I
Now there was a sun-shower over Valletta, and even a rainbow. Howie Surd the drunken yeoman lay on his stomach under mount 52, head propped1 on arms, staring at a British landing craft that chugged its way through the rainy Harbour. Fat Clyde from Chi, who was 6' 1"/ 142 pounds, came from Winnetka and had been christened Harvey, stood by the lifelines spitting dreamily down into the drydock.
"Fat Clyde," bellowed2 Howie.
"No," said Fat Clyde. "Whatever it is."
He must have been upset. Nobody ever says things like that to a yeoman. "I'm going over tonight," Howie said gently, "and I need a raincoat because it is raining out, as you may have noticed."
Fat Clyde took a white hat out of his back pocket and tugged3 it down over his head like a cloche. "I also got liberty," he said.
Bitch box came on. "Now turn in all paint and paint brushes to the paint locker," it said.
"About that time," said Howie. He crawled out from under the gun mount and squatted4 on the 01 deck. The rain came down and ran into his ears and down his neck and he watched the sun smearing5 the sky red over Valletta. "What is wrong, hey, Fat Clyde."
"Oh," said Fat Clyde and spat6 over the side. His eyes followed the white drop of spit all the way down. Howie gave up after about five minutes of silence. He went around the starboard side and down the ladder to bother Tiger Youngblood the spud coxswain who sat at the bottom of the ladder right outside the galley7 slicing cucumbers.
Fat Clyde yawned. It rained in his mouth, but he didn't seem to notice. He had a problem. Being an ectomorph he was inclined to brood. He was a gunner's mate third and normally it would be none of his business except that his rack was directly over Pappy Hod's and since arrival in Valletta, Malta, Pappy had commenced talking to himself. Not loud; not loud enough to be heard by anyone but Fat Clyde.
Now scuttlebutt being what it is, and sailors being, under frequently sentimental9 and swinish exteriors10, sentimental swine, Clyde knew well enough what it was about being in Malta that upset Pappy Hod. Pappy hadn't been eating anything. Normally a liberty hound, he hadn't even been over yet. Because it was usually Fat Clyde who Pappy went out and got drunk with, this was lousing up Fat Clyde's liberty.
Lazar the deck ape, who had been trying the radar11 gang now for two weeks, came out with a broom and started sweeping12 water into the drain on the port side. "I don't know why I should be doing this," he bitched conversationally14. "I don't have the duty."
"You should of stayed down in first division," Fat Clyde ventured, glum15. Lazar began sweeping water at Fat Clyde, who jumped out of the way and continued on down the starboard ladder. To the spud coxswain: "Give me a cucumber, hey Tiger."
"You want a cucumber," said Tiger, who was chopping up onions. "Here. I got a cucumber for you." His eyes were watering so bad he looked like a sullen boy which is what he was.
"Slice it and put it on a plate," said Fat Clyde, "and maybe I will -"
"Here." From the galley porthole. Pappy Hod was hanging out, waving a crescent of watermelon. He spat a seed at Tiger.
That's the old Pappy Hod, thought Clyde. And he is wearing dress blues17 and a neckerchief.
"Get your ass18 in gear, Clyde," said Pappy Hod. "Liberty call any minute now."
So of course Clyde was off like a streak19 for the fo'c's'le and back inside of five minutes, squared away as he ever got for liberty.
"832 days," Tiger Youngblood snarled20 as Pappy and Clyde headed for the quarterdeck. "And I'll never make it."
The Scaffold, resting on keel blocks, was propped up on each side by a dozen wood beams a foot square which extended from the sides of the ship to the sides of the drydock. From above, the Scaffold must have looked like a great squid with wood-colored tentacles21. Pappy and Clyde crossed the long brow and stood in the rain for a moment, looking at the ship. The sonar dome22 was shrouded23 in a secret tarpaulin24. At the top of the mast flew the biggest American flag Captain Lych had been able to find. It would not be lowered come Evening Colors; and come true nightfall portable spotlights25 would be turned on and focused on it. This was for the benefit of any Egyptian bomber pilots who might be coming in, Scaffold being the only American ship in Valletta at the moment.
On the starboard side rose a school or seminary with a clock tower, growing out of a bastion high as the surface-search radar antenna26.
"High and dry," said Clyde.
"They say the Limeys are going to kidnap us," said Pappy. "And leave our ass high and dry till this is over."
"It may take longer than that anyway. Give me a cigarette. There's the generator27 and the screw -"
"And the barnacles." Pappy Hod was disgusted. "They will probably want to sandblast, long as she's in the yards. Even though there's a yard period in Philly coming up as soon as we get back. They'll find something for us to do, Fat Clyde."
They made their way through the Dockyard. Around them straggled most of the Scaffold's liberty section in files and bunches. Submarines too were under wraps: perhaps for secrecy29, perhaps for the rain. The quitting time whistle blew and Pappy and Clyde were caught all at once in a torrent30 of yardbirds: disgorged from earth, vessels31 and pissoirs, all heading for the gate.
"Yardbirds are the same all over," Pappy said. He and Clyde took their time. The dock workers fled by, jostling them: ragged32, gray. By the time Pappy and Clyde reached the stone gateway33 they'd all gone. Waiting for them were only two old nuns34 who sat to either side of the gate, holding little straw collection baskets in their laps and black umbrellas over their heads. Bottoms of the baskets were barely covered with sixpences and a shilling or two. Clyde came up with a crown; Pappy, who hadn't been over to exchange any currency, dropped a dollar in the other basket. The nuns smiled briefly35 and resumed their vigil.
"What was that," Pappy smiled to nobody. "Admission charge?"
Towered over by ruins, they walked up a hill, around a great curve in the road and through a tunnel. At the other end of the tunnel was a bus stop: threepence into Valletta, as far as the Phoenicia Hotel. When the bus arrived they got on with a few straggling yardbirds and many Scaffold sailors, who sat in the back and sang. "Pappy," Fat Clyde began, "I know it's no business of mine, but -"
"Driver," came a yell from in back. "Hey driver. Stop the bus. I got to take a leak."
Pappy slumped36 lower in his seat; tilted37 the white hat down over his eyes. "Teledu," he muttered. "That will be Teledu."
"Driver," said Teledu of the A gang. "If you don't stop the bus I will have to piss out the window." Despite himself Pappy turned around to watch. A number of snipes were endeavoring to pull Teledu away from the window. The driver drove on grimly. The yardbirds weren't talking, but watched closely. Scaffold sailors were singing:
Let's all go down and piss on the Forrestal Till the damn thing floats away,
which went to the tune38 of The Old Gray Mare39 and had started at Gitmo Bay in the winter of '55.
"Once he has got an idea in his head," said Pappy, "he won't let go. So if they don't let him piss out the window, he will probably -"
"Look, look," said Fat Clyde. A yellow river of urine was advancing up the center aisle40. Teledu was just zipping up.
"A fun-loving good will ambassador," somebody remarked, "is all Teledu is." As the river crept forward sailors and yardbirds hurriedly covered it with the leaves of a few morning newspapers, left lying on the seats. Teledu's comrades applauded.
"Pappy," Fat Clyde said, "you intending to go out and get juiced tonight?"
"I was thinking about it," said Pappy.
"That's what I was afraid of. Look, I know I'm out of line -"
Ho was interrupted by a burst of merriment from the back of the bus. Teledu's friend Lazar, whom Fat Clyde had last seen sweeping water off the 01 deck, had succeeded now in setting fire to the newspapers on the floor of the bus. Smoke billowed up and with a most horrible smell. Yardbirds began to mutter among themselves. "I should of saved some," crowed Teledu, "to put it out with."
"Oh God," said Pappy. A couple-three of Teledu's fellow snipes were stomping around trying to put out the fire. The bus driver was cursing audibly.
They pulled up to the Phoenicia Hotel at last: smoke still leaking from the windows. Night had fallen. Raucous41 with song, the men of the Scaffold boat descended42 on Valletta.
Clyde and Pappy were last to get out. They apologized to the driver. Palm leaves in front of the hotel chattered43 in the wind. It seemed Pappy was hanging back.
"Why don't we go to a movie," Clyde said, a little desperate. Pappy wasn't listening. They walked under an arch and into Kingsway.
"Tomorrow is Hallowe'en," said Pappy, "and they better put those idiots in a strait jacket."
"They never made one to hold old Lazar. Hot damn, it's crowded in here."
Kingsway seethed45. There was this sense of containment46, like a sound stage. As an indication of the military buildup in Malta since the beginning of the Suez crisis, there overflowed47 into the street a choppy sea of green Commando berets, laced with the white and blue of naval48 uniforms. The Ark Royal was in, and corvettes, and troop carriers to take the Marines to Egypt to occupy and hold.
