Between the good one and the bad one, Julie said, there appears to be little choice.
There are also private houses but none large enough or foolish enough to attempt to accommodate your party, said the man. That thing there would scare the children out of their wigs, did they get but a glimpse of it.
He is talking about you, Emma said to the Dead Father.
The Dead Father beamed.
He says you’ll frighten the children.
Happiness of the Dead Father.
Him, the citizen said, him can’t be brought in without the fixing. I can lend you a Skilsaw.; I would prefer not to, said the Dead Father.
He prefers not to, Thomas told the citizen.
Well damn and blast, said the citizen, who would imagine otherwise? Yet a rule is a rule.
Edmund, Thomas called.
Edmund presented himself.
How would you like to buy a drink or so for this citizen of this fine community? Thomas asked. You may charge it to me.
Tremble of happiness running through Edmund from top to bottom (visible).
Edmund and the citizen off to the alehouse arm-in-arm.
Now, Thomas said, let’s inspect the accommodations.
After looking at the good one, they chose the bad one.
Julie and Thomas in their room, sitting on the bed. Picture on the wall, Death of Sigismur.
Amazing how he holds on to his balls, said Julie, that is a curious thing, I don’t understand it.
I understand it, said Thomas.
Doesn’t know when it’s time to hang it up, she said, how old do you think he is?
He claims one hundred and nine, said Thomas, but he may be stretching it. He may be shrinking it. I don’t know.
Three of our people are clones I think.
Which three?
The three with the red hair and the limp.
Thomas lay back upon the bed.
What a disgusting idea, he said.
How is it that you gave him back his leg after you had whacked it off?
Purely practical. He staggers better with it. We have ends in view.
So we do, she said, so we do.
A knock on the chamber door.
Who’s there? called a voice, from outside the door.
Shall we answer? Julie asked.
Who’s there? the voice called again.
Who wants to know? Julie shouted.
There was a silence. Peter, the voice said, at length.
Do we know anyone named Peter?
I know no one named Peter.
What do you want, Peter? she called.
I have to mist the plant, Peter called.
Thomas looked about him. A cactus sat on the dressing table.
Does one mist a cactus? Julie asked.
Let him in, Thomas said.
Julie opened the door.
Some people know what they are doing, Peter said, and some don’t.
He began wrapping wet cheesecloth around the cactus.
Well there tall thin fellow, said Julie, why are you here?
I heard there were strangers. We don’t often get strangers. I wanted to give it to you.
Wanted to give what to us?
He appears to be a dolt of some kind, Thomas said, sotto voce.
The book, Peter said.
What is the book about?
Peter had a frayed tattered disintegrating volume with showers of ratsnest falling out of it clutched to his chest.
It is a manual, he said. Might be of some small use to you. On the other hand, might not.
Are you the author? Julie asked.
Oh no, said Peter. I am the translator.
From what language was it translated?
It was translated from English, he said, into English.
You must have studied English.
Yes I did study English.
Is it long? Thomas asked, looking at the thin book.
It is not long, Peter said, and at the same time, too long.
Then, furiously:
Do you know what translators are paid?
Not my fault, Julie said, as with much else in the world, not my fault.
Pennies! Peter proclaimed.
Are you selling us this book?
No, Peter said nobly, I am giving it to you as a gift. It is not worth selling.
He unwrapped the cheesecloth from the cactus.
Edition of forty, he said, printed originally on pieces of pumpernickel. This is the second edition.
We must give you something, Thomas said, what can it be?
You are strangers, Peter said. Your approval would be enough.
You have it, said Julie. She kissed Peter on the forehead.
I am justified, Peter said, for the time being. I can struggle on, for the time being. I am reified, for the time being.
Exit of Peter.
He didn’t ask much, said Thomas.
His bargaining position is not the best, Julie said. He is a translator.
They lay on their stomachs in the bed, looking at the book.
The book was titled A Manual for Sons.
The author was not credited.
“Translated from the English by Peter Scatterpatter” was found on the title page.
They began to read the book.
A MANUAL FOR SONS
TRANSLATED FROM THE ENGLISH BY PETER SCATTERPATTER
(1) Mad fathers
(2) Fathers as teachers
(3) On horseback, etc.
(4) The leaping father
(5) Best way to approach
(6) Ys
(7) Names of
(8) Voices of
(9) Sample voice, A B C
(10) Fanged, etc.
(11) Hiram or Saul
(12) Color of fathers
(13) Dandling
(14) A tongue-lashing
(15) The falling father
(16) Lost fathers
(17) Rescue of fathers
(18) Sexual organs
(19) Names of
(20) Yamos
(21) “Responsibility”
(22) Death of
(23) Patricide a poor idea, and summation
Mad fathers stalk up and down the boulevards, shouting. Avoid them, or embrace them, or tell them your deepest thoughts — it makes no difference, they have deaf ears. If their dress is covered with sewn-on tin cans and their spittle is like a string of red boiled crayfish running head-to-tail down the front of their tin cans, serious impairment of the left brain is present. If, on the other hand, they are simply barking (no tin cans, spittle held securely in the pouch of the cheek), they have been driven to distraction by the intricacies of living with others. Go up to them, and, stilling their wooden clappers by putting your left hand between the hinged parts, say you’re sorry. If the barking ceases, this does not mean that they have heard you, it only means they are experiencing erotic thoughts of abominable luster. Permit them to enjoy these images for a space, and then strike them sharply in the nape with the blade of your tanned right hand. Say you’re sorry again. It won’t get through to them (because their brains are mush) but in pronouncing the words, your body will assume an attitude that conveys, in every country of the world, sorrow — this language they can understand. Gently feed them with bits of leftover meat you are carrying in your pockets. First hold the meat in front of their eyes, so that they can see what it is, and then point to their mouths, so that they know that the meat is for them. Mostly, they will open their mouths, at this point. If they do not, throw the meat in between barks. If the meat does not get all the way into the mouth but lands upon (say) the upper lip, hit them again in the neck, this often causes the mouth to pop open and the meat sticking to the upper lip to fall into the mouth. Nothing may work out in the way I have described; in this eventuality, you can do not much for a mad father except listen, for a while, to his babble. If he cries aloud, “Stomp it, emptor!” then you must attempt to figure out the code. If he cries aloud, “The fiends have killed your horse!” note down in your notebook the frequency with which the words “the” and “your” occur in his tirade. If he cries aloud, “The cat’s in its cassock and flitter-te-hee moreso stomp it!” remember that he has already asked you once to “stomp it” and that this must refer to something you are doing. So stomp it.