King Coffin

IX The Stranger Is Gay

The little procession was monstrous, it was absurd, it was mad and meaningless, and as he watched it from the safe interior of the car, which was filled with tobacco smoke, with his black hat pulled down over his eyes, the pale afternoon sunlight seemed to emphasize and isolate each element in it as grotesquely as if it were merely an outlandish figure in a dream.

Karl Jones had suddenly become new — he was being seen for the first time.

Bareheaded, wearing again his old black sweater, grinning a little self-consciously, as if something in the occasion made him shy, and as if he were trying to carry it off with bravado, he came down the wooden steps of the Alpine Street house with a small striped mattress over his shoulder and a worn suitcase in his hand. The suitcase he dropped on the cement sidewalk, where already stood a white-painted chair, such as are seen in hospitals, a Gladstone bag, a porcelain slop bowl, and a brown wicker hamper. He flung the mattress into the back of the open model-T Ford which waited at the curb, balancing it carefully over the child’s cot which reared its white legs and bright brass casters into the air. A middle-aged woman followed him down the steps, bringing a rope; with this they proceeded to knot the mattress into place, first throwing a patchwork quilt over the whole shapeless pile. Then the hamper was with some difficulty wedged into the front, beside the driver’s seat: it was heavy, tied with cord, and what looked like bed linen protruded from the gaping lid. As the woman reascended the steps Jones called after her:

— Guess we’ll have to carry the rest! Hope you don’t mind!

What she said was inaudible, she waved a hand, entered the house, and in a moment reappeared accompanied by a man. The man climbed into the front seat, slammed the tin door, started the car and began turning it. Jones lifted the slop bowl by its handle, laughing, his head tilted to one side: the woman seated herself in the white chair on the sidewalk. She too was laughing, leaning forward and clapping her hands on her knees. When Jones said something to her, she got up, took the slop bowl from him, picked up the suitcase, and began walking away towards Reservoir Street. Jones swung the chair up against his shoulder, seized the handle of the Gladstone bag, and followed.

The whole thing was unreal: it had no existence.

The woman might be a trained nurse: she was wearing a dark cloak from beneath which, as she walked, flashed the white of what appeared to be a uniform.

And the child’s cot — what about that? If there was a child, in the Reservoir Street house, why had he seen no sign of it in all this time? And if the child was ill — as the presence of the nurse seemed to suggest — then it was difficult to account for the queer cheerfulness of the scene. The logic was a little wrong.…

He sat still, watched them turn the far corner at last, vanish out of sight. They had not noticed him, it would be easy enough to drive slowly through Reservoir Street and observe the end of this peculiar ceremony, but for some obscure reason he felt apathetic, indifferent. It hardly mattered: he had already seen more than he expected anyway, he had not really intended to come here at all, had simply made a last-minute detour on his way to meet Gerta. The thing was a windfall, it was in a sense outside the routine, needn’t be too much bothered about. Just the same, it was certainly odd, among other things, that Jones should be here, and not at his office — it was three o’clock.

And this indifference, this apathy—

It was a part of the time problem.

He tapped a fingernail on his watch, frowned, opened the window to knock the ashes out of his pipe. It had certainly become unexpectedly difficult, unexpectedly vague — the queer thing was the way in which, from the moment when he had actually found Jones, marked him down, begun to learn about him and know him, the element of hurry, of pressure, had begun subtly to dissolve. It was as if abruptly he had stepped out of time into timelessness: what need could there be, any longer, for hurry? Jones was not only there, he was here: Jones had joined him, had joined his life: it was almost, in fact, as if Jones had become a part of his own “self.” He had again that queer feeling of encroachment, as if his image were walking toward him out of a mirror, or his shadow somehow falling on his own body; the feeling was not unpleasant, brought with it a sense of power, a sense of agreeable duplicity; but also in it was something a little disconcerting, or even dangerous. It was all very well for Toppan to say, in his smug insinuating fashion, that there wasn’t any point in going on with it after a certain time — how could Toppan know anything about it? The pure vision — this was (as in the beginning he had of course not been able to foresee) the period of pure vision! To sit back and watch, to wait here now, for instance, actually foregoing his power to watch, was a very nearly perfect thing. It was comparable to the artist’s intuition of the completed work of art: Jones was in the process of becoming an artifact. He remembered saying to Gerta—“an action could have the purity of a work of art. It could be as abstract and absolute as a problem in algebra.…”

Wasn’t that still true?

