The 1st Deadly Sin Read Online Free PDF Page A

living in lonely anguish and seeking the companionship of a good woman?”
    “No. I swear!”
    “Sam, I don’t believe you.”
    “Dan, would I lie to you?”
    “Of course. Like your ‘thousands of fantastic pipple’.”
    “Well…Flo may have casually mentioned a few neighbors might stop by.”
    Daniel laughed. Sam grabbed his arm, pulled him close. “Just take a look, a quick look. Like no woman you’ve ever met! I swear to you, Dan—an original. You have simply got to meet this woman! Even if nothing comes of it—naturally Flo and I are hoping—but even if nothing happens, believe me it will be an experience for you. Here is a new human being! You’ll see. You’ll see. Her name is Celia Montfort. My name is Sam and her name is Celia. Right away that tells a lot—no?”
    The Mortons’ apartment was a shambles, thrift shop, rats’ nest, charity bazaar, gypsy camp: as incoherent as their lives. They redecorated at least twice a year, and these upheavals had left a squabble of detritus: chairs in Swedish modern, a Victorian love seat, a Sheraton lowboy, a wooden Indian, Chinese vases, chromium lamps, Persian rugs, a barber pole, a Plexiglas table, ormolu ashtrays, Tiffany glass, and paintings in a dozen trendy styles, framed and unframed, hung and propped against the wall.
    And everywhere, books, magazines, prints, photographs, newspapers, posters, swatches of cloth, smoking incense, boxes of chocolates, fresh flowers, fashion sketches, broken cigarettes, a bronze screw propeller and a blue bedpan: all mixed, helter-skelter, as if giant salad forks had dug into the furnishings of the apartment, tossed them to the ceiling, allowed them to flutter down as they would, pile up, tilt, overlap, and create a setting of frenzied disorder that stunned visitors but proved marvelously comfortable and relaxing.
    Sam Morton led Daniel to the entrance of the living room, tugging him along by the arm, fearful of his escaping. Blank waved a hand at Blanche, working in the kitchen, as he passed.
    In the living room, Flo Morton smiled and blew a kiss to Dan. He turned from her to look at the woman who had been speaking when they entered, and who would not stop to acknowledge their presence.
    “It is bad logic and worse semantics,” she was saying in a voice curiously devoid of tone and inflection. “‘Black is beautiful’? It’s like saying, ‘Down is up.’ I know they mean to affirm their existence and assert their pride. But they have chosen a battlecry no one, not even themselves, can believe. Because words have more than meaning, you see. The meaning of words is merely the skeleton, almost as basic as the spelling. But words also have emotional weight. The simplest, most innocent words—as far as definition is concerned—can be an absolute horror emotionally. A word that looks plain and unassuming when written or printed can stir us to murder or delight. ‘Black is beautiful’? To the human race, to whites, blacks, yellows, reds, black can never be beautiful. Black is evil and will always seem so. For black is darkness, and that is where fears lie and nightmares are born. Blackhearted. Black sheep of the family. Black art: the magic practised by witches. Black mass. These are not racial slurs. They spring from man’s primitive fear of the dark. Black is the time or place without light, where dangers lurk, and death. Children are naturally afraid of the dark. It is not taught them; they are born with it. And even some adults sleep with a nightlight. ‘Behave yourself or the boogie man will get you.’ I imagine even Negro children are told that. The ‘boogie’—a black monster who comes out of the dark, the perilous dark. Black is the unknowable. Black is danger. Black is evil. Black is death. But ‘Black is beautiful’? Never. They’ll never get anyone to believe that. We are all animals. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”
    She raised her eyes to look directly at Daniel Blank. He was startled.