Read Online The Empire Trilogy by J. G. Farrell - Free Book Online

present their ghostly arms. No end to the institutions, civilian and military, busy drawing up their sombre balance-sheet and recording it in wood, stone or metal. But if there was no end to the institutions there was no end to the dead men either. In truth, there were more than enough to go round several times over. “Greater love hath no man than this,” the Major thought mechanically. Bacon and eggs...the saliva rinsed shamefully around his teeth.
    Long ranks of tiny eyes were now staring at the Major as if accusing him of being both alive and about to eat breakfast. With a dignified gesture Edward had grasped each page of the book and folded it outward and back on concealed hinges, revealing row after row of photographs of young men, most of them in uniform. The photographs were not very good, some of them. Fuzzy or beginning to fade, ill-assorted; one or two of the young men were laughing unsuitably or, dazzled by the sun, looked to be already in agony. For the most part, though, they were meticulously uniformed and the Major could imagine them sitting there, grim and composed, as if for a portrait in oils. As often as not this long exposure to the unblinking eye had so completely steamed the life out of them that now one was difficult to tell from another.
    Edward said in somewhat sepulchral tones: “They gave their lives for their King, their country and for us. Let us remain silent for a moment in their name.” Silence descended. The only sounds to be heard were Murphy’s regular, whistling breath and a faint gurgle of gastric juices.
    Meanwhile the Major was trying once again to delve into the past with the paralysed fingers of his memory, hoping to grasp some warmth or emotion, the name perhaps of a dead friend that might mean the beginning of grief, the beginning of an end to grief. But now, as he stood at the breakfast table, even the dead faces that nightly appeared in his dreams remained absent. There was only the cold and constant surprise that would come, say, from dreaming of home and waking among strangers. He ground his teeth at the accusing, many-eyed memorial and thought: “Hypocrisy.”
    As Edward said grace his eye met the Major’s for an instant and perhaps he noticed the Major’s bitterness, for a shadow of concern crossed his face. Turning, he closed the memorial and took his seat.
    Now that the domed lid was being lifted from the silver dish the Major’s spirits improved and he thought that today, after breakfast, he must have a talk with Angela and clear up her misconceptions. Then he would leave. After all, if he did not leave promptly his presence might well foster more misconceptions. If she could nominate herself his “fiancée” on the strength of a few meetings in Brighton she might well be capable of arranging the wedding without consulting him. All the same, it was difficult to bring the matter up while Angela continued to treat him as a casual acquaintance. It seemed indelicate to recall that time they had kissed with the cactus in Brighton.
    â€œDid you sleep well, Brendan?” Angela wanted to know... and looking at her pale and frigid face he wondered whether the kiss might have taken place only in his imagination.
    â€œYes,” the Major replied curtly, hoping to indicate the contrary.
    â€œThat’s good,” Edward said with satisfaction, spearing the fat rump of a kidney and a few leaves of bacon (all stone-cold by now and remarkably greasy). “Don’t pay any heed to what those bally guide-books say. It may not be quite what it was in the old days but it’s still a comfortable old place. Anyway, they’re all written by Liberals and Socialists and so forth... They envy us, if you want my opinion, it’s as simple as that.”
    This was too much for the Major. “There was a sheep’s head in the cupboard by my bed.”
    â€œGood heavens,” exclaimed Angela, though without