The Man Upstairs, Ray Bradbury

The Man Upstairs

HE remembered how carefully and expertly Grandmother would fondle the cold cut guts of the chicken and withdraw the marvels therein; the wet shining loops of meat-smelling intestine, the muscled lump of heart, the gizzard with the collection of seeds in it.

How neatly and nicely Grandma would slit the chicken’s breast and push her fat little hand in to deprive it of its medals. These would be segregated, some in pans of water, others in paper to be thrown to the dog later, perhaps.

And then the ritual of taxidermy, stuffing the bird with watered, seasoned bread, and performing surgery with a swift, bright needle, stitch after pulled-tight stitch.

But for all the miracle of surgery, the bird would never survive the operation. It was only transported immediately into a hell and poked and basted and cooked until such time as the other surgeons gathered at the festive board and took up their scalpels to attack.

This was one of the prime thrills of Douglas’s eleven-year-old life span.
The knife collection, itself, was an intrigue.

It lay abed in the various squeaking drawers of the large wooden kitchen table. A magic table, from which Grandmamma, admittedly a rather kindly, gentle-faced and white-haired old witch, would draw paraphernalia for her miracles. The knives seemed to be most important in the dissection and investigation of chicken and other like fowl.

Altogether, moving his small lips, Douglas counted twenty knives of varying shapes and sizes. And each was unfailingly polished into a sharp mirror in which he could find his red hair and freckles distorted brilliantly.

He was to be quiet while Grandmamma worked over her split animals. You could stand across the table from her, your nose tucked over the edge, watching, but any loose boy-talk might interfere with the spell.

It was a wonder watching Grandma brandish silver shakers over the bird, supposedly sprinkling showers of mummy-dust and pulverized Indian bones, muttering mystical verses under her toothless breath.

Douglas at last gathered courage under him like a coiled spring and let fly with:
‘Grammy, am I like that inside?’ He pointed at the chicken.
‘Like what, child?’
‘Am I like that, inside?’
‘Yes; a little more orderly and presentable, but just about the same — ‘

‘And more of it,’ added Douglas, proud of his guts.
‘Yes,’ said Grandma. ‘More of it.’
‘Grandpa has lots more than me. His sticks out in front so he can rest his elbows on it, Grammy.’
Grandma laughed and shook her head.
Douglas said, ‘And Lucie Williams, down the street, she — ‘
‘Hush, child!’ cried Grandma.

‘But she’s got — ‘
‘Never you mind what she’s got! That’s different. You just shush up about Lucie!’
‘But why is she different?’
‘A darning-needle dragon-fly is coming by some day soon and sew up your mouth,’ said Grandma, firmly.

Douglas retreated immediately, then thoughtfully came back with, ‘How do you know I’ve got insides like that, Grandma?’
‘I just know, that’s all. Go ‘way now.’

Scowling, Douglas thumped off to the living-room, still bothered about the wealth of knowledge obtainable from adults lacking absolute proof. They were so darn right.
The house bell jangled.

Through the front-door glass as he ran down the hall, Douglas saw a straw hat. He opened the door, irritated at the continuous again-and-again jangle of the bell.
‘Good morning, child, is the lady of the house at home?’

Cold grey eyes in a long smooth walnut-coloured face, gazed upon him. The man was tall, thin, and carried a suitcase, a brief-case, an umbrella under one bent arm, gloves rich and thick and grey on his thin hands, and wore a horribly new straw hat.

Douglas backed up. ‘She’s busy.’
‘I wish to rent her upstairs room, as advertised.’
‘We’ve got ten boarders in the house, and it’s already rented, go away.’

‘Douglas!’ Grandma was behind him suddenly, forging along the hall. ‘How do you do?’ she said to the stranger. ‘Won’t you step in? Go right on upstairs. Never mind this child.’

‘Quite all right.’ Unsmiling, the man stepped stiffly in. Douglas watched them ascend out of sight, heard Grandma detailing the conveniences of the upstairs room. A suitcase bumped down on the upstairs floor, and soon Grandma hurried down to take linens from the linen-closet, pile them on Douglas and send him scurrying up to the newly rented room.

Douglas paused at the room’s threshold. It was transformed simply by the man being in the room a moment. The straw hat lay on the bed, the umbrella leaned stiff against one wall like a dead bat with dark wings tucked. Douglas blinked at the umbrella. The man stood in the centre of the room, his suitcase at his feet.

‘Here.’ Douglas decorated the bed with linens. ‘We eat at twelve sharp and if you don’t come down the soup’ll get cold. Grandma fixes it so it will, every time.’

The man counted out ten pennies, tinkled them into Douglas’s blouse pocket. ‘We shall be friends,’ he said.

