The Stories of Ray Bradbury

‘Gómez. I am touched. Gómez—’

  But the door stood open. Gómez was gone.

  Mickey Murrillo’s Red Rooster Café and Cocktail Lounge was squashed between two big brick buildings and, being narrow, had to be deep. Outside, serpents of red and sulphur-green neon fizzed and snapped. Inside, dim shapes loomed and swam away to lose themselves in a swarming night sea.

  Martínez, on tiptoe, peeked through a flaked place on the red-painted front window.

  He felt a presence on his left, heard breathing on his right. He glanced in both directions.

  ‘Manulo! Villanazul!’

  ‘I decided I wasn’t thirsty,’ said Manulo. ‘So I took a walk.’

  ‘I was just on my way to the plaza,’ said Villanazul, ‘and decided to go the long way around.’

  As if by agreement, the three men shut up now and turned together to peer on tiptoe through various flaked spots on the window.

  A moment later, all three felt a new very warm presence behind them and heard still faster breathing.

  ‘Is our white suit in there?’ asked Gómez’s voice.

  ‘Gómez!’ said everybody, surprised. ‘Hi!’

  ‘Yes!’ cried Domínguez, having just arrived to find his own peephole. ‘There’s the suit! And, praise God, Vamenos is still in it!’

  ‘I can’t see!’ Gómez squinted, shielding his eyes. ‘What’s he doing?’

  Martínez peered. Yes! There, way back in the shadows, was a big chunk of snow and the idiot smile of Vamenos winking above it, wreathed in smoke.

  ‘He’s smoking!’ said Martínez.

  ‘He’s drinking!’ said Domínguez.

  ‘He’s eating a taco!’ reported Villanazul.

  ‘A juicy taco,’ added Manulo.

  ‘No,’ said Gómez. ‘No, no, no…’

  ‘Ruby Escuadrillo’s with him!’

  ‘Let me see that!’ Gómez pushed Martínez aside.

  Yes, there was Ruby! Two hundred pounds of glittering sequins and tight black satin on the hoof, her scarlet fingernails clutching Vamenos’ shoulder. Her cowlike face, floured with powder, greasy with lipstick, hung over him!

  ‘That hippo!’ said Domínguez. ‘She’s crushing the shoulder pads. Look, she’s going to sit on his lap!’

  ‘No, no, not with all that powder and lipstick!’ said Gómez. ‘Manulo, inside! Grab that drink! Villanazul, the cigar, the taco! Domínguez, date Ruby Escuadrillo, get her away. Ándale, men!’

  The three vanished, leaving Gómez and Martínez to stare, gasping, through the peephole.

  ‘Manulo, he’s got the drink, he’s drinking it!’

  ‘Ay! There’s Villanazul, he’s got the cigar, he’s eating the taco!’

  ‘Hey, Domínguez, he’s got Ruby! What a brave one!’

  A shadow bulked through Murrillo’s front door, traveling fast.

  ‘Gómez!’ Martínez clutched Gómez’s arm. ‘That was Ruby Escuadrillo’s boyfriend, Toro Ruíz. If he finds her with Vamenos, the ice cream suit will be covered with blood, covered with blood—’

  ‘Don’t make me nervous,’ said Gómez. ‘Quickly!’

  Both ran. Inside they reached Vamenos just as Toro Ruíz grabbed about two feet of the lapels of that wonderful ice cream suit.

  ‘Let go of Vamenos!’ said Martínez.

  ‘Let go that suit!’ corrected Gómez.

  Toro Ruíz, tap-dancing Vamenos, leered at these intruders.

  Villanazul stepped up shyly.

  Villanazul smiled. ‘Don’t hit him. Hit me.’

  toro Ruíz hit Villanazul smack on the nose.

  Villanazul, holding his nose, tears stinging his eyes, wandered off.

  Gómez grabbed one of Toro Ruíz’s arms, Martínez the other.

  ‘Drop him, let go, cabrón, coyote, vaca!’

  Toro Ruíz twisted the ice cream suit material until all six men screamed in mortal agony. Grunting, sweating, Toro Ruíz dislodged as many as climbed on. He was winding up to hit Vamenos when Villanazul wandered back, eyes streaming.

  ‘Don’t hit him. Hit me!’

  As Toro Ruíz hit Villanazul on the nose, a chair crashed on Toro’s head.

  ‘Ay!’ said Gómez.

  Toro Ruíz swayed, blinking, debating whether to fall. He began to drag Vamenos with him.

