SAMUEL BECKETT SHAVING

by Garth Risk Hallberg

Goddammit. Beckett winced. A bead of blood, a blooming ruby, arose where he’d sliced himself. A great face, it was said. Une visage formidable, a man said once, at a party. But to shave, terrible. And with such razors, these disposable plastic razors, to which she’d convinced him to switch. Which were dull, because, well, sharp cost, didn’t it? Francs that didn’t, like spuds, sprout from sod, and so, he thought, he might yet milk a few mornings from these. He examined the blade in the cold grey light the bulb over the sink threw. A fringe of rust, tetanus in waiting, skirted the metal edge. He looked again, again at the face in the mirror, bisected by a dangling cord. Eh bien, he thought. So what, he thought, and lifted his chin, not dropping his gaze from his own blue gaze, and had a go at the stubborn billygoat hairs around the Adam’s apple. The electric bill being due today, he hated this shave foam. They’d been out of the foam he preferred, at the shop on the corner, and the next nearest shop was so far to go for what, for a special brand, a certain type of white, what? Milder to the skin. And here were toothpaste spatters on the glass again, and on the porcelain, he’d have to remember to observe, how did they get there always? Beckett took care when brushing, care not to spatter, care to go up and down in front, front to back in back, as the dentist suggested, to save what teeth weren’t rotted. Not that that mattered. Not that he ate but to eat. Not that he humoured her but to not be alone, at night. Some days in winter when the wind blew, when the bones of trees clawed at the windows, Beckett barely moved, rose and brushed, and shaved, as every day, then sat, and stared, stared at what? The page, that whiteness, and slowly filled with marks, small and steady, making letters, I can’t, can’t what, can’t say, I can’t say, can I say? I cannot. What can’t I? What matter, when why, why what, why write, why, say, say anything? Because one cannot. Cannot what? Cannot not. Still the light made its slow arc over the room. Still the next morning mildew stains were in the grout, between the tiles, drops of dried pee dappled the bowl’s interior rim, these days he wasn’t so what, so accurate, and had to remind himself to piss. Still the next morning the hairs were back, an army of hairs, tiny, gray, and mindless, hidden by foam but advancing, across the barren plain made when one lowered one’s jaw and stiffened one’s cheeks. He looked like a parody so, of solemnity, of royalty, of the sainted Samuel B. He stared at the eyes, and at the hollows of the eyes, from not much sleep lately. He drew the blade again through the foam, mowing down hairs, leaving nothing. What to do today? Maybe fry an egg. Maybe mail a payment. Maybe walk along the Seine. Maybe clean the toilet. Likely sit in front of that nice notebook with the kitties on it and face it, face what, the blankness of it. Take your time. His hand moved. His eyes did not. How many times had he stood, like this, looking like this, into these eyes, eyes watching eyes, eyes seeing the image, the image of Beckett, shaving, starting the day thus, stretched out before him, receding behind him, three hundred sixty-five mornings, three thousand six hundred fifty-two mornings, eighteen thousand two hundred seventy-two mornings, an infinite number of mornings, nearly, or no, none at all, or just one really, before a mirror, this or another, pulling a blade, this or another, long strokes short strokes, over this hair, always this gray stubble, before, behind, around, reminding him that he is nowhere, and there is only this, the blade, the cheek, so many strokes on this side, so many on that, and when it’s done, but it’s never done, begin again, proceed. Lather, spread, swipe, stare, cut, tear a square from the roll, and press it to the skin, so that blood makes a sun, on a tiny flag stuck, he's not done, he cannot. He can't what? He can’t stop, or shave, or keep shaving, and who ever can, I cannot, I cannot go bearded but you know that I can’t, can’t what, go on. Go on.