Paul Theroux - Saint Jack

“Let me explain,” I said. They didn’t know the half of it; I could tell them Leigh’s lie about his club, the airport story about “What ship your flend flom?” and how he had suggested we go see Hing before having a drink (“Arse licker!” Yardley would have cried). But I flubbed it before I began by saying, “William arrived yesterday, and where else—”

“ William? ” Yardley looked at me. “You call that little maggot William? Well, I’ll be damned.” He shook his head. “Jack, don’t be a sucker. Even bloody Desmond can see that bugger’s jumped-up, and he knows you’re a Yank so he can get away with telling you he’s governor general— you won’t know the difference. Listen to me. I’m telling you he’s so shifty the light doesn’t strike him.”

“I hear he’s a nasty piece of work,” said Coony.

“He’s all fart and no arse,” said Smale, who then mimicked Leigh, saying, “I haven’t the remotest idea.”

“He’d try the patience of a bloody saint,” said Yardley.

“Why don’t you lay off him,” I said, surprising myself with the objection.

“Jack likes him,” said Yardley. “Don’t he, Desmond?”

“Yeah,” said Frogget, turning away from me and rubbing his nose which in profile was a snout. “I fancy he does.”

“I don’t,” I said, and although I had planned a moment earlier to denounce Leigh, I hated myself for saying it. When I first saw Leigh at the airport I had an inkling — a tic of doubt that made me want to look into a mirror — of how other people saw me. Now I understood that tic, and whatever I might say about Leigh did not matter: I could prove my dislike to these fellers at the bar facing me, but there was no way I could make myself believe it. It was not very complicated. Middle age is a sense of slipping and decline, and I suppose I had my first glimpse of this frailty in Leigh, the feeling of the body growing unreliable, getting out of control in a mournfully private way — only the occupier of the body could know. Once, I might have said, “He’s all fart and no arse,” but hearing it from Smale was a confirmation of my fear. The ridicule involved me — it was fear, and I was inclined now to defend the stranger, for hearing him ridiculed I knew how others ridiculed me; defending him was merciful, but it also answered a need in myself by providing me with a defense.

It was so simple. But the peril of being over fifty is, with anger’s quick ignition, the age’s clinging to transparent deceptions. We let others confirm what we already know, and we get mad because they say it; what appears like revelation is the calling of a desperate bluff: the young wiseacre who, starting his story, says, “This feller was really old, about fifty or sixty—” drives every listener over fifty up the wall. We knew it before he said it. What is aggravating is not that the wiseacre knows, but that he thinks it’s important and holds it against us. Our only defense is in refusing to laugh at his damned joke.

So: “He’s not here,” I said, “and it’s not fair to talk behind his back.”

“Look who’s talking about being fair!” said Yardley. He had overcome his colicky anger and was laughing at me. “Who is it that imitates the maggot skinner when his back is turned?”

It was true; I did. When Mr. Tan left the bar I sometimes did an imitation of him with his Reader’s Digest and bottle of Vimto soybean milk. I looked over and was glad to see that Mr. Tan had gone home; Yardley’s “Chink” had done it. My other routines were Wally polishing glasses, Frogget’s shambling, and Yardley, drunk, forgetting the punch line of a joke. My imitations were not very accurate, but my size and panting determination made the attempt funny. Mimicry reassures the weak, and the envious fool takes the risk as often as the visionary who mocks the error and leaves the man alone; I did not like to be reminded by my brand of mimicry.

“I’m turning over a new leaf,” I said.

“By wearing a suit?” Smale asked.

Of course. I had forgotten I was wearing a suit. That bothered them most of all. They were sensitive about fellers who dressed up and made a bluff of the success they felt was denied everyone because it was denied them.

“I had to go to a funeral,” I said. I took off my jacket and rolled up my shirt-sleeves. I knew instantly what Yardley’s next words would be.

He said: “Don’t tell me your friend’s packed it in!”

“That’d be a ruddy shame,” said Smale.

“Let’s drop it, shall we?” I said. After all my indignant sympathy that was the only rebellion I could offer.

Then Leigh walked in.

I heard Gopi’s characteristic trampling of the cobbled path in the garden, his whisper, and Leigh’s, “Ah, yes, here we are,” and my heart quickened.

“Long time no see,” said Yardley.

Leigh brightened; but Yardley was beckoning to Gopi and ordering Gopi a drink. “How you doing?” said Yardley, putting his arm around the peon.

“ There you are,” said Leigh. I winced at the demonstration of pretended relief. Leigh glanced at the others and said, “’d evening” and “M’ellew.”

“Go on,” said Yardley, “drink up! There’s a good chap.”

Gopi had a whiskey in his hand. He drank it all and at once his eyes glazed, his face went ashen and matched his caste mark.

“Leave him alone,” I said. “Gopi, don’t drink if you’re not in the mood.”

“He’s going to be sick,” said Coony.

“I like this little chap’s company,” said Yardley. It was his revenge on Leigh. “Have another one?”

Gopi nodded, but he was not saying yes. He covered his face with a hanky and pedaled to the door. Outside, in the garden, he became loud, hawking and spitting.

“The call of the East,” said Smale.

Gopi groaned, and dragged himself away.

“That was mighty nice of you,” I said to Yardley.

“He’ll be all right,” Yardley muttered, and turned away, saying, “Now, where was I?” to Frogget and Smale.

“How are you doing?” asked Leigh.

“Anyone I can,” I said.

“That clerk of yours very kindly showed me the way here. Poor chap’s got a sort of gammy leg, hasn’t he, and I was a bit sorry he had to—” Leigh was still talking about Gopi’s lameness, but he was not looking me in the eye. He stared at my tattoos, the ones on my left arm, and in particular at the long blue crucifix crowned with a circle of thorns dripping inverted commas of blood onto my wrist. I pressed my right to my side as soon as I saw him fasten on the left.

“He’s a wonderful feller,” I said. “Minds his own business.” I reached for my drink and when I lifted it his gaze lifted until it met my own. He looked tired. He had been hard at work all day, probably sitting in that low chair in Hing’s office, out of range of the fan’s blowing, while Hing looked on and slapped at papers on his desk. Leigh’s eyes were watery and his hair was stuck to his head with sweat; the floridness of his face, which had looked like ruddy good health the day before, was not a solid color, but rather many little veins and splotches. I looked at him as at a picture in a newspaper that goes insubstantial with closeness, the face blurred to a snowfall of dots.

“How do the accounts look?” I asked, handing Leigh a tumbler of gin.

“Bit ropey,” said Leigh. “Any of the pink stuff?”

Wally shook some drops of Angostura into the gin.

“That’ll put lead in your pencil,” I said.

“Best to put it in the glass before the gin and work it around the sides,” said Leigh. He wrapped the glass in his hanky, said, “Cheers,” and drank.

“I don’t mind telling him to get knotted,” Yardley was saying.