  ‘Let go!’ cried Gómez. ‘Let go!’

  One by one, with great care, Toro Ruíz’s bananalike fingers let loose of the suit. A moment later he was ruins at their feet.

  ‘Compadres, this way!’

  They ran Vamenos outside and set him down where he freed himself of their hands with injured dignity.

  ‘Okay, okay. My time ain’t up. I still got two minutes and, let’s see—ten seconds.’

  ‘What!’ said everybody.

  ‘Vamenos,’ said Gómez, ‘you let a Guadalajara cow climb on you, you pick fights, you smoke, you drink, you eat tacos, and now you have the nerve to say your time ain’t up?’

  ‘I got two minutes and one second left!’

  ‘Hey, Vamenos, you sure look sharp!’ Distantly, a woman’s voice called from across the street.

  Vamenos smiled and buttoned the coat.

  ‘It’s Ramona Álvarez! Ramona, wait!’ Vamenos stepped off the curb.

  ‘Vamenos,’ pleaded Gómez. ‘What can you do in one minute and’—he checked his watch—‘forty seconds!’

  ‘Watch! Hey, Ramona!’

  Vamenos loped.

  ‘Vamenos, look out!’

  Vamenos, surprised, whirled, saw a car, heard the shriek of brakes.

  ‘No,’ said all five men on the sidewalk.

  Martínez heard the impact and flinched. His head moved up. It looks like white laundry, he thought, flying through the air. His head came down.

  Now he heard himself and each of the men make a different sound. Some swallowed too much air. Some let it out. Some choked. Some groaned. Some cried aloud for justice. Some covered their faces. Martínez felt his own fist pounding his heart in agony. He could not move his feet.

  ‘I don’t want to live,’ said Gómez quietly. ‘Kill me, someone.’

  Then, shuffling, Martínez looked down and told his feet to walk, stagger, follow one after the other. He collided with other men. Now they were trying to run. They ran at last and somehow crossed a street like a deep river through which they could only wade, to look down at Vamenos.

  ‘Vamenos!’ said Martínez. ‘You’re alive!’

  Strewn on his back, mouth open, eyes squeezed tight, tight, Vamenos motioned his head back and forth, back and forth, moaning.

  ‘Tell me, tell me, oh, tell me, tell me.’

  ‘Tell you what, Vamenos?’

  Vamenos clenched his fists, ground his teeth.

  ‘The suit, what have I done to the suit, the suit, the suit!’

  The men crouched lower.

  ‘Vamenos, it’s…why, it’s okay!’

  ‘You lie!’ said Vamenos. ‘It’s torn, it must be, it must be, it’s torn, all around, underneath?’

  ‘No.’ Martínez knelt and touched here and there. ‘Vamenos, all around, underneath even, it’s okay!’

  Vamenos opened his eyes to let the tears run free at last. ‘A miracle,’ he sobbed. ‘Praise the saints!’ He quieted at last, ‘The car?’

  ‘Hit and run.’ Gómez suddenly remembered and glared at the empty street. ‘It’s good he didn’t stop. We’d have—’

  Everyone listened.

  Distantly a siren wailed.

  ‘Someone phoned for an ambulance.’

  ‘Quick!’ said Vamenos, eyes rolling. ‘Set me up! Take off our coat!’

  ‘Vamenos—’

  ‘Shut up, idiots!’ cried Vamenos. ‘The coat, that’s it! Now, the pants, the pants, quick, quick peones! Those doctors! You seen movies? They rip the pants with razors to get them off! They don’t care! They’re maniacs! Ah, God, quick, quick!’

  The siren screamed.

  The men, panicking, all handled Vamenos at once.

  ‘Righ
t leg, easy, hurry, cows! Good! Left leg, now, left, you hear, there, easy, easy! Ow. God! Quick! Martínez, your pants, take them off!’

  ‘What?’ Martínez froze.

  The siren shrieked.

  ‘Fool!’ wailed Vamenos. ‘All is lost! Your pants! Give me!’

  Martínez jerked at his belt buckle.

  ‘Close in, make a circle!’

  Dark pants, light pants flourished on the air.

  ‘Quick, here come the maniacs with the razors! Right leg on, left leg, there!’

  ‘The zipper, cows, zip my zipper!’ babbled Vamenos.

  The siren died.

  ‘Madre mía, yes, just in time! They arrive.’ Vamenos lay back down and shut his eyes. ‘Gracias.’

