The old man with the
trannie this morning at his usual place under Block 7. (Evenings it was Block
9; occasionally lunchtimes he might be found around the side at the back of 7.)
Not often asleep mid-morning. Nights he could be caught slumped over on his bench, radio blaring and newspaper on the ground. For
anyone else the crooked raised arm like that denoted the phone of course; a
conversation. Not a man of his generation. And like the Indian loner at the Haig, this old man had never been seen
in conversation with a soul. Slowing the pace, bending
the ear, nothing could be caught, not the smallest quaver; no note of any kind escaping. Perhaps close and tight like that
against an ear there was some whisper still
audible like from a conch shell, heard only by the person clasping. From
somewhere a street or two away it must have been a Buddhist chant of some kind
was fluting over.
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