Bradbury, Ray - Death is a Lonely Business

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DEATH IS A LONELY BUSINESS
Ray Bradbury
[18 oct 2001 - scanned for #bookz]
[20 oct 2001 - proofed for #bookz - by bookleech, v 1.0]
Venice, California, in the old days had much to recommend it to people who liked to be sad. It had
fog almost every night and along the shore the moaning of the oil well machinery and the slap of
dark water in the canals and the hiss of sand against the windows of your house when the wind came
up and sang among the open places and along the empty walks.
Those were the days when the Venice pier was falling apart and dying in the sea and you could find
there the bones of a vast dinosaur, the rollercoaster, being covered by the shifting tides.
At the end of one long canal you could find old circus wagons that had been rolled and dumped, and
in the cages, at midnight, if you looked, things lived, fish and crayfish moving with the tide;
and it was all the circuses of time somehow gone to doom and rusting away.
And there was a loud avalanche of big red trolley car that rushed toward the sea every half-hour
and at midnight skirled the curve and threw sparks on the high wires and rolled away with a moan
which was like the dead turning in their sleep, as if the trolleys and the lonely men who swayed
steering them knew that in another year they would be gone, the tracks covered with concrete and
tar and the high spider-wire collected on rolls and spirited away.
And it was in that time, in one of those lonely years when the fogs never ended and the winds
never stopped their laments, that riding the old red trolley, the high-bucketing thunder, one
night I met up with Death's friend and didn't know it.
It was a raining night, with me reading a book in the back of the old, whining, roaring railcar on
its way from one empty confetti-tossed transfer station to the next. Just me and the big, aching
wooden car and the conductor up front slamming the brass controls and easing the brakes and
letting out the hell-steam when needed.
And the man down the aisle who somehow had got there without my noticing.
I became aware of him finally because of him swaying, swaying, standing there behind me for a long
time, as if undecided because there were forty empty seats and late at night it is hard with so
much emptiness to decide which one to take. But finally I heard him sit and I knew he was there
because I could smell him like the tidelands coming in across the fields. On top of the smell of
his clothes, there was the odor of too much drink taken in too little time.
I did not look back at him. I learned long ago, looking only encourages.
I shut my eyes and kept my head firmly turned away. It didn't work.
"Oh," the man moaned.
I could feel him strain forward in his seat. I felt his hot breath on my neck. I held on to my
knees and sank away.
"Oh," he moaned, even louder. It was like someone falling off a cliff, asking to be saved, or
someone swimming far out in the storm, wanting to be seen.
"Ah!"
It was raining hard now as the big red trolley bucketed across a midnight stretch of meadow-grass
and the rain banged the windows, drenching away the sight of open fields. We sailed through Culver
City without seeing the film studio and ran on, the great car heaving, the floorboard whining
underfoot, the empty seats creaking, the train whistle screaming.
And a blast of terrible air from behind me as the unseen man cried, "Death!"
The train whistle cut across his voice so he had to start over.
"Death..."
Another whistle.
"Death," said the voice behind me, "is a lonely business."
I thought he might weep. I stared ahead at the flashing rain that rushed to meet us. The train
slowed. The man rose up in a fury of demand, as if he might beat at me if I didn't listen and at
last turn. He wanted to be seen. He wished to drown me in his need. I felt his hand stretch out,
and whether as fists or claws, to rake or beat me, I could not guess. I clutched the seat in front
of me. His voice exploded.
"Oh, death!"
The train braked to a halt.
Go on, I thought, finish it!
"Is a lonely business!" he said, in a dreadful whisper, and moved away.
I heard the back door open. At last I turned.
The car was empty. The man had gone, taking his funeral with him. I heard gravel crunching on the
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path outside the train.
The unseen man was muttering out there to himself as the doors banged shut. I could still hear him
through the window. Something about the grave. Something about the grave. Something about the
lonely.
The train jerked and roared away through the long grass and the storm.
I threw the window up to lean out and stare back into wet darkness.
If there was a city back there, and people, or one man and his terrible sadness, I could not see,
nor hear.
The train was headed for the ocean.
I had this awful feeling it would plunge in.
I slammed the window down and sat, shivering. I had to remind myself all the rest of the way,
you're only twenty-seven. You don't drink. But . . .
I had a drink, anyway.
Here at this far lost end of the continent, where the trail wagons had stopped and the people with
them, I found a last-stand saloon, empty save for a bartender in love with Hopalong Cassidy on
late night TV.