"Now I was on an AKA during the war," observed Pappy as they elbowed their way along Kingsway, "and just before D-day it was like this:"
"Oh they was getting drunk in Yoko too, back during Korea," said Clyde, defensive49.
"Not like that was, or like this either. The Limeys have a way of getting drunk just before they have to go off and fight. Not like we get drunk. All we do is puke, or break furniture. But the Limeys show imagination. Listen."
All it was was an English ruddy-faced jarhead and his Maltese girl, standing in the entrance to a men's clothing store and looking at silk scarves. But they were singing People Will Say We're In Love, from Oklahoma.
Overhead bombers50 screamed away toward Egypt. On some street corners trinket-stalls were set up, and doing a peak trade in good-luck charms and Maltese lace.
"Lace," said Fat Clyde. "What is it about lace."
"To make you think about a girl. Even if you don't have a girl, it's better somehow if you . . ." He trailed off. Fat Clyde didn't try to keep the subject alive.
From a Phillips Radio store to their left, news broadcasts were going full blast. Little tense knot, of civilians51 stood around, just listening. Nearby at a newspaper kiosk, red scare headlines proclaimed BRITISH INTEND TO MOVE INTO SUED "Parliament," said the newscaster, "after an emergency session, issued a resolution late this afternoon calling for the engagement of airborne troops in the Suez crisis. The paratroopers, based on Cyprus and Malta, are on one-hour alert."
"Oboy, oboy," said Fat Clyde wearily.
"High and dry," said Pappy Hod, "and the only ship in the Sixth Fleet getting liberty." All the others were off in the Eastern Mediterranean52 evacuating53 American nationals from the Egyptian mainland. Abruptly54 Pappy cut round a corner to the left. He'd gone about ten steps down the hill when he noticed Fat Clyde wasn't there.
"Where are you going," Fat Clyde yelled from the corner.
"The Gut55," said Pappy, "where else."
"Oh." Clyde came stumbling downhill. "I figured maybe we could wander around the main drag a little. "
Pappy grinned: reached out and patted Clyde's beer belly56. "Easy there, mother Clyde," he said. "Old Hod is doing all right."
I'm just trying to be helpful, Clyde thought. But: "Yes," he agreed, "I am pregnant with a baby elephant. You want to see its trunk?"
Pappy guffawed58 and they roistered away down the hill. There is nothing like old jokes. It's a kind of stability about them: familiar ground.
Strait Street - the Gut - was crowded as Kingsway but more poorly lit. First familiar face they saw was Leman the red-headed water-king, who came reeling out the swinging doors of a pub called the Four Aces59, minus a white hat. Leman was a bad drunk, so Pappy and Clyde ducked down behind a patted palm in front to watch. Sure enough, Leman started searching in the gutter60, bent over at a 90 degree angle. "Rocks," whispered Clyde. "He always looks for rocks." The water-king found a rock and prepared to heave it through the front window of the Four Aces. The U. S. Cavalry61, in the form of one Tourneur, the ship's barber, arrived also by way of the swinging doors and grabbed Leman's arm. The two fell to the street and began wrestling around in the dust. A passing band of British Marines looked at them curiously62 for a moment, then went by, laughing, a little embarrassed.
"See," said Pappy, getting philosophical63. "Richest country in the world and we never learned how to throw a good-bye drunk like the Limeys."
"But it's not good-bye for us," said Clyde.
"Who knows. There's revolutions in Hungary and Poland, fighting in Egypt." Pause. "And Jayne Mansfield is getting married."
"She can't, she can't. She said she'd wait for me."
They entered the Four Aces. It was early yet and no one but a few low-tolerance64 drunks like Leman were causing any commotion65. They sat at a table. "Guinness stout," said Pappy and the words fell on Clyde like a nostalgic sandbag. He wanted to say, Pappy it is not the old days and why didn't you stay on board the Scaffold boat because a boring liberty is better for me than one that hurts, and this hurts more all the time.
The barmaid who brought their drinks was new: at least Clyde didn't remember her from last cruise. But one across the room, jitterbugging with one of Pappy's strikers, she'd been around. And though Paola's bar had been the Metro66, further on down the street, this girl - Elisa? - knew through the barmaids' grapevine that Pappy had married one of her own. If only Clyde could keep him away from the Metropole. If only Elisa didn't spot them.
But the music stopped, she saw them, headed over. Clyde concentrated on his beer. Pappy smiled at Elisa.
"How's your wife?" she asked, of course.
"I hope she's well."
Elisa, bless her heart, dropped it. "You want to dance? Nobody broke your record yet. Twenty-two straight."
Nimble Pappy was on his feet. "Let's set a new one."
Good, thought Clyde: good. After a while who should come over but LtJG Johnny Contango, the Scaffold's damage-control assistant, in civvies.
"When we going to get the screw fixed67, Johnny?"
Johnny because this officer had been a white hat sent to OCS, and having been then faced with the usual two alternatives - to persecute68 those of his former estate or to keep fraternizing and to hell with the wardroom - had chosen the latter. He had gone possibly overboard on this, at least running afoul of the Book at every turn: stealing a motorcycle in Barcelona, inciting70 an impromptu71 mass midnight swim at Fleet Landing in the Piraeus. Somehow - maybe because of Captain Lych's fondness for incorrigibles - he'd escaped court-martial.
"I am feeling more and more guilty about the screw," said Johnny Contango. "I have just slipped off from a stuffy72 do over at the British Officers' Club. You know what the big joke is? 'Let's have another drink, old boy, before we have to go to war with each other.' "
"I don't get it," said Fat Clyde.
"We voted in the Security Council with Russia and against England and France on this Suez business."
"Pappy says the Limeys are going to kidnap us."
"I don't know."
"What about the screw?"
"Drink your beer, Fat Clyde." Johnny Contango felt guilty about the mangled ship's propeller73 not so much in a world-political way. It was personal guilt which, Fat Clyde suspected upset him more than he showed. He'd been OOD. the midwatch old Scaffold boat had hit whatever it was - submerged wreck74, oil drum - going through the Straits of Messina. Radar gang had been too busy keeping tabs on a fleet of night fishing boats who'd chosen the same route to notice the object - if it had protruded75 above the surface at all. Set, and drift, and pure accident had brought them here to get a screw fixed. God knew what the Med had brought into Johnny Contango's path. The report had called it "hostile marine28 life," and there'd been much raillery since about the mysterious screw-chewing fish, but Johnny still felt it was his fault. The Navy would rather blame something alive - preferably human and with a service number - than pure accident. Fish? Mermaid76? Scylla, Charybdis, wha. Who knew how many female monsters this Med harbored?
"Bwaagghh."
"Pinguez, I'll bet," Johnny said without looking around.
"Yup. All over his blues." The owner had materialized and stood now truculent77 over Pinguez, steward78's mate striker, hollering "SP, SP," with no results. Pinguez sat on the floor afflicted79 with the dry heaves.
"Poor Pinguez," Johnny said. "He's an early one."
Out on the floor Pappy was up to about a dozen and showed no signs of stopping.
"We ought to get him into a cab," Fat Clyde said.
"Where is Baby Face." Falange the snipe, and Pinguez's buddy80. Pinguez now lay sprawled81 among the legs of a table, and had begun talking to himself in Filipino. A bartender approached with something dark in a glass that fizzed. Baby Face Falange, wearing as was his wont82 a babushka, joined the group around Pinguez. A number of British sailors looked on with interest.
"Here, you drink it," the bartender said. Pinguez lifted his head and moved it, mouth open, toward the bartender's hand. Bartender got the message and jerked his hand away: Pinguez's shiny teeth closed on the air with a loud snap. Johnny Contango knelt by the steward.
"Andale, man," he said gently, raising Pinguez's head. Pinguez bit him on the arm. "Let go," just as quiet. "It's a Hathaway shirt, I don't want no cabron puking on it."
"Falange!" Pinguez screamed, drawing out the a's.
"You hear that," said Baby Face. "That's all he has to say on the quarterdeck and my ass has had it."
Johnny took Pinguez under the arms; Fat Clyde, more nervous, lifted his feet. They bore him to the street, found a cab, and got him off in it.
"Back to the great gray mother," said Johnny. "Come on. You want to try the union Jack44?"
"I should keep an eye on Poppy. You know."
"I know. But he'll be busy dancing."
