Men Read Free

realise that he hadn’t heard her name at all.
    They were whisked away by a group of people, George’s gravitational field. There was Kate, and Mary, and Jen, and Colin, and Lloyd, and Ted, and two or three of Steven’sfriends and also that girl who was in Collateral Damage. A beautiful ethnic girl, as they say in France, Puerto Rican perhaps. Heads bobbing, shadows fluttering. She was looking around for him in the dark. She did not dare scrutinise his face, his impassive Jedi countenance. Earlier she had made an effort to look away, like him, at the hills, at the flame of the lighter up close, or at the Great Bear far away. And that actress, the Puerto Rican, there was something odd about her gaze, a sort of squint—yes, she was ogling him; she did not take her eyes off him, whereas everyone else was staring at George, at his white silhouette in the light.
    The Puerto Rican goes up to him. He bursts out laughing, their heads bobbing; she can’t see them for the shadows. Now Steven is coming over to Solange. She mimes a phone, two fingers against her ear: she’ll call him later. She doesn’t want to talk to Steven; she wants to talk to him . His laughter is the only sound in the hubbub. His face split in two by dazzling teeth—everyone has dazzling teeth; it would be inconceivable for them not to have dazzling teeth here. But that laughter unleashes the night, divides the fog; the galactic prince’s mouth is split in two by the laughter intended for the Puerto Rican girl. Solange sees only the dazzling whiteness of their sixty-four teeth.
    ‘Are you from Puerto Rico?’
    The alleged Puerto Rican girl turns to Solange. Examines her. ‘I am from Los Angeles,’ she replies, dazzling. ‘Aren’t we all from LA?’ LA —she drags out the long vowel, Ellaaay …and Solange realises who she is, Lola something, a rising starlet, born in Suriname. She was in Lost —God knows what the scriptwriters lined up for her, devoured by a bear or crushed in a rift in the cosmos—but in any case she is at that stage of notoriety where everyone is supposed to know that she hacked her way out, with a machete, from her native jungle to the Hollywood Hills.
    Bottles of Cristal are brought around on silver platters. The prince in the long coat is contemplating Los Angeles, or the night, or whatever is on his mind—this man with the unfathomable demeanour—and she wants to know what that is.
    A tidal motion swings them back towards the swimming pool suspended above the canyon. The sea is a long, opaque line. He turns his head towards her. Slowly. It’s almost imperceptible at first. At the end of the movement he holds her eyes in his gaze. Then—keeping his eye line perfectly horizontal—he looks back at the sea. It was so brief, so precise, that she is not sure if it happened.
    Floria and Lilian arrive and greet Ted and kiss Solange. She mumbles a brief introduction. Ted looks at the man of the brief introduction, then looks at her. Another bottle of Cristal materialises. The party ebbs and flows, like a wave, the circles open and close, she battles the currents. A little island has formed once more and she is alone with him, against the guardrail above the canyon.

A TIGER DEFYING THE LAWS OF GRAVITY
    They do not say anything. The silence is marvellous. If you have ever found yourself in a substantial residence, high up, protected from the sea but with a full panorama; if you have had the chance to experience that silence and that sense of security, you will know what deep calm…you will know how Los Angeles…and them, both minuscule and gigantic up above the canyon, and the city, lying low, spread out, turbulent and glowing.
    He stayed there with her, on the pretext of sharing the bottle. Instead of following the group around George and Lola. Instead of following Steven or Ted or some other purveyor of roles and fortune and fame. Or, at the very least, of a stimulating conversation. Or of some decent cocaine. He stays with