American Purgatorio by John Haskell

Author:John Haskell [Haskell, John]
Language: ita
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Adult, Contemporary
ISBN: 9780312424992
Amazon: 8807701723
Barnesnoble: 8807701723
Goodreads: 208473
Publisher: Picador
Published: 2004-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

3.

I found Linda and her two friends, Geoff and Lisa, sitting on a picnic bench in front of a large canvas yurt. Linda stood up when she saw me approaching and met me on the dirt road leading to the yurt. I could tell that something was going on, that a familial powwow was in progress, and that this probably wasn’t a very good time to talk.

But I wanted to talk. “I was looking for you,” I said.

“I’m glad you made it,” she said.

“This is nice,” I said, turning and looking generally around the area.

We stood there, and I have to say it was slightly awkward. She looked at me and she seemed glad to see me, but the conversation didn’t seem to go anywhere.

“How was the drive?” I said.

“It was fine,” she said.

She smiled at me in an apologetic way, and I could tell she felt impelled to get back to her friends, so I told her I’d see her later, at the party.

“Definitely,” she said, and we both turned and walked away.

By the time I got back to the house the celebration had already started. People on the porch were playing guitars and singing, and there was a punch bowl and people were drinking and dancing, swaying and twirling to the music. I drank from the bowl and I was introduced—or introduced myself—to a number of people, all from the same social tribe, all wearing loose-fitting garments and carefully uncared-for hair. Smiling, and not just outwardly, these friends—the community of people that lived in and around the tents and the house—were living a kind of cliché, but as I stood with them, in the middle of it, they didn’t seem at all false or pretentious.

Someone had built a sweat lodge just down a trail from the house, and people would leave the area around the house and then return later, hair wet and faces flushed. I joined a group—one man had a flashlight—walking down to this sweat lodge and what it was was a stick structure like an igloo, covered in plastic, with a fire outside. Red-hot rocks were brought from the fire into the tent and doused with water. About six or eight people were sitting cross-legged in the sweat lodge, all naked and sweating, and when I saw Feather standing at the entrance, steam rising off her body, her hair braided like the famous Indian chief she was emulating, I didn’t fall in love because I was still thinking about Anne. But I saw her beauty. Even from a sidelong view her nakedness revealed a beauty of purity, or a purity of beauty, and yes, Anne had purity, and she also had a sense of humor, but while Anne was uppermost in my mind, I was somewhere else, not in the upper regions, but somewhere below that, in my belly, which was feeling unusually taut as I took off my shirt and my shoes. When I was completely undressed and about to step into the tent,

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