فصل بیست و هفتم

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The Dark Shaveling

George followed Edie toward a narrow triangular four-story pub that jutted its sharpest angle toward the river, like the prow of an earthbound boat. On the first floor, above a green and gold mosaic number 174, a black statue of a large monk was positioned like a figurehead, his hands folded contentedly on the upper slopes of an expansive stomach kept in check by a long tasseled belt. The children stopped beneath it. The pub was closed. Looking up at the Friar, all they could really see of his face were double chins and fat cheeks and a jutting nose. He appeared to be beaming merrily, but it was just an impression, since they couldn’t see his eyes. Above his head there was a halolike yellow clock face. George looked at it in disbelief.

“It can’t be five to seven! It’s got to be later than that.”

“It’s always five to seven here, young man. Always such a convivial, promising time, five to seven; the day’s 5:21 PM 4/22/2010work done, the evening spread before you like a banquet to pick and choose what diversion you will; a time for warmth and conviviality and conversation.” The voice boomed down at them, a rich, honeyed voice in which you could hear barely controlled laughter and good cheer ringing through like a peal of bells.

“Conversation is what we’ve come for,” said Edie, stepping back for a better look.

The Black Friar jerked his head down to look at her, his pouchy face wobbling in surprise.

“You heard me?”

“Mind you, the warmth sounds pretty good, too,” added George, jogging on the spot and rubbing at himself to try and get some heat going.

“You both heard me?” said the Friar, looking from one to another.

“We’re both cold,” said Edie.

“And wet,” added George. “Cold and wet.”

“Well I’ll be jiggered,” said the Friar. “Watch out below.”

He stepped off the front of the building and dropped to the ground, his cassock billowing around him like a dark parachute. He hit the pavement with a crash that did justice to his considerable girth, straightened his legs, smoothed his robes, and looked at them both appraisingly. Close to him, they could see his eyes were indeed set in deep laugh lines, making him look a very friendly and cheery sort of monk—which was a relief, because his size was just looming enough to have been threatening in other circumstances.

“Conversation, you say? And what of? And why? And whence? And wherefore too, no doubt?” George and Edie exchanged a look that translated as “Huh?” in any language you chose.

“Sorry?”

“Apology accepted. Think no more about it. It’s forgotten,” said the Friar, beaming down at them.

George began to wonder if the monk was a bit mad. Edie just thought he was annoying.

“The Gunner said you could help us. And we could do with the help.” “The Gunner, you say?”

“Please,” said George.

“I know of several Gunners.”

“We just know the one. He’s a spit, like you.”

There was a long pause as the Friar examined them. Then he chuckled and pointed to the door of the pub.

“Please. Any friend of the Gunner, whatever Gunner, is a friend of mine and so forth! You find us at a disadvantage; the hostelry doors closed due to a refurbishment of the lavatories beneath the bar, which were, I’ll admit, a little noxious with age and overuse. But enter, please do. Hospitality is ever our watchword, no matter what the time.” George tried the door. It wouldn’t budge. Edie stepped in and rattled it to no more effect. She turned an accusing eye on the friar.

“It’s locked.”

“Ah, well, love laughs at locksmiths.” He chuckled.

“What?”

He pushed in front of them.

“To the pure of heart no door is ever locked.” He fumbled for a moment, then the door swung open. “As you see.

“You used a key,” Edie observed quietly.

He gave a theatrical sigh, shoulders slumping good-humoredly, like a disappointed conjuror.

“Bless your sharp little eyes, we shall have to watch you, and that’s a fact.” He stood to one side and the two of them walked into the pub. It was a narrow, awkwardly angled space. In the dark there were odd shapes and reflections that seemed to loom and then lurch away as the lights of passing cars swept past the windows. The bottles behind the bar and the brassware on it glittered with the fragmented reflections of the streetlights outside.

There were stepladders and other evidence of builders spread across the floor, and a dust sheet hung protectively over the bar surface, like a discarded shroud.

The door snapped shut behind them. The Black Friar swept past with unexpected nimble-footedness for such a large and bulky man.

“Come, come, mind the tradesmen’s mess; into the chamber here, the alcove, and we will have heat and light and see what we can do for you, for it’s clear that unless we do something, you will likely come down with the sniffles.” He bustled them through the left-hand of three low arches and pressed them onto a bench at the end of a dim vaulted space, and left them, suddenly ducking down a flight of steps beside the bar. Edie stared at George.

