Under the Volcano - Malcolm Lowry [63]
If not Guzmán, if not, it could not be, but it was, it certainly was no less a figure than that of his companion the night before, Dr. Vigil; and what on earth would he be doing here? As the figure approached closer the Consul felt an increasing uneasiness. Quincey was his patient doubtless. But in that case why wasn't the doctor in the house? Why all this secretive prowling about the garden? It could only mean one thing: Vigil's visit had somehow been timed to coincide with his own probable visit to the tequila (though he had fooled them neatly there), with the object, naturally, of spying upon him, of obtaining some information about him, some clue to the nature of which might all too conceivably be found within the pages of that accusing newspaper: "Old Samaritan case to be reopened, Commander Firmin believed in Mexico." "Firmin found guilty, acquitted, cries in box." "Firmin innocent, but bears guilt of world on shoulders." "Body of Firmin found drunk in bunker," such monstrous headlines as these indeed took instant shape in the Consul's mind, for it was not merely El Universal the doctor was reading, it was his fate; but the creatures of his more immediate conscience were not to be denied, they seemed silently to accompany that morning paper too, withdrawing to one side (as the doctor came to a standstill, looking about him) with averted heads, listening, murmuring now: "You cannot lie to us. We know what you did last night." What had he done though? He saw again clearly enough--as Dr. Vigil, recognized him with a smile, closed his paper and hastened towards him--the doctor's consulting-room in the Avenida de la Revolución, visited for some drunken reason in the early hours of the morning, macabre with its pictures of ancient Spanish surgeons, their goat faces rising queerly from ruffs resembling ectoplasm, roaring with laughter as they performed inquisitorial operations; but since all this was retained as a mere vivid setting completely detached from his own activity, and since it was about all he did remember, he could scarcely take comfort from not seeming to appear within it in any vicious role. Not so much comfort, at least, as had just been afforded him by Vigil's smile, nor half so much as was now afforded him when the doctor, upon reaching the spot lately vacated by the walnut grower, halted, and, suddenly, bowed to him profoundly from the waist; bowed once, twice, thrice, mutely yet tremendously assuring the Consul that after all no crime had been committed during the night so great he was still not worthy of respect.
Then, simultaneously, the two men groaned.
"Qué t--" began the Consul.
"Por favor," broke in the other hoarsely, placing a well-manicured though shaky finger to his lips, and with a slightly worried look up the garden.
The Consul nodded. "Of course. You're looking so fit, I see you can't have been at the ball last night," he added loudly and loyally, following the other's gaze, though Mr Quincey, who after all could not have been so fit, was still nowhere to be seen.
He had probably been turning off the hoses at the main hydrant--and how absurd to have suspected a "plan" when it was so patently an informal call and the doctor had just happened to notice Quincey working in the garden from the drive. He lowered his voice. "All the same, might I take this opportunity of asking you what you prescribe for a slight case of katzenjammer?"
The doctor gave another worried look down the garden and began to laugh quietly, though his whole body was shaking with mirth, his white teeth flashed in the sun, even his immaculate blue suit seemed to be laughing. "Señor" he began, biting off his laughter short on his lips, like a child, with his front teeth. "Señor Firmin, por favor" I am sorry, but I must comport myself here like," he looked round him again, catching his breath, "like an apostle. You mean, señor" he went on more evenly, "that you are feeling fine this morning, quite like the cat's pyjama's."
"Well: hardly," said the Consul, softly as before, casting a suspicious eye for his part in the other direction at some maguey growing beyond the barranca, like a battalion moving up a slope under machine-gun fire. "Perhaps that's an overstatement. To put it more simply, what would you do for a case of chronic, controlled, all-possessing, and inescapable delirium tremens?"