Read Online Cast in Doubt by Lynne Tillman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lynne Tillman
Ads: Link
it is not. It is sunlight. I’m groggy and Yannis has gone to make coffee, I suppose, though he may not have, depending on his mood. Each day is different and in some ways the same. What an awful truism with which to start this one. I feel oddly light-headed and well. The day, for no reason I can perceive, begins brightly, like a newborn babe, all pink and naked, and the sun is a marvel, amazing, burning so fiercely, lighting up this part of the world. Were I consistent, I would become a nudist, or some sort of nature lover, or at least a sun worshiper, and walk every morning to the end of the to watch the sun rise, or go to the beach, with suntan lotion and blanket, and lie near the ocean and let the sun bake and warm me. Perhaps I ought to sing songs to it. I don’t know why I don’t. For no reason at all, except that I am alive, and awake, and can’t remember my dreams, or my dreams have decided to let me forget them, I feel optimistic today. Hopeful as a clear blue sky, with no clouds at all, no signs of trouble. The coffee is terribly hot, brewed to my liking, and Yannis is not sullen. The small blessings of life make it bearable. I am a lucky man. I have never been arrested, and I ought to have been.
I hand Yannis some drachmas and tell him to go buy something for himself, for the house, and to have a good time. With each sip of coffee, traces of last night’s debauch slide into view, as if my eyes were binoculars—no, not binoculars, what were those things that Mother had in which one put postcard slides? A stereopticon. Yes, it’s as if I were seeing portions of last night through that optic antique. Indeed I may be that optic antique, but just now, lying here and looking out at the harbor, which I can see even from my bed, I don’t mind. I remember more and more of the night’s debates and ludicrous Wallace. Did I dance with him or was it the Dutchwoman? I believe Roger and I even kissed good night. Was it Roger? Well, no matter. This is a day to embroider upon, but why should it feel so? A wonderful smell wafts in the air, aromatic yet not too sweet, redolent of youth, my youth of course, and youth must be served. I will visit Helen’s John today, I really think I will, after I have gotten some writing done. By meeting him I’ll sort things out, see what’s what.
I walk to the window and wave to Helen on her terrace; she waves back. She has no idea what I’m planning, of course, and I feel a bit like one of my furtive characters, a confidence man or a CIA agent investigating domestic matters, spying on oblivious American citizens.
My detective Stan Green always feels furtive, so keeping secrets comes naturally to him. Secrecy fits him like a glove. I make it fit him like that. Green’s girlfriends know nothing of the real world he inhabits, and his wife suffers silently and plots her revenge. I haven’t decided whether it will ever be enacted. In the book I’m writing now, the young, rich murderer, whom Green pursues, thinks, like Leopold and Loeb, that he has committed the perfect crime. This book is a thinly disguised attack on would-be geniuses like Roger, men who think they can get away with anything, murder included, because they’re so damned superior. I am smarter than most of them and will receive no recognition whatsoever for my acuity, in part because I don’t lord what I do know over lesser lights. How can one have a meeting of the minds with people whose minds are concocted more of ego than anything else? I thought I’d left that problem behind in Cambridge and New York, but it surfaces here often, even in this obscure part of the world.
When Roger first arrived, I thought, he’s a good man, we can talk. We shared Faulkner, Forster, Joyce, Firbank, of course, and Plato, and even some obscure English writers he and I both knew and loved. He doesn’t appreciate Gertrude Stein the way I do, and that was perhaps our first great disagreement. Her
Making of Americans
, I believe, is a
I hand Yannis some drachmas and tell him to go buy something for himself, for the house, and to have a good time. With each sip of coffee, traces of last night’s debauch slide into view, as if my eyes were binoculars—no, not binoculars, what were those things that Mother had in which one put postcard slides? A stereopticon. Yes, it’s as if I were seeing portions of last night through that optic antique. Indeed I may be that optic antique, but just now, lying here and looking out at the harbor, which I can see even from my bed, I don’t mind. I remember more and more of the night’s debates and ludicrous Wallace. Did I dance with him or was it the Dutchwoman? I believe Roger and I even kissed good night. Was it Roger? Well, no matter. This is a day to embroider upon, but why should it feel so? A wonderful smell wafts in the air, aromatic yet not too sweet, redolent of youth, my youth of course, and youth must be served. I will visit Helen’s John today, I really think I will, after I have gotten some writing done. By meeting him I’ll sort things out, see what’s what.
I walk to the window and wave to Helen on her terrace; she waves back. She has no idea what I’m planning, of course, and I feel a bit like one of my furtive characters, a confidence man or a CIA agent investigating domestic matters, spying on oblivious American citizens.
My detective Stan Green always feels furtive, so keeping secrets comes naturally to him. Secrecy fits him like a glove. I make it fit him like that. Green’s girlfriends know nothing of the real world he inhabits, and his wife suffers silently and plots her revenge. I haven’t decided whether it will ever be enacted. In the book I’m writing now, the young, rich murderer, whom Green pursues, thinks, like Leopold and Loeb, that he has committed the perfect crime. This book is a thinly disguised attack on would-be geniuses like Roger, men who think they can get away with anything, murder included, because they’re so damned superior. I am smarter than most of them and will receive no recognition whatsoever for my acuity, in part because I don’t lord what I do know over lesser lights. How can one have a meeting of the minds with people whose minds are concocted more of ego than anything else? I thought I’d left that problem behind in Cambridge and New York, but it surfaces here often, even in this obscure part of the world.
When Roger first arrived, I thought, he’s a good man, we can talk. We shared Faulkner, Forster, Joyce, Firbank, of course, and Plato, and even some obscure English writers he and I both knew and loved. He doesn’t appreciate Gertrude Stein the way I do, and that was perhaps our first great disagreement. Her
Making of Americans
, I believe, is a
Similar Books
