|Publisher:||David R. Godine, Publisher|
|Product dimensions:||4.70(w) x 7.40(h) x 0.70(d)|
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The Knack of Doing
By Jeremy M. Davies
David R. Godine, PublisherCopyright © 2016 Jeremy M. Davies
All rights reserved.
What interests me most is that Schaumann, the state executioner, bred mice. In his spare time. Sirens, ozone, exhaust are all words I might use to entice you into thinking yourself interested in the scene at Sing Sing where Schaumann, of whom you'll hear quite a bit more, was dispatching such and such a killer on a day, let's say, in spring. Did you know that he lived in an undecorated house? As a rule, he was inclined toward plainness. An absence of adornment in his clothing, comestibles, decorations, speech, wife, car, habits. He would have lived thus even if employed as a dogcatcher or chiropodist. He had never been otherwise. Ostentation was indefensible. He pretended not to see it. Tasteful or un, he found anything done for no reason than to excite the senses to be in poor form. Perhaps the result of a transcription error in ye old zygotic alphabet. A possibility that would not have been unfamiliar to Schaumann, breeding his mice. Here a one with a longer tail, there a one who wouldn't take food. Schaumann eschewed even condiments. Nor would he wear charms or trinkets. He had lost his wedding ring on his honeymoon. While swimming. Sucked away by the salt he would not have added to his beef stew. Leading his wife to jibe that Schaumann was now married to the sea. Yes: a joke, for those with an ear for such things. But Schaumann had no wit. Even less guile. His children found it easy to deceive him. His children found him simple. Given his profession, however, I am tempted to see something defensive in his meticulous triviality. Ostentation would draw attention. If attention were paid to Schaumann, the attender might learn what Schaumann did for a living.
So he was ashamed of it?
His children found him simple. I think they were mistaken. And, anyway, they will not read this story. I won't encourage them to do so, and I'll ask that you not bring it to their attention. And did you know that when Schaumann left his house to drive to the state prison to execute someone, he changed his license plates halfway? I'm unsure as to the legality or feasibility of this. Maybe he had received some sort of dispensation from the state. I'm sure the state made allowances for the privacy of its employees engaged in such sensitive work. And that was how Schaumann lived his private life: he was one man in town, walking to the store, going to church; another during his grim bivouac in the piney woods, spinning and unspinning his license-plate screws, changing his clothes, a legal criminal: killer, breeder of mice, husband, father. Don't tell me there aren't such men. Don't tell me our great and sovereign state is empty of such men.
He didn't wear a hood. He owned a hood, it's true, but no one insisted that he wear it. Hood ownership was ceremonial; the hood was passed down to the next executioner when its previous bearer retired. A symbol of office. Not that Schaumann's superiors would have begrudged him its use. They were traditionalists. The hood was, however, left at home. Even when Schaumann would have preferred to walk hooded to the Chair. It lived in his bureau, the hood. I mean in his armoire. I mean in his dresser. It was folded in with his underwear, the hood. Schaumann's wife knew it was there: she had folded it, as she had the underwear amid or amidst which it resided. She knew about Schaumann's job, though he was, as a rule, taciturn. She probably knew about the mice too. In her basement. It may in fact be a simpler matter to keep one's employment as state executioner secret than to bring mice secretly into one's unadorned home. Especially with two children. The squeaking, the rattling of those filament- thin cage bars, the little corpses, the smell. Why keep secrets in any case? It would not have occurred to Schaumann that a deceit was worth the making. (It would not have occurred to Schaumann that a painting or poem was worth the making.) He covered his tracks without covering his coverings. He covered his tracks with water, not with leaves. And though Schaumann's wife didn't know it, it's no secret that I stole her husband's name from a novel I'm fond of. I'm sure she wouldn't have minded, had she known, so long as she didn't have to read the novel. Her name, however, is still open to conjecture. I go back and forth on this question. What is gained, or not, by naming. In deference to Schaumann, I too am trying to adopt a style of meticulous plainness.
