Intimations Read Online Free Page B

crying, a sort of footnote to a more extensive lecture on the relationship of emotions to gesture. Victor watched with open mouth as I mimed sadness, even greater sadness, and then indicated with my fingers the streaming of tears down my face. When I made the noise itself, the gutted syllables of a man weeping, he leapt up, clapping with his hands and chuffing madly. As I tried to calm him, he roved about the property uttering sobs and palpating his eyes that they might tear more readily. I pursued his weeping form through the parlor, the library, the pantry, shouting commands at his swift and fleeing back.
    When I captured him at last, he wore the expression of an animal smug with unearned fulfillment. His eyes were blister-red, racked with weeping, yet he wept still, wept freely. There was an air of contentment in his weeping that I felt to be incorrect, formally imbalanced, perhaps. Yet when I reached for his throat to amend certain flaws in enunciation, he ceased weeping at once and turned himself away from me. I heard him swallow deeply, as though tucking the remaining sobs into some secret, unseen cavity.
    From that moment on, young Victor refused to weep before me, though I often overheard him weeping in private, when lying about in the barn or in some moment of leisure.
    5
    Victor, I say. Victor, give me your attention. Look at me. I will not ask again.
    His great dull head stirs slightly, but remains fixated on a point far to my right. Victor, I say. Victor. Look at me. If you do not look at me, I will have to make use of the rod. I place my hand on the rod for good measure.
    He turns his head slowly, achingly toward me. The heavy skull swivels on its stand. It is his chewing-toy that distracts him so, resting naked and exposed upon the side table where I have placed it. He finds it cruel, cruel that he is not permitted to make use of it during this tutorial when I allow it for most of the lectures and dances. I explain again: Victor, we are practicing conversation. We are improving your speech and your pronunciation. You will not improve so long as you insist on keeping that useless bauble in your mouth, where it obscures your breath and proves an obstacle to your tongue, which I remind you has never been as limber as it should.
    He seems to have lost interest again. The chewing-toy gleams atop the table, lozenge-shaped and glinting likegold. The rod, I say, remember the rod. With this reminder, he regains a healthy alertness.
    Now, Victor, I begin. If another guest should approach you at court and speak to you, uttering the phrase “How do you do?” what should you say?
    Victor swivels his tongue around within his mouth, twisting his lips. He has never liked the taste of words, and I sense that he has not developed much of an idea what they are for. He sighs, and his eyes remain upon the toy.
    VerywellthankyouandIampleasedtomeetyouhowdoyoudo? he says, all in a rush, his mouth flapping up and down upon the sentence as though it were a piece of meat.
    I, myself, am also well, I say. Do you enjoy dancing? I ask.
    He stares at me, unsure what to do. I have never given him this prompt before.
    Are you enjoying the ball? I ask. This one he has done many times before.
    Ohverymuchsowhatareliefitistobeamongpropercompany, he says wearily.
    Good, Victor, fairly good, I say. But you would do well to attend to the pauses between your words, for they are as thecounts in a measure of music, directing the body toward the greater expression of its own musicality. Measure your breaths, boy, and release them with much care and restraint. Let the words be a dance in themselves, a dance of meaning upon the surface of a tongue.
    He stares at me, chewing his finger. He has understood nothing.
    6
    Swollen-faced Portesquieu leans back in his chair and turns his open maw toward the sky, releasing a moist gibbering of laughter. His mirth strains against the strictures of his clothing, the flesh of his neck bulging sweetly over the