Workshop Short Stories+

8/14/2019 Workshop Short Stories+

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W ork shop Short Stories

The Handsomest Drowned Man in the World by Gabriel Garcia Marquez 2The Decapitated Chickenby Horacio Quiroga 5Continuity of the Parksby Julio Cortzar 10

The Schoolby Donald Barthelme 11The Chaser by John Collier 13The Circular Ruinsby Jorge Luis Borges 16The Feather Pillowby Horacio Quiroga 19


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The Handsomest Drowned Man in the Worldby Gabriel Garcia Marquez

THE FIRST CHILDREN who saw the dark and slinky bulge approaching through the sea letthemselves think it was an enemy ship. Then they saw it had no flags or masts and theythought it was a whale. But when it washed up on the beach, they removed the clumps ofseaweed, the jellyfish tentacles, and the remains of fish and flotsam, and only then did they

see that it was a drowned man.

They had been playing with him all afternoon, burying him in the sand and digging him upagain, when someone chanced to see them and spread the alarm in the village. The men whocarried him to the nearest house noticed that he weighed more than any dead man they hadever known, almost as much as a horse, and they said to each other that maybe hed beenfloating too long and the water had got into his bones. When they laid him on the floor theysaid he'd been taller than all other men because there was barely enough room for him in thehouse, but they thought that maybe the ability to keep on growing after death was part of thenature of certain drowned men. He had the smell of the sea about him and only his shapegave one to suppose that it was the corpse of a human being, because the skin was covered

with a crust of mud and scales.

They did not even have to clean off his face to know that the dead man was a stranger. Thevillage was made up of only twenty-odd wooden houses that had stone courtyards with noflowers and which were spread about on the end of a desert-like cape. There was so little landthat mothers always went about with the fear that the wind would carry off their children andthe few dead that the years had caused among them had to be thrown off the cliffs. But thesea was calm and bountiful and all the men fitted into seven boats. So when they found thedrowned man they simply had to look at one another to see that they were all there.

That night they did not go out to work at sea. While the men went to find out if anyone was

missing in neighboring villages, the women stayed behind to care for the drowned man. Theytook the mud off with grass swabs, they removed the underwater stones entangled in his hair,and they scraped the crust off with tools used for scaling fish. As they were doing that theynoticed that the vegetation on him came from faraway oceans and deep water and that hisclothes were in tatters, as if he had sailed through labyrinths of coral. They noticed too that he

bore his death with pride, for he did not have the lonely look of other drowned men who cameout of the sea or that haggard, needy look of men who drowned in rivers. But only when theyfinished cleaning him off did they become aware of the kind of man he was and it left them

breathless. Not only was he the tallest, strongest, most virile, and best built man they hadever seen, but even though they were looking at him there was no room for him in theirimagination.

They could not find a bed in the village large enough to lay him on nor was there a table solidenough to use for his wake. The tallest mens holiday pants would not fit him, nor the fattestones Sunday shirts, nor the shoes of the one with the biggest feet. Fascinated by his huge sizeand his beauty, the women then decided to make him some pants from a large piece of sailand a shirt from some bridal brabant linen so that he could continue through his death withdignity. As they sewed, sitting in a circle and gazing at the corpse between stitches, it seemedto them that the wind had never been so steady nor the sea so restless as on that night andthey supposed that the change had something to do with the dead man. They thought that ifthat magnificent man had lived in the village, his house would have had the widest doors, thehighest ceiling, and the strongest floor, his bedstead would have been made from a midship

frame held together by iron bolts, and his wife would have been the happiest woman. Theythought that he would have had so much authority that he could have drawn fish out of thesea simply by calling their names and that he would have put so much work into his land that


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springs would have burst forth from among the rocks so that he would have been able to plantflowers on the cliffs. They secretly compared him to their own men, thinking that for all theirlives theirs were incapable of doing what he could do in one night, and they ended updismissing them deep in their hearts as the weakest, meanest and most useless creatures onearth. They were wandering through that maze of fantasy when the oldest woman, who as theoldest had looked upon the drowned man with more compassion than passion, sighed: Hehas the face of someone called Esteban.

It was true. Most of them had only to take another look at him to see that he could not haveany other name. The more stubborn among them, who were the youngest, still lived for a fewhours with the illusion that when they put his clothes on and he lay among the flowers inpatent leather shoes his name might be Lautaro. But it was a vain illusion. There had not

been enough canvas, the poorly cut and worse sewn pants were too tight, and the hiddenstrength of his heart popped the buttons on his shirt. After midnight the whistling of the winddied down and the sea fell into its Wednesday drowsiness. The silence put an end to any lastdoubts: he was Esteban. The women who had dressed him, who had combed his hair, had cuthis nails and shaved him were unable to hold back a shudder of pity when they had to resignthemselves to his being dragged along the ground. It was then that they understood how

unhappy he must have been with that huge body since it bothered him even after death. Theycould see him in life, condemned to going through doors sideways, cracking his head oncrossbeams, remaining on his feet during visits, not knowing what to do with his soft, pink,sea lion hands while the lady of the house looked for her most resistant chair and begged him,frightened to death, sit here, Esteban, please, and he, leaning against the wall, smiling, don't

bother, maam, Im fine where I am, his heels raw and his back roasted from having done thesame thing so many times whenever he paid a visit, dont bother, maam, Im fine where I am,

just to avoid the embarrassment of breaking up the chair, and never knowing perhaps thatthe ones who said dont go, Esteban, at least wait till the coffees ready, were the ones wholater on would whisper the big boob finally left, how nice, the handsome fool has gone. That

was what the women were thinking beside the body a little before dawn. Later, when they

covered his face with a handkerchief so that the light would not bother him, he looked soforever dead, so defenseless, so much like their men that the first furrows of tears opened intheir hearts. It was one of the younger ones who began the weeping. The others, coming to,

went from sighs to wails, and the more they sobbed the more they felt like weeping, becausethe drowned man was becoming all the more Esteban for them, and so they wept so much, forhe was the more destitute, most peaceful, and most obliging man on earth, poor Esteban. So

when the men returned with the news that the drowned man was not from the neighboringvillages either, the women felt an opening of jubilation in the midst of their tears.Praise the Lord, they sighed, hes ours!

