Death Sentences (9 page)

Consequently, he had, quite frankly, grown tired of such entreaties.

There was nothing he could do.

It was of course annoying, but even more than that, Breton simply didn't have the means to offer assistance to others.

They did not understand this, however.

These philistines fervently believed that there was a sort of one-to-one correspondence between fame and money. However he put it, his words fell on deaf ears.

On the contrary, in response, he became an object of resentment and hatred.

As a consequence, faced with this young man, Breton's first impulse was to shrug his shoulders brusquely.

"I am sorry, but you-"

Breton spoke very clearly to him, choosing his words carefully.

"You seem to have chosen the wrong person. Is that clear? At present I can probably do nothing more than disappoint your expectations. I hope you understand, but this can only be exceedingly uncomfortable for both of us."

Breton saw Who May's face flush with bewilderment.

Clearly, Breton's rather oblique refusal had not gotten through to him.

Who May's response took him by surprise.

"Fine! It makes no difference to me, really."

"It makes no difference?"

"Exactly! Whatever comments you give me, I will not feel that you have disappointed me. Truthfully! Mr. Breton, I know that there is no one else but you. Will I beg of you!"

(Comments ... ?) Breton realized his mistake. (So that's what it was.)

Waldberg had, with certainty, called him a poet. But as yet "unknown"-Breton then spied a bundle of paper, probably a manuscript, sticking out from the cloth bag slung across Who May's shoulder.

"I see."

Breton muttered at him with a sigh. He had been mistaken, but if that was his favor sticking out of the bag, it was even more depressing.

But Who May bore a look of desperation.

"Mr. Breton! Please help me. You are the only one who can help me. At least I know of no one but you. I beg you. I absolutely must have your diagnosis."

"Diagnosis?"

Breton knitted his brows.

He could not determine whether the young man had used the term diagnosis simply to affect a grand turn of phrase, or whether he meant to refer to Breton's training as a psychiatrist.

"You mean to say ..." Breton asked him with great deliberation. "You are ill?"

Who May's enormous eyes rolled in a fit of terror, enlarging as if to encompass the universe itself.

"Perhaps ... I don't really know,

The words cut short in his mouth.

He clenched the cloth bag slung over his shoulder in both hands.

"If you truly are ill, that's beyond my abilities."

Breton continued to test him.

"I was never a good doctor. I never healed a single patient."

"That's fine, I don't expect you to cure me. I want a diagnosis. From you, Monsieur Breton! I can't think of anyone but you. There is no one else! I absolutely must have your diagnosis. You're right! I am, there's no doubt, I am ill!"

Indeed-the young man looked ill.

Yet it was likely that he evoked his illness to prove his good health.

"It is impossible in the world today to find anyone who is young and not ill. Youth itself is a kind of illness, if you ask me."

Breton forced himself to smile for the young man.

Of course, if he truly were an invalid, there was no point in banging on about it. It might even be dangerous. Such thoughts also crossed his mind.

(In any event) Breton glanced at his watch. He was free for another hour. (I suppose I have no choice ...)

"All right, then, let me take a look."

Breton pointed at the bag clutched in Who May's hands.

"Are those your medical charts?"

Who May started to blush.

In a moment deep crimson suffused his entire face.

"Come with me," Breton said to him. "Let's find a bench."

They walked awhile and finally found a place to sit.

With trembling hands, Who May took the cloth bag from his shoulder. And then, impatiently, he pulled out a bundle of about ten pages or so.

"How old are you?"

Breton asked him as he took the pages.

"Nineteen. But I will be twenty in February. Ah ..."

Perhaps from excitement, his voice rose sharply.

"Mr. Breton, I implore you. I ... I just found it. It was by chance. I made a discovery. It came to me in a flash. Something, someone ... ah! It began to whisper to me, yet not to

Irritated with Who May's incoherent babbling, Breton raised a hand to interrupt him.

"What exactly did you discover?"

Who May's eyes fell on the bundle of papers now in Breton's hands.

"A way to use words or, rather, a way to make them-of course!"

"Make them! You're saying you make words!"

"Sometimes-yes, but I don't know. I myself cannot judge. How best to make use of this discovery ... I haven't a clue. Words are not something one can make all alone. That much I know. And yet ... and yet! I can make them! It's true! That's why I need your diagnosis!"

Who May chattered on without stopping, like one possessed. Then he suddenly fell silent.

Breton shook his head slightly as if coming to himself.

His eyes fell on the manuscript.

It was fine typing paper. Yet the lines of words were written by hand in dark blue ink.

The first lines were written in a very methodical, almost fussy hand, but gradually the letters became disordered as if leaping across the page.

At the top of the first page in slightly larger letters was written "Another World." That apparently was the title.

Below was a signature-

Who May

It was evidently a poem in prose.

And yet-even so-

From the very instant he laid hands on the manuscript, rather to his surprise, Breton became aware of something somewhere stirring his emotions.

He had yet to read a single line. Nevertheless, he had a sense of premonition. It was a premonition that might be described as unusual and ominous. It ran like a chill up his spine.

(Ridiculous.)

He had exactly the same feeling as when he had laid hands on a new work by Benjamin Peret. Or like that when he had first cut open the pages of a collection of Rimbaud's poetry.

In any case-Breton shook his head hard from side to side. It was surely an effect of the afternoon heat.

The first stanza was as follows.

4

A fish. Dobaded. Its eyeball sliced down the middle. Sections quivering. Images reflected on the split lens are stained with blood. Dobaded. The city of people mirrored there is dyed madder red. Reversal of pressure, dobaded, and there you go! It's taking you there....

