The Outcasts Read Online Free PDF

know it better. It was less round than he had thought, and the cheekbones were stronger; in moments of irritation there seemed a hidden force, almost a resentful aquilinity, like a shadowy skeleton within the flat nose. The mouth was not simply thick lips; it smiled pleasantly and unpleasantly, expressed scorn, approval, delight, greed, pride, faint melancholy.
    â€œYes,” Philips said. “Of course he is on our payroll. Under ‘personnel life and disability insurance,’ which we do not carry. Now first, he is worth three times as much because he makes unnecessary any further contact with the government. Do you know what a blessing that can be?”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œAnd second, it is the way of things. Will you object?”
    Morrison shook his head slowly and sipped a lovely cool sip of rum and coconut water. (He had recovered. In this he was resilient.) “It is also the way of things in Washington. Graft and nepotism. Have you any nephews?”
    Philips smiled slightly. “But you object, all the same.”
    â€œDon’t you?”
    â€œNo. If I had a nephew, the son of my brother or sister, would you want me to favor a stranger over him in the name of efficiency? If so, how far do you carry the principle? If I had a son who stole, would you want me to give him to the police? Or a wife who spoke against the government?”
    â€œI never thought of it that way,” Morrison said lazily. It was a marvelous warm evening, and on the river a freighter hooted.
    Leaving the hotel, they ambled up the avenue among couples and bunches at their soft evening laughter and gossip. Motor traffic died with the day, and sweeter smells drifted among softer sounds. The street lamps glowed weakly, haloed in moths, and now the buildings were dark, their day’s work done; the shops closed at four. The two engineers strolled along the equator in May. On a dark side-street, the smells of cooking, spices; a reclining drunk hummed and keened in a shadowy doorway, and said as they passed, “Good night, sirs,” which Morrison knew by then meant “good evening.” “Good night,” they said. He was reminded of Italians waving good-bye when they meant you to come closer, and vice versa, and he asked Philips if he had seen that. No; but Philips told him how pleasant uninflected pronouns could be, so that “he tell he papa and he tell he papa” meant son to father to grandfather, and that a house was called a yard, pronounced yod, so that “she has gone home” came out “she go by sh’yod.” And here a bastard language had flourished, English-Dutch-local; had Morrison noticed the sticker on their dashboard? Yes; and Philips spoke it: “Lookoe yo oilie nanda watra befosie yo start na wagie.” Morrison made him say it again. “But the ‘yo’ is spelled j-o-e,” Philips added. Lookoe joe oilie nanda watra befosie joe start na wagie. Lovely. Morrison laughed aloud. The warmth was an embrace, the breeze was a kiss. They passed a squat mosque, a bulbous minaret, and later a cemetery. “That is a Jewish cemetery,” Philips said. Morrison could see nothing; the stones and tablets were shapeless and obscure at night. “And so is that,” Philips said in a moment.
    â€œWhy two? Are there so many here?”
    â€œOne is for the European Jews,” Philips said. “I forget what they are called. The other is for the Sephardic Jews.”
    â€œSegregation everywhere,” Morrison said, and Philips laughed.
    Then they were standing before a plain wooden door with a lantern above it, a single bulb within a cube of leaded blue and green glass. In black block letters: CHEZ TAFIAN. When someone nudged his leg, Morrison started and shied; but it was only a billy-goat, staring up at him, long of face, bearded, yellow-eyed. Morrison said “Good night, sir” and the goat’s lip curled. With his horns and yellow