Read Online Gone Bamboo by Anthony Bourdain - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anthony Bourdain
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security guard and the night manager, playing checkers in the lobby.
The dirt road from the hotel to the main road that circled the pond was dotted with muddy, water-filled pools from a brief thundershower a half hour earlier.
"Get your feet up," said Henry, shouting through the wind as they splashed past the deserted tennis courts.
"Just watch out for animals," replied Frances, bringing her knees up and squeezing him tighter around the waist. "Chickens, cats, les chiens, les mangoustes . . ."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah."
They drove up the steep, pitted incline and turned onto the paved road. Henry opened the throttle and charged full tilt toward a row of scabbed and patched sleeping policemen, braking only at the very last second to walk the scooter over the damaged humps, the metal bottom scraping cement. He drove completely around the last hump, taking the scooter momentarily off the road into a front yard, the branches of pencil trees whipping his face and Frances digging her fingernails into his ribs to get him to slow down.
The big stone house lay atop a manmade outcropping, halfway up the steep slope of the mountain overlooking the pond from the French side. The imposing stone foundation of its swimming pool and the high surrounding walls gave it a fortresslike appearance. Further up the mountain, beyond carefully landscaped and maintained rows of palmetto, avocado, banana, and flamboyant trees, the main house was just visible from the road. A gabled roof with green wood shingles was supported by heavy mahogany beams and decorated with the gingerbread curlicues and whimsical shapes popular in the islands. The enormous bay windows with heavy shutters could have been made by a master shipbuilder; they had that look of expert craftsmanship.
There was a small, Victorian-style gazebo set off to the left, near a stone archway that led to a private path down to the road. On the other side of the road, another stone archway with a swinging gate indicated the way to the water's edge, where, Henry knew from looking through his field glasses, there was a small wooden dock and a ramshackle, neglected boathouse.
Behind the main house was a smaller, lower structure, which Henry took to be a guesthouse. He imagined that this was where the marshals lived. He stopped the scooter in front of a wrought-iron gate at the foot of a steep, curving driveway and beeped the horn.
Two well-fed weimaraners pushed their snouts through the heavy bars, barking and snarling.
"Nice doggies," said Frances, meaning it.
"Can I help you?" asked an overpumped young behemoth in a J. Crew shirt and perfectly pressed khaki trousers, emerging from the darkness behind the gate. The dogs stopped barking and sat down, looking like bookends. Henry took quick stock of the man's brand-new basketball sneakers, the thick, stainless-steel chronometer around his wide wrist, the tiny earpiece in his right ear, and the concealed clip-on microphone under his collar. Mostly he noticed the gleaming Swedish K the man had slung behind his back.
"Tommy and Cheryl live here?" inquired Frances. "We're supposed to go out for drinks."
Henry observed the man's square-shaped head, his blond brush cut, the thick Marine Corps neck, as he peered out at them through the bars. You could watch the man think. Jarhead, thought Henry. Semper fi mothafucker . . .
"Who may I say is calling?" the man asked, the words not coming naturally.
"Henry and Frances," said Henry, cheerfully, trying to look as witless and unthreatening as possible.
"One minute, please," said the man with distaste. He stepped back into the shadows, and Henry could hear him on the radio to the house.
"Marlin One at Station One. Yeah, the gate, pencil-dick . . . I got two people out here on a scooter for the kids. A Henry and a Frances."
"I wouldn't have pegged him for a Marlon," whispered Frances. "Looks more like a Buzz or a Neil. An astronaut name."
"I think he's more of a Dolph," said Henry, "Thor, maybe. You
The dirt road from the hotel to the main road that circled the pond was dotted with muddy, water-filled pools from a brief thundershower a half hour earlier.
"Get your feet up," said Henry, shouting through the wind as they splashed past the deserted tennis courts.
"Just watch out for animals," replied Frances, bringing her knees up and squeezing him tighter around the waist. "Chickens, cats, les chiens, les mangoustes . . ."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah."
They drove up the steep, pitted incline and turned onto the paved road. Henry opened the throttle and charged full tilt toward a row of scabbed and patched sleeping policemen, braking only at the very last second to walk the scooter over the damaged humps, the metal bottom scraping cement. He drove completely around the last hump, taking the scooter momentarily off the road into a front yard, the branches of pencil trees whipping his face and Frances digging her fingernails into his ribs to get him to slow down.
The big stone house lay atop a manmade outcropping, halfway up the steep slope of the mountain overlooking the pond from the French side. The imposing stone foundation of its swimming pool and the high surrounding walls gave it a fortresslike appearance. Further up the mountain, beyond carefully landscaped and maintained rows of palmetto, avocado, banana, and flamboyant trees, the main house was just visible from the road. A gabled roof with green wood shingles was supported by heavy mahogany beams and decorated with the gingerbread curlicues and whimsical shapes popular in the islands. The enormous bay windows with heavy shutters could have been made by a master shipbuilder; they had that look of expert craftsmanship.
There was a small, Victorian-style gazebo set off to the left, near a stone archway that led to a private path down to the road. On the other side of the road, another stone archway with a swinging gate indicated the way to the water's edge, where, Henry knew from looking through his field glasses, there was a small wooden dock and a ramshackle, neglected boathouse.
Behind the main house was a smaller, lower structure, which Henry took to be a guesthouse. He imagined that this was where the marshals lived. He stopped the scooter in front of a wrought-iron gate at the foot of a steep, curving driveway and beeped the horn.
Two well-fed weimaraners pushed their snouts through the heavy bars, barking and snarling.
"Nice doggies," said Frances, meaning it.
"Can I help you?" asked an overpumped young behemoth in a J. Crew shirt and perfectly pressed khaki trousers, emerging from the darkness behind the gate. The dogs stopped barking and sat down, looking like bookends. Henry took quick stock of the man's brand-new basketball sneakers, the thick, stainless-steel chronometer around his wide wrist, the tiny earpiece in his right ear, and the concealed clip-on microphone under his collar. Mostly he noticed the gleaming Swedish K the man had slung behind his back.
"Tommy and Cheryl live here?" inquired Frances. "We're supposed to go out for drinks."
Henry observed the man's square-shaped head, his blond brush cut, the thick Marine Corps neck, as he peered out at them through the bars. You could watch the man think. Jarhead, thought Henry. Semper fi mothafucker . . .
"Who may I say is calling?" the man asked, the words not coming naturally.
"Henry and Frances," said Henry, cheerfully, trying to look as witless and unthreatening as possible.
"One minute, please," said the man with distaste. He stepped back into the shadows, and Henry could hear him on the radio to the house.
"Marlin One at Station One. Yeah, the gate, pencil-dick . . . I got two people out here on a scooter for the kids. A Henry and a Frances."
"I wouldn't have pegged him for a Marlon," whispered Frances. "Looks more like a Buzz or a Neil. An astronaut name."
"I think he's more of a Dolph," said Henry, "Thor, maybe. You
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