Grimus

by Salman Rushdie

  —May I come in?

  Patashin. Grigor Patashin, eminence grise of her mother’s salon. A large man, bearing what must have been nearly seventy years carelessly on his broad shoulders, so square he scarcely had a neck. Patashin with the wart on the point of his nose and the voice like a crushing of gravel. Patashin whose notoriety had increased with age.

  —Come.

  —Irina Natalyevna, he said, hitching up his ill-fitting trousers as he entered. The evening is absolutely ruined by your absence.

  —Sit down, Grigor, she said, patting the bed, deliberately eschewing the title of “Uncle” which she had given him all her life. Sit and tell me about it. Is Masha very beautiful tonight?

  —Can Masha ever look beautiful, I wonder, said Patashin, eyes twinkling.

  —Old grizzly, said Irina, you are a master of tact.

  —And you, Irina, he said, holding her chin gently in his hand, you are too wise and composed for your own good. I look into your eyes and see knowledge. I look at your body and see anticipation. You must learn to dissimulate, to show less worldly wisdom in your eyes and more of it in your limbs.

  —And die an old maid, laughed Irina. I act as I am.

  —Yes, mused Patashin. His hand still rested against her chin; he moved it to her cheek. She leant against it. It was cold.

  —They wouldn’t miss you, she whispered. Not for a little while.

  Patashin laughed out loud. —No chance of seducing you, Irina Natalyevna, he said. If you want a man, You’ll make sure. If not… he grimaced.

  —Turn the key in the door, she commanded.

  Watching a great man undress is a depressing undertaking; Patashin left his genius with his wing-collar and waistcoat, draped over a chair, and stood before her, white hairs on his chest, leering. She closed her eyes, wishing fervently never to be old.

  —I hope it wasn’t painful, he said later.

  —No, she said without concern. One of the advantages of riding.

  —I must go, he fretted and she watched him regain the stature of his clothes. As he straightened his hair and combed his beard, she said:

  —Ravished by genius. What a beginning!

  Grigor Patashin said as he left: —Which of us was ravished, I wonder?

  That evening with Grigor Patashin did more than give Irina a hatred of old age; it led her directly into the arms of young, beautiful, stupid, young Aleksandr Cherkassov. Thus Patashin was to blame for the disasters of her children. She had married his opposite, and it was his fault. Perhaps, too, on another tack, there was something of her feelings for Masha in her present attitude towards Elfrida. Except for one thing: Elfrida Gribb was beautiful.

  One more thing about Grigor Patashin. He left her with a passion for the illicit, because the illicit reminded her of that night, and therefore of being young—

  Flapping Eagle was definitely illicit.

  Elfrida Edge, she was then. Mrs Edge’s little girl. Dear Elfrida, such a darling one. Her father jumped off a roof, you know, and she saw him falling, past her bedroom window and she thought he was a chimneypot. So well-balanced, it hasn’t damaged her a bit. Lucky with money, of course, rolling in it, that’s what comes of ancestors with cattlefarms down under and worldfamous stamp-collections. Little penny black he called her, pale as a sheet as she is; mad, but the money’s a comfort isn’t it? So poised and self-possessed, little miss snowflake, butter wouldn’t melt, without wishing to be uncharitable, only little girls of nine should cry more. No, Mrs Edge doesn’t live here any more, she’s off somewhere in foreign parts getting done by natives, and why not, she’s still got her looks, you won’t hear a word against merry widows in this neighbourhood. Not since Elfrida grew up, such a treasure, helps the old folks, babysits the young marrieds’ howlers, reads a lot, sews a lot, cooks a lot, but young ladies of eighteen should gad more.

  Elfrida Edge

  Under the hedge

  Plays with herself

  Or she plays with Reg.

  —O, Elfrida, come down the lane with me.

  —No, I don’t think so, thank you.

  —I’ll show you my thing if you do.

  —I am entirely uninterested in your thing.

  —Bet you’ve never seen one.

  —Yes I have.

  —-No you haven’t.

  —Yes I have.

