TE17 Mysterious Montenegro

flip with fear, until, again eventually, he made the two lines slow enough for him and there he was by the cemetery, old lives lain down with stones gone dark by the thousands, which he found utterly unfathomable, on top of which these were the only lives in evidence at that moment, since about him were no faces, no walkers, like in the United States, much of the United States, that nation of illusions. With no wish to examine this thought, except that it seemed to him that all nations were nations of illusions, all contained this idea, the same idea, just different illusions, and with no wish to dwell on the vista beside him of the dark stones in the rain, the grass and earth, no, he was coming to the underpass, which is where his lungs told him to turn back and his nose agreed, sporadic news in the media had also told him the same: itwas lunacy to go near these carriageways even if therewas a path under them—back outside the stately house there hadn’t even been a path, not even a real crossing point, the cavalcade of mopeds had targeted their machines straight at him, they had been all handlebars and helmets, eyes without faces—but already the mouth of the subway was almost upon him, that tunnel steeped in grime and verdigris, while above, a thousand tyres would rub and a thousand engines slow and speed and so forth, in streams running both ways at once, well how crazy was that, no river would do that, run both ways at once, how had it come to this, as the social historians, a Dr Zaengl and Dr Hamburger, had said—was his first name Wolfgang? hers Sylvia?—the motor car is a nightmare, a hundred-year-old horror story which must be undone, yet who can undo it, put it in reverse, it seems the only course remaining is to stay at home for ever, wearing face masks and equipped with a lifetime supply of ear plugs, oxygen being piped in beside thewater, gas and electrics, were he to live another score of years he would be at home on his oxygen, switching the 223 Hot Tub