman trumpet and one upon the Chinese trumpet of copper-covered wood. Also a blower upon the marrow trumpet and one upon the slide trumpet and one who wearing upon his head the skin of a cat performed upon the menacing murmurous cornu and three blowers on the hunting horn and several blowers of the conch shell and a player of the double aulos and flautists of all descriptions and a Panpiper and a fagotto player and two virtuosos of the quail whistle and a zampogna player whose fingering of the chanters was sweet to the ear and by-the-bye and during a rest period he slew four buzzers and a shawmist and one blower upon the water jar and a clavicytheriumist who was before he slew her a woman, and a stroker of the theorbo and countless nervous-fingered drummers as well as an archlutist, and then whanging his sword this way and that the Dead Father slew a cittern plucker and five lyresmiters and various mandolinists, and slew too a violist and a player of the kit and a picker of the psaltery and a beater of the dulcimer and a hurdy-gurdier and a player of the spike fiddle and sundry kettledrummers and a triangulist and two-score finger cymbal clinkers and a xylophone artist and two gongers and a player of the small semantron who fell with his iron hammer still in his hand and a trictrac specialist and a marimbist and a maracist and a falcon drummer and a sheng blower and a sansa pusher and a manipulator of the gilded ball.

The Dead Father resting with his two hands on the hilt of his sword, which was planted in the red and steaming earth.

My anger, he said proudly.

Then the Dead Father sheathing his sword pulled from his trousers his ancient prick and pissed upon the dead artists, severally and together, to the best of his ability. . . four minutes, or one pint.

Impressive, said Julie, had they not been pure cardboard.

My dear, said Thomas, you deal too harshly with him.

I have the greatest possible respect for him and for what he represents, said Julie, let us proceed.

They proceeded.
回复

使用道具 举报

0

主题

0

帖子

2

积分

革命小将

Rank: 1

积分
2
发表于 2006-7-30 01:58:37 | 显示全部楼层

RE: The Dead Father(by Donald Barthelme)

2
The countryside. Flowers. Creeping snowberry. The road with dust. The sweat popping from little sweat glands. The line of the cable.

Beautiful country around here, said Julie.

Gorgeous, said Thomas.

Great to be alive, said the Dead Father. To breathe in and out. To feel one's muscles bite and snap.

How is your leg? Thomas asked. The mechanical one.

It is incomparable, said the Dead Father. Magnificent, that would be a word for it. I would I had two as good as the left. Old Plugalong.

How did you come by it? asked Thomas. Accident or design?

The latter, said the Dead Father. In my vastness, there was room for, necessity of, every kind of experience. I therefore decided that mechanical experience was a part of experience there was room for, in my vastness. I wanted to know what machines know.

What do machines know?

Machines are sober, uncomplaining, endlessly efficient, and work ceaselessly through all the hours for the good of all, said the Dead Father. They dream, when they dream, of stopping. Of last things. They --

What's that? Thomas interrupted. He was pointing to the side of the road.

Two children. One male. One female. Not too big. Not too small. Holding hands.

Children in love, said Julie.

In love? How do you know?

I have an eye for love, she said, and there it is. A clear instance.

Children, said the Dead Father. Whippersnappers.

What is that? the children asked, pointing to the Dead Father.

That is a Dead Father, Thomas told them.

The children hugged each other tightly.

He doesn't look dead to us, said the girl.

He is walking, said the boy. Or standing up, anyhow.

He is dead only in a sense, Thomas said.

The children kissed each other, on the lips.

They don't seem very impressed, said the Dead Father. Where is the awe?

They are lost in each other, said Julie. Soaks up all available awe.

Don't seem old enough, Thomas said. How old are you? he asked.

We are twenty, said the girl. I am ten and he is ten. Old enough. We are going to live together all our lives and love each other all our lives until we die. We know it. But don't tell anyone because we'll be beaten, if the knowledge becomes general.

Aren't they supposed to be throwing rocks at each other at this age? Thomas asked.

Always magnificent exceptions, Julie said.

We have cut our fingers with an X-Acto knife and mingled our bloods, the boy said.

Two tiny forefingers with short crusty cuts exhibited.

Did you sterilize the knife? I hope? Julie asked.

We dangled it in the vodka bottle, said the girl. I judged that sufficient.

That would do it, Thomas said.

We will never be parted. I am Hilda and he is Lars. When he is eighteen he is going to refuse to do his military service and I am going to do something so I can be put in the same jail with him, I haven't thought it up yet.

Admirable, Julie said.

We are together, said Hilda, and will always be. You are too old to know how it is.

I am?

You must be about twenty-six.

Exactly.

And he is even older, she said, indicating Thomas.

Considerably, Thomas admitted.

And he, she pointed to the Dead Father, must be, I can't imagine. Maybe a hundred.

Wrong, the Dead Father said gaily. Wrong, but close. Even older than that, but also younger. Having it both ways is a thing I like.

All this age fills up your heads, Hilda said. So you cannot remember what it was like, being a child. Probably you don't even remember the fear. So much of the it. So little of you. The lunge under the blanket.

There is still more of the it than there is of me, said Thomas. But one gets along reasonably well.

Reasonably, said the girl, what a word.

The children began caressing each other, with hands and cheeks and hair.

Do we have to witness this? asked the Dead Father. This gross physicality?

You are in a new world, Thomas said. Nine-year-olds are arrested for rape. This is not that. Be grateful.

Dyscrasia, the Dead Father said, that is what I think of it. Pathological. I shall issue a ukase against it.

Are you in school? Julie asked the children.

Of course we are in school, Hilda said. Why does everyone always ask a child if he or she is in school? We are all in school. There is no way to excape.

Do you want to excape?

Didn't you?

What do you study in school?

We are invigorated with the sweet sensuality of language. We learn to make sentences. Come to me. May I come to your house? Christmas comes but once a year. I'll come to your question. The light comes and goes. Success comes to those who strive. Tuesday comes after Monday. Her aria comes in the third act. Toothpaste comes in a tube. Peaches come from trees and good results do not come from careless work. This comes of thoughtlessness. The baby came at dawn. She comes from Warsaw. He comes from a good family. It will come easy with a little practice. I'll come to thee by moonlight, though --

I think this child is a bit of a smart-ass, said the Dead Father. I shall cause her to be sent to a Special School and her rusty-mouthed companion there also.

If you do that we shall leap into the reservoir, Lars said, together. And drown. I am going to tell you something utterly astounding, surprising, marvelous, miraculous, triumphant, astonishing, unheard of, singular, extraordinary, incredible, unforeseen, vast, tiny, rare, common, glaring, secret until today, brilliant and enviable; in short something unexampled in previous ages except for one single instance which is not really comparable; something we find impossible to believe in Paris (so how could anyone in Lyons believe it?), something which makes everyone exclaim aloud in amazement, something which causes the greatest joy to those who know of it, something, in short, which will make you doubt the evidence of your senses: We don't care what you think.

I am offended, said the Dead Father.

