corner, Alex went off to get some drinks. He put the books down on the floor and thought: nine months from now, all this will be over.
“To new lives,” said his friend, raising his glass after he’d sat down. “And undiscovered selves.”
“To finished theses,” he replied, and sat back against the wall. On the system, U2 were racing through the desert, in search of light, a lost redemption; they still hadn’t found what they were looking for. At the bar, a girl pulled back her shoulder strap to show her companion a tattoo she’d just acquired beside her collarbone.
“That woman at the end,” said Alex, trying not to seem too interested, as he cupped his lighter’s flame in his elegant Recoleta way. “You’ve known her long?”
“I’ve never seen her before in my life.”
“But she said something about a sister, someone you’d helped out?”
“I brought her something from Damascus. I met her sister once— no, twice.”
“Only twice?” said Alex, squinting as he let a draft of smoke out. His enemies in the department—and they were never in short supply— held that Alex asked questions of others as a way of not asking them of himself; knowledge, for him, was a kind of power, they said, which was why he always tried to know more about others than they could know about him. Together with his air of imported sardonicism, it could have made him insufferable, except for the sense that this too was a cover, the disguise behind which he pursued his own interests: the rumor had it that he was completing a thesis on Castaneda—the first half would argue that all the stories of Don Juan were a fiction; the second half would argue that they were nonetheless essential works of mysticism.
“And you?” he said, to avoid his friend’s cross-questioning. “You never tell me anything.”
“What is there to tell?” Alex shrugged. “I labor like a medieval monk and hear students ask me if Borges was a Buddhist.”
“Was he?”
Alex looked at him as if to say, “What do you think?” Then, “I thought you’d come here to get away from all that.”
“I have,” he said. “I don’t have time for complications.”
“So you’re not going to see the sister again.”
“I can’t. I told her I was taken.”
“Ah,” said Alejandro, with a private smile. “The mysterious Englishman. Ashamed of nothing but his tender heart.”
Around them the place was beginning to pick up. Amidst the smoke and noise, a hand placed just too high upon a leg; a laugh a little too loud. “I know this amazing place in the hills from where you can see the fires.” “I have an audition coming up next week.”
“You wouldn’t want to lose your focus,” said Alex.
“No,” he said. “I wouldn’t.”
When he cycled back along the cliffs, many hours later, there was almost no movement along the street. He saw a police car parked outside his house, red light turning, and for a curious instant a foreign impulse flared up in him. Then he looked farther along, to the beach, and saw where a group of distant figures had built a bonfire at the point. It licked and spluttered between them.
When he got into the house—locking the door behind him—he could hear nothing but the sound of Jewel next door, singing of “foolish games”: the surfer, no doubt, getting his partner in the mood. Going to the desk, he took down the books he’d be returning to the library in the morning. For the first time in months, he had an unobstructed view of the sea.
The next night, he got back late from the library—he couldn’t afford a break with the deadline coming up so soon—and, walking into the terrace, saw a piece of paper curling out from the fax machine. He hadn’t had any faxes for weeks, so he took it out, to find what looked to be a column, from the L.A. Times, sent, as far as he could tell, by someone in Westwood or Beverly Hills.
“NEW ‘SCRIPTURES’ UNEARTHED,” said the headline, and underneath it, a subhead
“To new lives,” said his friend, raising his glass after he’d sat down. “And undiscovered selves.”
“To finished theses,” he replied, and sat back against the wall. On the system, U2 were racing through the desert, in search of light, a lost redemption; they still hadn’t found what they were looking for. At the bar, a girl pulled back her shoulder strap to show her companion a tattoo she’d just acquired beside her collarbone.
“That woman at the end,” said Alex, trying not to seem too interested, as he cupped his lighter’s flame in his elegant Recoleta way. “You’ve known her long?”
“I’ve never seen her before in my life.”
“But she said something about a sister, someone you’d helped out?”
“I brought her something from Damascus. I met her sister once— no, twice.”
“Only twice?” said Alex, squinting as he let a draft of smoke out. His enemies in the department—and they were never in short supply— held that Alex asked questions of others as a way of not asking them of himself; knowledge, for him, was a kind of power, they said, which was why he always tried to know more about others than they could know about him. Together with his air of imported sardonicism, it could have made him insufferable, except for the sense that this too was a cover, the disguise behind which he pursued his own interests: the rumor had it that he was completing a thesis on Castaneda—the first half would argue that all the stories of Don Juan were a fiction; the second half would argue that they were nonetheless essential works of mysticism.
“And you?” he said, to avoid his friend’s cross-questioning. “You never tell me anything.”
“What is there to tell?” Alex shrugged. “I labor like a medieval monk and hear students ask me if Borges was a Buddhist.”
“Was he?”
Alex looked at him as if to say, “What do you think?” Then, “I thought you’d come here to get away from all that.”
“I have,” he said. “I don’t have time for complications.”
“So you’re not going to see the sister again.”
“I can’t. I told her I was taken.”
“Ah,” said Alejandro, with a private smile. “The mysterious Englishman. Ashamed of nothing but his tender heart.”
Around them the place was beginning to pick up. Amidst the smoke and noise, a hand placed just too high upon a leg; a laugh a little too loud. “I know this amazing place in the hills from where you can see the fires.” “I have an audition coming up next week.”
“You wouldn’t want to lose your focus,” said Alex.
“No,” he said. “I wouldn’t.”
When he cycled back along the cliffs, many hours later, there was almost no movement along the street. He saw a police car parked outside his house, red light turning, and for a curious instant a foreign impulse flared up in him. Then he looked farther along, to the beach, and saw where a group of distant figures had built a bonfire at the point. It licked and spluttered between them.
When he got into the house—locking the door behind him—he could hear nothing but the sound of Jewel next door, singing of “foolish games”: the surfer, no doubt, getting his partner in the mood. Going to the desk, he took down the books he’d be returning to the library in the morning. For the first time in months, he had an unobstructed view of the sea.
The next night, he got back late from the library—he couldn’t afford a break with the deadline coming up so soon—and, walking into the terrace, saw a piece of paper curling out from the fax machine. He hadn’t had any faxes for weeks, so he took it out, to find what looked to be a column, from the L.A. Times, sent, as far as he could tell, by someone in Westwood or Beverly Hills.
“NEW ‘SCRIPTURES’ UNEARTHED,” said the headline, and underneath it, a subhead
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