XXXIV

THE SILENCE SPREAD with them as they walked through the long, narrow room. It was as though they exuded some invisible, deadening substance to kill words on people’s lips and stifle movements at their source. It was also a magnetic substance, since the eyes of the numbed were capable only of following the two walking men. Quiet was an alien condition here; the entry of Virgil and Flapping Eagle had somehow altered the element in which these late revellers habitually had their being. Under the shock, too, Flapping Eagle sensed the presence of something more slippery, more dangerous, less predictable in its effects: the emotion of the prison guard whose escaped charge has just returned to his captors of his own free will, or that of the lion faced with a suicidal Christian. Puzzlingly, this emotion seemed to be directed at both of them. Not for the first or last time, Flapping Eagle was consumed with curiosity about his companion’s past. Moreover, though, he was shocked by the looks, almost of recognition, he was receiving himself. And subsequently he found himself—equally confusingly—utterly ignored. As though he shouldn’t have been there, and all present wished he weren’t.

Once they know me, he reassured himself, they will not be hostile. In the face of the blank hush of the Elba-room, it was perhaps an overly optimistic thought.

Noise returned to the bar as abruptly as it had left; and with it, every eye snapped away from the two newcomers. It was an unnerving reversal; they might not have existed as the denizens of the drinking-house exploded into an effusion of speech.

Hunter was gazing at One-Track Peckenpaw with a desperate interest.

—Tell me, he said, a shade too earnestly, about your hunting techniques.

Peckenpaw burst into a voluble speech about trap-laying, stalking, shooting and survival in the wild. All trace of boredom was gone from the Two-Time Kid’s features, replaced by a new-found passion for the hunt. One-Track himself had rarely been so passionate; he spoke of his past as though his life depended on it.

Meanwhile Flann O’Toole seemed to have collapsed completely. He stood, eyes squeezed shut, fists drumming on the bar-top, repeating monotonously: —Holy Mary Mother of God I swear I’ll never drink again. Holy Mary Mother of God I swear I’ll never…

He broke off to be sick into a bucket under the bar.

—Jesu Maria, he groaned.

It was at this point that O’Toole’s Alsatian did an unexpected thing. Worming her way past her vomiting master and under the bar, she launched herself at Virgil Jones, tail wagging, tongue licking, to give the returning man his first taste of welcome. O’Toole looked up, grey-faced; his eyes widened.

—Certainly I don’t believe it, he said. But then the dog always liked him; being closer to animals than human beings he always had a way with ’em. ’Tis Virgil Jones himself an no miasma. Jones the Dig. The grave fool is returned.

Eyes slowly drifted back across the room to Virgil and Flapping Eagle and the big friendly animal leaping about them as they stood stock-still halfway along the bar, next to Peckenpaw and the Two-Time Kid. Flapping Eagle watched the eyes and saw them run through a fast series of expressions. Disbelief first, to echo O’Toole; then wonderment; and finally relief.

—Wal, said Peckenpaw. Jones and a stranger. He gave the word a heavy emphasis.

—Well, well, said Two-Time, two times. Jones and a stranger.

And there were other similar exclamations along the length of the room. Gradually, joviality returned to the night.

Flann O’Toole came out from behind the bar, recovering fast, his ebullience already restored. There was a smile on his face that looked friendly. Looked friendly, Flapping Eagle warned himself. Looking isn’t being.

—His friend, bellowed One-Track Peckenpaw obviously, got a feather in his hair. Reminds me when I scalped an Indian chief. (Laughs, cheers, boos.)

And that sparked a memory in Flapping Eagle. Not of an experience, but of a history. He knew what their arrival reminded him of: old films in the fleapit at Phoenix, illicitly visited. The Redskin enters the Saloon. The boys make fun of him before shooting him. We don’t dig Redskins in this town. We dig holes.

—Dog, said Flann O’Toole to the bitch, be in order. The rebuke heightened Flapping Eagle’s growing qualms, but there was still that pleasant-looking smile carving its way across O’Toole’s face. The Alsatian skulked away behind the bar.

Flann O’Toole’s hands: great hams hanging at the ends of his arms. Strangler’s hands, thought Flapping Eagle. He would remember that thought at another time and place. At the moment they were spread in a gesture of friendship.

—Virgil, boomed O’Toole. Virgil me lad. Is it you it is?

His left hand flashed forward and pinched Virgil mightily on the arm. He had been standing immobile for some time now. Flapping Eagle saw the pain fly across his face and vanish again. His eyes were vacant.

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.

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.