Moldenke mentioned a crumbling house in Texaco City with eastern lookouts.
Roquette described a time when he had lived in the cities, a time when Eagleman's moon was no more than a scribble on a drawing table. His eyes seemed red in the goggles. Moldenke looked at him through purple lenses. A snipe whistled in a gum above them. A delicate swarm of small bubbles came to Roquette's cracked lips and slid into his beard. Moldenke's hearts drummed in the hum of the swamp.
Roquette stood up, his head disappearing into the sunslight, and said he wondered where they were Moldenke said there was a river close by.
"My apologies, Dinky. I forget sometimes. The brain is always in a fever. Where did you say you had come from?"
"Texaco City."
"Well, a boy from old T-City. Shake my hand, son." He held out a hand. Moldenke shook it. It was like an ear of corn.
One sun dropped, the others drifted apart.
Roquette said, "Looks like a break in the weather." He squatted again and turned down the shade lamp, patting a gauze pad at the back of his neck.
A blackworm snaked across the footpath.
Moldenke said he was going south. They ate crickets from Moldenke's tin and smoked cigars. The temperature dropped.
"Are you chilly, Mr. Roquette? I could build a fire."
"No thank you, Moldenke. I'll say something about the cold. As old as I am I may as well be realistic regarding the probable future, given the past as a stepping stone and the present as a foothold. I decided long ago to defeat the heat by gathering the wisdoms of the cold. Once I froze myself crank-to-ground in ice, read the book, and went to sleep. When the weather gets good and cold I usually go out naked in my garden and hose off."
Moldenke built a small fire. "I don't have that wisdom," he said. "I try to stay warm if I can. I hope you don't mind the smoke."
"Did you say esmoke,' Dinky?"
"Yes. I have a little fire here."
Roquette said, "Smoke. He wants to know if I mind smoke. Watch this, boy." He lit a fresh cigar and turned to give Moldenke a profile. He exhaled at length, then began an inhale. The ash grew longer as the ember burned back, dropping off in lengths. The inhalation continued until the cigar had become a mound of ash in his lap.
"That's a slick one," Moldenke said. "The whole cigar in a single draw. I'm impressed."
Roquette turned, bloatfaced, indicating that it wasn't over yet. He lay back, raising one leg in the air. "Now, watch." Moldenke watched. Smoke curled out of the khaki shorts, out of the fly, out of openings in the shirts. "See, Moldenke. I suck it all in, then I blow it out the chuff pipe. It brings the house down every time."
The fire smoked. Moldenke fanned the sparks with his sun hat. Roquette fell asleep smoking.
Moldenke buttoned on his trenchcoat, moved closer to the firelight and read at random from the Ways & Means:
snipemeat: In the absence of other meats, snipemeat will provide an adequate wilderness meal. Entrails will be found to contain valuable minerals. The bones may be sun-dried, pulverized, and taken for heartpain. . . mudcat noodling: Spawning catfish will generally be found in hollowed out places in the mud bank and may be landed by two people, one the noodler, the other on watch. . . box-elder bug-soup: Tasty black and orange soup. Two cups of box-elder bugs, sifted, simmered on a warm. .
Roquette woke up, sat up. The fire had improved. Moldenke added cypress bark. Roquette took off his goggles and rubbed his eyes. "What did you say your name was, son?"
"Moldenke."
"Ah, Moldenke. Where are you headed?"
"South?"
"Ah, south. That's a fine direction, son. Which is it, though, the New South or the true south?" Moldenke said he didn't know, that he was looking for two individuals by the names of Burnheart and Eagleman who lived in a house toward the south, some south or another, with hogs living under the house, among the pilings. He guessed it was near a river, or a brackish marsh, since Burnheart had mentioned crabs. Roquette wanted to know the kind of crab and Moldenke couldn't say. Roquette said he knew a great deal about crabs and oysters, had spent a good many years in the business. "But no sense dwelling in the past," he said, making a circle in the dirt with his walking stick and spitting in its center.
Moldenke agreed, snatched a mole cricket flying by, bit off the head and discarded it, broke off the digging appendages, and ate the body. "Roquette, do you know Burnheart and Eagleman?"
Roquette drew an x in the circle. "Yes, I know them, in a sense. I went to school with Burnheart, played a little snooker with Eagleman. Why do you ask?"
"Only wondering," Moldenke said. "No reason." Yellow cricket fluids ringed his lips, scales and legs hung in his scanty beard.
"You're a man of the earth," Roquette said. "I can easily see that. We could get along, you and me. Take your nose out of Burnheart's book. I'll take you south in my boat."
"You know where they are, Roquette? Will you drop me off there?"
"No promises, Moldenke. I'll do what I can. I'm not exactly the lord ruler of the boat. The other folks will have to be consulted on every possibility. We'll see. Don't get excited. It's bad for — "
"I know, the hearts. How did you know about the heart job, Roquette?"
"I heard you ticking, son. I heard the bleating. There isn't anyone in these parts as perceptive as myself, Moldenke. Did I introduce myself? The name is Roquelle, with two l's."
Moldenke shook the corn cob hand again. "Before you said Roquette, with t's."
"My apologies, Dink. Did I? Old brains turn to rocks, son. We'll leave it at Roquette. No sense in carrying on any more than we have to. Shall we head for the boat?"
The suns went down, an egg-shaped moon came up above the treetops. They walked toward the river as the evening froze, Roquette's stick sucking in and out of the mud.
eeHow many other people on the boat, Roquette?"
"Hard to say, Dink. They seem to come and go. You know the housing premium, even here in the bottoms. You might say it was a houseboat."
"A houseboat?"
"Maybe. You might say that."
"On the river?"
"Yes, I'd say it was a river. Things appear to float on it. As a fact of matter it has a name, The Jelly. Do you remember The Jelly from your earth courses, son? You passed the survival exam, am I right?"
"I passed the survival exam, but that was on paper. You never know. I don't think I know my rivers very well, I'm sorry."
"C-minus, son. C-minus. You should know your rivers. How do you expect to navigate? It used to be known as The Odorous. Does that strike a chord?"
"Sure, The Odorous. I remember The Odorous."
"Things change, Moldenke. You stay in your room and never look out. Things change. You should pace yourself. When I was a boy I ate potato peels from garbage bins. A man starts out with ropes to be climbed. Some of them stretch, but he shouldn't give up. Try another rope. Sooner or later you'll grab a tight one. I played some football, too. Nowadays I sit downstairs by the fireplace and look at the clockpiece on the mantel-board. Sometimes I'll turn on the lamp and read the book. Only the tripodero had all the wisdoms of living, and there he is, extinct. What can we do, Moldenke? Things change."
They stood on the banks of The Jelly, Roquette pissing into the thick, oily flow. Moldenke imagined starlight. Another moon was up. At the far bank he saw the boat lights, heard the fog whistle.
A turd washed over his shoe and receded. The corpse of a horse, some of the dray lumber still attached to the harness, floated by.
Roquette pierced the water with his stick. "Good," he said. "It's thick enough to walk on."