I was quoting Mme de Sévigné, said the boy, except for the last part, which was mine.

These children are tuned a little fine, the Dead Father said, a Special School is the answer.

Is that the kind that looks like a zoo?

There are cages, yes. But we have been experimenting with moats.

No way, the children said.

The children standing and washing each other with their active hands.

I cannot bear to look longer, said Julie, let us proceed.

These are odd children, Thomas said, but all children are odd children, rightly regarded.

Shout of Thomas to the men: Resume, resume!

Tightening of the cable.

Small gifts to the children: a power mower, a Blendor.

They will need them in their long lives together, Thomas explained.

Goodbye! Goodbye! the children shouted. Don't tell, please don't tell, never tell, never tell, please!

We won't we won't we won't! they shouted back. The Dead Father did not shout.

Children, he said. Without children I would not be the Father. No Fatherhood without childhood. I never wanted it, it was thrust upon me. Tribute of a sort but I could have done without, fathering then raising each one of the thousands and thousands and tens of thousands, the inflation of the little bundle to big bundle, period of years, and then making sure the big bundles if male wore their cap-and-bells, and if not observed the principle of jus primae noctis, the embarrassment of sending away those I didn't want, the pain of sending away those I did want, out into the lifestream of the city, nevermore to warm my cold couch, and the management of the hussars, maintenance of public order, keeping the zip codes straight, keeping the fug out of the gutters, would have preferred remaining in my study comparing editions of Klinger, the first state, the second state, the third state, and so on, was there parting along the fold? and so on, water stain and so on, but this was not possible, all went forth and multiplied, and multiplied, and multiplied, and I had to Father, it was the natural order, thousands, tens of thousands, but I wanted to wonder if if if I put a wood pulp mat next to a 100 percent rag print would there be foxing and whether the rumblings of the underground would shake the chalk dust from my pastels or not. I never wanted it, it was thrust upon me. I wanted to worry about the action of the sun fading what I valued most, strong browns turning to pale browns if not vacant yellows, how to protect against, that sort of thing, but no, I had to devour them, hundreds, thousands, feefifofum, sometimes their shoes too, get a good mouthful of childleg and you find, between your teeth, the poisoned sneaker. Hair as well, millions of pounds of hair scarifying the gut over the years, why couldn't they have just been thrown down wells, exposed on hillsides, accidentally electrocuted by model railroads? And the worst was their blue jeans, my meals course after course of improperly laundered blue jeans, T-shirts, saris, Thom McAns. I suppose I could have hired someone to peel them for me first.

Believe me, the Dead Father said, I never wanted it, I wanted only the comfort of my armchair, the feel of a fine Fabriano paper, the cool anxiety about whether I had been cogged if if if with a restrike or not, whether some cunning fellow had steelfaced an old copperplate and run off the odd thousand extra impressions, whether a thing was by Master HL or Master HB or if if if if --

He does go on, said Julie.

And on and on and on, said Thomas. However he is bearing up remarkably well.

He is bearing up remarkably well.

I am bearing up remarkably well, said the Dead Father, because I have hope.

Tell me, said Julie, did you ever want to paint or draw or etch? Yourself?

It was not necessary, said the Dead Father, because I am the Father. All lines my lines. All figure and all ground'mine, out of my head. All colors mine. You take my meaning.

We had no choice, said Julie.
回复

使用道具 举报

0

主题

0

帖子

2

积分

革命小将

Rank: 1

积分
2
发表于 2006-7-30 02:00:17 | 显示全部楼层

RE: The Dead Father(by Donald Barthelme)

3
A halt. The men lay down the cable. The men regard Julie from a distance. The men standing about. Pemmican measured out in great dark whacks from the pem-mican-whacking knife. Edmund lifts flask to lips. Thomas removes flask. Protest by Edmund. Reproof from Thomas. Julie gives Edmund a chaw of bhang. Gratitude of Edmund. Julie wipes Edmund's forehead with white handkerchief. The cable relaxed in the road. The blue of the sky. Trees leant against. Bird stutter and the whisper of grasses. The Dead Father playing his guitar. Thomas performing leadership functions. Construction of the plan. Maps pored over and the sacred beans bounced in the pot. The yarrow sticks cast. The dice cup given a shake. Shoulder blade of a sheep roasted and the cracks in the bone read. Peas agitated in a sieve. The hatchet struck into a great stake and its quivers recorded. First-sprouting onion caught and its peels palpated. Portents totted up and divided by seven. Thomas falls to the ground in a swoon.

Picking up of Thomas. The Dead Father pauses in mid-strum. Application of wet cloths to Thomas's forebrain. He revives. Anxiety of the onlookers. What has been foretold? Whacks of pemmican poised over open mouths in anticipation of revelation. Thomas remains silent. Anger of the men. Thomas stares at shoes. Anger of the men. Edmund lifts flask to lips. Emma appears. Thomas is startled. Who is Emma? Emma sits down on a box Julie regards Emma. Her stare met. Two stares contending. Emma fingering her brooch. Julie standing with hands pressed into thighs, atop skirt. Thomas fiddling with sword hilt. Silence of the troops. Golden hair of Emma. Pouty bosom of Emma. Merry eye of Emma. General consternation. The Dead Father lists his degrees. B.S.A., Bachelor of Science in Agriculture, to B.S.S.S., Bachelor of Science in Secretarial Studies. Evil look from Thomas to the Dead Father. Ferns cut and on a bed of ferns fresh trout newly wrest from the trout stream presented to Emma by kneeling-on-one-knee troopers. Emma pleased. Little hairs of pleasure rise on back of Emma's neck. Emma suggests cooking of trout (immediate) and produces from reticule a can of slivered almonds. The men build a fire, all pemmican forgot. More trout persuaded from trout stream, they are very eager. The sky grays as sun zips behind large cloud. Waning or demise of sun. The projector is set up for projection of the pornographic film. Thomas decides that the Dead Father is not allowed to view film, because of his age. Outrage of the Dead Father. Death of the guitar, whanged against a tree, in outrage. Guitar carcass added to the fire. Thomas adamant. The Dead Father raging. Emma regnant. Julie staring. Trout browning. Thomas walks to the edge. Regards the edge. Aspect of one about to hurtle over the. Thomas retreats from the edge. Slivered almonds distributed over various trouts browning in various skillets. Projector casts image upon screen (collapsible/portable). The Dead Father led away and chained to an engine block abandoned in a farther field. Revilings by the Dead Father. Damn your eyes, etc. Ignoring by Thomas. The film. Scenes of partying, men and women, the fourth guest, a woman, gets up and sits in the lap of the second guest, a woman, they begin fondling each other's breasts. The ninth guest, a man, approaches the sixth guest (the one kneeling with her head between the legs of the fifth guest) and begins taking off her jeans. The ninth guest unbuckles the sixth guest's belt, unzips the jeans, and works them down over her hips. The ninth guest carefully pulls down the sixth guest's panties, which are orange, and sticks his erect thumb between her legs. Some members of the group watching screen, some watching Emma, some watching Emma/screen/Emma/screen, some watching Emma/screen/Julie/screen/Thomas.

