Bradbury, Ray - SSC 07 (33 page)

 
          
 
Just then Martinez heard passing on the
sidewalk outside that same terrible man with his two girls, all laughing
together.

 
          
 
He saw anguish move like the shadow of a
summer cloud on the faces of the other men in this poolroom.

 
          
 
Slowly Vamenos stepped onto the scales and
dropped his penny. Eyes closed, he breathed a prayer.

 
          
 
"Madre mia, please . . ."

 
          
 
The machinery whirred; the card fell out.
Vamenos opened his eyes.

 
          
 
"Look! One thirty-five pounds!
Another miracle!"

 
          
 
The men stared at his right hand and the card,
at his left hand and a soiled ten-dollar bill.

 
          
 
Gomez swayed. Sweating, he licked his lips.
Then his hand shot out, seized the money.

 
          
 
"The clothing store! The suit! Vamosr

 
          
 
Yelling, everyone ran from the poolroom.

 
          
 
The woman's voice was still squeaking on the
abandoned telephone. Martinez, left behind, reached out and hung the voice up.
In the silence he shook his head.
"Santosy what a dream!
Six men," he said, "one suit. What will come of this?
Madness?
Debauchery?
Murder?
But I go with God. Gomez, wait for me!"

 
          
 
Martinez was young. He ran fast.

 
          
 
Mr. Shumway, of SHUMWAY'S SUNSHINE SUITS,
paused while adjusting a tie rack, aware of some subtle atmospheric change
outside his establishment.

 
          
 
"Leo," he whispered to his
assistant. "Look . . ."

 
          
 
Outside, one man, Gomez, strolled by, looking
in. Two men, Manulo and Dominguez, hurried by, staring in. Three men,
Villanazul, Martinez, and Vamenos, jostling shoulders, did the same.

 
          
 
"Leo." Mr. Shumway swallowed.
"Call the police!"

 
          
 
Suddenly six men filled the doorway.

 
          
 
Martinez, crushed among them, his stomach
slightly upset, his face feeling feverish, smiled so wildly at Leo that Leo let
go the telephone.

 
          
 
"Hey," breathed Martinez, eyes wide.
"There's a great suit over there!"

 
          
 
"No." Manulo touched a lapel.
"This one!"

 
          
 
"There is only one suit in all the
world!" said Gomez coldly. "Mr. Shumway, the ice cream white, size
thirty-four, was in your window just an hour ago! It's gone! You didn't—"

 
          
 
"Sell it?" Mr. Shumway exhaled.
"No, no. In the dressing room. It's still on the dummy."

 
          
 
Martinez did not know if he moved and moved
the crowd or if the crowd moved and moved him. Suddenly they were all in
motion. Mr. Shumway, running, tried to keep ahead of them.

 
          
 
"This way, gents.
Now which of you . . . ?"

 
          
 
"All for one, one for
all!"
Martinez heard
himself
say, and
laughed. "We'll all try it on!"

 
          
 
"All?" Mr. Shumway clutched at the
booth curtain as if his shop were a steamship that had suddenly tilted in a
great swell. He stared.

 
          
 
That's it, thought Martinez, look at our
smiles. Now, look at the skeletons behind our smiles! Measure here, there, up,
down, yes, do you see?

 
          
 
Mr. Shumway saw. He nodded. He shrugged.

 
          
 
"All!" He jerked the curtain.
"There! Buy it, and I'll throw in the dummy free!"

 
          
 
Martinez peered quietly into the booth, his
motion drawing the others to peer too.

 
          
 
The suit was there.

 
          
 
And it was white.

 
          
 
Martinez could not breathe. He did not want
to. He did not need to. He was afraid his breath would melt the suit. It was
enough, just looking.

 
          
 
But at last he took a great trembling breath
and exhaled, whispering, "Ay, Ay, caramba!"

 
          
 
"It puts out my eyes," murmured
Gomez.

 
          
 
"Mr. Shumway," Martinez heard Leo
hissing. "Ain't it dangerous precedent, to sell it? I mean, what if
everybody bought one suit for six people?"

 
          
 
"Leo," said Mr. Shumway, “you ever
hear one single fifty-nine-dollar suit make so many people happy at the same
time before?"

 
          
 
"Angels' wings," murmured Martinez.
"The wings of white angels."

 
          
 
Martinez felt Mr. Shumway peering over his
shoulder into the booth. The pale glow filled his eyes.

 
          
 
"You know something, Leo?" he said in
awe. "That's a suit!"

 
          
 
Gomez, shouting, whistling, ran up to the
third-floor landing and turned to wave to the others, who staggered, laughed,
stopped, and had to sit down on the steps below.

 
          
 
"Tonight!" cried Gomez.
"Tonight you move in with me, eh? Save rent as well as clothes, eh? Sure!
Martinez, you got the suit?"