Of course: and more than ever necessary. What must be kept firmly in mind was the inherent necessity. If the world was logical at all, then it must be logical in every item. And if it was despicable, if humanity was despicable, and if one was to sound one’s contempt for it to the bottom, separate oneself from it, then the final and inevitable action in the series would be simply an act of destruction: it would be the only natural purification. It was not, in this sense, dictated so much by hatred as by a need for purification. Was that it? Or not hate only, at all events. It was the need of the superior being to separate himself violently from the one-who-wants-to-be-killed, the inferior, the crowd.…

He smiled, recapitulating; the whole thing summed itself up neatly and decisively; the constellation of events became once more precise and orderly. Gerta, Sandbach, Toppan, Jones — they were arranged and fell into place, the clock moved them in its geometrical orbit, their voices and faces faded as they passed, became vivid as they approached, faded again. Toppan’s suspicions were powerless to take any shape in action; Sandbach’s guesswork was too far off to find any accuracy of aim, his emotions too confused for any singleness of purpose; Gerta’s devotion would continue, until too late, to constitute for her an effective paralysis. They circled with the clock, they watched as they moved, but their fixed orbit, fixed by himself, would never bring them any nearer to him. They, as much as Jones, were his own creation, they were falling into their grooves, they no longer had any freedom of will. To all intents, they had become puppets.

Two children, a boy and a girl, ran past him bowling iron hoops, the wooden sticks ringing dully on the metal, clanking regularly, the shrill voices raised in a meaningless and unintelligible gabble. An immense pile of white clouds had come up from the southwest, the sun went out, the afternoon became gray.

He took Gerta’s letter from his pocket, opened it on his knee.

Jasper my dear — I suppose you suggested the place in Belmont because you knew I’d be teaching there in the afternoon, but I wish you had taken the trouble to let me know a little sooner, it’s not too convenient — and don’t you take a good deal for granted? I don’t quite know why you should assume — as you appear to — that your plans are of such importance to me. If you had wanted to see me, any time in the past fortnight, you could easily have done so: and why you should now want to be so spectacular — shall I say melodramatic? — about our meeting I confess I don’t see. Don’t you think the whole thing is becoming a trifle absurd? Why on earth should I want to watch you at revolver practice? Don’t be ridiculous! However, I am a little concerned about you, for Julius says you look ill and haven’t been sleeping, and of course I won’t pretend that I wouldn’t like to see you, so I’ll be there as soon as I can get away from Miss Bottrall’s dreadful little life class. I’d be somewhat relieved if you’d kindly forget to bring your revolver. It hardly seems necessary. Gerta.

They had been talking together again — and Toppan had told her that he looked ill.

What was more interesting, however, was the note of withdrawal in the letter, which was distinct. This too might be Toppan’s doing, but more likely it was Sandbach’s. Sandbach was beginning to struggle. He was saying to her — that madman Ammen. You must cut yourself off from that madman Ammen. The quarrel in front of the Fogg Museum might have been that — Sandbach had been urging her to drop him, he was frightened and angry, and he disapproved of Toppan’s influence because Toppan didn’t agree with him. That was why he had refused Toppan’s invitation to tea. And also, of course, he probably suspected Toppan of knowing more about the situation than he did himself. He suspected all three of them of keeping him at a distance, keeping him in the dark, he was struggling in a web of which the filaments were maddeningly invisible.… The whole thing was working beautifully.

But what should he say to Gerta?

He became aware that he had been listening to the radio which sounded from an open window, Frankie and Johnnie—“bring on your rubber-tired hearses, bring on your rubber-tired hacks”—the melancholy irony died behind him in a sardonic drawl as the car picked up speed, and in a moment he had passed the house in Reservoir Street and was heading for Concord Avenue. The Ford had gone, no one was in sight, but the cot and bags stood on the porch, and the door was wide open. It was tempting — the opportunity was certainly unusual — but on the other hand to turn back now might be a little risky: some prying neighbor, standing behind curtains, might notice it and think it peculiar, might remember seeing the Buick there before; or remember it later when he came again. Better not. And the day’s work was already good enough.

But what should he say to Gerta?

And need it be shaped in advance, or could it be allowed to shape itself, or to be shaped by her?

