A coquette. “I trust you,” she said.
This puzzled him even more. He had once understood her, even if she didn’t like him much. Her passivity was her power. It gave her what she wanted or at least it had done so up to now.
He changed the subject a little. “Why are you so cruel to the dead?”
“Because they betrayed me by dying.”
“And who will you betray by dying?”
“Who will you betray?”
A no-brainer. “Nobody,” he said. “Why?” He suspected one of those boring little traps Christians set for you. Of course God loved him, but he didn’t feel very special in this near-infinity of planes that was the multiverse. He was as big as the multiverse, as small as God. It wasn’t always this hard to understand. Space is a dimension of time. Light speed varied enormously. There was a black tide running.
“A black tide running.” He tucked her head into his shoulder.
She tensed. “Is that another dig at Obama?”
“What?” He had fallen asleep suddenly. “What about him? Has he betrayed you?”
“That isn’t the point. Electing him was what it was about.”
“Sure, he’s doing such a lot for black pride.” Jerry rolled over and found a half-smoked box of Sullivans. He lit one. “God knows what poor old Mandela thinks.”
“The Labour Party’s trying to find one just like him.”
“Hardly worth blacking up for.”
From outside came a shout of glee. They both recognized it. Mo was jumping on his prey. He must have caught a kid.
12 . POPSCI’S GUIDE TO SUMMER SCI-TECH MOVIES
Staring at the vast military history section of the airport shop, I had a choice: the derring-do of psychopaths or scholarly tomes with their illicit devotion to the cult of organized killing. There was nothing I recognized from reporting war. Nothing on the spectacle of children’s limbs hanging in trees and nothing on the burden of shit in your trousers. War is a good read. War is fun. More war, please.
—John Pilger,
New Statesman
, May 10, 2010
M O WASN’T HAVING any and neither, he remarked happily, had he been getting any. But there was this little yellow lady to the west of Kathmandu and the crew had come to know her just as “Belle.” They were banging on the wedding gongs and decorating dresses, and they were praying that she didn’t go to hell, because Mo he was a white man and not the best at that and they didn’t want their girl to wear his band. They consoledthemselves, however, that they needn’t curse the moon for poor Belle would be a widow pretty soon. So they smiled at Mo and offered him the best seat in the house until Belle herself, she said, could smell a rat. And they put their heads together and they made a little plan to see her married by some other means or man. Really, Mo thought, he was probably a goner.
“Mo?”
He turned. He had been on his feet long enough to understand his bit as he fell onto the carpet. Buggered.
He could still hear. “Of course it’s not curare.”
Jerry was wistful as he watched Mitzi Beesley drag the little fellow into the hedge. “But then again it’s not chocolate, either!”
“I wouldn’t personally be talking about sweets,” Didi Dee murmured. She had become shy. Flirtatious. Weak. Self-righteous. Religious.
Why was she searching out his contempt?
This whole thing was altogether too retro for Jerry. He cleared his throat, spat on the ground. Where was his 1954? Surely earlier? What numbers had she offered him?
Should he get into the spirit of the times? Feeling guilty. Finding places to hide. Telling lies? You needed a voice. He couldn’t muster a voice on top of everything else.
Somewhere up there in the diminishing hills he heard an engine. Jimmy van Dorn’s awful old Rolls-Royce.
Time to be shunting along. He kissed Didi on her dimpled cheek. “Tee tee eff en.”
THE WHEELS OF CHANCE
1. GUNS IS GUNS
Everyone will be wealthy, living like a lord, Getting plenty of things today they can’t afford But when’s it going to
This puzzled him even more. He had once understood her, even if she didn’t like him much. Her passivity was her power. It gave her what she wanted or at least it had done so up to now.
He changed the subject a little. “Why are you so cruel to the dead?”
“Because they betrayed me by dying.”
“And who will you betray by dying?”
“Who will you betray?”
A no-brainer. “Nobody,” he said. “Why?” He suspected one of those boring little traps Christians set for you. Of course God loved him, but he didn’t feel very special in this near-infinity of planes that was the multiverse. He was as big as the multiverse, as small as God. It wasn’t always this hard to understand. Space is a dimension of time. Light speed varied enormously. There was a black tide running.
“A black tide running.” He tucked her head into his shoulder.
She tensed. “Is that another dig at Obama?”
“What?” He had fallen asleep suddenly. “What about him? Has he betrayed you?”
“That isn’t the point. Electing him was what it was about.”
“Sure, he’s doing such a lot for black pride.” Jerry rolled over and found a half-smoked box of Sullivans. He lit one. “God knows what poor old Mandela thinks.”
“The Labour Party’s trying to find one just like him.”
“Hardly worth blacking up for.”
From outside came a shout of glee. They both recognized it. Mo was jumping on his prey. He must have caught a kid.
12 . POPSCI’S GUIDE TO SUMMER SCI-TECH MOVIES
Staring at the vast military history section of the airport shop, I had a choice: the derring-do of psychopaths or scholarly tomes with their illicit devotion to the cult of organized killing. There was nothing I recognized from reporting war. Nothing on the spectacle of children’s limbs hanging in trees and nothing on the burden of shit in your trousers. War is a good read. War is fun. More war, please.
—John Pilger,
New Statesman
, May 10, 2010
M O WASN’T HAVING any and neither, he remarked happily, had he been getting any. But there was this little yellow lady to the west of Kathmandu and the crew had come to know her just as “Belle.” They were banging on the wedding gongs and decorating dresses, and they were praying that she didn’t go to hell, because Mo he was a white man and not the best at that and they didn’t want their girl to wear his band. They consoledthemselves, however, that they needn’t curse the moon for poor Belle would be a widow pretty soon. So they smiled at Mo and offered him the best seat in the house until Belle herself, she said, could smell a rat. And they put their heads together and they made a little plan to see her married by some other means or man. Really, Mo thought, he was probably a goner.
“Mo?”
He turned. He had been on his feet long enough to understand his bit as he fell onto the carpet. Buggered.
He could still hear. “Of course it’s not curare.”
Jerry was wistful as he watched Mitzi Beesley drag the little fellow into the hedge. “But then again it’s not chocolate, either!”
“I wouldn’t personally be talking about sweets,” Didi Dee murmured. She had become shy. Flirtatious. Weak. Self-righteous. Religious.
Why was she searching out his contempt?
This whole thing was altogether too retro for Jerry. He cleared his throat, spat on the ground. Where was his 1954? Surely earlier? What numbers had she offered him?
Should he get into the spirit of the times? Feeling guilty. Finding places to hide. Telling lies? You needed a voice. He couldn’t muster a voice on top of everything else.
Somewhere up there in the diminishing hills he heard an engine. Jimmy van Dorn’s awful old Rolls-Royce.
Time to be shunting along. He kissed Didi on her dimpled cheek. “Tee tee eff en.”
THE WHEELS OF CHANCE
1. GUNS IS GUNS
Everyone will be wealthy, living like a lord, Getting plenty of things today they can’t afford But when’s it going to
Similar Books
