Flann O’Toole was roaring with laughter at his trick.
– It’s either a fool or brilliant you are, Mr Jones, he said. Only a fool would let a thing like that go unpunished. A fool or a man who knows his weakness. At least I’m sure of this now, you’re flesh and blood. Come now and let me make amends. Have a drink on me.
Virgil did not move.
– Come on, come on, chuckled O’Toole, now fully himself again and enjoying his needling of the fat, blinking man, I was merciful enough; I could have used the right. After all we have to be sure, eh? Come and drink with O’Toole and introduce your baleful friend while you’re at it. Drinks on O’Toole I he shouted to the room at large. Cluster round and welcome home the wandering soul!
Virgil spoke.
– Before I drink with you, O’Toole, I must talk to you.
– Ridiculous, cried O’Toole. Why, we’ll talk as we drink.
– Privately, said Virgil.
Flann O’Toole assumed an air of mock-seriousness. He treats Virgil like the village idiot, thought Flapping Eagle, and wondered why that was Virgil’s chosen rôle here. Perhaps, he guessed, it was not choice that had allotted him the part.
– Hoomph, exhaled O’Toole. Serious is it? But these are my friends here, my close and valued comrades. I’ll have no secrets from them. So spill it, man. I’m thirsty with the thrill of seeing you again.
– Your wife Dolores, said Virgil Jones, who left you. With good reason, I might add. She and I are lovers. I cannot drink with you. Everything she said about you was true. It was true then, before she fled. It is true now. We’re not here to drink with you. Just looking for rooms, you follow. So if You’ll excuse me…
The rumble began low in Flann O’Toole’s chest and swelled slowly to a wild, shaking noise. His eyes grew red and large in his head. He stood thus for a moment, roaring and reddening, and then his hands lunged for Virgil Jones. Before Virgil could move, he was held in a constricting grip around the throat. He wheezed for breath.
– Excuse you indeed! yelled O’Toole. O you’re a fine fool all right, Mr Virgil Casanova. Saints spare me if I don’t strangle you here and now, choke you slowly to your well-deserved death. To come into the house of O’Toole himself and accuse him of being a cuckold, ’tis the true folly of the madman you are. Seduce my wife! Lucky you are I don’t believe you. You could not seduce a sausage, which saves your life.
– I thought you said your wife was a trial to you, said Two-Time Hunter with interest.
– You’ll keep out of this, said O’Toole. My wife is my wife and I’ll not have her name insulted for it insults me in the association. It’s time Mr Jones acquired some manners. Even idiots are not spared that.
His hands released Virgil who staggered back a step, drawing lungsful of air into himself. Flapping Eagle saw the big right hand clench and begin to travel. He found he was rooted to the spot. In slow-motion he saw the fist glide through the air towards the gasping Virgil; and the noise Of impact seemed less than it should have been. Virgil folded from the knees, wordlessly, and fell to the floor.
Still Flapping Eagle stood stock-still. O’Toole turned, a bull after his second matador. -Aren’t you going to help your friend, what’sy ourname? he said, still speaking at maximum volume. Flapping Eagle felt his head nodding from side to side: -No. O’Toole laughed.
– Virgil never did make close friends, he said. You’re a wise man to keep your distance. Flapping Eagle felt a sickness in the pit of his stomach.
– Give him the rush, called a voice from the back of the room. The bum’s rush for him.
O’Toole grinned. -One-Track, he called. Your assistance, if you please. They hoisted Virgil Jones between them and dragged him towards the door. Flapping Eagle watched them go.
One.
Two.
Three.
And Virgil had gone to clatter on the cobbles.
Elfrida Gribb, alarmed, rushed to him and cradled his head in her lap; but when he gained his consciousness he stood shakily, replaced his hat and, without thanking her, made his way down to the far end of the Cobble-way, falling once, over the crouching Stone.
Elfrida pursed her lips, full of the injury of the unappreciated helper. Ignatius had always said Virgil Jones was out of his mind. He had evidently been right.
It was the voice in his head that had paralysed him. It had been as persuasive as it ever had been, and it left Flapping Eagle disgusted with himself. This is what it had told him:
He was already a suspected outsider in the town where he had resolved to settle. He needed the people in the Elbaroom-needed their trust and help if he was even to find a bed for the night, let alone a place in the town’s life. To ally himself with Virgil Jones now would be to kiss goodbye to his hopes of reaching, at last, the end of his road; of finding his haven. It nauseated him as he thought it: for he was already allied to Virgil and in his debt to the tune of two lives. And yet the voice was persuasive. He knew himself now; knew that the urge to fit in, to be accepted, had taken over as the spirit of adventure and the passion for his long-time search waned in him.
– Tomorrow, he told himself. Or later tonight, maybe. I’ll go and find Virgil and apologize. Yes, that’s it. Tomorrow.
He could hear Virgil’s plea, made only hours ago: -I really am very vulnerable to any wounds you may care to inflict. Already the fears under those words had been realized. Flapping Eagle knew that he had hit his friend a great deal harder than Flann O’Toole, and in a more sensitive spot. The guilt was there; but it seemed he did not wish to atone. Not yet. He had to introduce himself first.
Guilt. My fault. Mea maxima.
He shook himself into awareness of his surroundings.
All around him, unsmiling faces; except for O’Toole’s, which was grinning its violent grin.
– Where will he go? asked Flapping Eagle.
– O, Jocasta’s, where else? said a beetling-browed, red face. She’s the only one’ll have him.
– I suppose, said a narrow, elegantly-boned face, we’ll have to accustom ourselves to him once more.
– Not in here, said Flann O’Toole, he’ll not enter Napoleon’s Empire.
– May I sit down? asked Flapping Eagle.
– You may, said Flann O’Toole. And You’ll answer some questions as well.
Cynicism in the elegant face, violence in O’Toole’s. O’Toole: the conscious face of violence, brute strength revelling in itself, a masturbation of power. God, thought Flapping Eagle, where have I come?
– I should be happy to answer, he said, and bit his tongue in shame.
– What’s your name? asked O’Toole.
– Flapping Eagle. I am an Axona Amerindian. (Rank and serial number. He could feel blood on his mouth. And Virgil’s on his hands. Another human being damaged by contact with him.)
– Never heard of them, said Peckenpaw, shaking his head slowly.
– Age, said O’Toole.
– Seven hundred and seventy-seven. (How ridiculous it sounded; how divorced he was from all his life before these last days. And here on Calf Island he had already suffered this change: his immortality was no longer important, no longer even a subject for thought or discussion, let alone sadness. Strange to think it had once driven him near suicide. Among geniuses intelligence loses its currency; they vie with each other at cooking or sex. So with immortals. When age becomes a constant, it becomes irrelevant.)
– Profession?
– Sailor… I was a sailor. (That, too, seemed now to be a description of some other Flapping Eagle.)
– Prime interest?
– I… excuse me?
– Prime interest, repeated O’Toole.
– I don’t quite understand, said Flapping Eagle.
– Will you do the explaining, Two-Time, sighed O’Toole, and I’ll get meself some liquid nourishment.