"One double vodka, please."
I was astounded at my voice. Why was I drinking? For courage to call my girlfriend, Peg, two
thousand miles away in Mexico City? To tell her that I was all right? But nothing had happened to
me, had it?
Nothing but a train ride and cold rain and a dreadful voice behind me, exhaling vapors of fear.
But I dreaded going back to my apartment bed, which was as empty as an icebox abandoned by the
Okies on the way west.
The only thing emptier was my Great American Novelist's bank account in an old Roman temple bank
building on the edge of the sea, about to be washed away in the next recession. The tellers waited
in rowboats every morning, while the manager drowned himself in the nearest bar. I rarely saw any
of them. With only an occasional sale to a pulp detective magazine, there was no cash to deposit.
So ...
I drank my vodka. I winced.
"Jesus," said the bartender, "you look like you never had booze before!"
"I never did."
"You look horrible."
"I feel horrible. You ever think something awful is going to happen, but you don't know what?"
"It's called the heebie-jeebies."
I swallowed more vodka and shivered.
"No, no. Something really terrible, closing in on you, is what I mean."
The bartender looked over my shoulder as if he saw the ghost of the man on the train there.
"Did you bring it in with you?"
"No."
"Then it's not here."
"But," I said, "he spoke to me, one of the Furies."
"Furies?"
"I didn't see his face. God, I feel worse now. Good night."
"Lay off the booze!"
But I was out the door and peering in all directions to catch the thing that was waiting for me.
Which way home, so as not to meet up with darkness? I chose.
And knowing it was the wrong choice, I hurried along the dark rim of the old canal toward the
drowned circus wagons.
How the lion cages got in the canal no one knew. For that matter, no one seemed to remember how
the canals had gotten there in the middle of an old town somehow fallen to seed, the seeds
rustling against the doors every night along with the sand and bits of seaweed and unravelings of
tobacco from cigarettes tossed along the strand-shore as far back as 1910.
But there they were, the canals and, at the end of one, a dark green and oil scummed waterway, the
ancient circus wagons and cages, flaking their white enamel and gold paint and rusting their thick
bars.
A long time before, in the early Twenties, these cages had probably rolled by like bright summer
storms with animals prowling them, lions opening their mouths to exhale hot meat breaths. Teams of
white horses had dragged their pomp through Venice and across the fields long before MGM put up
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its false fronts and made a new kind of circus that would live forever on bits of film.
Now all that remained of the old parade had ended here. Some of the cage wagons stood upright in
the deep waters of the canal, others were tilted flat over on their sides and buried in the tides
that revealed them some dawns or covered them some midnights. Fish swarmed in and out of the bars.
By day small boys came and danced about on the huge lost islands of steel and wood and sometimes
popped inside and shook the bars and roared.
But now, long after midnight with the last trolley gone to destinations north along the empty
sands, the canals lapped their black waters and sucked at the cages like old women sucking their
empty gums.
I came running, head down against the rain which suddenly cleared and stopped. The moon broke
through a rift of darkness like a great eye watching me. I walked on mirrors which showed me the
same moon and clouds. I walked on the sky beneath, and something happened. . . .
From somewhere a block or so away, a tidal surge of salt water came rolling black and smooth
between the canal banks. Somewhere a sandbar had broken and let the sea in. And here the dark
waters came. The tide reached a small overpass bridge at the same moment I reached the center.
The water hissed about the old lion cages.
I quickened. I seized the rail of the bridge.
For in one cage, directly below me, a dim phosphorescence bumped the inside of the bars.
A hand gestured from within the cage.
Some old lion-tamer, gone to sleep, had just wakened to find himself in a strange place.
An arm outstretched within the cage, behind the bars, languidly. The lion-tamer was coming full
awake.
The water fell and rose again.
And a ghost pressed to the bars.
Bent over the rail, I could not believe.
But now the spirit-light took shape. Not only a hand, an arm, but an entire body sagged and
loosely gesticulated, like an immense marionette, trapped in iron.
A pale face, with empty eyes which took light from the moon, and showed nothing else, was there
like a silver mask.
Then the tide shrugged and sank. The body vanished.
Somewhere inside my head, the vast trolley rounded a curve of rusted track, choked brakes, threw
sparks, screamed to a halt as somewhere an unseen man jolted out those words with every run, jump,
rush.
