The Last Time They Met_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [53]
He turned slightly, leaned his hip against the railing, and looked through the set of casement windows into a room that Elaine repeatedly referred to as the drawing room, another British export that seemed anachronistic in a country where nearly everyone lived in huts. Just at this party alone, he could count three affairs he knew about, and who could say how many others lay beneath this modest number? Roland, himself, was sleeping with Elaine’s best friend, Jane, and the odd thing was, Regina had said, Elaine knew about it and didn’t care. Which raised the question: with whom was Elaine sleeping? Regal Elaine, who would not have gone without. Lanky Elaine, with her hard, nut-brown face and her hair bleached nearly platinum by a lifetime on the equator. Imperious Elaine, who had been born in Kenya and had once told Thomas huffily that she was a Kenyan citizen (though it didn’t seem to have made her like Africans any better, he had noticed). She kept horses and had the thighs of a rider. She had a unique sort of beauty, but her personality was as weather-beaten as her face. Worse than Roland at hiding her contempt for Americans. She glanced up at that moment and saw that Thomas was staring at her. He quickly slid his eyes away. She might misinterpret the examination, might even flirt with him later.
Jesus, he thought, turning back to the railing. That was all he needed.
He’d had the migraine for hours and had been glad for the darkened room. Regina had been puttering in the kitchen and then had been reading on the verandah. In the privacy of the bedroom, he’d felt the joy even then, even through the nauseating haze of the pain. And when the unbearable had subsided, he’d been nearly euphoric with happiness. He’d played the conversation he’d had with Linda in the market over and over, the repetition of the phrases like a poem he was trying to memorize.
Is it really you?
This is very strange.
Have you changed?
That was years ago. Everything is different now.
He heard the soft click of the door to the verandah behind him. He sent up a quick prayer that it wasn’t Elaine.
—Our resident rhyming fool.
Roland, generous golden drink in hand, sidled up to Thomas and leaned his elbows on the wrought-iron railing, a position that looked, but couldn’t be, at ease. His arms were swathed in some synthetic shirt material Roland let you know had specially been sent from London.
—I don’t rhyme, Thomas said.
—Really not? I didn’t realize.
Roland took a sip of his drink and brushed a greasy forelock from his forehead. His smell was rank with an overlay of cologne. Not to mention his lethal breath, evident at a yard. The British didn’t bathe but once or twice a week; well, no one did out here.
—Where can one get your books, anyway?
—There aren’t any books.
Thomas was certain they’d already had this conversation, months ago.
—Oh. How disappointing.
Roland’s trousers, also of some synthetic material, were tight against his thighs and belled over his shoes. He wore a heavy silver watch with an expansion band too big for him.
—Broadsides? Pamphlets? Roland asked, with seeming insouciance.
—Literary magazines, Thomas said, immediately regretting the note of pride.
—I suppose there’s a market for that sort of thing in the States?
Thomas wondered where Roland’s lover was tonight. Jane, whose husband led safaris and was often conveniently away from home. Whose husband complained loudly at parties about not being allowed to shoot the game anymore.
—None.
—Oh, dear, Roland said with faint dismay. Regina must do well?