The Attic

The Attic by John K. Cox Read Free Book Online

Book: The Attic by John K. Cox Read Free Book Online
Authors: John K. Cox
said.
    I plunged my nose into my plate.
    He repeated: “ Eurydice. I said ‘ Eurydice. ’ ”
    “ So what? ”
    He grabbed me by the arm. “ She ’ s waiting for you in the attic, you moron. ”
    “ Very nice, ” I said. “ But first I have to pick this bone clean. I ’ m not going to leave this chicken to the cooks out of sheer charity! ”
    “ I haven ’ t seen you for ages, ” the cleaning lady said when I came running up.
    “ I ’ ve been sick, ” I said.
    I expected her to ask me for the rent.
    “ Sick? And I didn ’ t even know. Otherwise I would ’ ve paid you a visit. So what was wrong with you? ”
    “ Influenza, ” I said.
    “ And just what is that? ”
    “ Bloody diarrhea, ” I said and then rushed up the stairs.
    I had already raced up two floors when I heard her voice: “ A girl was waiting for you. ”
    “ Are you talking to me? ” I asked, panting as I leaned over the wobbly wooden banister.
    “ To you . . . Who else? She left less than five minutes ago. If you hadn ’ t been licking your plate, you would ’ ve caught her. ”
    There was still a warm indentation on the bed where she had been sitting. The window was wide open and the wind reverberated in the lute. She had taken the rags and paper out of it. The ashtrays were gleaming, and the books, which previously had been lying strewn about in the corners everywhere you looked, had been piled up into a burial mound.
    Orpheus , a note read, why do you claim the right to suffer for yourself alone . . . ? I waited for you until 9:30. I could tell by your lute what kind of shape you ’ re in. Can ’ t you even . . .
    I couldn ’ t read the rest.
    So there we have it, Igor. A few light-years older, but so young, and so bitter.
    And what would have become of us if we had kept on acting and pretending?
    You know very well, Capricorn, that I wouldn ’ t have lasted very long rolling up my sleeves and drinking mineral water and smoking filtered cigarettes.
    What would we be like without journeys, without conversations?
    How would I fare without my lute, without Eurydice?
    “ You have to look at things realistically, dear fellow, realistically , ” said the man whom we are here calling Billy Wiseass or some such thing.
    “ I agree with you completely, ” I said. “ But don ’ t forget, my good man, that it is especially necessary for people like us: artists. And even for you, the astronomers, too. Through the twinkling of the stars you ’ re supposed to glean hints of the aroma of the astral humus, the social composition and political structure of the galaxies. After all . . . ”
    “ You ’ re wrong, ” he said. “ The point is not to intuit an object, as you say, but rather to investigate it, tangibly , to touch it and feel it. Without any sort of guesswork, my dear fellow. ”
    “ What do you mean? ” I asked. “ I assume you can ’ t feel the stars with your hand as you would the udder of a cow. ”
    “ Why is it that you always want to be witty, at all costs? I ’ m tempted to say: a professional wit. ”
    “ Out of egoism, ” I said. “ That is to say — by mistake. In actuality, fate has allotted to you the role of reasoner and wiseass (your name states as much), just as I have been given the lute as my lot . . . ”
    “ I ’ ve had it up to here with that lute of yours. A stupid, pompous, antiquarian symbol. ”
    “ It is not a symbol at all! ” I said.
    “ What the hell is it, then, if not a symbol? ”
    “ A lute , ” I said.
    He waved his hand dismissively: take a hike.
    We walked on in silence for some time. We were still such good friends that the silence didn ’ t bother us. The hollow clatter of our footsteps hardly made us flush with embarrassment.
    “ Take a look at this, Igor, ” I said, pointing at a large yellow poster.
    Or was it he who pointed at the big yellow poster and said: “ Take a look at this, Lute-meister . . . ” ?
    At any rate, the poster was there, yellow, damp with

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