Authors: Ray Bradbury
“He did
that
to you? His last act was to provoke you with his death?”
“You might say that.”
“I just did!”
“Now, let's get to bed and relapse my need.”
“Don't be a sap, sit up and drink your gin. Now what are you doing?”
“As you see, pulling back the sheet. This may be my last lie-in.”
“Get away from there, this is stupid.”
“Death is stupid, an insult, dumb trick to die on me.”
“So he did it on purpose?”
“I wouldn't put it past him. Just my kind of nasty. Call the mortuary, read me a menu of headstones, plain rock, no angels. Where are you going?”
“Outside. I need air.”
“I may be gone by the time you're back!”
“Wait while I talk to someone sane!”
“Who's that?”
“Me!”
I went out and stood in the sun.
This can't be happening, I thought.
Oh no? I retorted. Go look.
Not yet. What'll we do?
Don't ask me, said my other self. If he dies, we die. No more work, no moola. Let's talk something else. Is that his address book?
That's it.
Flip through, there's got to be someone still alive and kicking.
Okay. I flipped. There go the
A
's, the
B
's and
C
's! Dead! Check the
D
's,
E
's,
F
's and
G
's!
Dead!
I slammed the book shut, like the door of a tomb.
He was right: his friends, his enemiesâit's a book of the dead.
That's colorful, write it down.
Colorful, Jesus!
Think
of something!
Hold on. How do I feel about him right now? That's it! Gangway! We're going back!
I opened the door and stuck my head in.
“Still dying?”
“What does it look like?”
“A stubborn ass.”
I came in the door, walked in, and towered over him.
“Better close up?” said Walter.
“Not stubborn. Mean. Hold on while I gather my spit.”
“I'm holding,” said Walter. “Hurry up, I'm almost gone.”
“Would that were true. Now listen up!”
“Don't stand so close, I can feel your breath.”
“This is not mouth-to-mouth, just a reality check: now hear this!”
Walter blinked. “Is that my old chum, old pal?” A shadow crossed his face.
“No. Not old chum, old pal.”
Walter beamed. “Sure, that's you, old buddy!”
“Since you're almost dead, it's time for a confession.”
“I should be the one to confess.”
“Me first!”
Walter closed his eyes and waited.
“Shoot,” he said.
“Recall that missing cash back in '69, when you thought Sam Willis carried it to Mexico?”
“Yeah, Sam, sure.”
“No. Me.”
“How's that?”
“Me,” I said. “I did it. Sam ran off with some babe. I snatched the moola and blamed him! Me!”
“That's not so bad,” said Walter. “I forgive you.”
“Hold on, there's more.”
“I'm holding.” Walter laughed, quietly.
“About that senior prom in high school, 1958.”
“A wet-blanket night. I got Dica-Ann Frisbie. I needed Mary-Jane Caruso.”
“You woulda had her. I told Mary-Jane all about your womanizing, listed your scores!”
“You did
that
!?” Walter opened his eyes wide. “So she wound up at the prom with you.”
“That's it.”
Walter fixed me with a brief stare, then looked away. “Well, hell, that's old water under an older bridge. You done?”
“Not quite.”
“Jesus God! This is getting interesting. Spill it.” Walter punched his pillow and reared up on one elbow.
“Then there was Henrietta Jordan.”
“My God, Henrietta. What a beaut. That was a great summer.”
“I ended that summer.”
“You
what
?!”
“She dropped you, yes? Said her mother was dying, had to spend time with Mom.”
“Then you ran off with Henrietta too?”
“That's it. Next item: remember when I got you to sell Ironworks, Inc., at a loss? Next week I bought on the way up.”
“That's not so bad.” Walter swallowed.
I went on. “Item: In Barcelona, '69, I pleaded migraine, went to bed early, took Christina Lopez with!”
“I often wondered about her.”
“You're raising your voice.”
“Am I?”
“Now, your wife! Played Gotcha with her.”
“Gotcha?”
“Gotcha once, twice, forty times Gotcha!”
“Wait!”
Walter reared up, clutching his blanket.
“Grab your ears! While you were in Panama, Abbey and I had a wildcat fun-feast!”
“I would have heard.”
“Since when do husbands hear? Remember her wine tour in Provence?”
“Right.”
“Wrong. She was in Paris drinking champagne from my golf shoes!”
“Golf shoes!?”
“Paris was our nineteenth green! World championships! Then Morocco!”
“She never went!”
“Was there, did that! Rome! Guess who was her tour guide!? Tokyo! Stockholm!”
“Her parents were Swedish!”
“I gave her the Nobel Prize. Brussels, Moscow, Shanghai, Boston, Cairo, Oslo, Denver, Dayton!”
“Stop, oh God, stop! Stop!”
I stopped and, like in old movies, stepped to the window and had a cigarette.
I could hear Walter crying. I turned and saw that he had swung his legs out, letting the tears drip off his nose to the floor.
“You son of a bitch!” he gasped.
“Right.”
“Bastard!”
“Indeed.”
