Grimus by Salman Rushdie

god, said Virgil Jones.
    —It’s not your fault, he said outside, to Flapping Eagle. Please ascribe no blame to yourself. It is my responsibility. Mea culpa.
    —You’ll stay with her, of course, said Flapping Eagle.
    —No, said Mr Jones. If acceptable to you, we leave tomorrow morning.
    Flapping Eagle had to ask: —Why, Mr Jones? Why choose me?
    Mr Jones smiled crookedly. —My dear fellow, he said, never look a gift horse in the mouth. Do you know Latin?
    —No, said Flapping Eagle. Or just a few words.
    — Timere Dañaos et dona ferentes , said Mr Jones. Do you follow me?
    —No, said Flapping Eagle.
    —Perhaps it’s just as well, said Virgil Jones, if we are to be friends.

XVII
    T O KEEP D OLORES calm, Flapping Eagle had dinner alone that night, by the well; Virgil Jones brought it out to him. He was puzzled; there was a whole set of facts that didn’t add up: some awful history of which he was unaware, and which had brought Mr Jones to his surprising decision. He tried to work it out and failed; so he tried to go to sleep instead, and eventually succeeded.
    Meanwhile, Virgil Jones was making a despairing attempt to break through the barrier in Dolores’ mind.
    —You remember Nicholas Deggle, he said.
    —O yes, said Dolores, quite normally. I never took to him. Good riddance, I thought, when he disappeared.
    —He didn’t disappear, Dolores. He was thrown out. So listen: if he should arrive, don’t mention you knew me. All right?
    —Very well, darling, she said equably, but you’re being foolish. Why, he’ll see you, for heaven’s sake.
    —Dolores, exclaimed Virgil Jones, I’m going away!
    —I love you too, said Mrs O’Toole.
    Virgil shook his head in a gesture of impotence.
    —Listen, Dolores, he tried again. Nicholas Deggle has a grudge against me. So don’t let him know I loved you… love you. For your own sake.
    —Darling, said Mrs O’Toole, I want to tell the whole world about our love. I want to shout it out all over the island. I want…
    —Dolores, said Virgil Jones. Stop. Stop.
    —I’m so glad you’re staying, she said. And I’m proud of you, too.
    —Proud, echoed Mr Jones.
    —O yes, she said. For chasing away that spectre from Grimus. That was well done. Now nothing can happen.
    —No, said Mr Jones, admitting defeat. Nothing.
    That night, Virgil Jones dreamt of Liv. Tall, beautiful, deadly Liv, who had been the breaking of him so long ago. She was the centre of the whirlpool and he was falling towards her as her mouth opened in a smile of welcome and opened further and wider and opened and opened and he fell towards her and the water rushed up over his head and he broke, like a twig.
    Flapping Eagle woke several times during the night, since the bare ground was both hard and lumpy. There was an itching on his chest. He scratched at it sleepily, and thought as he drifted off again: That damn scar .
    That damn scar played him up sometimes.
    Tiusday morning again. Misty.
    Virgil Jones was shaken gently awake. He found Mrs O’Toole smiling at him, saying: —Time to get up, my love.
    He got up. Methodically, he took an old bag from its peg on the wall, filling it with fruit and vegetables.
    —Why ever do you need all that for the beach, dear? asked Dolores. He didn’t reply.
    —I’ll need your belt now, my love, she said, attempting a dulcet tone. He dressed in silence: the black suit, the bowler hat.
    —Dolores, he said, I need the belt myself today.
    —O, she pouted. Well, if you’re going to be like that, I’ll manage without it.
    She hoisted the chair on to her hump. —Come on, she cooed. Time to be off.
    —I’m not coming with you, he said.
    —All right, dear, she said; you come on behind as usual. I’ll see you down there.
    —Goodbye, Dolores, he said.
    She hobbled out of the hut with the rocking-chair on her back.
    He collected Flapping Eagle from the wellside. The Axona had tied a cloth around his forehead and stuck a feather in at the back.
    —Ceremonial