Not in front of him.
Impressive, said Julie, had they not been pure cardboard.
Ah! said Thomas, after a time. Nothing like a suck of the breast. Is there more?
A son of mine, nevertheless, said the Dead Father.
Are you ill?
Pick it out with your finger.
My children, the Dead Father said. Mine. Mine. Mine.
What?
Loved! Not a matter of love. A matter of Organization.
Can you tell us, he asked, what that hussar had done? The one we saw hanged by the neck from the tree back down the road a bit.
Something in it.
I have the greatest possible respect for him and for what he represents, said Julie, let us proceed.
Pass the prawns.
Why do I feel so bad? he asked, looking round him in every direction, as if for an answer.
When I embrace or am embraced by its damned fine luster, the Dead Father said, all this will seem worthwhile.
Is there mustard?
Whats not fair?
Thomas lay down with his head inJulies lap.
How did you come by him?
Smug, isnt he, said Julie.
Thomas pulled an orange fools cap tipped with silver bells from his knapsack.
You knew, then. Before you signed him up.
They proceeded.
Its not fair! he exclaimed.
No matter. When I clutch its fine golden strands to my ancient bosom --
Sixteen to sixty-five, so says the law, said the Dead Father.
Thomas made the "break" signal waving his arm in a downward motion.
You are not a brother, Julie reminded him. Do not get waltzed away.
My dear, said Thomas, you deal too harshly with him.
Many sad things have befallen me, he said, and many sad things are yet to befall me, but the saddest thing of all is that fellow Edmund. The fat one.
They gazed at each other fondly. Three fond gazes roving like searchlights across the prawns.
This does not make you loved.
My anger, he said proudly.
Is there any doubt?
And had I been caught out-of-doors without it, my ears cut off, said Thomas. What a notion. What an imagination.
Julie buttoned her blouse. They emerged hand-in-hand from the Queen Annes lace, Thomas swabbing his chopswith the hand that was not hand-in-hand.
My dear, Thomas said. He extended a hand which of itself and without guidance grasped one of her handsome breasts.
He has handsome hair, Julie said. That Ive noticed.
They stormed off after him. When they caught up, they found a terrible scene.
All the little heads so gay, said Julie. Makes one look a perfect fool, the cap. Brown-and-beige, maroon-and-gray, red-and-green, all bells chilattering. What a picture. I thought, What perfect fools.
Thomas flang his sword into a bush.
The drunk, Julie said.
The Dead Father resting with his two hands on the hilt of his sword, which was planted in the red and steaming earth.
He paused. Even the cable. Another pause.
When we are there, and when I wrap myself in its warm yellowness, then I will be young again, said the Dead Father. I shall once more be wiry.
Fig Newtons.
The men fell out by the roadside. The cable relaxed in the road.
Wiry! Julie exclaimed. She stuffed a part of the tablecloth into her mouth.
Excluded, said the Dead Father.
A bit smug, said Thomas.
And for dessert?
Yes.
Oh, said Thomas.
Quite good.
Thanks, Julie said.
To think that I have worn this abomination, or its mate, since I was sixteen.
They packed up. Thomas gave the signal. The cable jerked. The sun still. Trees. Vegetation. Wild gooseberries. Weather.
As was intended, said the Dead Father.
Nobody disobeys a ukase of mine, said the Dead Father. He chuckled.
Not in front of him.
He was happy to throw away the cap-and-bells, said Thomas. As we all were, he added, looking pointedly at the Dead Father.
Disobeyed a ukase, said the Dead Father. I forget which ukase.
A bit, the Dead Father said.
This grand expedition, the Dead Father said, this waltz across an unknown parquet, this little band of brothers. . .
Eleven oclock in the morning. The sun doing its work in the sky.
He has slipped his cable, said Thomas.
Soon we will be there, said the Dead Father.
Suffer, said Thomas, reclaiming his sword from the bush.
They retired from the Dead Fathers view, behind a proliferation of Queen Annes lace. Julie seated herself on the ground and opened her blouse. Two bold breasts presented themselves, the left a little smaller than the right but just as handsome in its own way.
A bit left out, said the Dead Father. A bit. That is what I feel, at this moment.
The roadside. The tablecloth. Ringle of dinnerbell. Toasted prawns. They disposed themselves around the cloth in this fashion:
Thomas removed the hand.
There is always doubt.
Look there.
Volunteers, every one, Thomas said. Delighted to be in your service. To be wearing your livery.
Then the Dead Father sheathing his sword pulled from his trousers his ancient prick and pissed upon the dead artists, severally and together, to the best of his ability. . . four minutes, or one pint.
The men are tiring, said Julie. Perhaps you should give them a break.
Ill let you have a wipe of it sometimes, the Dead Father said. Both of you.
Fourteen days or fifteen days, I reckon, Thomas said. If we are headed right.
Thomas indulged himself further.
The Dead Father leaped to his feet and stormed off down the road, upon receiving this information. His golden robes flaring all about him. The cable trailing.
His hopes are got up, Im afraid, Julie said.
A certain artistry, said the Dead Father. In my ukases.
In the pot.
Nasty little bugger.
That they should so love me, the Dead Father said, as to haul and haul and haul and haul, through the long days and nights and less than optimal weather conditions. . .
Even those galoots you hired to haul on the cable.
He begged. He was abject.
I could use a suck of the breast, Thomas said.
While I live, beloved.
It would be the making of him, he said. Our march. I did not agree. But it is hard to deny someone the thing he thinks will be the making of him. I signed him up.
It is because you are an old fart, Julie explained. Old farts dont get much.
Let us lunch, said Julie. Although its early.
Julie looked away.
Not so bad.
The Dead Father was slaying, in a grove of music and musicians. First he slew a harpist and then a performer upon the serpent and also a banger upon the rattle and also a blower of the Persian trumpet and one upon the Indian trumpet and one upon the Hebrew trumpet and one upon the Roman trumpet and one upon the Chinese trumpet of copper-covered wood. Also a blower upon the marrow trumpet and one upon the slide trumpet and one who wearing upon his head the skin of a cat performed upon the menacing murmurous cornu and three blowers on the hunting horn and several blowers of the conch shell and a player of the double aulos and flautists of all descriptions and a Panpiper and a fagotto player and two virtuosos of the quail whistle and a zampogna player whose fingering of the chanters was sweet to the ear and by-the-bye and during a rest period he slew four buzzers and a shawmist and one blower upon the water jar and a clavicytheriumist who was before he slew her a woman, and a stroker of the theorbo and countlessnervous-fingered drummers as well as an archlutist, and then whanging his sword this way and that the Dead Father slew a cittern plucker and five lyresmiters and various mandolinists, and slew too a violist and a player of the kit and a picker of the psaltery and a beater of the dulcimer and a hurdy-gurdier and a player of the spike fiddle and sundry kettledrummers and a triangulist and two-score finger cymbal clinkers and a xylophone artist and two gongers and a player of the small semantron who fell with his iron hammer still in his hand and a trictrac specialist and a marimbist and a maracist and a falcon drummer and a sheng blower and a sansa pusher and a manipulator of the gilded ball.
They sat contentedly around the cloth, munching. Ahead of them, the lunch fires of the men. The cable slack in the roadway.
I was standing in the square, on a beer keg as I remember, signing people up, and heard this swallowing noise under my feet. Edmund. Swallowing the tap.
