Citati
he dared you not to laugh with him. He dared you to despair. He dared you to insist that there was no dawn, that all there was was darkness, that there was no silver lining, that the heart didn’t grow fonder by absence. He dared you to believe you were going to die—when you at that moment knew, just as he did, that you were immortal, you were among the gods.
JACARANDA couldn’t quite remember when it was that she had glided from the banks of the Nile onto the barge. Perhaps because even that first night nothing had looked very different from the rest of the world. Well, of course, things were a little finer at Max’s, better silverware. Ease.
JACARANDA couldn’t quite remember when it was that she had glided from the banks of the Nile onto the barge. Perhaps because even that first night nothing had looked very different from the rest of the world. Well, of course, things were a little finer at Max’s, better silverware. Ease.
Bungalow Mornings
The parties would last till 2 or 3 a.m. The girls would tempt Etienne and he’d choose one, perhaps a pretty little laughing blonde he had besieged with dozens of roses, color TVs, and even diamond stud earrings—anything her little heart desired. They were high in Trousdale, hanging above L.A. with the jasmine. Although oleanders overgrew the gates, Etienne’s oleanders were pink, not white. At about midnight, suddenly, the whole thing would become too boring and Etienne would start spewing insults at the little blonde. Or, worse yet, forget her and start fresh on some new woman who crossed his path.
Jacaranda, of course, being in love with Max, didn’t care too much about Etienne’s intentions (except it wasn’t nice, what he’d said to April, so before that evening was finished Jacaranda poured pineapple juice all over his fresh cream silk suit). Since Jacaranda cared so little about what Etienne was doing, she usually wound up being the one with whom Etienne slept. By two or three o’clock, Jacaranda would be the only unpassed-out woman extant, and she, Max, and Etienne would have a nightcap and discuss the evening, until one of them was sent home in a Rolls-Royce limousine—Max.
The parties would last till 2 or 3 a.m. The girls would tempt Etienne and he’d choose one, perhaps a pretty little laughing blonde he had besieged with dozens of roses, color TVs, and even diamond stud earrings—anything her little heart desired. They were high in Trousdale, hanging above L.A. with the jasmine. Although oleanders overgrew the gates, Etienne’s oleanders were pink, not white. At about midnight, suddenly, the whole thing would become too boring and Etienne would start spewing insults at the little blonde. Or, worse yet, forget her and start fresh on some new woman who crossed his path.
Jacaranda, of course, being in love with Max, didn’t care too much about Etienne’s intentions (except it wasn’t nice, what he’d said to April, so before that evening was finished Jacaranda poured pineapple juice all over his fresh cream silk suit). Since Jacaranda cared so little about what Etienne was doing, she usually wound up being the one with whom Etienne slept. By two or three o’clock, Jacaranda would be the only unpassed-out woman extant, and she, Max, and Etienne would have a nightcap and discuss the evening, until one of them was sent home in a Rolls-Royce limousine—Max.
Jacaranda kept muddling through, able to arise each morning looking just slightly tangled and confused, a look that was almost cute, especially when she frowned and moaned, “Oh, God! Oh, no. Oh, I couldn’t have!”
As for Etienne, he seemed pleased with Jacaranda’s bravado. It was as though the more pasty-faced and impossible she became with each passing month, the more it pleased him watching her drunkenly delude herself that she was sailing along, walking on water. Jacaranda’s kind of foolhardy determination made Etienne’s eyes grow madly hot. There was something in Etienne that made him sympathetic to self-destruction of all kinds, for he would have gladly blown himself to smithereens for fun, if only it wouldn’t have interfered so permanently with his plans.
As for Etienne, he seemed pleased with Jacaranda’s bravado. It was as though the more pasty-faced and impossible she became with each passing month, the more it pleased him watching her drunkenly delude herself that she was sailing along, walking on water. Jacaranda’s kind of foolhardy determination made Etienne’s eyes grow madly hot. There was something in Etienne that made him sympathetic to self-destruction of all kinds, for he would have gladly blown himself to smithereens for fun, if only it wouldn’t have interfered so permanently with his plans.
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