‘What are you, nine years old? Shut the fuck up. Go to sleep.’
‘I did sleep. This put me to sleep. Then I woke up, and it was still playing. I thought I’d died and gone to hell’s waiting room.’
‘It’s not the same piece.’
‘It sounds like the same piece. This guy Arthur Part is running a scam.’
‘That’s Arvo P?rt. You are a philistine, man.’
‘Yeah, the Hungarian.’
‘Estonian.’
‘Just turn it off. I swear, the hillbilly shit was better than this.’
‘You complained that that all sounded the same too.’
‘It did, but at least it had words, and it was too annoying to be dull. I hear any more of this and we’ll have to get an elevator put in the car.’
‘Maybe some of those inspirational pictures as well, like they have in the offices of companies that are about to go under,’ said Louis. ‘You know, “Let Your Imagination Soar,” with a photograph of an eagle, or “Teamwork,” with those meerkat rat things.’
‘A dung beetle,’ said Angel. ‘A picture of a dung beetle, and “Eat Shit: You’ve Been Retrenched.” I hate that word “retrenched.” At least “redundant” is honest. “Let go” is honest. “Fired” is honest. “Retrenched” is just a way to sugar the pill, like undertakers refusing to use the word “death” and talking about “passing on” instead, or doctors telling you that you have a “condition” when what they really mean is you’re riddled with cancer.’
‘It’s from the French,’ said Louis. ‘Retrenching is digging a second line of defense. It means that you’ve been cut off again.’
‘What does that have to do with being fired?’
‘Literally? Nothing, I guess.’
‘See?’
‘No. Why, you worried about your future?’
‘Yeah, it gets shorter every day. That fucking music makes it seem longer, though.’
‘It’s nearly done.’ The piece concluded. ‘There, see? You want to spoil anything else?’
‘Why, you got something else worth spoiling?’
‘I put a load of discs in the player before we left.’
‘What’s up next?’
‘Brian Eno, Music for Airports.’
‘I don’t know it. Is it loud?’
‘Louder than Arvo P?rt.’
‘Silence is louder than Arvo P?rt.’
They drove on. The music commenced. It was not loud. It was not loud at all.
‘You’re killing me,’ moaned Angel. ‘You’re killing me softly . . .’
The hunters were gathering.
Boston’s war was moving north.
Hunting season was about to begin.