Then softly to Craig, "Well done, hero, call me when you've got the new typescript finished, and he hurried after Sally-Anne. As she went through the door the sunlight back-lit her and Craig saw the shape of her legs through her skirt. They were long and lovely, and then she was gone.
Henry Pickering was fiddling with his glass, studying the wine thoughtfully.
"It's pasteurized Roman goat urine," Craig said. He found his voice was uneven. He signalled the wine waiter and ordered a Meursault.
"That's better," Henry understated it. "Well, perhaps the book wasn't such a great idea after all, was it?" He glanced at his wrist-watch. "We'd better order." They talked of other things the Mexican loan default, Reagan's midterm assessment, the gold price Henry preferred silver for a quick appreciation and thought diamonds would soon be looking good again. "I'd buy De Beers to hold," he advised.
A svelte young blonde from one of the other tables came across while they were taking coffee.
"You're Craig Mello*," she accused him. "I saw you on TV. I loved yQuit book. Please, please, sign this for me." While he signed her menu, she leaned over him and pressed one hard hot little breast against his shoulder.
"I work at the cosmetics counter in Saks Fifth Ave," she breathed.
"You can find me there any time." The odour of expensive, pilfered perfumes lingered after she had left.
"Do you always turn them away?" Henry asked a little wistfully.
[mill
"Man is only flesh and blood," Craig laughed, and Henry insisted on paying the tab.
"I have a limo, "he offered. "I could drop you."
"I'll walk off the pasta," Craig said.
CDO you know, Craig, I think you'll go back to Africa. I saw the way you looked at those photographs. Likea hungry man."
"It's possible."
"The book. Our interest in it. There was more to it than Ashe understood. You know the top blacks there. That interests me. The ideas you expressed in the book fit into our thinking. If you do decide to go back, call me before you do. You and I could do each other a favour." Henry climbed into the back seat of the black Cadillac, and then with the door still open he said, "I thought her pictures were rather good, actually." He closed the door and nodded to the chauffeur.
was moored between two new commercially built yachts, a forty-five-foot Camper and Nicholson and a Hatteras convertible, and she stood the comparison well enough, although she was almost five years old. Craig had put in every screw with his own hands. He paused at the gates of the marina to look at her, but somehow today he did not derive as much pleasure as usual from her lines.
"Been a couple of calls for you, Craig," the girl behind the reception desk in the marina office called out to him as he went in. "You can use this phone," she offered.
He checked the slips she handed him, one from his broker marked turgent', another from the literary editor of a mid-western daily. There hadn't been too many of those recently.
He phoned the broker first. They had sold the Mocatta gold certificates that he had bought for three hundred and twenty dollars an ounce at five hundred and two dollars.
He instructed them to put the money on call deposit.
Then he dialled the second number. While he waited to be connected, the girl behind the desk moved around more than was really necessary, bending over the lowest drawers of the filing-cabinet to give Craig a good look at what she had in her white Bermudas and pink halter-top.
When Craig connected with the literary editor, she wanted to know when they were publishing his new book.
"What book?" Craig thought bitterly, but he answered, "We haven't got a firm date yet but it's in the pipeline.
Do you want to do an interview in the meantime?"
"Thanks, but we will wait until publication, Mr. Mellow."
"Long wait, my darling," Craig thought, and when he hung up the girl looked up brightly.
"The party is on Firewater tonight." There was a party on one of the yachts every single night of the year.
"Are you coming across?" She had a flat tight belly between the shorts and top.
Without the glasses, she might be quite pretty and what the hell, he had just made a quarter of a million dollars on the gold certificates and a fool of himself at the lunch table.
"I'm having a private party on Bawu," he said, "for two." She had been a good patient girl and her time had come.
Her face lit up soohe saw he had been right. She really was quite pretty. "I "finish in here at five."
"I know" he said. "Come straight down." Wipe one out and make another happy, he thought. It should even out, but of course it didn't.
raig lay on his back under a single sheet in the wide bunk with both hands behind his head and listened to the small sounds in the night, the creak of the rudder in its restrainer, the tap of a halyard against the mast and the slap of wavelets under the hull. Across the basin the party on Firewater was still in full swing, there was a faint splash and a distant burst of drunken laughter as they threw somebody overboard, and beside him the girl made regular little wet fluttering sounds through her lips as she slept.
She had been eager and very practised, but nevertheless Craig felt unrequited and restless. He wanted to go up on deck, but that would have disturbed the girl and he knew she would still be eager and he could not be bothered further. So he lay and let the images from Sally-Anne's portfolio run through his head likea magic, lantern show, and they triggered others that had long lain dormant but now came back to him fresh and vivid, accompanied by the smells and tastes and sounds of Africa, so that instead of the revels of drunken yachties, he heard again the beat of native drums along the Chobe river in the night; instead of the sour waters of the East river he smelled tropical raindrops on baked earth, and he began to ache with the bitter-sweet melancholy of nostalgia and he did not sleep again that night.
The girl insisted on making breakfast for him. She did so with not nearly the same expertise as she had made love, and after she had gone ashore it took him nearly an hour to clean up the galley. Then he went up to the saloon.
He drew the curtain across the porthole above his navigation and writing desk, so as not to be distracted by the activities of the marina, and settled down to work. He re-read the last batch of ten pages, and realized he would be lucky if he could salvage two of them. He set to it grimly and the characters baulked and said trite asinine things. After an hour he reached up for his thesaurus from the shelf beside his desk to find an alternative word.
"Good Lord, even I know that people don't say "pusillanimous" in real conversation," he muttered as he brought down the volume, and then paused as a slim sheaf of folded writing-paper fluttered out from between the pages.
Secretly welcoming the excuse to break off the struggle, he unfolded it, and with a little jolt discovered it was a letter from a girl called Janine - a girl who had shared with him the agonies of their war wounds, who had travelled with him the long slow road to recovery, had been at his side when he walked again for the first time after losing the leg, had spelled him at the helm when they sailed Bawu through her first Atlantic gale. A girl whom he had loved and almost married, and whose face he now had the greatest difficulty recalling.