No One Hears but Him

  Even if one were comparatively poor, especially now in days of affluence, the pleasantness differed only in degree. All was secured, all was provided, all was contentment and gaiety—except for death, of course, which was not undesirable after all, for it was only another comfortable sleep.

  It was enough to make, a man kill himself.

  He, John Service, had been seriously considering this for over six months. Or was it longer? He could not remember. He was bored to death, bored by pleasantness, smoothness, affluence, laughter, cocktail parties, wood-paneled offices, amiable employees, serene wife, well-established children, rosy fat grandchildren, summer homes, winters in Florida or the Caribbean, or in those exotic out-of-the-way places in Mexico and Central America, or in Paris, or London or Madrid or Mallorca. The world was really small; one finally ran out of places to visit and explore. Besides, everything had become Americanized and sterile and cellophaned and sanitary, with excellent bathrooms, fast jets, gourmet meals, and tender stewardesses. Sweet and Lovely. As he waited in the quiet room John Service hummed that old popular song from his boyhood. It rang in his brain now, not liltingly, but with a kind of horror and terror, mocking, a refrain of demons, a refrain from the very black pits of hell. Sweet and lovely. An excellent epitaph for a world—and especially for a human life.

  The trouble was that he could not lay a finger on what the trouble was. This century was surely, in spite of wars and the rampageous voices in the United Nations, and skirmishes here and there, the dream of men long dead who had struggled for an existence and had fought the frightful wilderness and had set sail on dark seas. They had dreamed of all this—the Sweet and Lovely. Paradise. A cradle that was a grave, really, and a grave that was a cradle, all scented and pink. Especially in America. As he waited among the silent men and women in the calm and quiet waiting room, John Service wondered about Russia, where all was still comparatively grim and the color of iron. But Russia looked enviously at the rosy and perfumed dream of America, and struggled to attain it for her own people. Other European countries had already attained it. What was it he had read recently? Suicide was rising rapidly in the “happy” nations. It was the leading cause of death, outside of drunkenness, in Scandinavia, just as, if all were known, it was truly the leading cause of death in America. There was more than one way to cut your throat. You could induce fatal illness, or at least that is what the headshrinkers said.

  He had come to this ridiculous place for no reason that he could remember. But it was autumn, gold and crimson and russet, and there had been a tranquil wood fire in the library at home, and a tea table and a beautiful, placid wife presiding, and a few relatives present, murmuring gently and with tinkling laughter or peaceful masculine chuckles. A typical autumn Sunday afternoon, with yellow light at the tall windows, and yellow streaks of sunshine on the carved walls, and last sun on the old slate of this house where he had been born. Contentment. It had glowed everywhere. Peace. It lay in every great room of the gracious house. Pleasantness. It reflected off the ancient silver, satiny with thousands of minute scratches. Wood smoke and the smell of tea and brandy and pastries and the women’s discreet perfume. Soft classical music from the hi-fi. Clink of china. Rustle of a woman’s expensive dress. A murmur: “It hardly seems possible that Sally will make her debut this year. Why, she’s hardly out of her crib, my dear!” Fond laughter. “More tea, dear? Do have one of these napoleons. Really excellent. More soda, Bob? John, why are you sitting there so quiet? Is something wrong, dear?”

  He had been more aghast than the others, and more horrified and appalled, when he had heard his voice saying, abrupt and harsh, “I am just wondering why the hell we are living, anyway, any of us, anywhere!”

  And then, partly because he was appalled at himself, and partly because he had thought of death with an overpowering and desperate desire, he had gotten to his feet and had left all that pleasant tranquillity and the wood smoke and the silver and brandy and china and had literally fled from the room and the house—fled like someone under desperate threat. His feet had pounded on the raked gravel of the turntable outside, and along the paths, bordered by lawns still brilliantly green and filled with flower beds burning with salvia and calla and shaded by trees in the carnival colors of autumn, and he had not thought of one of his expensive cars. He had simply run like a flying youth, and he a man in his fifties. He had run until he reached the road beyond the house, after bursting open the grilled gates. And then, sweating like one who had just escaped death, he had stood there and had panted, bareheaded in the still warm sun, and saying over and over to himself, “God, God, God!” A bus—he never rode buses-came along stinking and grinding, and he had flung himself into it and had fallen on a seat, still panting. His hands were wet and his forehead.

