Silver Lake Read Free Page B

it on tape, a little bit at a time before I go to sleep.”
    “Are you religious?”
    This question caused Tom to release a single guffaw: That’s a good one.
    “You don’t know Russian, do you?” he asked.
    Robbie did not.
    “I bought a Russian phrasebook and made these little cyrillic flashcards for myself, but that’s as far as I got. An H is an N, I think. The B is a V. But of course I lost the flashcards.”
    “Were you planning a trip?” Robbie asked.
    “I was reading one of those obese nineteenth-century novels,” Tom explained, “and I have to say the translation seemed a little lardy to me.”
    “You were going to attempt it in the original.”
    “Did you ever play an instrument?” Tom asked.
    “Clarinet,” Robbie admitted. “Very briefly. Not briefly enough.”
    “No way—me, too.”
    “I have a good ear for other people, but not for myself,” Robbie said. “My poor parents.”
    “That’s why I’m sticking with piano,” Tom said, “on behalf of my neighbors,” and the conversation skidded along like this, Tom chasing various subjects like cats in a meadow, never really grabbing hold: Did Robbie invest at all in astrology? Did he have a good history of twentieth-century physics he could recommend? Did a hammer and a feather truly fall at the same velocity and in what universe did that happen? Did Robbie know of a good place in town to get real gelato? Did Robbie like opera and would he think Tom a heathen if Tom admitted he could never sit through one in its entirety? Robbie answered each question and braced himself for the next, ably tracing the loose threading of Tom’s associations.
    Tom paused and tapped the map with his forefinger accusatorily. “Do you ever wonder what it was like here back in theday,” he asked, “before all of this land was shot through with freeways? Everyone always says it, but in my case it’s a little too true.”
    “What’s a little too true?” Robbie asked.
    But Tom didn’t answer because at that moment, laden with bags, Carlo returned. Robbie made introductions and explained the situation.
    As if waiting for his eyes to adjust, it took a moment for Carlo to say hello. The three men stood by the door an awkward moment.
    Far off, a helicopter. Nearby, a chain saw.
    “We’ve met,” Tom said to Carlo.
    “Have you?” Robbie asked.
    Carlo said, “I don’t think so. Not that I remember.”
    “Not that you remember,” Tom said.
    “Have you?” Robbie asked again, addressing Tom.
    Tom didn’t speak. He was fixing his stare on Carlo.
    But finally Tom said, “My mistake.” And then: “If this mechanic doesn’t come in five minutes, I’ll walk home. I don’t want to inconvenience you.”
    “You’re not,” Robbie said, and it was true. He was enjoying talking to this Tom Field, quite a bit.
    Tom looked at Carlo again, and Carlo appeared to nod before retreating to his desk. Tom drifted toward the wall of the office decorated with framed photographs and dry-mounted computer-assisted renderings of Stein Voight projects. On another wall, rough schematics of the (hopefully) current project were tacked up.
    “Tom thought about becoming an architect,” Robbie said.
    “Did you?” Carlo asked.
    Tom was lingering in front of photographs of a project that went up five years ago, another tricky property that required siting the house so it would back out onto the Ivanhoe Reservoir while saving a pair of listing eucalyptus trees, accommodating them with holes through the two stories of decking. The entire house, generous in the eaves, glass-walled, powered by solar panels and built with reclaimed wood, turned into a kind of sophisticated tree house that Robbie and Carlo considered their best work.
    However, Tom looked dismayed. He said, “I hope you’ll forgive me.” He said, “I like windsor chairs and fainting couches. I like shingled siding and bay windows and shutters. Every house should have a big front porch.” He said, “Maybe I was born