McGuire antibiotic…’
‘I know that. I’m administering it. I’m in mid-cure right now…’
‘You are? And when does this cure cease?’
‘The end of the month. This month. I’ve set myself a deadline, Markov. Truly…’
This reply, forced out of her, was another mistake—as Lindsay almost immediately realized. A crafty little smile curled about Markov’s lips. Next to him, the silent and gentle Jippy gave a sigh. His eyes fell on the pink mirror-writing invitation card, abandoned on a table. Markov at once picked it up.
‘This party’, he said, with emphasis, ‘takes place on the last day of this month. All the more reason to go. You can celebrate your new-won freedom, for a start. You can meet new people, make new friends and kick-start your new improved McGuireless life.’
‘Thanks, but no thanks.’
Lindsay took the proffered card and tucked it back in the pocket of Markov’s chartreuse-coloured jacket. Then, since she knew that beneath Markov’s affectations of speech and dress, his intentions were kindly, she patted the pocket and gave him an affectionate kiss on the cheek.
‘Really, Markov, I know you meant well, but I wouldn’t enjoy it. I wouldn’t know anyone there…’
‘That’s the entire point.’
‘You go, then you and Jippy can tell me all about it. It’s the day before you go off to Greece, isn’t it? You can tell me all about it when you get back. That gives you plenty of time to work out a good story—who was there, what I missed…’
Markov, who rarely hesitated, hesitated then. He shifted from his right foot to his left.
‘Jippy thinks you ought to go,’ he announced. ‘In fact, this was all Jippy’s idea. You suggested it, didn’t you, Jippy?’
It was Jippy’s main characteristic to speak only when it was unavoidable. As usual, he had that day entered Lindsay’s apartment without speaking, had tucked into lunch without speaking, and had sat at Markov’s side, a small benign shadow, without uttering once. Now, directly appealed to for confirmation, he rose to his feet. Jippy had a very bad stammer.
‘I d-d-did,’ he said.
This unexpected endorsement made Lindsay pause. At the first meeting with Jippy, two years before, she had assumed that his reluctance to speak was caused by the stammer; further acquaintance with Jippy had taught her that the reason for those silences lay deeper.
Jippy was a rare being: he spoke only when he had something of import to say; when he did so, his remarks, although sometimes difficult to interpret, were usually unequivocal, generally wise, and invariably brief. Lindsay looked at him with affection and with sudden doubt. Jippy was a small, squarely built man, with neat dark hair, gentle eyes and a childlike demeanour. Lindsay herself was not tall, but Jippy was shorter still, and could have been, she calculated, little over five feet. He was of indeterminate age; he might have been thirty-five, or much younger, but in certain lights he could look older, considerably older—as if he had been around for centuries, Markov said.
Unlike Markov, who was flamboyant, Jippy cultivated anonymity of dress. Today, as usual, he was wearing clean, pressed blue jeans, a navy-blue sweater which a schoolboy might have worn, and a white shirt. His old-fashioned lace-up shoes were smartly polished, and, in a way Lindsay found heart-breakingly sad, he always looked spruced up, as if for a job interview—his expression, shy and somewhat hopeful, dogged but melancholy, suggesting it was a job Jippy was never going to get. He would have passed in a crowd without anyone’s giving him a second glance—indeed, Lindsay suspected that he preferred and intended this—but on closer inspection, he conveyed a powerful and disconcerting benevolence. Quite how he did this, Lindsay could not have said, since the benevolence seemed to radiate from him, without visible source, unless it be his eyes, the gaze of which was steady, as if expecting the
‘I know that. I’m administering it. I’m in mid-cure right now…’
‘You are? And when does this cure cease?’
‘The end of the month. This month. I’ve set myself a deadline, Markov. Truly…’
This reply, forced out of her, was another mistake—as Lindsay almost immediately realized. A crafty little smile curled about Markov’s lips. Next to him, the silent and gentle Jippy gave a sigh. His eyes fell on the pink mirror-writing invitation card, abandoned on a table. Markov at once picked it up.
‘This party’, he said, with emphasis, ‘takes place on the last day of this month. All the more reason to go. You can celebrate your new-won freedom, for a start. You can meet new people, make new friends and kick-start your new improved McGuireless life.’
‘Thanks, but no thanks.’
Lindsay took the proffered card and tucked it back in the pocket of Markov’s chartreuse-coloured jacket. Then, since she knew that beneath Markov’s affectations of speech and dress, his intentions were kindly, she patted the pocket and gave him an affectionate kiss on the cheek.
‘Really, Markov, I know you meant well, but I wouldn’t enjoy it. I wouldn’t know anyone there…’
‘That’s the entire point.’
‘You go, then you and Jippy can tell me all about it. It’s the day before you go off to Greece, isn’t it? You can tell me all about it when you get back. That gives you plenty of time to work out a good story—who was there, what I missed…’
Markov, who rarely hesitated, hesitated then. He shifted from his right foot to his left.
‘Jippy thinks you ought to go,’ he announced. ‘In fact, this was all Jippy’s idea. You suggested it, didn’t you, Jippy?’
It was Jippy’s main characteristic to speak only when it was unavoidable. As usual, he had that day entered Lindsay’s apartment without speaking, had tucked into lunch without speaking, and had sat at Markov’s side, a small benign shadow, without uttering once. Now, directly appealed to for confirmation, he rose to his feet. Jippy had a very bad stammer.
‘I d-d-did,’ he said.
This unexpected endorsement made Lindsay pause. At the first meeting with Jippy, two years before, she had assumed that his reluctance to speak was caused by the stammer; further acquaintance with Jippy had taught her that the reason for those silences lay deeper.
Jippy was a rare being: he spoke only when he had something of import to say; when he did so, his remarks, although sometimes difficult to interpret, were usually unequivocal, generally wise, and invariably brief. Lindsay looked at him with affection and with sudden doubt. Jippy was a small, squarely built man, with neat dark hair, gentle eyes and a childlike demeanour. Lindsay herself was not tall, but Jippy was shorter still, and could have been, she calculated, little over five feet. He was of indeterminate age; he might have been thirty-five, or much younger, but in certain lights he could look older, considerably older—as if he had been around for centuries, Markov said.
Unlike Markov, who was flamboyant, Jippy cultivated anonymity of dress. Today, as usual, he was wearing clean, pressed blue jeans, a navy-blue sweater which a schoolboy might have worn, and a white shirt. His old-fashioned lace-up shoes were smartly polished, and, in a way Lindsay found heart-breakingly sad, he always looked spruced up, as if for a job interview—his expression, shy and somewhat hopeful, dogged but melancholy, suggesting it was a job Jippy was never going to get. He would have passed in a crowd without anyone’s giving him a second glance—indeed, Lindsay suspected that he preferred and intended this—but on closer inspection, he conveyed a powerful and disconcerting benevolence. Quite how he did this, Lindsay could not have said, since the benevolence seemed to radiate from him, without visible source, unless it be his eyes, the gaze of which was steady, as if expecting the
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