Voice of Our Shadow by Jonathan Carroll Read Free Book Online Page A

was Charlie the Chicken. I didn’t even know what a gang was until someone told me. No, my brother was tough and his best friend was a real juvenile delinquent, but I was the kind who hid under the bed most of the time when the going got tough.”
    “You’re kidding.”
    “Absolutely not. I hated to fight, I hated to smoke, I hated to get drunk … blood made me gag …”
    They were smiling, and I smiled with them. India took out a cigarette — unfiltered, I noticed — and Paul lit it for her.
    “What is your brother like? Is he still a tough guy or does he sell insurance or something?”
    “Well, you see, my brother is dead.”
    “Ooops, sorry about that.” She dipped her shoulders and looked away.
    “It’s okay. He died when I was thirteen.”
    “Thirteen? Really? How old was he?”
    “Sixteen. He was electrocuted.”
    “Electrocuted? How did that happen?”
    “He fell on a third rail.”
    “God!”
    “Yes. I was there. Uh, waiter, could we have the check?”

2
    Paul turned out to be kind and witty and scatterbrained. He could listen to the most boring person talk for hours and still look as if he was fascinated. When the person left, he would usually say something funny or nasty about them, but if they happened to come back later, he would be the same open, thoughtful listener and confidant.
    He was from the Midwest and had a friendly, slightly bewildered face that was prematurely jowly and made you think he was much older than his wife. The Tates were, however, exactly the same age.
    He worked for one of the large international agencies in Vienna. He would never be specific about his job, but it had something to do with trade fairs in Communist countries. I often wondered if he was a spy, as are so many other “businessmen” in that town. Once, when I pressed him on it, he told me even the Czechs, Poles, and Rumanians had things they wanted to sell to the outside world, and that these fairs were where they got a chance to “strut their stuff.”
    India Tate resembled a character you see in 1930s or ‘40s movies played by either Joan Blondell or Ida Lupino: a pretty face, but a hard, tight pretty. On the surface she’s a tough, no-nonsense gal, but one who becomes increasingly vulnerable the longer you know her. Like Paul, she was in her early forties, but it didn’t show on either of their figures because they were manic about exercising and keeping fit. They once showed me the yoga they did together every morning for an hour. I tried some of it, but couldn’t even lift myself off the ground. I knew they didn’t like that, and a few days later Paul quietly suggested I start some kind of program that would put me back in shape. I did it for a while but quit when it started to bore me.
    On learning they were being transferred to Vienna from London, India decided to take a year off from teaching and learn German. According to Paul, she was naturally adept at languages, and a month or two after her classes at the University of Vienna began, he told me, she was able to translate the German news on the radio for him. I didn’t know how much of this was true because she refused to speak anything but English whenever the three of us went out together. Once, when absolutely pressed, she stuttered out a slow, frightened question to a train conductor. It sounded grammatically correct, but it also had a strong Oklahoma accent tied around it like a bow.
    “India, how come you never speak German?”
    “Because I sound like Andy Devine when I talk.”
    She was like that in so many ways. It was easy to see how talented and intelligent she was, and that there were a number of things she could have sculpted a life out of. But she was a perfectionist and avoided or played down almost anything she did that came out only “half good” as far as she was concerned.
    For instance, there were her drawings. Besides the German course, she had decided that during her “free” year she would do something she had had