Stanley Elkin - George Mills

“De courier ’ad goon to stan’ next old Mahmud ’imself — may Halla ’crease ’is camels an’ rise de horanges in ’is hoāses — an’ on an preharranged sidgnal, winkies me for’d oo, ’igh church dat was, on’y now begins to take hin wot ’ igh church ’mounts to, in dis wool. Usin’ de goldern packadge for balance, sendin’ it hout hinches afore me as a man down de mine might send de rays huv ’is lampern. Like some bloke on an ’igh wire I was. Feelin’ me way an’ doin’ dis piecemeal shuffle. Bloody ridiclus. Me eyes on de groun’, on de runner, de Horiental carpet wif its dizzy spaghetti an’ red rose geometrics till I were sick at stomk an’ might ’ave thrown up my own self if I thunk it wouldink show. Acherly thinkink: Yar. Dat’s wot dese flower arrandgements is — vomit, tummy rosettes, barf bouquets. An’ navigatink by de acheral pull a gravity oo ’ad wanted to guide carriages, to ’ave the tug of bits, an’ make my ’ands felt in an ’orse’s mouf. The gravities loose, flowink like wind thoo a draughty house. Feelink it. Hin my nauseated stomk, hup my ’eavy leggings, hon my ’ands wot ’eld de goldern package. Hall at once. Goin’ thoo me like ha dose a salts. Oo ’ad wanted de control of reins an’ ’ad dem now, but transformed, see? Redistribted like. Oo pulled ’isself alorng dat runner of decorated rug by reaction, resistance to the hints of heaving, falling, dropping. So dat I was like some long, deep, earthboundried hanimal, er snake say, hor a worm, dealink with space by constankly making dese adjustments of muscle, forever ’itching me pants so to speak. Wot all der time felt de high weight of de complicated ceilink threaten my neck like a guillotine.

“An’ knew I was close when I could ear ’em whisperink. De Hottoman Hemperor. De Hottoman Hemporer hin Whiting.

“Peterson ‘eld my packadge whilst I did my salaam.

“Startink at me belly an’ brinkink it hever ’igher, I spun me left hand habout an’ brung it to rest wit me palm on me fore’ead.

“The two potentates, ’im wot was in power an’ ’im wot was in whiting suddenly silent. Wartching me close now oo before ’ad barely give me de odd ogle. I haccepted de box from Peterson wot we’d brought all de way from Blighty an’ shoved it toward Abdulmecid, oo proved to be a strapping tall spotty-faced lad, much holder in happearance dan de five years ’e was reported to be. An’ me thinkin’ to meself, If ’is gardfather was on’y whiting for ’im to get big ernough to be tanked for ’is gift in Hinglish instead oov Islam ’e might ’ave sent it years ago. ’e’s big ernough now, God bless ’im, to say ‘Thank you so very very much’ in Hinglish, German, or Chinese eiver.

“When ’e’d taken it from me I repeated me salaam as Peterson ’ad hinstructed me ter do, an’ now de Hemperor was growling in Hottoman Hempirese.

“Peterson spoke up in wot must ’ave been the same language an’ turns to me.

“ ‘ You, ’ ’e shouts, ‘what are you on about then, you great scummy gonad? You press your left hand to your forehead? Your left? You salute His Majesty with the same hand with which you wipe your arse?! ’

“By dis time Abdulmecid has got ’is packadge hopen an’ is lookin’ at me wif murther in ’is ’eart, an I don’ ’ave to see no Court records to know ’e ain’t been five years old for nine or ten years now, do I?

“ ‘What?’ says Peterson. ‘What?’

“ ‘It’s nappies,’ Abdulmecid says, standin’ arn de goldfoil wrappings. “It’s bloody fucking nappies,’ says Abdulmecid bin ’is perfect Hinglish.

“ ‘Seize him!’ roars ’is dad hin ’is. ‘Seize him and send him for a Janissary!’

“I look to Peterson for an hexplanation, but all ’e can do is shake ’is ’ead real sad like. ’e’s got dat same look on ’is dial wot I’ve seen when ’e’s about to come down wif the sicks.

“ ‘Wot?’ I arsk all confused like, ‘wot?’

“But I can see de guards comink. It’s just the job, i’n’t it? Dey grab me an’ start ter ’ustle me orf ter de flowery dell.

“Peterson wot ’as run orf quick as dammit ’oldink ’is sweet linen snotrag in front of ’is mouf turns an’ lifts ’is duster long ernough ter sing out ‘ ’is Majesty’s bidness! ’is Majesty’s bidness! ’ an’ ’e’s doin’ twenny in a ten-mile zone ergain. But de Hemperor’s lads ain’t exactually takin’ their time eiver, are they, an’ pretty soon we’ve caught up wif ’im, an’ I think uh oh, e’s for it too, is Peterson, but dey don’ evern try ter stop ’im. ‘Wot?’ I arsk again as they’re bum’s rushin’ me past ’im. ‘ Wot, for Gard’s sake?’

“ ‘Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are all dead, kid,’ Peterson says in a white whisper an’ goes all sick on the carpet.”

“You, Mills !” cries the Meat Cut.

“Mills? Who shouted Mills?” calls the Latrine Scrub.

“Sir, I did,” the Meat Cut admits.

The Soup Man watched his junior officers.

Mills was reluctant to approach the Meat Cut with the Soup Man so visible, but Paradise Dispatchers were all about the yard and had heard what amounted to a direct order. If he did not respond, one of the more eager among them might well have taken it into his head to do something about it. They resented him for a Christian, and though Mills had formally repudiated his religion over a year before and had become, if not for all the world then for all his comrades to see, a practicing Muslim, he could not, however hard he tried, keep the disgust from his face whenever he and his brothers-in-arms — an odd term, since it was the boast of the special service into which he’d been impressed by Mahmud II that they never used anything as effete as weapons, that their killing scrimmages were conducted with nothing more elaborate in the way of tools than might be found on the ordinary strangler or murderer — garotte collars and neckwrings, daggers and slingstones, brass knucks and brickbats, throwsticks and coshes, matches, fuel, the rocks in one’s tunic, the hangman’s fat hemps — prostrated themselves for sunrise, morning, midday, afternoon and evening prayers. The fecal stench that came through the soiled, thin clothing in the tightly formed ranks of worshippers was terrific, and, if his expression was hidden by his earth-pressed face, he could never suppress the sound of his gagging.

Bufesqueu, a not unsympathetic Balkanese of approximately his own age and tenure in the Corps, had chided him for it.

“We’re most of us converts, Mills. I myself was a very devout Greek Orthodox. You know what I miss most?”

“No,” Mills said.

“The incense.”

“I miss everything,” Mills said gloomily.

“It’s a good thing we’re buddies, Mills. Talk like that could be construed as treasonous. Anyway it would be better for you if you got into the spirit of things. When we’re stretched out nose to arsehole on the prayer rugs, pretend it’s incense.”

“Incense,” Mills said.

“Sure incense. Certainly incense. Of a sort. Of a kind. Raging candlesticks of bowel. The guts’ aromatics. Fart fragrance. The piss perfumes and come colognes, all the body’s musks and effluents. It makes it easier.”

“Easier.”

“The celibacy. Sometimes I whiff the great poisoned cloud of dirt and intimacy we make and I imagine myself among women, entire overwhelming harems of them, hordes, their menstrual smell, their stinky mystery. It’s deep I am, deep and lost down salty holes. Down and dirty. I bite the ground I lie upon and chew the earth until it turns to mud in my mouth. And they put me down for a religious zealot because the others have risen and I’m still praying. Oh yes. Not to lose my hard-on till I’ve come.”