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A cold white moon speaks highly of the coming winter. The sea tonight has grown irritable. It guffs up a newsy froth.
Tell us this, Leonor, seeing as you have the jaws working. And just out of pure interest. But what’s the nature of the attraction? To this way of life ye’ve picked? It’s freedom, she says. It’s poverty, Charlie says. Poverty is always for free.
But the money no longer is in dope. The money now is in people. The Mediterranean is a sea of slaves.
She was beautiful as she drove—the worms of concentration wriggled on her brow.
He arranged his face for Irish weather. This was not to be underestimated. He scrunched his eyes against the wind. He twisted his mouth against the rain. Take these gestures and repeat them, times ten thousand for the life, and times the generations, and times the epochs and the eras, and see how the effect digs beneath the skin, enters the racial soul, prepares its affront to the world, and offers it—
The motions of the alcohol are familiar: the easy warming, the calm sustain, and now the slow grading into remorse.
Dilly Hearne enters the terminal and now she is among the crowd.
Ah, at 60%, Dilly Godot finally arrives
The boys were lank and twentyish.
He was a man no longer quite young pissing in a sink in a thirty-five-euro room in Málaga. With the arch betrayer in his fucking hand. Expression enough.
At the port of Algeciras the criminal despondency of half Europe had gathered.
The next morning at a pension in the Arab quarter of that fatal city he opened his left eye with a razor blade.
On the ribs of the sea the last of the evening sun made bone-white marks.
Is there any end in sight, Maurice? This is the great unfortunate thing, Charlie. We might have a length of road to go yet.
