In the Elbaroom, Hunter said to Peckenpaw: —Benighted town, this. If you want to try something new you’re reduced to raping donkeys. Thus survival doth make cowards of us all.
Peckenpaw said: —Eh?
—It shouldn’t have been like this, said Hunter.
—Eh? said Peckenpaw.
—One-Track, said Hunter. Why did you come to the island?
Peckenpaw considered the question, gravely. He said:
—I got used to being alive.
XL
THE SWING. ELFRIDA on it, Flapping Eagle behind it, Irina leaning against the great ash which bore it. Elfrida’s parasol leaning beside Irina’s, closed and unnecessary in the soothing shadow of the tree. Elfrida smiling in innocent child-pleasure, Flapping Eagle half-smiling to keep her company, Irina unsmiling, eyes grey behind closed lids, halfway between dreams and waking. The swing, swaying in restful sweeps, queenly as the tree. Not even in the garden of the Cherkassovs was there a tree to match the ash, nor a swing to compare with this. The mist was light today, the sun warm and the air humming with bees about their business. There: a butterfly, glinting wings and flutters in the shafting shaded light. An elegiac day, graceful as the arcing swing, fresh and clean as new-baked bread, delicate as lace or a pale woman’s skin, a day to match the beauty of the women at the swing. Flapping Eagle woke at dawn, wide-eyed and refreshed; he had slept well and remembered no dreams. The dawn, like the succeeding day, had been a cheering thing, blinding him to his concerns. On a day, by a tree, at a swing, with two women like this spirits could not help but rise. Flapping Eagle’s were high.
Elfrida on the swing. —Higher! she commanded. Flapping Eagle pushed harder, the swing soared. Irina’s lids, closed like her parasol, censored the scene from her sight. Such ostentatious innocence held little attraction for her. Elfrida Gribb was her constant companion and her neighbour; and yet, she thought, the two of them had few enough common attributes, excepting their beauty. It had been a long time since Irina had thought this; a long time since Elfrida’s act of child-woman had irritated her. Today, it did. No-one could be so pure, no innocence so well-protected, no action as lacking in calculation as Elfrida’s claimed to be. Hers was the artifice that concealed artifice, thought Irina, and the subterfuge annoyed. She laughed, ate, slept, wondered like a child—and Irina Cherkassova was no lover of children. So she closed her eyes and let them play.
The soaring Elfrida had quite a different effect on Flapping Eagle. She had been awake early as well; and before the arrival of the Countess for a surprise breakfast visit, they had talked for a long time. Flapping Eagle had found that to look into those green eyes was to agree with their thoughts, just as Irina Cherkassova’s grey eyes could hypnotize him to their will. Talking to Elfrida, he had found himself willing to dismiss all his qualms of the previous night, all his doubts, and regain the courage of his conviction that K was the place for him. There were worse fates than that of spending an eternity with those eyes. And listening to Elfrida he even felt a certain sympathy with Ignatius Gribb. In her eyes, he was a considerate, loving man, and the eyes were unanswerable. But flickeringly they grew shadowed, as though her certainty wavered … and then the shadow was banished, and they sparkled again. Even her dislike of Jocasta and her house failed to arouse any objection; Flapping Eagle had distasteful memories of his own whoring past and embraced her dislike with the zeal of the convert. He found himself thinking less of Virgil Jones for staying there. Which was, of course, a convenient salve for his conscience. The chameleon adaptability within him, the symbiotic expertise had taken control once again, stimulated by the gaze of Elfrida Gribb.
—Irina, said Elfrida. Come, it’s your turn.
—No, no, said Irina Cherkassova. I’ll forgo it.
—Nonsense, said Flapping Eagle. We’ll have no spectators here.
And Irina submitted. She took Elfrida’s place. Elfrida sat on the grass and hummed.
The thought struck Flapping Eagle that it had been too long since he had had a woman. And in the same instant he wondered about Irina Cherkassova, with her weak husband and idiot son and petrified pregnancy. Elfrida Gribb was attractive in spite of (because of?) her innocent airs; Irina Cherkassova’s charms were more freely displayed. She was the more likely of the two. But second best, he told himself, and was surprised by the thought. Surprised and then worried by its implications for himself, a guest in her husband’s house. Unconsciously he pushed the swing too hard.
