Chapter Fifteen
Just at this moment, Poor Larry was in his room, patiently developing an entirely original style of interpretative dance. In unconscious echo of the coronel’s (rapidly disintegrating) penis, Larry danced to the innate music in his head, voluptuising his legs and lotusing his arms as if immolating himself in a straight arrow-shot to Heaven. In this ritual, all the opprobrium and patronising scorn he soaked up from all quarters simply sprinkled off him like water from a shaking mutt, and he found himself at once rooted to the earth beneath him and penetrating the vault above.