had a shotgun.’ He did Mamoon’s ludicrously posh voice, ‘“Would anyone notice if we eliminated some of these young people? Would anyone care when there are so many of them just hanging about?”’
Liana said, ‘He says the same about cyclists. But if someone doesn’t come, I’ll scream like a banshee. Will you bring her to Mamoon’s birthday dinner – anyone young is welcome.’
‘I will ask her. I know what she’ll say.’
‘What?’
‘“What will I wear?”’
‘A woman after my own heart. Oh Harry, as Dante the famous writer says, “Tonight is the beginning of always . . . Amore e
’
l cor gentil sono una cosa. ”’
Nine
‘Come on Boswell, are you a real man or are your stories all made up like mine?’ cried Mamoon, always keen on a little lethal competition after a morning keeping culture alive. ‘My nuts are not even sweating! Make me run! Don’t you want to kill the jumped-up wog who has stolen your white women? Take your chance with murder at last! What risk have you ever taken?’
Harry found it amusing to knock balls around for Mamoon to hit, and Mamoon enjoyed the vigorous sessions; they cheered him up, particularly the bullying part.
Thwack – Harry hit the ball, calling after it, ‘There, Fred Perry, practise your backhand on that, if you can! Go, go, go, grandad!’
When Mamoon did run, he coughed; he hawked, retched and spat, his whole body shuddering. Then he wanted to play again, to push himself.
In the kitchen, as they were leaving, Liana had wagged her bejewelled finger at Harry. ‘Whenever he insists that you kill him, that he would love to be murdered by you, I do not want you to provide him with a heart attack, okay? This may be a labour of hate, and I don’t know the incidence of biographers actually murdering their subjects, but let’s not begin a trend.’
Harry soon wondered if he had indeed begun a trend. He sent across a strong but not-too-strong shot. The old man was lumbering after the ball when he suddenly pulled up as if he’d been shot, yelling out in pain and falling onto his knees.
Harry ran to Mamoon, turned him onto his back and told him to remain still. He would fetch help.
‘I’ve never been still in my life,’ said Mamoon. ‘I will rise up and walk!’
Despite what Harry reckoned to be a pulled muscle, Mamoon began to crawl across the court, insisting they restart the game. Holding onto the fence, he scrambled to his feet, bent to one side, and presented his racket.
‘Serve! I’m ready! Come on, you English public-school bastard!’
Harry gently patted the ball towards him. Mamoon hurried for it and keeled over once more, falling onto his face while clutching his side.
Harry hadn’t brought his phone. He had to get Mamoon to his feet and more or less carry him back to the house. It was quite a hike, and Mamoon was heavy, sweating and cursing. At last Harry asked Mamoon to climb onto his back; after some consideration, it seemed to be the most efficacious position.
As they went, Mamoon breathed into Harry’s ear, ‘I bet you wish you were writing another bad book about Conrad. Tell me, what is that story where a man has to carry a corpse on his back? Or perhaps I have become Kafka’s authoritarian insect?’
Having to conserve his breath, Harry was unable to reply.
Liana glanced out of the window to see the groaning two-headed, two-legged creature staggering towards the house. Out she rushed, demanding to know what Harry had done to her husband. While she ministered to him, Harry waited for Mamoon to explain, but the old man just yelped, cursed and refused to lie down until Liana threatened to spank him. She sent Harry to the woods to make a stick for Mamoon.
Since Liana was preoccupied organising Mamoon’s birthday dinner, for the next few days Harry was deputed to take care of Mamoon physically. He dragged the old man in and out of chairs, got him to the door of his work room – though, like everyone else, he was
Liana said, ‘He says the same about cyclists. But if someone doesn’t come, I’ll scream like a banshee. Will you bring her to Mamoon’s birthday dinner – anyone young is welcome.’
‘I will ask her. I know what she’ll say.’
‘What?’
‘“What will I wear?”’
‘A woman after my own heart. Oh Harry, as Dante the famous writer says, “Tonight is the beginning of always . . . Amore e
’
l cor gentil sono una cosa. ”’
Nine
‘Come on Boswell, are you a real man or are your stories all made up like mine?’ cried Mamoon, always keen on a little lethal competition after a morning keeping culture alive. ‘My nuts are not even sweating! Make me run! Don’t you want to kill the jumped-up wog who has stolen your white women? Take your chance with murder at last! What risk have you ever taken?’
Harry found it amusing to knock balls around for Mamoon to hit, and Mamoon enjoyed the vigorous sessions; they cheered him up, particularly the bullying part.
Thwack – Harry hit the ball, calling after it, ‘There, Fred Perry, practise your backhand on that, if you can! Go, go, go, grandad!’
When Mamoon did run, he coughed; he hawked, retched and spat, his whole body shuddering. Then he wanted to play again, to push himself.
In the kitchen, as they were leaving, Liana had wagged her bejewelled finger at Harry. ‘Whenever he insists that you kill him, that he would love to be murdered by you, I do not want you to provide him with a heart attack, okay? This may be a labour of hate, and I don’t know the incidence of biographers actually murdering their subjects, but let’s not begin a trend.’
Harry soon wondered if he had indeed begun a trend. He sent across a strong but not-too-strong shot. The old man was lumbering after the ball when he suddenly pulled up as if he’d been shot, yelling out in pain and falling onto his knees.
Harry ran to Mamoon, turned him onto his back and told him to remain still. He would fetch help.
‘I’ve never been still in my life,’ said Mamoon. ‘I will rise up and walk!’
Despite what Harry reckoned to be a pulled muscle, Mamoon began to crawl across the court, insisting they restart the game. Holding onto the fence, he scrambled to his feet, bent to one side, and presented his racket.
‘Serve! I’m ready! Come on, you English public-school bastard!’
Harry gently patted the ball towards him. Mamoon hurried for it and keeled over once more, falling onto his face while clutching his side.
Harry hadn’t brought his phone. He had to get Mamoon to his feet and more or less carry him back to the house. It was quite a hike, and Mamoon was heavy, sweating and cursing. At last Harry asked Mamoon to climb onto his back; after some consideration, it seemed to be the most efficacious position.
As they went, Mamoon breathed into Harry’s ear, ‘I bet you wish you were writing another bad book about Conrad. Tell me, what is that story where a man has to carry a corpse on his back? Or perhaps I have become Kafka’s authoritarian insect?’
Having to conserve his breath, Harry was unable to reply.
Liana glanced out of the window to see the groaning two-headed, two-legged creature staggering towards the house. Out she rushed, demanding to know what Harry had done to her husband. While she ministered to him, Harry waited for Mamoon to explain, but the old man just yelped, cursed and refused to lie down until Liana threatened to spank him. She sent Harry to the woods to make a stick for Mamoon.
Since Liana was preoccupied organising Mamoon’s birthday dinner, for the next few days Harry was deputed to take care of Mamoon physically. He dragged the old man in and out of chairs, got him to the door of his work room – though, like everyone else, he was
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