been out of the office for the past week.
Roy had no choice but to suspend operations and fly back. This
was especially irritating as he had been scheduled to fly to Ethiopia
in a month, his homeland which he had never seen. He imagined the
trip would reach its poetic zenith there, in that place from which both
man and coffee descended to fertilize the world. But he knew he
would be back there shortly. Anyway, he looked forward to seeing
Ellie again, now entering her seventh month of pregnancy.
When he arrived, bleary but restless at Los Angeles International
Airport, he was met by a limousine that took him directly to Bidden’s
mansion. The closer they came the more he shook with anticipation
of seeing her. It was a perfect Arabian night: cool, opulent and
draped in desire. He fixed a cocktail in the limousine and tried to
relax.
Upon arrival he was greeted not by Bidden, but by several
hulking men that Bidden employed as bodyguards. They led him into
the house and then to the capacious living room where guests were
normally entertained and business was sometimes attended to. For
this reason, it was outfitted in the ornate tradition of a Russian Czar,
luxurious and humbling.
But it was Bidden who looked humbled now. He slouched drunk
on an ornate gilded chair, dressed in a white silk robe and holding a
snifter of cognac so big it could have been a salad bowl. Stains of the
brown liquid had desecrated the fine material, which only covered
him loosely and revealed the better part of his flabby chest. He did
not even look up as Roy entered.
“Morris. What…?”
“I’ve got a story for you,” he began.
Roy tensed. He hated Morris’ stories, packed with braggadocio
and bullshit.
“Are you by any chance familiar with Alexander Pushkin?” he
asked.
Roy shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He knew Bidden fancied
himself a literate man, but as evidenced by his analysis of Thomas
Mann, his critical talents were usually sabotaged by his ego. Morris
tended to regard all Western culture as mere embroidery for his own
life, instead of the other way around. Rather than seeing elements of
his life elucidated by the culture, he regarded the entire culture as
mere footnotes to his own heroic narrative. Such delusions were
ABYSSINIA
106
 |
 |
 |
 |