216
MARIA LEHMANN
chaps prefer a counterrevolutionary genius to a small-time cheat.
Fair enough. But
this
was the way I fabricated my dream, the dream
of poor Mole without talent (except the one for formulating, nay,
anticipating, the eternal truths of the day). At last, Mole was going
to be admired, adored, and provide the supreme justification for
the regime: that of genius!
I foresaw no difficulties about getting Zerin's poems published.
What, someone like me, thick with Push and Catar (and, let me add,
those on top of Push and Catar!), could get the multiplication table
published.
Push, blubber-faced oaf, who has to wear his shirt open at the
neck because he can't find a collar big enough to fit (I dare say,
he'll be thinner now!), took the sheets I handed him, not omitting
not to say "Thank you" (had he forgotten himself so far as to say
"Thank you," 1'd have grown suspicious), then, noticing my efforts
were in verse, called out in
his
eunuch's voice: "Ha, Catar, have a
look at this! Our Mole's taken to writing poetry. Well, anyway, one
poem. The poor fellow must be in love." So Catar, a specimen I
prefer not to look at because of the crinkly tufts of black hair that
sprout in his nostrils (ears as well), came in, giving me the obligatory
nail-scissors look (crooked but sharp) and he and Push "have a
look," taking their time about it. Just as well, otherwise those two
foxes would have grown suspicious of the rather clammy state I was
in. Green in crime, I still thought it possible people like Push and
Catar might have read something by Zerin and spot the identifica–
tion mark - to talk the appropriate police jargon. Just shows what
a fool I was. Even so, when those two did turn round, though they
complimented me somewhat ambiguously, they looked like two tailors,
used to working for midgets, who, through no fault of their own, find
themselves with a six-footer for a customer and don't like it.
Catar, the brain, deployed another of his rapier looks as if to
limn my silhouette forever on the wall behind. "Not bad, that poem.
In fact, quite good." Pushing his mouth up in a V-shape smile so
that the hair in the nostrils had to bristle outwards. And Push as–
sured me graciously that "the thing" would be published - "al–
though, and because, it is a little unusual- and Catar agrees with
me there." (In spite of this bid for third-party insurance it was of
course Push who copped it - not Catar.)
