Chapter 3 1

Eleven oclock in the morning. The sun doing its work in the sky. The men are tiring, said Julie. Perhaps you should give them a break. Thomas made the "break" signal waving his arm in a downward motion. The men fell out by the roadside. The cable relaxed in the road. This grand expedition, the Dead Father said, this waltz across an unknown parquet, this little band of brothers. . . You are not a brother, Julie reminded him. Do not get waltzed away. 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. . .

Julie looked away. My children, the Dead Father said. Mine. Mine. Mine. Thomas lay down with his head in Julies lap. 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 drunk, Julie said. Yes. How did you come by him? 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. You knew, then. Before you signed him up. He begged. He was abject. A son of mine, nevertheless, said the Dead Father.

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. He has handsome hair, Julie said. That Ive noticed. He was happy to throw away the cap-and-bells, said Thomas. As we all were, he added, looking pointedly at the Dead Father. Thomas pulled an orange fools cap tipped with silver bells from his knapsack. To think that I have worn this abomination, or its mate, since I was sixteen. Sixteen to sixty-five, so says the law, said the Dead Father. This does not make you loved. Loved! Not a matter of love. A matter of Organization.

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. perfect fools. As was intended, said the Dead Father. And had I been caught out-of-doors without it, my ears cut off, said Thomas. What a notion. What an imagination. A certain artistry, said the Dead Father. In my ukases. Let us lunch, said Julie. Although its early. The roadside. The tablecloth. Ringle of dinnerbell. Toasted prawns. They disposed themselves around the cloth in this fashion: Quite good. Not so bad.

Is there mustard? In the pot. Something in it. What? Look there. Pick it out with your finger. Nasty little bugger. Pass the prawns. And for dessert? Fig Newtons. They sat contentedly around the cloth, munching. Ahead of them, the lunch fires of the men. The cable slack in the roadway. Soon we will be there, said the Dead Father. Fourteen days or fifteen days, I reckon, Thomas said. If we are headed right. Is there any doubt? There is always doubt. 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.

Wiry! Julie exclaimed. She stuffed a part of the tablecloth into her mouth. My dear, Thomas said. He extended a hand which of itself and without guidance grasped one of her handsome breasts. Not in front of him. Thomas removed the hand. Can you tell us, he asked, what that hussar had done? The one we saw hung by the neck from the tree back down the road a bit. Disobeyed a ukase, said the Dead Father. I forget which ukase. Oh, said Thomas. Nobody disobeys a ukase of mine, said the Dead Father. He chuckled. Smug, isn't he, said Julie. A bit smug, said Thomas. A bit, the Dead Father said.

They gazed at each other fondly. Three fond gazes roving like searchlights across the prawns. They packed up. Thomas gave the signal. The cable jerked. The sun still. Trees. Ill let you have a wipe of it sometimes, the Dead Father said. Both of you. Thanks, Julie said. When I embrace or am embraced by its damned fine luster, the Dead Father said, all this will seem worthwhile. He paused. Even the cable. Another pause. Even those galoots you hired to haul on the cable. Volunteers, every one, Thomas said. Delighted to be in your service. To be wearing your livery. No matter. When I clutch its fine golden strands to my ancient bosom --

His hopes are got up, Im afraid, Julie said. Thomas flang his sword into a bush. Its not fair! he exclaimed. What's not fair? Why do I feel so bad? he asked, looking round him in every direction, as if for an answer. Are you ill? I could use a suck of the breast, Thomas said. Not in front of him. 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. Ah! said Thomas, after a time. Nothing like a suck of the breast. Is there more?

While I live, beloved. Thomas indulged himself further. Julie buttoned her blouse. They emerged hand-in-hand from the Queen Annes lace, Thomas swabbing his chops with the hand that was not hand-in-hand. A bit left out, said the Dead Father. A bit. That is what I feel, at this moment. Suffer, said Thomas, reclaiming his sword from the bush. Excluded, said the Dead Father. It is because you are an old fart, Julie explained. Old farts dont get much. 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.

He has slipped his cable, said Thomas. They stormed off after him. When they caught up, they found a terrible scene. 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 t he theorbo and countless nervous-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 lyremiters 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.

The Dead Father resting with his two hands on the hilt of his sword, which was planted in the red and steaming earth. My anger, he said proudly. 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. Impressive, said Julie, had they not been pure cardboard. My dear, said Thomas, you deal too harshly with him. I have the greatest possible respect for him and for what he represents, said Julie, let us proceed. They proceeded.