Beam of Emma touching every face and who knows? heart. Tilt of Emma-bust toward fire where it blushes in the firelight. Frown from Julie who is removing small bones from trout. Seating arrangements to be announced. Beam of Emma creating confusions, some return beam, some do not, some are sunk in film, some asprawl in each other's arms for mutual solace and comfort, some creeping toward Emma's box on hands and knees, when --

Emma rises, stretches out hands. Receives her trout brown and toasty with its little flittered almonds in a tasty sauce, butter, herbs. Emma bites trout. Bite-hole in trout, U-shaped. Applause of the men. Banging together of hands. Thomas orders the film ceased. The film, he says, does not represent accurately the parameters of human love. Something missing, he says. Anger of the men. Thomas discourses for fifteen minutes upon the subject, his own (personal) love of pornography. Nevertheless this film, this film, he says, is turned off. The sixth guest begins to move slowly up and down upon the thumb of the ninth guest and the picture is white light. Anger of the men. Anger of the women. Whistles and stomps. Ranting of the Dead Father, from a farther field. Thomas walks again toward the edge.

Absence of film. Restlessness of the men. The bolder come closer. Emma's box upon which Emma's fundament rests closely regarded. Attempt by the boldest to insinuate head under Emma's skirts, there to witness who knows what. These unsuccessful, Emma's dainty foot kicks. That will teach them. Chomping on trout continues the while, some sillybaby also chomped, with a dill sauce. That will teach them. Grumbling intermixed with shrieks. Emma rises, stretches. Then the duel, Alexander vs. Sam. Each pinks the other in the shoulder. Thomas bandaiding. Julie moves to Emma. Conversation.
回复

使用道具 举报

0

主题

0

帖子

2

积分

革命小将

Rank: 1

积分
2
发表于 2006-7-30 02:00:42 | 显示全部楼层

RE: The Dead Father(by Donald Barthelme)


Whose little girl are you?

I get by, I get by.

Time to go.

Hoping this will reach you at a favorable moment.

Bad things can happen to people.

Is that a threat?

Dragged him all this distance without any rootytoot-toot.

Is that a threat?

Take it any way you like it.

Other fish to fry.

We guarantee every effort will be made.

Who's the boss?

One in the orange tights.

He's not bad-looking.

That's one opinion.

Inclined to tarry for a bit.

Pop one of these if you'd like a little lift.

Thank you.

Two is one too many.

That's your opinion.

Since you have not as yet responded to my suggestion.

Where are you taking him?

We guarantee every effort will be made.

More than I can bear.

No it's not.

Frightful violation of the ordinaries.

No it's not.

He's not bad-looking.

Haven't made up my mind.

You must have studied English.

Take my word for it.

How did that make you feel?

Wasn't the worst.

I queened it for a while in Yorkshire.

Did you know Lord Raglan?

I knew Lord Raglan.

He's not bad-looking.

Handsome, clever, rich.

Yorkshire has no queen of its own I believe.

Correct.

Time to go.

Inclined to tarry for a bit.

Thank you.

Two is one too many.

That's your opinion.

Nevertheless. Nevertheless.

Various circumstances requiring my attention.

I can make it hot for you.

So full and orange.

You don't know what you're getting into.

Hoping this will reach you at a favorable moment.

Wake up one dark night with a thumb in your eye.

Women together changing that which can and ought to be changed.

Dangled his twiddle-diddles in my face.

More than I can bear.

No it's not.

Will it hurt?

I don't know, I don't know, I don't know.

He's not bad-looking.

Haven't made up my mind.

Groups surrounding us needing direction.

Maybe.

What's he like?

That's my business.

Have you tried any of the others?

That's my business.

Want to take a look around. See the sights.

I can make it hot for you.

Is that a threat?

Construed any way you wish.

I asked him about organization.

What did he tell you?

Destroy it in order to let the water flow freely.

That's referred pain I know about that.

But a maiden drowned.

Did they recover a body?

Three. Two were the bodies of sheep.

Oh yes I read about it. In the Svenska Dagbladet.

And he felt guilty.

I never asked him.

It's all been carefully considered.

He's a motherfucker I tell you true.

Nevertheless.

Doing what we must at great personal and emotional cost.

Any of the others any good?

Haven't tried them.

Thought I heard a dog barking.

It's possible. The simplest basic units develop into the richest natural patterns.

Are you into spanking?

No I'm not.

Pity. We could have got something going.

I'm not into that.

Where can a body get a hit around here?

Pop one of these if you'd like a little lift.

Thank you. Palm Sunday.

Hope you know what you're doing. Cordially.

Not too bothered. Thank you.

Time to go, time to go.

Walking by the sea, listening to the waves.

Think I'm getting nosebleed.

Have my handkerchief.

I've one of my own thank you.

I could have put it in a brick, he said.

A filthy-mouthed man.

He's not bad-looking.

Have you tried any of the others?

I am only recently arrived and would like to wash and rest a bit.

Every effort will be made. I can make it hot for you.

Will it hurt?

My discretion. My yea or nay. Thought I heard a dog barking.

A spiritual aridity quite hard to reconcile with his surface gaiety.

Left Barcelona in disgrace.

I was suspicious of him from the first.

Certain provocations the government couldn't handle.

Too early to tell. That's a very handsome pin.

My mother's. Willed to me at her death.

Goodbye goodbye goodbye.

Think I'll stick around for a while.

That's interesting.

Take the lay of the land.

That's interesting.

Have you told him?

To my shame I have not.

And if it is at all possible for you to see me.

Fond urgings and soft petitions.

It's all been carefully considered.

What?

Thought I heard a dog barking.

Did you know Lord Raglan?

We nodded when our carriages passed.

Out of here, out of here.

Not today, not today.

Pop one of these it will give you a little lift.

Will it hurt?
回复

使用道具 举报

0

主题

0

帖子

2

积分

革命小将

Rank: 1

积分
2
发表于 2006-7-30 02:01:42 | 显示全部楼层

RE: The Dead Father(by Donald Barthelme)

4
The line of march. Line of the cable. Viewed from above, this picture:








They came then to a man tending bar in an open field.

Yes, Thomas said.

Relaxation of the cable.

Drinks for everyone.

Ah! said Thomas.

Not too bad, said the Dead Father.

Yum, said Emma.

Another, Thomas said.

That was vodka, right? the bartender asked.

On the rocks and could I have three olives?

Three olives, said the bartender.

Having made the drinks he folded his arms and leaned against a tree.

Did you see the horses? asked the Dead Father.

Clump of eight, Julie said. I counted.

Black plumes, Thomas said. Black bridles, black trappings.

Black horses, said the Dead Father.

Standing in a rank, very well trained, not a whicker.

Perhaps they weren't real? asked the Dead Father.

They were real, said Thomas.

Julie ordered another drink.

You've had enough, said the bartender, no more.

