an
immense comfort however in the mere presence of the whisky bottle) pouring
himself from the sinister bottle a half-tumblerful of his mixture. I have
resisted temptation for two and a half minutes at least: my redemption is sure.
"Neither do I believe in the strychnine, you'll make me cry again, you
bloody fool Geoffrey Firmin, I'll kick your face in, O idiot!" That was
yet another familiar and the Consul raised his glass in token of recognition
and drank half its contents thoughtfully. The strychnine--he had ironically put
some ice in it--tasted sweet, rather like cassis; it provided perhaps a species
of subliminal stimulus, faintly perceived: the Consul, who was still standing,
was aware too of a faint feeble wooling of his pain, contemptible....
"But can't you see you cabrón
that she is thinking that the first thing you think of after she has arrived
home like this is a drink even if it is only a drink of strychnine the
intrusive necessity for which and juxtaposition cancels its innocence so you
see you might as well in the face of such hostility might you not start now on
the whisky instead of later not on the tequila where is it by the way all right
all right we know where it is that would be the beginning of the end though a
damned good end perhaps but whisky the fine old healthful throat-smarting fire
of your wife's ancestors nació 1820 y siguiendo tan campante and afterwards you
might perhaps have some beer good for you too and full of vitamins for your
brother will be here and it is an occasion and this is perhaps the whole point
for celebration of course it is and while drinking the whisky and later the
beer you could nevertheless still be tapering off poco a poco as you must but
everyone knows it's dangerous to attempt it too quickly still keeping up Hugh's
good work of straightening you out of course you would!" It was his first
familiar again and the Consul sighing put the tumbler down on the tray with a
defiantly steady hand.
"What was that you said?"
he asked Yvonne.
"I said three times,"
Yvonne was laughing, "for Pete's sake have a decent drink. You don't have
to drink that stuff to impress me... I'll just sit here and cheer."
"What?" She was sitting on
the parapet gazing over the valley with every semblance of interested
enjoyment. It was dead calm in the garden itself. But the wind must have
suddenly changed; Ixta had vanished while Popocatepetl was almost wholly
obscured by black horizontal columns of cloud, like smoke drawn across the
mountain by several trains running parallel. "Will you say that
again?" The Consul took her hand.
They were embracing, or so it all but
seemed, passionately: somewhere, out of the heavens, a swan, transfixed,
plummeted to earth. Outside the cantina El Puerto del Sol in Independencia the
doomed men would be already crowding into the warmth of the sun, waiting for
the shutters to roll up with a crash of trumpets...
"No, I'll stick to the old
medicine, thanks." The Consul had almost fallen backwards on to his broken
green rocking-chair. He sat soberly facing Yvonne. This was the moment then,
yearned for under beds, sleeping in the corners of bars, at the edge of dark
woods, lanes, bazaars, prisons, the moment when--but the moment, stillborn, was
gone: and behind him the ursa horribilis of the night had moved nearer. What
had he done? Slept somewhere, that much was certain. Tak: Tok: help: help: the
swimming-pool ticked like a clock. He had slept: what else? His hand searching
in his dress trousers pockets felt the hard edge of a clue. The card he brought
to light said:
Arturo Diaz Vigil
Medico Cirujano y Partero
Enfermedades de Niños
Indisposiciones Nerviosas
Consultas de 12 a 2 y de 4 a 7
Av. Revolución Numero 8.
"--Have you really come back? Or
have you just come to see me?" the Consul was asking Yvonne gently as he
replaced the card.
"Here I am, aren't I?" Yvonne
said
immense comfort however in the mere presence of the whisky bottle) pouring
himself from the sinister bottle a half-tumblerful of his mixture. I have
resisted temptation for two and a half minutes at least: my redemption is sure.
"Neither do I believe in the strychnine, you'll make me cry again, you
bloody fool Geoffrey Firmin, I'll kick your face in, O idiot!" That was
yet another familiar and the Consul raised his glass in token of recognition
and drank half its contents thoughtfully. The strychnine--he had ironically put
some ice in it--tasted sweet, rather like cassis; it provided perhaps a species
of subliminal stimulus, faintly perceived: the Consul, who was still standing,
was aware too of a faint feeble wooling of his pain, contemptible....
"But can't you see you cabrón
that she is thinking that the first thing you think of after she has arrived
home like this is a drink even if it is only a drink of strychnine the
intrusive necessity for which and juxtaposition cancels its innocence so you
see you might as well in the face of such hostility might you not start now on
the whisky instead of later not on the tequila where is it by the way all right
all right we know where it is that would be the beginning of the end though a
damned good end perhaps but whisky the fine old healthful throat-smarting fire
of your wife's ancestors nació 1820 y siguiendo tan campante and afterwards you
might perhaps have some beer good for you too and full of vitamins for your
brother will be here and it is an occasion and this is perhaps the whole point
for celebration of course it is and while drinking the whisky and later the
beer you could nevertheless still be tapering off poco a poco as you must but
everyone knows it's dangerous to attempt it too quickly still keeping up Hugh's
good work of straightening you out of course you would!" It was his first
familiar again and the Consul sighing put the tumbler down on the tray with a
defiantly steady hand.
"What was that you said?"
he asked Yvonne.
"I said three times,"
Yvonne was laughing, "for Pete's sake have a decent drink. You don't have
to drink that stuff to impress me... I'll just sit here and cheer."
"What?" She was sitting on
the parapet gazing over the valley with every semblance of interested
enjoyment. It was dead calm in the garden itself. But the wind must have
suddenly changed; Ixta had vanished while Popocatepetl was almost wholly
obscured by black horizontal columns of cloud, like smoke drawn across the
mountain by several trains running parallel. "Will you say that
again?" The Consul took her hand.
They were embracing, or so it all but
seemed, passionately: somewhere, out of the heavens, a swan, transfixed,
plummeted to earth. Outside the cantina El Puerto del Sol in Independencia the
doomed men would be already crowding into the warmth of the sun, waiting for
the shutters to roll up with a crash of trumpets...
"No, I'll stick to the old
medicine, thanks." The Consul had almost fallen backwards on to his broken
green rocking-chair. He sat soberly facing Yvonne. This was the moment then,
yearned for under beds, sleeping in the corners of bars, at the edge of dark
woods, lanes, bazaars, prisons, the moment when--but the moment, stillborn, was
gone: and behind him the ursa horribilis of the night had moved nearer. What
had he done? Slept somewhere, that much was certain. Tak: Tok: help: help: the
swimming-pool ticked like a clock. He had slept: what else? His hand searching
in his dress trousers pockets felt the hard edge of a clue. The card he brought
to light said:
Arturo Diaz Vigil
Medico Cirujano y Partero
Enfermedades de Niños
Indisposiciones Nerviosas
Consultas de 12 a 2 y de 4 a 7
Av. Revolución Numero 8.
"--Have you really come back? Or
have you just come to see me?" the Consul was asking Yvonne gently as he
replaced the card.
"Here I am, aren't I?" Yvonne
said
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