It was funny, the man having nothing but pennies. Lots of them. No silver at all, no dimes, no quarters. Just new copper pennies.

Douglas thanked him. ‘I’ll drop these in my dime bank when I get them changed into a dime.’
‘Saving money, young fellow?’

‘Got six dollars and fifty cents. This makes sixty cents. For my camp trip in August.’
‘I must wash now,’ said the tall, strange man.

Once, at midnight, Douglas had awakened to hear a storm rumbling outside, the cold hard wind shaking the house, the rain driving against the windows. And then, a bolt of lightning had landed outside the window with a silent, terrific pounding. He remembered that fear.

That fear of looking around at his room, seeing it strange and terrible in the instantaneous light.

It was the same, now, in this room. He stood looking at the stranger. This room was no longer the same, but changed indefinably, because this man, as quick as a lightning bolt, had shed his light about it. Douglas did not like it.

The door closed in his face.
The wooden fork came down, went up with mashed potatoes. Mr. Koberman, for that was his name, had brought the fork and the wooden knife and spoon with him when Grandma called lunch.
‘Mrs. Spaulding,’ he had said, quietly. ‘My own cutlery; please use it. I will have lunch today, but from tomorrow on, only breakfast and supper.’

Grandma bustled in and out, bearing steaming tureens of soup and beans and mashed potatoes to impress her new boarder, while Douglas sat rattling his silverware on his plate, because he had discovered it irritated Mr. Koberman.

‘I know a trick,’ said Douglas. ‘Watch.’ He picked a fork tine with his fingernail. He pointed at various sectors of the table, like a magician. Wherever he pointed, the sound of the vibrating fork-tine emerged, like a metal elfin voice.

Simply done, of course. He simply pressed the fork handle on the table-top, secretly. The vibration came from the wood like a sounding-board. It looked like magic. ‘There, there and there!’ exclaimed Douglas, happily plucking the fork again. He pointed at Mr. Koberman’s soup and the noise came from it.

Mr. Koberman’s walnut-coloured face was hard and firm and awful. He pushed the soup bowl away, his lips twisting, and fell back in his chair.
Grandma appeared.
‘Why, what’s wrong, Mr. Koberman?’
‘I cannot eat the soup,’ he said.
‘Why?’

Mr. Koberman glared at Douglas.
‘Because I am full and can eat no more. Thank you.’
Excusing himself, Mr. Koberman walked upstairs.
‘What did you do, just then?’ asked Grandma at Douglas, sharply.

‘Nothing. Grammy, why does he eat with wooden spoons?’
‘You’re not to question! When do you go back to school, anyway?’
‘Seven weeks.’
‘Oh, my land,’ said Grandma.

Half-way to the second floor was a large, sun-filled window. It was framed by six-inch panes of orange, purple, blue, red and green glass. Some panes were yellow, some a wondrous burgundy.

In the enchanted late afternoons, when the sun fell through to strike upon the landing and slide down the stair banister, Douglas stood entranced by this window, peering at the world through the multi-coloured panes.

Now a blue world. Douglas pressed his nostrils against the blue pane, saw the blue-blue sky, the blue people and the blue street-cars and the trotting blue dogs.

Now — he shifted panes — there was an amber world. Two lemonish women glided by, looking like daughters of Fu Manchu. Douglas giggled. This pane made even the sunlight more purely golden, like taffy spilled on everything.

Douglas heard a noise above him. He knew Mr. Koberman stood outside his door, watching.
Not turning, Douglas observed. ‘All kinds of worlds. Blue ones, red ones, yellow ones. All different.’

After a long pause, Mr. Koberman said, distractedly:
‘That is true. All kinds of worlds. Yes. All different.’
The door closed. The hall was empty. Mr. Koberman had gone in.
Douglas shrugged and found a new pane.
‘Oh! Everything’s pink!’

It was simple as a rain-drop. Spooning his morning cereal, Douglas felt a simple, pure white flame of hatred stand inside him, burning with a steady, unflickering beauty. Upstairs, this morning, Mr. Koberman’s door had been ajar, the room empty. He had looked in, with distaste.

It was Mr. Koberman’s room now. Once it had been bright and flowery when Miss Sadlowe had lived there; full of nasturtiums and bright balls of knitting-cotton, bright pictures on the walls.

When Mr. Caples had lived there it reflected him: his athletic vivacity, his tennis shoes on a chair, a disembodied sweater crumpled on the bed, wrinkled pants in the closet, cutouts of pretty girls on the bureau, but, now. . .

Now the room was Koberman Land. Bare and clean and cold and everything microscopically set in place. Not a microbe or dust-mote or oxygen cell existed in the room without having an appointed and irrevocable station.

Douglas finished breakfast,