Read Online His Illegal Self by Peter Carey - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Peter Carey
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stink.
Where did you come from? she asked.
They had not parted on good terms, but this morning it seemed they had a history. He replied with a smile, hidden like chewing tobacco, tucked inside the corner of his mouth.
Hello boy, the hippie said, removing the lumpy trousers from around his neck. Hello cat.
Away from the dreadful car, he was different, his eyes wider, less stoned probably, and he gave off a surprising aura of good health. The raindrops stood on his bare brown skin as if it was a well-oiled coat or healthy vegetable. From his unknotted trouser legs he produced a large papaya, a hand of tiny bananas, the stems still oozing a pale white sap, a huge green zucchini, another papaya, this one with a bright green patch, and a purple eggplant, all of them wet and lustrous.
Plus, he said.
A bottle of milk.
The boy caught Dial’s eye and she rubbed his head roughly as if to acknowledge that she would let him win that round. It was with some distinct pleasure that she observed him watch Trevor remove the silver foil. He cocked his head attentively as the hippie dipped his square-tipped finger into the milk and offered it to the kitten’s open sharp-toothed mouth.
Give’s your hand, he said to the boy, in that musical accent they had. She watched with approval as he dipped the boy’s finger in the wildly creamy milk, guiding it to the kitten’s desperate tongue. She liked him then, more than she had imagined possible.
Trevor led the way up the veranda steps. He was not tall, indeed two inches shorter than Dial, but she was relieved that he had a real physical authority as he squatted, pouring milk directly into his cupped hand.
Our trailer tipped over, the boy said.
You bet, he said. Of course.
Trevor hopped about the floor, found a wooden-handled clasp knife in his trousers and drew its blade around the papaya which opened like a book—a color plate
Carica papaya.
Trevor scooped the black seeds in one swift movement and held them dripping in his fist.
I hurt my arm, the boy said. I fell out of my bed.
Eat food, the man instructed.
Trevor threw the seeds over the rail.
Just put your face in it, he told the boy, giving the other half to Dial. He did not look at her but as she took the dripping fruit she felt some double entendre which she did not like at all. It made her hesitate, but at the same time she found herself thinking about her appearance, that her hair was oily and flat on her head. My nose is huge, she thought, before she gave in to the papaya. But when this was finished there was nothing else, no plan, no strategy, and when the postmaster arrived to open shop she saw how he looked down on her, her face wet with papaya, her great Greek nose sticking in the air.
13
The boy ate six small bananas, maybe eight, and his belly was tight as a drum. There was a water tap down the steps and when he washed his hands he saw the black seeds shining in the dirt. He dug them up and washed them too, setting them on the concrete sidewalk. When he had ten of them he turned them over to dry their undersides and then he put them in his back pocket with his stuff. There were also little creepy bugs with lots of legs.
Back on the veranda he poured more milk for Buck, who sniffed it and then walked away, preferring the hem of Dial’s long hippie dress. In the Best Western in Seattle the boy had watched Dial sew up that very hem, purple with blue-green waxy thread. That had been in the days after Bloomingdale’s, but they had moved on to
White Fang
already. He had a passport. His hair had been buzzed and dyed and he believed his mother’s hem was now everything, not only to her, but to him as well. At customs he thought he heard its contents shiver. Most likely it was beyond adult hearing, but now Buck definitely heard something, like a deck of whispery cards being dealt, perhaps, or two green leaves sliding face-to-face. His gray-striped ears pricked up. He stepped delicately out across the post office
Where did you come from? she asked.
They had not parted on good terms, but this morning it seemed they had a history. He replied with a smile, hidden like chewing tobacco, tucked inside the corner of his mouth.
Hello boy, the hippie said, removing the lumpy trousers from around his neck. Hello cat.
Away from the dreadful car, he was different, his eyes wider, less stoned probably, and he gave off a surprising aura of good health. The raindrops stood on his bare brown skin as if it was a well-oiled coat or healthy vegetable. From his unknotted trouser legs he produced a large papaya, a hand of tiny bananas, the stems still oozing a pale white sap, a huge green zucchini, another papaya, this one with a bright green patch, and a purple eggplant, all of them wet and lustrous.
Plus, he said.
A bottle of milk.
The boy caught Dial’s eye and she rubbed his head roughly as if to acknowledge that she would let him win that round. It was with some distinct pleasure that she observed him watch Trevor remove the silver foil. He cocked his head attentively as the hippie dipped his square-tipped finger into the milk and offered it to the kitten’s open sharp-toothed mouth.
Give’s your hand, he said to the boy, in that musical accent they had. She watched with approval as he dipped the boy’s finger in the wildly creamy milk, guiding it to the kitten’s desperate tongue. She liked him then, more than she had imagined possible.
Trevor led the way up the veranda steps. He was not tall, indeed two inches shorter than Dial, but she was relieved that he had a real physical authority as he squatted, pouring milk directly into his cupped hand.
Our trailer tipped over, the boy said.
You bet, he said. Of course.
Trevor hopped about the floor, found a wooden-handled clasp knife in his trousers and drew its blade around the papaya which opened like a book—a color plate
Carica papaya.
Trevor scooped the black seeds in one swift movement and held them dripping in his fist.
I hurt my arm, the boy said. I fell out of my bed.
Eat food, the man instructed.
Trevor threw the seeds over the rail.
Just put your face in it, he told the boy, giving the other half to Dial. He did not look at her but as she took the dripping fruit she felt some double entendre which she did not like at all. It made her hesitate, but at the same time she found herself thinking about her appearance, that her hair was oily and flat on her head. My nose is huge, she thought, before she gave in to the papaya. But when this was finished there was nothing else, no plan, no strategy, and when the postmaster arrived to open shop she saw how he looked down on her, her face wet with papaya, her great Greek nose sticking in the air.
13
The boy ate six small bananas, maybe eight, and his belly was tight as a drum. There was a water tap down the steps and when he washed his hands he saw the black seeds shining in the dirt. He dug them up and washed them too, setting them on the concrete sidewalk. When he had ten of them he turned them over to dry their undersides and then he put them in his back pocket with his stuff. There were also little creepy bugs with lots of legs.
Back on the veranda he poured more milk for Buck, who sniffed it and then walked away, preferring the hem of Dial’s long hippie dress. In the Best Western in Seattle the boy had watched Dial sew up that very hem, purple with blue-green waxy thread. That had been in the days after Bloomingdale’s, but they had moved on to
White Fang
already. He had a passport. His hair had been buzzed and dyed and he believed his mother’s hem was now everything, not only to her, but to him as well. At customs he thought he heard its contents shiver. Most likely it was beyond adult hearing, but now Buck definitely heard something, like a deck of whispery cards being dealt, perhaps, or two green leaves sliding face-to-face. His gray-striped ears pricked up. He stepped delicately out across the post office
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