I spent much of my long weekend writing a long letter to my friend Flossie. She had sent me a postcard from Amritsar where she was interviewing fierce bearded Sikh warriors about their future plans to assassinate Indian heads of state. Floss was clearly in a didactic mood. Her message was a poem entitled `Bad Habits Which Children (Like You) Should Be Warned Against':
smoking is bad
so is fatty food
never cross the street
without looking
both up and
down
avoid a sedentary life
write back to your friends
and don't argue
with your parents
all of these things can
kill you
I thought it was a beautiful poem and I told her so. I also asked her to let me know just exactly how she had heard of the Fund for Peace and Love from whom she was getting the money for her research in India.
Memories of life with Floss reminded me of the long afternoons I had spent in our apartment, cooking elaborate gourmet meals which I had encountered in my favorite reading in those days, French cookbooks from the turn of the century, a more leisurely time in which servants thought nothing of waking up at four in the morning to stoke the kitchen fire and then begin to peel asparagus and braise rare meats. Our sleek computerized stove lessened my pleasure in cooking, but only a little: I stole my pleasure where I could find it, in wandering around vegetable markets looking for that little sprig of some out-of-season herb which might be just the perfect garnish for the cassoulet I had been engrossed in preparing all day, in earnest consultations with heavy-set stooped wine merchants about the provenance of some unusual Rhenish wine which, I thought, might suitably wash down the chicken breasts a la Reine d'Autriche with which our simple evening meal would begin; but my greatest pleasure was reserved for the moment late in the evening when Floss would emerge from her bedroom, her face flushed pink from the hot shower she had taken for over an hour after she returned home dripping from cycling back at mad speeds on her racing bike with a backpack full of heavy books from the libraries in which she spent her days, and we would sit down at the table and eat and, more importantly, drink, and talk about terrorists.
I missed cooking. One day I coaxed Lucy into going shopping for food with me. The local department stores were admittedly a disappointment, cavernous spaces lit grimly with blinding fluorescent lights, shelves lined with tins of fish preserved in vinegar and salted meats, jars of pickled fruits and cucumbers in brine, but cucumbers seemed to be the only vegetable with which Czechs seemed familiar, unless one counted as vegetables a few limp grey cauliflowers and rotten round dark brown objects which on gingerly inspection I discovered to have once been tomatoes. Sacks of potatoes lay around on the grimy tiled floors. Empty handed, Lucy and I walked past a queue of shapeless old ladies waiting patiently for their turn to count out to a surly cashier their small change, the pensions with which they eked out their meagre lives on a diet of tinned pork and potatoes.
"Try Legumes du jardin," sweet Annichka at the reception desk said helpfully. "It's where all the diplomats go." She gave us directions. As we stood waiting for a tram to take us to the center of Prague, I shivered. Autumn was already here now. The sun had long since set and a chill wind soon blew away the remaining shreds of twilight. I missed Kalifornia. I missed the sheer indulgence of fresh vegetables and warm evenings. Why was I in the desolate heart of Europe, loitering in the cold center of this alien melancholy? My question was easy enough to answer: I still hadn't called my mother. Harassed attaches in Amerikan embassies all over the world had probably been committing suicide for weeks now, cracking under the strain of fending off her insistent demands that they personally track down my exact whereabouts.
Legumes du jardin was a bright little outpost of Western prosperity in a dark alley near Wenceslas Square. A throng of people were gathered outside the shop, their noses pressed to the plate glass windows, staring at the price tags prominently attached to the tempting display of produce within, mushrooms of every descriptions, massed strings of crisp white Spanish garlic, the exuberant foliage of romaine lettuce. Lucy and I pointed dumbly at plump red tomatoes and thick green cucumbers, at the rich purple of aubergines and plums, and a cheerful shop assistant carefully wrapped each individual vegetable in tissue paper and then led us to the cash counter. Leaving Lucy to pay with a wad of bills I had thrust into her hand and which she was staring at in confusion, I broke away towards the cheese counter at the back of the shop which I had just noticed through the corner of my eye, a glistening array of cheeses, crumbly Roquefort, wheels of Stilton and, wait a moment, could that possibly be Cheddar...
"Hey, bud!" A familiar voice stopped me in my tracks. "Found your way around Prague already, huh?"
"Steele! What are you doing here?"