The men thought the fuss was only womanish frivolity. Fatigued because of the difficult

nighttime inquiries, all they wanted was to get rid of the bother of the newcomer once and forall before the sun grew strong on that arid, windless day. They improvised a litter with theremains of foremasts and gaffs, tying it together with rigging so that it would bear the weightof the body until they reached the cliffs. They wanted to tie the anchor from a cargo ship tohim so that he would sink easily into the deepest waves, where fish are blind and divers die ofnostalgia, and bad currents would not bring him back to shore, as had happened with other

bodies. But the more they hurried, the more the women thought of ways to waste time. Theywalked about like startled hens, pecking with the sea charms on their breasts, someinterfering on one side to put a scapular of the good wind on the drowned man, some on theother side to put a wrist compass on him, and after a great deal ofget away from there,

woman, stay out of the way, look, you almost made me fall on top of the dead man, the men

began to feel mistrust in their livers and started grumbling about why so many main-altardecorations for a stranger, because no matter how many nails and holy-water jars he had onhim, the sharks would chew him all the same, but the women kept piling on their junk relics,


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running back and forth, stumbling, while they released in sighs what they did not in tears, sothat the men finally exploded with since when has there ever been such a fuss over a driftingcorpse, a drowned nobody, a piece of cold Wednesday meat. One of the women, mortified byso much lack of care, then removed the handkerchief from the dead man's face and the men

were left breathless too.

He was Esteban. It was not necessary to repeat it for them to recognize him. If they had been

told Sir Walter Raleigh, even they might have been impressed with his gringo accent, themacaw on his shoulder, his cannibal-killing blunderbuss, but there could be only one Estebanin the world and there he was, stretched out like a sperm whale, shoeless, wearing the pantsof an undersized child, and with those stony nails that had to be cut with a knife. They onlyhad to take the handkerchief off his face to see that he was ashamed, that it was not his faultthat he was so big or so heavy or so handsome, and if he had known that this was going tohappen, he would have looked for a more discreet place to drown in, seriously, I even wouldhave tied the anchor off a galleon around my nick and staggered off a cliff like someone whodoesn't like things in order not to be upsetting people now with this Wednesday dead body, as

you people say, in order not to be bothering anyone with this filthy piece of cold meat thatdoesn't have anything to do with me. There was so much truth in his manner that even the

most mistrustful men, the ones who felt the bitterness of endless nights at sea fearing thattheir women would tire of dreaming about them and begin to dream of drowned men, eventhey and others who were harder still shuddered in the marrow of their bones at Estebanssincerity.

That was how they came to hold the most splendid funeral they could ever conceive of for anabandoned drowned man. Some women who had gone to get flowers in the neighboring

villages returned with other women who could not believe what they had been told, and thosewomen went back for more flowers when they saw the dead man, and they brought more andmore until there were so many flowers and so many people that it was hard to walk about. Atthe final moment it pained them to return him to the waters as an orphan and they chose a

father and mother from among the best people, and aunts and uncles and cousins, so thatthrough him all the inhabitants of the village became kinsmen. Some sailors who heard the

weeping from a distance went off course and people heard of one who had himself tied to themainmast, remembering ancient fables about sirens. While they fought for the privilege ofcarrying him on their shoulders along the steep escarpment by the cliffs, men and women

became aware for the first time of the desolation of their streets, the dryness of theircourtyards, the narrowness of their dreams as they faced the splendor and beauty of theirdrowned man. They let him go without an anchor so that he could come back if he wished and

whenever he wished, and they all held their breath for the fraction of centuries the body tookto fall into the abyss. They did not need to look at one another to realize that they were nolonger all present, that they would never be. But they also knew that everything would be

different from then on, that their houses would have wider doors, higher ceilings, andstronger floors so that Estebans memory could go everywhere without bumping into beamsand so that no one in the future would dare whisper the big boob finallydied, too bad, the handsome fool has finally died, because they were going to paint theirhouse fronts gay colors to make Estebans memory eternal and they were going to break their

backs digging for springs among the stones and planting flowers on the cliffs so that in futureyears at dawn the passengers on great liners would awaken, suffocated by the smell ofgardens on the high seas, and the captain would have to come down from the bridge in hisdress uniform, with his astrolabe, his pole star, and his row of war medals and, pointing tothe promontory of roses on the horizon, he would say in fourteen languages, look there,

where the wind is so peaceful now that it's gone to sleep beneath the beds, over there, where

the sun's so bright that the sunflowers dont know which way to turn, yes, over there, thatsEstebans village.

* * *


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The Decapitated Chickenby Horacio Quiroga

All day long the four idiot sons of the couple Mazzini-Ferraz sat on a bench in the patio. Theirtongues protruded from between their lips; their eyes were dull; their mouths hung open asthey turned their heads.

The patio had an earthen floor and was closed to the west by a brick wall. The bench was fivefeet from the wall, parallel to it, and there they sat, motionless, their gaze fastened on the

bricks. As the sun went down, disappearing behind the wall, the idiots rejoiced. The blindinglight was always what first gained their attention; little by little by little their eyes lighted up;finally, they would laugh uproariously, each infected by the same uneasy hilarity, staring atthe sun with bestial joy, as if it were something to eat.

Other times, lined up on the bench, they hummed for hours on end, imitating the sound ofthe trolley. Loud noises, too, shook them from their inertia, and at those times they ranaround the patio, biting their tongues and mewing. But almost always they were sunk in thesomber lethargy of idiocy, passing the entire day seated on their bench, their legs hanging

motionless, dampening their pants with slobber.

The oldest was twelve and the youngest eight. Their dirty and slovenly appearance wastestimony to the total lack of maternal care.

These four idiots, nevertheless, had once been the joy of their parents' lives. When they hadbeen married three months, Mazzini and Berta had oriented the self-centered love of manand wife, wife and husband, toward a more vital future: a son. What greater happiness fortwo people in love than that blessed consecration of an affection liberated from the vileegotism of purposeless love and what is worse for love itself love without any possiblehope of renewal?

So thought Mazzini and Berta, and, when after fourteen months of matrimony their sonarrived, they felt happiness complete. The child prospered, beautiful, radiant, for a year and ahalf. But one night in his twentieth month he was racked by terrible convulsions, and thefollowing morning he no longer recognized his parents. The doctor examined him with thekind of professional attention that obviously seeks to find the cause of the illness in theinfirmities of the parents.

After a few days the child's paralyzed limbs recovered their movement, but the soul, theintelligence, even instinct, were gone forever. He lay on his mother's lap, an idiot, driveling,limp, to all purposes dead.

Son, my dearest son! the mother sobbed over the frightful ruin of her first-born.The father, desolate, accompanied the doctor outside.I can say it to you; I think it is a hopeless case. He might improve, be educated to the degreehis idiocy permits, but nothing more.Yes! Yes...! Mazzini assented. But tell me: do you think it is heredity, that...?As far as the paternal heredity is concerned, I told you what I thought when I saw your son.

