Tuesday, August 14, 2018

I was at a sort of family reunion. A couple who were rich friends of my parents—one of the was I. D., but he was divorced from Morny and remarried to some other woman. They had a business buying and selling luxury antiques. She described to me a transaction they were undertaking and I asked her how much they’d laid out to buy these goods. She bristled and refused to tell me, shaming me that it was taboo to talk about numbers like that.

The party was going on outside on the lawn. She pointed out to me a distant relative, a young man, who was a dangerous drug dealer. Music played that sounded like the Rolling Stones. A man was whistling into two empty bottles, playing along. I marveled at how he was able to sound so good, to play a blues scale in key with the recording.