  —Well your ma has, that’s for sure. Black ones and brown ones and yellow ones and blue ones from those ayrabs who dye themselves.

  —Leave Mama out of this.

  —If it’s good enough for her it’s good enough for you.

  —Reggie Smith you have the filthiest tongue in the school.

  —And you’ve got the cleanest knickers.

  … the big dirty man with the one-foot prick and an artist to boot lived with bohemian types on a sea-coast so probably very good at It there in bed with her and grunting so she said Why not you never know what you’re missing till you try so he said okay doll and unscrewed it there was a thread in the hole where his prick used to be and he screwed it into hers which had a thread too and she woke up feeling disappointed with the sheets all soaked in sweat….

  Just because

  Mother does it

  Doesn’t mean I have to.

  Just because

  Daddy did it

  Doesn’t mean I want to.

  (E.E. aged 16)

  When Ignatius Gribb wrote refusing her a place, she knew it was the end of the line. If she couldn’t get into that college, she couldn’t get into college, and that was that. Studious, gadless Elfrida, education ends here. His letter had said: “…if that seems harsh to you, may I attempt to alleviate the hurt by saying how charmingly presentable I found you, and adding that in the event of your failing to secure a University place I should be pleased to offer you the post of secretary in my Faculty Office. Please think about this seriously.”

  They were a lost couple, the unfulfilled of the world. It was inevitable that they would marry. With her as his wife, her beauty dazzling the seedy campus, he was treated as a little less of a laughing-stock. With him as her husband, she could believe herself clever—if she could bring herself to believe in him. They knew their limitations and husbanded and wifed each other against the darts and gibes of the world. So Calf Island came as a happy revelation; here he found his self-respect and she nurtured her love. Ignatius, named for the darknighted saint, her centre and love. Love was the thing, to be in love. That was the thing.

  The sands of time

  Are steeped in new

  Beginnings.

  Elfrida and Irina, both bruised by youth, the one seeking to retain it by immersing herself in its innocent airs, the other by plunging into thoughts—and sometimes acts—of wickedness. Like and yet unlike. As like, as unlike, as Axona and K.

  He had been living for the moment for several days, allowing events to take their course, following the dictates of his uncontrolled emotions, and being in their clutches had put all thoughts of Grimus and Bird-Dog and Virgil from him. Sufficient unto the day…

  Living for the moment, a. curiously apt phrase. Later he would recall Virgil saying: —A life always contains a peak. A moment that makes it all worthwhile.

  For Flapping Eagle, that moment arrived the seventh time he made love to Irina Cherkassova.

  They were in her bed for the first time, Cherkassov was at the Rising Son again, and Irina had seized the opportunity to be comfortable. A single candle provided the only light in the room. Irina was hungry, demanding as an absolute monarch; and Flapping Eagle was in just the mood to fulfil those demands. It was a violent, frenzied thing that night, the two-backed beast; and in the midst of their battle Flapping Eagle saw his vision.

  Her face in the candlelight, the face of Elfrida, elfbone pale; her writhing body the body of Elfrida; her moans, Elfrida’s moans. It was as though for that flash the two women had become one, joined by the intercession of his love. Then the vision faded, but the truth of it remained; and when their love
making was over Flapping Eagle lay in the yellow light amazed by the miracle.

  Because it was so: in the unfettered lusts of Irina he looked for the elegance—yes, the primness—of Elfrida, the saintliness which gave her the edge in beauty over the Countess; and at the same time he longed for Irina’s freedom of the senses to infiltrate Elfrida’s self-denying morality. They were opposite and the same, Elfrida as innocent as Irina was not, Irina as free as Elfrida was trapped. In their relations to their husbands they were opposites. The unifying bond was Flapping Eagle himself. As Elfrida loved him, but would not consummate that love, so Irina lusted after him and acted upon her lust. In themselves, neither was complete; through him, they both attained completion. Their faces, bodies, even souls, superimposed and one in his sight. To make love to Irina was to remove Elfrida’s frustrations; to kiss Elfrida’s cheek was to release Irina’s lust. Elfrina, Irida, Elfrida, Irina.

