They were Chinese shoes made from elephant hide, as supple as gloves, the toes turned slightly upward in the Tibetan style; a greenish hide—never polished, never greased—with all of its grain; an item both artistic and practical, something absolutely unusual, yet useful everywhere, a true piece of maritime equipment. You don’t negotiate the price of such an article; you want it too much. And they fit, they’re exactly the right size for his feet, as long as he wears thick wool socks. So, there we have it. Since he’s scored his victory with the sweater, he doesn’t bargain anymore. He has much more to do; there are plenty of victories to win. Past victories, fame—all of this has just been capsized and engulfed by the tempestuous beating of the big wings. He’s in the process of starting over, with a blank slate. All of the major battles have to be won all over again.

“Yes, that’s good, agreed. Quick, show me a place where I can get undressed.” Because, he tells himself, if the old man doesn’t want to let me into his back room, I’ll undress right here, in the middle of the shop, regardless of the glass door. True, it only opens onto a dark alley at the back end of the dockyards, but there are English sailors who pass by, and they’re Englishmen first and sailors second. No, no, the back room is entirely at the gentleman’s disposal, seeing how much he’s just spent. We aren’t worried that he’ll be after the cashbox. And there really is a child back there, not just someone pretending to be one.

How soft the pants are! How supple the shoes! How good the sweater feels against the fur on his chest! And he knows what, in a minute or two, he’s going to experience in the pea coat.

“You wouldn’t have a piece of oilskin?”

“Yes, three pence.”

“And this strap?”

“All right, four.”

“Give it to me. You’ll see what I’m going to do with it. Here—hold my spencer.”

“The gentleman should sell it to me.”

“Ah, no, the gentleman doesn’t sell.” Herman is chuckling. Ah, no! This makes him think, all of a sudden, about Mistress Melville. What would Betty say if she didn’t see her writer-husband come back dressed like a famous author? In an instant, the angel’s wings stir up a stifling wind, like smoke from unseasoned wood. “Wait, give me that tea box too. I’ll put all the Manilas from my case into it, and I’ll keep it in the pocket of the pea coat.” He rolls up his spencer, the pants he’d been wearing, and his boots. Using the oilskin, he wraps them into a “sailor-style” package, and slings it over his shoulder with the strap. Forward, march.