"As long as he doesn't get to the Metro," said Fat Clyde. They strolled down half a block to the union Jack. Inside Antoine Zippo, captain of the second division head, and Nasty Chobb the baker83, who periodically used salt in place of sugar in the early morning's pies to discourage thieves, had taken over not only the bandstand in back but also a trumpet84 and guitar respectively; and were now making Route 66, respectfully.
"Sort of quiet," said Johnny Contango. But this was premature85 because sly young Sam Mannaro, the corpsman striker, was even now sneaking86 alum into Antoine's beer which sat uneyed by Antoine on the piano.
"SP's will be busy tonight," said Johnny. "How come Pappy came over at all?"
"I never had that happen to me, that way," Clyde said, a little brusque.
"Sorry. I was thinking today in the rain how it was I could light a king-sized cigarette without getting it wet."
"Oh I think he should have stayed on board," said Clyde, "but all we can do is keep an eye out that window."
"Right ho," said Johnny Contango, slurping87 beer.
A scream from the street. "That's tonight's," said Johnny. "Or one of tonight's."
"Bad street."
"Back during the beginning of all this in July the Gut ran one killing88 a night. Average. God knows what it is now."
In came two Commandos, looking around for somewhere to sit. They picked Clyde and Johnny's table.
David and Maurice their names were, and heading off for Egypt tomorrow.
"We shall be there," said Maurice, "to wave hello when you people come steaming in."
"If ever," said Johnny.
"World's going to hell," said David. They'd been drinking heavily but held it well.
"Don't expect to hear from us till the election is over," said Johnny.
"Oh is that it then."
"Why America is sitting on its ass," brooded Johnny, "is the same reason our ship is sitting on its ass. Crosscurrents, seismic89 movements, unknown things in the night. But you can't help thinking it's somebody's fault."
"The jolly, jolly balloon," said Maurice. "Going up."
"Did you hear a bloke got murdered just as we came in." David leaned forward, melodramatic.
"More blokes than that will get murdered in Egypt," said Maurice, "and don't I wish they would truss up a few M.P.'s now, in those jumping rigs and chutes. Send them out the door. They're the ones who want it. Not us.
"But my brother is on Cyprus and I shall never live it down if he gets there first."
The Commandos outdrank them two-for-one. Johnny, never having talked to anyone who might be dead inside a week, was curious in a macabre90 way. Clyde, who had, only felt unhappy.
The group on the stand had moved from Route 66 to Every Day I Have the Blues. Antoine Zippo, who had wrecked91 one jugular92 vein93 last year with a shore-based Navy band in Norfolk and was now trying for two, took a break, shook the spit out of his horn and reached for the beer on the piano. He looked hot and sweaty, as a suicidal workhorse trumpet should. Alum however being what it is, the predictable occurred.
"Ech," said Antoine Zippo, slamming the beer down on the piano. He looked around, belligerent94. His lip had just been attacked. "Sam the werewolf," said Antoine, "is the only sumbitch here who could get alum." He couldn't talk too well.
"There goes Pappy," said Clyde, grabbing for his hat. Antoine Zippo leaped like a puma95 from the stand, landing feet first on Sam Mannaro's table.
David turned to Maurice. "I wish the Yanks would save their energy for Nasser."
"Still," said Maurice, "it would be good practice."
"I heartily96 agree," pip-pipped David in a toff's voice: "Shall we, old man?"
Bung ho. The two Commandos waded97 into the growing melee98 about Sam.
Clyde and Johnny were the only two heading for the door. Everybody else wanted to get in on the fight. It took them five minutes to reach the street. Behind them they heard glass breaking and chairs being knocked over. Pappy Hod was nowhere in sight.
Clyde hung his head. "I suppose we ought to go to the Metro." They took their time, neither savoring99 the night's work ahead. Pappy was a loud and merciless drunk. He demanded that his keepers sympathize and of course they always did, so much that it was always worse for them.
They passed an alley8. Facing them on the blank wall, in chalk, was a Kilroy, thus:
[picture missing]
flanked by two of the most common British sentiments in time of crisis: WOT NO PETROL and END CALL-UP.
"No petrol, indeed," said Johnny Contango. "They're blowing up oil refineries100 all over the Middle East." Nasser it seems having gone on the radio, urging a sort of economic jihad.
Kilroy was possibly the only objective onlooker101 in Valletta that night. Common legend had it he'd been born in the U.S. right before the war, on a fence or latrine wall. Later he showed up everywhere the American armies moved: farmhouses102 in France, pillboxes in North Africa, bulkheads of troop ships in the Pacific. Somehow he'd acquired the reputation of a schlemihl or sad sack. The foolish nose hanging over the wall was vulnerable to all manner of indignities104: fist, shrapnel, machete. Hinting perhaps at a precarious105 virility106, a flirting107 with castration, though ideas like this are inevitable108 in a latrine-oriented (as well as Freudian) psychology109.
But it was all deception110. Kilroy by 1940 was already bald, aged112" target="_blank">middle-aged111. His true origins forgotten, he was able to ingratiate himself with a human world, keeping schlemihl-silence about what he'd been as a curly-haired youth. It was a masterful disguise: a metaphor113. For Kilroy had sprung into life, in truth, as part of a band-pass filter, thus:
[picture missing]
Inanimate. But Grandmaster of Valletta tonight.
"The Bobbsey Twins," said Clyde. Running around the corner in a jog trot came Dahoud (who'd discouraged little Ploy114 from taking a Brody) and Leroy Tongue the widget storekeeper, both of them with night sticks and SP armbands. It looked like a vaudeville115 act, Dahoud being one and a half times as high as Leroy. Clyde had a general idea of their technique for keeping the peace. Leroy would hop16 up on Dahoud's shoulders piggyback and rain pacification116 about the heads and shoulders of boisterous117 bluejackets, while Dahoud exerted his calming influence down below.
"Look," yelled Dahoud approaching. "We can do it running." Leroy slowed down and cut in behind his running mate. "Hup-hup-hup," said Dahoud. "YO." Sure enough: neither of them breaking stride, up hopped118 Leroy, clinging to Dahoud's big collar to ride his shoulders like a jockey.
"Giddap there, boss," Leroy screamed, and away they dashed for the union Jack. A small detachment of Marines, all in step, came marching out of a side street. One farm lad, blond and candid-faced, counted cadence119 unintelligibly120. Passing Clyde and Johnny, he broke off for a moment to ask:
"Wot's all that noise we hear?"
"Fight," said Johnny. "union Jack."
"Right ho." Back in formation, the boy ordered a column left and his charges set course dutifully for the union Jack.
"We're missing all the fun," whined121 Clyde.
"There is Poppy."
They entered the Metro. Poppy sat at a table with a barmaid who looked like Paola but fatter and older. It was pitiful to watch. He was doing his "Chicago" bit. They waited till it was over. The barmaid, indignant, arose and waddled122 off. Poppy used the handkerchief to swab off his face which was sweating.
"Twenty-five dances," he said as they approached. "I broke my own record."
"There is a nice fight on at the union Jack," suggested Clyde. "Wouldn't you like to go to it, Poppy?"
"Or how about that whorehouse the chief off the Hank that we met in Barcelona told us about," said Johnny. "Why don't we try to find it."
Poppy shook his head. "You guys ought to know this was the only place I wanted to come."
So they begin: these vigils. Having put up their token resistance, Clyde and Johnny straddled chairs to either side of Poppy and settled down to drinking as much as Poppy but staying soberer.
The Metro looked like a nobleman's pied-a-terre applied123 to mean purposes. The dancing floor and bar lay up a wide curving flight of marble steps lined with statues in niches124: statues of Knights125, ladies and Turks. Such was a quality of suspended animation127 about them that you felt come the owl-hours, the departure of the last sailor and the extinguishment of the last electric light, these statues must unfreeze, step down from their pedestals, and ascend128 stately to the dance floor bringing with them their own light: the sea's phosphorescence. There to form sets and dance till sunup, utterly silent; no music; their stone feet only just kissing the wood planks129.
Along the sides of the room were great stone urns130, with palms and poincianas. On the red-carpeted dais sat a small hot-jazz band: violin, trombone, saxophone, trumpet, guitar, piano, drums. It was a plump middle-aged lady, playing the violin. At the moment they were playing C'est Magnifique tailgate fashion, while a Commando six and a half feet tall jitterbugged with two barmaids at once and tree and four friends stood around, clapping hands, cheering, them on. It was not so much a matter of Dick Powell, the American Singing Marine, caroling Sally and Sue, Don't Be Blue: more a taking-on of traditional attitudes which (on suspects) must be latent in all English germ plasm: mother loony chromosome131 along with afternoon tea and respect for the Crown; where the Yanks saw novelty and an excuse for musical comedy, the English saw history, and Sally and Sue were only incidental.