  And the converse, their completion of him, held true also. He lay in Irina’s bed, balanced between love of innocence and lust for experience, between denial and consummation, standing at the peak, from which the only direction was down. Elfrina Eagle. The triangle was not three points but one thing.

  Then the moment was lost forever, because in his reverie he spoke a name.

  —Elfrina, he said.

  Irina Cherkassova stiffened beside him. Elfrida was the name she heard.

  —Get out, she said.

  Flapping Eagle came out of his mind and back into the candlelight to find his new-found perfection lying in ruins.

  —Get out, said Irina Cherkassova.

  The moment of perfection had spawned its own destruction.

  It was after midnight as Flapping Eagle crept back into the Gribb residence, but Elfrida Gribb sat drawn and pale in the front room, and the glow of a single candle echoed the bedroom he had left.

  —Good evening, Flapping Eagle, she said.

  He shook his head wordlessly and sat down in a chair, opposite her.

  —Irina? she asked, knowing the answer.

  —What can you expect? he said and heard his words cheapen the memory of his vision.

  —Ignatius is the soundest sleeper in the world, she said bitterly. So you might as well make love to me here and now.

  —You don’t mean it, he said.

  —Make love to me, she said. Damn you.

  But again it happened; in his hands, filled with the wanting of him, she froze.

  —I’m sorry, she said, it seems the flesh is weak.

  —Or strong, said Flapping Eagle quietly.

  Count Aleksandr Cherkassov, Countess Irina Cherkassova, Alexei Cherkassov and Norbert Page were having tea together in the salon. Irina fanned herself frequently, though it was not really very hot.

  —Ma-ma, said Alexei happily.

  —Mama’s here, Alexei, said Irina. Mama’s always here.

  —Irina, said Cherkassov, you are a very strong woman.

  —Yes, she said. Yes, I am. I know how to deny myself. And when.

  Mr Page caught none of the undertones; he thought they were both rather marvellous.

  —It’s a great gift, he said nervously, feeling he should offer some sort of conversation. A great gift. To know when to stop.

  One word had thrown away the chance. He could have given Elfrida back her peace and contented himself with her soul. He could have given Irina the companionship she lacked and never worried about where her affections lay. Elfrina Eagle, they would have been, and it would have lasted into infinity. Instead of which they were three points again, no longer a triangular one. A single word, changing the course of history.

  The farmhouse stood at the side of the road. It was long and low and white. Flapping Eagle felt the shock of recognition: here on his first journey into K he had vaulted this gate and peered through that window into that granite face; here he had been reminded he was pariah. He was different now; he was a part of the place of which the farmhouse was also a part, and so he was a part of the farmhouse. At least, he was today.

  Elfrida Gribb was with him; this was the furthest they had walked, but neither of them had noticed the distance, walking in absorbed silence. Now Flapping Eagle told the story of the granite farmer with the face full of crevices and the basilisk eyes.

  —Like a man who knew a hundred secrets and wasn’t going to reveal even one, he said. Elfrida smiled wanly. Her thoughts were elsewhere.

  —Which is rather like everyone I’ve met in K, said Flapping Eagle. I wouldn’t say they keep their secrets to themselves—they simply behave as if they had never known them. There’s too much left unsaid. Too much.

  Elfrida replied, without looking at him:

  —Yes. I believe there is.

  —Glad to have you aboard, Flapping Eagle, said Ignatius Gribb that evening. You’re doing Elfrida a power of good. I’m afraid I’m rather a recluse during the day. It must be difficult for her to fill her day, eh, darling?

  Elfrida forced a smile.

  Ignatius Gribb leant quasi-confidentially towards Flapping Eagle.

  —Until you turned up, old chap, she wouldn’t have known what to do without me.

  —Really, Ignatius … said Elfrida, but Gribb waved her down cheerily.

  —Which is only proper, he went on. Because I wouldn’t know what to do without her.

  —A happy marriage is a wonderful thing, said Flapping Eagle, feeling like a gargantuan bastard.