"Death is a lonely business."
No.
The tide rose again in a gesture like a seance remembered from some other night.
And the ghost shape rose again within the cage.
It was a dead man wanting out.
Somebody gave a terrible yell.
I knew it was me, when a dozen lights flashed on in the little houses along the rim of the dark
canal.
"All right, stand back, stand back!"
More cars were arriving, more police, more lights going on, more people wandering out in their
bathrobes, stunned with sleep, to stand with me, stunned with more than sleep. We looked like a
mob of miserable clowns abandoned on the bridge, looking down at our drowned circus.
I stood shivering, staring at the cage, thinking, why didn't I look back? Why didn't I see that
man who knew all about the man down there in the circus wagon?
My God, I thought, what if the man on the train had actually shoved this dead man into the cage?
Proof? None. All I had was five words repeated on a night train an hour after midnight. All I had
was rain dripping on the high wire repeating those words. All I had was the way the cold water
came like death along the canal to wash the cages and go back out colder than when it had arrived.
More strange clowns came out of the old bungalows.
"All right, folks, it's three in the morning. Clear away!"
It had begun to rain again, and the police when they had arrived had looked at me as if to say,
why didn't you mind your own business? or wait until morning and phone it in, anonymous?
One of the policemen stood on the edge of the canal in a pair of black swim trunks, looking at the
water with distaste. His body was white from not having been in the sun for a long while. He stood
watching the tide move into the cage and lift the sleeper there, beckoning. A face showed behind
the bars. The face was so gone-far-off-away it was sad. There was a terrible wrenching in my
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chest. I had to back off, because I heard the first trembling cough of grief start up in my
throat.
And then the white flesh of the policeman cut the water. He sank.
I thought he had drowned, too. The rain fell on the oily surface of the canal.
And then the officer appeared, inside the cage, his face to the bars, gagging.
It shocked me, for I thought it was the dead man come there for a last in-sucked gasp of life.
A moment later, I saw the swimmer thrashing out of the far side of the cage, pulling a long ghost
shape like a funeral streamer of pale seaweed.
Someone was mourning. Dear Jesus, it can't be me!
They had the body out on the canal bank now, and the swimmer was toweling himself. The lights were
blinking off in the patrol cars. Three policemen bent over the body with flashlights, talking in
low voices.
"...I'd say about twenty-four hours."
"...Where's the coroner?"
"...Phone's off the hook. Tom went to get him."
"Any wallet, I.D.?"
"He's clean. Probably a transient."
They started turning the pockets inside out.
"No, not a transient," I said, and stopped.
One of the policemen had turned to flash his light in my face. With great curiosity he examined my
eyes, and heard the sounds buried in my throat.
"You know him?"
"No."
"Then why...?"
"Why am I feeling lousy? Because. He's dead, forever. Christ. And I found him."
My mind jumped.
On a brighter summer day years back I had rounded a corner to find a man sprawled under a braked
car. The driver was leaping from the car to stand over the body. I stepped forward, then stopped.
Something pink lay on the sidewalk near my shoe.
I remembered it from some high school laboratory vat. A lonely bit of brain tissue.
A woman, passing, a stranger, stood for a long time staring at the body under the car. Then she
did an impulsive thing she could not have anticipated. She bent slowly to kneel by the body. She
patted his shoulder, touched him gently as if to say, oh there, there, there, oh, oh, there.
"Was he killed?" I heard myself say.
The policeman turned. "What made you say that?"
"How would, I mean, how would he get in that cage, underwater, if someone didn't, stuff him
there?"
The flashlight switched on again and touched over my face like a doctor's hand, probing for
symptoms.
"You the one who phoned the call in?"
"No." I shivered. "I'm the one who yelled and made all the lights come on."
"Hey," someone whispered.
A plainclothes detective, short, balding, kneeled by the body and turned out the coat pockets.
From them tumbled wads and clots of what looked like wet snowflakes, papier-mâché.
"What in hell's that?" someone said.
I know, I thought, but didn't say.
My hand trembling, I bent near the detective to pick up some of the wet paper mash. He was busy
emptying the other pockets of more of the junk. I kept some of it in my palm and, as I rose,
shoved it in my pocket, as the detective glanced up.
"You're soaked," he said. "Give your name and address to that officer over there and get home. Dry
off."
It was beginning to rain again and I was shivering. I turned, gave the officer my name and
address, and hurried away toward my apartment.