He's right, said Thomas, you've had enough.

I'll decide when I've had enough, Julie said. I want another.

He could lose his license if you fell down or committed an outrage, Thomas said.

That's true, said the bartender, I could lose my license.

Here? asked Julie, indicating the emptiness. Who is to be outraged?

One never knows, said the Dead Father. Thirsty pilgrims, natives of the district, commercial travelers.

Make it a double, said Julie.

We do not serve unaccompanied women, said the bartender.

I am accompanied am I not?

Do you mean the one in the orange tights or the one in the golden robes?

Both.

I saw him with his thumb under there, said the bartender, had his thumb on it I'll bet. Shocking rude I'd call it, in a public place.

Shocking, said the Dead Father happily. Never in all my years --

You're a family man, now, the bartender said to the Dead Father. That's perfectly plain.

Very much so.

You've children, said the bartender, responsibilities.

Beyond counting.

Thought so, said the bartender, I can talk to you. We understand each other.

Yes, fire away.

We can parley, said the bartender, make powwow.

Thomas was looking at the yellow sky.

Till the cows come home, said the Dead Father, so much are we on each other's wavelengths.

When he's got his thumb in there, asked the bartender, what do you feel?

Left out, said the Dead Father.

Button button who's got the button? chanted Julie. I've got the button.

Can I see it? asked the bartender.

Can I have another drink?

A double Scotch appeared on the bar.

Julie knocked back the Scotch. Then she removed her shirt. There was nothing under the shirt.

That's not what I meant, said the bartender, but God Almighty.

A crowd had gathered, both men and women. They were laughing.

Thomas smoothed Julie's stomach with his hand.

Don't touch! she said, you'll make the others angry.

The crowd stopped laughing, both men and women, moved nearer, was looking at Thomas with angry looks.

Who do you think you are? a man shouted angrily.

I am this lady's lover, Thomas shouted back.

Leave our stomach alone! the man shouted.

Your stomach? Thomas asked pointedly.

They crowded closer.

Hands were stretched out toward the stomach.

Mostly we don't get this kind of group, the bartender said.

Thomas began to write something with lipstick on the stomach. The white, interestingly folded, stomach.

Oh, you rascal! cried the crowd. Oh, you rogue!

Julie rotated the stomach at the crowd. Sunlight bouncing off the tips of her breasts (purple).

Emma sulking at the bar. Drinking a Campari-and-soda.

Thomas held out the shirt to Julie.

Our stomach! they said. He's taking it away!

The stomach heaved like a trampoline in the direction of its admirers.

Julie put on the shirt tucking the loose ends of it into her long dark-green skirt to the ground.

She looked at Thomas.

Have I lost my beauty altogether?

Not yet, he said.

Quite wonderful, said the Dead Father. I was offended, of course.

Suffer, Julie said.

The pink of you against the green of the fields, said Thomas. Several of my favorite colors.

They told me you were color-blind, when you were a boy, said the Dead Father. I never believed you were color-blind. A son of mine.

I thought I was color-blind, Thomas said, because they told me I was color-blind. To green, they said.

I never thought you were color-blind. You saw what we had agreed to call green.

I saw what I thought and still think was green.

Never thought you were color-blind or dim either, said the Dead Father, despite what I was told by the specialists.

You had hope, Thomas said. Grateful for that.

My criticism was that you never understood the larger picture, said the Dead Father. Young men never understand the larger picture.

I don't suggest I understand it now. I do understand the frame. The limits.

Of course the frame is easier to understand.

Older people tend to overlook the frame, even when they are looking right at it, said Thomas. They don't like to think about it.

Alexander approached Thomas.

Look there, he said. He pointed.

A horseman on the hill.

I think he's following us, said Alexander.

You've seen him before?

Yesterday. Always keeps the same distance.

Not one of those we passed back up the road?

No. Those were black, this is a bay.

I wonder who he is, Thomas said. He looked at the Dead Father's watch, which he was wearing on his wrist.

Okay, he said, let's make tracks.

The cable taut. The straggle along the road. The horseman following.
回复

使用道具 举报

0

主题

0

帖子

2

积分

革命小将

Rank: 1

积分
2
发表于 2006-7-30 02:02:34 | 显示全部楼层

RE: The Dead Father(by Donald Barthelme)

5
Thomas helping haul on the cable. Julie carrying the knapsack. The Dead Father eating a bowl of chocolate pudding.

When I asked you to help me, he said, it wasn't because I needed help.

Of course not, said Thomas.

I'm doing this for you, essentially, the Dead Father said. For the general good, and thus, for you.

Thomas said nothing.

As so much else, said the Dead Father.

Thomas said nothing.

You never knew, said the Dead Father.

Thomas turned his head.

You told us, he said, repeatedly.

Oh well yes I may have mentioned the odd initiative now and again. But you never knew. In the fullest sense. Because you are not a father.

I am, Thomas said. You forget Elsie.

Doesn't count, said the Dead Father. A son can never, in the fullest sense, become a father. Some amount of amateur effort is possible. A son may after honest endeavor produce what some people might call, technically, children. But he remains a son. In the fullest sense.

A moment's quiet.

Have you heard from her? Elsie?

There was a postcard, Thomas said, three months ago. Picture of a puppy dog with large staring eyes. Love, she said.

Four months ago, Julie said.

Three and a half months ago. She said she was playing field hockey. She was a left inner, she said.

Hockey, said the Dead Father. Chasing that round hard thing down the field. Develops the thigh muscles. Beyond what is desirable, sometimes.

Thomas jerked upon the cable. The Dead Father fell down. Julie and Emma picked him up.

Great knotted bunches of thigh muscles like a plate of red empty lobster shells, the Dead Father said, I can picture it. Antiaesthetic. Sad to see in a twelve-year-old.

I wrote that she was not to pursue it to excess, Thomas said, over his shoulder.

Why do you abide with him? the Dead Father said to Julie. A boy. A neonate. A weakwick. Probably not even found the button yet.

He's found it, she said.

Is it a large one? the Dead Father asked.

Large enough.

A tender red?

Tender enough.

Can I see it?

Oh I am tired of you! Julie cried.

She raised her arms with fists at the end into the air.

I am not tired of you, said the Dead Father.

That your tuff luck, she said. Not my tuff luck. Yours. Tuff titty.

Titty, said the Dead Father. A short suck?

You are incredible.

回复

使用道具 举报

0

主题

0

帖子

2

积分

革命小将

Rank: 1

积分
2
发表于 2006-7-30 02:04:19 | 显示全部楼层

RE: The Dead Father(by Donald Barthelme)

Thomas walked back to the Dead Father and rapped him sharply in the forehead.

The Dead Father said: This is damned unpleasant!

Then: If only I were myself again!

We are making progress, Thomas said.

When I douse myself in its great yellow electricity, the Dead Father said, then I will be revivified.

Best not to anticipate too much, said Thomas, it jiggles the possibilities.

Possibilities! Surely the Fleece is not a mere possibility?

