coach.
‘O’Hara?’
‘Hello!’
‘Hello.’
The greys were each other’s shadow on the wall.
‘It’s all right,’ said Moon.
‘What is?’
He’s got me there.
Moon opened the door of the coach and climbed in. He felt around the seat and then climbed down again and asked O’Hara for a light. O’Hara lowered himself over the side.
Moon saw him as a density against the coach, lacking outline, shadowed in shadow, a hat and a cloak letting themselves down from the high box seat. Just then the streetlights ignited themselves, suggesting a
ping
too high for the human ear. Pink filament infused their waxen coldness with the promise of light. O’Hara’s toe stretched for the ground and as he turned on it Moon saw his face, broad, negroid, black.
‘O’Hara…’
‘Here.’
Moon looked at him and regained his balance. He tried toremember when he had last seen O’Hara, whether he had seen him at all. He had got from somewhere a mental image of O’Hara’s face – Irish, boozy and fat. Had he made it up? For the hundredth time in his short memory another trick had been played on him.
His irritation transferred itself to the remark, ‘What do you make of it, O’Hara?’
‘A schlemiel let me tell you.’
‘What?’
‘O’Hara, I ask myself, what does she vhant?’
‘Who?’
‘Running she was, did I see her? – no!’
Moon saw her lying in Pall Mall, humped, limbless, un-moving (
A lady does not move
). He knew why he felt relieved. If she had tried to crawl he would have carried her crawling through his mind until she had been replaced by fresher demons.
‘I don’t understand it,’ Moon said.
‘I ask myself. A loon maybe.’
That was possible, whom ever it applied to. Madness was the ultimate rationalisation of the private view. He tried to apply it to the day’s betrayals but they were too diverse.
‘It’s been a long day,’ Moon said.
‘Probably.’
O’Hara struck a match. It flared against the black moon of his face, tired tiger eyes slipped around on smoked-yellow glaze.
‘Thank you, I don’t smoke.’
The match went out. They stood together uncertainly in the cold near-dark.
The art of conversation has left me behind. I’m a reactionary. It’s been a long day. Probably.
‘What’s your name, O’Hara, your Christian name?’
‘Abendigo.’
‘You’re a convert?’
‘My whole life I am a convert.’
Moon felt trapped in a complex of shifts-words spoken, overtures made, acts performed – that were not getting him anywhere. The initiative had been taken away from him and he was being edged towards panic-he’d had the feeling before, in countless variations – it was like – yes, when he was a boy, in winter, in the games room, after football – his head and trunk were inside a thick knitted sweater that was too tight for him and he was trying to find his way out of it but he couldn’t find the arm-holes, and everywhere he pushed his fist the wool strained against it and his muscles got tired and he couldn’t find the neck-hole now and he would die in there if he didn’t make his own, destroy—
‘How long have you been a nigger, O’Hara?’
O’Hara grinned and cocked his head low like a great happy piano-player, and moved away.
Moon shouted, ‘You sly bastard-you didn’t tell me you were a nigger, did you? – you let me see your Irish drunkard’s face and didn’t tell me. How long has it been going on, O’Hara? Does Lord Malquist know you’re black-does he? Why have you gone black on me, O’Hara?’
O’Hara started to heave himself up the side of the coach.
Moon shouted recklessly, ‘And you’re not Jewish either!’
‘I told you already.’
Moon reeled away to surer ground – ‘Stick to your own kind, O’Hara, get back to the jungle and leave our women alone! I know you, I know what you’re up to! You keep chickens in the coalshed and urinate on the landings-you talk loudly on buses, don’t you O’Hara? Oh yes, I’ve got
‘O’Hara?’
‘Hello!’
‘Hello.’
The greys were each other’s shadow on the wall.
‘It’s all right,’ said Moon.
‘What is?’
He’s got me there.
Moon opened the door of the coach and climbed in. He felt around the seat and then climbed down again and asked O’Hara for a light. O’Hara lowered himself over the side.
Moon saw him as a density against the coach, lacking outline, shadowed in shadow, a hat and a cloak letting themselves down from the high box seat. Just then the streetlights ignited themselves, suggesting a
ping
too high for the human ear. Pink filament infused their waxen coldness with the promise of light. O’Hara’s toe stretched for the ground and as he turned on it Moon saw his face, broad, negroid, black.
‘O’Hara…’
‘Here.’
Moon looked at him and regained his balance. He tried toremember when he had last seen O’Hara, whether he had seen him at all. He had got from somewhere a mental image of O’Hara’s face – Irish, boozy and fat. Had he made it up? For the hundredth time in his short memory another trick had been played on him.
His irritation transferred itself to the remark, ‘What do you make of it, O’Hara?’
‘A schlemiel let me tell you.’
‘What?’
‘O’Hara, I ask myself, what does she vhant?’
‘Who?’
‘Running she was, did I see her? – no!’
Moon saw her lying in Pall Mall, humped, limbless, un-moving (
A lady does not move
). He knew why he felt relieved. If she had tried to crawl he would have carried her crawling through his mind until she had been replaced by fresher demons.
‘I don’t understand it,’ Moon said.
‘I ask myself. A loon maybe.’
That was possible, whom ever it applied to. Madness was the ultimate rationalisation of the private view. He tried to apply it to the day’s betrayals but they were too diverse.
‘It’s been a long day,’ Moon said.
‘Probably.’
O’Hara struck a match. It flared against the black moon of his face, tired tiger eyes slipped around on smoked-yellow glaze.
‘Thank you, I don’t smoke.’
The match went out. They stood together uncertainly in the cold near-dark.
The art of conversation has left me behind. I’m a reactionary. It’s been a long day. Probably.
‘What’s your name, O’Hara, your Christian name?’
‘Abendigo.’
‘You’re a convert?’
‘My whole life I am a convert.’
Moon felt trapped in a complex of shifts-words spoken, overtures made, acts performed – that were not getting him anywhere. The initiative had been taken away from him and he was being edged towards panic-he’d had the feeling before, in countless variations – it was like – yes, when he was a boy, in winter, in the games room, after football – his head and trunk were inside a thick knitted sweater that was too tight for him and he was trying to find his way out of it but he couldn’t find the arm-holes, and everywhere he pushed his fist the wool strained against it and his muscles got tired and he couldn’t find the neck-hole now and he would die in there if he didn’t make his own, destroy—
‘How long have you been a nigger, O’Hara?’
O’Hara grinned and cocked his head low like a great happy piano-player, and moved away.
Moon shouted, ‘You sly bastard-you didn’t tell me you were a nigger, did you? – you let me see your Irish drunkard’s face and didn’t tell me. How long has it been going on, O’Hara? Does Lord Malquist know you’re black-does he? Why have you gone black on me, O’Hara?’
O’Hara started to heave himself up the side of the coach.
Moon shouted recklessly, ‘And you’re not Jewish either!’
‘I told you already.’
Moon reeled away to surer ground – ‘Stick to your own kind, O’Hara, get back to the jungle and leave our women alone! I know you, I know what you’re up to! You keep chickens in the coalshed and urinate on the landings-you talk loudly on buses, don’t you O’Hara? Oh yes, I’ve got
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