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
T
HE 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
T
HERE 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.
—Thank you, Mr Gribb, said Flapping Eagle. You and your wife have been most generous.
—Nonsense, nonsense, nonsense, nonsense! Now you have a bath and we’ll find you some clothes that haven’t been shredded by angry savages. Smart and spic it, that’s the ticket. Spic and span makes the man. Eh, eh?
—Yes, said Flapping Eagle dubiously. But I’m not sure if your clothes would fit … He stopped; Mr Gribb was waving him down violently.
—Not mine, not mine, not mine, he said. Courtesy of the good Count Cherkassov. A neighbourly act, wouldn’t you agree? Bodes well, too. No harm in wearing a man’s clothes when asking his consent, eh, eh? He nudged Flapping Eagle sharply in the ribs with one violet eye closed.
—No, indeed, said Flapping Eagle hastily.
Elfrida Gribb came into the room. She looked none the worse for her sleepless night; if anything, the surroundings of her own home and the misty daylight only served to heighten her ethereal loveliness.
—You must forgive my husband, she said. It’s so exciting for him to have you here; I’m afraid he gets a trifle frenetic. You two must have a long talk. As for me, I shall be pottering about if you need me.
She kissed her husband on the dome of his balding head (or rather, a head petrified for ever in a state of moulting), bending over him to do so; and left.
—So this was where the new life began, thought Flapping Eagle as he bathed. A night between expensive linen on a feather mattress.
He had to make it work
. One thing, at least: the Gribbs lived a great deal better than his last benefactors, Virgil Jones and Dolores O’Toole.
The bath-water was black. He must have been absolutely filthy. His hair had been a tangled, matted wilderness. He decided to have a second bath; this time the water ran cold, but no matter. He blackened the water again. Only after a third bathful did he declare himself clean. When he emerged, Ignatius Gribb was waiting with a selection of clothes laid out on the bed. Flapping Eagle chose a modest dark suit and tie; they fitted tolerably well. He refused a hat: —I hope I didn’t use too much water, he said.
—-Nonsense, nonsense, said Gribb. We have a large tank on the roof. Now come and display your shining self to Elfrida. She’ll be transfixed.
They went out of the bedroom into a perfectly neat chamber. Elfrida lay with her petit-point on a chaise-longue. As they entered, she sat up and clapped.
—My, my, she said, now we see you in your true colours, Mr Eagle.
—Thanks to you, Madame, he said and bowed.
She allowed a touch of crimson pleasure to creep into her cheeks. —Off with you both now, she said. I’m awfully busy.
There was an old, even antique, wind-up phonograph by her side; and she placed the needle on a record. Music played. Music, which Flapping Eagle had not heard in an age. Flutes and violins: an interlude of almost forgotten peace. He stumbled upon a lump in his throat.
—My study, Mr Eagle, said Ignatius Gribb. Will you join me for a drink?
Tearing his eyes with difficulty from the enchanted scene, Flapping Eagle followed the small, bright, wrinkled man.
—You are evidently a man of much worldly experience, Mr Eagle, said Ignatius Gribb. It sings from your every action.
—Your home reminds me constantly of the past, said Flapping Eagle. Of its sweetest moments. This sherry, for instance. I have not tasted sherry in over a century.
—Elfrida, among her many virtues, is a prudent woman, said Gribb. When we decided to make the journey to Calf Island, she insisted that every perquisite of a civilized household should accompany us. So we have a small cellar, you understand, for use on occasions as rare as this is. For the most part we drink the local wine. A bit underweight, perhaps, but better so than obese.
Flapping Eagle choked back his laugh: Mr Gribb was looking delighted with his critique.
—As I was saying, the philosopher continued, I have found it possible to determine the extent and nature of a man’s experience from his eyes. A man whom life has beaten will have narrow slits of eyes; his opposite, the conquering hero, perhaps, will hold his eyes wide and proud. I am pleased to see your eyes so wide, Mr Eagle. It means we may be friends.
In confusion, Flapping Eagle stammered a word of thanks. To himself, he thought: the man’s a fool, and dogmatic with it; but no doubt that would prove tolerable in return for the unstinted hospitality.
Mr Gribb was just getting into his stride, and when Flapping Eagle asked, —To what school of philosophy do you belong, sir?
Gribb needed no further encouragement.
—Many years ago, he said, I became engrossed in the notion of race-memory: the sediment of highly-concentrated knowledge that passes down the ages, constantly being added to and subtracted from. It struck me that the source-material of this body of knowledge must be the stuff itself of philosophy. In a word, sir, I have achieved the ultimate harmony: the combination of the most profound thoughts of the race, tested by time, and the cadences that give those thoughts coherence and, even more important, popularity. I am taking the intellect back to the people.
—I don’t quite … began Flapping Eagle.
—But don’t you see, my dear fellow? The cadence, the structure, the style: it’s all there to use, in old wives’ tales, in tall stories, and most of all … (he flourished his right hand dramatically and raised a manuscript aloft from his desk) … in the cliché!
O my God, thought Flapping Eagle.
—This, said Gribb, jabbing a finger at the pages, is my great endeavour. The All-Purpose Quotable Philosophy. A quote for all seasons to make life both supportable and comprehensible. A framework of phrases to live within, pregnant with a truly universal meaning. As for instance, my very first entry, perhaps the most perfectly all-purpose quote of all:
The sands of time are steeped in new
Beginnings.
—That’s incredible, said Flapping Eagle.
