The Days of Anna Madrigal: A Novel (Tales of the City) by Maupin Armistead

Author:Maupin, Armistead [Maupin, Armistead]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2014-01-21T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 14

ONLY TALES

The middle of California scrolled past them in a golden blur, steepled with the shrines of Petco and McDonald’s, a landscape like anywhere else in America. Or the world, for that matter. Years ago, when Wren had modeled caftans among the ancient ruins of Delphi, she’d been appalled by the long suburban drive out of Athens. A terrain intended for satyrs had abandoned its soul to Toyota dealerships.

She opened the ice chest and pulled out a sweating bottle. “Kombucha?” she asked, displaying it lengthwise for Mrs. Madrigal as Vanna White might do. “This is lavender, but we also have hibiscus here at the Club Winnebago Sacramento.”

“What is it, dear?”

“Oh shit, who knows. It just showed up in the stores. It has enzymes or something—live cultures—living breathing things. Definitely an acquired taste. Kind of floral and moldy at the same time.”

The old woman widened her eyes. “How much more floral and moldy do I need to be?”

Wren laughed and twisted the cap. “It’s good, though. I was surprised. Stops short of sweet and gets somewhere deeper in your taste buds, if that makes any sense.” She took a sip, then held it out to Anna, who took it from her and drank.

As near as Wren could tell, she liked it.

“Good?”

“Mmm. I’ve always fallen for a good snake oil salesman.”

Wren wasn’t sure how to take that, but she laughed.

“It’s all in the pitch, isn’t it? Show me some enthusiasm and I’ll believe anything you say.”

Wren chuckled. “Did you learn that at the Blue Moon?”

“In the vicinity.” Mrs. Madrigal handed the bottle back to Wren with a tight little smile. “I’m afraid that’s a taste I won’t have sufficient time to acquire.”

“Give her a Coke! I think there’s one in there!” This was Brian, yelling from the driver’s seat. He liked getting lost in what he called “the Zen of the road,” but every now and then he’d pipe up, letting them know he was still there.

“No, dear,” said Anna. “I’m perfectly fine.”

Wren tucked the bottle back into the ice chest. “Would you like to stretch out? The bunk is right there. We’ve got at least two more hours until Tahoe.”

“No, thank you. I’m very comfy. I love watching the world go by. I haven’t done it much lately. It’s a treat.”

“Am I talking too much?”

“Not at all.”

“I wanna know about your life,” Wren said flatly. “How you . . . made it the way it was supposed to be.”

“My reassignment, you mean?”

“In part, yeah. You must’ve been one of the first?”

“Oh, no. There were people in the thirties. Dr. Hirschfeld in Berlin had several patients, one of whom died after surgery. The one I knew about, of course, was Christine Jorgensen in the early fifties. Everyone knows about her.”

Anna was clearly waiting for an acknowledgment that Wren was unable to provide. “Sorry, that was—”

“Before your time. Of course. She’d been George Jorgensen of the Bronx. In the army like me . . . and she went to Denmark for the hormones and surgery.

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