Angelica's Grotto

44 Oannes Says

At three o’clock in the morning the ward was fully itself, a place of darkness behind the membrane of apparent reality, a realm where nothing was certain and everything in doubt, an enclave of enforced intimacy where strangers hawked, spat, snored, farted, and peed in bottles while nurses ministered to them in stealth and whispers. Klein, now on the third of Patrick o’Brian’s Aubrey-Maturin novels, was in the foretopmast crosstrees of HMS Surprise, considering, with Stephen Maturin and Jack Aubrey, ‘the ship thus seen as a figure of the present — the untouched sea before it as the future — the bow wave as the moment of perception, of immediate existence’. The frigate was before the wind, her motion long and easy; the swing of the topmast as she pitched was hypnotic.

Harold Klein, millionaire, said Oannes.

Belay that, said Klein. You needn’t tell the whole world about it; anyhow, a fool and his money are soon parted. ‘Sorry,’ he said as Staff Nurse Judy Magee approached, ‘I was thinking out loud.’

‘I didn’t hear anything,’ said Judy, offering a thermometer. ‘Pop this under your tongue.’

‘In a moment.’ Testing, said Klein to himself. Testing, one, two, three, four. To Judy he said, ‘Did you hear anything then?’

‘Like what?’ She put the blood-pressure cuff on his arm and pumped it up.

‘Words from me.’

‘When?’

‘Just before I asked you if you heard anything.’

‘You said you were thinking out loud.’

‘And after that?’

‘One twenty over sixty.’

‘Did I say that?’

‘I did — that’s your blood pressure.’

‘But after I said I was thinking out loud, what did I say next?’

‘You asked me if I’d heard anything. Would you like a sleeping tablet? They’ve written you up for one.’

‘No, thanks, I’ll be all right.’ He popped the thermometer under his tongue and tried to keep his mind blank while she wrote down his blood pressure. ‘OK,’ she said when she had noted his temperature, ‘I’ll look in on you in another hour.’

‘Right. See you.’ He was always pleased to see her in the night; hers was a sweet face, what he thought of as a Forties face, the loyal sweetheart in black-and-white war films, working as a riveter in an aircraft factory while her fiancé fought overseas. The shape of her face and her short hair reminded him of Melissa but the spirit that animated her face was altogether different. Oannes, he said, is that you?

Were you expecting someone else?

You’re different now, we’re having a conversation and it’s all in my head — I’m not talking out loud or whispering.

So?

You’ve become a proper inner voice! It’s been so long since I had one! To what do I owe this change?

We have more to talk about than we did before.

Like what?

Like how much money are you putting into this Melissa thing?

I still have to work that out. Why?

You’re not by any chance stalling, are you?

Stalling? Not really — it’s just that it’s something that requires careful thought.

I’m glad to hear that, because you don’t really know anything about her except that she tastes good.

Aren’t you the one who said that madness is the natural state?

Yes, but I never told you to go completely natural; there are practical limits to this sort of thing.

You’re starting to sound like the talking cricket in Pinocchio.

Maybe guys with wooden heads need talking crickets.

Look, I’m kind of tired now. We’ll talk again soon, OK?

Whatever you say, Boss.