  Martínez turned, nonchalantly buckling on the white pants as the interns brushed past.

  ‘Broken leg,’ said one intern as they moved Vamenos onto a stretcher.

  ‘Compadres,’ said Vamenos, ‘don’t be mad with me.’

  Gómez snorted. ‘Who’s mad?’

  In the ambulance, head tilted back, looking out at them upside down. Vamenos faltered.

  ‘Compadres, when…when I come from the hospital…am I still in the bunch? You won’t kick me out? Look, I’ll give up smoking, keep away from Murrillo’s, swear off women—’

  ‘Vamenos,’ said Martínez gently, ‘don’t promise nothing.’

  Vamenos, upside down, eyes brimming wet, saw Martínez there, all white now against the stars.

  ‘Oh, Martínez, you sure look great in that suit. Compadres, don’t he look beautiful?’

  Villanazul climbed in beside Vamenos. The door slammed. The four remaining men watched the ambulance drive away.

  Then, surrounded by his friends, inside the white suit, Martínez was carefully escorted back to the curb.

  In the tenement, Martínez got out the cleaning fluid and the others stood around, telling him how to clean the suit and, later, how not to have the iron too hot and how to work the lapels and the crease and all. When the suit was cleaned and pressed so it looked like a fresh gardenia just opened, they fitted it to the dummy.

  ‘Two o’clock,’ murmured Villanazul. ‘I hope Vamenos sleeps well. When I left him at the hospital, he looked good.’

  Manulo cleared his throat. ‘Nobody else is going out with that suit tonight, huh?’

  The others glared at him.

  Manulo flushed. ‘I mean…it’s late. We’re tired. Maybe no one will use the suit for forty-eight hours, huh? Give it a rest. Sure. Well, Where do we sleep?’

  The night being still hot and the room unbearable, they carried the suit on its dummy out and down the hall. They brought with them also some pillows and blankets. They climbed the stairs toward the roof of the tenement. There, thought Martínez, is the cooler wind, and sleep.

  On the way, they passed a dozen doors that stood open, people still perspiring and awake, playing cards, drinking pop, fanning themselves with movie magazines.

  I wonder, thought Martínez. I wonder if—Yes!

  On the fourth floor, a certain door stood open.

  The beautiful girl looked up as the men passed. She wore glasses and when she saw Martínez she snatched them off and hid them under her book.

  The others went on, not knowing they had lost Martínez, who seemed stuck fast in the open door.

  For a long moment he could say nothing. Then he said:

  ‘José Martínez.’

  And she said:

  ‘Celia Obregón.’

  And then both said nothing.

  He heard the men moving up on the tenement roof. He moved to follow.

  She said quickly, ‘I saw you tonight!’

  He came back.

  ‘The suit,’ he said.

  ‘The suit,’ she said, and paused. ‘But not the suit.’

  ‘Eh?’ he said.

  She lifted the book to show the glasses lying in her lap. She touched the glasses.

  ‘I do not see well. You would think I would wear my glasses, but no. I walk around for years now, hiding them, seeing nothing. But tonight, even without the glasses, I see. A great whiteness passes below in the dark. So white! And I put on my glasses quickly!’

  ‘The suit, as I said,’ said Martínez.

  ‘The suit for a little moment, yes, but there is another whiteness above the suit.’

  ‘Another?’

  ‘Your teeth! Oh, such white teeth, and so many!’

  Martínez put his hand over his mouth.

  ‘So happy, Mr Martínez,’ she said. ‘I have not often seen such a happy face and such a smile.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, not able to look at her, his face flushing now.

  ‘So, you see,’ she said quietly, ‘the suit caught my eye, yes, the whiteness filled the night below. But the teeth were much whiter. Now, I have forgotten the suit.’

  Martínez flushed again. She, too, was overcome with what she had said. She put her glasses on her nose, and then took them off, nervously, and hid them again. She looked at her hands and at the door above his head.

  ‘May I—’ he said, at last.

  ‘May you—’

  ‘May I call for you,’ he asked, ‘when next the suit is mine to wear?’

  ‘Why must you wait for the suit?’ she said.

  ‘I thought—’

  ‘You do not need the suit,’ she said.

  ‘But—’

  ‘If it were just the suit,’ she said, ‘anyone would be fine in it. But no, I watched, I saw many men in that suit, all different, this night. So again I say, you do not need to wait for the suit.’