As a matter of fact, the necessity wasn’t so much for saying anything as for appearing: the real need, for the moment, was that he should simply be seen, so that the weight of his character and purpose — above all his purpose — should again, and at this critical juncture, be deeply felt. The time had come for a subtle counter-balancing of Sandbach, a sly disturbance of the center of gravity. To do this, it would be sufficient, as it were, simply to cross the stage, to look hard at her for a few seconds, and then vanish. The bonds would be tightened, Sandbach’s work would begin all over again, the shadow on him would have deepened still further, and if in addition Toppan had fed her natural anxiety, so that she was concerned for him, or even had begun to feel sorry for him—

He laughed, sounded the claxon derisively, once, twice, three times. Sorry for him! And of course it was exactly what was happening. It had been apparent in his last interview with her, she had pressed the point about Kay, she had subsequently tried to discuss the subject with Toppan, and now it was more than ever apparent in her letter. He looked ill, he was not sleeping. There it was, plain as a pikestaff! Accordingly, she would take the initiative, she would be inquisitive, she would want to find out exactly where they stood, both with regard to each other and with regard to Sandbach, and this would render her — in the deepest sense — vulnerable. On this pattern, the scene could be allowed to shape itself. She would question — she would stand there questioning — and he would simply be. We ask and ask — thou smilest, and art still outtopping knowledge. The abyss will gaze into thee.

The details shaped themselves beneath his hands on the wheel, flew in parallels of bright speed, seethed with the wind through the cracks in the glass, rose before him in the grey shape of Belmont. If he got there first, he would leave the car at the edge of the road, in the usual place, would precede her to the familiar little hollow of rocks and grass and junipers, with its wall of cedars and birches, so that before she could see him she would hear him. But if she heard the shots, would she dare to approach?

That risk must be taken. If she heard him, and decided not to come—

There was no sign of her at the top of the hill, nor in the path that led to the abandoned racecourse, nor on the grass-grown racecourse itself, where he got out of the car. The gray stillness was profound, it was like the Sabbath, he took the revolver from the pouch in the car door, slipped it into his pocket, also the little red box of cartridges tied with string, then put two fingers to his teeth and gave a long whistle, whip-lashed at the end like a whip-poor-will. There was no answer, no echo from the coppice of white birches, he noticed the dandelions in the short grass at his feet, and it occurred to him that he could leave a note for her. He wrote on the back of Gerta’s letter: Quite safe to approach: firing the other way. Leaving this on the runningboard, with a pebble to hold it in place, he descended the short path of rocks and sprawling juniper which led to the hollow, lifting one elbow before his face as a protection against swinging branches. As he watched the last of the young birch leaves, bright green, slide across his blue sleeve, he heard Gerta’s voice before him, speaking levelly:

— I had an idea it would be safer to be here first.

— You needn’t have worried. I left a note for you on the car.

— Why the car? is that part of the plot?

— Of course. I thought Toppan had told you. And as a matter of fact, hadn’t he?

— As a matter of fact, he hadn’t.

Seated on the rock, her hands beside her, her foot swinging, she looked up at him with an air of challenge and mischief, her dark eyes narrowed but bright, a look which in other circumstances might have been disconcerting. The familiar blue cape was open, save at the throat, she was wearing the white Russian blouse, she was bare-headed, the dark hair turned away in wings from the calm forehead.

— Then I’ve no doubt he will.

— My dear Jasper, would you mind just explaining a little of all this?

— Must I? I thought everything had been made quite clear at our last meeting.

— I see. You assumed it would all go on.

— Why not?

— As I said in my letter, you appear to take a great deal for granted. Merely because in the past we’ve been very good friends—

— Am I right in saying that we came to an agreement? an agreement to co-operate? But I suppose, as I predicted, S has begun to influence you, you’re no longer to be trusted. You were unable to keep yourself separate from him!

She got up and walked away from him slowly, her hands holding tensely the dark edges of the cape. Over her shoulder she said, with an effect of measured lightness:

— I expected you to say that. I’ve been completely loyal. Sandbach is certainly distressed and angry about it, and of course very much mystified, nor can you blame him, he’s not content to let things just stand as they are, he wants to know what is happening.

She turned back towards him, stood still in the grass, the cape folded across her breast, her arms akimbo beneath it. Across the little interval of bright grass and dandelions she continued:

— Co-operation! What am I supposed to do when you go away and stay away? It’s all very well!

He took out the revolver, held it flat on the flat of his hand, weighed it appreciatively with downward gaze.

