Read Online Lord Malquist & Mr. Moon: A Novel by Tom Stoppard - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tom Stoppard
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yourself in your hopes of martyrdom.’
‘He’s not really a Highness, is he?’
‘Better safe than sorry.’
‘I am the King of Kings,’ said the Risen Christ without pride. He dragged himself upright. Jane smiled at him and stood close.
‘I’ve been dying to ask you,’ she said, ‘what have you got under your nightshirt – I mean, do you go around like that, everywhere, with nothing underneath like a Scotsman?’
‘It’s not true about Scotsmen,’ said Lord Malquist. ‘They wear tartan codpieces and several layers of other garments including knee-length waterproof combinations to keep out the mist.’
‘That’s an absolute lie, Falcon,’ said Jane with unexpected sharpness – ‘they’re naked. It’s a matter of pride and the proud ones are
naked.’
She stood watching the Risen Christ through an eyelash gauze, breathing heavily, her bottom lip caught in her teeth, imprisoned tongue squeezed pink against the white. ‘I
know
Scotsmen, they don’t let themselves be coddled up. They’re
big.
They’re big brawny giants with powerful muscles straining taut, striding about in their kilts’ – she had her thighs squeezed together, her eyes closed now, head lolling back, a priestess incantating through the fumes of sacrifice – ‘in their
kilts,
with their great strong legs rippling hard as knotted cord, burned red-brown by the wind and the sun, hard all the way up, standing astride the hilltop with the wind blowing and their kilts—’ her breath sucked in through her teeth and turned to spray made secret salivating noises in the warm washed oyster-flesh of her mouth. Her hands flat-ironed the peacock shine of her thighs, smoothed upwards tense against her stomach and down dragging splay-fingered across the groin, clawed and dug and furrowed palm-to-palm into the hollow and parted, stretching the silk tight over her bottom and back, gathering it into the soft ofher waist and climbed again, moulding her rib-cage, pushed high her breasts and flattened them into the V of her throat as her two index fingers snailed up the spittle trail on her chin, raked through the overhang of her moist Up and forced the tongue-tip back between her teeth – scoured white against their sharpness, buried up to the second knuckle.
The ninth earl caught her as she fell.
‘Jane, are you all right?’
‘Lovely, darling, just lovely. Can I have a cigarette?’
Lord Malquist put her down on the bed. Her hand dipped into his pocket for his gold case. He pressed it open for her and stuck a cigarette vertically into her mouth and lit it. She lay quietly. A quarter of an inch of heliotrope singed away with her first inhalation.
‘How do you feel?’
‘Much, much better, Falcon dear.’
She blew smoke gaily at the Risen Christ who looked on suspicious and bewildered. ‘You were just lovely, darling. What’s your name?’
‘Jesus.’
‘So it is, darling, so it is. Were your parents religious?’
‘Not very,’ said the Risen Christ.
‘Well, they must have been awful snobs.’ She gave the cigarette to Moon. ‘Would you run my bath, darling?’
Moon took the handkerchief out of his mouth and offered it back to Lord Malquist.
‘Keep it, dear boy. Keep it if you don’t mind.’
‘Off you go, darlings, I must get out of these clothes. Who knows how to make creme de menthe cocktails? Falcon, go downstairs and have a cocktail.’
‘My dear lady, I am already somewhat uneasy about going punting dressed for the gaming tables. I think to drink creme de menthe in a pale blue cravat would be the abandonment of everything I stand for.’
‘What do you stand for?’ asked Moon.
The ninth earl’s head turned and tilted with such hauteur that Moon’s brain signalled
precedent
and he realised that it was perhaps the first direct question he had asked him about himself.
‘Style, dear boy,’ said the ninth earl. ‘Style. There is nothing else.’
Jane sat up.
‘Oh dear, well what
can
you drink in a pale
‘He’s not really a Highness, is he?’
‘Better safe than sorry.’
‘I am the King of Kings,’ said the Risen Christ without pride. He dragged himself upright. Jane smiled at him and stood close.
‘I’ve been dying to ask you,’ she said, ‘what have you got under your nightshirt – I mean, do you go around like that, everywhere, with nothing underneath like a Scotsman?’
‘It’s not true about Scotsmen,’ said Lord Malquist. ‘They wear tartan codpieces and several layers of other garments including knee-length waterproof combinations to keep out the mist.’
‘That’s an absolute lie, Falcon,’ said Jane with unexpected sharpness – ‘they’re naked. It’s a matter of pride and the proud ones are
naked.’
She stood watching the Risen Christ through an eyelash gauze, breathing heavily, her bottom lip caught in her teeth, imprisoned tongue squeezed pink against the white. ‘I
know
Scotsmen, they don’t let themselves be coddled up. They’re
big.
They’re big brawny giants with powerful muscles straining taut, striding about in their kilts’ – she had her thighs squeezed together, her eyes closed now, head lolling back, a priestess incantating through the fumes of sacrifice – ‘in their
kilts,
with their great strong legs rippling hard as knotted cord, burned red-brown by the wind and the sun, hard all the way up, standing astride the hilltop with the wind blowing and their kilts—’ her breath sucked in through her teeth and turned to spray made secret salivating noises in the warm washed oyster-flesh of her mouth. Her hands flat-ironed the peacock shine of her thighs, smoothed upwards tense against her stomach and down dragging splay-fingered across the groin, clawed and dug and furrowed palm-to-palm into the hollow and parted, stretching the silk tight over her bottom and back, gathering it into the soft ofher waist and climbed again, moulding her rib-cage, pushed high her breasts and flattened them into the V of her throat as her two index fingers snailed up the spittle trail on her chin, raked through the overhang of her moist Up and forced the tongue-tip back between her teeth – scoured white against their sharpness, buried up to the second knuckle.
The ninth earl caught her as she fell.
‘Jane, are you all right?’
‘Lovely, darling, just lovely. Can I have a cigarette?’
Lord Malquist put her down on the bed. Her hand dipped into his pocket for his gold case. He pressed it open for her and stuck a cigarette vertically into her mouth and lit it. She lay quietly. A quarter of an inch of heliotrope singed away with her first inhalation.
‘How do you feel?’
‘Much, much better, Falcon dear.’
She blew smoke gaily at the Risen Christ who looked on suspicious and bewildered. ‘You were just lovely, darling. What’s your name?’
‘Jesus.’
‘So it is, darling, so it is. Were your parents religious?’
‘Not very,’ said the Risen Christ.
‘Well, they must have been awful snobs.’ She gave the cigarette to Moon. ‘Would you run my bath, darling?’
Moon took the handkerchief out of his mouth and offered it back to Lord Malquist.
‘Keep it, dear boy. Keep it if you don’t mind.’
‘Off you go, darlings, I must get out of these clothes. Who knows how to make creme de menthe cocktails? Falcon, go downstairs and have a cocktail.’
‘My dear lady, I am already somewhat uneasy about going punting dressed for the gaming tables. I think to drink creme de menthe in a pale blue cravat would be the abandonment of everything I stand for.’
‘What do you stand for?’ asked Moon.
The ninth earl’s head turned and tilted with such hauteur that Moon’s brain signalled
precedent
and he realised that it was perhaps the first direct question he had asked him about himself.
‘Style, dear boy,’ said the ninth earl. ‘Style. There is nothing else.’
Jane sat up.
‘Oh dear, well what
can
you drink in a pale
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