  He had ridden a long time. Blue twilight had fallen by the time he finally lifted his head and looked through a grimy window. The bus had stopped at one of the walks leading to that foolish “Sanctuary,” and several people had gotten off, young and old, male and female, and on an impulse—he never knew why except that he had excited interest in the bus and he was suddenly aware of embarrassment—he left the vehicle too and trailed the silly little gathering up the red-gravel path to the gleaming whiteness of the building at the top of the low hill.

  The group opened the bronze doors—beautiful doors really; he was surprised at their expensive artistry and their evident age. The door closed behind the group with no sound at all, and he was left alone on the wide marble step, staring at the doors. Italian. Probably from some very old church. Expertly polished; they glimmered like old gold in the last light of the day. Here and there, along the many winding paths that led to the Sanctuary, soft gaslamps were burning. Not electricity, bleak and constant. What an affectation! And coming down to it, how had he gotten here, and why?

  He turned his back to the doors and surveyed the immense and silent lawns all about the magnificent low building which was windowless, flat-roofed, smooth as silk and as white as milk. He had often driven past this area, these four acres of park filled with flowers and blossoming trees and little grottoes. An Italian fountain had been added several years ago, a tall marble youth, chastely naked, with head thrown back and lifted to the sky, and an expression of joy on the noble young face, the arms tautly held back as if preparing for flight. Pagan. But really a fine example of neo-classical art. The gemmed water sparkled to the very top of the large head so that always the statue shone and twinkled as if in a mist. He, John Service, had brought visitors to the city to look at the lawns of the parklike land, a green carpet in the very midst of towering apartment and office buildings, holding off progress with the hands of leafy trees and the frail bright arrogance of flowers. He would point out the Sanctuary to his visitors, and they would laugh at his humorous retelling of the tale of its origin. He had laughed, also. Once he had been on a committee which had made a resolution to the effect that it was “depriving our people” to let such a charming place remain in the hands of a “private group.” “We could,” said the resolution, “establish a small zoo for the benefit of The Children on this land, or make it a picnic ground, or build a music hall on it, or assign it for Community Activities. Even a school.” “By all means, a school!” cried some members of the PTA who were on the committee and who never would have been satisfied even if there had been classrooms of only five students each in every school in the city. It had been the members of the PTA—and the memory of rising school taxes—which had induced John Service, to the surprise of everyone, to vote against the resolution.

  But he had always been conscious of the fact that the Sanctuary was an embarrassment to him personally, and to his friends. It was offensive, really. People came from all over the country to visit the Sanctuary, and even from foreign countries. Once, it was rumored, an Indian group from the United Nations had called here, jeweled and exotic. John Service was always apologizing to visitors. “Maudlin, of course. Tasteless, of course. Some old man, years ago—sentimental
nonsense! Catering to the popular taste—Extremely mortifying, actually. You mustn’t judge our robust and expanding city and our realistic and modern point of view by this anachronism, this absurdity. No, we can’t do anything about it, unfortunately. A private group runs it, on the income from a tremendous amount of capital. We don’t even know their names. Yes, I’ve tried to find out—No one will talk.”

  He had never come as far as the doors until this evening. What would people think if the prominent John Service were seen here, at any time, even on exploration? He could imagine the laughter of his friends, and the affectionate ridicule. He began to whistle soundlessly as he stood on the wide marble step, surveying the grounds, his hands in the pockets of his Saville Row suit, his lean shoulders back, his tanned face expressionless, his light blue eyes quiet, but knowing and frank as in his youth, his lightly grayed hair just stirring in the evening breeze.

  Then he was conscious of something terrible. His mind was signaling nothing to him, nothing at all, that active, alert mind which was his pride, which was always commenting on something vigorously. His skull felt as empty as if all its contents had been poured out. And in the place of emotion and conjecture there was a dark and awful silence, a numbness, a nothingness. It was too massive to be despair, too quiet.