It is an excellent possibility, Julie said quickly. A wonderful possibility.

Have you noticed the weather? asked Thomas.

All turned to look for the weather.

Good weather, Julie said. Great weather.

A very pleasant day, Emma noted.

Pleasant day, said the Dead Father.

Extremely pleasant, Thomas said.

It was on a day much like this, said the Dead Father, that I fathered the Pool Table of Ballambangjang.

The what?

It is rather an interesting tale, said the Dead Father, which I shall now tell. I had been fetched by the look of a certain maiden, a raven-haired maiden --

He looked at Julie, whose hand strayed to her dark dark hair.

A raven-haired maiden of great beauty. Her name was Tulla. I sent her many presents. Little machines, mostly, a machine for stamping her name on strips of plastic, a machine for extracting staples from documents, a machine for shortening her fingernails, a machine for removing wrinkles from fabric with the aid of steam. Well, she accepted the presents, no difficulty there, but me she spurned. Now as you might imagine I am not fond of being spurned. I am not used to it. In my domains it does not happen but as ill luck would have it she lived just over the county line. Spurned is not a thing I like to be. In fact I have a positive disinclination for it. So I turned myself into a haircut --

A haircutter? asked Julie.

A haircut, said the Dead Father. I turned myself into a haircut and positioned myself upon the head of a member of my retinue, quite a handsome young man, younger than I, younger than I and stupider, that goes without saying, still not without a certain rude charm, bald as a bladder of lard, though, and as a consequence somewhat diffident in the presence of ladies. Using the long flowing sideburns as one would use one's knees in guiding a horse --

The horseman is still following us, Thomas noted. I wonder why.

-- I sent him cantering off in the direction of the delectable Tulla, the Dead Father went on. So superior was the haircut, that is to say, me, joined together with his bumbly youngness, for which I do not blame him, that she succumbed immediately. Picture it. The first night. The touch nonesuch. At the crux I turned myself back into myself (vanishing the varlet) and we two she and I looked at each other and were content. We spent many nights together all roaratorious and filled with furious joy. I fathered upon her in those nights the poker chip, the cash register, the juice extractor, the kazoo, the rubber pretzel, the cuckoo clock, the key chain, the dime bank, the pantograph, the bubble pipe, the punching bag both light and heavy, the inkblot, the nose drop, the midget Bible, the slot-machine slug, and many other useful and humane cultural artifacts, as well as some thousands of children of the ordinary sort. I fathered as well upon her various institutions useful and humane such as the credit union, the dog pound, and parapsychology. I fathered as well various realms and territories all superior in terrain, climatology, laws and customs to this one. I overdid it but I was madly, madly in love, that is all I can say in my own defense. It was a very creative period but my darling, having mothered all this abundance uncomplainingly and without reproach, at last died of it. In my arms of course. Her last words were "enough is enough, Pappy." I was inconsolable and, driven as if by a demon, descended into the underworld seeking to reclaim her.

I found her there, said the Dead Father, after many adventures too boring to recount. I found her there but she refused to return with me because she had already tasted the food-of-hell and grown fond of it, it's addicting. She was watched over by eight thunders who hovered over her and brought her every eve ever more hellish delicacies, and watched over furthermore by the ugly-men-of-hell who attacked me with dreampuffs and lyreballs and sought to drive me off. But I removed my garments and threw them at the ugly-men-of-hell, garment by garment, and as each garment touched even ever-so-slightly an ugly-man-of-hell he shriveled into a gasp of steam. There was no way I could stay, there was nothing to stay for; she was theirs.

Then to purify myself, said the Dead Father, of the impurities which had seeped into me in the underworld I dived headfirst into the underground river Jelly, I washed my left eye therein and fathered the deity Poolus who governs the progress of the ricochet or what bounces off what and to what effect, and washed my right eye and fathered the deity Ripple who has the governing of the happening of side effects/unpredictable. Then I washed my nose and fathered the deity Gorno who keeps tombs warm inside and the deity Libet who does not know what to do and is thus an inspiration to us all. I was then beset by eight hundred myriads of sorrows and sorrowing away when a worm wriggled up to me as I sat hair-tearing and suggested a game of pool. A way, he said, to forget. We had, I said, no pool table. Well, he said, are you not the Dead Father? I then proceeded to father the Pool Table of Ballambangjang, fashioning the green cloth of it from the contents of an alfalfa field nearby and the legs of it from telephone poles nearby and the dark pockets of it from the mouths of the leftover ugly-men-of-hell whom I bade stand with their mouths open at the appropriate points --"

What was the worm's name? Thomas asked.

I forget, said the Dead Father. Then, just as we were chalking our cues, the worm and I, Evil himself appeared, he-of-the-greater-magic, terrible in aspect, I don't want to talk about it, let me say only that I realized instantly that I was on the wrong side of the Styx. However I was not lacking in wit, even in this extremity. Uncoiling my penis, then in the dejected state, I made a long cast across the river, sixty-five meters I would say, where it snagged most conveniently in the cleft of a rock on the farther shore. Thereupon I hauled myself hand-over-hand 'midst excruciating pain as you can imagine through the raging torrent to the other bank. And with a hurrah! over my shoulder, to show my enemies that I was yet alive and kicking, I was off like a flash into the trees.

Infuckingcredible, said Julie.

Unfuckingbelievable, said Emma.

Rudolf Rassendyll himself could not have managed the affair better, said Thomas.

Yes, the Dead Father said, and on that bank of the river there stands to this day a Savings & Loan Association. A thing I fathered.

Forfuckingmidable, said Julie. I suddenly feel all mops and brooms.

Refuckingdoubtable, said Emma. I suddenly feel a saint of the saucepan.

Six and three quarters percent compounded momentarily, said the Dead Father, I guarantee it.

A bumaree, said Julie, they have this way of making you feel tiny and small.

They are good at it, said Emma.

We are only tidderly-push to the likes of them.

See themselves as a rope to the eye of a needle, said Emma.

It's a grin in a glass case, said Julie.

That was when I was young and full of that zest which as leaked out of me and which we are journeying to recover for me by means of the great revitalizing properties of that, long fleecy golden thing of which the bards sing and the skalds sing and the Meistersingers sing, said the Dead Father.

It is obvious that but for a twist of fate we and not they would be calling the tune, said Julie.

It is obvious that but for a twist of fate the mode of the music would be different, said Emma. Much different.
回复

使用道具 举报

0

主题

0

帖子

2

积分

革命小将

Rank: 1

积分
2
发表于 2006-7-30 02:05:29 | 显示全部楼层

RE: The Dead Father(by Donald Barthelme)

6
Evening. The campfire. Cats crying in the distance. Julie washing her shirt. Emma ordering her reticule.

Tell me a story, said the Dead Father.

