Dhalgren

off.

'I don't think he's feeling too — oh.'

Kid took the can in his fist to hide behind sipping — tepid.

'Ah,' said Mr Newboy. 'Thank you.'

Kid set the coffee on the arm again.

'Ah,' Reverend Tayler repeated, but in such a different tone Kid only identified the similarity seconds later, 'you got yourself something to eat?'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'Good.' Reverend Tayler beamed at Newboy, swept around him, and said, disappearing, 'You'll excuse me. I must get back.'

'I'm terribly glad I found you!' Mr Newboy carried a briefcase before him, with naked eagerness on his face.

'What'd you want?' Kid's body still tingled from sleep. 'How did you know I was here?'

Newboy hesitated before the couch (Kid glanced at the plush and thought: It is pretty dusty), sat. 'Just another evidence of the smallness of the city. Your friend in the bar — the big, blond man—'

'Tak?'

'— Yes, that's him. He saw you getting off a bus and coming in this direction. He thought you'd eventually get to Teddy's. When you didn't, I decided to wander over here in case you were still around. I'd never seen this place. And I'm going to be leaving Bellona, soon. Tomorrow morning, actually.'

'Oh,' Kid said. 'He just saw me?… and you're leaving? Hey, that's too bad.' Fighting the tingling and the sluggishness, he pushed himself up and started toward the kitchen. 'You want some coffee, Mr Newboy?'

'Thank you,' Newboy said, and called, 'Yes.'

'What—' through the doorway—'did you want to see me about?'

In the white crock, the coffee ploshed and plopped. Outside Mr Newboy was unsnapping his case.

'I don't know where the milk and sugar is.'

'I take it black.'

Kid released the plastic spigot, moved a second cup under for himself, (the stuff in the can: cold) and carried them, out to the couch, the foreknuckles of both hands burning.

'Oh, thank you.'

'What—' sitting next to Newboy—'did you want to see me about?'

'Well. I thought you'd like to take a look at these.' Wide ribbons of paper came up from the plaid lining. 'And these.' Now a sheaf of black paper. 'And this. This is the cover.'

On thick, textured paper, were the centered letters:

BRASS

ORCHIDS

He took the—'Oh, my hands aren't too clean…'

'Go on, this is just a sample.'

— took the cover which suddenly curved down as he held it by the corner, propped it with his other hand and read again:

BRASS

ORCHIDS

'And those are the galleys, which you have to look over.' Mr Newboy indicated the papers lying now across Kid's knee. 'Fortunately, it isn't too long. Thirty-six pages, I believe. Counting cover. There may be some awful mistakes. It'll be printed on slightly better paper than that. I'd argued for a larger typeface—'

BRASS

ORCHIDS

'— but Roger explained, something I suppose we're all aware of, that here in Bellona we often have to make do.'

'Oh, yeah.' Kid looked up and let the title of his book embed that part of his consciousness reserved for reality, while he expunged it from the part called dream. The transition came easy, but with a firmness and inevitability he associated with comprehending violence. He was joyous, and upset, but could just distinguish that the reactions were contiguous, not consequent.

'These are the illustrations. Again, we have Roger's sense of theatricality to contend with. I'm not at all sure they're in good taste. Frankly, I don't think poetry needs illustration. But he asked me to show them to you: the decision is yours, ultimately.'

He was about to say, They're all black, when he caught glintings in the matt stock.

'They're black ink on black paper,' Mr Newboy explained. 'The only way you can really see them is to hold them up to the light and look at them from the side. Then the light catches on the ink. Roger feels that since the poems take so much of their imagery from the city, he's used some of what he feels are the most striking pictures from his newspaper. But he's printed them this way — I don't believe there's been any effort to correlate particular pictures with particular poems.'

Kid nodded. 'That's a good idea.' He tilted another picture to catch, in sudden silverpoint, burning buildings, people gaping, and one child, in the foreground, leering into the camera. 'Oh, yeah!' He laughed, and looked through the others.

'Have you any idea when you'll be able to look over the proofs? The Times is notorious for typos. Your book was set on the same machinery.'

'I could do it now.' Kid put down the pictures and picked up the galleys. 'How many pages did you say it was?'

'Thirty-six. I went over it once myself against your notebook — we'd rather hoped for a typescript; and when you pushed that into my hands, that evening, I was a bit worried. But your fair copies are very neat. You know, you have at least four completely distinct handwritings?'

'It's never been too good.'

'But your printing's perfectly legible.' Newboy pawed in the case. 'Here…' He gave Kid the notebook.

It fell open in Kid's hands:

Poetry, fiction, drama — I am only interested in…

Kid turned back the book to the page with his poem (a middle draft of Elegy), then picked up the galleys. Moving ribbon from ribbon on his lap, saw, printed, ELEGY go by, and caught his breath. The letters were so much sharper and more serene than ink on notebook paper.

He let a random line of print tug his eyes across. Words detonated memories intense enough to blot the fact that they were not his — or, at least, this wasn't… or… Behind his lips the teeth hung open; now his lips pulled apart. He took a silent breath. My poem, he thought, terribly excited, terribly happy.

'I couldn't help reading some of your notes. I've always found it amusing, writers pouring out pages and pages of analysis on why they can not write — lord knows I've done it myself.'

'Huh?'

'There were many, many places where I found your aesthetic analysis let me into some of the more difficult things you were trying to do in the actual work.' Mr Newboy picked up his coffee cup. 'You have a fascinating critical mind, and quite a bit of insight into the problems of the poem. It made me feel closer to you. And of course, the most important thing, is that the poems themselves deepen considerably in the light of your—'

Kid's head was shaking. 'Oh…' He closed his mouth again, opened it, with a moment's urge, luminous in its strength, to allow misconception to become deception.

Newboy paused.

Blinking through the after urge, the pause indicating he was already found out (he pawed his fragmented memory for some previous intent to deceive, to support him in what he wished to reveal), said: 'All that other stuff