Song of the Shank

What she wanted was something not far from herself, but she would not want to think her feelings out. Back home in the city, even before the violence, she would be overcome by such a sense of aimlessness and futility that she would venture out, purely in order to preserve an illusion of purpose, and walk about the streets with no particular destination in mind. In this way she got to see the city in her own good time. The streets always curiously empty, no explanation for it, unless — perhaps — half the population spent every day drowsing the hottest part of the day indoors. Only those few but serious faces returning her gaze. In the faces she would sense some terrible knowledge shared. Then one day she saw a man who looked like a beardless General Bethune walking freely about, crutches circling him, like a man rowing a boat on dry land. Peeking into the man’s silent face, she convinced herself that it was someone else entirely. That was when she knew she had to get out of the city, alone there in her apartment, no Sharpe, no Tom, only the piano. Convinced herself that she had to go to the house in the country, for the outside world in the city had become so painful for her that she could no longer stand to be in it. And then the violence came.

Walking around the house she sees only lifeless objects. She is the only crazily alive thing in the house. She will always stand outside, against herself, searching for that something inside that can break down her despair. (Why?) Daylight remembrance of words said and events that happened far apart, now no longer separate but pushed into each other. (Bath. Lait.) Her days will be filled with more broken things. Any reason she should think differently? This is what she has. This is what I have.

Some nights when she sleeps, the long day behind her, she hears Tom speaking inside her, speaking in a voice that does not sound like the one she remembers — but why does it sound familiar? — and speaking words she doesn’t remember him saying. She does not resist. Indeed, she lets it happen, forgetting who she is for a time to become him. Sleeps on serenely. No one has heard these words, it seems, but her, a rare luxury:

The doors spring open. The people enter. The music flies up. Breath stops. I am what I am. A what and a who.

Go down belowdecks then climb back up top into sunlight and noise. Look, Blind Tom! What seeing is.

They choose me. I cannot choose them. What seeing is. A hand touches my shoulder. A voice comes into my ear. Each person is a surprise.

People see me. Even when I cannot feel them. (Will you look after him? Please look after him. Please walk him back to the house. See to it that he doesn’t fall. See to it that he puts on the white suit.) I must be spoken to or touched. I must speak or move. Draw water. Drawing with hands. What is “deep”? How high is “above”? How much space is “wide”? Even there thy left hand shall lead me and thy right hand shall hold me. What is “tall” or “short”? “Ugly” or “beautiful”? Measure. What seeing is. Hot and cold I understand. Hungry and tired. Sleep and awake. They always think I am asleep. What seeing is.

When I sit down the world stands up. Tom, the man says to me. How does it make you feel to know that all these people are here for you?

The horses go galloping across the keys. The men pop up from the small spaces between one key and the next. Trenches. Where silence lives. The soft space. The men rush for the edge where they will fall off and die.

Tom, the man says. What do you know about the Battle of Manassas?

The cannons roll along too, positioned for firing. I had hot metal in my mouth, under my tongue, and I spoke it.