Shhh by Raymond Federman Read Free Book Online

little boy
    was when my mother
    gave me a bath on sundays
    naked I stood in the wash-basin
    in the middle of the kitchen and
    abandoned myself to the soft hands
    of my mother who hummed dreamily
    while scrubbing my frail white body
    when the water became too cold
    and I was starting to shiver
    my mother would wrap a towel
    around me and rub me hard all over
    after that she would hold me tight
    against her and after she finished
    squeezing me she would say
    go get dressed quickly now
    I think it made my mother happy
    to give me a bath in the little basin
    while singing love songs to herself
    I could see that in her big black eyes

In the room which was both dining room and bedroom, there was an old buffet in which mother stored all our possessions. Next to it was my father’s old hand-cranked phonograph with its big speaker, and near the window our green salamander-stove with its little mica windows. As I mentioned before, two of them were broken, so that you could see the fire burning inside the stove which made me dream of wild adventures. When my mother would see me staring at the stove, she would say, My little Raymond is lost in the clouds again.
    That was my mother’s favorite expression when I was day-dreaming. Years later, when I started reading my horoscope every day, as I still do, the best description that was given for a Taurus was, someone who lives with his feet on the ground and his head in the clouds. Yes, of course, I’m a Taurus. I was born on May 15. A Sunday. My mother often said that I was lazy because I was born on a Sunday. But I don’t think …

Federman, now you’re really exaggerating. You tell too many things at the same time. Your readers are going to get lost in all these stories within stories. Can’t you finish one story before starting another one? With all these detours and interruptions, for sure you’ll forget half of what you promise to tell us.
    I cannot write any other way. When I start telling something that happened during my childhood, all kinds of other things come bursting into my head, so I have to mention them otherwise I’ll really forget them.
    So let me go on digressing.

I was in the middle of describing our apartment.
    Across from the phonograph was my father’s old shabby armchair. Some of the stuffing was coming out of the cover. Papa would sit in it to read his newspapers or to listen to music. He loved music. Especially opera. His favorite was Tosca. When he wanted to listen to music, he would ask me to put the disk on the phonograph, and while I was rewinding it with the little crank, each time Papa would tell me the story of Tosca, and how she hurled herself to her death from the parapet of a fortress when she discovered that her lover Mario had been killed.
    One time, my father took me with him to see Tosca at the Paris Opéra, Place de l’Opéra. I fell asleep during the first act. But I was happy that day to have gone out with my father. That didn’t happen often. Except once in a while, he would take me with him to one of the political demonstrations, Place de la République. That too, I’ll have to tell. How, when I was a boy, on May Day, I sang the International with my father and his communist friends.
    The day my father took me to the opera it was very cold. In winter my father wore a heavy dark blue overcoat made of a thick fabric. As we walked from the métro to the opera house, Papa held one of my hands inside the pocket of his coat to warm it. I didn’t have gloves. I was so happy that day.
    Since I am talking about my father’s passion for music, I should perhaps insert here the piece I once wrote about his favorite song, “Ramona” It’ll give an idea of what type of man my father was, and ...

Federman, one of these days you’re going to get lost in your own stories, and you won’t know how to get back to the real world.
    I’ve managed quite well until now with my