Under the Volcano - Malcolm Lowry [47]
"--Have you forgotten the letters Geoffrey Firmin the letters she wrote till her heart broke why do you sit there trembling why do you not go back to her now she will understand after all it hasn't always been that way toward the end perhaps but you could laugh at this you could laugh at it why do you think she is weeping it is not for that alone you have done this to her my boy the letters you not only have never answered you didn't you did you didn't you did then where is your reply but have never really read where are they now they are lost Geoffrey Firmin lost or left somewhere even we do not know where--"
The Consul reached forward and absentmindedly managed a sip of whisky; the voice might have been either of his familiars or--
Hullo, good morning.
The instant the Consul saw the thing he knew it an hallucination and he sat, quite calmly now, waiting for the object shaped like a dead man and which seemed to be lying flat on its back by his swimming-pool, with a large sombrero over its face, to go away. So the "other" had come again. And now gone, he thought: but no, not quite, for there was still something there, in some way connected with it, or here, at his elbow, or behind his back, in front of him now; no, that too, whatever it was, was going: perhaps it had only been the coppery-tailed trogon stirring in the bushes, his "ambiguous bird" that was now departing quickly on creaking wings, like a pigeon once it was in flight, heading for its solitary home in the Canyon of the Wolves, away from the people with ideas.
"Damn it, I feel pretty well," he thought suddenly, finishing his half quartern. He stretched out for the whisky bottle, failed to reach it, rose again and poured himself another finger. "My hand is much steadier already." He finished this whisky and taking the glass and the bottle of Johnny Walker, which was fuller than he'd imagined, crossed the porch to its farthest corner and placed them in a cupboard. There were two old golf balls in the cupboard.
"Play with me I can still carry the eighth green in three. I am tapering off," he said. "What am I talking about? Even I know I am being fatuous."
"I shall sober up." He returned and poured some more strychnine into the other glass, filling it, then moved the strychnine bottle from the tray into a more prominent position on the parapet. "After all I have been out all night: what could one expect?"
"I am too sober. I have lost my familiars, my guardian angels. I am straightening out," he added, sitting down again opposite the strychnine bottle with his glass. "In a sense what happened was a sign of my fidelity, my loyalty; any other man would have spent this last year in a very different manner. At least I have no disease," he cried in his heart, the cry seeming to end on a somewhat doubtful note, however. "And perhaps it's fortunate I've had some whisky since alcohol is an aphrodisiac too. One must never forget either that alcohol is a food. How can a man be expected to perform his marital duties without food? Marital? At all events I am progressing, slowly but surely. Instead of immediately rushing out to the Bella Vista and getting drunk as I did the last time all this happened and we had that disastrous quarrel about Jacques and I smashed the electric-light bulb, I have stayed here. True, I had the car before and it was easier. But here I am. I am not escaping. And