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leather chair out from under myself. The chair was set on impeccably oiled
brass casters, which conveyed it almost the length of the
Club bar until it bumped into a wall. My own trajectory was more of the simple
what-goes-up-must-come-down variety. It brought me to land on the carpet, an
accomplishment that did
neither my dignity nor my coccyx any favors.
I waited to hear Pinch's laughter ring out at my expense. It did not. The
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unexpected irruption of Miss
Speranza's voice had caused him to react in much the same way as myself.
"Oh my," said the fair cause of our discomfiture as she gazed down at us. "I'm
so sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you like that."
We got to our feet and reassured her in unison that no apology was necessary.
"Our fault entirely for not having remarked upon your charming presence, my
dear," I said.
Pinch hastened to retrieve his chair, which had traveled almost as far away
from its launch point as my own. He swiftly turned a gaffe into gallantry by
offering it to his lady before pulling over another seat for himself. I passed
a few minutes' chat with them, for manners' sake, then made my excuses. If the
light of love gleamed in Pinch's eye, it positively radiated from Miss
Speranza's. As I strolled off, I admit to feeling a passing pang of envy.
"Ah, what a precious thing it is to find one's soul mate," I murmured, wending
my lonesome way into the
Club rose garden.
I was making the closer acquaintance of a blushing Mamie Eisenhower (the rose,
bien sûr
) when I
became aware of a rustling among the thorns that could not be ascribed to
gophers nor Green Card-
manqué
groundsmen, both of which are renowned for knowing how to keep a low profile
in chancy times.
"Who goes there?" I demanded, my hand dropping automatically to my Club-issued
dog whistle.
(The Board had distributed these devices as a service to members who
frequented the more isolated areas of the grounds. In the event of assault,
one brief hypersonic tootle would fetch the immediate attention of several
roaming packs of Bichons Frisés. Your Bichon is small, curly-topped, and akin
to the poodle. The assailant rash enough to linger once he saw that he was not
to be torn limb from limb by
Dobermans, pit bulls or any of their ilk soon learned the error of scorning
attack-lapdogs. Affection can be fatal. At least one would-be footpad met an
unspeakable demise, first battered senseless by violently wagging tails, then
drowned in a veritable flood of canine drool.)
The rustling in the bushes stopped. "'Sokay, man," came a hoarse voice.
"'Sokay, no sweat, be cool."
"If I wished my perspiration to respond to the commands of strangers, I would
purchase an exercise video. Show yourself!" I cried.
The bushes rustled more and yielded up their prey. The young man thus
disgorged from their thorny snare looked much the worse for wear and tear. His
pale face was scored with scarlet scratches, his long, shaggy black hair
bedecked with serrate leaves and a sprinkling of pink and crimson petals.
There was a certain air of lost Arcadia about him, an image reinforced by the
fact that he was clad not in the dungarees and rudely worded T-shirt that are
the standard plumage of such rara avis as he, but in a chiton
. (It is, alas, a sorry commentary on our times that the masses would not
recognize the Greek chiton unless a rerun of Paul Newman in
The Silver Chalice bit them on the fundament.)
He also wore sandals and carried an electric guitar.
"Who are you?" I demanded. Courtesy forbade me from likewise asking what he
might be and why he
was being it among our roses. "What are you doing here? This is private
property!"
"Easy, man, easy," he said, swaying somewhat on his feet and blinking up into
the sky as if he had never seen anything so wondrous as the sun. "Gotta get my
bearings, gotta think things through. Oh wow, talk about your head trips."
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With that cogent observation, he laid one hand to his brow, rolled his eyes
back in his head, and fainted.
I used my cellular telephone to summon aid. Specifically, I called young
Langley, whom I knew to be somewhere about the premises at that time of day.
As soon as I saw that guitar, I knew he was the man for the job.
Like Dawkins, Benet Owen Langley was a recent addition to the Club's
membership rolls, though he joined our companionable establishment under
circumstances every bit as distinct from Dawkins's as they were extraordinary
in their own right. He might have claimed the honorific of Youngest Member had
such a designation existed, for he was no more than twenty-one years of age. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]