He bred mice in his spare time, in his basement, which was spare. And which, though underfurnished, was decorated like a ship's wheelhouse. I'm serious. It even had a working wheel. Working, in that it spun. More squeaking. Imagine that. Installed before a painted landscape, continuous on every wall. And though he never bothered looking at them, Schaumann's square, flat seas were calm and Mediterranean. A working guardrail was set into the plaster. Working in that one could grip it. Imagine that. All of this was a holdover from the previous owner, who must have had good reasons to spend his money in this way, Schaumann assumed. No one would have accused Schaumann of being capable of such eccentricity. But, then, his character likewise forbade spending his own money, or making a spectacle of his home in order to have such eccentricity removed. And before you get any crazy ideas, neither was it in Schaumann's character to stand on his deck and pick out some figure in the indifferently daubed middle distance, this figure blobbed with what one might suppose, in a charitable moment, was meant to be a muslin frock or robe by whichever rural housepainter had been commissioned to produce this panoramic travesty; Schaumann would never wring some fluffy aesthetic satisfaction out of the figure's artless art, would never wonder about that tanned splotch, never think profound things indicative of his own artless conception of himself as a man, a killer, a breeder of mice, a husband or father, with regard to the figure's static solitude, forever posed observing the motionless ship of his basement not drifting by. He would never feel anything for or about this forgotten digit in a bad painting on the walls of a room about six feet underground on the unexceptional side of the world. No, believe me, none of that for Schaumann. He hardly even — hardly ever — noticed his cubic sea, its two- stroke gulls, its labored clouds, its peeling Etna. He was, as far as representation, like a cat, our Schaumann. Flat birds, you know, squawk not. Painted seas smell only of mildew and plaster. I don't mean Schaumann was unimaginative: mainly uninvested. Mimesis, even when accomplished, even when photoreal, was lost on him. Schaumann went down to his basement not to brood but to breed.
And, while we're setting out some rules, neither did Schaumann see any correlation between his playing vengeful god with his prisoners at the death house and playing fertility god with his mice in their cages. Because Schaumann didn't feel the least bit empowered — a word he wouldn't have used, or probably known — by his quotidian killings or propagations. Nor, before you jump to conclusions, was he numb to the unappetizing nature of his work, an unthinking processor of the condemned. It was like this: Schaumann had assistants who helped with the cleanup, and their chatter annoyed him. They had been selected for their solemnity, and yet, "behind the scenes," they talked and talked. They had not been raised right. Schaumann had to assume, therefore, that their fellow guards, all his younger colleagues, assigned to the general prison population, talked even more than they. The others had lacked even the solemnity of these chatterers. Sobering to Schaumann. He considered himself lucky, then, to have been plucked from normal duty to work here in the sanctum back in the days when, out there, men who were, like himself, unforthcoming, were still in the ascendancy. He had found such men congenial company. Together unconversing. Strength in silence. Days bygone, or perhaps vanished, or perhaps present but misty in Schaumann's middle distance as he came back from the cafeteria, his awkward shuffle the only movement there in the center of the center, the inside of the inside, where they keep the real if cheerless secrets of Sing Sing. Oh, I don't know: the panopticon, the spirit jars, the fetish bracelets, the guillotine; the different sizes of death chair, with or without cushioned armrests, pillows, claw feet, intaglio images of Itztli, the Ghede, Yama; the shrine to the Rosenbergs, piled with skulls and bowls of rice and mustard greens: the scent of the couple's smolder reproduced by costly parfumeurs and pumped continually into the corridor by unpaid interns. All of which Schaumann passed without remark, breathing symphonically through his one unclogged nostril, carrying his timecard, wondering how many pups from the latest litter aboard his basement might survive till summer.
Would Schaumann's two popinjays have been considered apprentices? Did they nurse hopes of succeeding him and being handed the hood in turn?