I had jogged along for about a block when a car pulled up and the door swung open. The short
detective with the balding head blinked out at me.
"Christ, you look awful," he said.
"Someone else said that to me, just an hour ago."
"Get in."
"I only live another block..."
"Get in!"
I climbed in, shuddering, and he drove me the last two blocks to my thirty-dollar-a-month, stale,
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crackerbox flat. I almost fell, getting out, I was so weak with trembling.
"Crumley," said the detective. "Elmo Crumley. Call me when you figure out what that paper junk is
you stuck in your pocket."
I started guiltily. My hand went to that pocket. I nodded. "Sure."
"And stop worrying and looking sick," said Crumley. "He wasn't anybody..." He stopped, ashamed of
what he had said, and ducked his head to start over.
"Why do I think he was somebody?" I said. "When I remember who, I'll call."
I stood frozen. I was afraid more terrible things were waiting just behind me. When I opened my
apartment door, would black canal waters flood out?
"Jump!" and Elmo Crumley slammed his door.
His car was just two dots of red light going away in a fresh downpour that beat my eyelids shut.
I glanced across the street at the gas station phone booth which I used as my office to call
editors who never phoned back. I rummaged my pockets for change, thinking, I'll call Mexico City,
wake Peg, reverse the charges, tell her about the cage, the man, and, Christ, scare her to death!
Listen to the detective, I thought.
Jump.
I was shaking so violently now that I couldn't get the damn key in the lock.
Rain followed me inside.
Inside, waiting for me was . . .
An empty twenty-by-twenty studio apartment with a body-damaged sofa, a bookcase with fourteen
books in it and lots of waiting space, an easy chair bought on the cheap from Goodwill Industries,
a Sears, Roebuck unpainted pinewood desk with an unoiled 1934 Underwood Standard typewriter on it,
as big as a player piano and as loud as wooden clogs on a carpetless floor.
In the typewriter was an anticipatory sheet of paper. In a wood box on one side was my collected
literary output, all in one stack. There were copies of Dime Detective, Detective Tales, and Black
Mask, each of which had paid me thirty or forty dollars per story. On the other side was another
wooden box, waiting to be filled with manuscript. In it was a single page of a book that refused
to begin.
UNTITLED NOVEL.
With my name under that. And the date, July 1, 1949.
Which was three months ago.
I shivered, stripped down, toweled myself off, got into a bathrobe, and came back to stand staring
at my desk.
I touched the typewriter, wondering if it was a lost friend or a man or a mean mistress.
Somewhere back a few weeks it had made noises vaguely resembling the Muse. Now, more often than
not, I sat at the damned machine as if someone had cut my hands off at the wrists. Three or four
times a day I sat here and was victimized by literary heaves. Nothing came. Or if it did, it wound
up on the floor in hairballs I swept up every night. I was going through that long desert known as
Dry Spell, Arizona.
It had a lot to do with Peg so far away among all those catacomb mummies in Mexico, and my being
lonely, and no sun in Venice for the three months, only mist and then fog and then rain and then
fog and mist again. I wound myself up in cold cotton batting each midnight, and rolled out all
fungus at dawn. My pillow was moist every morning, but I didn't know what I had dreamed to salt it
that way.
I looked out the window at that telephone, which I listened for all day every day, which never
rang offering to bank my splendid novel if I could finish it last year.
I saw my fingers moving on the typewriter keys, fumbling. I thought they looked like the hands of
the dead stranger in the cage, dangled out in the water moving like sea anemones, or like the
hands, unseen, of the man behind me tonight on the train.
Both men gestured.
Slowly, slowly, I sat down.
Something thumped within my chest like someone bumping into the bars of an abandoned cage.
Someone breathed on my neck. . . .
I had to make both of them go away. I had to do something to quiet them so I could sleep.
A sound came out of my throat as if I were about to be sick. But I didn't throw up.
Instead, my fingers began to type, x-ing out the UNTITLED NOVEL until it was gone.
Then I went down a space and saw these words begin to jolt out on the paper:
DEATH and then IS A and then LONELY and then, at last, BUSINESS.
I grimaced wildly at the title, gasped, and didn't stop typing for an hour, until I got the storm-
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lightning train rolled away in the rain and let the lion cage fill with black sea water which
poured forth and set the dead man free. . . .
Down and through my arms, along my hands, and out my cold fingertips onto the page.