As for the mother's, there's a lung there that doesnt sound too good. I don't see anything else,but her breathing is slightly ragged. Have her thoroughly examined.

With his soul tormented by remorse, Mazzini redoubled his love for his son, the idiot child

who was paying for the excesses of his grandfather. At the same time he had to console, toceaselessly sustain Berta, who was wounded to the depths of her being by the failure of her

young motherhood.


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As is only natural, the couple put all their love into the hopes for another son. A son was born,and his health and the clarity of his laughter rekindled their extinguished hopes. But ateighteen months the convulsions of the first-born were repeated, and on the followingmorning the second son awoke an idiot.

This time the parents fell into complete despair. So it was their blood, their love, that was

cursed. Especially their love. He, twenty-eight; she, twenty-two; and all their passionatetenderness had not succeeded in creating one atom of normal life. They no longer asked forbeauty and intelligence as for the first born -only a son, a son like any other!

From the second disaster burst forth new flames of aching love, a mad desire to redeem onceand for all the sanctity of their tenderness. Twins were born; and step by step the history ofthe two older brothers was repeated.

Even so, beyond the immense bitterness, Mazzini and Berta maintained great compassion fortheir four sons. They must wrest from the limbo of deepest animality, not their souls, lostnow, but instinct itself. The boys could not swallow, move about or even sit up. They learned,

finally, to walk, but they bumped into things because they took no notice of obstacles. Whenthey were washed, they mewed and gurgled until their faces were flushed. They wereanimated only by food or when they saw brilliant colors or heard thunder. Then they laughed,radiant with bestial frenzy, pushing out their tongues and spewing rivers of slaver. On theother hand, they possessed a certain imitative faculty, but nothing more.

The terrifying line of descent seemed to have been ended with the twins. But with the passageof three years Mazzini and Berta once again ardently desired another child, trusting that thelong interim would have appeased their destiny.

Their hopes were not satisfied. And because of this burning desire and exasperation from its

lack of fulfillment, the husband and wife grew bitter. Until this time each had taken his ownshare of responsibility for the misery their children had caused, but hopelessness for theredemption of the four animals born to them finally created that imperious necessity to blameothers that is the specific patrimony of inferior hearts.

It began with a change of pronouns:your sons. And since they intended to trap, as well asinsult each other, the atmosphere became charged.

It seems to me, Mazzini, who had just come in and was washing his hands, said to Berta,that you could keep the boys cleaner.

As if she hadnt heard him, Berta continued reading.

Its the first time, she replied after a pause, Ive seen you concerned about the condition ofyour sons.Mazzini turned his head toward her with a forced smile.Our sons, I think.All right, our sons. Is that the way you like it? She raised her eyes.This time Mazzini expressed himself clearly.Surely youre not going to sayIm to blame, are you?Oh, no! Berta smiled to herself, very pale. But neither am I, I imagine! That's all Ineeded..., she murmured.What? Whats all you needed?Well, if anyones to blame, it isn't me, just remember that! That's what I meant.

Her husband looked at her for a moment with a brutal desire to wound her.Lets drop it! he said finally, drying his hands.As you wish, but if you mean...


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Berta!As you wish!This was the first clash, and other followed. But, in the inevitable reconciliations, their souls

were united in redoubled rapture and eagerness for another child.

So a daughter was born. Mazzini and Berta lived for two years with anguish as their constantcompanion, always expecting another disaster. It did not occur, however, and the parents

focused all their contentment on their daughter, who took advantage of their indulgence tobecome spoiled and very badly behaved.

Although even in the later years Berta had continued to care for the four boys, after Bertitasbirth she virtually ignored the other children. The very thought of them horrified her, like thememory of something atrocious she had been forced to perform. The same thing happened toMazzini, though to a lesser degree.

Nevertheless, their souls had not found peace. Their daughter's least indisposition nowunleashed because of the terror of losing her the bitterness created by their unsoundprogeny. Bile had accumulated for so long that the distended viscera spilled venom at the

slightest touch. From the moment of the first poisonous quarrel Mazzini and Berta had lostrespect for one another, and if there is anything to which man feels himself drawn with cruelfulfillment it is, once begun, the complete humiliation of another person. Formerly they had

been restrained by their mutual failure; now that success had come, each, attributing it tohimself, felt more strongly the infamy of the four misbegotten sons the other had forced himto create.

With such emotions there was no longer any possibility of affection for the four boys. Theservant dressed them, fed them, put them to bed, with gross brutality. She almost never

bathed them. They spent most of the day facing the wall deprived of anything resembling acaress.

So Bertita celebrated her fourth birthday, and that night, as a result of the sweets her parentswere incapable of denying her, the child had a slight chill and fever. And the fear of seeing herdie or become an idiot opened once again the ever-present wound.

For three hours they did not speak to each other, and, as usual, Mazzini's swift pacing servedas a motive.

My God! Cant you walk more slowly? How many times...?All right, I just forget. Ill stop. I dont do it on purpose.She smiled, disdainful.

No, no, of course I dont think that of you!And I would never have believed that of you... you consumptive!What! What did you say?Nothing!Oh, yes, I heard you say something! Look, I don't know what you said, but I swear Id preferanything to having a father like yours!Mazzini turned pale.At last! he muttered between clenched teeth. At last, viper, youve said what you've been

wanting to!Yes, a viper, yes! But I had healthy parents, you hear? Healthy! My father didnt die indelirium! I could have had sons like anybody elses! Those areyour sons, those four!

Mazzini exploded in his turn.Consumptive viper! Thats what I called you, what I want to tell you! Ask him, ask the doctor

whos to blame for your sons' meningitis: my father or your rotten lung? Yes, viper!


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They continued with increasing violence, until a moan from Bertita instantly sealed their lips.By one o'clock in the morning the child's light indigestion had disappeared, and, as itinevitably happens with all young married couples who have loved intensely, even for a while,they effected a reconciliation, all the more effusive for the infamy of the offenses.

A splendid day dawned, and as Berta arose she spit up blood. Her emotion and the terrible

night were, without any doubt, primarily responsible. Mazzini held her in his embrace for along while, and she cried hopelessly, but neither of them dared to say a word.

At ten, they decided that after lunch they would go out. They were pressed for time so theyordered the servant to kill a hen.

The brilliant day had drawn the idiots from their bench. So while the servant was cutting offthe head of the chicken in the kitchen, bleeding it parsimoniously (Berta had learned fromher mother this effective method of conserving the freshness of the meat), she thought shesensed something like breathing behind her. She turned and saw the four idiots, standingshoulder to shoulder, watching the operation with stupefaction. Red... Red...

Senora! The boys are here in the kitchen.