— You were supposed to wait, to be trusted. You know that.

— Jasper, I was—

— You’ve doubted, you’ve drawn away, your letter makes that clear! We’ll discuss it later — in the meantime do you mind if I try this out? A couple of rounds, just to see if it’s working. Two years ago at Capri—

— Capri?

— It was all right. I could hit a stone the size of a watch at fifty feet.… I’ll use that rock over there.

He placed the box of cartridges on the grass before her, the revolver on top of it, then walked deliberately across the hollow toward the large rock at the farther end, where it rose against the overhanging hillock of other rocks and cedars. As he went, he stooped, picking dandelions, choosing the larger ones, and these he hung over the lichened crest of the gray rock, their golden heads toward Gerta. The sun came out, accentuating their brightness and the paleness of his hands. Turning back, he counted off the paces.

— Twenty-five.

— I suppose you’d like me to hold one in my teeth?

— This is probably the first time in the world that dandelions have been used. Now cover your ears.

He smiled at her: she smiled back. Then, raising the little black pistol over his head and slowly lowering it to the level of the rock, and without perceptible pause, the first golden disk sighted, he fired. The rock seemed to have jumped, the first of the dandelion heads had vanished, the swift sound fled wildly off among the woods, the little smoke died in sunlight. Before the ringing in his ears had ceased he fired again, and again the rock jumped, but this time it was a miss; then again, again, again, and again. Four of the flowers were gone, the woods were singing with compressed clamor, one clap of sound folding hollowly on another, a muffled swoon of tumult. He clicked the empty revolver, lifted his face to the smell of drifting gunpowder, laid his hand over the short barrel to feel the warmth. When he turned round, he saw that Gerta had gone very white.

— Feel it, he said.

— No thank you. I’m not enjoying this.

— I’m sorry. Do you mind if I continue?

— Not at all.

— If you listened carefully, it might give you a sense of power!

— A sense of your power?

— Just as you like.

She was frightened, she sat down again on her rock, her lips tightly pressed together, her face averted: she was swinging one foot, nervously; perhaps angrily. What she was about to say was in her eyes, in her lowered brows: he watched her decision while he extracted the magazine of blue metal and reloaded it.

— If you don’t mind my saying so, it all seems to me extremely silly.

— Why should I mind what you say? It is silly. Like many necessary things. And like many things we’ve agreed on before. Sandbach, for instance!

He gave a laugh, she turned and looked at him with a sudden sharpening of expression, something very like hatred, then as quickly looked away again. As if deliberately to pay no attention to her meaning he clicked the magazine into the grip, drew back the barrel, raised the pistol once more, lowered it, and fired. Another dandelion leapt in air and vanished, the bullet, ricocheting, whined away to the left, the hum of it lost in the swift sound of tearing which screeched in a circle round the woods; and then the five other shots, which followed in quick succession, doubled and redoubled the confused clamor. Only one dandelion was left, the echoes repeated ee yah, ee yah, ee yah, diminuendo, wingbeat on remoter wingbeat, a sullen dying of applause, and everything was again silent. He looked down at the empty shells, scattered about his feet, and said:

— Sandbach, for instance.… Ten out of twelve, not so bad.

She had stooped forward, had picked a single grass blade, was examining it, turning it between her fingers.

— And now would you mind telling me what it’s all about?

— I said Sandbach.

— Sandbach was understood, wasn’t he?

— It’s an accomplished fact, then?

— If you don’t mind, Jasper, I’d prefer not to discuss that part of it. You see—

— I see. I foresaw! I even foresaw that with it would go this withdrawal. And of course that he would say to you that you must drop me. But it’s too late. You can’t. You’re here.

— Yes, I’m here, but I think I must tell you—

— I think I’d better tell you.

— My dear Jasper, I wish you would! If it’s not too late. I mean, if that part of it isn’t too late. I can’t go on with it — I won’t any longer have any responsibility — much as I love you — can’t you see that the whole thing was a sort of hallucination? Couldn’t we still make something much better of it? S means nothing, not a thing—

She had put the grass blade between her lips, was looking downward, tears had brightened her eyes. But her voice had remained as admirably level as always.

— What is it exactly that you’d like to know?

— I want to know what it’s all about.

— We had that out. I haven’t changed.

— Could you tell me about it?

— My dear Gerta, you’re like an open book!

