carson mccullers - the heart is a lonely hunter-第46章

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restlessness　could　be　felt。　There　was　a　fervid　outbreak　of　new　
beliefs。　A　young　man　who　had　worked　at　the　dye　vats　in　a　mill　
claimed　suddenly　that　a　great　holy　power　had　come　in　him。　He　
said　it　was　his　duty　to　deliver　a　new　set　of　commandments　
from　the　Lord；　The　young　man　set　up　a　tabernacle　and　
hundreds　of　people　came　each　night　to　roll　on　the　ground　and　
shake　each　other；　for　they　believed　that　they　were　in　the　
presence　of　something　more　than　human。　There　was　murder；　
too。　A　woman　who　could　

169　

not　make　enough　to　eat　believed　that　a　foreman　had　cheated　
on　her　work　tokens　and　she　stabbed　him　in　the　throat。　A　
family　of　Negroes　moved　into　the　end　house　on　one　of　the　
most　dismal　streets；　and　this　caused　so　much　indignation　that　
the　house　was　burned　and　the　black　man　beaten　by　his　
neighbors。　But　these　were　incidents。　Nothing　had　really　
changed。　The　strike　that　was　talked　about　never　came　off　
because　they　could　not　get　together。　All　was　the　same　as　
before。　Even　on　the　coldest　nights　the　Sunny　Dixie　Show　was　
open。　The　people　dreamed　and　fought　and　slept　as　much　as　
ever。　And　by　habit　they　shortened　their　thoughts　so　that　they　
would　not　wander　out　into　the　darkness　beyond　tomorrow。　
Singer　walked　through　the　scattered　odorous　parts　of　town　
where　the　Negroes　crowded　together。　There　was　more　gaiety　
and　violence　here。　Often　the　fine；　sharp　smell　of　gin　lingered　
in　the　alleys。　Warm；　sleepy　firelight　colored　the　windows。　
Meetings　were　held　in　the　churches　almost　every　night。　
Comfortable　little　houses　set　off　in　plots　of　brown　grass—　
Singer　walked　in　these　parts　also。　Here　the　children　were　
huskier　and　more　friendly　to　strangers。　He　roamed　through　the　
neighborhoods　of　the　rich。　There　were　houses；　very　grand　and　
old；　with　white　columns　and　intricate　fences　of　wrought　iron。　
He　walked　past　the　big　brick　houses　where　automobiles　
honked　in　the　driveways　and　where　the　plumes　of　smoke　
rolled　lavishly　from　chimneys。　And　out　to　the　very　edges　of　
the　roads　that　led　from　the　town　to　general　stores　where　
fanners　came　on　Saturday　nights　and　sat　around　the　stove。　He　
wandered　often　about　the　four　main　business　blocks　that　were　
brightly　lighted　and　then　through　the　black；　deserted　alleys　


behind。　There　was　no　part　of　the　town　that　Singer　did　not　
know。　He　watched　the　yellow　squares　of　light　reflect　from　a　
thousand　windows。　The　winter　nights　were　beautiful。　The　sky　
was　a　cold　azure　and　the　stars　were　very　bright　
Often　it　happened　now　that　he　would　be　spoken　to　and　
stopped　during　these　walks。　All　kinds　of　people　became　
acquainted　with　him。　If　the　person　who　spoke　to　him　was　a　
stranger；　Singer　presented　his　card　so　that　his　silence　would　be　
understood。　He　came　to　be　known　through　all　the　town。　He　
walked　with　his　shoulders　very　straight　and　kept　his　hands　
always　stuffed　down　into　his　pockets。　His170　

gray　eyes　seemed　to　take　in　everything　around　him；　and　in　his　
face　there　was　still　the　look　of　peace　that　is　seen　most　often　in　
those　who　are　very　wise　or　very　sorrowful。　He　was　always　
glad　to　stop　with　anyone　wishing　his　company。　For　after　all　he　
was　only　walking　and　going　nowhere。　
Now　it　came　about　that　various　rumors　started　in　the　town　
concerning　the　mute。　In　the　years　before　with　An…tonapoulos　
they　had　walked　back　and　forth　to　work；　but　except　for　this　
they　were　always　alone　together　in　their　rooms。　No　one　had　
bothered　about　them　then—and　if　they　were　observed　it　was　
the　big　Greek　on　whom　attention　was　focused。　The　Singer　of　
those　years　was　forgotten。　
So　the　rumors　about　the　mute　were　rich　and　varied。　The　Jews　
said　that　he　was　a　Jew。　The　merchants　along　the　main　street　
claimed　he　received　a　large　legacy　and　was　a　very　rich　man。　It　
was　whispered　in　one　browbeaten　textile　union　that　the　mute　
was　an　organizer　for　the　C。I。O。　A　lone　Turk　who　had　roamed　
into　the　town　years　ago　and　who　languished　with　his　family　
behind　the　little　store　where　they　sold　linens　claimed　
passionately　to　his　wife　that　the　mute　was　Turkish。　He　said　
that　when　he　spoke　his　language　the　mute　understood。　And　as　
he　claimed　this　his　voice　grew　warm　and　he　forgot　to　squabble　
with　his　children　and　he　was　full　of　plans　and　activity。　One　
old　man　from　the　country　said　that　the　mute　had　come　from　
somewhere　near　his　home　and　that　the　mute's　father　had　the　
finest　tobacco　crop　in　all　the　country。　All　these　things　were　
said　about　him。　
Antonapoulos！　Within　Singer　there　was　always　the　memory　of　