"It's where I do my shopping," my old school friend explained patiently. "I'm a diplomat. You never returned my call."
"Sorry, Steele. You know I never return calls."
"What are you doing right now? It's Friday night and there's a decent wine bar just around the corner."
"Let me ask Lucy." I pointed at Lucy who seemed to be having trouble paying for our groceries. Steele gaped longingly at Lucy's shapely behind. I batted my eyelashes. "She's a Mormon."
"Kinky," Steele replied approvingly. "Very kinky."
"She's weird. I think she's possessed. Oh, there you are, Lucy. This is Steele. He's an old friend of mine."
Lucy appraised Steele coolly. "You're Amerikan, aren't you? Are you a tourist here?"
"I work at the Embassy." Steele caught my warning glare too late. Lucy turned and looked at me hatefully. "Uh, did I say something…"
"Never mind," I snapped. "Let's just go get a fucking drink, all right?"
Surprisingly Lucy agreed to go drinking with us. Even more surprisingly the prim little angel was drinking with us, glass for glass. While refusing to talk to me, Lucy was getting along just a bit too well with Steele for my liking. By the time we were halfway through the second bottle, Lucy was leaning her head against Steele's shoulder and singing (a hymn?) softly to herself. By the third bottle, Lucy's face was buried in Steele's suited abdomen. Steele didn't seem to have a problem with that: he was happily stroking her hair.
"Psst… Steele," I whispered cautiously. "How do people make money on Wall Street these days?" Lucy was staring glassily at her empty glass. I reached out and carefully poured her some more just in case she was still conscious.
Steele looked up at me with mock horror. "Don't do it! Don't even think about it!"
"Why not?"
"Scary people," Steel explained. "Monsters. Evil brutes. Real crazies. Ugly demons. With a head for numbers. And political savvy. You need both in the currency markets. That's where the big money is made these days. By the serious players anyway."
"Like who?"
"Oh well, there's the pension funds. But they don't really want to make money. They just want to keep it safe for Joe Steelworker who's going to retire next week and then keel over with a heart attack. That's where they make their profits. Lots of tobacco stocks. But then there are maybe fifteen really big individual players who go for broke. They're like sharks with technology. Megalomaniacs with a killer instinct. Like this guy you work for. Mister X-O-X. He's a big boy on the currency markets. A master of the universe. And a nut. Certified."
Lucy sat up suddenly. "What do you know about him anyway?" she asked drunkenly before subsiding again with a hiccup.
"Is Xox was a front for the CIA?" I asked cautiously.
"Not that I know of. Where the hell did you hear that?"
"From a friend in British intelligence."
Steele laughed. "They should know," he replied sardonically. "They give most of their bribes to Third World governments through the guy. Not to mention their covert payments to all the dissident groups that want to overthrow those same governments. Just ask the Sikh revolutionary groups in London."
"Through the Fund for Peace and Love?"
"Is that what it's called?" Steele asked with interest.
Like a wind-up toy, Lucy sat up again. "You are both stupid," she slurred belligerently. "Mister Xox works for no man. You cannot serve both Man and Mammon!"
Steele tried to stroke Lucy's head again but she dodged his hand and fell off her chair. "Take me home," she moaned. I moved to help her up but she swatted me away viciously with her shoe. "Not you," she groaned. "Traitor. Deceiver. CIA mole. I hate you. Never want to see you again."
"Do you want me to take you home, honey? " Steele asked. He winked at me. I stared back in outrage.
"CIA man?" Lucy asked, opening one eye. "Always wondered what it would be like to fuck a spy. James Bond, baby."
"Good girl. Shaken not stirred. I'll take care of her," Steele promised. "I'll be nice. She's sweet. Does she drink much normally?"
"Never. I don't know what came over her."
"I did. Or I will," Steele said lewdly.
"Bed! Any bed!" Lucy said loudly from the floor. The waitress looked concerned. I hurriedly paid her off. Steele and I pulled Lucy to her feet. Steele had his arm around her as their taxi pulled away. I sighed and went back into the bar and ordered another bottle of wine and a plate of appetizers. The waitress made disgusted faces at me as I stuck greasy handfuls of fried cheese into my face. I didn't really care. Heart break yet again. I didn't feel like calling Lulu about it just yet. Besides she had probably gone to Berlin. Eventually I decided to walk back to the university and call home. The cool night air might clear my head and I was just sober enough to stagger back. It was late afternoon in Kalifornia and I felt just drunk enough to talk to my mother. I needed money. Man cannot live on wine and cheese alone.
smoking is bad
so is fatty food
never cross the street
without looking
both up and
down
avoid a sedentary life
write back to your friends
and don't argue
with your parents
all of these things can
kill you
I thought it was a beautiful poem and I told her so. I also asked her to let me know just exactly how she had heard of the Fund for Peace and Love from whom she was getting the money for her research in India.
