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On the other side of the cemetery path was a concrete basin
with a tap. He ran some water into a bowl, screwed the lid
off the container of stone cleaner, and poured in the strong
stuff. He did not immediately notice when some of it
splashed onto his coat sleeve; when he finally saw the spot,
it did not make much of an impression. Truthfully, it fit his
overall appearance. He had not washed or shaved in several
days, and his bright brown eyes sought the source of every
small sound, be it a rustle in the newly fallen leaves or a
bird suddenly bursting into song. Compared to his body, his
head was strikingly small; he was quite large, and the grimy
coat made him look even more massive.
Eigil’s original plan had been to clean the entire stone, and
also to scrape off the moss and the lichen, but that would
only make the stone dirtier. Indeed, the patina would
certainly vanish. He knelt down before the gravestone and,
with a small screwdriver, began cleaning the engraved
lettering of the accumulated debris. And there were 132
letters in total. Eigil had plenty of time, however, and when
he finished his cleaning, he took a paint brush from his bag
and began to brush and wash each individual letter with
stone cleaner.
Just like a scoured corpse, Eigil thought, and a giggle broke
through his lips. Exactly – a scoured corpse. Like a skeleton
preserved in dry skins, or as Eliot wrote of the whispering
voices: