The Cherry Blossom Corpse Read Free

to have to endure.
    â€œOh, look: on Wednesday there’s a symposium on ‘New Trends in the Romantic Hero’—Amanda Fairchild one of the panel. Do you think you might put in a contribution from the floor? And on Tuesday there’s a lectureentitled ‘Whither the Gothic?’ What can that mean? Ah—here’s one on ‘New Markets in Eastern Europe.’ You don’t think they’re allowed to read Amanda Fairchild in Albania, do you?”
    â€œI shouldn’t think so. I believe all pop music is banned there—it’s the only good thing I’ve ever heard about the place—so I can’t see anything so unsocially-realistic as Amanda getting through the censorship. What about the excursions?”
    â€œGrieg’s home, with a short concert of piano music. Pity you’ve always hated Grieg. Bus tour of Hardanger to see the trees in bloom.”
    â€œOh God. Amanda will announce that they’ve come out specially for her. I’ll have to make sure I’m on a different bus.”
    â€œAh—here’s a list of participants.”
    â€œI’ve already seen that. Cristobel has managed to imply that I’m her husband.”
    â€œReally? Is that to fend off passionate suitors? I did rather wonder whether Cristobel hoped—”
    â€œI gather only husbands and wives are allowed to go along to the sessions. So you may still be right. Do you think she’s ripe for romance again?”
    â€œI suspect she wants a father for her fatherless child. She’s been reading all this stuff about the danger of a child growing up without a male influence.”
    â€œThat’s nothing to the danger of a child growing up under the influence of the sort of male Cristobel is likely to saddle herself with. Better a one-parent family any day.”
    â€œOh look: they tell you where everyone is staying. It’s rather like the peerage—an order of precedence. Who’s here, I wonder? Arthur Biggs—Lorinda Mason in brackets. I expect that’s the sandy little man Amanda was discussing contracts with. He looks like an ArthurBiggs, though not much like a Lorinda Mason. Patti Drewe, no brackets, so presumably she writes under her own name. And Amanda Fairchild admits to no other either. But here’s someone called Lorelei Zuckerman, who writes under the name of Lorelei le Neve. Now I’ve heard that name.”
    â€œGood God, Jan. Don’t tell me you’ve taken to reading this sort of garbage secretly?”
    â€œDon’t be insulting. Actually, I did read one while I was at school—could well have been an Amanda Fairchild. But I decided they weren’t for me. You’ve never found me one of the fluttering hearts mob, have you, Perry? But there’s so many of them in the newsagents’, you can’t avoid sometimes seeing the titles and authors. How they think of the names I don’t know. I expect that’s where I’ve seen the name Lorelei le Neve.”
    â€œIt’s memorable,” I admitted. “Only one degree less memorable than Lorelei Zuckerman.”
    â€œThe funny thing is, they don’t ask for them by the author’s name anyway. They just ask for the latest Bills and Coo romance. I say, Perry—isn’t this odd: your badge for the conference calls it the ‘Romantic Novelist’s Conference,’ the label on your folder calls it the Romantic Novelists Conference, and the heading on all the bumf is ‘Romantic Novelists’ Conference.’ You’d think they’d make up their minds, wouldn’t you?”
    â€œNo. It proves what I’ve always imagined. Romantic novels are written by the semi-literate for the moronic. Amid all that breathless passion, who could give a thought to the inverted comma? Come on, let’s go out for a walk in the grounds.”
    We collected Cristobel and went downstairs. Others seemed to have had the same idea. As