Part 2 (1/2)
But sleep would not come. Only the books, the knowledge, the confusion. Dancing. Burning.
Finally, his heart jabbing, loud, Robert rose and silently retraced his footsteps to the door.
He rapped, softly, and waited.
There was no answer.
He rapped again, somewhat harder than before; but only once.
He cupped his hands to his mouth and whispered into the keyhole: ”_Drake!_”
Silence. He touched the doork.n.o.b. It turned.
He went into the room.
A large man was lying across a bulky, posterless bed. Robert could hear the heavy guttural breathing, and it made him feel good.
”Drake. Please wake up.”
Robert continued to whisper. The large man moved, jerked, turned around. ”Minnie?”
”No, Drake. It's me.”
The man sat upright, shook his head violently, and pulled open a shutter. The room lit up.
”Do you know what will happen if she finds you here?”
Robert sat down on the bed, close to the man. ”I couldn't sleep. I wanted to talk to you. She won't hear--”
”You shouldn't be here. You know what she'll say.””Just a little while. Won't you talk a little while with me, like you used to?”
The man took a bottle from beneath the bed, filled a gla.s.s, drank half. ”Look here,” he said.
”Your mother doesn't like us to be talking together. Don't you remember what she did last time? You wouldn't want that to happen again, would you?”
Robert smiled. ”It won't. I don't have anything left for her to kill. She could only hit me now and she wouldn't hit you. She never hits you.”
The man smiled, strangely.
”Drake .”
”What?”
”Why doesn't she want me to talk to you?”
The man coughed. ”It's a long story. Say I'm the gardener and she's the mistress of the house and you're her. . . daughter, and it isn't right that we should mix.”
”But why?”
”Never mind.”
”Tell me.”
”Go back to bed, Bobbie. I'll see you next week when your mother takes her trip into town.”
”No, Drake, please talk a little more with me. Tell me about town; please tell me about town.”
”You'll see some day--”
”Why do you always call me 'Bobbie'? Mother calls me Roberta. Is my name Bobbie?”
The man shrugged. ”No. Your name is Roberta.”
”Then why do you call me Bobbie? Mother says there is no such name.”
The man said nothing, and his hand trembled more.
”Drake.”
”Yes?”
”Drake, am I _really_ a little girl?”
The man got up and walked over to the window. He opened the other shutter and stood for a long while staring into the night. When he turned around, Robert saw that his face was wet.
”Bobbie, what do you know about G.o.d?”
”Not very much. It is mentioned in the George Bernard Shaw book I am reading, but I don't understand.”
”Well, G.o.d is who must help your mother now, Bobbie boy!”
Robert's fists tightened. He knew--he'd known if for a long time. A _boy_ . . .
The man had fallen onto the bed. His hands reached for the bottle, but it was empty.
”It's good,” the man said. ”Ask your questions. But don't ask them of me. Go away now. Go back to your room!”
Robert wondered if his friend were ill, but he felt too strange to be with anyone. He opened the door and hurried back to his room.
And as he lay down, his brain hurt with the new thoughts. He had learned many wonderful things this night. He could almost identify the feeling that gnawed at the pit of his stomach whenever he thought of Miss Gentilbelle .
Robert did not sleep before the first signs of dawn appeared. And then he dreamed of dead puppies and dead birds.
They were whispering something to him.
”Why, Roberta,” said Miss Gentilbelle, in a soft, shocked voice. ”You haven't worn your scent this morning. Did you forget it?”
”Yes.”
”A pity. There's nothing like the essence of blossoms to put a touch of freshness about everything.”