The Autobiography of Red by Anne Carson Read Free Book Online Page A

letters
     
    that read TENDER
     
     
                    LOIN .
Herakles gave it
—and here Geryon had meant
     
    to slide past the name coolly
     
    but such a cloud of agony poured up his soul he couldn’t remember
     
    what he was saying.
     
    He sat forward. She exhaled. She was watching his hands so he unclenched them
     
    from the edge
     
    of the table and began spinning the fruit bowl slowly. He spun it clockwise.
     
    Counterclockwise. Clockwise.
     
    Why is this fruit bowl always here?
He stopped and held it by the rims.
     
    It’s always here and it never
     
    has any fruit in it. Been here all my life never had fruit in it yet. Doesn’t
     
    that bother you? How do we even
     
    know it’s a fruit bowl?
She regarded him through smoke.
How do you think it feels
     
    growing up in a house full
     
    of empty fruit bowls?
His voice was high. His eyes met hers and they began
     
    to laugh. They laughed
     
    until tears ran down. Then they sat quiet. Drifted back
     
    to opposite walls.
     
    They spoke of a number of things, laundry, Geryon’s brother doing drugs,
     
    the light in the bathroom.
     
    At one point she took out a cigarette, looked at it, put it back. Geryon laid
     
    his head on his arms on the table.
     
    He was very sleepy. finally they rose and went their ways. The fruit bowl
     
    stayed there. Yes empty.
     
     

XXIII. WATER
     
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    Water! Out from between two crouching masses of the world the word leapt.
     
     
    ————
     
    It was raining on his face. He forgot for a moment that he was a brokenheart
     
    then he remembered. Sick lurch
     
    downward to Geryon trapped in his own bad apple. Each morning a shock
     
    to return to the cut soul.
     
    Pulling himself onto the edge of the bed he stared at the dull amplitude of rain.
     
    Buckets of water sloshed from sky
     
    to roof to eave to windowsill. He watched it hit his feet and puddle on the floor.
     
    He could hear bits of human voice
     
    streaming down the drainpipe—
I believe in being gracious
—
     
    He slammed the window shut.
     
    Below in the living room everything was motionless. Drapes closed, chairs asleep.
     
    Huge wads of silence stuffed the air.
     
    He was staring around for the dog then realized they hadn’t had a dog for years. Clock
     
    in the kitchen said quarter to six.
     
    He stood looking at it, willing himself not to blink until the big hand bumped over
     
    to the next minute. Years passed
     
    as his eyes ran water and a thousand ideas jumped his brain—
If the world
     
    ends now I am free
and
     
    If the world ends now no one will see my autobiography
—finally it bumped.
     
    He had a flash of Herakles’ sleeping house
     
    and put that away. Got out the coffee can, turned on the tap and started to cry.
     
    Outside the natural world was enjoying
     
    a moment of total strength. Wind rushed over the ground like a sea and battered up
     
    into the corners of the buildings,
     
    garbage cans went dashing down the alley after their souls.
     
    Giant ribs of rain shifted
     
    open on a flash of light and cracked together again, making the kitchen clock
     
    bump crazily. Somewhere a door slammed.
     
    Leaves tore past the window. Weak as a fly Geryon crouched against the sink
     
    with his fist in his mouth
     
    and his wings trailing over the drainboard. Rain lashing the kitchen window
     
    sent another phrase
     
    of Herakles’ chasing across his mind.
A photograph is just a bunch of light
     
    hitting a plate.
Geryon wiped his face
     
    with his wings and went out to the living room to look for the camera.
     
    When he stepped onto the back porch
     
    rain was funnelling down off the roof in a morning as dark as night.
     
    He had the camera wrapped
     
    in a sweatshirt. The photograph is titled “If He Sleep He Shall Do Well.”
     
    It shows a fly floating in a pail of water—
     
    drowned but with a strange agitation of light around the wings.