The Emperor's Children by Claire Messud

Author:Claire Messud [Messud, Claire]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
ISBN: 9780307266019
Google: dVImniq9amoC
Amazon: B000JMKR6G
Publisher: Knopf
Published: 2006-08-29T07:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Exposé

It was just before dawn when he left. On his way out in the elevator, Julius rubbed his eyes, coughed. Felt like shit. His heart was thundering, in the back of his head, it seemed. His dick and his thigh muscles and his throat were all sore. And he felt as though the cigarette smoke had settled, along with the sweat, in a film upon him. If he’d known that Lewis lived three blocks from his and David’s apartment, he wouldn’t have pursued him with quite as much gusto. When he’d gone to the bar, almost all the way to his old neighborhood, it hadn’t occurred to him that the day’s catch could live in the building next to David’s gym. Even racing—he’d been up, up last night—he’d had the wit not to foul the nest, he’d headed for Pitt Street—if he were honest, he’d have to admit that he’d planned it all beforehand—only to find that fat naked fuck practically wanking on his futon. He couldn’t really remember what Shake Your Booty looked like, just the glasses and the thin spread of hair on his chest and the womanly spill of flesh over his BVD elastic. The kid had been trying to shrink his bulk into the window frame, hands over his underpants like someone in a torture photo, as if Julius had been wielding a water cannon or a BB gun. He’d been scared. And Julius had been mean to him. Which he felt bad about, in the middle of feeling like shit; but he’d been angry. The whole thing a colossal fuck-up.

Julius wallowed in the despair of his hangover: What the fuck was he doing with his life? With himself? He had meant to be sorting out his career this year; had been diverted—so thoroughly—by love; and now he wasn’t even any good at that. He was an asshole, a selfish, screwed-up jerk. He was supposed to take the ten-thirty train out to Scarsdale for an extended weekend of Cohen-charming. He thought of David’s mother, a far cry from his own delicate parent with her fears and hesitations, her flowery indirection. Mrs. Cohen was small, but a force; and she had plans for this holiday. David, who’d gone out there yesterday to placate her, had snickered down the phone about her new patriotic melamine plates (all stars) and cups (all stripes). She’d bought Chinese lanterns with American flags on them, and the caterer was bringing a kosher feast, including a cake with blue icing. The Cohens didn’t keep kosher, but Adele’s cousins from Albany did, and they were going to be there. “It never hurts to make an effort,” Adele had told David. “What do you think of my manicure?” Which, David had said, gleamed a jingoistic red.

Julius was dreading it all just a little: the goy, the Asian, the fag. They meant well, but couldn’t really be pleased about it, and Adele always manifested her displeasure by failing to hear what Julius said and promptly forgetting all information concerning him.

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