—You think so, you think so? Yes, yes, yes: consider this. An old aunt at a wedding seeks a phrase to put it into perspective. She would use this phrase and the ceremony would gain a new and deeper context. The same woman cooks a disastrous meal; she uses—with stoic fortitude—the same quote and immediately she has linked two quite disparate events. In this way the all-purpose quote increases our awareness of the interrelations of life. It shows us precisely how a wedding is like having to cook a second meal. Thus illuminating both events.
—Remarkable, said Flapping Eagle.
—Dear, dear, dear, said Ignatius Gribb. I can tell we shall be the best of friends. Cherkassov will like you, be in no doubt of that. I shall instruct him that he must.
—There may be some trouble, said Flapping Eagle, over my choice of prime interest.
—Pooh, said Gribb. Tchah. Cherkassov’s never turned one down yet.
—It created quite a stir at the Elbaroom when I mentioned it.
Gribb grunted dismissively. —Well, well, well, what is this dangerous interest of yours, eh, eh?
—Grimus, said Flapping Eagle. Ignatius Gribb sat down and was silent. A grandfather clock ticked off the pause. A fly buzzed in conspicuous intrusion.
—Elfrida mentioned something of the sort, said Gribb. Nevertheless. Don’t you fret yourself. And he nodded his head as if to reassure. Flapping Eagle didn’t feel entirely calmed.
Elfrida sat on the chaise-longue; Ignatius was beside her; the petit-point lay carelessly on the ground, the one jarring note of untidiness in the meticulous room. The phonograph played an old, old song.
It was afternoon and the mist had turned from the morning’s gold to the post-meridian yellow.
Yellow for life
, remembered Flapping Eagle, sitting opposite them in a rather-too-upright wicker chair. A slow haze lay over the room. Time is passing more slowly now, thought Flapping Eagle, and felt very nearly happy. To be in K was to return to a consciousness of history, of good times, even of nationhood: O’Toole, Cherkassov … like them or not, the names conjured a past world back to life. Here in the womb of the Gribb drawing-room he felt—and found—comfort.
Here, the trappings of the past were jealously guarded. It made a big difference to the home-seeking man.
He watched Elfrida as with downcast eyes she listened to her husband’s voice. That was a further source of pleasure. Her long fingers wound a piece of thread slowly and elaborately in and out between themselves. It was a hypnotic sight.
Ignatius was saying:
—The one aspect of K I love above all else is the absence of scientists. I always found it shameful that mere technologists should have arrogated to themselves the right to be called that, scientists, men of knowledge. In their absence, science is returned to its true guardians; scholars, thinkers, abstract theoreticians like myself.
However, the absence of the technocrat does not mean a relapse into superstition, my dear Flapping Eagle; on the contrary, it places upon us an even greater duty to be rational. The world is as we see it, you know; no more, no less. Empirical data are the only true grounds for philosophy. I am no reactionary; in my childhood I would have laughed at the idea of immortality, but now that I know it can be bestowed I accept it. For that at least I thank the technologists; credit where it is due. To have eternity to study one’s subject is a grace and a blessing; to have the sure environment of this town about one is what I would call a miracle if I were a superstitious man. Here one may indulge one’s prime interest and want for nothing; one has a home, and food and company. With that and the eternal interplay of thesis and antithesis a man must be happy. I am a happy man, Mr Eagle; and do you know why? Permit me to tell you in a roundabout way.
We, too, are relatively recent arrivals, you see, Mr Eagle; I say relatively, for it is a matter of some centuries now. When I arrived I found a certain number of unfortunate myths in the process of forming; myths which I have made it my business to expunge from the minds of the townspeople. It is, incidentally, an interesting corollary study to my work on race-memory: the growth of a mythology in a single, long-lived generation. At any rate, Mr Eagle, I do not know what line you propose to take in your chosen field; may I simply hope you will do nothing to perpetuate that particular myth?
Flapping Eagle suddenly felt on very thin ice.
—Are you saying sir, he asked, that Grimus does not exist?
Ignatius Gribb looked annoyed.
—Yes,yes,yes,yes,yes, he said. Naturally that is what I say. And nor do his precious machine, nor his supposed dimensions, nor any of it. It’s all the babbling of an idiot like Jones; sound and fury, signifying nothing.
—I am astonished, Mr Gribb, said Flapping Eagle; and I can’t agree.
—You’ve spent too long with that trickster … that charlatan. He has no place in this town. Gribb was now definitely angry. A red dwarf.
—Darling, said Elfrida, I’m sure it might be interesting for you to have a man of Mr Eagle’s undoubted experience investigate the matter.
Gribb collected himself. —Yes, of course, he said. Dear, dear, dear. It would be … most amusing.
Flapping Eagle was thinking hard: certainly it seemed no-one in K ever succumbed to dimension-fever; and since his own experience of it, the dimensions no longer intruded into his own consciousness. And he had been ill in Virgil’s company. He wished passionately that he knew more about Virgil.
He was now sure of one thing: he intended, if permitted, to find out as much as possible about Grimus, whether he was fact or fiction. It was the only way to understand what had happened to him.
And where was Virgil Jones now?
To Mr Gribb, he said formally: —Please rest assured, sir, that I shall be the soul of impartiality in my studies. It is a debt of honour to you for housing me. Scholasticism breeds a scholarly attitude.
—Well,well,well,well,well, said Mr Gribb, mollified.
—Heavens, said Elfrida, if we are indeed dining with the Cherkassovs, I must fly and dress.