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there, if you want to diddle the Almighty God. Pflaaaap!
Not half. He’s got a coughmixture with a punch in it for
you, my friend, in his back pocket. Just you try it on.
The Mabbot street entrance of nighttown, before which
stretches an uncobbled tramsiding set with skeleton tracks,
red and green will-o’-the-wisps and danger signals. Rows of
grimy houses with gaping doors. Rare lamps with faint rain-
bow fins. Round Rabaiotti’s halted ice gondola stunted men
and women squabble. They grab wafers between which are
wedged lumps of coral and copper snow. Sucking, they scatter
slowly. Children. The swancomb of the gondola, highreared,
forges on through the murk, white and blue under a light-
house. Whistles call and answer.
THE CALLS: Wait, my love, and I’ll be with you.
THE ANSWERS: Round behind the stable.
(A deafmute idiot with goggle eyes, his shapeless mouth
dribbling, jerks past, shaken in Saint Vitus’ dance. A chain of
children ‘s hands imprisons him.)
THE CHILDREN: Kithogue! Salute!
THE IDIOT: (Lifts a palsied left arm and gurgles) Grha-
hute!
THE CHILDREN: Where’s the great light?
THE IDIOT: (Gobbing) Ghaghahest.
(They release him. He jerks on. A pigmy woman swings on
a rope slung between two railings, counting. A form sprawled
against a dustbin and muffled by its arm and hat snores,
groans, grinding growling teeth, and snores again. On a step