Memories of life with Floss reminded me of the long afternoons I had spent in our apartment, cooking elaborate gourmet meals which I had encountered in my favorite reading in those days, French cookbooks from the turn of the century, a more leisurely time in which servants thought nothing of waking up at four in the morning to stoke the kitchen fire and then begin to peel asparagus and braise rare meats. Our sleek computerized stove lessened my pleasure in cooking, but only a little: I stole my pleasure where I could find it, in wandering around vegetable markets looking for that little sprig of some out-of-season herb which might be just the perfect garnish for the cassoulet I had been engrossed in preparing all day, in earnest consultations with heavy-set stooped wine merchants about the provenance of some unusual Rhenish wine which, I thought, might suitably wash down the chicken breasts a la Reine d'Autriche with which our simple evening meal would begin; but my greatest pleasure was reserved for the moment late in the evening when Floss would emerge from her bedroom, her face flushed pink from the hot shower she had taken for over an hour after she returned home dripping from cycling back at mad speeds on her racing bike with a backpack full of heavy books from the libraries in which she spent her days, and we would sit down at the table and eat and, more importantly, drink, and talk about terrorists.
I missed cooking. One day I coaxed Lucy into going shopping for food with me. The local department stores were admittedly a disappointment, cavernous spaces lit grimly with blinding fluorescent lights, shelves lined with tins of fish preserved in vinegar and salted meats, jars of pickled fruits and cucumbers in brine, but cucumbers seemed to be the only vegetable with which Czechs seemed familiar, unless one counted as vegetables a few limp grey cauliflowers and rotten round dark brown objects which on gingerly inspection I discovered to have once been tomatoes. Sacks of potatoes lay around on the grimy tiled floors. Empty handed, Lucy and I walked past a queue of shapeless old ladies waiting patiently for their turn to count out to a surly cashier their small change, the pensions with which they eked out their meagre lives on a diet of tinned pork and potatoes.
"Try Legumes du jardin," sweet Annichka at the reception desk said helpfully. "It's where all the diplomats go." She gave us directions. As we stood waiting for a tram to take us to the center of Prague, I shivered. Autumn was already here now. The sun had long since set and a chill wind soon blew away the remaining shreds of twilight. I missed Kalifornia. I missed the sheer indulgence of fresh vegetables and warm evenings. Why was I in the desolate heart of Europe, loitering in the cold center of this alien melancholy? My question was easy enough to answer: I still hadn't called my mother. Harassed attaches in Amerikan embassies all over the world had probably been committing suicide for weeks now, cracking under the strain of fending off her insistent demands that they personally track down my exact whereabouts.
Legumes du jardin was a bright little outpost of Western prosperity in a dark alley near Wenceslas Square. A throng of people were gathered outside the shop, their noses pressed to the plate glass windows, staring at the price tags prominently attached to the tempting display of produce within, mushrooms of every descriptions, massed strings of crisp white Spanish garlic, the exuberant foliage of romaine lettuce. Lucy and I pointed dumbly at plump red tomatoes and thick green cucumbers, at the rich purple of aubergines and plums, and a cheerful shop assistant carefully wrapped each individual vegetable in tissue paper and then led us to the cash counter. Leaving Lucy to pay with a wad of bills I had thrust into her hand and which she was staring at in confusion, I broke away towards the cheese counter at the back of the shop which I had just noticed through the corner of my eye, a glistening array of cheeses, crumbly Roquefort, wheels of Stilton and, wait a moment, could that possibly be Cheddar...
"Hey, bud!" A familiar voice stopped me in my tracks. "Found your way around Prague already, huh?"
"Steele! What are you doing here?"
"It's where I do my shopping," my old school friend explained patiently. "I'm a diplomat. You never returned my call."
"Sorry, Steele. You know I never return calls."
"What are you doing right now? It's Friday night and there's a decent wine bar just around the corner."
