The Angel Esmeralda - Don Delillo [1]
First scribner hardcover edition November 2011
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DESIGNED BY ERICH HOBBING
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
ISBN 978-1-4516-5584-1
ISBN 978-1-4516-5807-1 (ebook)
These stories appeared in the following publications: “Creation” in Antaeus 33, Spring 1979; “Human Moments in World War III” in Esquire, July 1983; “The Runner” in Harper’s, September 1988; “The Ivory Acrobat” in Granta 25, Autumn 1988; “The Angel Esmeralda” in Esquire, May 1994; “Baader-Meinhof” in The New Yorker, April 1, 2002; “Midnight in Dostoevsky” in The New Yorker, November 30, 2009; “Hammer and Sickle” in Harper’s, December 2010; and “The starveling” in Granta 117, Autumn 2011.
The image on p. 45 is from the book Herakleion Museum, published by Ekdotike Athenon, and is used with permission. The image on p. 103 is a painting by Gerhard Richter and is used with permission of the Marian Goodman Gallery. Digital Image © The Museum of Modern Art / Licensed by SCALA / Art Resource, NY.
CONTENTS
PART ONE
Creation
Human Moments in World War III
PART TWO
The Runner
The Ivory Acrobat
The Angel Esmeralda
PART THREE
Baader-Meinhof
Midnight in Dostoevsky
Hammer and Sickle
The Starveling
THE ANGEL
ESMERALDA
PART ONE
Creation (1979)
Human Moments in World War III (1983)
CREATION
It was an hour’s drive, much of it a climb through smoky rain. I kept my window open several inches, hoping to catch a fragrance, some savor of aromatic shrubs. Our driver slowed down for the worst parts of the road and the tightest turns and for cars coming toward us through the haze. At intervals the bordering vegetation was less thick and there were views of pure jungle, whole valleys of it, spread between the hills.
Jill read her book on the Rockefellers. Once into something she was unreachable, as though massively stunned, and all the way out I saw her raise her eyes from the page only once, to glance at some children playing in a field.
There wasn’t much traffic in either direction. The cars coming toward us appeared abruptly, little color cartoons, ramshackle and bouncing, and Rupert, our driver, had to maneuver quickly in the total rain to avoid collisions and deep gashes in the road and the actual jungle pressing in. It seemed to be understood that any evasive action would have to be taken by our vehicle, the taxi.
The road leveled out. Now and then someone stood in the trees, looking in at us. Smoke rolled down from the heights. The car climbed again, briefly, and then entered the airport, a series of small buildings and a runway. The rain stopped. I paid Rupert and we carried the luggage into the terminal. Then he stood outside with other men in sport shirts, talking in the sudden glare.
The room was full of people, luggage and boxes. Jill sat on her suitcase, reading, with our tote bags and carry-ons placed about her. I pushed my way to the counter and found out we were wait-listed, numbers five and six. This brought a thoughtful look to my face. I told the man we’d confirmed in St. Vincent. He said it was necessary to reconfirm seventy-two hours before flight time. I told him we’d been sailing; we were in the Tobago Cays seventy-two hours ago—no people, no buildings, no phones. He said it was the rule to reconfirm. He showed me eleven names on a piece of paper. Physical evidence. We were five and six.
I went over to tell Jill. She let her body sag into the luggage, a stylized collapse. It took her a while to finish. Then we carried on a formal dialogue. She made all