Shyly, Gunnel confesses what she fears. 'Among the Greths,' she tells him, not looking him in the eye, 'you will take a woman.'
This is true; Akthelt always takes a woman when he is off warring. But he still doesn't see what the matter is. 'Nettopp ub utuktig kvinna!' he shouts. 'Nettopp tu ukukt ... sla nek ub moder zu slim.' ('Just a fucking woman. Just to fuck ... she won't be a mother to him.')
The distinction is lost on Gunnel. She fears that young Axelrulf will associate the role of the Greth fucking-woman with his own mother's role - that Gunnel herself will be debased in her son's eyes, by association. With fucking.
'Utukt kvinnas!' ('Fuck women!'), Akthelt tells his old father Thak.
'Utukt kvinnas urt moders!'('Fuck women and mothers!'), bellows old Thak.
But that's not the point. The point is that Akthelt left Axelrulf at home with his mother; he did it Gunnel's way, after all.
Hence, though not necessarily sympathetic to the Mother & Fucking Theory of the Greth Women, Bogus Trumper at least had some background reading to prepare him for Biggie's feelings about Colm - specifically, Biggie's feelings about Colm and that Greth whore, Tulpen.
Since it was difficult for Trumper to leave New York, and since visits to Biggie and Colm made everyone uncomfortable, especially Bogus, Biggie did allow Colm to make a rare trip to New York - on one condition: 'That girl you live with - Bull Pen, is that her name? - in that apartment you're going to keep Colm in - well, I mean it, Bogus, I don't think you should be too familiar with her around him. After all, he remembers when you used to sleep with me ...'
'Jesus, Big,' Trumper told the phone, 'he remembers when I used to sleep with you too, so what about Couth, Big? What about him?'
'I don't have to send Colm to New York, you know,' Biggie said. 'Please just understand what I mean. He lives with me, you know.'
Trumper knew that.
The arrangements had been exhausting. The fretful synchronizing of watches; the repetition of the flight number; the willingness of the airline to allow an unescorted five-year-old on board (Biggie had to lie and say he was six) provided his pickup at the destination was certain, provided it was not an over-crowded flight, provided he was a calm child, not easily given to panic at twenty thousand feet. And did he get motion sickness?
Trumper stood nervously with Tulpen on the greasy observation deck at La Guardia. It was early spring weather - nice weather, really, and probably a nice day up where Colm was, twenty thousand feet above Manhattan. The air at La Guardia, however, was like a giant bottled fart.
'The poor kid is probably terrified,' Trumper said. 'All alone in an airplane, going around and around New York. He's never been in a city before. Christ, he's never even been in an airplane before.'
But Trumper was wrong. When Biggie and Colm left Iowa, they had flown away, and Colm had loved every minute of it.
However, airplanes did not agree with Trumper. 'Look at them circling up there,' he said to Tulpen. 'Must be fifty of the fuckers stacked up and waiting for a free spot to land.'
Though such stackups are imaginable, and even probable, there were none on this day; Trumper was watching a squadron of Navy jets.
Colm's plane landed ten minutes early. Fortunately Tulpen saw it come in while Trumper was still raving about the Navy jets; she also caught the number of the arrival gate over the loudspeaker.
Trumper was already mourning Colm as if the plane had crashed. 'I should never have let him fly,' he cried. 'I should have borrowed a car and picked him up right at his back door!'
Leading the still-ranting Trumper off the observation deck, Tulpen got him to the gate in time. 'I'll never forgive myself,' he was babbling. 'It was just pure selfishness. I didn't want to have to drive all that distance. And I didn't want to have to see Biggie, either.'
Tulpen glanced through the gate at the passengers. There was only one child, and he held a stewardess by the hand. The top of his head came to her waist, and he was coolly sorting out the crowd; it looked as if the stewardess was holding his hand because she simply wanted to, or needed to; he simply tolerated her. He was a handsome boy, with lovely skin like his mother's but dark, blunt features like his father's. He wore a pair of lederhosen knickers, a rough pair of hiking boots and a fine Tyrolean wool jacket over a new white shirt. The stewardess held a rucksack in her hand.
'Trumper?' Tulpen said, pointing out the boy. But Trumper was looking the wrong way. Then the boy spotted Bogus, dropped the stewardess's hand, asked for his rucksack and pointed out his father, who now was doing a mad pirouette, looking everywhere but the right place. Tulpen had to forcefully aim him in Colm's direction.
'Colm!' Bogus cried. After he had swooped down on the boy and picked him up, he realized that Colm had grown up a little and no longer liked being picked up, at least not in public. Of all things, Colm wanted to shake hands.
Trumper dropped him and shook hands. 'Wow!' Trumper said, grinning like a fool.
'I got to ride with the pilot,' Colm said.
'Wow,' said Bogus, in a kind of hush. He was looking at Colm's Austrian costume, thinking of Biggie getting Colm all fancied up for the trip, dressing the poor kid like a showpiece for an Austrian travel agency. Bogus had forgotten that he had brought the whole outfit for Colm, including the rucksack.
'Mr Trumper?' the stewardess asked him, being dutifully careful. 'Is this your father?' she asked Colm. Bogus held his breath, wondering if Colm would admit it.
'Yup,' said Colm.
'Yup, yup, yup,' said Trumper all the way out of the terminal. Tulpen carried Colm's rucksack and watched the two of them, struck by Colm's inheritance of Bogus's peculiar way of ambling.
Bogus asked Colm what was in the pilot's cockpit.