Berta came in immediately; she never wanted them to set foot in the kitchen. Not even duringthese hours of full pardon, forgetfulness, and regained happiness could she avoid this horribleslight! Because, naturally, the more intense her raptures of love for her husband anddaughter, the greater her loathing for the monsters.

Get them out of here, Maria! Throw them out! Throw them out, I tell you!

The four poor little beasts, shaken and brutally shoved, went back to their bench.

After lunch, everyone went out; the servant to Buenos Aires and the couple and child for awalk among the country houses. They returned as the sun was sinking, but Berta wanted totalk for a while with her neighbors across the way. Her daughter quickly ran into the house.

In the meantime, the idiots had not moved from their bench the whole day. The sun hadcrossed the wall now, beginning to sink behind it, while they continued to stare at the bricks,more sluggish than ever.

Suddenly, something came between their line of vision and the wall. Their sister, tired of fivehours with her parents, wanted to look around a bit on her own. She paused at the base of the

wall and looked thoughtfully at its summit. She wanted to climb it; this could not be doubted.Finally she decided on a chair with the seat missing, but still she couldnt reach the top. Thenshe picked up a kerosene tin, and, with a fine sense of relative space, placed it upright on thechair with which she triumphed.

The four idiots, their gaze indifferent, watched how their sister succeeded patiently in gainingher equilibrium and how, on tiptoe, she rested her neck against the top of the wall betweenher straining hands. They watched her search everywhere for a toehold to climb up higher.

The idiots' gaze became animated; the same insistent light fixed in all their pupils. Their eyeswere fixed on their sister, as the growing sensation of bestial gluttony changed every line of

their faces. Slowly they advanced toward the wall. The little girl, having succeeded in finding atoehold and about to straddle the wall and surely fall off the other side, felt herself seized byone leg. Below her, the eight eyes staring into hers frightened her.


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Let loose! Let me go! she cried, shaking her leg, but she was captive.Mama! Oh, Mama! Mama, Papa! she cried imperiously. She tried still to cling to the top ofthe wall but she felt herself pulled, and she fell."Mama, oh, Ma ---" She could cry no more. One of the boys squeezed her neck, parting hercurls as if they were feathers, and the other three dragged her by one leg toward the kitchen

where that morning the chicken had been bled, holding her tightly, drawing the life out of her

second by second.

Mazzini, in the house across the way, thought he heard his daughters voice.

I think shes calling you, he said to Berta.

They listened, uneasy, but heard nothing more. Even so, a moment later they said good-bye,and, while Berta went to put up her hat, Mazzini went into the patio.

Bertita!No one answered.

Bertita! He raised his already altered voice.The silence was so funeral to his eternally terrified heart that a chill of horrible presentimentran to his spine.My daughter, my daughter! He ran frantically toward the back of the house. But as hepassed by the kitchen he saw a sea of blood on the floor. He violently pushed open the half-closed door and uttered a cry of horror. Berta, who had already started running when sheheard Mazzinis anguished call, cried out too. But as she rushed toward the kitchen, Mazzini,livid as death, stood in her way, holding her back.Dont go in. Dont go in!

But Berta had seen the blood-covered floor. She could only utter a hoarse cry, throw her arms

above her head, and, leaning against her husband, sink slowly to the floor.

* * *

Translated by Margaret Sayers Peden


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Continuity of the Parksby Julio Cortzar

He had begun to read the novel a few days before. He had put it aside because of some urgentbusiness conferences, opened it again on his way back to the estate by train; he permittedhimself a slowly growing interest in the plot, in the characterizations. That afternoon, after

writing a letter giving his power of attorney and discussing a matter of joint ownership with

the manager of his estate, he returned to the book in the tranquility of his study which lookedout upon the park with its oaks. Sprawled in his favorite armchair, its back toward the door even the possibility of an intrusion would have irritated him, had he thought of it he let hisleft hand caress repeatedly the green velvet upholstery and set to reading the final chapters.He remembered effortlessly the names and his mental image of the characters; the novelspread its glamour over him almost at once. He tasted the almost perverse pleasure ofdisengaging himself line by line from the things around him, and at the same time feeling hishead rest comfortably on the green velvet of the chair with its high back, sensing that thecigarettes rested within reach of his hand, that beyond the great windows the air of afternoondanced under the oak trees in the park. Word by word, licked up the sordid dilemma of thehero and heroine, letting himself be absorbed to the point where the images settled down and

took on color and movement, he was witness to the final encounter in the mountain cabin.The woman arrived first, apprehensive; now the lover came in, his face cut by the backlash ofa branch. Admirably, she stanched the blood with her kisses, but he rebuffed her caresses, hehad not come to perform again the ceremonies of a secret passion, protected by a world of dryleaves and furtive paths through the forest. The dagger warmed itself against his chest, andunderneath liberty pounded, hidden close. A lustful, panting dialogue raced down the pageslike a rivulet of snakes, and one felt it had all been decided from eternity. Even to thosecaresses which writhed about the lovers body, as though wishing to keep him there, todissuade him from it; they sketched abominably the fame of that other body it was necessaryto destroy. Nothing had been forgotten: alibis, unforeseen hazards, possible mistakes. Fromthis hour on, each instant had its use minutely assigned. The cold-blooded, twice-gone-over

reexamination of the details was barely broken off so that a hand could caress a cheek. It wasbeginning to get dark.

Not looking at each other now, rigidly fixed upon the task which awaited them, they separatedat the cabin door. She was to follow the trail that led north. On the path leading in theopposite direction, he turned for a moment to watch her running, her hair loosened andflying. He ran in turn, crouching among the trees and hedges until, in the yellowish fog ofdusk, he could distinguish the avenue of trees which led up to the house. The dogs were notsupposed to bark, and they did not bark. The estate manager would not be there at this hour,and he was not there. He went up the three porch steps and entered. The woman's wordsreached him over a thudding of blood in his ears: first a blue chamber, then a hall, then a

carpeted stairway. At the top, two doors. No one in the first room, no one in the second. Thedoor of the salon, and then, the knife in his hand, the light from the great windows, the high

back of an armchair covered in green velvet, the head of the man in the chair reading a novel.

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The Schoolby Donald Barthelme

Well, we had all these children out planting trees, see, because we figured that ... that waspart of their education, to see how, you know, the root systems ... and also the sense ofresponsibility, taking care of things, being individually responsible. You know what I mean.

And the trees all died. They were orange trees. I dont know why they died, they just died.

Something wrong with the soil possibly or maybe the stuff we got from the nursery wasnt thebest. We complained about it. So weve got thirty kids there, each kid had his or her own littletree to plant and weve got these thirty dead trees. All these kids looking at these little brownsticks, it was depressing.

