Long Lankin: Stories (Vintage International Original) by Banville John

Author:Banville, John [Banville, John]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9780345806642
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2013-07-02T04:00:00+00:00

Nightwind

He shuffled down the corridor, trying the handles of the blind white doors. From one room there came sounds, a cry, a soft phrase of laughter, and in the silence they seemed a glimpse of the closed, secret worlds he would never enter. He leaned against the wall and held his face in his hands. There were revels below, savage music and the clatter of glasses, and outside in the night a wild wind was blowing.

Two figures came up from the stairs and started toward him. One went unsteadily on long, elegantly tailored legs, giggling helplessly. The other leaned on his supporting elbow a pale tapering arm, one hand pressed to her bare collarbone.

—Why Morris, what is it?

They stood and gazed at him foolishly, ripples of laughter still twitching their mouths. He pushed himself away from the wall, and hitched up his trousers. He said:

—’S nothing. Too much drink. That you David?

The woman took a tiny step away from them and began to pick at her disintegrating hairdo. David licked the point of his upper lip and said:

—Listen Mor, are you all right? Mor.

—Looking for my wife, said Mor.

Suddenly the woman gave a squeal of laughter, and the two men turned to look at her.

—I thought of something funny, she said simply, and covered her mouth. Mor stared at her, his eyebrows moving. He grinned and said:

—I thought you were Liza.

The woman snickered, and David whispered in his ear:

—That’s not Liza. That’s … what is your name anyway?

—Jean, she said, and glared at him. He giggled and took her by the arm.

—Jean, I want you to meet Mor. You should know your host, after all.

The woman said:

—I wouldn’t be a Liza if you paid me.

—Mother of God, said Mor, a bubble bursting on his lips.

David frowned at her for shame and said:

—You must be nice to Mor. He’s famous.

—Never heard of him.

—You see, Mor? She never heard of you. Your own guest and she never heard of you. What to you think of that?

—Balls, said Mor.

—O now. Why are you angry? Is it because of what they are all saying? Nobody listens to that kind of talk. You know that. We’re all friends here, aren’t we, Liza—

—Jean.

—And this is a grand party you’re throwing here, Mor, but no one listens to talk. We know your success is nothing to do with … matrimonial graft.

On the last words the corner of David’s mouth moved as a tight nerve uncoiled. Mor looked at him with weary eyes, then walked away from them and turned down the stairs. David called after him:

—Where are you going, man?

But Mor was gone.

—Well, said the woman. Poor Mor is turning into quite a wreck. These days he even has to pretend he’s drunk.

David said nothing, but stared at the spot where Mor had disappeared. The woman laughed, and taking his arm she pressed it against her side and said:

—Let’s go somewhere quiet.

—Shut your mouth, David told her.

Downstairs Mor wandered through the rooms. The party was ending, and most of the guests had left.

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