The Beating of His Wings by Paul Hoffman Page A

river is the MEADOW OF DESOLATION. That’s where you’re heading, young man, despair’s your destination. You’re the salt in our wound, that’s what you are. You stink of misery and pretty soon the smell is going to fill the whole world.’
    Poll was beginning to shout.
    ‘I’d be sorry for you if we all weren’t going to get it in the neck as a result. You’re the angel of death all right – you stink of it. Cross over the river of no return into the land of lost content, the valley of the shadow of death …’
    Poll had raised her voice so much that Sister Wray came to with a loud snort.
    ‘What?’ she said.
    There was only silence. ‘Oh, Thomas, it’s you. I fell asleep. Have you been here long?’
    ‘No,’ said Cale. ‘Just got here.’
    ‘I’m sorry, I’m not feeling very well. We could continue tomorrow if you wouldn’t mind.’
    Cale nodded.
    Sister Wray stood up and walked him to the door. As he was about to leave she said, ‘Thomas, Poll didn’t say anything to you while I was asleep?’
    ‘Don’t believe a thing that snivelling little chisler tells you!’ squawked an alarmed Poll.
    ‘Be quiet,’ said Sister Wray.
    Cale looked at her. This was odd stuff to grasp even for a boy who had drunk deeply and at a very early age from the fountain of the strangeness of others.
    ‘No,’ he said. ‘It didn’t say anything and I wouldn’t have paid any attention even if it had.’

9
     
    ‘That’s easy for you to say. Have you ever allowed another man to fondle you?’
    ‘Not as far as I can remember.’
    Conn was arguing with Lord Vipond, watched by Arbell and a fascinated IdrisPukke.
    ‘
Has
the King ever touched you?’ asked Arbell, not altogether patiently.
    ‘No.’
    ‘Then why all this fuss?’
    ‘Every philosopher can stand the toothache,’ said Conn to his wife, ‘except for the one who has it.’
    This was a reference to one of IdrisPukke’s most carefully polished sayings.
    ‘Well,’ said Vipond, ‘if you’d like to swap banalities …’ this was aimed at his brother … ‘why don’t you consider this one: every problem is an opportunity.’
    The difficulty and the golden chance they were discussing involved King Zog of Switzerland and Albania, who’d taken a very particular shine to Conn Materazzi. Many, of course, felt the same about the tall and beautiful blond young man, so strong and graceful with his easy manners and openness to all. The cocky little shit of less than a year before had needed to grow up and had done so in such an appealing way that he surprised even his admirers. Arbell, who had once had a crush upon the spoilt young boy – though she treated him with coolness and even disdain as a result – now found that she was falling in love with him. Alittle late perhaps, given that they had been married for more than seven months and had a son whose early arrival, yet plump size, had been the subject of some ungenerous rumours. Though certainly more biddable than before, and considerably so, he had his limits, one of them being his aversion to everything about his royal admirer: his stained clothes (‘I can tell you everything he has eaten in the last month’), his tongue (‘It flaps about in his mouth like a wet sheet on a washing line’), his hands (‘Always fidgeting with himself and his favourite’s trousers’). His eyes (‘watery’). His feet (‘enormous’). Even the way he stood (‘Repulsive!’).
    ‘The King,’ said Vipond, ‘holds all of us in his hands – and more besides. Every country nervous about the Redeemers looks to him for a sign of what they might do. Without him, the Materazzi will descend into a kind of nothing – that’s to say your wife, your child and you.’
    ‘So you want me to lick his arse?’
    ‘Conn!’ A sharp rebuke from his wife.
    There was an unpleasant pause.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ said Conn at last.
    ‘I’ve heard worse,’ replied Vipond.
    ‘Can I say something?’ asked IdrisPukke.
    ‘Must