The Lost Language of Cranes Read Online Free PDF Page A

staring her in the face with it, and she hadn't seen it. He had thought he might have to turn away from the stupid confusion in her eyes then, the way they went blank and her mouth twitched. She had struggled for words. Such effort, and all for nothing! Why bother? Why not shout it out right then and there, in the street? After all, as soon as they were evicted from their apartment they would be street people anyway. Already they wandered the city separately, as if in preparation for the oncoming solitary poverty in which they'd soon start to run into each other: he unshaven, his clothes rotting, sleeping in men's shelters, eating soup made from potato peelings; Rose scraggly-haired and dirty, her legs covered with sores. They'd be on line at the lice clinic, waiting to be shampooed and shaved, and Owen, thinking he recognized her, would say, "Excuse me—Rose? Is that you, Rose?" And slowly she would emerge from her stupor, turn and look at him, her skin sallow and smeared with filth, her lips cracked, as his were, hair greasy; should he go on? He could go on, he knew, coloring in the details of their ruin. To make themselves into such creatures—that would be triumphant! That would be a spit in the face of this life.
    Rose looked at him; she opened her mouth. She was making noises in the back of her throat, preparing to say something to him; what was it?
    He stopped and kicked at some muddy snow that had caked on the corner. If he were to walk into the Waldorf-Astoria today, no one would notice him in his tweed coat. A pity. He wanted to be thrown out into the gutter. He and Rose hadn't even begun to talk about the arduous task of finding a new apartment; perhaps it would prove too much for them. He thought about this: If he quit his job and took to drinking and lived in an expensive hotel room for a month, the money would run out. He'd be rid of it. It could be done.
    "Lunatic ravings of an old man," Owen said, and was startled to find that he had spoken out loud. A middle-aged woman with bright blond hair, turning and looking at him, pushed the hand of her child tighter into the pocket in which she held it and hurried away from him. Oh, it was cold. He tied the belt of his coat tighter around his waist and moved on.
    He went into the Bijou, a movie theatre on Third Avenue. The woman behind the glass partition took his money, let him through the turnstile as she had practically every Sunday for fifteen years. For a long time this place had terrified him, but now it only tired him. He usually sat in the back row with the other old men who wanted to jerk off and be left alone. Oddly, just as his apartment, that haven of peace and safety, had filled up lately with danger, this place had lost its threat. It was as if he saw it with the houselights turned up, as they never were, and all it was was a room with a lot of chairs stained beyond the point where one could name their original color. Nothing lurked here. There was no mystery.
    Owen sat in the back row. On the screen was a close-up of a boy's face contorted with pleasure, the white liquid dripping down his cheeks, hanging off the ends of his eyelashes like snow, falling on his darting tongue. He seemed to be transforming into a tree in a winter forest.
    Owen concentrated. He had to work hard to be aroused by those images. Indeed, he was so absorbed that he hardly noticed when someone sat down next to him. He turned once, then back again, to face the screen. The man appeared to be in his thirties, with brown hair, a mustache, small tortoiseshell glasses encircling bright eyes. He was wearing a brown sweater-vest. He was staring at Owen intently. Owen looked back at him, then resolutely fixed his eyes to the screen. On the screen the boy was being chained to a metal fence by one cop while another pulled down his pants, removed and stroked and massaged a big belt. Still Owen felt the stare of the man next to him, hot as breath.
    He closed his eyes. He was angry that this