Early tomorrow deck hands would come out in the bleaching132 glare of the pier133's lights and single up all lines for some of these green berets. The night before, then, was for sentiment, larking134 in shadows with jolly barmaids, another pint135 and another smoke in this manufactured farewell-hall; this enlisted136 men's version of that great ball, the Saturday night before Waterloo. One way you could tell which ones were going tomorrow: they left without looking back.
Pappy got drunk, stinking137 drunk: and drew his two keepers into a personal past neither wanted to investigate. They endured a step-by-step account of the brief marriage: the presents he'd given her, the places they'd gone, the cooking, the kindnesses. Toward the end, half of it was noise: maundering. But they didn't ask for clarity. Didn't ask anything, not so much from booze-tangled tongues as from a stuffiness-by-induction in the nasal cavities. So susceptible138 were Fat Clyde and Johnny Contango.
But it was Cinderella liberty in Malta and though the drunk's clock slows down it doesn't stop. "Come on," said Clyde finally, floundering afoot. "It is about that time." Pappy smiled sadly and fell out of his chair.
"We'll go get a taxi," said John. "Carry him home in a taxi."
"Jeez, it's late." They were the last Americans in the Metro. The English were quietly absorbed in saying goodbye to at least this part of Valletta. With the departure of the Scaffold boat's men all things had grown more matter-of-fact.
Clyde and Johnny draped Pappy around them and got him down the stairs, past the Knights' reproachful eyes and into the street. "Taxi, hey," Clyde screamed.
"No taxis," said Johnny Contango. "All gone. God how big the stars are."
Clyde wanted to argue. "You just let me take him," he said. "You're an officer, you can stay out all night."
"Who said I was an officer. I'm a white hat. Your brother, Pappy's brother. Brother's keeper."
"Taxi, taxi, taxi."
"Limey's brother, everybody's brother. Who says I'm an officer. Congress. Officer and gentlemen by act of Congress. Congress won't even go into the Suez to help the Limeys. They're wrong about that, they're wrong about me."
"Paola," Pappy moaned and pitched forward. They grabbed him. His white hat was long gone. His head hung and hair had fallen over his eyes.
"Pappy is going bald," said Clyde. "I never noticed."
"You never do till you're drunk."
They made their way slow and unsteady down the Gut, yelling occasionally for a taxi. None came. The street had a silent look but was not so; not so far away, on the hill ascending139 to Kingsway, they heard sharp little explosions. And the voice of a great crowd around the next corner.
"What is it," said Johnny, "revolution?"
Better than that: it was a free-for-all among 200 Royal Commandos and maybe 30 Scaffold sailors.
Clyde and Johnny dragged Pappy round the corner and into the fringes of it.
"Oh-oh," said Johnny. The noise woke Pappy, who called for his wife. A few dangling140 belts were in evidence, but no broken beer bottles or boatswain's knives. Or none anybody could see. Or not yet. Dahoud stood against a wall, facing 20 Commandos. By his left bicep another Kilroy looked on, with nothing to say but WOT NO AMERICANS. Leroy Tongue must have been off underfoot somewhere, clubbing at shins with his night stick. Something red and sputtering141 came arcing through the air, landed by Johnny Contango's foot and blew up. "Firecrackers," said Johnny, landing three feet away. Clyde had also fled, and Pappy, unsupported, fell to the street. "Let's get him out of here," said Johnny.
But they found their way blocked by Marines, who'd come up from behind.
"Hey Billy Eckstine," yelled the Commandos in front of Dahoud. "Billy Eckstine! sing us a song!" A volley of firecrackers went off somewhere to the right. Most of the fist-fighting was still concentrated in the center of the mob. Only shoving, elbowing and curiosity at the edges. Dahoud removed his hat, drew himself up and began to sang I Only Have Eyes for You. Commandos were struck dumb. Somewhere down the street a police whistle blew. Glass broke in the middle of the crowd. It sent human waves back, concentric. A couple-three Marines staggered back and fell over Pappy, who was still on the ground. Johnny and Clyde moved in to rescue him. A few sailors moved in to help the fallen Marines. Unobtrusive as possible, Clyde and Johnny lifted their charge by an arm each and sneaky-Peted away. Behind them the Marines and sailors began scuffling with one another.
"Cops," somebody yelled. Half a dozen cherry bombs went off. Dahoud finished his song. A number of Commandos applauded. "Now sing I Apologize."
"You mean that," Dahoud scratched his head, "that if I told a lie, if I made you cry, forgive me?"
"Hoorah Billy Eckstine!" they cried.
"O no man," Dahoud said. "I don't apologize to nobody." Commandos squared off. Dahoud surveyed the situation, then abruptly lifted a gigantic arm, straight up. "All right there troopers, get in ranks now. Square away."
For some reason they shuffled142 into a kind of formation.
"Yeah," Dahoud grinned. "Right, FACE." So they did.
"Awright men. Let's goooo!" Down came the arm, and away they marched. In step. Kilroy looked on deadpan143. From nowhere Leroy Tongue emerged to bring up the rear.
Clyde, Johnny and Poppy Hod struggled free of the brawl144, dodged145 round a corner and began the struggle up the hill to Kingsway. Halfway146 along, Dahoud's detachment passed them, Dahoud counting cadence singing it like a blues. For all anyone knew he was marching them back to the troop carriers.
A taxi pulled up next to the three. "Follow that platoon," Johnny said and they piled in. The cab had a skylight, so of course before it reached Kingsway three heads had appeared through the roof. As they crawled behind the Commandos, they sang:
Who's the little rodent147
That's getting more than me?
F-U-C-K-E-Y Y-O-U-S-E.
A legacy148 from Pig Bodine, who'd watched this particular kid's program religiously on the mess hall TV every night in port; had furnished black clip-on ears to all the mess cooks at his own expense and composed on the shows theme song an obscene parody149 of which this variation in spelling was the most palatable150 part. Commandos in the rear ranks asked Johnny to teach them the words. He did, receiving in exchange a fifth of Irish whisky when its owner insisted he could not possibly finish it before they got under way next morning. (To this day the bottle has remained in Johnny Contango's possession, unopened. No one knows what he's keeping it for.)
This weird151 procession crept along Kingsway until intercepted152 by a British cattle car or lorry. The Commandos climbed on, thanked everyone for a jolly evening and snarled away forever. Dahoud and Leroy climbed wearily into the cab.
"Billy Eckstine," Dahoud grinned. "Jeez."
"We got to go back," Leroy said. The driver made a U-turn and they circled back to the scene of the free-for-all. No more than fifteen minutes had passed; but the street was deserted153. Quiet: no more firecrackers, shouts; nothing.
"I'll be damned," said Dahoud.
"You'd think it never happened," said Leroy.
"Dockyard," Clyde instructed the driver, yawning. "Dry dock two. American tin can with the teeth marks of a screw-chewing fish."
All the way out to the Dockyard Pappy snored.
Liberty had been expired an hour when they arrived. The two SP's bounded past the rows of latrines and across the gangplank. Clyde and Johnny, with Pappy in the middle, lagged.
"Now none of that was worth it," Johnny said bitterly. Two figures, fat and slim, stood by the latrine wall.
"Come on," Clyde urged Pappy. "Few more steps."
Nasty Chobb came running by, wearing an English sailor hat with H.M.S. Ceylon printed on the hand. The shadow-figures detached themselves from the latrine wall and approached. Pappy tripped.
"Robert," she said. Not a question.
"Hello Pappy," said the other.
"Who zat," said Clyde.
Johnny stopped dead and Clyde's momentum154 carried Pappy round to face her directly. "I'll be dipped in messhall coffee," said Johnny.
"Poor Robert." But she said it gently, and was smiling, and had either Johnny or Clyde been less chunk155 they would have bawled156 like children.
Pappy waggled his arms. "Go ahead," he told them, "I can stand. I'll be along." From over on the quarterdeck Nasty Chobb was heard arguing with the OOD. "What you mean go away," yelled Nasty.
"Your hat says H.M.S. Ceylon, Chobb."
"So."
"So what can I say? You're on the wrong ship."
"Profane157," said Pappy. "You came back. I thought you would."
"I didn't," Profane said. "But she did." He went off to wait. Leaned against a latrine wall out of earshot, looking at the Scaffold.
"Hello Paola," said Pappy. "Sahha." It means both.
"You -"
"You -" at the same time. He motioned her to talk.
"Tomorrow," she said, "you'll he hung over and probably will think this didn't happen. That the Metro's booze sends visions as well as a big head. But I'm real, and here, and if they restrict you -"
"I can put in a chit."