In a flood, the darkness came.
I laughed, glad for its arrival.
And fell into bed.
As I tried to sleep, I began sneezing and sneezing and lay miserably using up a box of Kleenex,
feeling the cold would never end.
During the night the fog thickened, and way out in the bay somewhere sunk and lost, a foghorn blew
and blew again. It sounded like a great sea beast long dead and heading for its own grave away
from shore, mourning along the way, with no one to care or follow.
During the night a wind moved in my apartment window and stirred the typed pages of my novel on
the desk. I heard the paper whisper like the waters in the canal, like the breath on my neck, and
at last I slept.
I awoke late to a blaze of sun. I sneezed my way to the door and flung it wide to step out into a
blow of daylight so fierce it made me want to live forever, and so ashamed of the thought I
wanted, like Ahab, to strike the sun. Instead I dressed quickly. My clothes from last night were
still damp. I put on tennis shorts and a jacket, then turned the pockets of my damp coat out to
find the clot of papier-mâché that had fallen from the dead man's suit only a few hours ago.
I touched the pieces with my fingernail, exhaling. I knew what they were. But I wasn't ready to
face up to it yet.
I am not a runner. But I ran . . .
Away from the canal, the cage, the voice talking darkness on the train, away from my room and the
fresh pages waiting to be read which had started to say it all, but I did not want to read them
yet. I just ran blindly south on the beach.
Into Lost World country.
I slowed at last to stare at the forenoon feedings of strange mechanical beasts.
Oil wells. Oil pumps.
These great pterodactyls, I said to friends, had arrived by air, early in the century, gliding in
late nights to build their nests. Startled, the shore people woke to hear the pumping sounds of
vast hungers. People sat up in bed wakened by the creak, rustle, stir of skeletal shapes, the
heave of earthbound, featherless wings rising, falling like primeval breaths at three a.m. Their
smell, like time, blew along the shore, from an age before caves or the men who hid in caves, the
smell of jungles falling to be buried in earth and ripening to oil.
I ran through this forest of brontosauri, imagining triceratops, and the picket-fence stegosaurus,
treading black syrups, sinking in tar. Their laments echoed from the shore, where the surf tossed
back their ancient thunders.
I ran past the little white cottages that came later to nest among the monsters, and the canals
that had been dug and filled to mirror the bright skies of 1910 when the white gondolas sailed on
clean tides and bridges strung with firefly lightbulbs promised future promenades that arrived
like overnight ballet troupes and ran away never to return after the war. And the dark beasts just
went on sucking the sand while the gondolas sank, taking the last of some party's laughter with
them.
Some people stayed on, of course, hidden in shacks or locked in some few Mediterranean villas
thrown in for architectural irony.
Running, I came to a full halt. I would have to turn back in a moment and go find that papier-
mâché mulch and then go seek the name of its lost and dead owner.
But for now, one of the Mediterranean palaces, as blazing white as a full moon come to stay upon
the sands, stood before me.
"Constance Rattigan," I whispered. "Can you come out and play?"
It was, in fact, a fiery white Arabian Moorish fortress facing the sea and daring the tides to
come in and pull it down. It had minarets and turrets and blue and white tiles tilted precariously
on the sand-shelves no more than one hundred feet from where the curious waves bowed to do
obeisance, where the gulls circled down for a chance look, and where I stood now taking root.
"Constance Rattigan."
But no one came out.
Alone and special in this thunder-lizard territory, this palace guarded that special cinema queen.
A light burned in one tower window all night and all day. I had never seen it not on. Was she
there now?
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Yes!
For the quickest shadow had crossed the window, as if someone had come to stare down at me and
gone away, like a moth,
I stood remembering.
Hers had been a swift year in the Twenties, with a quick drop down the mine shaft into the film
vaults. Her director, old newsprint said, had found her in bed with the studio hairdresser, and
cut Constance Rattigan's leg muscles with a knife so she would no longer be able to walk the way
he loved. Then he had fled to swim straight west toward China. Constance Rattigan was never seen
again. If she could walk no one knew.
God, I heard myself whisper.
I sensed that she had ventured forth in my world late nights and knew people I knew. There were
breaths of near meetings between us.
Go, I thought, bang the brass lion knocker on her shore-front door.
No. I shook my head. I was afraid that only a black-and-white film ectoplasm might answer.
