Free Grimus by Salman Rushdie Page A

them, solid as a rock, immutable as the room, Dolores O’Toole and Virgil Jones, Virgil O’Toole and Dolores Jones, Virgil Dolores and Jones O’Toole, Virgil O’Dolores and Dolores O’Virgil. Like the two queers: William Fitzhenry and Henry Fitzwilliam. She cackled as she worked.
    She did not see the ghost at first. It stood, tallish and fairish in the doorway looking worried, trying to decide how to express its problems to her. Eventually, since she continued to ignore it, it coughed.
    She turned to the doorway, the word Virgil! forming on her lips, and froze. Her mouth opened and worked noiselessly, a scream without a sound. She backed slowly away from it until she stumbled against the trunk.
    —Mrs O’Toole, it said. Are you ill? You look like death.
    Terror entered her. She hauled open the lid of the trunk and jumped in. Rummaging feverishly, she found what she was looking for. She held it up: a small crucifix, carved in wood, crumbling with the work of maggots.
    She said: — Apage me, Satanas .
    —Dolores, said the ghost. It’s all right. Dolores.
    —Go away, said Dolores O’Toole. You aren’t there. We live alone. Virgil Jones and Dolores O’Toole. There is no-one else. Look: there are only two mats. I am cooking for two. There are only two of us. That doesn’t change.
    —Do you recognize me? said the ghost, slowly. Do you know who I am?
    —Go away, said Mrs O’Toole, cowering behind the edge of the trunk. Don’t come closer. Go back where you came from. Go back where you belong. Go back to Grimus. Spectre of the Stone Rose, begone! I don’t believe in you.
    —The Stone Rose, repeated the ghost. Grimus. What…
    — Apage me! shrieked Dolores O’Toole and pulled the lid of the trunk shut over her head.
    The ghost stood in the centre of the room, wondering what to do. Finally, since he wished to speak to Dolores in private, he decided against summoning Virgil Jones just yet. He approached the trunk.
    —God protect me, came from within as he lifted the lid.
    —Mrs O’Toole… Dolores… said the ghost, I’ve a proposition for you.
    —No, no, said Dolores. You’re not here.
    —I know you’d rather I left, said the ghost; I know you’re worried I’ll try and persuade Virgil to come with me. But what I’m suggesting is this: would you come, too? Would you?
    —You cannot tempt me up the mountain, said Dolores, her eyes gleaming. Up there is the past. We left it behind. The past cannot be re-entered. Nothing changes. The past is fixed. Go away.
    The ghost sighed.
    —Then I must be your enemy, it said. Dear Mrs O’Toole, I am sorry, believe me; especially since I see you are ill. I’ll go and get Virgil… Mr Jones.
    —Leave him alone! cried Dolores. Go away and leave him alone!
    The ghost left her.
    Flapping Eagle, running to find Virgil Jones, remembered overhearing, when he was still young, two women of the Axona talking.
    One of them had said: —We must be careful with Born-From-Dead.
    And the second woman, the older of the two, had replied, —Yes. To be born thus is to have death sitting always behind the eyes.
    And Livia Cramm had said the same.
    And Virgil Jones had named him Destroyer.
    And yet he had wanted none of it.
    So who did?
    And who or what was Grimus?
    And the Stone Rose?
    And would Virgil Jones agree to accompany him? Or would Mrs O’Toole’s illness be the deciding factor?
    He ran, panting, to the hollow by the well.

XVI
    I T WAS THE well that finally helped Virgil Jones to decide; but before he reached that point, he had snapped almost every twig he could find. When he broke them, he threw the pieces into the well.
    This is how he persuaded himself:
    Nicholas Deggle could not have known that Flapping Eagle would meet old Virgil.
    Snap .
    Ergo, he could have sent the Axona to Calf Mountain purely as an experiment, to see if the Gate he had built would hold.
    Snap .
    Which meant he intended to follow.
    Snap .
    If Nicholas Deggle returned, life would be insupportable