  Elfrida Gribb left the room.

  —One look and I knew, Irina was saying. He’s a bad influence on poor, innocent Elfrida. You’ve only got to look at him.

  —Appearances are deceptive, hedged Aleksandr Cherkassov.

  —I’m sure there’s something between those two, said Irina. In my opinion, you ought to have a word with Ignatius.

  —Whatever for?

  —Why, to warn him, of course. To warn him about his guest.

  —I don’t think one…

  —If you don’t, I will, she snapped.

  —I tell you what, said Aleksandr Cherkassov worriedly. I’ll speak to Flapping Eagle. Straighten him out. You know.

  —You stupid, stupid man, said Irina Cherkassova angrily.

  Events, however, were to move faster than her anger.

  For all that it is over. Flapping Eagle told the mirror, and despite the tragedies surrounding it, and whatever dark horrors may come, that was a supreme moment, a moment of clarity, a moment of light.

  —No, said Elfrida Gribb, I don’t feel like a walk this morning. You go. I have one or two things to attend to here.

  He left her reclining on the chaise-longue, as quiet music played.

  XLVII

  WHEN DEATH CAME to Calf Island, it came anticlimactically, without any warning, wearing soft shoes; it was even a beginning rather than an end. It came matter-of-factly, as though it had been there all the time and had merely decided to make its presence felt; but the consternation it created was entirely undiminished by its manner of arrival. Flapping Eagle returned from his walk to find a small crowd gathered outside the Gribb home. Norbert Page was there, and Quartermaster Moonshy. Irina Cherkassova stood still at the front door, as though mummified at the moment of entry. She moved mechanically to let him through. No-one spoke to answer his questions.

  Count Aleksandr Cherkassov sat perspiring on the chaise-longue; he had picked up Elfrida’s petit-point and his hands toyed with it absently.

  —What has happened? asked Flapping Eagle.

  —We heard a scream, said the Count. One long scream.

  Flapping Eagle looked around at the silent, empty room.

  —WHAT HAPPENED? he shouted. Where is Elfrida?

  Cherkassov nodded towards the study. —One long scream, he repeated.

  Flapping Eagle lunged at the closed door and into the study. In the silence he imagined he could hear a whine in the corners of his mind.

  The shutters on the window were closed, so that the only light in the room entered with Flapping Eagle through the door. T
here was Ignatius Gribb’s desk, littered with papers and files, quills and home-made ink. There were his books, scattered on desk-top, chair, floor, falling out of shelves and off ledges. The untidiness alone was a scandal to the eye in this house.

  The bed was immediately beneath the window. A figure lay upon it, still, dead, shadowed in the shuttered gloom. Another figure stood by the bed, still, alive, also shadowed. An unlit candle stood at a table by the bedside.

  The figure on the bed was the short, bent corpse of Ignatius Quasimodo Gribb, sometime professor of philosophy, bigot and sage.

  The standing figure was his newly-widowed wife, Elfrida Gribb, who had been Elfrida Edge, who had thought her falling father was a chimneypot.

  —I killed him, she said. It was me.

  ’Fr ida Gribb

  ’Fr ida Gribb

  Killed her hubby

  That’s no fib.

  Flapping Eagle closed the door behind him. The room darkened; he moved to the bedside. There were old coins on Ignatius Gribb’s closed eyelids.

  —His eyes were open, said Elfrida. I had to close his eyes.

  He held her shoulders in his hands. —Look at me, he said. She continued to hang her head. —Elfrida! he said sharply and it lifted slowly.

  —One less secret, she said. I love you.

  He was looking at Ignatius Gribb’s body. It wore, spotlessly, a silk shirt and cravat, a smoking-jacket, a rather incongruous pair of very aged cord trousers and carpet slippers. Its mouth was puckered and slightly open, like a fish.

  —Death with dishonour, said Elfrida. He didn’t just lose his life.

  —There are no wounds on the body, said Flapping Eagle. No marks.

  —Not his body, she said dully. I killed him in the head. I had to close his eyes. After opening them.