The elegant face replaced O’Toole’s. -We in K, it said in a voice heavy with cynicism, like to think of ourselves as complete men. Most, or actually all of us have a special area of interest to call our own. I don’t think we could accept anyone who thought otherwise. It’s the difference, you see, between casual sex and love. The more you love, the more closely you get to know, the more profoundly you see, the more you are enriched. We like to think of ourselves as being enriched. We’d like to think you agreed.
– Yes, said Flapping Eagle, I agree, (…to any wounds you may care to inflict, Virgil had said. -Agreed, Flapping Eagle had answered.)
O’Toole was back. -Now then, he said, let’s try again, why don’t we? Prime interest?
The faces waited.
Flapping Eagle, dizzy and confused, and without knowing the origins of the thought, said: -Grimus. It’s Grimus.
– Ah, said O’Toole, at a loss for words.
– Tsk, tsk, said Hunter. You have, unhappily, a gift for touching nerves. We don’t say too much about that… about that here.
The faces looked sullen. If O’Toole were to advocate violence now, there would be no chance.
It was One-Track Peckenpaw who sided unexpectedly with the “Redskin”.
– Hell, he said, live and let live. Don’t see why it shouldn’t be allowed just on account of he’s a queer looking Indian. Some of my best buddies was Indians. There’s no reason for objecting, right? He’s different, right? It fills a gap, right? So why the shit not?
Peckenpaw was the one man who could stand up to Flann O’Toole on his own patch. O’Toole’s glazed expression relaxed into that two-way grin.
– O.K., he said, we’ll let it be for the good Count to say. I don’t mind if we do speak of Grimus. I like fairy-tales.
– They say he couldn’t hold his drink, said a voice seriously. Everyone laughed.
– They say he was good at games, said another voice, and the laughter redoubled.
– They say he was a mighty hunter, said Peckenpaw, and led the third gale of laughter.
Flapping Eagle said: -Gentlemen, it really isn’t necessary to make fun of me. I am in good faith; I wish to settle here.
– At least you’re in better company now, said O’Toole. Have a drink, Mr Flapping Eagle. ’Tis Count Cherkassov’s province to decide, not ours. You’ll see him tomorrow. In the meanwhile I’ll find you a place to sleep right here.
Relief flooded into Flapping Eagle, but it was tempered with caution.
– I’d like to ask… he began.
– Fire away, said O’Toole.
– Well, then, what day is it?
This time O’Toole’s laugh was good-natured. -You see what comes of hanging about with the likes of Jones, he said. A man loses all track of time. Tuesday is what it is, though ’tis more likely Wednesday a.m. by now. You have any more of these brain-teasers?
– Yes, said Flapping Eagle. Who is Virgil Jones?
Flann O’Toole gaped for a moment and then shattered Flapping Eagle’s eardrums with his guffaw. -Well, there’s a joke if you like. He’s your friend, that’s what he is, and the more fool you. Drink up, Mr Eagle, drink up now.
Perhaps it was the potato whisky or fatigue, but Flapping Eagle felt a surge of nausea and giddiness. -I’ll just go and get a breath of fresh air, he said and made his way to the door, a dirty tramp with a skewed feather in his hair, at the end of his tether. The faces parted to let him through. The room was full of mist.
Flann O’Toole and Dolores O’Toole in bed. He sodden-drunk, she wide-eyed, reaching for him. Flann Napoleon O’Toole grunted in his sleep:
– Not tonight, Josephine.
– Dolores, she corrected him coldly and went to sleep.
O’Toole, remembering, crushed a glass in his hand.
XXXV Invitation
THE LISTENING ELFRIDA GRIBB had made a decision; her delicate jaw was firmly set. She waited, anxious but resolved, for the emerging Flapping Eagle.
He dragged himself out of the bar and immediately fell against the wall. His head rolled slightly; for all the world to see he was a man in the last stages of physical and mental exhaustion. And so badly dressed, too, thought Elfrida. So dirty.
– Sir, she said as firmly as she could.
Flapping Eagle’s head rolled in her direction. The woman… it was the beautiful woman… yes, there, the donkey… He couldn’t understand what she wanted.
– Sir, persisted Elfrida, you cannot stay here.
– Uh? he asked.
– You must come with me, said Elfrida categorically. If you are indeed in earnest about wishing to settle in K, you could not have made a worse start. First Mr Virgil Jones and now this… this unruly, wanton rabble. No, sir, you come away with me. My husband and I have a guest room where you can sleep. Does the thought of clean linen please you? And good meals, too, though I say it myself. Do come, sir. The Cherkassovs are our friends and neighbours. Count Cherkassov values my husband’s advice highly. I assure you it is quite the best thing you can do. Only do make haste, please, or they will come for you.
Flapping Eagle understood that this beautiful woman was offering him her hospitality. Not knowing her addiction to good works, he had no idea why, and was too tired to think. What he was quite clear about was that she was a great deal prettier than Flann O’Toole, so his choice was clear. Even if he had heard the word “husband”.
He attempted to draw himself up. -Flapping Eagle, he mumbled.
She laughed under her breath. -You do look comic, Mr Eagle, if You’ll forgive my saying so; but a night’s rest will work wonders. I am Elfrida Gribb. My husband is Mr Ignatius Gribb, the philosopher.
– And I, attempted Flapping Eagle, am the philosopher’s millstone. He lurched.
– What, she said, can this be wit? I’m sure that in your condition you could do no more than transmute base metals into fool’s gold. Now hurry, do.
– I… I’ll need your help.
Half-leaning on her he made his way to where the donkey stood; after some more trouble they were both astride her, Mrs Gribb in front; and they moved off down the Cobble-way to that place which had haunted Flapping Eagle earlier in the evening: home.
By the time they passed the House of the Rising Son, Flapping Eagle was asleep, one arm round Mrs Gribb’s waist to hold himself on to their mount, his head resting against the back of her neck.
– My, my, thought Elfrida Gribb, this is an adventure.
The long night was nearly over.
XXXVI Gribb
THERE WAS A gnome at the foot of the bed. -Remarkable, it said. Remarkable. It was a very clean gnome and it hopped up and down with an air of insatiable curiosity exacerbated by acute impatience. It wore, spotlessly, a silk shirt and cravat, a smoking-jacket, a rather incongruous pair of very aged (but immaculately hygienic) cord trousers and carpet slippers. Its eyes lit up, bright and violet, when it saw that Flapping Eagle was awake. -Ah, it said, Mr Eagle. Be the well-arrived, as they used to say in La Belle France. Permit me to shake you by the thumb.
Flapping Eagle decided he was either still asleep, or else had misheard.
– By the thumb?
– Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, rushed the gnome. Like this, you see?
He skipped round to Flapping Eagle’s side and stuck out his hand. Flapping Eagle’s own hand went out in automatic politeness. The gnome locked thumbs with him and folded his fingers around the hand. -There, he said. Local usage is terribly important, you know. Be in command of local usage and doors will open. Ignatius Quasimodo Gribb at your service, sir. Sometime professor of philosophy at, ah, but it’s unimportant. Unlike, as I was mentioning, local customs. Which are. I trust you are quite recovered?… His mouth hung open and his eyes glistened as he hopped from foot to foot awaiting Flapping Eagle’s answer.