Grimus - By Salman Rushdie Page 0,34

the key, the way out. Ethiopia … Abyssinia … I’ll be seeing you … Goodbye. All he had to do was say Goodbye and the puzzle was solved.

It was easy, the Gorf thought sulkily. It was. The people looked like Deggle. The place was named after one half of his favourite phrase. Even an idiot could have guessed that escape lay through the other half. Even an idiot. That was the trouble with most people. They were so bad at games.

XXIII

THE SEA FELT pure beneath them, its spray salting their cheeks, stinging, refreshing; a sea of mists and clouds, grey curling waves hidden behind the veils; a sea to be lost on, a drifting, unchanged sea.

Flapping Eagle lay breathless on the raft’s rough boards, half-dazed, uncomprehending; Virgil Jones, a naked speck on another man’s horizons, stood by the tattered sail, on guard, the juices of excitement flowing renewed in his veins. The tableau held and was fixed.

—May I call you Virgil? Flapping Eagle’s voice was hesitant.

Virgil Jones felt inordinately pleased.

—Certainly, certainly. Certainly, call me Virgil.

A long silence, in which a bond was sealed.

—What may I call you? Virgil broke the stillness.

Flapping Eagle didn’t answer.

—Mr Eagle? Virgil Jones turned to look at the Axona.

But Flapping Eagle was asleep.

Virgil lumbered across the raft and sat by the sleeping form.

—Don’t thank me for your life, he said to it. I’m grateful to you, more than I can say. Don’t thank me for coming here; it was a debt paid, a world remembered. Don’t thank me for anything; and don’t be afraid.

The sea curled over the edges of their frail craft, and fell away; curled, and fell away, as the old bull elephant watched over the body of the young-old buck.

—I have some food, said Flapping Eagle, in some surprise. He had reached into the pocket of his ragged trousers and found two old sea-biscuits. He passed one to Virgil Jones, who hid his nakedness behind Flapping Eagle’s old coat. They ate slowly.

—Just call me Flapping Eagle, said Flapping Eagle, and then added: Virgil.

They looked at each other as they munched.

—Everything you’ve ever done, said Virgil, has been a preparation for Calf Mountain, in a way.

Flapping Eagle noticed a difference in Virgil; he was calm rather than stagnant. There seemed to be a surge of strength in him which was very reassuring. Flapping Eagle realized how mutually dependent they had become, and it was a pleasurable realization.

—Everything I ever did, said Virgil, was just the same, in away.

—What sort of thing, asked Flapping Eagle.

—O, said Virgil, I travelled, like you.

The sea whispered secrets to the raft.

—A life, said Virgil, always contains a peak. A moment, you follow, that makes it all worthwhile. Justifies it. At any rate, that’s what I find. You’re either moving towards it or away from it. Or for an instant you’re at it and you’re … full.

They were becalmed. Flapping Eagle sat up, looking at the stillness with equanimity. Virgil’s large tongue licked contentedly at the outskirts of his mouth: patrolling the frontiers.

—Have you ever thought about the phrase: petrified with fear? asked Virgil. Turned to stone, you see.

Flapping Eagle half-turned, half-spoke, but Virgil was far away in a train of thought.

—That’s what they’re like in K, you see, he continued. Petrified. And why? He heaved his shoulders, tossing the weight from them. Why, because of the damned dimensions. (He frowned.) You remember my saying you should fix your mind on one thing, like Bird-Dog. It’s the only defence. The effect is much stronger in K, you know. Much nearer to Grimus. It drove them out of their wits … they found the only way to keep the bloody thing at bay was to be single-minded. To a fault. Obsessive. That’s the word. Obsessions close the mind to the dimensions. That’s what K’s like. Obsessive. You can probably understand why. Petrified with fear. It’s a fearful thing to be a stranger within oneself. People don’t like their own complexities. Tragic, really.

Flapping Eagle asked: What about? Obsessive. What about?

—O, said Virgil, anything. Doesn’t matter. Cleaning the floor, whatever. Carry it to its extreme and it serves to protect. Mrs O’Toole’s obsession with constancy may well be her best protection. As I said, the Effect is spreading, you know. It spreads.

He was silent.

—Often they fix themselves a time in their lives to mull over. Live the same day over and over again. Displaced persons are like that, you know. Always counterfeiting roots. Still. If a false front’s thick enough, it serves. To