—Mr Eagle, reproved Irina, kindly take care. Mr Eagle: public decorum or a rejection of the intimacy of the other night?
—Sorry, he said.
Elfrida, too, was finding her neighbour a trial today. Again, it was an unusual feeling; and again, like Irina, she failed to put her finger on its source. Or perhaps she avoided doing so, as she had banished her jealousy of the night before last by thoughts of her dear Ignatius. She forced herself to picture him now, poring over his books and minute handwriting, sitting poised as a stone for hours and then darting a line down upon the elderly exercise-book he filled so entirely, not liking to waste a blank millimetre of paper, since his stocks were not inexhaustible. The picture made her smile; and then it dissolved, and the tallish, firm figure of Flapping Eagle filled it once more. —He is certainly beautiful, she thought.
Irina dismounted from the swing. —And now, Mr Eagle, she said firmly, since you dislike spectators so, Elfrida and I shall have to make sure you take your turn.
—O, yes, cried Elfrida, jumping up. On you go, Mr Eagle.
Then he was in their hands, flying up and down and back, whistling through the almost-clear air, at the mercy of the two pale mannequins. At their mercy, because he too was gradually becoming obsessed, and they were to be the objects of his obsession.
There was nothing for it. He must see Virgil today. He had put it off too long already, and it had to be done. Perhaps his gradual introduction into the ways of K would mean seeing little of his erstwhile guide, but that was no excuse for ingratitude. And perhaps K was not the place … there were still those unanswered questions, that ostrich-view of things.
—I must go into town, he said.
—I’ll accompany you to the Cobble-way, said Irina. I was thinking of a short walk myself.
They left Elfrida feeling ill-humoured again, and angry with herself.
Out of sight of the Gribb house, trees obscuring it from view.
Irina Cherkassova said: —Are we still friends, Flapping Eagle?
—Yes, he replied. If you like.
She put her arms around his neck and kissed him on the mouth.
—Then that cements our friendship, she said, and walked away from him without looking back.
There were too many fluctuations within him—between his feelings for Virgil and his feelings for the new life to which Elfrida had introduced him; and now an emotional wavering between Elfrida and Irina, brought on by that kiss. He had to start settling things irrevocably, he told himself, and walked purposefully towards the House of the Rising Son.
XLI
THE HOUSE OF THE RISING SON rose gleaming from the roadside. Outside it, stationary on the cobbled way, a figure on a donkey. As he drew closer, Flapping Eagle saw that the figure wore a flowing black garment, covering it from head to toe, with a kind of grill arrangement at eye-level, criss-cross woven bars across this one window. He could not tell whether it was male or female and felt a shiver of fear as he commanded it silently to be anything other than a third vision of Bird-Dog. Then it spoke to him and he relaxed slightly; the voice was a woman’s, low and toneless, and certainly not his sister’s.
—Who are you? it asked.
He introduced himself, seeing no reason not to; the hidden woman did not return the compliment. So he spoke more curtly when he said:
—Are you from the House?
—Yes, after a fashion, said the voice; and now it seemed amused.
—Then tell me, please, if Virgil Jones is here.
The figure
nodded slowly, continuing to stare at the brothel as it had done all the while.
—Where else? it said tonelessly.
—Good, said Flapping Eagle shortly and walked up to the door.
—Flapping Eagle, the figure said.
—What? He stopped at the door and turned; the woman remained impassive.
—Nothing, she said. I was just accustoming myself to your name. But since you’re going to see Virgil, you can tell him I called.
—Who shall I say? said Flapping Eagle, curious now. The figure contemplated for a moment, then pointed with her right arm.
—I live there, she said.
The black house sat on the outcrop of rock above the town and beneath the wall of cloud, black as the concealing garments of its owner.
—I expect to see you soon, she said and kicked her donkey into motion.
—What is your name? said Flapping Eagle.
The donkey was moving away at a sedate walk.
—Mrs Virgil Jones, said Liv, and scornful amusement had once again replaced tonelessness in her voice.
XLII
MR VIRGIL JONES no longer needed his trouser-belt. He was not wearing any trousers.
