Man Who Was Late Read Online Free PDF

prospective tenant in a miniskirt that stops at the crotch; she is a sun worshiper, she explains, as she leads us up a spiral-ladder contraption to the terrace on the rooftop (an even better view of the legs with a hint of the twin gates between). I forbear from confessing I am a blind leg worshiper—must touch, must feel, must enter the temple (on my knees if need be). She tells me she will principally worship in her native Venezuela for the 3 years to come, but has a little house in Bora Bora for intensive retreats. Perhaps I would care to come.… The word is like a bell; I switch to the language of Descartes to recover my composure. Mind made up this lodging will not do but
commerce oblige
. We admire the terrace, study the watering system for the hibiscus, descend the ladder (no view), penetrate the mistress bedroom done in gray leather, possibly to set off the collection of omnipresent native masks, hats, and clubs (just like dildos only bigger), two guest rooms (smaller dildos, perfect for Jack and dear Prudence), etc.
    At last I sense I have been polite long enough.
    If only you were not leaving,
chère
Madame, if I could be your grateful lodger, it would be a cinch: your humble servant would pant to pay FF 15,000/ month plus charges, plus whatever it takes in cashunder the table for Juanita/Susanna, merely for the privilege of being near you, huddling in the smallest room with the smallest dildos, pardon, clubs, but as it is …
    And so I flee, and so let the marquis, his spirits dampened, tongue loose, drive me as far as the Opéra, where I catch a cab.
    All this is nonsense, the right stuff for lunch with Jack. Nothing to do with poor Ben, mad Ben, not the way he is now.
    We are not very well, is that not so? We do not like bumping against curbs when we drive our little auto, even without a drop having taken, do we? And what have you eaten, Lord Randall my son, to feel so ill and frightened while the little marquis heads for the Automobile Club, the two hours he wasted with you already receding in his mind? Darkness and loneliness, Mother. I fain would be happy but do not know how. Meanwhile, Montmartre and the 360° view are not for me. I will not drive my Peugeot up those winding streets. I will not buy
boudins blancs
at the corner charcuterie or consume them alone in that Latin whore’s nest or correct there the offering prospectus for Biscuits Cul after my solitary meal.
    Cab stuck on the way to the Left Bank. Monstrous traffic jam at the Carrousel. Hangover returns, with it poison gas and stomach cramps. Jack and Prudence are
ante portes
—just like Prudence to write they are coming before good old Ben has built his dream house.
    Mercifully, the rue du Cherche-Midi is one way the right way. Pull up at familiar building opposite rue Férou at six sharp. A few doors up the street, refurbished hotel, now full of black diplomats. No questions asked, sparkling clean chintz rooms, hard beds I’ve tried to death with Josiane, Christiane, Liliane (not picked for euphony, cross my heart!). Hotel’s proximity of dubious value if I take the place but, with my life’s twists and turns, who is to say?
    Manservant opens door. Previously concealed or new since last visit. Italian—very polite. Mme de la Chapelle, née Morgan, will see me; never know whether to kiss these Franco-American hands. In her case, to be consistent, I do. Usual synoptic review of: all her Morgan and Roosevelt connections putatively alive, whether or not known to me; Rachel and what are the names of those darling twin girls; my partners over sixty—here manservant pours a martini, may the Almighty pour blessings on him; the iniquity of French taxes in all their manifestations now that the regretted Léandre de la C. is no longer here to “cope.” She’s getting to the point; that is why she has decided to lease but not yet sell this 18th c. pavilion, entrance from the courtyard of a banal building, on the other side its own garden, with all