It wouldnt have been so bad except that just a couple of weeks before the thing with the trees,the snakes all died. But I think that the snakes well, the reason that the snakes kicked off

was that ... you remember, the boiler was shut off for four days because of the strike, and thatwas explicable. It was something you could explain to the kids because of the strike. I mean,none of their parents would let them cross the picket line and they knew there was a strikegoing on and what it meant. So when things got started up again and we found the snakes

they werent too disturbed.

With the herb gardens it was probably a case of over watering, and at least now they know notto over water. The children were very conscientious with the herb gardens and some of themprobably ... you know, slipped them a little extra water when we werent looking. Or maybe ...

Well, I dont like to think about sabotage, although it did occur to us. I mean, it wassomething that crossed our minds. We were thinking that way probably because before thatthe gerbils had died, and the white mice had died, and the salamander ... well, now they knownot to carry them around in plastic bags.

Of course we expected the tropical fish to die, that was no surprise. Those numbers, you look

at them crooked and theyre belly-up on the surface. But the lesson plan called for a tropicalfish input at that point, there was nothing we could do, it happens every year, you just have tohurry past it.

We werent even supposed to have a puppy.

We werent even supposed to have one, it was just a puppy the Murdoch girl found under aGristedes truck one day and she was afraid the truck would run over it when the driver hadfinished making his delivery, so she stuck it in her knapsack and brought it to the school withher. So we had this puppy. As soon as I saw the puppy I thought, Oh Christ, I bet it will livefor about two weeks and then... And thats what it did. It wasnt supposed to be in the

classroom at all, theres some kind of regulation about it, but you cant tell them they canthave a puppy when the puppy is already there, right in front of them, running around on thefloor and yap yap yapping. They named it Edgar that is, they named it after me. They had alot of fun running after it and yelling, Here, Edgar! Nice Edgar! Then theyd laugh like hell.They enjoyed the ambiguity. I enjoyed it myself. I dont mind being kidded. They made a littlehouse for it in the supply closet and all that. I dont know what it died of. Distemper, I guess.It probably hadnt had any shots. I got it out of there before the kids got to school. I checkedthe supply closet each morning, routinely, because I knew what was going to happen. I gave itto the custodian.

And then there was this Korean orphan that the class adopted through the Help the Children

program, all the kids brought in a quarter a month, that was the idea. It was an unfortunatething, the kids name was Kim and maybe we adopted him too late or something. The cause ofdeath was not stated in the letter we got, they suggested we adopt another child instead and


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sent us some interesting case histories, but we didnt have the heart. The class took it prettyhard, they began (I think, nobody ever said anything to me directly) to feel that maybe there

was something wrong with the school. But I dont think theres anything wrong with theschool, particularly, Ive seen better and Ive seen worse. It was just a run of bad luck. We hadan extraordinary number of parents passing away, for instance. There were I think two heartattacks and two suicides, one drowning, and four killed together in a car accident. One stroke.

And we had the usual heavy mortality rate among the grandparents, or maybe it was heavier

this year, it seemed so. And finally the tragedy.

The tragedy occurred when Matthew Wein and Tony Mavrogordo were playing over wheretheyre excavating for the new federal office building. There were all these big wooden beamsstacked, you know, at the edge of the excavation. Theres a court case coming out of that, theparents are claiming that the beams were poorly stacked. I dont know whats true and whatsnot. Its been a strange year.

I forgot to mention Billy Brandts father who was knifed fatally when he grappled with amasked intruder in his home.

One day, we had a discussion in class. They asked me, where did they go? The trees, thesalamander, the tropical fish, Edgar, the poppas and mommas, Matthew and Tony, where didthey go? And I said, I dont know, I dont know. And they said, who knows? and I said,nobody knows. And they said, is death that which gives meaning to life? And I said no, life isthat which gives meaning to life. Then they said, but isnt death, considered as a fundamentaldatum, the means by which the taken-for-granted mundanity of the everyday may betranscended in the direction of I said, yes, maybe.They said, we dont like it.I said, thats sound.They said, its a bloody shame!

I said, it is.They said, will you make love now with Helen (our teaching assistant) so that we can see howit is done? We know you like Helen.I do like Helen but I said that I would not.

Weve heard so much about it, they said, but weve never seen it.I said I would be fired and that it was never, or almost never, done as a demonstration.Helen looked out the window.They said, please, please make love with Helen, we require an assertion of value, we arefrightened.

I said that they shouldnt be frightened (although I am often frightened) and that there was

value everywhere. Helen came and embraced me. I kissed her a few times on the brow. Weheld each other. The children were excited. Then there was a knock on the door, I opened thedoor, and the new gerbil walked in. The children cheered wildly.

* * *


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The Chaserby John Collier

Alan Austen, as nervous as a kitten, went up certain dark and creaky stairs in theneighborhood of Pell Street, and peered about for a long time on the dime landing before hefound the name he wanted written obscurely on one of the doors.

He pushed open this door, as he had been told to do, and found himself in a tiny room, whichcontained no furniture but a plain kitchen table, a rocking-chair, and an ordinary chair. Onone of the dirty buff-colored walls were a couple of shelves, containing in all perhaps a dozen

bottles and jars.

An old man sat in the rocking-chair, reading a newspaper. Alan, without a word, handed himthe card he had been given. Sit down, Mr. Austen, said the old man very politely. I am gladto make your acquaintance.

Is it true, asked Alan, that you have a certain mixture that has-er-quite extraordinaryeffects?

My dear sir, replied the old man, my stock in trade is not very large I dont deal inlaxatives and teething mixtures-but such as it is, it is varied. I think nothing I sell has effects

which could be precisely described as ordinary.

Well, the fact is... began Alan.

Here, for example, interrupted the old man, reaching for a bottle from the shelf.Here is a liquid as colorless as water, almost tasteless, quite imperceptible in coffee, wine, orany other beverage. It is also quite imperceptible to any known method of autopsy.

Do you mean it is a poison? cried Alan, very much horrified.

Call it a glove-cleaner if you like, said the old man indifferently. Maybe it will clean gloves.I have never tried. One might call it a life-cleaner. Lives need cleaning sometimes.

I want nothing of that sort, said Alan.

Probably it is just as well, said the old man. Do you know the price of this? For oneteaspoonful, which is sufficient, I ask five thousand dollars. Never less. Not a penny less.

I hope all your mixtures are not as expensive, said Alan apprehensively.

Oh dear, no, said the old man. It would be no good charging that sort of price for a lovepotion, for example. Young people who need a love potion very seldom have five thousanddollars. Otherwise they would not need a love potion.