“Monster!”
“Yes?”
“Best friend! I'll kill you!”
“Catch me first!”
“Then wake and kill you again!”
“What're you doing?”
“Getting outta bed, dammit! Come here!”
“Naw.” I opened the door and looked out. “Bye.”
“I'll kill you if it takes years!”
“Hey! Listen to himâ
years
!”
“If it takes
forever
!”
“Forever! That's rich! Toodle-oo!”
“Freeze, dammit!”
Walter lurched up.
“Son of a bitch!”
“Right!”
“Bastard!”
“Hallelujah! Happy New Year!”
“What!?”
“Prosit! Skoal! What was I once?”
“Friend?”
“Yeah,
friend
!”
I laughed a physician-doctor-medicine man laugh.
“Bitch!” screamed Walter.
“Me, yeah,
me
!”
I jumped out the door and smiled.
“Me!”
The door slammed.
I
T WAS ON A SHIP
in the mid-Atlantic in the summer of 1948 that we met the completistâthat's what he called himself. He was a lawyer from Schenectady, well dressed, and he insisted on paying for the drinks when we met by accident before supper, and then made sure that we were seated with him at dinner, rather than at our regular table.
He talked and kept on talking during dinner with wonderful stories, grand jokes, and with an air about him that was convivial and worldly and wise.
At no time did he allow us to speak, and my wife and I were entertained, intrigued, and willing to silence ourselves to let this amusing man describe the world he traveled, from continent to continent, from country to country, and from city to city, collecting books, building libraries, and entertaining his soul.
He told us how he had heard of a fabulous collection in Prague and had spent the better part of a month crossing the world by ship and by train to find and purchase the collection and return it to his vast home in Schenectady.
He had spent time in Paris, Rome, London, and Moscow and had shipped home tens of thousands of rare volumes, which his law practice allowed him to buy.
When he spoke of these things his eyes glowed and his face was suffused with a color that no liquor could induce.
There was no air of braggadocio about this lawyerâhe was simply describing, as a cartographer describes a chartâa map of places and events and times he could not help but relate.
While he did all this he did not order any meal that would have to take his attention. He gave little mind to the immense salad before him, which allowed him to keep talking as, on occasion, he devoured a mouthful and then ran on with his descriptions of places and collections all over the world.
Each time my wife and I tried to intrude upon his exclamations, he waved his fork at us and shut his eyes to silence us as his mouth proclaimed yet another wonder.
“Do you know the work of Sir John Soane, the great English architect?” he asked.
Before we could answer he rushed on.
“He rebuilt all of London in his mind and in the drawings made according to his specifications by his artist-friend, Mr. Ginty. Some of his dreams of London were actually built, others were built and destroyed, and yet others remained only figments of his incredible imagination.
“I have found some of his library dreams and worked with the grandsons of his architectural engineers to build on my estate what you would call a steeplechase university. From building to building on this great acreage outside of Schenectady I have placed grand lanterns of education.
“By strolling across my meadows, or better yetâand how romanticâto visit on horseback, from yard to yard, you can find yourself in the grandest library of medical knowledge in the world. I say this because I have found this library in Yorkshire and bought its ten thousand volumes and shipped them home to be safely kept under my hand and eye. Great physicians and surgeons come to visit me and live in the library for days or weeks or months.
“Beyond that, in other locales around my estate, there are small lighthouse libraries of the greatest novels from every country in the world.
“And beyond that, an Italian environment that would have caused Bernard Berenson, the great Italian Renaissance art historian, to go sleepless with envy.
“My estate then, this university, is a series of buildings spread over one hundred acres where you could spend a lifetime without ever leaving my environment.
“On any single weekend, the heads of colleges, universities, and schools in Prague, Florence, Glasgow, and Vancouver collect to enjoy my chef's meals and drink my wines and love my books.”
He went on to describe the leather many of the books were bound in, the superb quality of the bindings, the paper used within, and the typefaces.
Beyond that he described how wonderful it was that you could visit his multitudinous centers of learning and walk out in the meadows and seat yourself, to read in an environment that was conducive to vast learning.
“There you almost have it. I'm on my way now to Paris, whence I train south and ship out through the Suez Canal to India, Hong Kong, and Tokyo. Another twenty thousand volumes of art history, philosophy, and world travel await me in these far places. I am like a schoolchild, nervous, awaiting tomorrow, when I will get my hands on these further treasures.”
At long last our lawyer friend seemed finished.
The salad was gone, the dessert was finished, and the last of the wine had been drunk.
He gazed into our faces, as if wondering if we had anything to say.
Indeed, there was much we had gathered up and we awaited a chance to speak.
But before we could open our mouths, the lawyer had summoned our waiter again and ordered three double brandies. My wife and I demurred, but he waved us aside. The brandies were placed before us.
He arose, studied the bill, paid it, and stood for a long while as the color drained from his face.
“There is only one last thing I'd like to know,” he said finally.
He shut his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them the light was gone; he seemed to be gazing at a place a million miles off in his imagination.