Libra - Don Delillo [150]
“He doesn’t like to smoke or drink,” Ferrie said. “He never says dirty words. We want to be nice to him.”
“Nice for a price,” she said.
“You get the front end. I get the back end. Like bumper cars,” Ferrie said.
They thought that was cute too.
They all got into Ferrie’s Rambler and drove up Magazine. The theme of the ride was “Taking Lee Home.” Linda Frenchette sat in the back seat. She had tequila in a wineglass and clapped a hand over the top of the glass every time the car stopped short. She found a TV lunchbox on the seat with cartoon figures painted on the surface and some hand-rolled cigarettes inside. Ferrie took one and lighted it while Lee steered from the passenger seat. Hashish, said Cap’n Dave. They rolled up the windows and let the heavy scent collect, strong and rooted. Ferrie passed the stick around. A pudgy little thing tapered at both ends. They were taking Lee home.
They parked in front of a nice-looking house with a two-story porch, a couple of doors up from Lee. He’d used their garbage can several times. Linda lighted up another stick. They passed it round and round. It was 3:00 A.M. and with the windows up and the smoke collecting, there was very little world out there. They gave Lee instructions on smoking the dope. They argued about it, fiercely. He was smoking just to smoke. Then Ferrie recited the history of hashish, lighting up another stick, which took forever. Everything moved through time. The heat in the car was getting hard to take and the smoke seared Lee’s throat. Linda dipped her tongue in tequila and softly licked his ear. They were in a place where a heartbeat took time.
“This is one of those times I don’t know if I’m doing it or remembering it,” she said.
“Doing what?” Ferrie said.
“In other words am I home in bed thinking about this or is the whole thing happening right now?”
“What whole thing?” Ferrie said.
His voice was far away. He rolled down his window to let the smoke out. Lee looked straight ahead. Bright ashes tumbled down his shirtfront. He realized Linda was reaching over the seat back. She groped, is the only word, at his belt buckle and fly.
“I’m hoping dear Jesus I’m at home. Because the idea that I have to get there yet is too much razzle to imagine.”
Lee let Ferrie open his pants. Then Linda had his cock jumping in her fist and was hanging way over the seat back with her mouth open wide, sounding a comic growl.
Lee looked straight ahead. He heard Linda breathing through her nose. She changed her position, hitting her head on the jutting ashtray. He tried to recall the name of a girl he wanted to date once, plaid-skirted, when he was dating age.
Then Ferrie’s voice began to reach him in weighted time, moving slowly, one word, another, deeply shaped, like ads for epic movies, those 3-D letters stretched across a bible desert.
“They’ve been watching you a long time, Leon. Think about them. Who are they? What do they want? I’m with them but I’m also with you. There are things they aren’t telling us. This is always the case. There’s always more to it. Something we don’t know about. Truth isn’t what we know or feel. It’s the thing that waits just beyond. We share a consciousness, like tonight. The hashish makes us Turks. We share a homeland and a spirit. What Linda says is true. You’re at home, in bed now, remembering.”
Then he reached across the dangling woman to straighten Lee’s bow tie.
Marina had a standing invitation to stay with her friend Ruth Paine in Dallas. Ruth Paine would be a big help when the new baby came. She knew some of the Dallas émigrés and wanted to improve her Russian, which gave Marina a chance to return the favor.
It looked like New Orleans was over. In a way it had never begun. Lee wanted her back in Russia to free himself of responsibility. She thought he would settle for Dallas, at least for now.
Ruth Paine was passing through New Orleans from the East or the Midwest and she could take Marina back