Salman Rushdie: Grimus

Noises off: the twitterings of birds. A rustle of thick shrubbery. The occasional distant howl of a wild dog. No footsteps, no concourse of humanity. One window, with a piece of sacking drawn across it, flapping in the breeze; one door, covered in the same manner. It was the dwelling of a savage, or a castaway. Virgil Jones fitted into it about as easily as an elephant in a pepperpot.

He sat solicitously on the floor, wearing a dark and aged suit. There was a bowler hat upon his head and a gold chain traversed his waistcoat. (There was no gold watch at the end of it.) Somehow, thought Flapping Eagle, in these unsavoury surroundings, he preserves an air of dignity. Short-sighted, clumsy, loquacious, large-tongued, slobbering dignity, the injured hauteur of the impoverished. He reminded Flapping Eagle of an old railway engine he had once seen, a giant of steam in its day, rusting in a siding. The form of power denied its content. A stranded hulk. Puffing Billy. Flapping Eagle finished his root-tea, put the bowl down and fell fast asleep.

– That’s right, murmured Virgil Jones. Build your strength.

The birds sang their agreement from the trees.

When he awoke it was to find a different face staring down at him: the crinkled monkey folds of Dolores O’Toole’s physiognomy. At first he leapt in alarm, but then as wakefulness came subsided again, realizing that what he had taken for a snarl of hate was in fact a smile. Dolores O’Toole was the ugliest woman he had ever seen.

He gathered himself. -May I ask an obvious question, he said. Where am I?

– That’s a good question, approved Virgil Jones.

– Among friends, soothed Dolores O’Toole, snarling her sympathy.

Flapping Eagle felt highly confused.

– YOU ARE AT the foot of a mountain, said Virgil Jones. This is Calf Island, and the mountain is Calf Mountain. The mountain is really the whole island.

– Are you alone here? asked Flapping Eagle.

– Here, yes. Yes, here we are alone. Relatively speaking, said Virgil Jones. There are the birds, of course, and the chickens, and a few harmless wild animals.

– Do you mean there are no other human beings on the island at all?

– O, said Virgil Jones, no, I can’t truthfully say that.

– No, agreed Dolores, not truthfully.

Flapping Eagle had the distinct impression that they spoke with reluctance.

– Where are they then? he pressed.

– Ah, said Virgil.

– A long distance away, said Dolores.

Flapping Eagle’s head hurt; he felt ill. Scarcely strong enough to force information out of the lip-biting pair.

– Please, he said, tell me where.

Virgil Jones appeared to make a decision. -The slopes of the mountain, he said, are mainly covered in forestation. I believe there are a few people wandering around in the woods, but we rather keep ourselves to ourselves, so I couldn’t truthfully say where.

– And that’s all? asked Flapping Eagle.

– N… n… no, admitted Virgil.

– There are others, yielded Dolores.

– Are you going to tell me about them? asked Flapping Eagle, his skull giving a fair impression of splintering into a million tiny shards.

– O, you don’t want to know about them, said Virgil Jones hopefully.

– They are completely uninteresting, assured Dolores.

Flapping Eagle closed his eyes.

– Please , he said.

– He asks so politely, said Dolores despairingly.

So they told him.

From Dolores, he learned that K was a town of reprobates and degraded types; selfish, decadent people that no decent woman would want to be near; but then Flapping Eagle was no decent woman. From Virgil Jones he learned what he had hoped to learn. This was the place Sispy had spoken of. An island of immortals who had found their longevity too burdensome in the outside world, yet had been unwilling to give it up; with Sispy’s guidance they had come to Calf Mountain to be with their own kind.

– Does the name Bird-Dog mean anything to you? he asked.

– Bird-Dog, said Virgil Jones. (Was that alarm or concentration on his face?) Is the lady a friend of yours?

– My sister, said Flapping Eagle.

– No, said Virgil Jones. No, it doesn’t.

Later that night Flapping Eagle suddenly realized it must have been a lie. How had Mr Jones known the name Bird-Dog was a woman’s name?

And more importantly: why had he denied knowing her?

He pressed the point the next morning.

– My dear Mr Eagle, said Virgil Jones, I feel very strongly you should bend all your energies to the recovery of your health. You have been greatly weakened by your misadventure. When you are well, you have my word that Mrs O’Toole and I will answer all your questions. It’s a complex matter; I would be happier if you were in as fit a condition as possible.

– All I want, said Flapping Eagle, is an answer to one question: are my sister and Mr Sispy on this island? The answer to that will not strain my health, I assure you.

– Very well, sighed Mr Jones, the answer is Yes; yes, they are. After a fashion. And now I’ll say no more. Do get well soon, dear Mr Eagle.

Flapping Eagle let the subject drop and drank another bowl of root-tea.

Dolores O’Toole had hobbled off to collect fruits and berries. Virgil sat by Flapping Eagle’s bedside watching with ill-concealed jealousy as the convalescent man worked at the jigsaw puzzle.

– You astonish me with your skill, he said, with as good grace as he could muster.

– Beginners’ luck, disclaimed Flapping Eagle. He really was doing very well.

– Dolores and I are very anxious to hear all about you, now that you’re so much better. You must have had quite a time on your way here. But upon consideration perhaps it would be polite if I told you a little about ourselves first, so as to put you at your ease. If you’d like to hear about us, that is.

– Please, said Flapping Eagle and fitted three more pieces into the puzzle.

Virgil Jones frowned. -I think that one goes at the top, he said, a shade abruptly. Flapping Eagle tried; it didn’t.

– O, I see, said Flapping Eagle; it fits here. The piece slid into place at the bottom of the puzzle.

– I always wanted to be an archaeologist, you know, said Virgil Jones, changing the subject. Unfortunately life has a way of sidetracking one’s greatest ambitions. Painters, would-be artists, end up whitewashing walls. Sculptors are forced to design toilets. Writers become critics or publicists. Archaeologists, like myself, can become gravediggers.

– You were a gravedigger? asked Flapping Eagle in genuine surprise. But it fitted: Mr Jones’ habitual lugubrious expression went well with that profession.

– For a time, said Mr Jones. For a time. Before events conspired to bring me here. It was pleasant enough work; the most pleasing aspect being that everyone one met was happy. The corpses were content enough, and so, usually, were the mourners. It was a source of lasting comfort to me, the sight of so many tears of joy, so freely shed,

– That’s a very cynical statement, said Flapping Eagle.

– Alas, poor Yorick, said Virgil Jones; the worms long ago gnawed his romanticism to shreds.

In the ensuing silence, Flapping Eagle fitted together all but three of the remaining pieces.

– There’s not much for a gravedigger to do on Calf Mountain, said Virgil Jones; so I have retired into my true love-contemplation.

– And Dolores? asked Flapping Eagle.

– Ah, Dolores; there is a sad tale. To love life so much under such a physical burden… it is my belief she lives alone, or, that is to say, with me, because she finds she can only love human beings in their absence.

– This last piece, said Flapping Eagle, doesn’t fit.