Chapter Thirty-Two

Ana’s vast unscreened windows are open to the night, admitting the low murmur of traffic sounds from the street below. Like most of Hong Kong, Sheung Wan is a cramped, vertical neighborhood with colorful signage draped across the narrow streets. Walk-up apartments are catacombed atop storefronts, delis, and restaurants nearly impossible to enter without turning sideways. I’m not sure how we negotiated the three or four blocks from Ana’s favorite Italian mini-restaurant to this second-floor flat. Something to do with ethanol receptors in the lower rear region of the brain.

“I can’t believe I’m pouring us another drink,” says Ana, kicking off her sandals and handing me a brandy. “What kind of music would you like?”

“I don’t do recorded music,” I reply.

She blinks. “I, um, don’t think I have any unrecorded music.”

“Then you don’t have any music,” I say. “I’ll make an exception if you’ll agree to dance with me.”

Ana blinks again.

“Was that an apprehensive blink?” I ask.

“I’m a bit challenged that way,” says Ana. “I am British.”

I step a little closer. “I don’t mean that kind of dancing.”

“Then I’m not sure what kind you mean.”

“I mean the kind,” I reply, stepping closer still, “where we lean against one another. And I kiss the back of your neck. And every now and then we move our feet a little.”

The two eyes glisten. “Which way?”

“Which way what?”

“Which way… do we move our feet?”

“Just nearby.”

“Nearby,” she whispers. “I think I can do that. Why don’t I go find some… nearby music.”

“No vocals. No saxophones.”

“Got you.”

Ana’s bare feet pad into the bedroom. A moment later comes a strain that includes neither vocal nor saxophone. But the trumpet is a little flat.

Tonight’s spaghetti wasn’t half bad. The accompanying Chardonnay, meanwhile, gradually softened Ana’s crisp reserve until she was dangling modifiers like a deck hand. I spent my own time smiling idiotically, more than pleased to have all this woman’s attention to myself. When she retreated to the loo, I very nearly followed her there.

Then we were feeling our way along the walls of Sheung Wan and making stranger conversation by the moment. “You’re quite the odd duck then, aren’t you?” Ana queried at one point. Before I could reply, she continued, “Every time I think I’ve finally seen into you—actually found Julian Mancer—I learn there’s considerably more. And a good deal less.”

“You’re far too kind,” I replied. “And pitiless.”

We were nearly to her door when Ana stopped stock-still and her voice surrendered to a minor key. “Is it all right if we just keep a loose hold on things? I mean, it could change quickly, you know. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure whether we are friends or foes, Julian. It could be a little of both at the same moment, but I’m willing to just let that be, if I’m making the least sense.”

I nodded. The I’m willing made a great deal of sense.

Then what’s keeping her?

Dully, I look around Ana’s Spartan apartment. Two unfussed-over rooms. A turquoise leather sofa. A coffee table. A busy altar with crystals of various hues, along with a litter of spent candles. Above the altar is an unframed canvas displaying a yantra I haven’t seen before. A red square encloses a golden triangle that in turn embraces a blue circle. On the coffee table are stacks of paperbacks, among them In Cold Blood. There’s even a yellowing Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Nothing by Gore Vidal.

Nothing by me.

Stacked on the floor meanwhile are a few dozen books on mythology. I finally did go through that article on Heracles. He turns out to have been the son of Zeus and a mortal named Alcmena—rhymes with Purina. It was an immaculate conception, if you believe in that kind of thing. I wonder for a moment whether artificial insemination might be thought of as immaculate. There seems to be roughly the same amount of fun involved. Moot point, of course, unless Timothy Dobbins turns out to be God, which personally I’m betting against.

My eyes catch sight of a worn book of runes. This morning, apropos of nothing, I pulled a card from Rui Long’s Barbie deck. Actually I suppose it’s my Barbie deck. Anyway I got the Ken’s Mad card. I should be, like, really careful with decisions about people right now.