Certainly, said Thomas. One day in a wild place far from the city four men in dark suits with shirts and ties and attache cases containing Uzi submachine guns seized me, saying that I was wrong and had always been wrong and would always be wrong and that they were not going to hurt me. Then they hurt me, first with can openers then with corkscrews. Then, splashing iodine on my several wounds, they sped with me on horseback through the gathering gloom --

Oh! said the Dead Father. A dramatic narrative.

Very much so, said Thomas. They sped with me on horseback through the gathering gloom up the side of a small mountain, down the other side of the same mountain, across a small river, to an even wilder place still farther from the city. There, they proceeded to lunch. We lunched together with not a word spoken. Then, after policing the area down to the last chicken bone, we mounted once again and fled in single file through the damp mists of the afternoon over hills and dales and through hiatuses of various kinds, events perhaps I can't remember, to a yet wilder place rank with the odor of fish and the odor of dead grasses still farther from the city. Here we watered the horses, against their will, they did not like the water. I helped make a fire gathering dry branches that had fallen from the trees but when I had finished helping make the fire I was told that no fire was wanted. Nevertheless one of the men opened his attache case, withdrew his submachine gun and unfolding the folding stock fired a short burst into the dry branches setting them aflame. The horses reared and cried out in fear and the horseholder cursed the machine gunner and cursed me who had helped build a fire where no fire was wanted. Then, mounting once again and leaving the fire to do what it would among the creaking brownstained trees, we galloped down the center of a long valley through fields of winter wheat, leaping stones and fences to a house. Reining in there, we sat on our horses before the door of the house, horse breath visible in the chill of the evening, there was a light within. They escorted me into the house and by the dim illumination of a single candle hurt me again, with dinner forks. I asked for how many days or weeks or months was I to be thus transported and hurt and they said, until I accommodated. I asked them what that meant, accommodated, but they were silent.

We left the house and mounted again. Then, after galloping for some hours through the black of the night we came to a car wash. The car wash was made of steel and concrete block, we clattered through the entrance and past a mechanism wherein giant sponges were buffing late-model cars blue and gray and silver and behind that mechanism to a large room or ring with sand on the floor. I was taken from my horse by two men who bound my hands behind my back and thrust into my mouth a piece of paper on which was written something I could not see but which I knew had to do with me, was about me. Then I was pushed into the ring where wandered a dozen others similarly bound gripping between their teeth similar pieces of paper with things written on them, we walked or lurched around the ring avoiding bumping into each other but narrowly, when I came close to someone he or she made aggressive snarling gestures, I understood that we were to make aggressive snarling gestures, I made aggressive snarling gestures whenever one of them came near me meanwhile trying to read what was written on that person's piece of paper gripped between his or her teeth. But to no avail, I could not read what was written on any piece of paper although I did get a notion of the handwriting which was the same on every piece of paper, a fine thin cursive. This dree to-ing and fro-ing persisted throughout the night and through the next day and I became preoccupied with the thought, where was lunch? Having had lunch on the first day I expected it on the second and third and fourth but this was optimism, there was no lunch, only snarling aggressive gestures and attempts unsuccessful invariably to read what was written on the pieces of paper gripped in the mouths of my prancing colleagues. Then all-of-a-heap I was out of the ring and standing before a door, the door opened and I saw there two men on either side of a hospital bed atop which was a wood coffin containing a corpse, dead I assumed, the corpse's hands were erect in the air clutching and I noticed that the fingers on each hand were missing, the corpse clutched with no fingers, the door closed and there was a sound as of a lift, the door opened again and the two men were gone and the corpse was gone. I stepped through the door into the lift and the door closed behind me. I was taken to the top floor.

I was taken to the top floor, Thomas said, there I found behind a desk a man in a mask. The mask was as tall as the man and had been hewn from a tree, it was African in character and had been worked upon with chisels most skillfully or perhaps with hoe blades most skillfully, it resembled a human face in that five holes presented themselves, there were no ears. The man in the mask said that I was wrong and had always been wrong and would always be wrong and that he was not going to hurt me. Then he hurt me, with documents. Then he asked my companions if I was maturing. He's growing older, the taller of the two replied, and everyone present nodded, this was certainly true, the man in the mask expressed satisfaction. Then, wrapping me in a djellabah of thirty shades of brown they removed me to a Land-Rover which immediately rovered out onto a broad arid plain for a distance of several hundred miles, stopping at intervals to take on petrol and water in battered jerry cans wrung from unwilling unbuttoned overweight out-of-uniform supply sergeants at depots along the route. Where was lunch? I wondered remembering the first day, the chicken, the cucumbers, the potato salad. On the other side of the desert we came to a swamp, great sucky grasses tufted into a green scum, we abandoned the Land-Rover for a pirogue, and with one of my companions paddling in the bow and the other poling in the stern and me in the middle set off across the dank whining surface, giant cypresses gnarling and snarling all about us and two-inch-high tree monkeys hanging by one arm like evil fruits therefrom. During a pause in the poling and paddling with the nose of the pirogue snugged into a greasy hummock they filled their pipes with damp tobacco drawn from their attache cases, the which I was not offered any of, and damaged me again, with harsh words. But they seemed to be tiring, I was hurt less than before, they told me I was wrong etc. but added that I was becoming, by virtue of their kind attentions and the waning of the present century and the edifications of surface travel, less wrong than before. We were going to see the Great Father Serpent, they said, the Great Father Serpent would if I answered the riddle correctly grant me a boon but it was one boon to a customer and I would never answer the riddle correctly so my hopes, they said, should not be got up. I rehearsed in my mind all the riddles that I knew, trying to patch the right answer to the right riddle, while I was disordering my senses in this way we pushed off again into the filthy water, in the distance I could hear a roaring.

I'm fatigued, said the Dead Father.

Be of good courage, said Thomas, it ends soon.

The roaring they told me was the voice of the Great Father Serpent calling for the foreskins of the uninitiated but I was safe, my foreskin had been surrendered long ago, to a surgeon in a hospital. As we drew near through the tangling vines I perceived the outlines of a serpent of huge bigness which held in its mouth a sheet of tin on which something was written, the roars rattled the tin and I was unable to make out the message. My keepers hauled the pirogue onto the piece of ground on which the monster was resting and approached him most deferentially as who would not, shouting into his ear that I had come to be tested by the riddle and win for myself a boon and that if he were willing they would proceed to robe him for the riddling. The Great Father Serpent nodded most graciously and opening his mouth let fall the sheet of tin which on its reverse had been polished to the brightness of a mirror. My escorts set up the mirror side in such a way that the creature could regard himself with love as the fussing-over proceeded, I wondering the while if it would be possible to creep underneath and read the writing there. First they wrapped the Great Father Serpent in fine smallclothes of softwhispering blush-colored changeable taffeta taken from a mahogany wardrobe of prodigious size located behind him, tussling for half an hour to cover his whole great length.

I like him, said the Dead Father, in that we are both long, very long.

Reserve judgment, said Thomas, we are not quite to the end.

