Read Online Two Years Eight Months and Twenty-Eight Nights by Salman Rushdie - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Salman Rushdie
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sheet of paper to pass without difficulty under his boots, now, as he wept for the death of his imagination and was filled with fears and doubts on account of the failure of gravity in his immediate vicinity, at this absolutely inappropriate moment, here was his employer, the Lady Philosopher, the fodder heiress Alexandra Bliss Fariña, beckoning to him from her French windows.
Mr. Geronimo arriving at the French windows noted the estate manager Oliver Oldcastle positioned behind Alexandra’s left shoulder. If he had been a hawk, thought Mr. Geronimo, he would have perched upon that shoulder, ready to attack his mistress’s foes and rip their hearts out of their chests. Mistress and servant they stood together, surveying the ruin of La Incoerenza, Oliver Oldcastle looking like Marx observing the fall of Communism, Alexandra her customary enigmatic self in spite of the drying tears on her cheeks. “I can’t complain,” she said, addressing neither Mr. Geronimo nor Manager Oldcastle, rebuking herself as if she were her own governess. “People have lost their homes and have nothing to eat and nowhere to sleep. All I have lost is a garden.” Mr. Geronimo the gardener understood that he was being put in his place. But Alexandra was looking at his boots now. “It’s a miracle,” she said. “Look, Oldcastle, a real miracle. Mr. Geronimo has taken leave of solid ground and moved upwards into, let us say, more speculative territory.”
Mr. Geronimo wanted to protest that his levitation was neither his doing nor his choice, to make it plain that he would be happy to subside to the ground again and get his boots dirty. But Alexandra had a glitter in her eye. “Were you struck by lightning?” she asked. “Yes, that’s it. Lightning hit you during the hurricane and you lived, but it wiped your memory clean, so you don’t remember being hit. And now you’re filled with an unspeakably large electric charge and that’s why you’ve lifted off the surface of the earth.” This silenced Mr. Geronimo, who considered it gravely. Yes, perhaps. Though in the absence of any evidence it was no more than a supposition. He found it difficult to know what to say but there was nothing he needed to say. “Here’s another miracle,” Alexandra said, and her voice was different now, no longer imperious but confidential. “For most of my life I have set aside the possibility of love, and then, just now, I realized that it was waiting for me right here, at home, outside my French windows, stamping its boots towards the mud, but untouched by that evil filth.” Then she turned and vanished into the shadows of the house.
He feared a trap. Appointments of this sort were not on his schedule anymore, never had been, really. Manager Oldcastle jerked his head, ordering him to follow the lady of the house. So Mr. Geronimo understood that he had his orders and moved indoors, not knowing where the lady of the house had gone. But he followed the trail of her discarded clothing and found her easily enough.
His night with Alexandra Bliss Fariña began strangely. Whatever force was preventing him from touching the ground was also at work in her bed, and when she lay beneath him his body hovered above hers, just a fraction of an inch above, but there was a definite separation that made things awkward. He tried placing his hands beneath her buttocks and lifting her towards him but that was uncomfortable for them both. They solved the problem soon enough; if he was beneath her then things worked well enough, even if his back didn’t quite touch the bed. His condition seemed to arouse her, and that in turn excited him, but the moment their lovemaking was over she appeared to lose interest and swiftly fell asleep, leaving him to stare at the ceiling in the dark. And when he got out of bed to dress and leave, the gap between his feet and the floor was distinctly greater. After his night with the mistress of La Incoerenza he had lifted almost a full inch
Mr. Geronimo arriving at the French windows noted the estate manager Oliver Oldcastle positioned behind Alexandra’s left shoulder. If he had been a hawk, thought Mr. Geronimo, he would have perched upon that shoulder, ready to attack his mistress’s foes and rip their hearts out of their chests. Mistress and servant they stood together, surveying the ruin of La Incoerenza, Oliver Oldcastle looking like Marx observing the fall of Communism, Alexandra her customary enigmatic self in spite of the drying tears on her cheeks. “I can’t complain,” she said, addressing neither Mr. Geronimo nor Manager Oldcastle, rebuking herself as if she were her own governess. “People have lost their homes and have nothing to eat and nowhere to sleep. All I have lost is a garden.” Mr. Geronimo the gardener understood that he was being put in his place. But Alexandra was looking at his boots now. “It’s a miracle,” she said. “Look, Oldcastle, a real miracle. Mr. Geronimo has taken leave of solid ground and moved upwards into, let us say, more speculative territory.”
Mr. Geronimo wanted to protest that his levitation was neither his doing nor his choice, to make it plain that he would be happy to subside to the ground again and get his boots dirty. But Alexandra had a glitter in her eye. “Were you struck by lightning?” she asked. “Yes, that’s it. Lightning hit you during the hurricane and you lived, but it wiped your memory clean, so you don’t remember being hit. And now you’re filled with an unspeakably large electric charge and that’s why you’ve lifted off the surface of the earth.” This silenced Mr. Geronimo, who considered it gravely. Yes, perhaps. Though in the absence of any evidence it was no more than a supposition. He found it difficult to know what to say but there was nothing he needed to say. “Here’s another miracle,” Alexandra said, and her voice was different now, no longer imperious but confidential. “For most of my life I have set aside the possibility of love, and then, just now, I realized that it was waiting for me right here, at home, outside my French windows, stamping its boots towards the mud, but untouched by that evil filth.” Then she turned and vanished into the shadows of the house.
He feared a trap. Appointments of this sort were not on his schedule anymore, never had been, really. Manager Oldcastle jerked his head, ordering him to follow the lady of the house. So Mr. Geronimo understood that he had his orders and moved indoors, not knowing where the lady of the house had gone. But he followed the trail of her discarded clothing and found her easily enough.
His night with Alexandra Bliss Fariña began strangely. Whatever force was preventing him from touching the ground was also at work in her bed, and when she lay beneath him his body hovered above hers, just a fraction of an inch above, but there was a definite separation that made things awkward. He tried placing his hands beneath her buttocks and lifting her towards him but that was uncomfortable for them both. They solved the problem soon enough; if he was beneath her then things worked well enough, even if his back didn’t quite touch the bed. His condition seemed to arouse her, and that in turn excited him, but the moment their lovemaking was over she appeared to lose interest and swiftly fell asleep, leaving him to stare at the ceiling in the dark. And when he got out of bed to dress and leave, the gap between his feet and the floor was distinctly greater. After his night with the mistress of La Incoerenza he had lifted almost a full inch
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