You do not really want to meet your special love, you only want to dream that some night she'll
step out and walk, with her footprints vanishing on the sand as the wind follows, to your
apartment where she'll tap on your window and enter to unspool her spirit-light in long creeks of
film on your ceiling.
Constance, dear Rattigan, I thought, run out! Jump in that big white Duesenberg parked bright and
fiery in the sand, rev the motor, wave, and motor me away south to Coronado, down the sunlit
coast!
No one revved a motor, no one waved, no one took me south to sun, away from that foghorn that
buried itself at sea.
So I backed off, surprised to find salt water up over my tennis shoes, turned to walk back toward
cold rain in cages, the greatest writer in the world, but no one knew, just me.
I had the moist confetti, the papier-mâché mulch, in my jacket pocket, when I stepped into the one
place where I knew that I had to go.
It was where the old men gathered.
It was a small, dim shop facing the railway tracks where candy, cigarettes, and magazines were
sold and tickets for the big red trolley cars that rushed from L.A. to the sea.
The tobacco-shed-smelling place was run by two nicotine-stained brothers who were always sniveling
and bickering at each other like old maids. On a bench to one side, ignoring the arguments like
crowds at a boring tennis match, a nest of old men stayed by the hour and the day, lying upward
about their ages. One said he was eighty-two. Another bragged that he was ninety. A third said
ninety-four. It changed from week to week, as each misremembered last month's lie.
And if you listened, as the big iron trains rolled by, you could hear the rust flake off the old
men's bones and snow through their bloodstreams to shimmer for a moment in their dying gaze as
they settled for long hours between sentences and tried to recall the subject they had started on
at noon and might finish off at midnight, when the two brothers, bickering, shut up shop and went
away sniveling to their bachelor beds.
Where the old men lived, nobody knew. Every night, after the brothers grouched off into the dark,
the old men dispersed like tumbleweeds, blown every which way in the salt wind.
I stepped into the eternal dusk of the place and stood staring at the bench where the old men had
sat since the beginning of time.
There was an empty place between the old men. Where there had always been four, now there were
only three, and I could tell from their faces that something was wrong.
I looked at their feet, which were surrounded by not only scatterings of cigar ash, but a gentle
snowfall of strange little paper-punchouts, the confetti from hundreds of trolley line tickets in
various L and X and M shapes.
I took my hand out of my pocket and compared the now almost dried soggy mess with the snow on the
floor. I bent and picked some of it up and let it sift from my fingers, an alphabet down the air.
I looked at the empty place on the bench.
"Where's that old gent...?" I stopped.
For the old men were staring at me as if I had fired a gun at their silence. Besides, their look
said, I wasn't dressed right for a funeral.
One of the oldest lit his pipe and at last, puffing it, muttered, "He'll be along. Always does."
But the other two stirred uncomfortably, their faces shadowed.
"Where," I dared to say, "does he live?"
The old man stopped puffing. "Who wants to know?"
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"Me," I said. "You know me. I've come in here for years."
The old men glanced at each other, nervously.
"It's urgent," I said.
The old man stirred a final time.
"Canaries," murmured the oldest man.
"What?"
"Canary lady." His pipe had gone out. He lit it again, his eyes troubled. "But don't bother him.
He's all right. He's not sick. He'll be along."
He was protesting too much, which made the other old men writhe slowly, secretly, on the bench.
"His name...?" I asked.
That was a mistake. Not to know his name! My God, everyone knew that! The old men glared at me.
I flushed and backed off.
"Canary lady," I said, and ran out the door to be almost killed by an arriving Venice Short Line
train thirty feet from the shop door.
"Jackass!" cried the motorman, leaning out and waving his fist.
"Canary lady!" I yelled, stupidly, shaking my fist to show I was alive.
And stumbled off to find her.
I knew her address from the sign in her window.
canaries for sale.
Venice was and is full of lost places where people put up for sale the last worn bits of their
souls, hoping no one will buy.
There is hardly an old house with unwashed curtains which does not sport a sign in the window.
1927 NASH. REASONABLE. REAR. Or
BRASS BED. HARDLY USED. CHEAP. UPSTAIRS.
Walking, one thinks, which side of the bed was used, and how long on both sides, and how long
never again, twenty, thirty years ago?
Or VIOLINS, GUITARS, MANDOLINS.
And in the window ancient instruments strung not with wire or cat-gut but spider webs, and inside
an old man crouched over a workbench shaping wood, his head always turned away from the light, his
hands moving; someone left over from the year when the gondolas were stranded in backyards to
become flower planters.