回复

使用道具 举报

0

主题

0

帖子

2

积分

革命小将

Rank: 1

积分
2
发表于 2006-7-30 02:05:41 | 显示全部楼层

RE: The Dead Father(by Donald Barthelme)

Then they put on him, said Thomas, a kind of scarlet skirt stuffed with bombast and pleated and slashed so as to show a rich inner lining of a lighter scarlet, the two scarlets together making a brave show at his slightest movement or undulation. The Great Father Serpent looked neither to the right nor to the left but stark ahead at his primrose image in the tin. Then they covered the upper or more headward length of him with a light jacket of white silk embroidered with a thread nutmeg in color and a thread goose-turd in color, these intertwined, and trimmed with fine whipped lace. Then they put on him a sort of doublet of silver brocade slashed with scarlet and slashed again with gold, sleeves for his no-arms hanging there picked out with seed pearls, the doublet having four and one half dozen buttons, the buttons being one dozen of ivory, one dozen of silk, one dozen of silk and hair, one dozen mixed gold and silver wire, and six diamonds set in gold. Next they put on him a great cloak made of unshorn velvet pear-colored inside and outside embroidered at the top and down the back with bugles and pearls countless in number and holding two dozens of buttons, altogether they were near two hours a-buttoning, while they buttoned I inched closer to the underside of the tin which was taller than myself and leaning against a tree, I inched and inched, sometimes half-inched, so that to the eye my movements were imperceptible. Then they belted around his midpoint a girdle of russet gold with pearls and spangles supporting his hanger, to which was buckled the scabbard (buff-colored leather worked in silver wire gimp and colored silk) which held the shining, split tongue two meters long. As they placed upon the oblong head the French hat with its massy goldsmith's work and long black feather, I slipped beneath the tin and out again, I could not believe what I saw written there. The Great Father Serpent nodded once at his own image, whisked the tongue from its scabbard, and pronounced himself ready to riddle.

Here is the riddle said the Great Father Serpent with a great flourishing of his two-tipped tongue, and it is a son-of-a-bitch I will tell you that, the most arcane item in the arcana, you will never guess it in a hundred thousand human years some of which I point out have already been used up by you in useless living and breathing but have a go, have a go, do: What do you really feel? Like murderinging, I answered, because that is what I had read on the underside of the tin, the wording murderinging inscribed in a fine thin cursive. Why bless my soul, said the Great Father Serpent, he's got it, and the two ruffians blinked at me in stunned wonder and I myself wondered, and marveled, but what I was wondering and marveling at was the closeness with which what I had answered accorded with my feelings, my lost feelings that I had never found before. I suppose, the Father Serpent said, that the boon you wish granted is the ability to carry out this foulness? Of course, I said, what else? Granted then, he said, but may I remind you that having the power is often enough. You don't have to actually do it. For the soul's ease. I thanked the Great Father Serpent; he bowed most cordially; my companions returned me to the city. I was abroad in the city with murderinging in mind -- the dream of a stutterer.

That is a tall tale, said the Dead Father. I don't believe it ever happened.

No tale ever happened in the way we tell it, said Thomas, but the moral is always correct.

What is the moral?

Murderinging, Thomas said.

Murderinging is not correct, said the Dead Father. The sacred and noble Father should not be murdereded. Never. Absolutely not.

I mentioned no names, said Thomas.

He was staring at the Dead Father's belt buckle.

Very handsome buckle you have there, he said, I never noticed before.

The belt buckle was silver. Six inches square. A ruby or two.

The Dead Father regarded his belt buckle.

Gift of the citizens, many Father's Days ago. One of several hundred sumptuous offerings, on that Father's Day.

May I try it on? Thomas asked.

You want to try on my belt?

Yes I'd like to try it on if you don't mind.

You may certainly try it on if you wish.

The Dead Father unbuckled the belt and handed it to Thomas.

Thomas buckled on the Dead Father's belt.

I like it, he said. Yes, it looks well on me. The buckle. You may have the belt back, if you like.

My belt buckle! said the Dead Father.

I'm sure you don't mind, said Thomas. Doubtless you have others just as sumptuous.

He handed the buckleless belt back to the Dead Father.

I don't mind?

Do you mind?

Yes, Julie asked interestedly, do you mind?

I was always rather fond of that one.

Surely you have others just as fine.

Yes I have a great many belt buckles.

I am delighted to hear it.

Not here. Not with me, the Dead Father said.

You can have my old belt buckle, Thomas said. It will do.

Yes, Julie said, it will do.

Quite a good buckle, my old buckle, Thomas said.

Thank you, said the Dead Father, accepting the old buckle.

Not as fine as your former belt buckle, of course.

It isn't, the Dead Father said. I can see that.

That's why I wanted yours, Thomas explained.

I understand that, said the Dead Father. You wanted the better buckle.

And now I have it, said Thomas.

He patted himself on the belt buckle.

Looks quite good I think.

It does, said Julie.

Yes, Emma agreed.

Gives you a bit more dash, said Julie. More dash than you had before.

Thank you, Thomas said. And to the Dead Father: And thank you.

My pleasure, said the Dead Father. Good to be able to do something for you younger men, once in a while. Good to be able to give. Giving is, in a sense --

No, said Thomas, let us be clear. You didn't give. I took. There is a difference. I took it away from you. Just get it straight. The matter's trivial, but I want no misunderstanding. I took it. Away from you.

Oh, said the Dead Father.

He thought for a moment.

Will there be consolation?

Yes, said Thomas. You may make a speech.

No, Julie said. No speech.

A speech to the men? asked the Dead Father. To my assembled loyal, faithful --

No, said Julie.

Yes, said Thomas. Tomorrow.

Tomorrow?

Maybe tomorrow, said Thomas.

My speech!

To bed, said Thomas. All to bed now. Pleasant dreams.

Thomas regarded his orange tights, his orange boots, his new silver belt buckle.

Yes! he said.

回复

使用道具 举报

0

主题

0

帖子

2

积分

革命小将

Rank: 1

积分
2
发表于 2006-7-30 02:06:58 | 显示全部楼层

RE: The Dead Father(by Donald Barthelme)

7
Let him make his speech, Julie said.

Yesterday you said no.

I was in a fouler mood yesterday. Today I am in a fairer mood.

That's interesting, Thomas said. How do you do that?

I ignore sense data, she said, let him make his speech.

Thomas turned to the Dead Father.

Would you like to make your speech now?

I have prepared some remarks, said the Dead Father. Remarks which are perhaps not without pertinency.

Thomas gathered together the men and Emma.

The men stood in a ragged half circle. The nineteen. Edmund with his hand on his back pocket, where the flask was. Emma at one tip of the crescent, Julie at the other.

The Dead Father stepped forward and assumed his speaking position, a kind of forwardly lean.

All the men lighted cigarettes. Julie lighted a cigarette as did Emma.

The Dead Father placed the tips of the fingers of his two hands together.

