Our Man in Camelot Read Free Page B

sensed that there would be no ozzie-mandying unless he could give the impression of being dead to the world, so as a final piece of encouragement he drew a deep breath and returned it by way of what he judged to be a realistic snore.
    The Englishman struck an attitude.
    “I met a traveller from an antique land“
    — he intoned in a deep voice.
    “Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert…”
    He accompanied the words with gestures in the style of some great nineteenth century tragedian, the child watching him with her mouth hanging open, obviously understanding nothing, but enjoying everything.
    “Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command—“
    He paused in order to frown, twist his lips hideously and finally sneer horribly. The child gave two little excited jumps, but made not a sound even when her hands came together.
    “Which yet survive, stamped on those lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:”
    Mosby was overwhelmed by a feeling of unreality. He knew there couldn’t be any mistake, the identification was utterly positive.
    “And on the pedestal these words appear:
‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’ “
    Shirley raised her head again, this time clasping herself to herself more modestly. “What the hell’s going on?” she grated.
    The sound of her voice couldn’t possibly have carried over the crash of the waves; it must have been his own involuntary movement which the man caught out of the corner of his eye.
    “ Nothing beside remains —“ he faltered. Mosby shifted his position, sinking further into somnolence, and snored again obligingly as a warning to Shirley and an encouragement to Ozymandias.
    “Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”
    Ozymandias bowed to his daughter and the child applauded him. Mosby himself concentrated on adjusting his preconceptions about the British.
    But now there was a movement in the corner of his own eye. The man’s wife had risen from the tartan rug on which she had been lying and was strolling down towards the sea’s edge, a tall willowy ash blonde with that haughty don’t-give-a-damn British aristocratic expression which repelled and attracted him at the same time, at least when he encountered it in the female of the species. He smiled inwardly as he remembered arguing with Doc McCaslin over that look, as to whether it was bred or bought, with Doc finally convincing him that if caught young enough any little sow’s ear from the East End of London—or Brooklyn—could be converted into this sort of silk purse by English private education. All one needed was forty thousand spare dollars, give or take a few thousand, over ten or twelve years.
    The woman stopped at her husband’s shoulder. “If the king of kings is ready it’s high time we were going. Cathy’s had quite enough sun for one day and the tide’s coming in fast. And we’re late for tea already.”
    A nice voice, less refined than the expression, with affection taking all the sting out of the marching order. That heart was present, and in working order. Lucky Ozymandias.
    Mosby felt envious, but also benevolent. Whatever happened afterwards, he didn’t want to spoil this moment of family togetherness: the least—and the most—he could do was to give them a last bit of privacy. He snored again.
    “Come on then, love,” said Ozymandias, taking the little girl’s hand and turning his back on the sea. As he did so another seventh wave swirled round their feet. When it receded the castle site was no more than a dimpled irregularity in the sand. The woman was right, the tide was coming in fast now. Another five minutes and it would be around his own feet, which would account nicely for their own movement from the beach—as he had