  ‘Madre mía, madre mía!’ he cried happily. And then, quieter. ‘I will need the suit for a little while. A month, six months, a year. I am uncertain. I am fearful of many things. I am young.’

  ‘That is as it should be,’ she said.

  ‘Good night, Miss—’

  ‘Celia Obregón.’

  ‘Celia Obregón,’ he said, and was gone from the door.

  The others were waiting on the roof of the tenement. Coming up through the trap door. Martínez saw they had placed the dummy and the suit in the center of the roof and put thier blankets and pillows in a circle around it. Now they were lying down. Now a cooler night wind was blowing here, up in the sky.

  Martínez stood alone by the white suit, smoothing the lapels, talking half to himself.

  ‘Ay, caramba, what a night! Seems ten years since seven o’clock, when it all started and I had no friends. Two in the morning, I got all kinds of friends…’ He paused and thought. Celia Obregón, Celia Obregón. ‘…All kinds of friends,’ he went on. ‘I got a room, I got clothes. You tell me. You know what?’ He looked around at the men lying on the rooftop, surrounding the dummy and himself. ‘It’s funny. When I wear this suit, I know I will win at pool, like Gómez. A woman will look at me like Domínguez. I will be able to sing like Manulo, sweetly. I will talk fine politics like Villanazul. I’m strong as Vamenos. So? So, tonight, I am more than Martínez. I am Gómez, Manulo, Domínguez, Villanazul, Vamenos. I am everyone. Ay…ay…’ He stood a moment longer by this suit which could save all the ways they sat or stood or walked. This suit which could move fast and nervous like Gómez or slow and thoughtfully like Villanazul or drift like Domínguez, who never touched ground, who always found a wind to take him somewhere. This suit which belonged to them but which also owned them all. This suit that was—what? A parade.

  ‘Martínez,’ said Gómez. ‘You going to sleep?’

  ‘Sure. I’m just thinking.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If we ever get rich,’ said Martínez softly, ‘it’ll be kind of sad. Then we’ll all have suits. And there won’t be no more nights like tonight. It’ll break up the old gang. It’ll never be the same after that.’

  The men lay thinking of what had just been said.

  Gómez nodded gently.

  ‘Yeah…it’ll never be the same…after that.’

  Martínez lay down on his blanket. In dar
kness, with the others, he faced the middle of the roof and the dummy, which was the center of their lives.

  And their eyes were bright, shining, and good to see in the dark as the neon lights from nearby buildings flicked on, flicked off, flicked on, flicked off, revealing and then vanishing, revealing and then vanishing, their wonderful white vanilla ice cream summer suit.

  Dark They Were, and Golden-Eyed

  The rocket metal cooled in the meadow winds. Its lid gave a bulging pop. From its clock interior stepped a man, a woman, and three children. The other passengers whispered away across the Martian meadow, leaving the man alone among his family.

  The man felt his hair flutter and the tissues of his body draw tight as if he were standing at the center of a vacuum. His wife, before him, seemed almost to whirl away in smoke. The children, small seeds, might at any instant be sown to all the Martian climes.

  The children looked up at him, as people look to the sun to tell what time of their life it is. His face was cold.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked his wife.

  ‘Let’s get back on the rocket.’

  ‘Go back to Earth?’

  ‘Yes! Listen!’

  The wind blew as if to flake away their identities. At any moment the Martian air might draw his soul from him, as marrow comes from a white bone. He felt submerged in a chemical that could dissolve his intellect and burn away his past.

  They looked at Martian hills that time had worn with a crushing pressure of years. They saw the old cities, lost in their meadows, lying like children’s delicate bones among the blowing lakes of grass.

  ‘Chin up, Harry,’ said his wife. ‘It’s too late. We’ve come over sixty million miles.’

  The children with their yellow hair hollered at the deep dome of Martian sky. There was no answer but the racing hiss of wind through the stiff grass.

  He picked up the luggage in his cold hands. ‘Here we go,’ he said—a man standing on the edge of a sea, ready to wade in and be drowned.

  They walked into town.

  Their name was Bittering. Harry and his wife Cora; Dan, Laura, and David. They built a small white cottage and ate good breakfasts there, but the fear was never gone. It lay with Mr Bittering and Mrs Bittering, a third unbidden partner at every midnight talk, at every dawn awakening.

  ‘I feel like a salt crystal,’ he said, ‘in a mountain stream, being washed away. We don’t belong here. We’re Earth people. This is Mars. It was meant for Martians. For heaven’s sake, Cora, let’s buy tickets for home!’