The Secret History - Donna Tartt [24]
“No thanks.”
“C’mon.”
“That’s okay.”
“C’mon.”
“No thank you, I don’t want any,” I said.
“First time I ever had one of these was when I was in Jamaica, two summers ago,” said Bunny reminiscently. “Bartender named Sam cooked it up for me. ‘Drink three of these, son,’ he said, ‘and you won’t be able to find the door’ and bless me, I couldn’t. Ever been to Jamaica?”
“Not recently, no.”
“Probably you’re used to palm trees and coconuts and all that sort of thing, in California and all. I thought it was wonderful. Bought a pink bathing suit with flowers on it and everything. Tried to get Henry to come down there with me but he said there was no culture, which I don’t think is true, they did have some kind of a little museum or something.”
“You get along with Henry?”
“Oh, sure thing,” said Bunny, reared back in his chair. “We were roommates. Freshman year.”
“And you like him?”
“Certainly, certainly. He’s a hard fellow to live with, though. Hates noise, hates company, hates a mess. None of this bringing your date back to the room to listen to a couple Art Pepper records, if you know what I’m trying to get at.”
“I think he’s sort of rude.”
Bunny shrugged. “That’s his way. See, his mind doesn’t work the same way yours and mine do. He’s always up in the clouds with Plato or something. Works too hard, takes himself too seriously, studying Sanskrit and Coptic and those other nutty languages. Henry, I tell him, if you’re going to waste your time learning something besides Greek—that and the King’s English are all I think a man needs, personally—why don’t you buy yourself some Berlitz records and brush up on your French. Find a little can-can girl or something. Voolay-voo coushay avec moi and all that.”
“How many languages does he know?”
“I lost count. Seven or eight. He can read hieroglyphics.”
“Wow.”
Bunny shook his head fondly. “He’s a genius, that boy. He could be a translator for the UN if he wanted to be.”
“Where’s he from?”
“Missouri.”
He said this in such a deadpan way I thought he was joking, and I laughed.
Bunny raised an amused eyebrow. “What? You thought he was from Buckingham Palace or something?”
I shrugged, still laughing. Henry was so peculiar, it was hard to imagine him being from anyplace.
“Yep,” said Bunny. “The Show-Me State. St. Louis boy like old Tom Eliot. Father’s some kind of a construction tycoon—and not quite above board, either, so my cousins in St. Lou tell me. Not that Henry will give you the slightest clue what his dad does. Acts like he doesn’t know and certainly doesn’t care.”
“Have you been to his house?”
“Are you kidding? He’s so secretive, you’d think it was the Manhattan Project or something. But I met his mother one time. Kind of by accident. She stopped in Hampden to see him on her way to New York and I bumped into her wandering around downstairs in Monmouth asking people if they knew where his room was.”
“What was she like?”
“Pretty lady. Dark hair and blue eyes like Henry, mink coat, too much lipstick and stuff if you ask me. Awfully young. Henry’s her only chick and she adores him.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Family’s got money like you wouldn’t believe. Millions and millions. Course it’s about as new as it comes, but a buck’s a buck, know what I mean?” He winked. “By the way. Meant to ask. How does your pop earn his filthy lucre?”
“Oil,” I said. It was partly true.
Bunny’s mouth fell open in a little round o. “You have oil wells?”
“Well, we have one,” I said modestly.
“But it’s a good one?”
“So they tell me.”
“Boy,” said Bunny, shaking his head. “The Golden West.”
“It’s been good to us,” I said.
“Geez,” Bunny said. “My dad’s just a lousy old bank president.”
I felt it necessary to change the subject, however awkwardly, as we were heading here towards treacherous waters. “If Henry’s from St. Louis,” I said, “how did he get to be so smart?”
This was an innocuous question but, unexpectedly, Bunny winced. “Henry had a bad accident when he