But Schaumann insisted on doing all the paperwork himself. His work signature distinct from his home signature. Left leaning or right, more or less legible, more or less ambitious stroke structures. Hiking each of these mountain ranges in aid of the same Germanic name. Schaumann only wanted to divert attention elsewhere, not dissemble. If someone had asked him what he did for a living, a stranger, though he rarely met any that weren't dead an hour later, Schaumann would have been evasive, but he wouldn't have lied. If cornered. And if you kept at him.
So is it awful? Are they violent?
I'm never alone with them, usually they don't have much fight left by the time I see them.
Are they scared of you?
Not me, exactly.
So exactly what?
He never wrote his memoirs. All his predecessors did. But he had missed killing the Rosenbergs. By just a few years. Can you imagine the sense of professional loss? Schaumann was, at best, occupying the iron age of executioners. The heroes and immortals of the discipline were no more. Really, his profession was itself in danger of extinction. Not the practice but the profession. Courts- martial and the like, they don't require special executioners. It wouldn't be long before Schaumanns were obsolete. So what did he have to brag about? His figure?
I can tell you he was never unfaithful to his wife. Who, in the end, was named Tina, short for Kristina. But Schaumann wasn't much fun to be around. Isn't that also a sort of bad faith? He tried his best with his family; that was obvious; I mean he labored obviously to do his best. It was important to him that people should recognize that he was doing his best. When a poet, or was it a painter, with connections to the so-called New York School opened a small bistro in Schaumann's town, Schaumann wanted everyone to see him take his wife there for dinner. They walked down Main Street and lingered where there might be witnesses. The owner of the restaurant spoke to Mr. and Mrs. Schaumann of a region in Italy where the natives cooked using unwashed basil. They refused to wash it, these aboriginal Italians. They'd pick the leaves and then brush them with twigs. That's all. And so into the sauce. "Such is their reverence for the leaf," said the owner. "Holy God," (cap'd, direct address) thought Schaumann, or perhaps he muttered it. If Schaumann did "have a book in him" after all, it would be the sort of book where people don't say but mutter(if not murmur). I hope that doesn't sound condescending. I don't mean to be, neither toward Schaumann nor the poet turned restaurateur. So don't you look at me that way.
What was it that poet, (or was
he a painter?) just back from
Italy muttered or murmured about
revering his basil?
"Reverence is a twig, water
somehow too familiar.
So don't you look at me that way."
Schaumann bred mice in his spare time, I am told. He was good at it. He experimented, tried to produce litters of only one color, bearing a certain pattern of spots, possessed of a particular nose or eye width. Which is to say that he found mice malleable, as a medium. In time taking special orders from labs from around the state. A little money on the side. Promptly reinvested in his mice. Cages expanding to sheds, additions, new buildings, a veritable farm. And after Schaumann's death, his legacy: glow-in-the-dark mice, monster mice, mice even Schaumann's skilled hands could not have produced: mutated mice, mice of the future. Do you know what a knockout mouse is? It's a mouse whose DNA has been altered to remove or disable a specific gene. For example, the FOXP2 gene, mutations of which supposedly affect language or vocalization. And yes, Schaumann killed many of his failures, whether out of shame or simply to protect his sovereign gene pool. He bought his son or daughter a snake so as to better dispose of the evidence, as he had no assistants attending him in these off- duty executions. But he didn't brag about his mice either, though they were his great success in life: not even in a murmur, not even to the lanky galoot from the city, who would have listened, who would have been eager to take in such nourishing specificity, but who Schaumann recognized as a threat to his (Schaumann's) anonymity. This epicene, glasses- wearing transplant. Wanting to fit in, like Schaumann, but unlike Schaumann talking too much and too strangely to be anything but an anomaly here. Even when using simple words, our urbanite couldn't use them right. And I'm not saying he preferred words that weren't simple. I'm not saying he was an intellectual. But he was from a different milieu, that's indisputable. He'd traveled. He'd eaten gritty basil somewhere on a different continent. He'd published poetry in magazines Schaumann wouldn't have heard of, and/or exhibited at galleries Schaumann wouldn't have considered worth a visit. Schaumann would have said, had he been forced to acknowledge such products, "You don't need talent to do what that guy does." But, you know, he didn't consider himself talented, the restaurateur. If you'd asked him at a cocktail party, both of you attending out of obligation, whether he considered himself a talented man, he would have said that his only genius was in being able to locate the word "orgasm" on even the most tightly kerned page of type, almost before his forebrain had taken in ink, page, paper grain; before his mind from its filing cabinets had selected "read" as the verb, "book" the noun, "toadstool" the odor at hand. To which boast you would reply with amusement or embarrassment, wondering whether the trains were still running. Or I guess you'd know best how you would reply.