"Let me ask Lucy." I pointed at Lucy who seemed to be having trouble paying for our groceries. Steele gaped longingly at Lucy's shapely behind. I batted my eyelashes. "She's a Mormon."
"Kinky," Steele replied approvingly. "Very kinky."
"She's weird. I think she's possessed. Oh, there you are, Lucy. This is Steele. He's an old friend of mine."
Lucy appraised Steele coolly. "You're Amerikan, aren't you? Are you a tourist here?"
"I work at the Embassy." Steele caught my warning glare too late. Lucy turned and looked at me hatefully. "Uh, did I say something…"
"Never mind," I snapped. "Let's just go get a fucking drink, all right?"
Surprisingly Lucy agreed to go drinking with us. Even more surprisingly the prim little angel was drinking with us, glass for glass. While refusing to talk to me, Lucy was getting along just a bit too well with Steele for my liking. By the time we were halfway through the second bottle, Lucy was leaning her head against Steele's shoulder and singing (a hymn?) softly to herself. By the third bottle, Lucy's face was buried in Steele's suited abdomen. Steele didn't seem to have a problem with that: he was happily stroking her hair.
"Psst… Steele," I whispered cautiously. "How do people make money on Wall Street these days?" Lucy was staring glassily at her empty glass. I reached out and carefully poured her some more just in case she was still conscious.
Steele looked up at me with mock horror. "Don't do it! Don't even think about it!"
"Why not?"
"Scary people," Steel explained. "Monsters. Evil brutes. Real crazies. Ugly demons. With a head for numbers. And political savvy. You need both in the currency markets. That's where the big money is made these days. By the serious players anyway."
"Like who?"
"Oh well, there's the pension funds. But they don't really want to make money. They just want to keep it safe for Joe Steelworker who's going to retire next week and then keel over with a heart attack. That's where they make their profits. Lots of tobacco stocks. But then there are maybe fifteen really big individual players who go for broke. They're like sharks with technology. Megalomaniacs with a killer instinct. Like this guy you work for. Mister X-O-X. He's a big boy on the currency markets. A master of the universe. And a nut. Certified."
Lucy sat up suddenly. "What do you know about him anyway?" she asked drunkenly before subsiding again with a hiccup.
"Is Xox was a front for the CIA?" I asked cautiously.
"Not that I know of. Where the hell did you hear that?"
"From a friend in British intelligence."
Steele laughed. "They should know," he replied sardonically. "They give most of their bribes to Third World governments through the guy. Not to mention their covert payments to all the dissident groups that want to overthrow those same governments. Just ask the Sikh revolutionary groups in London."
"Through the Fund for Peace and Love?"
"Is that what it's called?" Steele asked with interest.
Like a wind-up toy, Lucy sat up again. "You are both stupid," she slurred belligerently. "Mister Xox works for no man. You cannot serve both Man and Mammon!"
Steele tried to stroke Lucy's head again but she dodged his hand and fell off her chair. "Take me home," she moaned. I moved to help her up but she swatted me away viciously with her shoe. "Not you," she groaned. "Traitor. Deceiver. CIA mole. I hate you. Never want to see you again."
"Do you want me to take you home, honey? " Steele asked. He winked at me. I stared back in outrage.
"CIA man?" Lucy asked, opening one eye. "Always wondered what it would be like to fuck a spy. James Bond, baby."
"Good girl. Shaken not stirred. I'll take care of her," Steele promised. "I'll be nice. She's sweet. Does she drink much normally?"
"Never. I don't know what came over her."
"I did. Or I will," Steele said lewdly.
"Bed! Any bed!" Lucy said loudly from the floor. The waitress looked concerned. I hurriedly paid her off. Steele and I pulled Lucy to her feet. Steele had his arm around her as their taxi pulled away. I sighed and went back into the bar and ordered another bottle of wine and a plate of appetizers. The waitress made disgusted faces at me as I stuck greasy handfuls of fried cheese into my face. I didn't really care. Heart break yet again. I didn't feel like calling Lulu about it just yet. Besides she had probably gone to Berlin. Eventually I decided to walk back to the university and call home. The cool night air might clear my head and I was just sober enough to stagger back. It was late afternoon in Kalifornia and I felt just drunk enough to talk to my mother. I needed money. Man cannot live on wine and cheese alone.
