thought I'd just mention it. It's just had me wondering. But you know the great black slab over there, the big financier who died mysteriously. Well for about the last couple of months or so, maybe twice, three times a week a woman comes. Spends an hour or more. Sitting on the bench there. In black, thick veil over her face. I'd say she was fairly young, really beautiful legs is her distinction. For awhile we took no notice and just thought she's visiting the guy's grave but the funny thing is, I don't think she's coming to that grave at all but is watching this mausoleumgo up. Just strange. Thought I'd tell you. Brought opera glasses last few times."
"That is interesting Mr. Browning. But sounds like just someone interested, perhaps in the design, which as we know is a departure."
"To say the least, Mr. Smith. I mean, you know, pioneering so to speak."
"Well merry Christmas, do take care of yourself, Mr. Browning."
"You too, Mr. Smith."
"Bye bye."
"Bye."
Waves of the hand. Car moves off quickly across the hard snowy road. Past the black slab all white now. Brings opera glasses. Beautiful legs. Mr. Browning says it's nothing at all but why say it isn't anything if it isn't. At all. Legs. Black veil. Pity I have not employed the latter myself. Everyone tries to pry. And after prying they want to jeer. Good legs is her distinction. And my mother and father are dead. In a watery cottage with creepers growing out of the wall. But had they lived, to take them away from that, ripping them up, bringing them to a world of impersonal luxury. Snuff their lives out in no time. Crashes on you this Christmas eve. Lonely. Out the window, death everywhere. Stacked up. Sealed up. Paid up, a few celebrated, some famous, the rest rich. Things God gave them. And when I beat up my children's mother, they ran clutching round our batding knees and those who could reach higher did so, they screamed leave our mommie alone, leave her, leave her, tears streaming down their faces. Each of those four little bodies came on four distinct afternoons when take me George, take me, from behind, in front anywhere you fancy because golly. Never remember what side I took ShirL Four little freckled faces with constant throats and beating little fists drive it out of your mind.
George Smith directed the chauffeur to drive round die lake once before leaving Renown Memorial Cemetery. Near the frozen waterfall car halting. Smith viewing nature through the glass. Ice broken, two ducks swimming. One multicolored male, one drab female. Things are different in the spider kingdom. And over there, a monument sucking in the sky. Stiff stone garments in the cold grey air. Statue of a wife. One hand reaching out, upturned. Come hither.
Forty minutes past twelve. And the car sweeps out the high black gates. Grey guard, saluting. Back across the trolley tracks. Down through the woods again. By a lit-de hill. Children in bright red and blue caps sleigh riding. Ice crystals in the trees. Smith swallowing curious tears from the top of his lip. Christmas has always been so sad. At night when young with newly combed hair, tie and shirt all clean, all full of promise for this eve. I was sad.
Black limozine whistling down die highway, passing across a bridge where far down flowed the litde river into a big river. No one to talk to, to meet, to laugh. When no one knows I'm alive at all.
Black car sweeping by above the piers and ships, under the shadows of stations, by the shut up markets, empty freight yards. Tell the driver to stop by a grey building. The fireboat station. Two tugs tied up. Now walk across the cold windy park. Staring at two statues. A cannon. Out onto the ferry slip. A cruise for the price of a small coin. Until seven o'clock in the dark evening. Passing back and forth across the grey cold waters. Staring up at the towers as they receded and rose. Somehow at the tip. Down here. One can always jump. Somewhere. Or take a ferry.
And up between the canyon buildings. Walking and wandering the streets looking in the windows. By bars. Peer through a grating. See down into a room. A girl lying back on a dim couch under bedclothes. Sad little fire flickering. Against fire regulations. Flames melting on her face. Wan and dying.