Goya'S Dog Read Online Free PDF

her.
    â€œStop,” she said, and he felt the jaw muscles move against his fingers.
    A pair of beige trousers in his peripheral vision: Pear standing above him. His fly was tight. Nelda removed Dacres’s limp hands singly and prepared to enjoy the show.
    â€œStand up, Dacres,” Pear said. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
    My drink, Dacres thought.
    â€œWhat the hell are you doing here at all?”
    Dacres looked up to see Pear swivel back. He was still saying “Wait” when Pear punched him hard, hard in the eye. Falling back off his chair Dacres was sure he heard joyous laughter. And no one sprang to his rescue.
    â€œAt least you like me, Grace,” he said.
    â€œI don’t like you,” she told him. “I’m just trying to reduce the swelling.”
    â€œAre you even trained as a nurse?”
    She didn’t acknowledge.
    He had ice, wrapped in a handkerchief, against his cheek. It came from the golden bucket at the corner of the bed, he noted approvingly, disappointed, however, that it was empty of everything but ice. He was sitting on the bed edge, turned to her, and she sat next to him.
    He’d read that morning about a boy who’d died after stepping on a nail.
    â€œAm I going to die?” he said sorely.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œNever?”
    â€œEventually, yes.”
    â€œBut from this? Is the infection going to spread?”
    â€œFor heaven’s sake be quiet and let me work.”
    Me miserable, he thought.
    â€œThat bastard Pear, what a squalid little gnome.”
    Gorren was in the room. So whose room was Dacres sitting in? He had no idea.
    â€œWhat was that, Dacres?” Gorren smiled. Through his one eye Dacres could see Grace’s cheek, beyond was Gorren’s dark-lined form, elbows making triangles. To which figure should you give priority? Look here, look back.
    â€œHe’s a pitiful rat and his wife’s a maniac,” Dacres muttered. “Probably nymphomaniacal.”
    Gorren backed away.
    â€œThis whole escapade is a farce,” Dacres said bitterly. “This whole farce. An escapade.” Gorren had gone through a communicating door into the next room. Dacres could hear him talking, but couldn’t hear what. He badly wanted a drink.
    â€œWhat?” Dacres called. “Gorren, what am I doing here? They’re all idiots. The Lady’s deranged, thinks she’s heading for beatification. I want no part of it. She’s very very ill. It’s the clubbiness that’s fatal. She wants us all to be friends. That we’ll improve together. It’s fatal. And her assistant’s straight from the Gestapo.”
    The nurse sighed again.
    â€œGrace, what am I doing here?”
    He pushed past her, talking. He was going to find Gorren, he was going to find a bottle of Scotch.
    â€œThese are horrible people,” he went on. “Talentless. Trebs is like some kind of poetry-killing device. Bury’s etchings should be banned. City views, in this day. Are you listening to me, Gorren? I have to do something.”
    He was at the communicating door, one hand on his face; he blundered in, still talking. Then through his one eye he saw Violet, Nelda, Trebs, Bury, seated, silent. Gorren, at least, was smiling.
    Lady Dunfield was talking about Michelangelo and Beethoven.
    â€œWhen is this bloody train going to bloody move?” said Dacres again suddenly, and Lady Dunfield’s neck puckered. “I’m going to see what it’s all about.”
    There were many faces on the platform. Men in uniform with cryingwomen of all ages, and equally feckless pigeons. All milled and parted. He couldn’t find anyone to complain to, and lit his last cigarette. He was standing next to the train and felt its digestive grumbling: he did not want to walk into the station proper. He missed soaring girders; he didn’t appreciate this North American conception of the train station