The Cannibal Read Online Free PDF
Author: John Hawkes
printing office. “Shall we go?” asked the Census-Taker. He could
feel the warmth creeping upon him. I strapped the pistol under my arm, blew out the lamp,
and we left.
Jutta’s girl was named Selvaggia and she was like a small white statue when
she was undressed. Her widespread eyes were always afraid, even though the only person she
feared in all the world was Herr Stintz. That man, one floor below, was playing a dirge on
his tuba, his shiny head reflected from its bell, the sounds falling chromatically down and
down. The mother held her child at arm’s length, and the child seemed to grow like the pit
of a fruit from the dotted kimono sleeves, straddled, as if she could never fall, on the
woman’s knee. The mother was starved for food, a woman who had gorged herself on nuts,
cream, shanks of meat and chocolate, butnow filled herself at night in a
way that her daughter, or son, could not. Her head belonged to a man, but though the face
was male, her breast was still a woman’s. The flat couch filled almost all the room and
became her larder. Jutta was like her father, a Prussian mouth, a Roman nose, strong legs
now, years after her illness, but her daughter was unlike any of them, a child on a poster.
Stella Snow resented Selvaggia and her brother for bearing no resemblance to the family, and
they would not speak to her. Jutta hated Stella from the first day her small man’s face
looked up from the crib to see her older sister staring down, mouth too filled with tongue
to speak. The candle flickered and Jutta and child heard the double pairs of boots on the
stairs, heard the sound clumping up like drummers’ flams out of the silence. Selvaggia ran
off to the second room to wait alone for her brother. She was wide-awake. She heard the
opening of the door, the words
“Guten Abend,”
then shut them all out of her mind.
In the next room the three of us lay on the couch.
Madame Stella Snow combed her half-white, halfgold hair, hung her black gown
from a hook on the wall and crawled into the bed. A resident of the town for twenty years,
knowing them all more closely than the Mayor, she felt the pain more acutely than he, even
with her heart more like stone. Even though there was no Post, even though no one came or
went and they all had lived or died for many centuries, even though there was no wireless,
she felt the vastness of community that was like burial, spreading over all borders and from
family to family. No drainpipes, chemicals to cleanse, flames to heat, no word, no food for
the young or old, she was puzzled. Despite her years she could not find whereit had all begun, for she was aristocratic to the end. Stella was capable of anything
with a cold heart, but she could not bear the mutilation of any part of her. So she would
not see her son. Distorted trees and rattling windows, dirty uniforms and an individuality
that meant death flowed in a dangerous stream through
das Grab
. Even she, feeling
the hunger, sometimes hesitated bringing the goblet to her lips. She had spent an oddly
sexual decade and was now more unlike her sister than ever. Limbs of trees scraped against
the window; she remembered that her sister’s boy was still out in the night. She lay in the
dark. Then she heard the scratching at the cellar door.
All Germany revolved around Balamir. His feet were in the boots of an
Emperor’s son, he felt the silver sword of time and tide and strength against his hip.
Growing weak and cold, he was the result of commands coming down out of the years. From the
farm where he was born to the institution and munition works, he felt that people bowed as
he passed. How he sought to be that image, how the Kaiser’s ghost needed him, how he would
be Honor in the land he had become. But how well he knew it was a reign of terror and felt
like pulling his beard as his father would have done. Potentate of the north, he scowled on
feel the warmth creeping upon him. I strapped the pistol under my arm, blew out the lamp,
and we left.
Jutta’s girl was named Selvaggia and she was like a small white statue when
she was undressed. Her widespread eyes were always afraid, even though the only person she
feared in all the world was Herr Stintz. That man, one floor below, was playing a dirge on
his tuba, his shiny head reflected from its bell, the sounds falling chromatically down and
down. The mother held her child at arm’s length, and the child seemed to grow like the pit
of a fruit from the dotted kimono sleeves, straddled, as if she could never fall, on the
woman’s knee. The mother was starved for food, a woman who had gorged herself on nuts,
cream, shanks of meat and chocolate, butnow filled herself at night in a
way that her daughter, or son, could not. Her head belonged to a man, but though the face
was male, her breast was still a woman’s. The flat couch filled almost all the room and
became her larder. Jutta was like her father, a Prussian mouth, a Roman nose, strong legs
now, years after her illness, but her daughter was unlike any of them, a child on a poster.
Stella Snow resented Selvaggia and her brother for bearing no resemblance to the family, and
they would not speak to her. Jutta hated Stella from the first day her small man’s face
looked up from the crib to see her older sister staring down, mouth too filled with tongue
to speak. The candle flickered and Jutta and child heard the double pairs of boots on the
stairs, heard the sound clumping up like drummers’ flams out of the silence. Selvaggia ran
off to the second room to wait alone for her brother. She was wide-awake. She heard the
opening of the door, the words
“Guten Abend,”
then shut them all out of her mind.
In the next room the three of us lay on the couch.
Madame Stella Snow combed her half-white, halfgold hair, hung her black gown
from a hook on the wall and crawled into the bed. A resident of the town for twenty years,
knowing them all more closely than the Mayor, she felt the pain more acutely than he, even
with her heart more like stone. Even though there was no Post, even though no one came or
went and they all had lived or died for many centuries, even though there was no wireless,
she felt the vastness of community that was like burial, spreading over all borders and from
family to family. No drainpipes, chemicals to cleanse, flames to heat, no word, no food for
the young or old, she was puzzled. Despite her years she could not find whereit had all begun, for she was aristocratic to the end. Stella was capable of anything
with a cold heart, but she could not bear the mutilation of any part of her. So she would
not see her son. Distorted trees and rattling windows, dirty uniforms and an individuality
that meant death flowed in a dangerous stream through
das Grab
. Even she, feeling
the hunger, sometimes hesitated bringing the goblet to her lips. She had spent an oddly
sexual decade and was now more unlike her sister than ever. Limbs of trees scraped against
the window; she remembered that her sister’s boy was still out in the night. She lay in the
dark. Then she heard the scratching at the cellar door.
All Germany revolved around Balamir. His feet were in the boots of an
Emperor’s son, he felt the silver sword of time and tide and strength against his hip.
Growing weak and cold, he was the result of commands coming down out of the years. From the
farm where he was born to the institution and munition works, he felt that people bowed as
he passed. How he sought to be that image, how the Kaiser’s ghost needed him, how he would
be Honor in the land he had become. But how well he knew it was a reign of terror and felt
like pulling his beard as his father would have done. Potentate of the north, he scowled on