Heavy Water_ And Other Stories - Martin Amis [91]
And Jagob nadded. And he, doo, underzdood.
Bevore, I knew thad grabs died and thad vish died. I knew thad the old, with all their agues and banes, mighd have reason do be gradevul vor the brazbegd of an ending. And, of gorze, all over the world, in vazd numbers, beeble grash and zdarve and bleed and burn, ged glubbed, grushed, zdabbed, shad, valling, valling away, in vazd numbers, all over the world. Bud death had never been zo near, where it has no businezz. Bablo, Jagob, Eliaz. We are the young. Are we nad?
Bud then you’re wading on the dird road, with Marlowe, by the gar. With Marlowe in a daze, in a dream, in a nidemare. Graynezz is zeebing ubwards vram the band. And nothing is glear. And then zuddenly the gray brighdens, giving you a deeb thrab in the middle of your zgull.
Eliaz wend zwimming without his armies! Alaz! Eliaz wend doo deeb withoud his vloadies. And you muzd do thiz, whether or nad you survive. One day you muzd! How many grownubs do you see, when you go to the beej, zwimming with vloadies? How many adulds are out there, in the bounding waves, zwimming with armies?
And iv they do go under, then they don’d redurn. Nothing has the bower to bring them bag—no zlide of hand, no drig vodagravy, no medizine, no miragle. They zday where they are vor ever, alone in the gold earth.
I veel id in my hard now. I remember Marlowe’s eyes, and dears begin to gather in my own. Begaz one vine day you gan loog ub vram your billow and zee no brother in the dwin bed. You go around the houze, bud your brother is nowhere do be vound.
The haliday has gum and gan. The haliday is over.
The holiday has come and gone. The holiday is over.
Goodbye to it all.
And that is what happened to me on my holiday.
New Yorker, 1997