He laughed again, looking down at her tightly clasped hands, and went on:

— Well, I’ll say this much, that if he isn’t perfect he’s at any rate very good!

— Sandbach?

Her expression of bewilderment might or might not be ingenuous.

— No. We’ll call him X, shall we? It’s not Kazis. Would you like to know his real name?

— No.

— It’s Jones. The ideal name, and almost the ideal person. Good God, I didn’t know such people existed! A real and complete nonentity. Lives in a two-family house, takes out his own ashes, wears rubbers on rainy days, rides on a streetcar every day of his life.

— I see. And that’s enough, is it?

— Of course. Not that it’s enough to know. It’s curious how interesting it has become to know about him, to learn about him — and I’ve learnt a lot. Would you like to hear some of it? He reads The Herald, uses toothpicks, wears brown shoes with a blue suit, drinks a pint of whisky everyday at his office. I suppose he has nothing better to do. He’s in the advertising business, has a business, so-called, of his own. Reads textbooks on advertising in the subway. Yesterday it was a Manual of Typographical Standards published by The New York Times. Mezzographs, Line Cuts, Half-Tones, and Ross Boards — I’ve been studying it myself.…

— You are insane.

— Are we?

— Do you know S wants to report you?

— Oh, he does, does he!

— Yes.

He picked up the red-covered box of cartridges from the grass, put it in his pocket, took out his pipe; and as he did so a cloud went softly over the sun, the scene darkened. Everything looked smaller and nearer, Gerta seemed shrunken, he suddenly had a strange feeling of loneliness. This had happened before — it had happened only this morning in Harvard Square, when the sight of so many people, all rushing towards the subway, had given him a queer and unmistakable sensation of panic, of which the essential was solitude. This had been quite recognizable, was recognizable now, but had it any real significance? Yes, they all wanted to kill him, everybody really wanted to kill every one else, to be immersed in a crowd was to be immersed in a world of enemies. To face another individual was to face an enemy, even to face Gerta, who, under his own guidance, was in the very act of escaping from beneath his control. The eyes with which she looked up at him were Sandbach’s eyes, the words she used were now Sandbach’s, Sandbach had possessed her, still possessed her, it was to Sandbach he was speaking.

— I see. It is really Sandbach I am now talking to.

— Jasper, my dear, won’t you sit down and discuss it calmly?

— Yes. Let’s talk about it, for the last time, calmly!

He stretched himself, lazily, full length, on the grass, his hands under his chin: at once she came and sat beside him, crossing her knees: it was her intention to encroach. Leaning forward, and looking at him earnestly, she said:

— Now tell me, my dear. Do you mean to go on with it?

Not meeting her gaze, though he was aware of it, he answered shortly:

— The novel? King Coffin? Certainly.

— You know I don’t mean that.

— I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about.… By the way, I liked your new picture very much. What do you call it?

— Jasper!

— You have a really extraordinary imagination. It’s good — though I’m bound to say I don’t know what it means.

— I see. You won’t discuss it. I ought to have expected it, I suppose! I do what you ask, I accept Sandbach at your dictation, and this is what I get for my pains! It’s really funny!

She started to laugh, stopped abruptly, he watched her hands, in the grass, clutch savagely at the blades, and let them go again. He could hear her breathing rather quickly, turned his head sideways to look up at her with amused eyes, saw that she was staring sightlessly into the distance, the somber mouth relaxed, the whole expression desperate and unhappy.

— You can’t say I didn’t warn you. I warned you specifically. I pointed out precisely this danger — that you would shift your loyalty to Sandbach. Well, it’s come. What we were going to share — that new thing which we then both saw so clearly, dislocation number X — has come to an end because you failed me. You weren’t good enough!

As she said nothing, he added:

— Isn’t that it?

— Of course. You were quite safe, weren’t you, either way! Simply because you didn’t care. You care for no one but yourself. And surely that must begin to disappoint you!

— Oh, I miscalculate, like every one else. But I still have my amusements!

— Jones, for instance?

— Of course. A very harmless and pure entertainment. Like this target practice.

— Your notion of purity!

— And it’s beginning to be rather exciting! I’ve sent him some theater tickets — a whole box at the Orpheum — marked them complimentary, you know—

— Why?

— Oh, just for fun! I thought it would be nice to see him close-to for a whole evening — also to see what he brings with him — his wife, I suppose!