In considering, he said, inconsidering inconsidering inconsidering the additionally arriving human beings annually additionally arriving human beings each producing upon its head one hundred thousand individual hairs some retained and some discarded -- All the men sat down and began talking to each other. In contemplating I say these additionally arrived human beings not provided for by anticipatory design hocus or pocus and thus problematical, we must reliably extend a set of ever-advancing speeding poised lingering or dwelling pattern behaviors sufficient unto the day or adequate until the next time. Given the existence of the next time, anticipatory design neurosis designs for integration of the until-then-threatening non-self-requested experience of life and sweet, sweet variable stresses and flows to carry inward and inwardize if rain floods fires earthquakes tornadoes do not occur as predicted but look out of the window and see how dark the sky, how bold the wind, how whipped the trees, how gravitational the red falling skinripping rooftiles not provided for by anticipatory design fury preallotted to the discontinuance of consciousness known as sleep, let us pray. Tensionally cohered universe here today and gone tomorrow finity inward and finity outward and ever-advancing speeding poised lingering or dwelling particles in waveful duality and progressive conceptioning and Father's Day interface with holistic behaviors unpredicted by parts such as you, me, them, and we, and I, and he, and she, and it. These, assigned by a static or "at rest" analysis to super series of unpredictable mathematical frequencies composed of complementary and reciprocal numbers found in cyclic bundling of experience not necessarily compromised by variable geographic bundle limitations, but sometimes, as in the song at twilight when the lights are low and the flickering shadows softly come and go, to multidynamically blossom or burst forth in beauty or pain and pre- and postnatal . . . disappointments . . . next appropriate trial balance struck. . . as to what might be. . . in the best case. . . however. However. Given the already-secreted true experience of the regeneratively-evolving comprehensive world-design effort against fire flood pestilence violent atmospheric disturbance and providing seventeen cubic feet of air per minute per person free of toxic or disagreeable odors or dust, or malice, we feel that metals broadly speaking and synthetics narrowly speaking will interlink into continuously improving world-around extra-corporeal networks, networks within which only individual man presents himself as an inherent island of physical discontinuity sad to say, sad to say, physical discontinuity and torpor, total velocities of which known practices have proved inadequate to solve. Given however all-over compensatory design despair such as is known to you and known to me, and freakiness, and bearing in mind push-pull as prior to and above all, and disregarding those whose larger pattern security is challenged or threatened by these systematically pulsing alternations, we project your existence here as possibly tolerable within tolerances of .01, .02, and .03, given up-tooling of social engineering extra-genetic razzle post-partum reprepositioning and I spy. Thank you.

The Dead Father waited for the applause.

A storm of applause from the men!

Thank you, the Dead Father said, thank you.

Prolonged and fervent applause. Whistles. Stamping of feet. Waving of handkerchiefs (the women).

Thank you. Thank you.

A wonderful speech, said Thomas.

A marvelous speech, said Julie, would you autograph my program.

Thank you, said the Dead Father, of course.

Quite extraordinary, said Emma, what did it mean?

Thank you, said the Dead Father, it meant I made a speech.

Beautifully done, said Thomas, are you free for lunch?

Thank you, said the Dead Father, I think so.

Julie was wiping the Dead Father's brow, with her handkerchief.

A long time since I've heard anything like it, she said, a very long time, not since my student days in fact.

Thank you, said the Dead Father.

The men loved it, said Thomas.

Yes, said the Dead Father.

Positively on the edge of my chair, said Emma, figuratively speaking.

Thank you, said the Dead Father, it was a pisser all right.

Enough! said Julie.

Why is it, asked the Dead Father, that alone among the members of this party I am not allowed to be filthy-mouthed?

Because you are an old fart, she said, and old farts must be notably clean of mouth in order to mitigate the disgustingness of being old farts.

The Dead Father lunged against his cable.

Look how the red is rising to his top, Emma observed.

The Dead Father burst off down the road, his cable trailing.

He is going to do it again, said Thomas.

They followed at a rapid pace.

They found the Dead Father standing in a wood, slaying. First he slew a snowshoe rabbit cleaving it in twain with a single blow and then he slew a spiny anteater and then he slew two rusty numbats and then whirling the great blade round and round his head he slew a wallaby and a lemur and a trio of ouakaris and a spider monkey and a common squid. Then moving up and down the green path in his rage he dispatched a macaque and a gibbon and fourscore innocent chinchillas who had been standing idly by watching the great slaughter. Then he rested standing with the point of his sword stuck in the earth and his two hands folded upon the hilt. Then he again as if taken by a fit set about the bloody work slaying a prairie dog and a beaver and a gopher and a dingo and a honey badger and an otter and a house cat and a tapir and a piglet. Then his anger grew and he called for a brand of even greater weight and length which was brought him by a metaphorically present gillie and seizing it with his two fine-formed and noble hands he raised it above his head, and every living thing within his reach trembled and every dead thing within his reach remembered how it got that way, and the very trees of the wood did seem to shrink and step away. Then the Dead Father slew a warthog and a spotted fawn and a trusting sheep and a young goat and a marmoset and two greyhounds and a draghound. Then, kicking viciously with his noble and shapely foot at the piles of the slain, raw and sticky corpses drenching the earth in blood on every side, he cleared a path to a group of staring pelicans slicing the soft white thin necks of them from the bodies in the wink of an eye. Then he slew a cassowary and a flamingo and a grebe and a heron and a bittern and a pair of ducks and a shouting peacock and a dancing crane and a bustard and a lily-trotter and, wiping the sacred sweat from his brow with one ermine-trimmed sleeve, slew a wood pigeon and a cockatoo and a tawny owl and a snowy owl and a magpie and three jackdaws and a crow and a jay and a dove. Then he called for wine. A silver flagon was brought him and he downed the whole of it in one draught looking the while out of the corner of his ruby eye at a small iguana melted in terror against the limb of a tree. Then he tossed the silver flagon into the arms of a supposititious cupbearer sousing the cupbearer's hypothetical white tunic with the red of the (possible) wine and split the iguana into two halves with the point of his sword as easily as one skilled in the mystery fillets a fish. Then the Dead Father resumed his sword work in earnest slaying diverse small animals of every kind, so that the heaps mounted steaming to the right and to the left of him with each passionate step. A toad escaped.

Heavy work, the Dead Father said, looking pleased. See how many!

Thomas was collecting the carcasses of the edible.

See how many! the Dead Father said again.

Truly formidable, Julie said, to please him. Sword play of this quality has not been seen since the days of Frithjof, Lancelot, Paracelsus, Rogero, Artegal, Otuel, Ogier the Dane, Rinaldo, Oliver, Roll the Thrall, Haco I, and the Chevalier Bayard.

Rather good I think, said the Dead Father, for an old man.

His smoking whinyard wiped upon the green grass.

Emma's gaze (admiring).

See how long it is, the Dead Father said, and how limber.

He cut a few figures in the air with it: quinte, sixte, septime.

And now, lunch, Julie said.

She produced from the knapsack a new tablecloth and a new seating plan.
回复

使用道具 举报

您需要登录后才可以回帖 登录 | 立即注册

本版积分规则

快速回复 返回顶部 返回列表