Grimus - By Salman Rushdie Page 0,84

be a slur upon my husband’s memory if his death were to break down what we have built. The Way of K is a good Way. Nothing will change.

Flapping Eagle, listening to the defiant sentences, heard in them an echo of Dolores O’Toole; but he also heard a clue, a reason for the continued survival of most of K, which he had feared would fall under the spell of the Dimensions to the last man. Those who had survived the shock were those (like Irina) for whom the Way of K had become, not just a means of defence, but an end in itself, a way of life which preserved them in the cocoon of the past and the minutiae of the present. That was what they wanted. Thus Irina had simply assimilated her losses into her tragic self-image, and Peckenpaw had made Hunter a part of his own, often-told legends. For these people, the Grimus Effect was resistible. They had built an alternative to it, from necessity, and the alternative had become an independent thing. The Effect could not invade them: they had sunk too deeply into themselves.

—Fill the graves, gravedigger, said Flann O’Toole, and the ceremony was over.

Three things happened before the gathering dispersed which showed that despite Irina’s funeral speech, K would not remain entirely unaltered. The first of these occurred when Elfrida went up to Irina and said:

—I’m so sorry.

Irina looked at her with the practised contempt of generations and said:

—I do not speak to whores.

Elfrida, already pale, turned white as the Countess walked away.

The second event, offsetting this sharp estrangement of old friends, was a reconciliation. P. S. Moonshy approached Irina haltingly, avoiding her eyes, playing with a coat-button.

—Countess, he said, if Count Alexei should lack a games companion, I … I would be willing to … when time permits …

—Thank you, Mr Moonshy, said Irina.

K was closing ranks instinctively, reaffirming its unity against its resurgent enemy.

The third thing that happened was this:

One-Track Peckenpaw and Flann O’Toole had been murmuring together. They now approached the departing Flapping Eagle and Elfrida Gribb.

Peckenpaw said: —I got something to say to you.

Flapping Eagle and Elfrida stopped.

—Seems to us, said Peckenpaw, this all began when you hit town. Folks are saying the two of you been screwing each other, too. We don’t care for that kind of thing in this town.

—What are you saying, Mr Peckenpaw? said Elfrida coolly. Please be explicit.

—What I’m saying, Mrs Gribb, said Peckenpaw, accentuating the title with heavy scorn, is it’s maybe time certain people got the hell out.

—You do understand, said Flann O’Toole.

—I love you, said Elfrida Gribb, because I’ve stopped being a child. I don’t need protection now. I need you. You made me see what I was clinging to in Ignatius: more a father than a lover. Whereas you, my love, will be a lover. I know it. We shall look after each other and make love. You’ve forced me to grow up and I’m glad. I don’t want to be good any more.

—Glad? said Flapping Eagle. Glad, when it killed the man who loved you?

—You love me, said Elfrida, attacking his clothes. Show me.

—It’s impossible, said Flapping Eagle. We’ve just buried him.

—I love you, now, said Elfrida. Now. This minute. This second.

—Not now, said Flapping Eagle.

She broke away from his embrace; and her love increased the burden of his guilt.

XLIX

FLAPPING EAGLE WENT into K the next day, to collect food and a few other things from Moonshy’s stores. From the moment he entered the town, he knew that Peckenpaw had not been making empty threats. People stopped and stared as he passed, as though aghast at his temerity. The flavour of those old films seen in the fleapit at Phoenix filled the streets; K had become Peckenpaw-land, a small town of the Old West; and Flapping Eagle was, after all, a Red Indian. He half-expected a sheriff to emerge through swing-doors and gun him down then and there.

P. S. Moonshy was busy behind a counter, weighing things on scales. There was only one other customer in the room, but Moonshy ignored Flapping Eagle completely. When the woman left, Flapping Eagle said: —It’s my turn, I think.

—Think again, said P. S. Moonshy.

—Look, just give me the food and I’ll go, said Flapping Eagle, offering his list.

—No food, said P. S. Moonshy.

One-Track Peckenpaw was in the street when Flapping Eagle emerged empty-handed. —Wal, he said, if it ain’t the Indian. He placed himself between Flapping Eagle and his donkey.

Flapping Eagle resolved on