Academic journal article Chicago Review

Master Klek's Room

Academic journal article Chicago Review

Master Klek's Room

Article excerpt

This morning they came at last to unlock Master Klek's room. It's nearly three months since he gave up the ghost with an uproar one stormy night. On his knees in the backyard. So that till the day of today it had not been necessary to clear out his shabby living quarters. He was a weird old guy. By his account he grew up on his father's vast estate. Never went to school. They had riches of horses and turkeys. A leg of lamb or duck tongues for midday meal and at night sausages. But with the big revolution everything was lost including mother and father and he had to relocate to town with few earthly possessions and many stories and much advice. Here he ripened and gradually rotted within the narrow confines of his room. It was the world to him. And no one ever crossed his threshold. He also kept referring to the room as his estate. The curtains were always drawn. But sometimes in the hollow of the night one could hear strange noises through the window. A clacking up and down the squeak of dry wheels the crack of a whip and Master Klek shouting WHOA smacking Ups and sucking tongue. Then he was dead. And this morning they finally arrived to wrench open the musty room. Three burly fellows loaded the scraps and rags and small boxes on a truck. A bed. A chair. Framed faces of wire-brush moustachioed ancestors behind fly-fouled glass. A pisspot. And then from the dark with much groaning and cursing and come-nows and orders a stuffed horse on a little cart with wheels. …

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