"Or send you off to Egypt or anywhere else, it should make no difference. Because I will be back in Norfolk before you, and be there on the pier. Like any other wife. But wait till then to kiss or even touch you."
"If I can get off?"
"I'll be gone. Let it be this way, Robert." How tired her face looked, in the white scatter158 from the brow lights. "It will be better, and more the way it should have been. You sailed a week after I left you. So a week is all we've lost. All that's gone on since then is only a sea-story. I will sit home in Norfolk, faithful, and spin. Spin a yarn159 for your coming-home present."
"I love you," was all he could find to say. He'd been saying it every night to a steel bulkhead and the earthwide sea on the other side.
White hands flickered160 up, behind her face. "Here. In case you think tomorrow it was a dream." Her hair fell loose. She handed him an ivory comb. Five crucified Limeys - five Kilroys - stared briefly at Valletta's sky till he pocketed it. "Don't lose it in a poker161 game. I've had it a long time."
He nodded. "We ought to be back early December."
"You'll get your good-night kiss then." She smiled, withdrew, turned, was gone.
Pappy ambled162 on past the latrine without looking back. The American flag, skewered163 by spotlights, fluttered limp, high over them all. Pappy began his walk to the quarterdeck, across the long brow, hoping he'd be soberer when he reached the other end.
II
Of their dash across the Continent in a stolen Renault; Profane's one-night sojourn164 in a jail near Genoa, when the police mistook him for an American gangster165; the drunk they all threw which began in Liguria and lasted well past Naples; the dropped transmission at the outskirts166 of that city and the week they spent waiting its repair in a ruined villa167 on Ischia, inhabited by friends of Stencil168 - a monk169 long defrocked named Fenice who spent his time breeding giant scorpions170 in marble cages once used by the Roman blood to punish their young boy and girl concubines, and the poet Cinoglossa who had the misfortune to be both homosexual and epileptic - wandering listlessly in an unseasonable heat among vistas171 of marble fractured by earthquake, pines blasted by lightning, sea wrinkled by a dying mistral; of their arrival in Sicily and the difficulty with local bandits on a mountain road (from which Stencil extricated172 them by telling foul69 Sicilian jokes and giving them whisky); of the day-long trip from Syracuse to Valletta on the Laferla steamer Star of Malta, during which Stencil lost $100 and a pair of cufflinks at stud poker to a mild-faced clergyman who called himself Robin173 Petitpoint; and of Paola's steadfast174 silence through it all, there was little for any of them to remember. Malta alone drew them, a clenched175 fist around a yo-yo string.
They came in to Valletta, cold, yawning, in the rain. They rode to Maijstral's room neither anticipating nor remembering-outwardly, at least, apathetic176 and low-keyed as the rain. Maijstral greeted them calmly. Paola would stay with him. Stencil and Profane had planned to doss at the Phoenicia Hotel, but at 2/8 per day the agile177 Robin Petitpoint had had his effect. They settled for a lodging-house near the Harbour. "What now," said Profane, tossing his ditty bag in a corner.
Stencil thought a long time.
"I like," Profane continued, "living off of your money. But you and Paola conned178 me into coming here."
"First things first," said Stencil. The rain had stopped; he was nervous. "See Maijstral. See Maijstral."
See Maijstral he did: but only next day, and after a morning-long argument with the whisky bottle which the bottle lost. He walked to the room in the ruined building through a brilliant gray afternoon. Light seemed to cling to his shoulders like fine rain. His knees shook.
But it wasn't hard to talk to Maijstral.
"Stencil has seen your confession179 to Paola."
"Then you know," Maijstral said, "I only made it into this world through the good offices of one Stencil."
Stencil hung his head. "It may have been his father."
"Making us brothers."
There was wine, which helped. Stencil yarned180 far into the night but with a voice always threatening to break, as if now at last he were pleading for his life. Maijstral kept a decorous silence, waiting patiently whenever Stencil faltered181.
Stencil sketched182 the entire history of V. that night and strengthened a long suspicion. That it did add up only to the recurrence183 of an initial and a few dead objects. At one point in Mondaugen's story:
"Ah," Maijstral said. "The glass eye."
"And you." Stencil mopped his forehead. "You listen like a priest."
"I have wondered." Smiling.
At the end of it:
"But Paola showed you my apologia. Who is the priest? We have heard one another's confessions184."
"Not Stencil's," Stencil insisted. "Hers."
Maijstral shrugged185. "Why have you come? She is dead."
"He must know."
"I could never find that cellar again. If I could: it must be rebuilt now. Your confirmation186 would lie deep."
"Too deep already," Stencil whispered. "Stencil's long over his head, you know."
"I was lost."
"But not apt to have visions."
"Oh, real enough. You always look inside first, don't you, to find what's missing. What gap a vision could possibly fill. I was all gap then, and there was too wide a field to choose from."
"Yet you'd just come from -"
"I did think of Elena. Yes. Latins warp187 everything to the sexual anyway. Death becomes an adulterer or rival, need arises to see one rival at least done in . . . But I was bastardized enough, you see, before that. Too much so to feel hatred188 or triumph, watching."
"Only pity. Is that what you mean? At least in what Stencil read. Read into. How can he -"
"More a passiveness. The characteristic stillness, perhaps, of the rock. Inertia189. I'd come back - no, in - come in to the rock as far as I would."
Stencil brightened after a while and changed course. "A token. Comb, shoe, glass eye. The children."
"I wasn't watching the children. I was watching your V. What I did see of the children - I recognized none of the faces. No. They may have died before the war ended or emigrated after it. Try Australia. Try the pawnbrokers190 and curio shops. But as for placing a notice in the agony column: 'Anyone participating in the disassembly of a priest -'"
"Please."
Next day, and for days after, he investigated the inventories191 of curio merchants, pawnbrokers, ragmen. He returned one morning to find Paola brewing192 tea on the ring for Profane, who lay bundled up in bed.
"Fever," she said. "Too much booze, too much everything back in New York. He hasn't been eating much since we arrived. God knows where he does eat. What the water there is like."
"I'll recover," Profane croaked193. "Tough shit, Stencil."
"He says you're down on him. "
"O God," said Stencil.
The next day brought momentary194 encouragement to Stencil. A shopowner named Cassar did know of an eye such as Stencil described. The girl lived in Valletta, her husband was an auto195 mechanic at the garage which cared for Cassar's Morris. He had tried every device he knew to purchase the eye, but the foolish girl would not pant with it. A keepsake, she said.
She lived in a tenement196. Stucco walls, a row of balconies on the top floor. Light that afternoon produced a "burn" between whites and blacks: fuzzy edges, blurrings. White was too white, black too black. Stencil's eyes hurt. Colors were nearly absent, leaning either to white or black.
"I threw it into the sea." Hands on hips103, defiant197. He smiled uncertainly. Where had Sidney's charm fled? Under the same sea, back to its owner. Light angling through the window fell across a bowl of fruit - oranges, limes - bleaching them and throwing the bowl's interior to black shadow. Something was wrong with the light. Stencil felt tired, unable to pursue it further - not just now - wanting only to leave. He left.
Profane sat in a worn flowered robe of Fausto Maijstral's, looking ghastly, chewing on the stump198 of an old cigar. He glared at Stencil. Stencil ignored him: threw himself on the bed and slept soundly for twelve hours.
He awoke at four in the morning and walked through a sea-phosphorescence to Maijstral's. Dawn leaked in, turning the illumination conventional. Along a mudway and up twenty steps. A light burned.
Maijstral was asleep at his table. "Don't haunt me, Stencil," he mumbled, still dreamy and belligerent.
"Stencil is passing on the discomfort199 of being haunted," Stencil shivered.
They huddled200 over tea in chipped cups.
"She cannot be dead," Stencil said.
"One feels her in the city," he cried.
"In the city."
"In the light. It has to do with the light."
"If the soul," Maijstral ventured, "is light. Is it a presence?"
"Damn the word. Stencil's father, had he possessed201 imagination, might have used it." Stencil's eyebrows202 puckered203, as if he would cry. He weaved irritably204 in his seat, blinked, fumbled205 for his pipe. He'd left it at the lodginghouse. Maijstral tapped across a pack of Players.
Lighting206 up: "Maijstral. Stencil expresses himself like an idiot."
"But your search fascinates me."
"Did you know, he's devised a prayer. Walking about this city, to be said in rhythm to his footsteps. Fortune, may Stencil be steady enough not to fasten on one of these poor ruins at his own random207 or at any least hint from Maijstral. Let him not roam out all Gothic some night with lantern and shovel208 to exhume209 an hallucination, and be found by the authorities mud-streaked and mad, and tossing meaningless clay about."
