Part 5 (1/2)

You understand I was not inclined to listen properly, but it was not a fair trial. It had a mistrustful and furtive haste about it. Judge, counsel and jury all took care to be as brief and explicit as possible. I said nothing, but I knew why; everyone wanted to get back to the dances.

So it was not very long before the judge stood up and p.r.o.nounced sentence: ”Alexander Abel Ybo, this court finds you guilty of murdering Parowen Scryban for the second time.”

I could have laughed out loud. I nearly did.

He went on: ”You are therefore condemned to suffer death by strangulation for the second time, which sen-tence will be carried out within the next week.”

Round the court ran a murmur of excitement.

In a way, even I felt satisfied. It had been an unusual case: few are the people who care to risk facing death a second time; for the first time you die makes the prospect worse, not better. For just a minute, the court was still, then it cleared with almost indecent haste. In a little while, only I was left there.

I, Alex Abel Ybo-or approximately he-came care-fully down out of the prisoner's box and limped the length of the dusty room to the door. As I went, I looked at my hands. They weren't trembling.

n.o.body bothered to keep a check on me. They knew they could pick me up whenever they were ready to execute sentence. I was unmistakable in Union and I had nowhere to go. I was the man with the club foot who could not dance; n.o.body could mistake me for anyone else. Only I could do that.

Outside in the dark sunlight, that wonderful woman stood waiting for me with her husband, waiting on the court steps. The sight of her began to bring back life and hurt to my veins. I raised my hand to her as my custom was.

”We've come to take you home, Alex,” Husband said, stepping towards me.

”I haven't got a home,” I said, addressing her.

”I meant our home,” he informed me.

”Elucidation accepted,” I said. ”Take me away, take me away, take me away, Charlemagne. And let me sleep.”

”You need a sleep after all you have been through,” he said. Why, he sounded nearly sympathetic.

Sometimes I called him Charlemagne because I have a historical cast of mind, sometimes just Charley.

Or Cheeps, or Jags, or Jaggers, or anything, as the mood took me. He seemed to forgive me. Perhaps he even liked it-I don't know. Personal magnetism takes you a long way; it has taken me so far I don't even have to remember names.

They stopped a pa.s.sing taxi and we all climbed in. It was a tumbril, they tell me. You know, French?

Circa seventeen-eighty, something-back before the centuries got silted up with big wars. Husband sat one side, Wife the other, each holding one of my arms, as if they thought I should get violent. I let them do it, although the idea amused me.

”Hallo, friends!” I said ironically. Sometimes I called them ”parents”, or ”disciples”, or sometimes ”patients”. Anything. ”You look as if you have aged,” I said.

The wonderful woman was crying slightly.

”Look at her!” I said to Husband. ”She's lovely when she cries, that I swear. I could have married her, you know, if I had not been dedicated. Tell him, you won-derful creature, tell him how I turned you down!”

Through her sobbing, she said, ”Alex said he had more important things to do than s.e.x.”

”So you've got me to thank for Perdita!” I told him. ”It was a big sacrifice, but I'm happy to see you happy.” Often now I called her Perdita. It seemed to fit her. He laughed at what I had said, and then we were all laugh-ing. Yes, it was good to be alive; I knew I made them feel good to be alive. They were loyal. I had to give them something-I had no gold and silver.

The tumbril stopped outside Charley's place-the Husband Residence, I'd better say. Oh, the things I've called that place! Someone should have recorded them all. It was one of those inverted beehive houses: just room for a door and an elevator on the ground floor, but the fifth floor could hold a ballroom.

Topply, topply. Up we went to the fifth. There was no sixth floor; had there been, I should have gone up there, the way I felt. I asked for it anyhow, just to see the wonderful woman brighten up. She liked me to joke, even when I wasn't in a joking mood. I could tell she still loved me so much it hurt her.

”Now for a miracle, ye pampered jades,” I said, stepp-ing forth, clumping into the living room.

I seized an empty vase from a low shelf and spat into it. Ah, the old cunning was still there! It filled at once with wine, sweet and b.l.o.o.d.y-looking. I sipped and found it good.

”Go on and taste it, Perdy!” I told her.

Wonderful W. turned her head sadly away. She would not touch that vase. I could have eaten every single strand of hair on her head, but she seemed unable to see the wine. I really believe she could not see that wine.

”Please don't go through all that again, Alex,” she implored me wearily. Little faith, you see-the old, old story. (Remind me to tell you a new one I heard the other day.) I put my behind on one chair and my bad foot on another and sulked.

They came and stood by me ... not too close. ”Come nearer,” I coaxed, looking up under my eye-brows and pretending to growl at them. ”I won't hurt you. I only murder Parowen Scryban, remember?”

”We've got to talk to you about that,” Husband said desperately. I thought he looked as if he had aged.

”I think you look as if you have aged, Perdita,” I said. Often I called him Perdita too; why, man, they some-times looked so worried you couldn't tell them apart.

”I cannot live for ever, Alex,” he replied. ”Now try and concentrate about this killing will you?”

I waved a hand and tried to belch. At times I can belch! like a sinking s.h.i.+p.

”We do all we can to help you, Alex,” he said. I heard him although my eyes were shut; can you do that? ”But we can only keep you out of trouble if you co-operate. It's the dancing that does it; nothing else betrays you like dancing. You've got to promise you'll stay away from it In fact, we want you to promise that you'll let us restrain you. To keep you away from the dancing. Something about that dancing. . . .”

He was going on and on, and I could still hear him. But other things were happening. That word ”dancing” got in the way of all his other words. It started a sort of flutter under my eyelids. I crept my hand out and took the wonderful woman's hand, so soft and lovely, and listened to that word ”dancing”

dancing. It brought its own rhythm, bouncing about like an eyeball inside my head. The rhythm grew louder, he was shouting. I sat up suddenly, opening my eyes. W. woman was on the floor, very pale.

”You squeezed too hard, boy,” she whispered.

I could see that her little hand was the only red thing she had.

”I'm sorry,” I said. ”I really wonder you two don't throw me out for good!” I couldn't help it, I just started laughing. I like laughing. I can laugh even when nothing's funny. Even when I saw their faces, I still kept laughing like mad.

”Stop it!” Husband said. For a moment he looked as if he would have hit me. But I was laughing so much I did not recognize him. It must have done them good to see me enjoying myself; they both needed a fillip, I could tell.

”If you stop laughing, I'll take you down to the club,” he said, greasily bribing.

I stopped. I always know when to stop. With all humility, that is a great natural gift.

”The club's the place for me,” I said. ”I've already got a club foot-I'm half-way there! Verily, verily, I say unto you let's go.”

I stood up.

”Lead on, my loyal supporters, my liege lords,” I ordered.

”You and I will go alone, Alex,” Husband said. ”The wonderful woman will stay here. She really ought to go to bed.”

”What's in it for her?” I joked. Then I followed him to the elevator. He knows I don't like staying in any one place for long.

When I got to the club, I knew, I would want to be somewhere else. That's the worst of having a mission: it makes you terribly restless. Sometimes I am so restless I could die. Ordinary people just don't know what the word means. I could have married her if I had been ordinary. They call it destiny.

But the club was good.