Part 39 (1/2)

Once she accepted Chance's offer, everything was taken care of. Chance moved her out of her place on West Ninety-fourth and installed her where she was now. He took her out, showed her off, took her to bed. In bed he told her precisely what to do, and she found this curiously exhilarating. Other men in her experience had always been reticent that way, expecting you to read their minds. Even johns, she said, had trouble telling you what they wanted.

For the first few months she still thought she was doing research for a book. She took notes every time a john left, writing down her impressions. She kept a diary. She detached herself from what she was doing and from who she was, using her journalistic objectivity as Donna used poetry and as Fran used marijuana.

When it dawned on her that whoring was an end in itself she went through an emotional crisis. She had never considered suicide before, but for a week she hovered on its brink. Then she worked it out. The fact that she was whoring didn't mean she had to label herself a wh.o.r.e. This was something she was doing for a while. The book, just an excuse to get into the life, might someday turn out to be something she really wanted to do. It didn't really matter. Her individual days were pleasant enough, and the only thing that was unsettling was when she pictured herself living this way forever. But that wouldn't happen. When the time was right, she would drift out of the life as effortlessly as she had drifted in.

'So that's how I keep my particular cool, Matt. I'm not a hooker. I'm just 'into hooking.' You know, there are worse ways to spend a couple of years.'

'I'm sure there are.'

'Plenty of time, plenty of creature comforts. I read a lot, I get to movies and museums and Chance likes to take me to concerts. You know the bit about the blind men and the elephant? One grabs the tail and thinks the elephant is like a snake, another touches the side of the elephant and thinks it's like a wall?'

'So?'

'I think Chance is the elephant and his girls are the blind men. We each see a different person.'

'And you all have some African sculpture on the premises.'

Hers was a statue about thirty inches high, a little man holding a bundle of sticks in one hand. His face and hands were rendered in blue and red beadwork, while all the rest of him was covered with small seash.e.l.ls.

'My household G.o.d,' she said. 'That's a Batum ancestor figure from Cameroun. Those are cowry sh.e.l.ls. Primitive societies all over the world use the cowry sh.e.l.l as a medium of exchange, it's the Swiss franc of the tribal world. You see how it's shaped?'

I went and had a look.

'Like the female genitalia,' she said. 'So men automatically use it to buy and sell. Can I get you some more of that cheese?'

'No thanks.'

'Another c.o.ke?'

'No.'

'Well,' she said, 'if there's anything you'd like, just let me know what it is.'

NINETEEN.

Just as I was leaving her building, a cab pulled up in front to discharge a pa.s.senger. I got in and gave the address of my hotel.

The winds.h.i.+eld wiper on the driver's side didn't work. The driver was white; the picture on the posted license showed a black man. A sign cautioned, no smoking/driver allergic. The cab's interior reeked of marijuana.

'Can't see a f.u.c.king thing,' the driver said.

I sat back and enjoyed the ride.

I called Chance from the lobby, went up to my room. About fifteen minutes later he got back to me. 'Goyakod,' he said. 'I'll tell you, I like that word. Knock on many doors today?'

'A few.'

'And?'