How long since he had sold a violin or guitar?
Knock at the door, the window. The old man goes on cutting and sandpapering, his face, his
shoulders shaking. Is he laughing because you tap and he pretends not to hear?
You pass a window with a final sign.
ROOM WITH A VIEW.
The room looks over the sea. But for ten years no one has ever been up there. The sea might as
well not exist.
I turned a final corner and what I was searching for was there.
It hung in the sunbrowned window, its fragile letters drawn in weathered lead pencil, as faint as
lemon juice that had burned itself out, self-erased, oh God, some fifty years ago!
canaries for sale.
Yes, someone half a century ago had licked a pencil tip, lettered the cardboard and hung it to
age, fixed with flypaper adhesive tape, and gone upstairs to tea in rooms where dust lacquered the
banister in gums, choked the lightbulbs so they burned with an Oriental light; where pillows were
balls of lint and shadows hung in closets from empty racks.
canaries for sale.
I did not knock. Years before, out of mindless curiosity, I had tried, and, feeling foolish, gone
away.
I turned the ancient doorknob. The door glided in. The downstairs was empty. There was no
furniture in any of the rooms. I called up through the dusty sunlight.
"Anyone home?"
I thought I heard an attic-whisper:
"... no one."
Flies lay dead in the windows. A few moths that had died the summer of 1929 dusted their wings on
the front screens.
Somewhere far above, where ancient Rapunzel-without-hair was lost in her tower, a single feather
fell and touched the air:
"... yes?"
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A mouse sighed in the dark rafters:
"... come in."
I pushed the inner door wider. It gave with a great, grinding shriek. I had a feeling that it had
been left unoiled so that anyone entering unannounced would be given away by rusty hinges.
A moth tapped at a dead lightbulb in the upper hall.
"... up here. . . ."
I stepped up toward twilight at noon, past mirrors that were turned to the wall. No glass could
see me coming. No glass would see me go. . . .
"... yes?" A whisper.
I hesitated by the door at the top of the stairs. Perhaps I expected to look in and find a giant
canary, stretched out on a carpet of dust, songless, capable only of heart murmurs for talk.
I stepped in.
I heard a gasp.
In the middle of an empty room stood a bed on which, eyes shut, mouth faintly breathing, lay an
old woman.
Archaeopteryx, I thought.
I did. I really did.
I had seen such bones in a museum, the fragile reptilian wings of that lost and extinct bird, the
shape of it touched on sandstone in etchings that might have been made by some Egyptian priest.
This bed, and its contents, was like the silt of a river that runs shallow. Traced now in its
quiet flow was a jackstraw litter of chaff and thin skeleton.
She lay flat and strewn out so delicately I could not believe it was a living creature, but only a
fossil undisturbed by eternity's tread.
"Yes?" The tiny yellowed head just above the coverlet opened its eyes. Tiny shards of light
blinked at me.
"Canaries?" I heard myself say. "The sign in your window? The birds?"
"Oh," the old woman sighed. "... Dear."
She had forgotten. Perhaps she hadn't been downstairs in years. And I was the first, perhaps, to
come upstairs in a thousand days.
"Oh," she whispered, "that was long ago. Canaries. Yes. I had some lovely ones."
"1920," again in the whisper. "1930, 1931..." Her voice faded. The years stopped there.
Just the other morn. Just the other noon.
"They used to sing, my lands, how they sang. But no one ever came to buy. Why? I never sold one."
I glanced around. There was a birdcage in the far north corner of the room, and two more half-
hidden in a closet.
"Sorry," she murmured. "I must have forgotten to take that sign out of my window. . . ."
I moved toward the cages. My hunch was right.
At the bottom of the first cage I saw papyrus from the Los Angeles Times, December 25, 1926.
HIROHITO ASCENDS THRONE
The young monarch, twenty-seven, this afternoon . . .
I moved to the next cage and blinked. Memories of high school days flooded me with their fears.
ADDIS ABABA BOMBED
Mussolini claims triumph. Haile Selassie protests. . . .
I shut my eyes and turned from that lost year. That long ago the feathers had stopped rustling and
the warblers had ceased. I stood by the bed and the withered discard there. I heard myself say:
"You ever listen Sunday mornings to the 'Rocky Mountain Canary-Seed Hour'...?"
