Ruins by Brian Aldiss (romantic novels to read .txt) 📗

‘You’re British, how charming,’ said Laxmi, taking Billing’s arm and sinking claws into it. In her other hand she clutched a toy dog, the coat of which had been dyed a flourescent purple. Laxmi appeared to have forgotten she was carrying it. ‘The Britishers are so aware. My husband Norm is a Britisher. Well, in fact, he’s Danish. He’s around some place. Always making money. Do you do that, Heck? How was the flight? We’re forever travelling around Europe. I just love the place. Ever seen the dervish house in Bukhara? I said to Norm, “Buy that” when I saw it.’ She gave a laugh like the smothered bark of a toy dog.

He remembered the American habit of quoting something the speaker had previously said, as if holding it up for the listener to determine whether the remark was witty or downright stupid. He said nothing.

She showed him round the reception rooms, pointing out art objects, stepping over bodies when necessary, still clutching him tight. ‘Aren’t you glad to be back in the Land of the Free, Herb?’

‘Hugh.’

‘This picture I bet you’ll recognise. The bridge at Mostar. The famous bridge. You’re an aware person. I’m sure you recognise it. Hand-painted. But this next one is from Russia. It’s actually painted on wood. A kind of wood. Marquetry, I believe. You can see. I did not like Russian food. I threw up. That’s from India – the tablecloth. Norm was sick most of the time in Delhi. Then you ought to see this. It’s from Armenia.’

Laxmi stood him in front of a picture with a chartreuse background, while saying in an aside to a young woman leaning against the wall, ‘Betty-Ann, why don’t you take a shower and freshen up, and stop screwing around with that shit cap.’ Her tone had the lightness of a mother addressing a son in a dog food commercial. To Billing she said, ‘It’s Turkish, as I was saying. It’s a straw picture and it actually depicts the estuary Turks harvesting the straw in their boats. Isn’t that cute?’

‘Which estuary is that?’

‘I think that’s what they were called. Norm is so restless. He’s often planning next year’s vacation before we’re through this one.’ She laughed, a hard dry sound like dog biscuits falling into a plastic bowl.

Billing muttered something which avoided reference to Norm’s possible mental state. Neil Epoxa was nowhere in sight.

‘We have some really fine Brazilian butterflies – fab, as you Britishers say – in the bedroom.’ She glanced around the crowded room, but apparently saw no one to whom she wanted to speak. ‘Wouldn’t you like to look them over, Hen?’

He was interested to examine the flat-chestedness at first hand, so he went along. The nipples were a cheerful pink. Laxmi made passing reference to this subject just before she commenced a thorough licking operation involving all Billing’s willing body, saying, ‘Sometimes I wish my boobs were just slightly bigger – but Norm would probably never make it at all if they were.’

The toy dog lay on the quilted bed with them. After he had made love with Laxmi, Billing studied her husband’s little bookcase by the side of the bed. Supermarket Philosophy, Silt, Norwegian Painting: The Golden Age, Straw Pictures: An Estuarine Art, Old Slovenian Ceremonies, Nebraska in the Bronze Age. Considering that he now had a fair picture of the absent Norm, Billing turned back to Laxmi, to find her lighting a joint. As she passed it over to him, he began to contemplate what he should do next.

The idea crossed his mind of joining the American army and fighting in Vietnam, rather as an earlier generation of men had signed up with the French Foreign Legion. A simpler way of putting distance between himself and his present life would be to hire a car and drive across the States from East to West, old-fashioned though that proposal also was.

‘Shall we call some of the other guys and chicks in here?’ Laxmi said, pinching out the joint.

The hired car broke down – or developed a malfunction, as the garage-hand put it – in the pleasant town of Waterloo, Iowa. The friendly young couple who ran the garage repair shop gave Billing a bed in their attic for the night. He stayed in Waterloo, Iowa, until the next spring, when the snows were gone and the wheatlands turning green from horizon to horizon. The couple with whom he became close were Ludmilla and Josef Jajack. They were of Czech origin. Their two identical old mothers were alive and dressed in gingham aprons. They ran a small market garden nearby. Ludmilla Jajack had beautiful grey eyes. She had never heard of ‘Side Show’.

All the furniture in the house had been manufactured from a creamy plastic only a year previously.

‘When I’m sixty, I’m going to sell everything and Ludmilla and me are going to visit Brno,’ Josef told Billing, more than once. ‘We’ve never been outside the States. When I’m sixty, we’re going to ride horseback in the High Tatras. Sound good to you, Hugh?’

‘Sounds good to me.’

He saw the beautiful grey eyes light up. He was sorry to leave them.

California had its compensations. It was easy to find a music job. He played trad piano in Santa Ana for a while, isolating himself from the crowd but listening to American dreams and aspirations, with which the air was thick.

‘Since he left me, I’ve done great. I really go for business. I market yoga equipment and bean curds and health foods, do all my own packaging. It’s creative, you know what I mean?’

‘The only money that means a thing to me is the money I make myself, right?’

‘Right.’

‘So I’m resilient. I have to be. I’ve always been the resilient kind. I never saw my mother since the age of three, except weekends in summer.’

Billings liked the look of the woman who had used the word ‘resilient’. She brought to mind his Jewish wife in the marriage that had lasted