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7 To฀the฀Reader฀Awakened฀by฀a฀Noisy฀Furnace You’ve฀heard฀the฀one฀about฀the฀two-bit฀crook ฀ who,฀when฀fingered฀for฀the฀cops,฀spills฀all.฀He฀sings, they฀say,฀like฀a฀canary,฀and฀thus฀avoids฀jail.฀As฀does฀his฀boss, ฀ who฀whispers฀“In฀God฀We฀Trust”฀in฀a฀few฀open฀palms. In฀time฀the฀guy฀finds฀decent฀work฀in฀another฀city. ฀ He฀settles฀into฀domesticity,฀until฀one฀winter poof,฀he’s฀gone.฀Come฀spring,฀fishermen฀haul฀up฀their฀catch— ฀ a฀corpse฀without฀head฀or฀hands,฀face฀or฀fingerprints. Well,฀what฀of฀the฀dictator,฀little฀matter฀which,฀plush ฀ among฀the฀palms฀and฀many-fingered฀dates, who฀so฀hates฀to฀hear฀a฀complaint,฀even฀the฀silent฀language ฀ of฀the฀deaf,฀he฀will฀not฀have฀it.฀No,฀no,฀no. So฀when฀the฀dissident,฀a฀plump฀word฀for฀so฀thin฀a฀man, ฀ asks฀for฀sleeping฀mats,฀a฀generous฀gruel, some฀pencils฀for฀the฀boys฀to฀scrawl฀on฀banana฀leaf, ฀ the฀big฀man,฀the฀fat฀man,฀the฀sovereign can’t฀fathom฀the฀insult.฀Abashed,฀he฀whispers฀in฀a฀curled ฀ attentive฀ear,฀and฀the฀deed฀is฀as฀he฀wished. Still,฀the฀thin฀man,฀the฀man฀who฀speaks฀with฀his฀hands ฀ won’t฀shut฀up—even฀with฀each฀finger฀lopped 8 off฀by฀bolt฀cutting฀shears.฀Sure,฀silence฀blankets ฀ each฀marble฀step฀while฀the฀stitches฀heal and฀the฀new฀moon฀raises฀its฀scimitar.฀Then฀the฀thin฀man, ฀ the฀deaf฀man฀whumps฀the฀stumps฀of฀his฀palms like฀a฀drum,฀and฀the฀beat฀speaks฀a฀word,฀grunt฀and฀anthem ฀ even฀his฀ears฀can฀hear.฀And฀you,฀reading฀this snug฀in฀your฀downy฀bed,฀the฀furnace฀thumping฀its฀thump, ฀ you฀hear฀it฀too,฀or฀something฀very฀like฀it. And฀now฀when฀it฀thumps฀again,฀you’ll฀think฀not฀of฀that ฀ but฀of฀this—the฀petty฀crook฀and฀the฀innocent dissident—how฀language฀like฀a฀song฀cost฀one฀his฀life, ฀ and฀song฀like฀language฀gave฀the฀other฀his฀back. Or฀sort฀of.฀You’ll฀fester฀there฀beneath฀the฀sheets, ฀ thinking฀my฀story’s฀all฀wrong,฀aghast฀at฀its skewed฀mix฀of฀guilt฀and฀innocence,฀word฀and฀silence. ฀ Perhaps฀then฀you’ll฀think฀this฀the฀stitch to฀thread฀these฀both,฀and฀money’s฀hand฀in฀each, ฀ and฀think฀the฀storyteller,฀yes,฀me, is฀some฀moon-eyed฀Marxist฀on฀relief.฀Simmer฀down. ฀ Be฀patient.฀The฀furnace฀ought฀soon฀click฀off. When฀it฀doesn’t,฀you’ll฀stumble฀up฀in฀slippers ฀ and฀trip฀on฀your฀sleeping฀yellow฀dog in฀route฀to฀notch฀it฀gentle฀down,฀gas฀prices฀on฀the฀rise. ฀ Back฀in฀bed,฀all฀three฀of฀us,฀yes—you’ll฀feel but฀not฀see฀the฀deaf฀man฀and฀me—the฀three฀of฀us ฀ will฀curse฀and฀blow฀in฀what฀hands฀we฀have: a฀cold฀hand฀that฀says฀or฀does฀any฀human฀thing, ฀ the฀rueful฀hand฀that฀writes฀it฀down. ...

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