"With an organist that played and a studio full of canaries that sang along!" the old woman cried
with a delight that rejuvenated her flesh and reared her head. Her eyes flickered like broken
glass. " 'When It's Springtime in the Rockies'!"
" 'Sweet Sue.' 'My Blue Heaven,' " I said.
"Oh, weren't the birds find?"
"Fine." I had been nine then and tried to figure how in hell the birds could follow the music so
well. "I once told my mom the birdcages must have been lined with dime-store song-sheets."
"You sound like a sensitive child." The old woman's head sank, exhausted, and she shut her eyes.
"They don't make them that way any more."
They never did, I thought.
"But," she whispered, "you didn't really come see me about the canaries...?"
"No," I admitted. "It's about that old man who rents from you..."
"He's dead."
Before I could speak, she went on, calmly, "I haven't heard him in the downstairs kitchen since
early yesterday. Last night, the silence told me. When you opened the door down there just now, I
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knew it was someone come to tell me all that's bad."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I never saw him save at Christmas. The lady next door takes care of me, comes and
rearranges me twice a day, and puts out the food. So he's gone, is he? Did you know him well? Will
there be a funeral? There's fifty cents there on the bureau. Buy him a little bouquet."
There was no money on the bureau. There was no bureau. I pretended that there was and pocketed
some nonexistent money.
"You just come back in six months," she whispered. "I'll be well again. And the canaries will be
on sale, and . . . you keep looking at the door! Must you go?"
"Yes'm," I said, guiltily. "May I suggest, your front door's unlocked."
"Why, what in the world would anyone want with an old thing like me?" She lifted her head a final
time.
Her eyes flashed. Her face ached with something beating behind the flesh to pull free.
"No one'll ever come into this house, up those stairs," she cried.
Her voice faded like a radio station beyond the hills. She was slowly tuning herself out as her
eyelids lowered.
My God, I thought, she wants someone to come up and do her a dreadful favor!
Not me! I thought.
Her eyes sprang wide. Had I said it aloud?
"No," she said, looking deep into my face. "You're not him."
"Who?"
"The one who stands outside my door. Every night." She sighed. "But he never comes in. Why doesn't
he?"
She stopped like a clock. She still breathed, but she was waiting for me to go away.
I glanced over my shoulder.
The wind moved dust in the doorway like a mist, like someone waiting. The thing, the man,
whatever, who came every night and stood in the hall.
I was in the way.
"Goodbye," I said.
Silence.
I should have stayed, had tea, dinner, breakfast with her. But you can't protect all of the people
in all of the places all of the time, can you?
I waited at the door.
Goodbye.
Did she moan this in her old sleep? I only knew that her breath pushed me away.
Going downstairs I realized I still didn't know the name of the old man who had drowned in a lion
cage with a handful of train ticket confetti uncelebrated in each pocket.
I found his room. But that didn't help.
His name wouldn't be there, any more than he was.
Things are good at their beginnings. But how rarely in the history of men and small towns or big
cities is the ending good.
Then, things fall apart. Things turn to fat. Things sprawl. The time gets out of joint. The milk
sours. By night the wires on the high poles tell evil tales in the dripping mist. The water in the
canals goes blind with scum. Flint, struck, gives no spark. Women, touched, give no warmth.
Summer is suddenly over.
Winter snows in your hidden bones.
Then it is time for the wall.
The wall of a little room, that is, where the shudders of the big red trains go by like nightmares
turning you on your cold steel bed in the trembled basement of the Not So Royal Lost Canary
Apartments, where the numbers have fallen off the front portico, and the street sign at the corner
has been twisted north to east so that people, if they ever came to find you, would turn away
forever on the wrong boulevard.
But meanwhile there's that wall near your bed to be read with your watered eyes or reached out to
and never touched, it is too far away and too deep and too empty.
I knew that once I found the old man's room, I would find that wall.
And I did.
The door, like all the doors in the house, was unlocked, waiting for wind or fog or some pale
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摘要：

file:///F|/rah/Ray%20Bradbury/Bradbury%20Death%20is%20a%20Lonely%20Business.txtDEATHISALONELYBUSINESSRayBradbury[18oct2001-scannedfor#bookz][20oct2001-proofedfor#bookz-bybookleech,v1.0]Venice,California,intheolddayshadmuchtorecommendittopeoplewholikedtobesad.Ithadfogalmosteverynightandalongtheshor...

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