her constantly changing computer screen.
“I’m canceling your harbor-view room—two nights at the InterContinental Grand Stanford, gone. I don’t like that place, anyway,” Dorothy said. “And I’m getting you a king suite at the Regal Airport Hotel at Hong Kong International. It’s not as totally tasteless as its name—all the Christmas shit notwithstanding.”
“ One night, Dorothy,” her mother reminded the young woman.
“Got it,” Dorothy said. “There’s one thing about the Regal: the way you turn the lights on and off is weird,” she told Juan Diego.
“We’ll show him, Dorothy,” the mother said. “I’ve read everything of yours—every word you’ve written,” Miriam told him, putting her hand on his wrist.
“I’ve read almost everything,” Dorothy said.
“There’s two you haven’t read, Dorothy,” her mom said.
“ Two —big deal,” Dorothy said. “That’s almost everything, isn’t it?” the girl asked Juan Diego.
Of course he said, “Yes—almost.” He couldn’t tell if the young woman was flirting with him, or if her mother was; maybe neither of them was. The not-knowing part aged Juan Diego prematurely, too, but—to be fair—he’d been out of circulation for a while. It had been a long time since he’d dated anyone, not that he’d ever dated a lot, which two such worldly-looking travelers as this mother and daughter would have sized up about him.
Meeting him, did women think he looked wounded? Was he one of those men who’d lost the love of his life? What was it about Juan Diego that made women think he would never get over someone?
“I really like the sex in your novels,” Dorothy told him. “I like how you do it.”
“I like it better, ” Miriam said to him, giving her daughter an all-knowing look. “I have the perspective to know what really bad sex is,” Dorothy’s mom told her.
“Please, Mother—don’t paint us a picture,” Dorothy said.
Miriam wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, Juan Diego had noticed. She was a tall, trim woman, tense and impatient-looking, in a pearl-gray pantsuit, which she wore over a silvery T-shirt. Her beige-blond hair was certainly not its natural color, and she’d probably had a little work done on her face—either shortly after a divorce, or a somewhat longer time after she’d become a widow. (Juan Diego didn’t intimately know about such things; he’d had no experience with women like Miriam, with the exception of his women readers or characters in novels.)
Dorothy, the daughter, who’d said she first read one of Juan Diego’s novels when it had been “assigned” to her—in college—looked as if she could still be of university age, or only a little older.
These women weren’t on their way to Manila—“not yet,” they’d told him—but Juan Diego didn’t remember where they were going after Hong Kong, if they’d said. Miriam hadn’t told him her full name, but her accent was European-sounding—the foreign part was what registered with Juan Diego. He wasn’t an expert on accents, of course—Miriam might have been an American.
As for Dorothy, she would never be as beautiful as her mother, but the girl had a sullen, neglected prettiness—of the kind that a youngerwoman who’s a little too heavy can get away with for a few more years. (“Voluptuous” wouldn’t always be the word Dorothy brought to mind, Juan Diego knew—realizing, if only to himself, that he was writing about these efficient women, even as he allowed them to assist him.)
Whoever they were, and wherever they were going, this mother and daughter were veterans of traveling first class on Cathay Pacific. When Flight 841 to Hong Kong finally boarded, Miriam and Dorothy wouldn’t let the doll-faced flight attendant show Juan Diego how to put on Cathay Pacific’s one-piece pajamas or operate the cocoon-like sleeping capsule. Miriam marched him through the routine of how to put on the childish pajamas, and Dorothy—the
“I’m canceling your harbor-view room—two nights at the InterContinental Grand Stanford, gone. I don’t like that place, anyway,” Dorothy said. “And I’m getting you a king suite at the Regal Airport Hotel at Hong Kong International. It’s not as totally tasteless as its name—all the Christmas shit notwithstanding.”
“ One night, Dorothy,” her mother reminded the young woman.
“Got it,” Dorothy said. “There’s one thing about the Regal: the way you turn the lights on and off is weird,” she told Juan Diego.
“We’ll show him, Dorothy,” the mother said. “I’ve read everything of yours—every word you’ve written,” Miriam told him, putting her hand on his wrist.
“I’ve read almost everything,” Dorothy said.
“There’s two you haven’t read, Dorothy,” her mom said.
“ Two —big deal,” Dorothy said. “That’s almost everything, isn’t it?” the girl asked Juan Diego.
Of course he said, “Yes—almost.” He couldn’t tell if the young woman was flirting with him, or if her mother was; maybe neither of them was. The not-knowing part aged Juan Diego prematurely, too, but—to be fair—he’d been out of circulation for a while. It had been a long time since he’d dated anyone, not that he’d ever dated a lot, which two such worldly-looking travelers as this mother and daughter would have sized up about him.
Meeting him, did women think he looked wounded? Was he one of those men who’d lost the love of his life? What was it about Juan Diego that made women think he would never get over someone?
“I really like the sex in your novels,” Dorothy told him. “I like how you do it.”
“I like it better, ” Miriam said to him, giving her daughter an all-knowing look. “I have the perspective to know what really bad sex is,” Dorothy’s mom told her.
“Please, Mother—don’t paint us a picture,” Dorothy said.
Miriam wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, Juan Diego had noticed. She was a tall, trim woman, tense and impatient-looking, in a pearl-gray pantsuit, which she wore over a silvery T-shirt. Her beige-blond hair was certainly not its natural color, and she’d probably had a little work done on her face—either shortly after a divorce, or a somewhat longer time after she’d become a widow. (Juan Diego didn’t intimately know about such things; he’d had no experience with women like Miriam, with the exception of his women readers or characters in novels.)
Dorothy, the daughter, who’d said she first read one of Juan Diego’s novels when it had been “assigned” to her—in college—looked as if she could still be of university age, or only a little older.
These women weren’t on their way to Manila—“not yet,” they’d told him—but Juan Diego didn’t remember where they were going after Hong Kong, if they’d said. Miriam hadn’t told him her full name, but her accent was European-sounding—the foreign part was what registered with Juan Diego. He wasn’t an expert on accents, of course—Miriam might have been an American.
As for Dorothy, she would never be as beautiful as her mother, but the girl had a sullen, neglected prettiness—of the kind that a youngerwoman who’s a little too heavy can get away with for a few more years. (“Voluptuous” wouldn’t always be the word Dorothy brought to mind, Juan Diego knew—realizing, if only to himself, that he was writing about these efficient women, even as he allowed them to assist him.)
Whoever they were, and wherever they were going, this mother and daughter were veterans of traveling first class on Cathay Pacific. When Flight 841 to Hong Kong finally boarded, Miriam and Dorothy wouldn’t let the doll-faced flight attendant show Juan Diego how to put on Cathay Pacific’s one-piece pajamas or operate the cocoon-like sleeping capsule. Miriam marched him through the routine of how to put on the childish pajamas, and Dorothy—the
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