“Sniffles!”

“I know.” He shrugged.

He was freezing again. His clothes stuck to him like soaked bandages.

“We’re meant to trust something that says ‘sniffles’?”

He could hear her teeth chattering in the dark. Before he could say anything more, there was a clattering and the Friar reappeared, dragging something heavy that clanged on each step as he came up the stairs.

He blocked out the streetlight as he lurched through the arch, and then bent to lower a gas canister and a stubby torpedo-shaped heater onto the floor in front of them.

“The tradesmen have been trying to dry out the cellar. I’m sure they would think it unchristian to deprive you of this warmth in your hour of need.” He lifted his arm, and a bundle of clothing fell to the floor.

“Dry clothes. Towels of a sort. People leave things,” he explained. “Peril of overindulgence in a hostelry such as this, waking up at home having gained a headache and lost a topcoat, d’you see?” He chortled at his own good humor.

“Everyday tragedy of the convivial man, no doubt! Help yourself, do. I shall give you privacy while you change. Perhaps food would be—” “Yes,” said Edie, so fast that George suddenly realized she couldn’t have eaten in a long while.

She knelt over the clothes and lifted a handful of towels.

“These are beer towels. They’re tiny.”

“Good job there’s a bunch of them,” George said. He knelt by the heater and looked at it. He turned the knob on the top of the gas bottle. He heard a rustle of clothing from behind him and started to look back.

“Er, I’m changing,” said Edie, the shiver still in her voice.

“It’s all right. I’m not looking,” he said, trying to make out the controls in the meager streetlight. “I’m trying to get us some warmth.” “You know how that works?”

He found an electric plug on the end of a wire. There was a socket by his knee, so he plugged it in. A fan started blowing inside the stubby torpedo.

“My dad had one like it in his studio. Used it in winter. Hang on.” The Dark Shaveling He turned a taplike switch. Nothing happened. Edie snorted in derision.

“I thought you said you knew how to work it.” He carried on, counting to ten, then pressed a button. There was a click and a tiny spark noise, then a big Whoomf and the space heater roared into life. A circle of flame inside the metal casing was blown forward by the fan onto a grid that started to glow red. As George held his hand in front of the big opening, the heat began building fast. The flames went from blue to red to almost white, and then the heat was too strong for him to leave his hand in the way.

“Nice one,” said Edie, almost impressed. “Oh, wow.” The flames from the heater were also lighting up the alcove they were in. It was a barrel-vaulted space, about two meters wide by five long, and every inch of it was decorated with smoky-brown marble shot through with black streaks. There were columns and pilasters and mirrors and ornate alabaster light fittings and pieces of statuary everywhere. Above their heads, the curve of a barrel-vault reflected back the light from thousands of gold mosaic chips, outlined in thin lines of black-and-white checkerboarding. In the center of the ceiling was a star-shaped compass, and all around the cornicing below ran ornate lettering, each one a quotation, none of which made any connection with the others around it. George was facing one that read: HASTE IS SLOW. He turned to read another that suggested: FINERY IS FOOLERY.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Edie pulling on a long man’s sweatshirt. “Hey,” she said.

“Sorry,” he said, looking away quickly. “This place. It’s pretty weird, no?” “Weird is right.”

“It’s like being inside a church or something.”

She pushed past him and spread her skirt and tights on a chair in front of the heat blasting out of the heater.

“You want to get dry and change?”

He stepped back. She stood in front of the heat, looking up at the decoration around them, rubbing her hair with a beer towel. He noticed she clutched the sea-glass in her hand.

He stripped off his coat and shirt, and rubbed his chest with the bar towels. It felt great, and the ache in his arm and hand and ankle all seemed bearable now. He rummaged in the pile of clothes, found a woolen cardigan and put it straight on, next to his skin. He was so happy to be dry that he didn’t mind the scratchiness. It felt comforting and real. He unbuckled his belt.

‘“Don’t advertise it—tell a gossip,’” Edie read from the far cornice. “Don’t know what that means. Doesn’t make sense. Tell you what, though, this heat is brilliant.”