68
ANTHONY BURGESS
"It would be a pleasure not to talk about him," said Deschamps.
"But, Jean-Baptiste, in all honesty, how can you, a mature and well–
grown man, submit to such parental tyranny?" He had, it was as–
sumed, been drinking at home before coming to the Cafe Trinidad.
It was rumored that he breakfasted on half a bottle of Pernod. "You
are not permitted to love," said Deschamps. "You are not permitted
to drink. You work long hours and you receive no wages. How can
a young man like yourself tolerate such parental tyranny?" He was
evidently pleased with the phrase. "Parental tyranny," he repeated.
The clack of a typewriter started above their heads.
"The great man of letters is at work again," said Marot. "When
shall we be permitted to meet him?"
"He never comes down," said Jean-Baptiste. "He just stays in his
room, typing. He was typing all night last night."
"What is the great masterpiece he is typing?" asked Desportes.
Jean-Baptiste handed over a crumpled piece of cheap paper. "1
found this," he said, "on the floor between his room and the toilet.
I can make no sense out of it." The customers leaned over, squinting,
and read:
"... Tree-glint of greenness runs ajar with the pestilence of it.
In love is no key, nor in excalibration of swords in trunks. Only when
the flush of birds in cities of trees spatters aghast against the sky ...."
"A sort of surrealism," said Deschamps. "A kind of futurism or
dadaism." The clack of the machine above their heads continued.
There was the noise of slow heavy feet on the stairs. "He comes,"
said Deschamps. "The old one. Is his chair properly dusted?" In
comic pantomime he flicked his bandanna over the high-backed chair
in the corner. He stopped when he heard the creak of the door
opening. A very old man stood glowering, breathing heavily at them.
He said:
"Good morning, gentlemen." He was red and bald, his wrecked
body huge, his hair a white aureole. He had a white beard and
fierce white moustachios. His voice was, though old, deep and angry.
He crossed, slowly and heavily, to his own chair in the comer, whence
he could look out at the street if he wished. His son hastened to take
him a big glass of urine-colored wine. The father said no thanks. He
filled a vast pipe, lit it, puffed and coughed, then seemed to enfold