I am glad to hear that, said Alan.

I look at it like this, said the old man. Please a customer with one article, and he will comeback when he needs another. Even if it is more costly. He will save up for it, if necessary.

So, said Alan, you really do sell love potions?


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If I did not sell love potions, said the old man, reaching for another bottle, I should nothave mentioned the other matter to you. It is only when one is in a position to oblige that onecan afford to be so confidential.

And these potions, said Alan. They are not just-just-er-

Oh, no, said the old man. Their effects are permanent, and extend far beyond the mere

casual impulse. But they include it. Oh, yes they include it. Bountifully, insistently.Everlastingly.

Dear me! said Alan, attempting a look of scientific detachment. How very interesting!

But consider the spiritual side, said the old man.

I do, indeed, said Alan.

For indifference, said the old man, they substitute devotion. For scorn, adoration. Give onetiny measure of this to the young lady its flavour is imperceptible in orange juice, soup, or

cocktails and however gay and giddy she is, she will change altogether. She will wantnothing but solitude and you.

I can hardly believe it, said Alan. She is so fond of parties.

She will not like them any more, said the old man. She will be afraid of the pretty girls youmay meet.

She will actually be jealous? cried Alan in a rapture. Of me?

Yes, she will want to be everything to you.

She is, already. Only she doesnt care about it.

She will, when she has taken this. She will care intensely. You will be her sole interest in life.

Wonderful! cried Alan.

She will want to know all you do, said the old man. All that has happened to you during theday. Every word of it. She will want to know what you are thinking about, why you smilesuddenly, why your are looking sad.

That is love! cried Alan.

Yes, said the old man. How carefully she will look after you! She will never allow you to betired, to sit in a draught, to neglect your food. If you are an hour late, she will be terrified. She

will think you are killed, or that some siren has caught you.

I can hardly imagine Diana like that! cried Alan, overwhelmed with joy.

You will not have to use your imagination, said the old man. And, by the way, since thereare always sirens, if by any chance you should, later on, slip a little, you need not worry. She

will forgive you, in the end. She will be terribly hurt, of course, but she will forgive you in the

end.

That will not happen, said Alan fervently.


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Of course not, said the old man. But, if it did, you need not worry. She would never divorceyou. Oh, no! And, of course, she will never give you the least, the very least, grounds foruneasiness.

And how much," said Alan, "is this wonderful mixture?

It is not as dear, said the old man, as the glove-cleaner, or life-cleaner, as I sometimes callit. No. That is five thousand dollars, never a penny less. One has to be older than you are, toindulge in that sort of thing. One has to save up for it.

But the love potion? said Alan.

Oh, that, said the old man, opening the drawer in the kitchen table, and taking out a tiny,rather dirty-looking phial. That is just a dollar.

I cant tell you how grateful I am, said Alan, watching him fill it.

I like to oblige, said the old man. Then customers come back, later in life, when they arebetter off, and want more expensive things. Here you are. You will find it very effective.

Thank you again, said Alan. Good-bye.

Au revoir, said the man.

* * *


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The Circular Ruinsby Jorge Luis Borges

No one saw him disembark in the unanimous night, no one saw the bamboo canoe sink intothe sacred mud, but in a few days there was no one who did not know that the taciturn mancame from the South and that his home had been one of those numberless villages upstreamin the deeply cleft side of the mountain, where the Zend language has not been contaminated

by Greek and where leprosy is infrequent. What is certain is that the gray man kissed themud, climbed up the bank with pushing aside (probably, without feeling) the blades which

were lacerating his flesh, and crawled, nauseated and bloodstained, up to the circularenclosure crowned with a stone tiger or horse, which sometimes was the color of flame andnow was that of ashes. This circle was a temple which had been devoured by ancient fires,profaned by the miasmal jungle, and whose god no longer received the homage of men. Thestranger stretched himself out beneath the pedestal. He was awakened by the sun highoverhead. He was not astonished to find that his wounds had healed; he closed his pallid eyesand slept, not through weakness of flesh but through determination of will. He knew that thistemple was the place required for his invincible intent; he knew that the incessant trees hadnot succeeded in strangling the ruins of another propitious temple downstream which had

once belonged to gods now burned and dead; he knew that his immediate obligation was todream. Toward midnight he was awakened by the inconsolable shriek of a bird. Tracks of

bare feet, some figs and a jug warned him that the men of the region had been spyingrespectfully on his sleep, soliciting his protection or afraid of his magic. He felt a chill of fear,and sought out a sepulchral niche in the dilapidated wall where he concealed himself amongunfamiliar leaves.

The purpose which guided him was not impossible, though supernatural. He wanted todream a man; he wanted to dream him in minute entirety and impose him on reality. Thismagic project had exhausted the entire expanse of his mind; if someone had asked him hisname or to relate some event of his former life, he would not have been able to give an

answer. This uninhabited, ruined temple suited him, for it is contained a minimum of visibleworld; the proximity of the workmen also suited him, for they took it upon themselves toprovide for his frugal needs. The rice and fruit they brought him were nourishment enoughfor his body, which was consecrated to the sole task of sleeping and dreaming.

At first, his dreams were chaotic; then in a short while they became dialectic in nature. Thestranger dreamed that he was in the center of a circular amphitheater which was more or lessthe burnt temple; clouds of taciturn students filled the tiers of seats; the faces of the farthestones hung at a distance of many centuries and as high as the stars, but their features werecompletely precise. The man lectured his pupils on anatomy, cosmography, and magic: thefaces listened anxiously and tried to answer understandingly, as if they guessed the

importance of that examination which would redeem one of them from his condition ofempty illusion and interpolate him into the real world. Asleep or awake, the man thoughtover the answers of his phantoms, did not allow himself to be deceived by imposters, and incertain perplexities he sensed a growing intelligence. He was seeking a soul worthy ofparticipating in the universe.

After nine or ten nights he understood with a certain bitterness that he could expect nothingfrom those pupils who accepted his doctrine passively, but that he could expect somethingfrom those who occasionally dared to oppose him. The former group, although worthy of loveand affection, could not ascend to the level of individuals; the latter pre-existed to a slightlygreater degree. One afternoon (now afternoons were also given over to sleep, now he was only

awake for a couple hours at daybreak) he dismissed the vast illusory student body for goodand kept only one pupil. He was a taciturn, sallow boy, at times intractable, and whose sharpfeatures resembled of those of his dreamer. The brusque elimination of his fellow students


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did not disconcert him for long; after a few private lessons, his progress was enough toastound the teacher. Nevertheless, a catastrophe took place. One day, the man emerged fromhis sleep as if from a viscous desert, looked at the useless afternoon light which heimmediately confused with the dawn, and understood that he had not dreamed. All that nightand all day long, the intolerable lucidity of insomnia fell upon him. He tried exploring theforest, to lose his strength; among the hemlock he barely succeeded in experiencing severalshort intervals of sleep, veined with fleeting, rudimentary visions that were useless. He tried

to assemble the student body but scarcely had he articulated a few brief words of exhortationwhen it became deformed and was then erased. In his almost perpetual vigil, tears of angerburned his old eyes.