Lighting his pipe, the little yellow flame bright against young grass, he listened to the sound of a car climbing up a road in the distance, thrust the half-carbonized match into the soft earth, frowned. The scene was not quite what he had expected — it was curiously relaxed, random, directionless — and of course it was easy to see why, it was because Gerta wanted desperately to know exactly what he was going to do, but didn’t quite dare to ask him point-blank. She was probing, but probing without courage. Even now, in the slight droop of her shoulder, in the half-averted profile of which the expression was a deep powerlessness, he felt her to be about to give the whole thing up. She was discouraged, she was divided, her physical and moral loyalty to Sandbach was trying to assert itself, she was in the very act of listening to Sandbach’s voice. That madman Ammen. You must give up that madman Ammen. She was listening to this, but also she was feeling, and feeling profoundly, as if it were a kind of poison, the deep seal he had himself put upon her, that culminating moment of mystic communion between them when they had — as it were — tacitly agreed to share an insane secret. The voice of Kay! Sandbach was struggling violently in her against this ghost, the voice of Kay; she sat perfectly still; it was as if he were watching a stage from the opposite sides of which two choruses were trying to out-shout each other. Sandbach! It was in a sense Sandbach himself who ought to be destroyed, the loathsome and insinuating voice of reason, of common sense, the slimy voice of universal belongingness, of social safety, the shrill chorus of a world of parasites. His hatred rose suddenly and violently, the vision made him raise his head, the muscles in his arms tightened, his sense of time suddenly sharpened and became positively visual, as if the whole world were a swift and vast escalator moving rapidly upward towards the sun, towards the final flash of action. His own wisdom was omnipotent there, he had but to extend his hand, the right moment was near. He said:

— You’d better hurry back to the lower levels. You’d better listen to little Sandbach. It’s not very safe up here.

— My dear, it’s not myself I’m any longer concerned about, it’s you. It’s not very safe for you. I wish I could persuade you—

— Give it up. I’m beyond the pale.

— But of course I don’t quite believe you. It’s really nothing but a sort of fever, isn’t it? Couldn’t you go away for a time? Couldn’t you come with me to New York?

— New York! Good God!

— You’re not in a normal state.

— Is New York more normal?

This made her angry: she glared down at him Medusalike, with an admirable and delightful air of challenge, she looked somehow Hellenic.

— And what’s more, if you don’t come to your senses, I suppose we’ll have to do something about it!

— Who, exactly?

— All of us.

— Is that a threat?

— Just as you like!

He laughed, jumping up, stood above her laughing.

— Go ahead! But would you mind telling me what evidence you’ve got? Or who you propose to go to, or what you propose to say? Don’t be a fool. Nothing could be more harmless than my little attempt to make a scientific study of the habits of a stranger — and all with a view to writing a novel! Any time you want to look at my notes, my dear Gerta, you’re quite welcome. And if you think King Coffin would be of burning interest to the police, send them around, I’d be delighted to see them.… Can I drive you to Cambridge?

— No, thanks. I’m going back to Miss Bottrall’s. And I think I’ll walk.

— All right then — I’m off. Dislocation number — fill it in yourself! And I’ll see you in hell.

She looked up at him calmly, her hands on her knees, she seemed to be about to say something, but her lips remained closed, he noticed the little golden cord with which her blouse was knitted at the throat. With a wave of the hand he turned away, walked off whistling, was aware as he entered the path that she had not moved, still sat unmoving. Let her imitate Buddha as much as she liked, exert her pressures, sit there all afternoon, lie in the grass and cry, as she probably would — by all means! It would come to nothing. She would begin writing him letters again, telephoning to him at all hours, conferring with Sandbach and Julius, but the gesture would be helpless and fumbling and feminine, all three of them were helpless, as helpless as Jones himself; they could accomplish nothing. He broke a branch of birch, whipped it, as he walked, against other birches, until it was stripped of its leaves, dropped it before him in the green path and trod upon it. This was Sandbach. For a few seconds he stopped, stood still, closed his eyes — something had made him feel slightly sick, slightly giddy, the turmoil for a moment seemed unnatural — like the confused clamor of the echoed pistol shots, eeyah, eeyah, eeyah, a concentric and derisive chorus — but this passed, he opened his eyes again, and saw the sun just emerging with swimming rim, a pale lemon-yellow, from a bright edge of cloud. It was time caught in the act of moving, time in its dizzy descent to time.