(Dobaded?)

Breton kept on reading, although his thoughts were still ensnared by the unfamiliar word.

(Why?)

(Dobaded.)

The word was repeated again and again, now as a noun, now as a verb or adjective.

(Dobaded.)

The discovery that Who May had spoken of, his "making words"-was this it?

(If so, it showed no interest in others ...)

(Dobaded)

(It is still there ... yet ...

(No, wait!)

(Dobaded.)

(This may be some sort of spell ...)

(But ... no, this is absurd ..

(Dobaded.)

(Wait! What was that-?)

(Dobaded! It's a bit-no, it is absurd!)

(Dobaded.)

(Dobaded!)

(... this, dobaded! What on earth ... this, this thing!)

(Dobaded)

(Dobaded.)

(Dobaded ... dobaded ... dobaded ...)

(Dobaded!)

About an hour later Breton returned.

From another world ... not of this earth, but of this uni verse, yet an entirely different world. He had come back here, to New York, Manhattan, a bench in Central Park. Dobaded.

(... dobaded.)

There was no room for doubt.

Breton had experienced it. At the command of these verses, he had been transported to the world that Who May had named "Another World" and then had returned.

Dobaded.

All of a sudden anger irrupted in him.

He didn't know why. And because he didn't know, he became angrier still.

Nevertheless-

Dobaded-

(Shit!)

There was no doubt that the young man named Who May had discovered something, or at least something related to the usage of words.

Dobaded ... (Shit!) ... in any event there had never been any sign of someone else who had thought to use words as he did.

(Of course not!)

His anger mounted still.

(Nonetheless, dobaded-what was this thing?! What could one call it ... ?)

Breton held his eyes shut tight.

(Is this thing poetry?! Dobaded! No, it isn't like poetry. It is a spell! It is a sort of ... hypnotism! It is like the use of words in hypnotism.)

Breton still could not open his eyes.

(In any case ... surely, dobaded ... shit ...)

In any case, no matter how he struggled, there was no way for him, dobaded, to erase from his thoughts the lines that he had just read.

Whether it was a poem or not, there was no use denying the very obvious fact that Who May's discovery had imparted this experience to Breton.

The fact of it overwhelmed Breton.

(This thing ..)

Overcome with frustration Breton cursed inwardly.

(He must have made a deal. That's how it was decided. At midnight he had carved summoning spells on the floor and summoned the devil. And in exchange for the secret of words, he sold his soul to the devil.)

As such thoughts crossed his mind, Breton grew angrier still, at his own foolishness.

(... in any case, dobaded ... shit!)

Breton forced both eyes open wide.

In a rage he folded the bundle of papers still in his hands squarely in half.

Who May was there.

He stared at Breton with the same enormous eyes. A look of concern, clearly not feigned, colored his features.

Breton cast a glance at his watch. To his relief, it was about time for him to report to work.

Yet, dobaded ... (Shit!) ... his nerves were so thoroughly rattled that he had lost the will to make any decision.

Breton cast a glance at the papers that he had just folded in two.

In a rather weak voice he asked, "Was it really you who wrote ... this?"

"I think it was me."

He answered in a roundabout way. And then he added: "I know it was I who held the pen. But ... oh, please understand me ... I have the impression that at the time I was doing no more than taking down notes. Which is to say ... I don't really remember. It is so peculiar. I must be sick."

Breton snorted. That was the only response that came to him. But then words escaped from his lips, laden with overtones of contempt.

"If you think that you can impress me with your talent by deliberately adopting such a self-servingly poetic stance-"

Drawing a deep breath, Breton resumed, as if determined to spill his bile.

"Rest assured that it doesn't work with me. On the contrary, such posturing can only diminish your talent. That's really all I wish to say to you."

Who May remained immobile, as if paralyzed with fear.

He opened his mouth to speak but then dropped his head, blushing.

His appearance troubled Breton's feelings.

Clucking his tongue slightly, he withdrew a ballpoint pen from the pocket of his coat.

He held out the pen and the manuscript to Who May.

"Could you write your address or contact information somewhere in the margins? Or maybe a phone number?"

Who May nodded.

"You can reach me through the landlord of my apartment."

"Fine. If you could give me the room number, too."

In the same meticulous writing as in the first part of the manuscript, Who May wrote down the numbers.

Once done, he turned his eyes to Breton, looking at him expectantly.

"I would like to hold on to this manuscript, if you don't mind." Breton said to him. "I would like to read through it more carefully."

"Of course. I would like that. But. .

"But what?"

"It's just ... that, well, what exactly are these words that I have written?"

"Is this something to ask me?"

"Oh ... I don't know. I don't really even know exactly who I am. I am ill. That must be it. Please tell me! What in the world should I do?"

This time Breton really went into a rage.

"How on earth would I know?!"

Breton nearly screamed in response.

"Why is it so important to you, why? Of all things, this has nothing to do with me. It doesn't really matter to me who you are or whether you've fallen ill."

"Please forgive me, it's just, I ..."

"Enough! Not another word! I've had enough. This is it for me!"

Breton snatched the bundle of papers from Who May's hands, waving it in the air as if to hurtle it to the ground.

"This is already far too much. So I will tell you, if you really want me to. This thing, this work, is completely outrageous, nothing but exasperating. Until now no one has seen fit for words to be used in such a fashion. That's right, no one. What is this "dobaded, dobaded" shit? Huh? Where did you pick it up? This, this sort of ..."