"Come, come," muttered Maijstral. "I feel uncomfortable enough, being in this position."
Stencil drew in his breath too loudly.
"No I am not beginning to requestion. That is long done."
Beginning then Maijstral took up the study of Stencil more closely. Though suspending judgment210. He'd aged enough to know the written apologia would only be a first step in exorcising the sense of sin that had hung with him since '43. But this V. was surely more than a sense of sin?
Mounting crisis in the Suez, Hungary and Poland hardly touched them. Maijstral, leery like any Maltese of the Balloon's least bobbing, was grateful for something else - Stencil - to take his mind off the headlines. But Stencil himself, who seemed more unaware211 each day (under questioning) of what was happening in the rest of the world, reinforced Maijstral's growing theory that V. was an obsession212 after all, and that such an obsession is a hothouse: constant temperature, windless, too crowded with particolored sports, unnatural213 blooms.
Stencil, returning to the lodging-house, walked into a loud argument between Paola and Profane.
"So go," he was yelling. Something crashed against the door.
"Don't try to make up my mind for me," she yelled back. Stencil opened the door warily214, peered around and was hit in the face with a pillow. Shades were drawn215 and Stencil saw only blurred216 figures: Profane still ducking out of the way, Paola's arm in follow-through.
"What the hell."
Profane, crouching217 like a toad218, flapped a newspaper at him. "My old ship is in." All Stencil could see were the whites of his eyes. Paola was crying.
"Ah." Stencil dived for the bed. Profane had been sleeping on the floor. Let them use that, thought spiteful Stencil; snuffled, and drifted off to sleep.
At length it occurred to him to talk with the old priest, Father Avalanche219, who according to Maijstral had been here since 1919.
The moment he entered the church he knew he'd lost again. The old priest knelt at the communion rail: white hair above a black cassock. Too old.
Later, in the priest's house:
"God lets some of us wait, in queer backwaters," said Father Avalanche. "Do you know how long it's been since I have shriven a murderer? At the time of the Ghallis Tower murder last year I had hopes . . ." He maundered thus, taking Stencil by an unwilling220 hand, and began to charge aimless about thickets221 of memory. Stencil tried to point them toward the June Disturbances222.
"Oh I was only a young lad then, full of myth. The Knights, you know. One cannot come to Valletta without knowing about the Knights. I still believe -" chuckling223 - "as I believed then, that they roam the streets after sunset. Somewhere. And I had only served as padre - in the actual fighting - long enough to have illusions left about Avalanche as crusading Knight126. But then to compare the Malta that was, in 1919, to their Malta . . . You'd have to talk, I suppose, to my predecessor224 here, Father Fairing. He went to America. Though the poor old man, wherever he is, must be dead by now."
Politely as he could Stencil took leave of the old priest, plunged225 into the sunlight and began to walk. There was too much adrenalin, contracting the smooth muscle, deepening his breathing, quickening his pulse. "Stencil must walk," he said to the street: "walk. "
Foolish Stencil: he was out of condition. He returned to his pied-a-terre long after midnight, hardly able to stand. The room was empty.
"Clinches226 it," he muttered. If it were the same Fairing.
Even if it were not, could it matter? A phrase (it often happened when he was exhausted) kept cycling round and round, preconsciously, just under the threshold of lip and tongue movement: "Events seem to be ordered into an ominous227 logic228." It repeated itself automatically and Stencil improved on it each time, placing emphasis on different words - "events _seem_"; "seem to be _ordered_"; "_ominous_ logic" - pronouncing them differently, changing the "tone of voice" from sepulchral229 to jaunty230: round and round and round. Events seem to be ordered into an ominous logic. He found paper and pencil and began to write the sentence in varying hands and type faces. Profane lurched in on him thus.
"Paola's back with her husband," said Profane and collapsed231 on the bed. "She'll go back to the States."
"Someone," Stencil muttered, "is out of it, then." Profane groaned232 and pulled blankets around him. "Look here," said Stencil. "Now, you're sick." He crossed to Profane, felt his forehead. "High fever. Stencil must get a doctor. What the hell were you doing out at this hour anyway."
"No." Profane flopped233 over, fished under the bed in his ditty bag. "APC's. I'll sweat it out."
Neither spoke234 for a while but Stencil was too distraught to hold anything in. "Profane," he said.
"Tell Paola's father. I'm only along for the ride."
Stencil began to pace. Laughed: "Stencil doesn't think he believes him any longer." Profane rolled over laboriously235 and blinked at him.
"V.'s is a country of coincidence, ruled by a ministry236 of myth. Whose emissaries haunt this century's, streets. Porcepic, Mondaugen, Stencil pere, this Maijstral, Stencil fils. Could any of them create a coincidence? Only Providence237 creates. If the coincidences are real then Stencil has never encountered history at all, but something far more appalling238.
"Stencil came on Father Fairing's name once, apparently239 by accident. Today he came on it again, by what only could have been design."
"I wonder," said Profane, "if that was the same Father Fairing . . ."
Stencil froze, the booze jittering240 in his glass. While Profane, dreamy, went on to tell of his nights with the Alligator241 Patrol, and how he'd hunted one pinto beast through Fairing's Parish; cornered and killed it in a chamber lit by some frightening radiance.
Carefully Stencil finished the whisky, cleaned out the glass with a handkerchief, set the glass on the table. He put on his overcoat.
"You going out for a doctor," Profane said into the pillow.
"Of sorts," Stencil said.
An hour later he was at Maijstral's.
"Don't wake her," Maijstral said. "Poor child. I'd never seen her cry."
"Nor have you seen Stencil cry," said Stencil, "but you may. Ex-priest. He has a soul possessed by the devil sleeping in his bed."
"Profane?" In an attempt at good humor: "We must get to Father A., he's a frustrated242 exorcist, always complaining about the lack of excitement."
"Aren't you a frustrated exorcist?"
Maijstral frowned. "That's another Maijstral."
"She possesses him," Stencil whispered. "V."
"You are as sick."
"Please."
Maijstral opened the window and stepped out on the balcony. Valletta by nightlight looked totally uninhabited. "No," Maijstral said, "you wouldn't get what you wanted. What - if it were your world - would be necessary. One would have to exorcise the city, the island, every ship's crew on that Mediterranean. The continents, the world. Or the western part," as an afterthought. "We are western men."
Stencil shrank at the cold air moving in through the window.
"I'm not a priest. Don't try appealing to someone you've only known in a written confession. We do not walk ganged, Stencil, all our separate selves, like Siamese quintuplets or more. God knows how many Stencils243 have chased V. about the world."
"Fairing," Stencil croaked, "in whose Parish Stencil was shot, preceded your Father Avalanche."
"I could have told you. Told you the name."
"But."
"Saw no advantage in making things worse."
Stencil's eyes narrowed. Maijstral turned, caught him looking cagy.
"Yes, yes. Thirteen of us rule the world in secret."
"Stencil went out of his way to bring Profane here. He should have been more careful; he wasn't. Is it really his own extermination244 he's after?"
Maijstral turned smiling to him. Gestured behind his back at the ramparts of Valletta. "Ask her," he whispered. "Ask the rock."
III
Two days later Maijstral arrived at the lodging-house to find Profane lying dead drunk and slaunchwise on the bed. Afternoon sun illuminated245 a swathe of face in which every hair of a week's growth showed up separate and distinct. Profane's mouth was open, he was snoring and drooling and apparently enjoying himself.
Maijstral gave Profane's forehead the back of his hand: fine. The fever had broken. But where was Stencil? No sooner asked than Maijstral saw the note. A cubist moth57, alit forever on the gross heap of Profane's beer belly.
A shipfitter named Aquilina has intelligence of one Mme. Viola, oneiromancer and hypnotist, who passed through Valletta in 1944. The glass eye went with her. Cassar's girl lied. V. used it for an hypnotic aid. Her destination, Stockholm. As is Stencil's. It will do for the frayed246 end of another clue. Dispose as you will of Profane. Stencil has no further need for any of you. Sahha.
Maijstral looked around for booze. Profane had finished everything in the house.
"Swine."
Profane woke. "Wha."
Maijstral read him the note, Profane rolled out of bed and crawled to the window.
"What day is it." After a while: "Paola's gone too?"
"Last night."
"Leaving me. Well. How do you dispose of me." "Lend you a fiver, to begin with."
"Lend," roared Profane. "You ought to know better."
"I'll be back," said Maijstral.