his　friend。　At　night　when　he　closed　his　eyes　the　Greek's　face　
was　there　in　the　darkness—round　and　oily；　with　a　wise　and　
gentle　smile。　In　his　dreams　they　were　always　together。　
It　was　more　than　a　year　now　since　his　friend　had　gone　away。　
This　year　seemed　neither　long　nor　short。　Rather　it　was　
removed　from　the　ordinary　sense　of　time—as　when　one　is　
drunk　or　half…asleep。　Behind　each　hour　there　was　always　his　
friend。　And　this　buried　life　with　Antonapoulos　changed　and　
developed　as　did　the　happenings　around　him。　During　the　first　
few　months　he　had　thought　most　of　the　terrible　weeks　before　
Antonapoulos　was　taken　away—of　the　

171　

trouble　that　followed　his　Illness；　of　the　summons　for　arrest；　
and　the　misery　in　trying　to　control　the　whims　of　his　friend。　He　
thought　of　times　in　the　past　when　he　and　Antonapoulos　had　
been　unhappy。　There　was　one　recollection；　far　in　the　past；　that　
came　back　to　him　several　times。　
They　never　had　no　friends。　Sometimes　they　would　meet　other　
mutes—there　were　three　of　them　with　whom　they　became　
acquainted　during　the　ten　years。　But　something　always　
happened。　One　moved　to　another　state　the　week　after　they　met　
him。　Another　was　married　and　had　six　children　and　did　not　
talk　with　his　hands。　But　it　was　their　relation　with　the　third　of　
these　acquaintances　that　Singer　remembered　when　his　friend　
was　gone。　
The　mute's　name　was　Carl。　He　was　a　sallow　young　man　who　
worked　in　one　of　the　mills。　His　eyes　were　pale　yellow　and　his　
teeth　so　brittle　and　transparent　that　they　seemed　pale　and　
yellow　also。　In　his　blue…overalls　that　hung　limp　over　his　
skinny　little　body　he　was　like　a　blue…and…yellow　rag　doll。　
They　invited　him　to　dinner　and　arranged　to　meet　him　
beforehand　at　the　store　where　Antonapoulos　worked。　The　
Greek　was　still　busy　when　they　arrived。　He　was　finishing　a　
batch　of　caramel　fudge　in　the　cooking　room　at　the　back　of　the　
store。　The　fudge　lay　golden　and　glossy　over　the　long　marble…
topped　table。　The　air　was　warm　and　rich　with　sweet　smells。　
Antonapoulos　seemed　pleased　to　have　Carl　watch　him　as　he　
glided　the　knife　down　the　warm　candy　and　cut　it　into　squares。　
He　offered　their　new　friend　a　corner　of　the　fudge　on　the　edge　


of　his　greased　knife；　and　showed　him　the　trick　that　he　always　
performed　for　anyone　when　he　wished　to　be　liked。　He　pointed　
to　a　vat　of　syrup　boiling　on　the　stove　and　fanned　his　face　and　
squinted　his　eyes　to　show　how　hot　it　was。　Then　he　wet　his　
hand　in　a　pot　of　cold　water；　plunged　it　into　the　boiling　syrup；　
and　swiftly　put　it　back　into　the　water　again。　His　eyes　bulged　
and　he　rolled　out　his　tongue　as　though　he　were　in　great　agony。　
He　even　wrung　his　hand　and　hopped　on　one　foot　so　that　the　
building　shook。　Then　he　smiled　suddenly　and　held　out　his　
hand　to　show　that　it　was　a　joke　and　hit　Carl　on　the　shoulder。　
It　was　a　pale　winter　evening；　and　their　breath　clouded　in　the　
cold　air　as　they　walked　with　their　arms　interlocked　down　the　
street　Singer　was　in　the　middle　and　he　left　them172　

173　
on　the　sidewalk　twice　while　he　went　into　stores　to　shop。　Carl　
and　Antonapoulos　carried　the　sacks　of　groceries；　and　Singer　
held　to　their　arms　tightly　and　smiled　all　the　way　home。　Their　
rooms　were　cozy　and　he　moved　happily　about。　making　
conversation　with　Carl。　After　the　meal　the　two　of　them　talked　
while　Antonapoulous　watched　with　a　slow　smile。　Often　the　
big　Greek　would　lumber　to　the　closet　and　pour　out　drinks　of　
gin。　Carl　sat　by　the　window；　only　drinking　when　
Antonapoulos　pushed　the　glass　into　his　face；　and　then　taking　
solemn　little　sips。　Singer　could　not　ever　remember　his　friend　
so　cordial　to　a　stranger　before；　and　he　thought　ahead　with　
pleasur