He understood that modeling the incoherent and vertiginous matter of which dreams arecomposed was the most difficult task that a man could undertake, even though he shouldpenetrate all the enigmas of a superior and inferior order; much more difficult than weaving arope out of sand or coining the faceless wind. He swore he would forget the enormoushallucination which had thrown him off at first, and he sought another method of work.Before putting it into execution, he spent a month recovering his strength, which had beensquandered by his delirium. He abandoned all premeditation of dreaming and almost

immediately succeeded in sleeping a reasonable part of each day. The few times that he haddreams during this period, he paid no attention to them. Before resuming his task, he waiteduntil the moon's disk was perfect. Then, in the afternoon, he purified himself in the waters ofthe river, worshiped the planetary gods, pronounced the prescribed syllables of a mightyname, and went to sleep. He dreamed almost immediately, with his heart throbbing.

He dreamed that it was warm, secret, about the size of a clenched fist, and of a garnet colorwithin the penumbra of a human body as yet without face or sex; during fourteen lucid nightshe dreamt of it with meticulous love. Every night he perceived it more clearly. He did nottouch it; he only permitted himself to witness it, to observe it, and occasionally to rectify it

with a glance. He perceived it and lived it from all angles and distances. On the fourteenth

night he lightly touched the pulmonary artery with his index finger, then the whole heart,outside and inside. He was satisfied with the examination. He deliberately did not dream for anight; he took up the heart again, invoked the name of a planet, and undertook the vision ofanother of the principle organs. Within a year he had come to the skeleton and the eyelids.The innumerable hair was perhaps the most difficult task. He dreamed an entire man a

young man, but who did not sit up or talk, who was unable to open his eyes. Night after night,the man dreamt him asleep.

In the Gnostic cosmogonies, demiurges fashion a red Adam who cannot stand; as a clumsy,crude and elemental as this Adam of dust was the Adam of dreams forged by the wizard'snights. One afternoon, the man almost destroyed his entire work, but then changed his mind.

(It would have been better had he destroyed it.) When he had exhausted all supplications tothe deities of earth, he threw himself at the feet of the effigy which was perhaps a tiger orperhaps a colt and implored its unknown help. That evening, at twilight, he dreamt of thestatue. He dreamt it was alive, tremulous: it was not an atrocious bastard of a tiger and a colt,

but at the same time these two fiery creatures and also a bull, a rose, and a storm. Thismultiple god revealed to him that his earthly name was Fire, and that in this circular temple(and in others like it) people had once made sacrifices to him and worshiped him, and that he

would magically animate the dreamed phantom, in such a way that all creatures, except Fireitself and the dreamer, would believe to be a man of flesh and blood. He commanded thatonce this man had been instructed in all the rites, he should be sent to the other ruinedtemple whose pyramids were still standing downstream, so that some voice would glorify him

in that deserted edifice. In the dream of the man that dreamed, the dreamed one awoke.


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The wizard carried out the orders he had been given. He devoted a certain length of time(which finally proved to be two years) to instructing him in the mysteries of the universe andthe cult of fire. Secretly, he was pained at the idea of being separated from him. On thepretext of pedagogical necessity, each day he increased the number of hours dedicated todreaming. He also remade the right shoulder, which was somewhat defective. At times, he

was disturbed by the impression that all this had already happened... In general, his dayswere happy; when he closed his eyes, he thought: Now I will be with my son. Or, more rarely:

The son I have engendered is waiting for me and will not exist if I do not go to him.

Gradually, he began accustoming him to reality. Once he ordered him to place a flag on afaraway peak. The next day the flag was fluttering on the peak. He tried other analogousexperiments, each time more audacious. With a certain bitterness, he understood that his son

was ready to be born--and perhaps impatient. That night he kissed him for the first time andsent him off to the other temple whose remains were turning white downstream, across manymiles of inextricable jungle and marshes. Before doing this (and so that his son should neverknow that he was a phantom, so that he should think himself a man like any other) hedestroyed in him all memory of his years of apprenticeship.

His victory and peace became blurred with boredom. In the twilight times of dusk and dawn,he would prostrate himself before the stone figure, perhaps imagining his unreal son carryingout identical rites in other circular ruins downstream; at night he no longer dreamed, ordreamed as any man does. His perceptions of the sounds and forms of the universe becamesomewhat pallid: his absent son was being nourished by these diminution of his soul. Thepurpose of his life had been fulfilled; the man remained in a kind of ecstasy. After a certaintime, which some chronicles prefer to compute in years and others in decades, two oarsmenawoke him at midnight; he could not see their faces, but they spoke to him of a charmed manin a temple of the North, capable of walking on fire without burning himself. The wizardsuddenly remembered the words of the god. He remembered that of all the creatures thatpeople the earth, Fire was the only one who knew his son to be a phantom. This memory,

which at first calmed him, ended by tormenting him. He feared lest his son should meditateon this abnormal privilege and by some means find out he was a mere simulacrum. Not to bea man, to be a projection of another mans dreams what an incomparable humiliation, whatmadness! Any father is interested in the sons he has procreated (or permitted) out of themere confusion of happiness; it was natural that the wizard should fear for the future of thatson whom he had thought out organ by organ, feature by feature, in a thousand and onesecret nights.

His misgivings ended abruptly, but not without certain forewarnings. First (after a longdrought) a remote cloud, as light as a bird, appeared on a hill; then, toward the South, the skytook on the rose color of leopard's gums; then came clouds of smoke which rusted the metal

of the nights; afterwards came the panic-stricken flight of wild animals. For what hadhappened many centuries before was repeating itself. The ruins of the sanctuary of the god ofFire was destroyed by fire. In a dawn without birds, the wizard saw the concentric fire lickingthe walls. For a moment, he thought of taking refuge in the water, but then he understoodthat death was coming to crown his old age and absolve him from his labors. He walkedtoward the sheets of flame. They did not bite his flesh, they caressed him and flooded him

without heat or combustion. With relief, with humiliation, with terror, he understood that healso was an illusion, that someone else was dreaming him.

