slowly. “I want to get back into it. I need a project I care about. I need to work with people I care about.”
“You’re so full of shit, Gordon.”
“Don’t be vulgar,” Walker said.
“You’re an assassin, man. You don’t even care if you don’t get laid if you can make some woman unhappy.”
She stood beside the bed shielding her eyes from the harsh lamplight, then turned her back on him, folded her arms and walked toward the balcony with her head down.
“Every time I see you, we talk about your love life, don’t we? We never talk about mine.”
“How’s your love life, Shell?”
“Thanks for asking,” she said.
“Seriously.”
“Seriously?” she asked, rounding on him. “Well, it does just fine without you in it. I get along without you …”
“Very well.”
“Yeah,” she said. “That’s the line. I get along without you very well.” She turned toward him and on her face there was a pained half smile. “It’s absolutely true. No question about it.”
“Good,” Walker said.
She had turned away again, toward the blackness beyond the window; she was singing:
“I get along without you very well, Of course I do.”
She sang it twice over, snapping her fingers, straining for the key. He watched her come over to the bed.
“Wanna sing along with me, Gord?” She raised his chin with her palm. “Except when autumn rain …” she sang. “Da dum de da da dum. Remember, Gord?”
“No.”
“No,” Shelley said. “Naw. Well, that’s good, Gordon. ’Cause then I don’t have to worry about you. Or you about me.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Walker said with a shrug. “People should care.”
“Is that what you think, Gordon?” she asked. “You think people should care?”
“Perhaps,” Walker suggested, “you find the sentiment banal?”
“No, no,” Shelley said. “No, baby, I find it moving. I find all your sentiments moving.” She lay down beside him. “You want to fuck some more? Or you too drunk? Tell momma.”
Slowly Walker leaned forward, took the champagne bottle from beside the bed and drank. “Stop it,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, all right.” She took the bottle from his hand. “Why her? Why Lee?”
Walker shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“You think you invented her,” Shelley said. “You’re going to be sorry.”
“No doubt,” Walker said, and shortly went to sleep.
A sweet expensive tropic darkness had enveloped the Villa Liberia; it was included in the budget and thought to enhance production values. Beyond the tiki torches stood illuminated fences and armed men. These, together with the jacaranda, reminded Lionel of South Africa, of Houghton and home.
To the sound of a gentle surf, Lionel climbed the hotel’s elegantly turned stone pathway until he stood upon a broad parapet that commanded the rows of bungalows and the main buildings with their interior gardens and swimming pools. In the lagoon, below and to his left, a few dories swung at anchor, lighted for night fishing. Southward along the coast, beyond the wire, were the lights of the village.
At the parapet, the path divided. A shallow ramp descended to the shadowy beach; a flight of coral-colored steps climbed toward the casitas on the higher slope. Lionel leaned against the stones of the rail and took out a cigarette.
In the morning he would be flying home—Los Angeles, then Rio, then Johannesburg. He had been eight years away. Neither of his children had seen their grandparents. Nor had they seen the beautiful scourged land, the winter roses, apartheid. Thinking about the trip, he was charged with excitement over the children’s impending discovery and his own return. They would lose their innocence there, pick up a small portion of the real world’s burden, learn fear. It was not all so sanitized there as at Bahía Honda.
He smoked and considered his fear and the fear his children would inherit. He and Lu Anne had talked about the danger.
“You’re so full of shit, Gordon.”
“Don’t be vulgar,” Walker said.
“You’re an assassin, man. You don’t even care if you don’t get laid if you can make some woman unhappy.”
She stood beside the bed shielding her eyes from the harsh lamplight, then turned her back on him, folded her arms and walked toward the balcony with her head down.
“Every time I see you, we talk about your love life, don’t we? We never talk about mine.”
“How’s your love life, Shell?”
“Thanks for asking,” she said.
“Seriously.”
“Seriously?” she asked, rounding on him. “Well, it does just fine without you in it. I get along without you …”
“Very well.”
“Yeah,” she said. “That’s the line. I get along without you very well.” She turned toward him and on her face there was a pained half smile. “It’s absolutely true. No question about it.”
“Good,” Walker said.
She had turned away again, toward the blackness beyond the window; she was singing:
“I get along without you very well, Of course I do.”
She sang it twice over, snapping her fingers, straining for the key. He watched her come over to the bed.
“Wanna sing along with me, Gord?” She raised his chin with her palm. “Except when autumn rain …” she sang. “Da dum de da da dum. Remember, Gord?”
“No.”
“No,” Shelley said. “Naw. Well, that’s good, Gordon. ’Cause then I don’t have to worry about you. Or you about me.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Walker said with a shrug. “People should care.”
“Is that what you think, Gordon?” she asked. “You think people should care?”
“Perhaps,” Walker suggested, “you find the sentiment banal?”
“No, no,” Shelley said. “No, baby, I find it moving. I find all your sentiments moving.” She lay down beside him. “You want to fuck some more? Or you too drunk? Tell momma.”
Slowly Walker leaned forward, took the champagne bottle from beside the bed and drank. “Stop it,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, all right.” She took the bottle from his hand. “Why her? Why Lee?”
Walker shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“You think you invented her,” Shelley said. “You’re going to be sorry.”
“No doubt,” Walker said, and shortly went to sleep.
A sweet expensive tropic darkness had enveloped the Villa Liberia; it was included in the budget and thought to enhance production values. Beyond the tiki torches stood illuminated fences and armed men. These, together with the jacaranda, reminded Lionel of South Africa, of Houghton and home.
To the sound of a gentle surf, Lionel climbed the hotel’s elegantly turned stone pathway until he stood upon a broad parapet that commanded the rows of bungalows and the main buildings with their interior gardens and swimming pools. In the lagoon, below and to his left, a few dories swung at anchor, lighted for night fishing. Southward along the coast, beyond the wire, were the lights of the village.
At the parapet, the path divided. A shallow ramp descended to the shadowy beach; a flight of coral-colored steps climbed toward the casitas on the higher slope. Lionel leaned against the stones of the rail and took out a cigarette.
In the morning he would be flying home—Los Angeles, then Rio, then Johannesburg. He had been eight years away. Neither of his children had seen their grandparents. Nor had they seen the beautiful scourged land, the winter roses, apartheid. Thinking about the trip, he was charged with excitement over the children’s impending discovery and his own return. They would lose their innocence there, pick up a small portion of the real world’s burden, learn fear. It was not all so sanitized there as at Bahía Honda.
He smoked and considered his fear and the fear his children would inherit. He and Lu Anne had talked about the danger.
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