lover, executive and servant. As his secretary she helped him so
much, had taken so much work on her great big shoulders. He had
given her a great autonomy in which to work and now he found
himself in blue latitudes under a peaceful windless sky. Her voice
above him like an albatross, watching over, watching and circling. A
sign of good luck. Good luck. How pleasant it was to finally rest a bit.
It was her idea that he take a trip to the tiny, exclusive resort he
owned in the Caribbean, that he get some sun, some sand, some
wind, some water. She assured him there was nothing big coming up.
She could take care of things while he was gone for a couple of weeks.
She had learned so much in a short time. No one would even have to
know he was gone. She told everyone that he was in constant contact.
If they needed to talk to him, she would patch them through to his
cell phone. Oh what an idea, to be in two places at once. Only modern
physics could presage such a scenario. He could be omnipresent in
space as he was in commerce. So far she had only called to say hello
and that everything was on the right track. Everything was fine, she
assured him. And it really was. How enjoyable, this, not working.
Resting. Taking a break. The simplicity of sand and sea, sunsets,
prostitutes. And sweetened multicolored cocktails prepared every
night by a man that claimed to know Leona well. A Rastafarian. He
had a face like a palimpsest, crisscrossed as it was with multiple
varieties of unfaded scars. And he had a bad limp. Despite his
physical shortcomings he was engaging and cheerful and quick to
offer drinks any time of the day. He made a special point to be extra
accommodating with the drinks. How nice. Nice man. Shame about
the face.
“This is a special cocktail the ancient Romans used to brew,” he
said. “Black Plum Rum,” he said.
“What’s in it?” Morris said, “Rum and black plums?”
“No, no. I call it that because it’s good for your black plums. Or if
you don’t have black ones, then it’s good for white ones too.” Morris
laughed. Alcohol that was good for your nuts. What an idea. “What
do you put in it?” he asked, but the Rastafarian pled professional
secrecy. It had the same pleasant but cloying taste as the sweetened
milk Leona had prepared for him every afternoon.
And so with waves lapping and rays flashing and trays splashing
Bidden sank deeper and deeper under waves of light and water. He
grew browner and darker and slower and simpler and one night as he
lay in his gigantic hotel room with the perfect dark moon of a
ABYSSINIA
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