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How to win the darling's love, mister, without a sigh? "I tell you, you must die, I tell you, I tell you," and thusly and so beneath a moon of alabaster until a loud cry crossed the night, "To the devil with your tunes," the words hanging crystalline in the iced white night, "in the movies you only mimed to playback singers, so spare me these infernal noises now." Gibreel, the tuneless soloist, had been cavorting in moonlight as he sang his impromptu gazal, swimming in air, butterfly-stroke, breast- stroke, bunching himself into a ball, spreadeagling himself against the almost-infinity of the almost-dawn, adopting heraldic postures, rampant, couchant, pitting levity against gravity. "Hey, Spoono," Gibreel yelled, eliciting a second inverted wince, "Proper London, bhai! Those bastards down there won't know what hit them. Above, behind, below them in the void there hung reclining seats, stereophonic headsets, drinks trolleys, motion discomfort receptacles, disembarkation cards, duty-free video games, braided caps, paper cups, blankets, oxygen masks. James Thomson, seventeen hundred to seventeen-forty- eight. They were in what appeared to be a long, vertical tunnel. Chamcha, clutching his legs, made an uncomprehending query: "What the hell? With death comes honesty, my beloved, so I can call you by your true names. It was you who left me, her voice reminded his ear, seeming to nibble at the lobe. He clutched at Chamcha; they burst through the bottom of the clouds.… continue reading »