 
          
 
"Have I?" Martinez lifted the white
gift-wrapped box high.
"From us to us!
Ay-hah!"

 
          
 
"Vamenos, you got the dummy?"

 
          
 
"Here!"

 
          
 
Vamenos, chewing an old cigar, scattering
sparks, slipped. The dummy, falling, toppled, turned over twice, and banged
down the stairs.

 
          
 
"Vamenos! Dumb! Clumsy!"

 
          
 
They seized the dummy from him. Stricken,
Vamenos looked about as if he'd lost something.

 
          
 
Manulo snapped his fingers. "Hey,
Vamenos, we got to celebrate! Go borrow some wine!"

 
          
 
Vamenos plunged downstairs in a whirl of
sparks.

 
          
 
The others moved into the room with the suit,
leaving Martinez in the hall to study Gomez's face.

 
          
 
"Gomez, you look sick."

 
          
 
"I am," said Gomez. "For what
have I done?" He nodded to the shadows in the room working about the
dummy. "I pick Dominguez, a devil with the women. All right. I pick
Manulo, who drinks, yes, but who sings as sweet as a girl, eh? Okay. Villanazul
reads books. You, you wash behind your ears. But then what do I do? Can I wait?
No! I got to buy that suit! So the last guy I pick is a clumsy slob who has the
right to wear my suit—" He stopped, confused. "Who gets to wear our
suit one night a week, fall down in it, or not come in out of the rain in it!
Why, why, why did I do it!"

 
          
 
"Gomez," whispered Villanazul from
the room. "The suit is ready. Come see if it looks as good using your
light bulb."

 
          
 
Gomez and Martinez entered.

 
          
 
And there on the dummy in the center of the
room was the phosphorescent, the miraculously white-fired ghost with the
incredible lapels, the precise stitching, the neat buttonholes. Standing with
the white illumination of the suit upon his cheeks, Martinez suddenly felt he
was in church. White! White! It was white as the whitest vanilla ice cream, as
the bottled milk in tenement halls at dawn.
White as a winter
cloud all alone in the moonlit sky late at night.
Seeing it here in the
warm summer-night room made their breath almost show on the air. Shutting his
eyes, he could see it printed on his lids. He knew what color his dreams would
be this night.

 
          
 
"White . . ."
murmured Villanazul.
"White as the snow on that
mountain near our town in Mexico, which is called the Sleeping Woman."

 
          
 
"Say that again," said Gomez.

 
          
 
Villanazul, proud yet humble, was glad to
repeat his tribute.

 
          
 
". . . white as the snow on the mountain
called—"

 
          
 
"I'm back!"

 
          
 
Shocked, the men whirled to see Vamenos in the
door, wine bottles in each hand.

 
          
 
"A party! Here! Now tell us, who wears
the suit first tonight? Me?"

 
          
 
"It's too late!" said Gomez.

 
          
 
"Late! It's only nine-fifteen!"

 
          
 
"Late?" said everyone, bristling.
"Late?"

 
          
 
Gomez edged away from these men who glared
from him to the suit to the open window.

 
          
 
Outside and below it was, after all, thought
Martinez, a fine Saturday night in a summer month and through the calm warm
darkness the women drifted like flowers on a quiet stream. The men made a
mournful sound.

 
          
 
"Gomez, a
suggestion."
Villanazul licked his pencil and drew a chart on a
pad. "You wear the suit from nine-thirty to ten, Manulo till ten-thirty,
Dominguez till eleven, myself till eleven-thirty, Martinez till midnight,
and—"

 
          
 
"Why me last?" demanded Vamenos,
scowling.

 
          
 
Martinez thought quickly and smiled.
"After midnight is the best time, friend."

 
          
 
"Hey," said Vamenos, "that's
right. I never thought of that. Okay."

 
          
 
Gomez sighed. "All right. A half hour
each. But from now on, remember, we each wear the suit just one night a week. Sundays
we draw straws for who wears the suit the extra night."

 
          
 
"Me!" laughed Vamenos. "I'm
lucky!"

 
          
 
Gomez held onto Martinez, tight.

 
          
 
"Gomez," urged Martinez, "you
first.
Dress."

 
          
 
Gomez could not tear his eyes from that
disreputable Vamenos. At last, impulsively, he yanked his shirt off over his
head. "Ay-yeah!" he howled. "Ay-yeee!"

 
          
 
Whisper rustle ... the clean shirt. "Ah .
. . !"

 
          
 
How clean the new clothes feel, thought
Martinez, holding the coat ready. How clean they sound, how clean they smell!
Whisper ... the pants ... the tie, rustle ... the suspenders. Whisper . . . now
Martinez let loose the coat, which fell in place on flexing shoulders.

 
          
 
''Oler

 
          
 
Gomez turned like a matador in his wondrous
suit-of-lights.

 
          
 
''Ole, Gomez, ole!"