The Whispers of Nemesis Read Free Page A

train to catch,’ said the poet. ‘She wanted to be home by this evening. She has an examination tomorrow, and she’s conscientious in her studies. She hopes to go into higher education, later this year.’ The poet’s speech was pedantic, and not like other people’s; he chose his words like a poor man at a market, as if they must offer best value, and once the words were chosen, they were carefully fitted together, so his sentences emerged perfect both in structure and in meaning, each one a puzzle already completed. There were no corrections, no hesitations or reversals, none of the verbal tics of common conversation. The poet was a master of his language: his most casual communication declared it.
    â€˜How admirable, then, that she took the trouble to be here,’ remarked the Dean.
    The poet took a volume from the man before him, and having asked his name, began to write.
    â€˜She’s a devoted daughter, and I, for my part, appreciate that devotion,’ he said. ‘She has, in the past, covered hundreds of miles to be with me at my readings. Happily, the journey today was not such a long one.’
    â€˜Speaking of journeys, what time will your driver be here?’ asked the Dean.
    The poet finished an elaborate signature, and handed the autographed book back to its purchaser. He looked up at the Dean.
    â€˜My driver?’ he asked. ‘They don’t supply me with a driver. I shall no doubt find a taxi, when I’m done. Please.’ He beckoned to the last customer in his queue.
    â€˜No driver?’ asked the Dean. ‘But surely . . .’
    Again, the poet looked up.
    â€˜There was a time,’ he said, ‘when poets were venerated, when the rewards for the work were just.’ He pointed with the end of his pen towards the bust of Homer on the platform. ‘Those days, sadly, are gone, and I shall end my days, like some Van Gogh, in penury, yet with the small hope that my work will live on, when I am gone.’
    The candour of his statement drew sympathy, whilst the pathos of his stated situation shocked his listeners – the customer waiting for his signed book, the Dean, the faculty secretary counting the proceeds from the book sales.
    â€˜But there must be no question of public transport!’ said the flustered Dean. ‘We shall arrange something for you, of course! If you will give me a few minutes . . .’
    â€˜Might I offer?’ asked the secretary, looking up shyly from the coins she was stacking in careful piles. ‘Wherever you’re going, it would be an honour for me to drive you.’

Three
    Responding to discomfort – the rhythmic and persistent stabbing of an object in his lower back – the man unwillingly came to, and waved his hand weakly towards the prodding, which stopped, but too late to avoid the return of consciousness; and consciousness brought awareness of urgent nausea (which he swallowed down as best he might), of severe headache and of a mouth so dry, his tongue stuck to his mouth-roof, and produced a strange, crackling sensation as he peeled it free. There was a bad smell around him, a reminder of his grandfather in his incontinent dotage.
    Nausea, and headache: he closed his eyes against them, but as soon as he did so, the stabbing came again.
    He opened one eye on a familiar vista – the rose-patterned fabric of his daughter’s sofa. He could make out the roses clearly, and so concluded it must be day. Blinking both eyes open, he winced at the mid-morning light that filled the room, and turned his head from the sofa-back to find the source of his tormenting.
    His young grandson stood beside him, earnest in his concern.
    â€˜ Pappou .’
    The man’s nausea threatened eruption. The only cure was sleep.
    â€˜Go away, God damn it!’ he shouted at the boy. ‘Leave a man to sleep, why can’t you?’
    Through the pounding of his head, the man heard small feet pad