“Through my dealings abroad, over time,” Khoronos answered, but it wasn’t much of an answer. Veronica felt certain it wasn’t meant to be. “They’re masterful men, as you’ll soon see,” he went on. “They look upon me as their pundit, so to speak. I’d like to think that much of their aesthetic insight comes from me.”

As you you’ll soon see? Veronica thought. What did that mean?

“I must tend to some things now. Dinner will be at seven.”

Abruptly, Khoronos left them alone in the great room.

“This is really strange,” Veronica said, and sat back down on the couch. She jiggled her ice in the spring water.

“I think it’s fun. It’s mysterious.” Ginny grinned. “And we’re definitely going to get laid.”

“Ginny, we’re not here to get laid.”

“What, you took all that stuff he said seriously? Come on, Vern, it’s all a game to him. He’s rich and bored and he likes games.”

“Keep your voice down,” Veronica suggested.

“He thinks of himself as some artistic seer or something. It makes him feel good to invite artists up here and pretend he’s teaching us something. All this whole thing is leading to is an orgy. The decadence of the idle rich.”

“You’re rich.”

“Yeah, but I’m not idle. This whole thing’s a party, so I’m gonna make the best of it. I’m gonna party my face off.”

Some party. Veronica looked at her spring water. Khoronos had informed them that no alcohol was allowed in the house. No tobacco either, and no drugs, not that Veronica did them. “True artists must maintain immaculate spirits,” their host had said. “Any substance which taints the spiritus is forbidden in my home.”

Eventually she and Ginny went out on the balcony off the kitchen, a huge deck which overlooked the pool. A faint breeze rustled through the trees, and a scent of pine. “You sure changed your tune about Khoronos,” Veronica said.

“Just because I know what makes him tick doesn’t mean I don’t want to get into his pants anymore.” Ginny closed her eyes, turned her face to the sun. “I do and I will. And Marzen, Gilles — I’ll ride their brains out too. Everyone’s got to cut loose sometime.”

“Cut loose, huh? That’s what life’s all about?”

“You want to know what life’s all about? First I’ll tell you what it’s not about. It’s not about babies, two-car garages, a dog in the yard, and a station wagon in the driveway.”

Ginny hated domesticity, but Veronica didn’t know how she felt about that herself. Jack had never actually proposed to her, but the implication of marriage was clear. Had that been what scared Veronica off?

“It’s about independence, Vern,” Ginny continued. “That’s the only way a woman can be free.”

Veronica wanted to say something mean, like. You’re only saying that because it’s the only way you can rationalize two failed marriages. “Freedom and sexual abandon are synonymous?”

“Sexual liberty, smartass. If you don’t do what you want, you’re actually doing what someone else wants. Whether it’s a person or society doesn’t matter. It’s subjugation. If a guy fucks everything that moves, that’s okay because it’s an accepted trend. But when a woman does it, she’s a slut. Men can be free but women can’t. It’s a bunch of sexist bullshit. My rebellion is my right of protest. I will not allow myself to be subjugated. I’ll do anything I want, anytime I want.”

Sometimes Veronica forgot she was talking to a notorious feminist. She wanted to argue with Ginny but couldn’t. Veronica had thought that being in love was her freedom, but freedom had its price, didn’t it? Experience, she thought. Being in love had kept her from experiencing what she felt she had to as an artist. Either way, she was torn between ideals.

Ginny lit a cigarette.

“Khoronos said no smoking,” Veronica reminded.

“No smoking in the house; this is the balcony. And…” Ginny paused, peering down. “Well, what have we here?”

Marzen and Gilles walked across the backyard. Off one of the pool decks stood a rack of weights and a bench.

“See?” Ginny observed. “Men are such vain assholes. Without their muscles and their cocks they have no identities.”

But Veronica remained looking on. Marzen and Gilles each peeled off their T-shirts and began curling dumbbells of formidable size. They seemed bored, curling the weights and speaking casually. They seemed to be speaking French.

“But I still love ’em,” Ginny went on. “Check out the beefcake.”

Veronica couldn’t help not. In moments, their rippled backs shined, muscles flexing beneath their tanned skin. It was erotic, earthy, the way their sweat sheened their flesh. Veronica caught herself in a secret image: running her hands over those slick pectorals, exploring. At once she felt dizzy, like the first time she’d met Khoronos. She felt prickly.

“They know we’re watching,” Ginny said.

“They do not,” Veronica objected. Or did they? Her throat felt thick. Next image: herself naked, squirming atop Marzen…

“And you’re trying to tell me you don’t want to cut loose?” Ginny continued to goad. “That’s subjugation too. You’re afraid to release your inhibitions. Is that freedom?”

Veronica felt lost in her imaginings.

Ginny crushed her cigarette and dropped it into the bushes below. “You know,” she said, “men have been using women for the last fifty centuries. It’s high time we started using them back.”

Veronica imagined Marzen poised nude above her. His sweat was dripping off his chest onto hers, hot, like hot wax.

“They like to show off?” Ginny was saying. “I’ll show them some showing off.”

Veronica gasped within the frame of the vivid image. Marzen penetrated her. Her eyes closed, the image cocooned her. She could picture Marzen’s penis sliding in and out…

Oh, for God’s sake!

The fantasy was ridiculous, a useless breach of reality. She was like a high school girl dreaming of the quarterback.

“What the—” Veronica turned, breaking her muse. “Ginny!”

“Hey, I’m showing off.” Ginny had removed her blouse, braless beneath. She waved the blouse in the air, in circles. “Save your strength, fellas! You’re gonna need it!”

“Ginny, are you nuts!”

Below, Gilles looked up at the spectacle and chuckled.

“That’s one’s mine,” Ginny said.

But Marzen’s face remained plain. He was not looking at Ginny. Instead, his eyes bored directly into Veronica’s.

* * *

Jack owned a century-old row house on Main Street, which he’d inherited from his father. The equity was preposterous. It had been purchased in the late fifties for fifteen grand; today he could sell it for three hundred grand, and it wasn’t even in very good shape. Jack lived in the upstairs and rented the downstairs to a couple of college kids. The row house was essentially the only thing he had of real value.

He didn’t sell because he liked it here. He liked the city’s ambience — or the persona, perhaps — of its age and its history. His bedroom window showed him the City Dock; the bright vanishing point of Main Street to the sea looked surreal. He loved the faint salt scents off the bay, and the city’s lights when it was late. He liked being lulled to sleep by the ghostly chimes of sail lines striking the masts of countless boats in the docks. The sound was indescribable.

He showered and dressed without really knowing what for. Never drink alone, Craig had once philosophized. Jack refused to keep liquor in the house, his only gesture of constraint. He could see himself in ten years, or even five — a holed-in drunk, empty bottles piled high in the kitchen. At least in bars,

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