XXVIII
—LIV WAS MY wife, said Virgil, sitting up at the edge of the clearing, propped against a tree. She should have had a stronger man.
Flapping Eagle had already decided never to pry further into Virgil than he was willing to reveal; he had no wish to bring him pain. So he asked no questions about Liv.
—I remember K, mused Virgil absently, when they first came. To settle, to marry, to whore. And one or two … went a bit further.
—Like Grimus? asked Flapping Eagle sharply.
—Well, said Virgil, pursing his lips, I don’t know if I do.
—What?
—Like Grimus.
Even in his frustration, Flapping Eagle had to laugh.
—You’re certainly well again, he said, if you can perpetrate jokes like that.
—My dear fellow, said Virgil. It was no joke.
—I know, said Flapping Eagle, still laughing. Small pleasantry.
Virgil shrugged.
—Virgil, repeated Flapping Eagle, who or what is he? Grimus.
—Yes, said Virgil Jones.
—A sad fact, said Virgil Jones as they climbed. One’s environment is a great deal more epic than oneself. Events may be epic: people rarely are. Which is why they find such an environment appalling. I once mentioned to you that I was superstitious because this was a place where anything could happen; I’m sure you understand what I meant now. But there’s another reaction. It is this: if anything can happen, we’d better make damn sure it never does.
—You mean like Dolores, said Flapping Eagle.