He wore a towel around his waist, a necklace of beads around his neck, and a bowler hat upon his head. In his right hand was a pitcher of wine. In his left hand was a quantity of the bottom of Kamala Sutra. On his lap was a bowl of fruit. A thin line of red dribbled from his tongue into the newly-shaven cleft of his chin. He sat upon a low bed; Kamala Sutra lay beside him and Madame Jocasta’s head was on his knee. He was drunk as a lord.
Flapping Eagle stood in the doorway, speechless at the spectacle. Virgil Jones removed his left hand from Mile Kamala, doffed his hat and replaced the hand. —Ah, he said, my old friend, my old bucko, so eager, so enthusiastic. Flapping Eager, I presume. Greetings, salutations, felicitations, immigrations to you. Have a drink. Take your clothes off. Relax. Don’t you think I look smart? In the pink, you follow, in the proverbial pink. The pink djinn is what I am. Small pleasantry.
Flapping Eagle took a step forward, and stopped again. Kamala Sutra leapt up from the bed. She put her left foot on his right foot and wound her right leg around his waist. Then she put her right arm on his left shoulder and her left arm around his neck. Then she inclined her face up towards his and made cooing noises.
Virgil Jones spluttered gleefully, thumping his thigh with his emptied left hand, the rolls of his stomach oscillating happily.
—Look at that, he said. The climbing-up-the-mountain position! How singularly apposite, or appositely singular. Do you see, do you see, Flapping Eagle? You are the mountain and she is climbing up the mountain to beg for a kiss. Cooing noises and all. A genuine no-nonsense Kama Sutra technique.
—Cucucucucu, said Kamala Sutra.
Madame Jocasta pouted. —He seems not to like the offer much, she said. Shall we send for Gilles? Kamala Sutra detached herself and returned to the bed.
—O, do, said Virgil Jones, redoubling his laughter, drinking from the pitcher and choking. A fine spray of wine spread over the bedsheet. And over Madame Jocasta.
Madame Jocasta got up and walked by Flapping Eagle to the door, where she pulled a sash. On her way back to Virgil, she said dryly:
—How nice to see what you look like at last,
Flapping Eagle said: —I came to … to apologize…
Madame Jocasta interrupted: —To Virgil? Why, how perfectly sweet of you. She smiled stunningly and hit him as hard as she could in the face. —You took your time, she said, and the smile did not waver as she unleashed her other hand upon his other cheek. —There, that’s better, she said.
The door burst open behind them. There entered the most beautiful man Flapping Eagle had ever seen. Gilles Priape sidled in languidly stroking the preternaturally generous tool of his trade. It rose equally casually to a reasonably erect angle as he sized up Flapping Eagle.
—This one? he asked Madame Jocasta, pointing.
—That one, said Madame Jocasta, returning to Virgil’s knee.
—Here? asked Gilles Priape, making a superb professional moue at Flapping Eagle.
—Here, instructed Madame Jocasta.
—Would you like me to undress you? Gilles Priape asked Flapping Eagle. From his exhausted tone, it was evidently a question expecting the answer No.
—Don’t be so goddam lazy, said Jocasta. Do it. To Flapping Eagle she added apologetically: —He’s only slow until he begins.
Flapping Eagle shook off Gilles Priape’s resigned, limp hands and spoke to Virgil Jones, attempting to ignore the rest of the whole unexpected scene.
—Virgil, he said, and his voice faltered slightly, betraying his lack of success, I am very sorry about what happened at the Elbaroom. I should not have let them treat you like that. May I speak to you alone?
—O, my, flounced Jocasta, aren’t we starchy? Aren’t we severe? What right do you suppose you have to ask anything at all of Mr Jones?
Virgil hiccuped and then giggled. Flapping Eagle thought he looked totally pathetic, and anger mingled with his shame and disgust, making restraint impossible.
—Very well, he said. I don’t really know why I came here at all. From a sense of friendship, I suppose, a sense of obligation and, I admit it, of guilt. I had also thought you could help me … I wanted to ask you things, to ask your guidance … I see now there’s no point in any of that. Don’t you find it sad, Virgil, that you of all people should have sunk so low? You, who told me how you valued your dignity. “One tries by one’s life and actions to bring a little sense into an inane universe” … is this what you meant … this … this rag-bag of lascivious impotence? Have they persuaded you to wallow so completely in self-pity? Have they persuaded you to forget why you left Dolores? I wanted to ask you why, a dozen times, but I waited until you were ready. Now it seems I’ve missed my chance. You are ruined and I am settled. You’re more than ruined … you’re being embalmed, here. With a brothel for a pyramid. With…
Madame Jocasta said: —Shut up.