  He tried to think about it, to comment on it, to wonder about it. But every feeble thought was like a dying blade of grass, crushed down by a heavy heel and killed at once. He struggled, mentally. But it was the struggle of a man in paralysis. Only one thought came and stayed, a bright flicker in that ghastly blackness: Death. All sound left him; he did not hear the dry rustle of the flamelike trees and the music of the fountain. He did not hear the clangor and roar of the great city beyond these silent lawns and the soft lamplight. He was like one in a vacuum. He was alone.

  He found his hand on the bronze knob of the door; he found himself opening the door and glancing within. A pleasant room enough, he thought vaguely. Quite nicely furnished. Books and magazines on glass tables. And about six people waiting. Waiting for what? Yes, he remembered. They went into the room beyond, it had been told him with easy laughter, and a psychiatrist or a clergyman or a social worker was there, behind some theatrical curtain or perhaps a carved screen, and the unfortunate person listened to the illiterate wailings and whimperings of unimportant, inconsequential housewives and laborers and teen-agers, and then gave some sound advice, suited to the infantile personality which had approached him. How humiliating, how disgraceful. How, really, unsophisticated. He wondered why the city fathers and the clergy had not done something about it long ago, had not put an end to such a medieval situation.

  The people waiting did not look up at him as he stood in the doorway, his hand holding the door open. (He had heard that once it closed it could not be opened from within.) They sat there, the ridiculous dolts, the superstitious peasants, sunken in their own petty and obscene little problems which they would pour out to the long-suffering sentimentalist who awaited them. He looked at their clothing, their shoes, their faces. He wanted to laugh at the cheapness of it all, the mawkish comicality. He tried for derisiveness. But nothing came. The solid and stony blackness in his mind did not move.

  He found himself, to his utmost surprise, sitting on one of the chairs, a really comfortable chair in blue velvet. Then his face flushed hotly. In a moment these peasants would recognize John Service, the Leader of the City, the art connoisseur, the adviser of mayors and governors, the elegant counselor of politicians, the familiar of Presidents, the Richest Man in Town, the lawyer, the chairman of the board of directors of several banks, the man whose face was constantly in the newspapers. Then they would stare like owls and whisper to each other and furtively point. He began to rise, his temples throbbing with mortified blood.

  But no one looked at him. No one was even conscious of his presence. They were armored in their own pain.

  It might be interesting, he thought. It really might be interesting, once and for all, to know what the devil is beyond that door in that other room. If he found out, he desperately assured himself, then he would be in a position to put an end to this blot on the city. Once and for all. He would call in all the newspapers, and they would bring TV cameras, and in a stately and judicious fashion he would explain why he had decided to help rid the city of something which was a constant embarrassment to the inhabitants and an insult to the intelligence of the community. Why, the President, only a few months ago, had mocked at him about the Sanctuary. The President would be running for re-election next year, and he had said to John Service, “I hear you have a fortune-telling establishment, or shrine, in your city, John. I’m thinking of going down for a palm-reading, myself!” He must remember to quote the President. But he would not quote the Archbishop who had said to him very rudely, “Why the hell don’t you mind your own business, Jack, or visit the place, yourself?” John had never liked clergymen. He liked them less now.

  This damnable black stone in his skull which had replaced his brain! A chime sounded and a stout old woman rose, fumbling with her knitting, and went to the farther door, opened it, closed it behind her. Fat old frump. No doubt she was seeking advice on how to reduce her enormous grease. The psychiatrist in there would probably tell her to stop eating. Detestable people, the working class. Now he, John Service, was a liberal, of course, but one drew the line somewhere. Draw the line, draw the line, draw the line, said the suddenly awakened demon in his skull, which immediately began to sing again, “Sweet and Lovely!” There was a sound of thinly tapping soles in his brain, tap, tap, tap. “Sweet and Lovely!” screeched the demon’s voice, and then there was a howl of mirth. John Service put his hands against his temples; he was certain that the screaming mirth was pounding at his fingers. I am losing my mind, he thought. I must go somewhere—But where? Death. “Sweet and Lovely!” shrieked the hellish voice in the chamber of his skull. Then the voice dropped to a dulcet murmur. “Everything always so pleasant, so peaceful, so regulated, so serene, so satisfying. It is nice, isn’t it? That’s the way life should be, shouldn’t it?”

