they both knew he would call again.
He wanted her. He wanted to break down her resistance and then to arch above her, sweaty and triumphant, and have her damp compliant face admit to him that she'd been crazy to resist. And there was something else as well, something that tugged and plucked at Lazslo, though he couldn't name it, something that transfigured ordinary lust and made its object an obsession. He knew, deep down, that she was trouble.
Chapter 7
"Fred," said Pineapple, "ya know what I sometimes wonder about?"
They were strolling through the mangroves that stretched back from the hot dog, looking at the sky. Winter nights there in the marsh could be quite wonderful. No mosquitoes in the winter. Egrets stayed so still that it was sometimes many minutes before you noticed they were there. In winter the mangrove leaves gave off a clean and wholesome smell, a smell of salt and wax.
"No, Piney," said the patient Fred, wiggling his can of beer. "What do you sometimes wonder about?"
Winter stars were wonderful too. The stars seemed closer then, they had a roundness, like they were shiny indentations punched in tin. Satellites etched their courses among the whirling constellations, and if you watched long enough, you saw them return in the exact same places.
"I sometimes wonder," Pineapple said, "if you were in a spaceship, say out there by Orion, and you started going faster and faster, till you were going as fast as the light, and you turned your headlights on, would anything happen?"
Fred sipped some brew, wiped his walrus moustache on his hand. "Fast as the light," he said, "you'd be squooshed."
"Okay, but leave that on the side for now. The headlights come on? Yes or no?"
Fred thought it over. "Middle a space, whaddya need headlights for?"
Piney gave up on that one, fell briefly silent. They strolled. Off to one side, slabs of ancient rusted military fence tugged against their stanchions; up ahead, the unnatural shapes of flat-topped earthwork pyramids poked bluntly toward the sky. Piney started in again. "Fred, you think life is interesting?"
"Interesting," said Fred. He scratched his ear. "I dig holes. I drink beer. Interesting is not the first word springs to mind."
"I do," Piney said. "I think life is interesting."
Fred guffawed. "Nothing happens to you, Piney. You sit on your ass and hold a fucking sign."
"What happens, that's not what makes it interesting. What happens, that's really, like, beside the point."
Fred didn't follow up on that, and Pineapple kept strolling, looked up past the fringe of mangroves. Way high up, so high that you could barely see the flashing of its wing lights, a plane was moving south to north; Piney decided it was coming from Peru and going, maybe, to Chicago.
"Fred," he said, "d'you think people's faces change, d'you think they look different, when they're in love or something?"
"Jesus Christ," said Fred.
"Today I saw a woman go into a hotel down on Whitehead Street. She came out a few minutes later and she looked completely different."
"Prob'ly got laid."
"Coupla minutes, Fred. Don't make it crude. She came out, she had a glow."
"Who gives a rat's ass?"
"I thought that was interesting. This is what I'm trying to explain. Not what happens. Things like that. That's what makes life interesting."
Fred polished off his beer, crushed the can and dropped it. "Piney," he said. "Being you, even for a minute—it must be a really odd experience."
The Ukrainian busboy had a pale and doughy face, and he was still wearing the smock he'd worn at work. Originally crisp, almost medical, it was stained now with lobster juice and butter sauce and splotches of wine and smears of vinaigrette. The busboy smelled of detergent and grease, and he couldn't decide on a posture. One moment he was stiff, skinny shoulders back as if trying to look military, and the next he was scrunched and furtive, quailing.
Finally, Ivan Fyodorovich Cherkassky said to him, "Stay still, Pavel. Are you a
He wanted her. He wanted to break down her resistance and then to arch above her, sweaty and triumphant, and have her damp compliant face admit to him that she'd been crazy to resist. And there was something else as well, something that tugged and plucked at Lazslo, though he couldn't name it, something that transfigured ordinary lust and made its object an obsession. He knew, deep down, that she was trouble.
Chapter 7
"Fred," said Pineapple, "ya know what I sometimes wonder about?"
They were strolling through the mangroves that stretched back from the hot dog, looking at the sky. Winter nights there in the marsh could be quite wonderful. No mosquitoes in the winter. Egrets stayed so still that it was sometimes many minutes before you noticed they were there. In winter the mangrove leaves gave off a clean and wholesome smell, a smell of salt and wax.
"No, Piney," said the patient Fred, wiggling his can of beer. "What do you sometimes wonder about?"
Winter stars were wonderful too. The stars seemed closer then, they had a roundness, like they were shiny indentations punched in tin. Satellites etched their courses among the whirling constellations, and if you watched long enough, you saw them return in the exact same places.
"I sometimes wonder," Pineapple said, "if you were in a spaceship, say out there by Orion, and you started going faster and faster, till you were going as fast as the light, and you turned your headlights on, would anything happen?"
Fred sipped some brew, wiped his walrus moustache on his hand. "Fast as the light," he said, "you'd be squooshed."
"Okay, but leave that on the side for now. The headlights come on? Yes or no?"
Fred thought it over. "Middle a space, whaddya need headlights for?"
Piney gave up on that one, fell briefly silent. They strolled. Off to one side, slabs of ancient rusted military fence tugged against their stanchions; up ahead, the unnatural shapes of flat-topped earthwork pyramids poked bluntly toward the sky. Piney started in again. "Fred, you think life is interesting?"
"Interesting," said Fred. He scratched his ear. "I dig holes. I drink beer. Interesting is not the first word springs to mind."
"I do," Piney said. "I think life is interesting."
Fred guffawed. "Nothing happens to you, Piney. You sit on your ass and hold a fucking sign."
"What happens, that's not what makes it interesting. What happens, that's really, like, beside the point."
Fred didn't follow up on that, and Pineapple kept strolling, looked up past the fringe of mangroves. Way high up, so high that you could barely see the flashing of its wing lights, a plane was moving south to north; Piney decided it was coming from Peru and going, maybe, to Chicago.
"Fred," he said, "d'you think people's faces change, d'you think they look different, when they're in love or something?"
"Jesus Christ," said Fred.
"Today I saw a woman go into a hotel down on Whitehead Street. She came out a few minutes later and she looked completely different."
"Prob'ly got laid."
"Coupla minutes, Fred. Don't make it crude. She came out, she had a glow."
"Who gives a rat's ass?"
"I thought that was interesting. This is what I'm trying to explain. Not what happens. Things like that. That's what makes life interesting."
Fred polished off his beer, crushed the can and dropped it. "Piney," he said. "Being you, even for a minute—it must be a really odd experience."
The Ukrainian busboy had a pale and doughy face, and he was still wearing the smock he'd worn at work. Originally crisp, almost medical, it was stained now with lobster juice and butter sauce and splotches of wine and smears of vinaigrette. The busboy smelled of detergent and grease, and he couldn't decide on a posture. One moment he was stiff, skinny shoulders back as if trying to look military, and the next he was scrunched and furtive, quailing.
Finally, Ivan Fyodorovich Cherkassky said to him, "Stay still, Pavel. Are you a
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