That night Profane shaved, bathed, donned suede247 jacket, levis and big cowboy hat and went a-roving down Kingsway, looking for amusement. He found it in the form of one Brenda Wigglesworth, an American WASP248 who attended Beaver249 College and owned she said, 72 pairs of Bermuda shorts, half of which she had brought over to Europe back around June at the beginning of a Grand Tour which bad then held high promise. High she had remained all the way across the Atlantic; high as the boat deck and mostly on sloe gin fizzes. The various lifeboats of this most underelict passage east were shared by a purser (summer job) from the academic flatlands of Jersey250 who gave her an orange and black toy tiger, a pregnancy251 scare (hers only) and a promise to meet her in Amsterdam, somewhere behind the Five Flies. He'd not come: she came to herself - or at least to the inviolable Puritan she'd show up as come marriage and the Good Life, someday soon now - in a bar's parking lot near a canal, filled with a hundred black bicycles: her junkyard, her own locust252 season. Skeletons, carapaces253, no matter: her inside too was her outside and on she went, streak-blond, far-from-frail Brenda, along the Rhine, up and down the soft slopes of the wine districts, into the Tyrol and out into Tuscany, all in a rented Morris whose fuel pump clicked random and loud in times of stress; as did her camera, as did her heart.
Valletta was the end of another season and all her friends were long sailed back to the States. She was nearly out of money. Profane couldn't help her. She found him fascinating.
So over sloe gin fizzes for her which took tiny sweet bites out of Maijstral's five-pound note, and beer for Benny, they talked of how it was they had come this far and where they would go after Valletta, and it seemed there were Beaver and the Street for them separately to return to; and both agreed this was nowhere, but some of us do go nowhere and can con13 ourselves into believing it to be somewhere: it is a kind of Talent and objections to it are rare but even at that captious254.
That night between them they established at least that the world was screwed up. English Marines, Commandos and sailors who came by - going nowhere also - helped them believe it. Profane saw no Scaffold sailors and decided that since some of them must be clean-living enough to stay away from the Gut, the Scaffold too had left. It made him sadder: as if all his homes were temporary and even they, inanimate, still wandering as he: for motion is relative, and hadn't he, now, really stood there still on the sea like a schlemihl Redeemer while that enormous malingering city and its one livable inner space and one unconnable (therefore hi-valu) girl had all slid away from him over a great horizon's curve comprising, from this vantage, at once, at least one century's worth of wavelets?
"Don't be sad."
"Brenda, we're all sad."
"Benny, we are." She laughed, raucous, having a low tolerance for sloe gin.
They went back to his place and she must have left him sometime during the night, in the dark. Profane was a heavy sleeper255. He awoke alone in bed to the sound of forenoon traffic. Maijstral sat on the table, observing a plaid knee sock, the kind worn with Bermuda shorts, which was draped over the electric lamp hanging from the center of the ceiling.
"I have brought wine," said Maijstral.
"Good enough."
They went out to a cafe for breakfast, about two. "I have no intention of supporting you indefinitely," Maijstral said.
"I should get a job. Any road work in Malta?"
"They are building a grade intersection256 - an underground tunnel - at Porte-des-Bombes. They also need men to plant trees along the roads."
"Road work and sewer257 work is all I know."
"Sewers258? There's a new pumping station going up at Marsa."
"They hire aliens?"
"Possibly."
"Possibly, then."
That evening Brenda wore paisley shorts and black socks. "I write poetry," she announced. They were at her place, a modest hotel near the great lift.
"Oh," said Profane.
"I am the twentieth century," she read. Profane rolled away and stared at the pattern in the rug.
"I am the ragtime259 and the tango; sans-serif, clean geometry. I am the virgin's-hair whip and the cunningly detailed260 shackles261 of decadent262 passion. I am every lonely railway station in every capital of Europe. I am the Street, the fanciless buildings of government; the cafe-dansant the clockwork figure, the jazz saxophone; the tourist-lady's hairpiece, the fairy's rubber breasts, the traveling clock which always tells the wrong time and chimes in different keys. I am the dead palm tree, the Negro's dancing pumps, the dried fountain after tourist season. I am all the appurtenances of night."
"That sounds about right," said Profane.
"I don't know." She made a paper airplane out of the poem and sailed it across the room on strata263 of her own exhaled264 smoke. "It's a phony college-girl poem. Things I've read for courses. Does it sound right?"
"Yes."
"You've done so much more. Boys do."
"What?"
"You've had all these fabulous265 experiences. I wish mine would show me something."
"Why."
"The experience, the experience. Haven't you learned?"
Profane didn't have to think long. "No," he said, "offhand266 I'd say I haven't learned a goddamn thing."
They were quiet for a while. She said: "Let's take a walk."
Later, out in the street, near the sea steps she inexplicably267 took his hand and began to run. The buildings in this part of Valletta, eleven years after war's end, had not been rebuilt. The street, however, was level and clear. Hand in hand with Brenda whom he'd met yesterday, Profane ran down the street. Presently, sudden and in silence, all illumination in Valletta, houselight and streetlight, was extinguished. Profane and Brenda continued to run through the abruptly absolute night, momentum alone carrying them toward the edge of Malta, and the Mediterranean beyond.
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1
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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2
bellowed
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的过去式和过去分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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3
tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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4
squatted
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的过去式和过去分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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smearing
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| 污点，拖尾效应 | |
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6
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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7
galley
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| n.（飞机或船上的）厨房单层甲板大帆船；军舰舰长用的大划艇； | |
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8
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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9
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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10
exteriors
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| n.外面( exterior的名词复数 )；外貌；户外景色图 | |
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11
radar
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| n.雷达，无线电探测器 | |
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12
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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13
con
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| n.反对的观点，反对者，反对票，肺病；vt.精读，学习，默记；adv.反对地，从反面；adj.欺诈的 | |
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14
conversationally
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| adv.会话地 | |
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15
glum
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| adj.闷闷不乐的，阴郁的 | |
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16
hop
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| n.单脚跳，跳跃；vi.单脚跳，跳跃；着手做某事；vt.跳跃，跃过 | |
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17
blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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18
ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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19
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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20
snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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21
tentacles
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| n.触手( tentacle的名词复数 )；触角；触须；触毛 | |
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22
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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23
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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24
tarpaulin
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| n.涂油防水布，防水衣，防水帽 | |
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25
spotlights
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| n.聚光灯（的光）( spotlight的名词复数 )；公众注意的中心v.聚光照明( spotlight的第三人称单数 )；使公众注意，使突出醒目 | |
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26
antenna
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| n.触角，触须；天线 | |
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27
generator
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| n.发电机，发生器 | |
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28
marine
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| adj.海的；海生的；航海的；海事的；n.水兵 | |
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29
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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30
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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31
vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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32
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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33
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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35
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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36
slumped
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| 大幅度下降，暴跌( slump的过去式和过去分词 )； 沉重或突然地落下[倒下] | |
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37
tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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38
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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39
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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40
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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41
raucous
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| adj.(声音)沙哑的，粗糙的 | |
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42
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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43
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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44
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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45
seethed
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| （液体）沸腾( seethe的过去式和过去分词 )； 激动，大怒； 强压怒火； 生闷气(~with sth|~ at sth) | |
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46
containment
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| n.阻止，遏制；容量 | |
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47
overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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48
naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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49
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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50
bombers
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| n.轰炸机( bomber的名词复数 )；投弹手；安非他明胶囊；大麻叶香烟 | |
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51
civilians
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| 平民，百姓( civilian的名词复数 )； 老百姓 | |
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52
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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53
evacuating
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| 撤离，疏散( evacuate的现在分词 )； 排空（胃肠），排泄（粪便）； （从危险的地方）撤出，搬出，撤空 | |
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54
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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55
gut
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| n.[pl.]胆量；内脏；adj.本能的；vt.取出内脏 | |
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56
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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57
moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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58
guffawed
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| v.大笑，狂笑( guffaw的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
aces
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| abbr.adjustable convertible-rate equity security (units) 可调节的股本证券兑换率；aircraft ejection seat 飞机弹射座椅；automatic control evaluation simulator 自动控制评估模拟器n.擅长…的人( ace的名词复数 )；精于…的人；（ 网球 ）（对手接不到发球的）发球得分；爱司球 | |
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60
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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61
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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62
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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63
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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64
tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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65
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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66
metro
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| n.地铁；adj.大都市的；(METRO)麦德隆(财富500强公司之一总部所在地德国，主要经营零售) | |
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67
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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68
persecute
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| vt.迫害，虐待；纠缠，骚扰 | |
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69
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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70
inciting
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| 刺激的，煽动的 | |
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71
impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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72
stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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73
propeller
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| n.螺旋桨，推进器 | |
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74
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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75
protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
mermaid
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| n.美人鱼 | |
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77
truculent
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| adj.野蛮的，粗野的 | |
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78
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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79
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
buddy
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| n.（美口）密友，伙伴 | |
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81
sprawled
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| v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的过去式和过去分词)；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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82
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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83
baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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84
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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85
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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86
sneaking
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| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
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87
slurping
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| v.啜食( slurp的现在分词 ) | |
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88
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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89
seismic
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| a.地震的，地震强度的 | |
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macabre
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| adj.骇人的，可怖的 | |
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91
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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92
jugular
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| n.颈静脉 | |
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93
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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94
belligerent
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| adj.好战的，挑起战争的；n.交战国，交战者 | |
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95
puma
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| 美洲豹 | |
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96
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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97
waded
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98
melee
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| n.混战；混战的人群 | |
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99
savoring
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| v.意味，带有…的性质( savor的现在分词 )；给…加调味品；使有风味；品尝 | |
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100
refineries
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| 精炼厂( refinery的名词复数 ) | |
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101
onlooker
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| n.旁观者，观众 | |
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102
farmhouses
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| n.农舍，农场的主要住房( farmhouse的名词复数 ) | |
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103
hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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104
indignities
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| n.侮辱，轻蔑( indignity的名词复数 ) | |
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105
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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106
virility
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| n.雄劲，丈夫气 | |
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107
flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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108
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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109
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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110
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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111
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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112
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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113