* * *


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The Feather Pillowby Horacio Quiroga

Alicias entire honeymoon gave her hot and cold shivers. A blonde, angelic, and timid younggirl, the childish fancies she had dreamed about being a bride had been chilled by herhusbands rough character. She loved him very much, nonetheless, although sometimes shegave a light shudder when, as they returned home through the streets together at night, she

cast a furtive glance at the impressive stature of her Jordan, who had been silent for an hour.He, for his part, loved her profoundly but never let it be seen.

For three months they had been married in Aprilthey lived in a special kind of bliss.Doubtless she would have wished less seventy in the rigorous sky of love, more expansive andless cautious tenderness, but her husbands impassive manner always restrained her.

The house in which they lived influenced her chills and shuddering to no small degree. Thewhiteness of the silent patio friezes, columns, and marble statues produced the wintryimpression of an enchanted palace. Inside the glacial brilliance of stucco, die completely bare

walls, affirmed the sensation of unpleasant coldness. As one crossed from one room to

another, the echo of his steps reverberated throughout the house, as if long abandonment hadsensitized its resonance.

Alicia passed the autumn in this strange love nest. She had determined, however, to cast a veilover her former dreams and live like a sleeping beauty in the hostile house, trying not to thinkabout anything until her husband arrived each evening.

It is not strange that she grew thin. She had a light attack of influenza that dragged oninsidiously for days and days: after that Alicias health never returned. Finally one afternoonshe was able to go into the garden, supported on her husbands arm. She looked aroundlistlessly. Suddenly Jordan, with deep tenderness, ran his hand very slowly over her head, and

Alicia instantly burst into sobs, throwing her arms around his neck. For a long tune she criedout all the fears she had kept silent, redoubling her weeping at Jordans slightest caress. Thenher sobs subsided, and she stood a long while, her face hidden in the hollow of his neck, notmoving or speaking a word.

This was the last day Alicia was well enough to be up. On the following day she awakenedfeeling faint. Jordans doctor examined her with minute attention, prescribing calm andabsolute rest.

I dont know, he said to Jordan at the street door. She has a great weakness that I am unableto explain. And with no vomiting, nothing... if she wakes tomorrow as she did today, call me

at once.

When she awakened the following day, Alicia was worse. There was a consultation. It wasagreed there was an anaemia of incredible progression, completely inexplicable. Alicia had nomore fainting spells, but she was visibly moving toward death. The lights were lighted all daylong in her bedroom, and there was complete silence. Hours went by without the slightestsound. Alicia dozed. Jordan virtually lived in the drawing room, which was also alwayslighted. With tireless persistence he paced ceaselessly from one end of the room to the other.The carpet swallowed his steps. At times he entered the bedroom and continued his silentpacing back and forth alongside the bed, stopping for an instant at each end to regard his

wife.

Suddenly Alicia began to have hallucinations, vague images, at first seeming to float in the air,then descending to floor level. Her eyes excessively wide, she stared continuously at the


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carpet on either side of the head of her bed. One night she suddenly focused on one spot.Then she opened her mouth to scream, and pearls of sweat suddenly beaded her nose andlips.

Jordan! Jordan! she clamoured, rigid with fright, still staring at the carpet.Jordan ran to the bedroom and, when she saw him appear. Alicia screamed with terror.Its I Alicia, its I!

Alicia looked at him confusedly; she looked at the carpet; she looked at him once again; andafter a long moment of stupefied confrontation, she regained her senses. She smiled and tookher husbands hand in hers, caressing it, trembling, for half an hour.

Among her most persistent hallucinations was that of an anthropoid poised on his fingertipson the carpet, staring at her.

The doctors returned, but to no avail. They saw before them a diminishing life, a life bleedingaway day by day, hour by hour, absolutely without their knowing why. During their lastconsultation Alicia lay in a stupor while they took her pulse, passing her inert wrist from one

to another. They observed her a long time in silence and then moved into the dining room.

Phew... The discouraged chief physician shrugged his shoulders. It is an inexplicable case.There is little we can do...

Thats my last hope! Jordan groaned. And he staggered blindly against the table.

Alicias life was fading away in the subdelirium of anaemia, a delirium which grew worsethrough the evening hours but which let up somewhat after dawn. The illness never worsenedduring the daytime, but each morning she awakened pale as death, almost in a swoon. Itseemed only at night that her life drained out of her in new waves of blood. Always when she

awakened she had the sensation of lying collapsed in the bed with a million-pound weight ontop of her. Following the third day of this relapse she never left her bed again. She couldscarcely move her head. She did not want her bed to be touched, not even to have her

bedcovers arranged. Her crepuscular terrors advanced now in the form of monsters thatdragged themselves toward the bed and laboriously climbed upon the bedspread.

Then she lost consciousness. The final two days she raved ceaselessly in a weak voice. Thelights funereally illuminated the bedroom and drawing room. In the deathly silence of thehouse the only sound was the monotonous delirium from the bedroom and the dull echoes ofJordans eternal pacing.

Finally, Alicia died. The servant, when she came in afterward to strip the now empty bed,stared wonderingly for a moment at the pillow.

Sir! she called Jordan in a low voice. There are stains on the pillow that look like blood.Jordan approached rapidly and bent over the pillow. Truly, on the case, on both sides of thehollow left by Alicias head, were two small dark spots.

They look like punctures, the servant murmured after a moment of motionless observation.Hold it up to the light. Jordan told her.

The servant raised the pillow but immediately dropped it and stood staring at it, livid and

trembling. Without knowing why, Jordan felt the hair rise on the back of his neck.

What is it? he murmured in a hoarse voice.


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Its very heavy, the servant whispered, still trembling.

Jordan picked it up; it was extraordinarily heavy. He carried it out of the room and on thedining room table he ripped open the case and the ticking with a slash. The top feathersfloated away, and the servant, her mourn opened wide, gave a scream of horror and coveredher face with her clenched fists: in the bottom of the pillowcase, among the feathers, slowly

moving its hairy legs, was a monstrous animal, a living, viscous ball. It was so swollen onecould scarcely make out its mouth.

Night after night, since Alicia had taken to her bed, this abomination had stealthily applied itsmouth its proboscis one might better say to the girls temples, sucking her blood. Thepuncture was scarcely perceptible. The daily plumping of the pillow had doubtlessly at firstimpeded its progress, but as soon as the girl could no longer move, the suction became

vertiginous. In five days, in five nights, the monster had chained Alicias life away.

These parasites of feathered creatures, diminutive in then habitual environment, reachenormous proportions under certain conditions. Human blood seems particularly favourable

to them, and it is not rare to encounter them in feather pillows.

* * *

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