Check.

Okay, I may have gotten in a little deep with the itsy two-in-one schoolgirl, who’s turning out to be about as self-possessed as Paul Reubens at a Saturday matinee. The last thing Rui Long said today outside the English office was, “Fine. You just do your own thang, Mister ‘Shroom Man. Ain’t nobody here but you.” As she sauntered away, I noticed three students staring at her then me. Not that it matters a whit, of course. As soon as this country has a new political figurehead and I have the final page of that chapter, I’m back in Memphis before you can say Lorraine Motel. Until then, it’s about keeping my head low.

All at once a barefoot Ana Manguella materializes before me, her bright eyes inclined to mine. She has changed into an azure silk blouse with a string-tie at the throat, a wooden bead at each end. Below are loose cotton pantaloons, their droopy sash nearly reaching the floor. Another tentative step, and two breasts press themselves against my ribs. Our fingers interlace. My plaster cast hooks her waist and my nostrils fill with the scent of her hair.

. . . I dance and the shadow lurches grotesquely.

While I’m still awake, let us rejoice together.

Soon each will go its separate way…

“Do you read Li Bai?” I hear myself murmur.

“Mmm?” Ana replies sleepily.

“I said, you dance well nearby.”

“Mmmm.”

“Your hair,” I whisper, “is a rainforest.”

“No,” she whispers back. “It’s a rainforest.”

Good. She’s as drunk as I.

Pulling the ivory woman closer, I bend to snuffle at her left ear like a Dalmatian. My right hand struggles in vain against the cast, meanwhile, wanting to slide down her waist a bit farther. And are those fingernails digging into my back? Just asking.

“Marry me,” I command.

“No,” says Ana.

“Yes. Tomorrow.”

“No,” she sings. “Never.”

“Okay.”

We whirl drunkenly, the music pulling this way and that. Now we seem to be whirling a little closer to the bedroom, and my left hand discovers the warm dip of a waist. Ana’s hands meanwhile are inside my shirt, exploring hungrily. I think we just whirled through the bedroom door. Ana’s chin digs into my chest. Slipping beneath the waistband of the pantaloons, my fingertips discover a mute tailbone. There they rest, enjoying the nudge of first one white bun and then the other as our dance dips between the dip slopes to drop us—

Onto the satiny plain of Ana’s bed.

I pull at the two wooden beads and Ana’s breasts spill out, their broad auroras a rich auburn brown. I bury myself in that abundance, roiling my face happily in the plenty, and the two nipples sharpen against my cheeks. I coax one of them to my lips, wetting its edges by tauntingly slow degrees, and Ana’s chest rises. I feel her whole body stretch as the nipples harden. Ana’s sounds move from the aa-aahs to the oo-oohs. I love the oo-oohs.

“I’ll marry you,” she says breathlessly. “I’ll marry you.”

My hand glides beneath the silk pantaloons and discover a place of extraordinary warmth. I press lightly. She presses back. Ana’s breath catches, and a ragged howl becomes something like ooo-ONNNG-gggdkttrq. After a moment Ana falls spent against the bed.

Neither of us moves for a moment.

A giggle erupts in Ana’s throat. “Sorry. I guess I was a little keyed up.”

I draw away for an avaricious gape at the heaving white chest. “Sorry, is it?” I say. “I’ll make you sorry.”

My left hand yanks at the sash. Again Ana giggles. Another great yank, and the pantaloons are at her ankles. With my good left hand, I unhurriedly begin to open my pants. Ana begins to pant. Her eyes flare with what seems rage.

“You shit,” she hisses, her head falling back against the bed. “You fucking shit.”

As one, we wet our fingers. Suddenly we’re not quite sure now who touches whom, warm saliva mixing, bodies pressing into a delicious snarl of pleasure. A rough shove from her hips, and Ana Manguella has captured me into her depths. Her free leg locks me tightly against her. There is no longer any possibility of escape.