metaphor
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| n.隐喻，暗喻 | |
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114
ploy
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| n.花招，手段 | |
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115
vaudeville
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| n.歌舞杂耍表演 | |
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116
pacification
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| n. 讲和，绥靖，平定 | |
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117
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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118
hopped
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| 跳上[下]( hop的过去式和过去分词 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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119
cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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120
unintelligibly
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| 难以理解地 | |
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121
whined
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| v.哀号( whine的过去式和过去分词 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
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122
waddled
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| v.（像鸭子一样）摇摇摆摆地走( waddle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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124
niches
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| 壁龛( niche的名词复数 )； 合适的位置[工作等]； （产品的）商机； 生态位（一个生物所占据的生境的最小单位） | |
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125
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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126
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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127
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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128
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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129
planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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130
urns
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| n.壶( urn的名词复数 )；瓮；缸；骨灰瓮 | |
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131
chromosome
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| n.染色体 | |
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132
bleaching
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| 漂白法，漂白 | |
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133
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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134
larking
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| v.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的现在分词 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了 | |
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135
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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136
enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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137
stinking
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| adj.臭的，烂醉的，讨厌的v.散发出恶臭( stink的现在分词 )；发臭味；名声臭；糟透 | |
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138
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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139
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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140
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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141
sputtering
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| n.反应溅射法；飞溅；阴极真空喷镀；喷射v.唾沫飞溅( sputter的现在分词 )；发劈啪声；喷出；飞溅出 | |
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142
shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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143
deadpan
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| n. 无表情的 | |
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144
brawl
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| n.大声争吵，喧嚷；v.吵架，对骂 | |
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145
dodged
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| v.闪躲( dodge的过去式和过去分词 )；回避 | |
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146
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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147
rodent
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| n.啮齿动物；adj.啮齿目的 | |
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148
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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149
parody
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| n.打油诗文，诙谐的改编诗文，拙劣的模仿；v.拙劣模仿，作模仿诗文 | |
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150
palatable
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| adj.可口的，美味的；惬意的 | |
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151
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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152
intercepted
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| 拦截( intercept的过去式和过去分词 )； 截住； 截击； 拦阻 | |
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153
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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154
momentum
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| n.动力，冲力，势头；动量 | |
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155
chunk
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| n.厚片，大块，相当大的部分（数量） | |
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156
bawled
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的过去式和过去分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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157
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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158
scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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159
yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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160
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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161
poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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162
ambled
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| v.（马）缓行( amble的过去式和过去分词 )；从容地走，漫步 | |
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163
skewered
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| v.（用串肉扦或类似物）串起，刺穿( skewer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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164
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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165
gangster
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| n.匪徒，歹徒，暴徒 | |
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166
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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167
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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168
stencil
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| v.用模版印刷；n.模版；复写纸，蜡纸 | |
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169
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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170
scorpions
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| n.蝎子( scorpion的名词复数 ) | |
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171
vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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172
extricated
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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173
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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174
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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175
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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176
apathetic
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| adj.冷漠的，无动于衷的 | |
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177
agile
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| adj.敏捷的，灵活的 | |
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178
conned
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| adj.被骗了v.指挥操舵( conn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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179
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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180
yarned
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| vi.讲故事（yarn的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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181
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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182
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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183
recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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184
confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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185
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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186
confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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187
warp
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| vt.弄歪，使翘曲，使不正常，歪曲，使有偏见 | |
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188
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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189
inertia
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| adj.惰性，惯性，懒惰，迟钝 | |
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190
pawnbrokers
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| n.当铺老板( pawnbroker的名词复数 ) | |
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191
inventories
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| n.总结( inventory的名词复数 )；细账；存货清单（或财产目录）的编制 | |
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192
brewing
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| n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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193
croaked
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的过去式和过去分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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194
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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195
auto
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| n.(=automobile)(口语)汽车 | |
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196
tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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197
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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198
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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199
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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200
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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201
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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202
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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203
puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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204
irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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205
fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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206
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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207
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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208
shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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209
exhume
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| v.掘出，挖掘 | |
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210
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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211
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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212
obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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213
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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214
warily
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| adv.留心地 | |
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215
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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216
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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217
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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218
toad
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| n.蟾蜍，癞蛤蟆 | |
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219
avalanche
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| n.雪崩，大量涌来 | |
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220
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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221
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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222
disturbances
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| n.骚乱( disturbance的名词复数 )；打扰；困扰；障碍 | |
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223
chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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224
predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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225
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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226
clinches
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| n.（尤指两人）互相紧紧抱[扭]住( clinch的名词复数 )；解决（争端、交易），达成（协议）v.（尤指两人）互相紧紧抱[扭]住( clinch的第三人称单数 )；解决（争端、交易），达成（协议） | |
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227
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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228
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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229
sepulchral
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| adj.坟墓的，阴深的 | |
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230
jaunty
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| adj．愉快的，满足的；adv.心满意足地，洋洋得意地；n.心满意足；洋洋得意 | |
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231
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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232
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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233
flopped
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| v.（指书、戏剧等）彻底失败( flop的过去式和过去分词 )；（因疲惫而）猛然坐下；（笨拙地、不由自主地或松弛地）移动或落下；砸锅 | |
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234
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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235
laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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236
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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237
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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238
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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239
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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240
jittering
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| v.紧张不安，战战兢兢( jitter的现在分词 ) | |
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241
alligator
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| n.短吻鳄(一种鳄鱼) | |
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242
frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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243
stencils
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| n.蜡纸( stencil的名词复数 )；（有图案或文字的）模板；刻蜡纸者；用模板印出的文字或图案v.用模板印（文字或图案）( stencil的第三人称单数 ) | |
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244
extermination
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| n.消灭，根绝 | |
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245
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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246
frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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247
suede
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| n.表面粗糙的软皮革 | |
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248
wasp
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| n.黄蜂，蚂蜂 | |
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249
beaver
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| n.海狸，河狸 | |
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250
jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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251
pregnancy
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| n.怀孕，怀孕期 | |
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252
locust
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| n.蝗虫；洋槐，刺槐 | |
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253
carapaces
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| n.（龟、蟹等的）硬壳( carapace的名词复数 ) | |
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254
captious
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| adj.难讨好的，吹毛求疵的 | |
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255
sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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256
intersection
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| n.交集，十字路口，交叉点；[计算机] 交集 | |
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257
sewer
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| n.排水沟，下水道 | |
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258
sewers
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| n.阴沟，污水管，下水道( sewer的名词复数 ) | |
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259
ragtime
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| n.拉格泰姆音乐 | |
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260
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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261
shackles
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| 手铐( shackle的名词复数 )； 脚镣； 束缚； 羁绊 | |
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262
decadent
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| adj.颓废的，衰落的，堕落的 | |
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263
strata
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| n.地层（复数）；社会阶层 | |
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264
exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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265
fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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266
offhand
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| adj.临时，无准备的；随便，马虎的 | |
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inexplicably
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| adv.无法说明地，难以理解地，令人难以理解的是 | |
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