  Someone nudged him. It was the gentlest of nudges, but John Service felt it as a blow and he recoiled in his chair. A young girl with a piteous white face was trying to smile at him. “You’re next,” she whispered, a look of surprise in her weary eyes at his extravagant recoil from her. “Pardon me,” he answered with automatic politeness. He did not stir. She pointed, after a moment, to the farther door. “In there,” she said. He stared at the door. “I?” he said. “You,” she said, more surprised than ever.

  It was to escape her imminent recognition that he got to his feet and went to the door, past others who had come and whom he had not seen enter after himself. He opened the door, hesitating, partly because his legs were trembling violently. He paused on the threshold. He had not known what to expect, for no one had ever told him. He had thought to find a large desk there on a carpeted floor, and an easy chair facing it for the “client.” He had thought to find a businesslike person behind the desk, with a kind and harried face, probably a psychiatrist. But there was no one there, not even the previous visitor. Tall white walls of marble, softly and mysteriously lit. One carved white chair covered with blue velvet. And an alcove, entirely hidden by a blue velvet curtain. He thought, irrelevantly, of the marble tablet in the wall of the other room with its flowing inscription: “I can do all things in Him Who strengthens me.”

  So, that was it. A clergyman with psychiatric training. He wanted to burst out laughing. He leaned against the door he had closed behind him and his laughter came, terrible, raucous, horrifying even to himself. But he could not stop it. It burst from him like a poisoned spout, like vomit. Like vomit, acrid, burning, tearing, hideous, roaring from some secret place in himself, some desperate and dreadful place. He heard the hoarse echoes of it. He put his hands over his mouth. But behind his fingers his mouth was open and convulsed. Finally, after an awful struggle, it died away.

  What, in God’s name, would
the man behind the theatrical curtain think of him from that perverted noise? That indecent noise? And from where had it come? He had never made such a display of himself before, no, not even in his childhood.

  He swung about, aghast with his shame, and tried to open the door through which he had entered. But there was no knob. He had an impulse to scream like a child and batter the door. Only lifelong training prevented him, and he dropped his clenched hands. At least, there was no sound in the room, no murmur of consternation or of mortifying pity. Nothing stirred behind that curtain. The man who listened merely waited. But he must know his “client” or at least whether he was male or female, and his approximate age. There must be a one-way mirror, or something, or a peephole. John smoothed his hair automatically and straightened himself. My God, he thought, he will recognize me! Of course, ethics will prevent him from gossiping. But, who is he? Someone I know personally? If so, then I’ll see a smirk on a hundred faces in town.

  “I should like,” he said with dignity, “to find a way out of this room. I came on a personal investigation, for the sake of the community. You know what a scandal this place is to thoughtful people. I’m surprised that a man of your status should be an accomplice to this rot. Oh, that door in the rear. Thank you, very much. Goodnight. I’ve seen all I wanted to see, and believe me, it is quite enough!”

  He went to the door near the curtain, and opened it. A wave of fresh evening air, scented with wood smoke, came to him, peaceful and fresh and autumnal. He drew it into his lungs. Then he thought of his house and the tea party, and the stunning numbness hit his mind again and again he heard the insidious whisper: “Death.” Sweet and Lovely!

  The door slipped from his hand. He turned about. His wild eyes saw the tall marble chair facing the curtain. Slowly, step by step, he approached it. Weariness fell over him, and he sat down. “I probably know you,” he said to the curtain. “I can trust in your discretion, can’t I? After all, if anyone heard—I’d never hear the end of it! Mary, my wife. She’s tried for years to get rid of this place, and you. Humiliating. I can trust you, can’t I?”