In fact, when I use the noun man to speak about this alien presence in Schaumann's small- town redoubt, it may seem as though I am employing precisely the same noun I would use to speak about our plainspoken executioner, had I likewise deferred giving Schaumann a name. And yet, with regard to the poet- chef, the word man in fact has an idiomatic meaning that I'm not sure I can communicate to you — you who are not from around here. But this person, so to speak, would in any case have found Schaumann captivating, had he (the chef) been privy to the things Schaumann would not share. He would have looked at Schaumann as a case study, perhaps to the point of offending Schaumann with his stare; perhaps he would have thought — reviewing Schaumann's future, which was printed in Palatino on the reticent man's cheeks and chin — that the details of Schaumann's life might make a great poem, or painting, or meal. Perhaps questo grande fabbro would even have suggested that Schaumann was something of an artist himself, which is, probably, condescending; I mean, placing an otherwise indigestible personage into a comfortable context the better to dismiss him. You know how it goes. But, in the chef 's defense — let us call him Quakatz, to cut down on the pronouns — Jules Gaspard Ulric Niven van den Quakatz, if you must know — in Chef Quakatz's defense, Schaumann did produce, did have an audience. It's just that Schaumann's readers, so called, and critics too, were unable to submit their reviews to the prison board the following morning, for the simple reason (you're way ahead of me) that they were by that time on slabs, smelling of fuse box. What a painting or omelet Quakatz could have made out of that!
Schaumann's mice liked him at least as much as his prisoners did. At least the ones resigned enough to their forthcoming departures to take a moment to appreciate their dispatcher's decorum, his benevolence, his dignity, his melancholy as he led them on his two sinister feet to the long- suffering hot seat; why, some of these hard men even felt sorry for Schaumann. Everyone in the execution party, walking down that long hallway (I am employing my extensive knowledge of cliché), must have felt sorry for one another. For one another, I stress, not for themselves. Schaumann and self- pity didn't mix: he consumed it and excreted it. Like an algae- eating fish cleaning its tank. He consumed and converted into compassion all the self- pity the condemned could not help but produce as they saw their last of this glorious world: the drywall, the drop ceilings, the orangeade light in tubes, the flocculent spiral of discoloration on the tiling by the killing chair itself: Gosh it's hard to leave all this behind! Schaumann knew how to give his charges a proper sendoff. And then the bloody remains in a handkerchief into the trash. Until he went out to the pet store in the next town and bought that snake for his son, anyway. (Do you mind my not looking up the species?) The snake as an intermediary was cleaner, Schaumann thought, than just putting the corpses directly into the bin; the opossum problem was solved just about overnight: no more overturned garbage cans. Offal is offal, yes, whole or first abstracted by snake intestine, but no local, carrion- loving mammal would dare come near the smell of carnivorous reptile.
Excerpted from The Knack of Doing by Jeremy M. Davies. Copyright © 2016 Jeremy M. Davies. Excerpted by permission of David R. Godine, Publisher.
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Table of Contents
ContentsI. Forkhead Box, 11,
Sad White People, 27,
The Terrible Riddles of Human Sexuality (Solved), 37,
The Dandy's Garrote, 49,
II. Ten Letters, 53,
The Excise-Man, 67,
Kurt Vonnegut and the Great Bordellos of the Danube Delta, 81,
The Sinces, 101,
III. On the Furtiveness of Kurtz, 111,
Illness as Metaphor, 127,
Henrietta the Spider, 139,
The Knack of Doing, 153,
IV. Delete the Marquis, 169,