logic rolling its hips in there somewhere, I’m sure, but I’m gonna let it roll past. I did manage to read Anushka’s body language, however.’
‘A bear could read her body language,’ Lisa cut in quickly, giving me a slap on the arm.
‘Where did you say she’s performing?’ I laughed.
‘I didn’t,’ she slapped.
A seashell bracelet jangled on her wrist. It was the present I’d brought for her from Goa. She played the music of the shells, twisting her wrist for a while, and then silenced them in the clutch of her free hand.
‘Did you have a shitty time tonight? Should I be sorry I made you go, when you just got back from your trip?’
‘Not at all. I really did like your friends, and it was about time I met them. I liked Rosanna, too. She has good fire.’
‘I’m so glad. She’s not just a partner. She’s become close. Do you find her attractive?’
‘What?’
‘It’s okay,’ she said, playing with the bedcover. ‘I find her attractive, too.’
‘What?’
‘She’s clever, dedicated, brave, creative, enthusiastic, and easy to get along with. She’s really great.’
I stared along the soft coastline of Lisa’s long, slender legs.
‘What are we talking about, again?’
‘You think she’s hot,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘It’s okay. I think she’s hot, too.’
She took my hand, and moved it between her legs.
‘How tired are you?’ she asked.
I looked down at her toes, bent backwards in a fan-shaped arch.
‘Nobody’s ever that tired.’
It was good. It was always good. We shared a loving kindness that was a kind of loving. And maybe because we both knew that it would end some day, some way, we let our bodies say things that our hearts couldn’t.
I went to the kitchen to fetch a cold drink of water, and brought a glass back for her, putting it on the table on her side of the bed.
For a while I looked at her, beautiful, healthy, strong, curled into herself like a sleeping cat. I tried to imagine what the vision of love she was clinging to might look like, and how different it was from my own.
I lay down beside her and gathered my body into the contours of her dream. Her toes closed reflexively over mine in her sleep. And more honest than my mind, my sleeping body bent at the knees, pressed against the closed door of her curved back, and beat on it with the fist of my heart, begging to be loved.
Chapter Five
R IDING A MOTORCYCLE IS VELOCITY AS POETRY. The fine balance
between elegant agility and fatal fall is a kind of truth, and like all truth, it carries a heartbeat with it into the sky. Eternal moments in the saddle escape the stuttering flow of time, and space, and purpose. Coursing on those wheels, on that river of air, in that flight of freed spirit there’s no attachment, no fear, no joy, no hatred, no love, and no malice: the nearest thing, for some violent men, for this violent man, to a state of grace.
I arrived at the passport factory used by the Sanjay Company in a good mood. I’d taken the slow way to work that morning, and the ride had cleared my mind, leaving me with a placid smile I could feel in my whole body.
The factory was the main centre where we changed and created false passports. As the principal forger and counterfeiter of passports and other identification documents for the Sanjay Company, I spent at least some hours of most days at the factory.
I opened the door, and my motorcycle-smile froze. There was a young stranger in front of me. He put out his hand in greeting.
‘Lin!’ he said, shaking my hand as if he was pumping water from a village well. ‘My name’s Farzad. Come on in!’
I took off my sunglasses, accepted his invitation to my office, and found that a second desk had been lodged in a corner of the large room. The desk was piled high with papers and drawings.
‘They put me here . . . about two weeks ago,’ Farzad said, nodding toward his desk. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
‘That depends.’
‘Depends on
‘A bear could read her body language,’ Lisa cut in quickly, giving me a slap on the arm.
‘Where did you say she’s performing?’ I laughed.
‘I didn’t,’ she slapped.
A seashell bracelet jangled on her wrist. It was the present I’d brought for her from Goa. She played the music of the shells, twisting her wrist for a while, and then silenced them in the clutch of her free hand.
‘Did you have a shitty time tonight? Should I be sorry I made you go, when you just got back from your trip?’
‘Not at all. I really did like your friends, and it was about time I met them. I liked Rosanna, too. She has good fire.’
‘I’m so glad. She’s not just a partner. She’s become close. Do you find her attractive?’
‘What?’
‘It’s okay,’ she said, playing with the bedcover. ‘I find her attractive, too.’
‘What?’
‘She’s clever, dedicated, brave, creative, enthusiastic, and easy to get along with. She’s really great.’
I stared along the soft coastline of Lisa’s long, slender legs.
‘What are we talking about, again?’
‘You think she’s hot,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘It’s okay. I think she’s hot, too.’
She took my hand, and moved it between her legs.
‘How tired are you?’ she asked.
I looked down at her toes, bent backwards in a fan-shaped arch.
‘Nobody’s ever that tired.’
It was good. It was always good. We shared a loving kindness that was a kind of loving. And maybe because we both knew that it would end some day, some way, we let our bodies say things that our hearts couldn’t.
I went to the kitchen to fetch a cold drink of water, and brought a glass back for her, putting it on the table on her side of the bed.
For a while I looked at her, beautiful, healthy, strong, curled into herself like a sleeping cat. I tried to imagine what the vision of love she was clinging to might look like, and how different it was from my own.
I lay down beside her and gathered my body into the contours of her dream. Her toes closed reflexively over mine in her sleep. And more honest than my mind, my sleeping body bent at the knees, pressed against the closed door of her curved back, and beat on it with the fist of my heart, begging to be loved.
Chapter Five
R IDING A MOTORCYCLE IS VELOCITY AS POETRY. The fine balance
between elegant agility and fatal fall is a kind of truth, and like all truth, it carries a heartbeat with it into the sky. Eternal moments in the saddle escape the stuttering flow of time, and space, and purpose. Coursing on those wheels, on that river of air, in that flight of freed spirit there’s no attachment, no fear, no joy, no hatred, no love, and no malice: the nearest thing, for some violent men, for this violent man, to a state of grace.
I arrived at the passport factory used by the Sanjay Company in a good mood. I’d taken the slow way to work that morning, and the ride had cleared my mind, leaving me with a placid smile I could feel in my whole body.
The factory was the main centre where we changed and created false passports. As the principal forger and counterfeiter of passports and other identification documents for the Sanjay Company, I spent at least some hours of most days at the factory.
I opened the door, and my motorcycle-smile froze. There was a young stranger in front of me. He put out his hand in greeting.
‘Lin!’ he said, shaking my hand as if he was pumping water from a village well. ‘My name’s Farzad. Come on in!’
I took off my sunglasses, accepted his invitation to my office, and found that a second desk had been lodged in a corner of the large room. The desk was piled high with papers and drawings.
‘They put me here . . . about two weeks ago,’ Farzad said, nodding toward his desk. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
‘That depends.’
‘Depends on
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