For a moment Hunter stared at him, oddly. “I wonder,” he said. “That is a fine set of satirical prints you have got on your wall there. Might they be for sale?”
“Possibly,” said the Giant. “Quite probably, in fact. What the late Joe Vance thought of as a satire, is not precisely my idea of the term.”
Hunter shifted uneasily in the dinted chair. “And what would your idea be?”
“Properly understood, a satire can blister the face of the man it’s made against. It can fish out his soul and spit it on the tip of a knife.”
“Well, if one could,” the Scotchman said, regretting. “If such a manoeuvre were possible.”
“It may be,” the Giant said, “that you don’t have the right kind of knife.”
Hunter conceded. He sat nodding his head, balding, with the frippery bits of cheek-ginger bristling, like scragged lace, against the failing light of a fine spring evening.
“Drink, sir?” said the Giant. “From our decanter? Or is it too early for you?”
“Oh, why not, why not?” said Hunter. No danger, tonight, that he would go whoopsy-hic. He was concentrated now; you could pour in a distillery and it wouldn’t dizzy him.
The Giant bestowed a glass of decent crystal, and within it what tasted like a decent claret—but what would he know? Probably Wullie would have damned it. But Wullie was dead.
“Are you quite well, Mr. Hunter?”
He was aware that the Giant was gazing down at him.
“My brother Wullie has passed away.”
“That’s a sad circumstance, Mr. Hunter. I’m sorry to hear it.”
The little man took a sip from his glass. Then he put it down. “Let’s not get sentimental.” He looked up. His eyes were slicing; the Giant thought, he has some kind of blade, at least. “I’ll put it to you straight,” he said. “You’re a dead man. Is that clear?”
“I feel yet,” said the Giant, “the bronzed, the bloody ocean swim within me, its waters crazed with wrecks; the slapping seas, that are mad with the merman’s murmur.” He thought, that’s a foul line, merman’s murmur: heroic foul. “My eyes see—sometimes. My tongue—from time to time—continues to speak.”
“Yes, man, but you are doomed. Your heart is laboring, your liver swollen, your limbs—as you know— extending.”
“Dear Sir Hunter,” said the Giant. “For a long time now, I have deceived my followers … and may God forgive me. I held out the hope that my growth might make me a more valuable exhibit. Patrick O’Brien—”
“Yes, I’ve heard of him,” the Scot rapped out. “He is embarked and embarked, but where is he?”
“It’s a mystery,” said the Giant. “Like Toby, the Sapient Pig. Both, believe me, will appear amongst us; but not yet.”
“Like signs,” Hunter said. “Do you feel it so?”
“I feel every bloody thing,” said the Giant. “I am notorious for what I feel. Come on, Mr. Hunter, I am inviting you in civil, I am giving you such refreshment as lies within my situation, and you are not such a fool but that you do not know that in this last month my fortune has taken a turn for the worse.” Charlie rubbed his head. “As yours, of course, with the death of your brother.”
“I’ll talk no more of Wullie.” Hunter swayed his head, side to side like a dog. “I’ve a proposition.”
The Giant closed his eyes. “Make it,” he said. He drew back his lips, in a kind of friendliness; he breathed deep, and a pulse jumped, deep within the flesh of his cheek, and controlled his smile.
Hunter began to speak. Within a second—for desire must be held back—he choked on his wine. O’Brien would have leaned forward and slapped him on the back; but Hunter was a frail strange creature, and the Giant feared to dismember him like a butterfly, dust him apart like a dried moth.
Then the man Hunter made his proposition.
The Giant listened, and placed his wine-glass with great care on the side-table. A jewelled inch was left, in which lees hung like crushed roaches in amber.
“Excuse me,” he said. He then lay down on his back. He closed his eyes and he closed his ears.
“Ah well,” said the man Hunter.
Was I not kind to him? thought the Giant.
Did I not usher him, warning him against the dint chair?
Did I not give what hospitality was in me?
Hunter was uncertain what to do. Stared down. Measured the Giant, coveted him, and yet felt himself in a situation of some social unease. Try again another day?
The Giant said only, “Get out. Cromwellian.”
Hunter walks back to Jermyn Street, his brain working. In the hall, he turns out his pockets. One shilling and sixpence. Hm. He calls out, “Anne, are you up there? Got any money?”
Fifty pounds ought to do it, he thinks. He cogitates the sum, revolves it. He would, of course, have offered less, but they had not got to the stage of mentioning figures before Byrne had lain down and ceased to participate. As if it were unreasonable!
He hears his own voice—“Why beat about the bush? You’re dying and you’re on your uppers. You want money, I want your bones. It’s a simple enough transaction to
