Ask The Dust by John Fante

Author:John Fante
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9781847673657
Publisher: Canongate Books
Published: 1998-10-18T10:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

The name on the mailbox was Vera Rivken, and that was her full name. It was down on the Long Beach Pike, across the street from the Ferris Wheel and the Roller Coaster. Downstairs a poolhall, upstairs a few single apartments. No mistaking that flight of stairs; it possessed her odour. The banister was warped and bent, and the grey wallpaint was swollen, with puffed places that cracked open when I pushed them with my thumb.

When I knocked, she opened the door.

‘So soon?’ she said.

Take her in your arms, Bandini. Don’t grimace at her kiss, break away gently, with a smile, say something. ‘You look wonderful,’ I said. No chance to speak, she was over me again, clinging like a wet vine, her tongue, like a frightened snake’s head, searching my mouth. Oh great Italian Lover Bandini, reciprocate! Oh Jewish girl, if you would be so kind, if you would approach these matters more slowly! So I was free again, wandering to the window, saying something about the sea and the view beyond. ‘Nice view,’ I said. But she was taking off my coat, leading me to a chair in the corner, taking off my shoes. ‘Be comfortable,’ she said. Then she was gone, and I sat with my teeth gritted, looking at a room like ten million California rooms, a bit of wood here and a bit of rag there, the furniture, with cobwebs in the ceiling and dust in the corners, her room, and everybody’s room, Los Angeles, Long Beach, San Diego, a few boards of plaster and stucco to keep the sun out.

She was in a little white hole called the kitchen, scattering pans and rattling glasses, and I sat and wondered why she could be one thing when I was alone in my room and something else the moment I was with her. I looked for incense, that saccharine smell, it had to come from somewhere, but there was no incense burner in the room, nothing in the room but dirty blue overstuffed furniture, a table with a few books scattered over it, and a mirror over the panelling of a Murphy bed. Then she came out of the kitchen with a glass of milk in her hand. ‘Here,’ she offered. ‘A cool drink.’

But it wasn’t cool at all, it was almost hot, and there was a yellowish scum on top, and sipping it I tasted her lips and the strong food she ate, a taste of rye bread and Camembert cheese. ‘It’s good,’ I said, ‘delicious.’

She was sitting at my feet, her hands on my knees, staring at me with the eyes of hunger, tremendous eyes so large I might have lost myself in them. She was dressed as I saw her the first time, the same clothes, and the place was so desolate I knew she had no others, but I had come before she had had a chance to powder or rouge and now I saw the sculpture of age under her eyes and through her cheeks.

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