Dead Souls by Sam Riviere

Author:Sam Riviere [Riviere, Sam]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781646220298
Google: WaUQEAAAQBAJ
Amazon: B08HMP5SDT
Publisher: Orion
Published: 2021-05-12T23:00:00+00:00

a large, fair-skinned old man with a lame leg that he dragged behind him without the aid of a stick or crutch, and whose otherwise bald head was covered with large black scabs. These large black scabs fascinated Solomon Wiese, as they never seemed to heal and drop off but were a permanent feature of the man’s appearance, and when the man hauled himself up to the counter to order a drink and his dinner, which he ate every night at the same time at a table away from the windows of the brightly lit barn-sized pub, it took all of Solomon Wiese’s self-restraint to resist observing their textured surfaces under the bar lights, and to see that the raised black scabs on the man’s head bulged in such a way that made them appear extremely soft. He had a detailed daydream in which he pressed his finger into one of the scabs, which broke immediately to the touch, his finger simply carrying on into the man’s brain, meeting no resistance, as thick black fluid welled around his knuckle. It was immediately obvious to Solomon Wiese, he said to me in the Travelodge bar, that this fair-skinned old man with scabs on his head was seeking to unburden himself of something, and that he was searching with his apparently casual conversation for a chance to begin this unburdening—any man of a certain age who visits the same pub every evening is sure to be harbouring some story that he wishes to unburden himself of, that much is obvious, and the tiring insistence with which the old man with scabs on his head attempted to keep the conversation at the bar going, apparently at all costs, even when he had completed his order, and all the necessities had been dealt with, and an acceptable number of pleasantries exchanged, made this even more apparent. The scabs themselves were never referenced by the old man with scabs on his head, which somehow made it even more difficult for Solomon Wiese not to examine them when the old man with scabs on his head was at the bar, taking a long time over his order, which nonetheless was always the same, hunting with his apparently casual questions and observations for a window through which to begin unburdening himself onto Solomon Wiese. It didn’t take the old man with scabs on his head long to begin making allusions to a war in some distant place, the terrible heat in this distant war zone, the sand that got everywhere, the flies that lived in the sand, the eggs the flies laid in the lining of one’s clothing, the maggots that hatched from the eggs and infested every crevice, as well as his own duties in this arid, infested theatre of combat. For some reason he was reluctant to identify the actual region and so the specific war he was referring to, it could have been any one of five or six separate although of course inter-related

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