Flapping Eagle, the pent-up frustrations and guilt released, stammered to a halt and stood foolishly in the musky room as Virgil giggled, Gilles Priape looked unconcerned, Kamala Sutra kissed Virgil’s feet and Madame Jocasta blazed with fury, not realizing how much that fury had done to widen the rift between the two travellers.
—You, she said with stinging scorn, are a completely selfish man. You could see that Mr Jones was a good, giving person, so you extracted service from him like a tooth. Never mind the pain it brought him; never mind what he left behind; never mind what he returned to. You still want help, advice, guidance. Because you want these things, you resent the fact that he has at last found comfort. What does he owe you, Mr Eagle? It is you who owe him everything. There is no honour in a man who returns treachery for love. Virgil has come to his place of sanctuary; let him be.
—He owes me an explanation, said Flapping Eagle dully. An explanation of his motives in bringing me here.
—But my dear, exclaimed Virgil Jones, it was you who brought me here.
—But why? cried Flapping Eagle, helplessly. Why?
—Mr Eagle is leaving, Gilles, said Madame Jocasta. Will you show him the way?
Gilles Priape, showing an unprecedented burst of speed, grasped Flapping Eagle’s right arm and twisted it behind his back.
—No, said Virgil Jones in his old, sober voice. I’ll tell him.
—Nicholas Deggle was expelled from Calf Island by myself and Grimus, said Virgil Jones, because he believed that the power in Grimus’ possession should be destroyed. At the time I agreed with Grimus that the new knowledge was precious, that the forces of reaction that Deggle represented should be fought. Now, I don’t. The effect grows in strength… I’m not sure Grimus can control it any more. I wanted the source of the effect destroyed.
—So you were using me, said Flapping Eagle. So much for Madame’s righteousness.
—If you like, I was using you, said V
irgil Jones. I no longer have the ability to approach Grimus. You have, since you conquered the inner dimensions so well. I also believed you had the will, the drive, because of your urge to find your sister.
—She is with him? asked Flapping Eagle.
—Of course she is, said Virgil tiredly. Where else could she be?
—I’ve seen her, said Flapping Eagle, here. In K.
—So, said Virgil Jones, and his eyes gleamed for a moment, then faded once more. So now you know what poor Dolores meant by a Spectre of the Stone Rose.
—What is the stone rose? asked Flapping Eagle. And where is Grimus to be found? Higher up the mountain, presumably?
—It doesn’t matter now, said Virgil Jones. You have made your decision and I mine. So the road ends here. For both of us. Goodbye, Mr Eagle.
Flapping Eagle had experienced so many emotions since entering this room that he had been forced to take refuge in anger.
—Tin glad, he said brusquely, that I haven’t ended exactly here, surrounded by whores and madness.
—Haven’t you? asked Virgil Jones.
—No, shouted Flapping Eagle. I damn well haven’t. I may not be sure of much but I am sure of that. I’ve done better than you.
—I disapprove of certainties, said Virgil Jones. They limit one’s range of vision. Doubt is one aspect of width.
Flapping Eagle left the room without the assistance of Gilles Priape, who was, to him, a grotesque nightmare of his own past… and in doing so, performed his most K-like act so far. He resolved to close his mind to the past, to close it to any guilt or humiliation, to close it to any pangs of truth he may have experienced under Madame Jocasta’s fierce, despising stare. Virgil was right: the decision was made.
He also decided that he disliked Virgil Jones.
All of which helped him to render his choice supportable.
He passed two people on his way out. The first was a beautiful, dark-haired and naked woman—Media hated wearing clothes within the walls of the House. She stopped dead, staring as he passed, immobilized. He went down the stairs without really having seen her; his eyes were looking far away. She went upstairs, into the room where Jocasta and Kamala were looking serious, though Virgil was laughing quite a lot. Gilles Priape had left, seeking a place to lounge in private.