Woke Up Lonely A Novel - By Fiona Maazel Page 0,39
owned the place. He went: Okay, Bruce, let’s think this out. Mrs. Anderson, lady of the house and Crystal’s godmother, was partaking of afternoon tea and dessert when she heard you in the hall. She is a pale, recondite woman who consorts only with her godchild, the butler, and, perhaps, the executor of her estate. Most of all, she does not appreciate a certain genre of man, call him stranger, a stranger documentarian who needs people.
The butler came in. Bruce asked for another brandy.
“Shall I just leave you the bottle?”
“That would be lovely.”
“Mrs. Anderson,” the butler announced.
Bruce stood. Crumbs tumbled down his thighs. She put out her hand. She was what—four foot nine? He tried not to stoop, but it was impossible.
“Sit,” she said. “Please.”
“Mrs. Anderson, it’s an honor. You have a magnificent home.”
“Call me Lynne. And thank you.”
She settled under a lamp whose glow helped define the cut of her face. Very narrow. Unnaturally so. A face between cymbals after the clap.
“I see you’ve sampled some of our pastries. The head chef is a specialist.”
“They were great, yeah. Look, I’m sorry if I chased you out before. I didn’t mean to intrude. I think I got lost!”
“Don’t be silly, Mr. Bollinger. More brandy?”
She was so small, the rest of the room began to stand up in contrast. Walls were cream, moldings were buff. No windows, much art. Giant amphora depicting the plight of Agamemnon.
“I’d love some, yes.” He was drinking heavily now, except for the face-saving caveat that, unless you were Samuel Johnson, brandy was not drink. Brandy, Armagnac really, was just fancy after-dinner wine.
She poured with grace. Three-quarter sniff for him, half a smidge for her. She wore a red turtleneck and brown flats. The effect was to condense her frame in obvious defiance of what God had given her to work with. Think I’m small now? Think my calves are compressed and bloated in a way that’s hardly possible in nature? Well, I can do worse. And frankly, what did she care. She lived in a mansion. She had minions. And if her goddaughter’s appearance was any kind of bellwether, she had very attractive friends.
He held up his snifter and regarded the liquid inside. Such an odd vessel for drink.
She fussed with the string around her neck that attached to a stainless steel dog whistle. “Look over there,” she said. As he did, a wall packed with framed impasto art broke in half like a curtain at show-time. The reveal was a console of monitors similar to that in the security guard’s booth. Here, though, no expense had been spared for the quality of the picture. It was closed-circuit viewing in HD.
“Surprised?” she said.
He was not.
“Good. It gets lonely out here sometimes. Crystal has so many friends; I like to participate in some measure.”
The whistle was in fact a laser pointer, which she trained on the first monitor: a man in a button-down with chest hair sprouting from the collar, sitting next to Rita on what had become for Bruce, in the past minute, a symbol of all things coveted but unattainable—the cerise banquette with claw-feet. Monitor two, of considerably less cause for distress: Crystal and the militia kids distributing literature. Three: a king-sized bed with canopy, rippled valance, and stuffed green platypus atop the duvet.
“Looks like a nice party,” Bruce said, and he drained the last of his brandy. “I should probably get a move on. A move seems like a good idea.”
His tongue felt swollen. Unwieldy too. Enunciation would fail him in about three minutes.
“I get sound, too,” she said. “Want to hear?”
Bruce thinking: This Howard Hughes thing is weird, and I want to find Rita. Bruce saying: “Okay, and just another pinch before I go.”
He returned his glass to a side table.
“Volume two,” she said in a voice reserved for the commanding of equipment. “Volume two,” she said in a voice reserved for when your equipment does not work. “Martin!” she yelled.
The butler appeared with tray in hand. It occurred to Bruce that he had never seen a butler in person. “Fix the sound, would you?”
He nodded. Disappeared behind the console. Smacked the thing, which released Crystal’s voice in stereo. Crystal haranguing a woman with a gold bone through her nose and spikes implanted in her skull. A metal headband.
Crystal was saying, “The helix goes on the small of your back, not your hip. The sacrum is a place of power. Whatever you put there is a guiding principle. If you tattoo it on