35053668-Empire-of-the-Soul-Paul-William-Roberts

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EMPIRE OF THE SOUL
‘Thanks.’ She turned away, paused, then looked over one shoulder
quizzically. ‘Wanna lay a coupla hundred rupees on me?’
‘For what?’
‘For me. Hey, it’s no big deal, man. Either you do or you don’t,
right?’
‘Right. I don’t.’
‘OK, OK. That’s cool.’ She was thinking hard, and it didn’t look
easy. ‘You gonna come to the party tonight?’
‘Wasn’t invited.’
‘So now you are.’ She finally strode off, exaggerating the
movement of her hips the way actresses do when simulating a sexy
walk.
‘Cocky little bitch,’ Esther commented.
Back at the villa, Ray and Debbie had clearly finished their
complex ablutions, sitting on the veranda with litre glasses full of
orange liquid, ice, and what looked like the contents of some orchid
fancier’s hothouse. An antique opium pipe lay on the table between
them, wisps of smoke or steam still trickling up from its bowl. Ray
now wore a silk kimono embroidered with mountains and dragons;
Debbie had on diaphanous silk-chiffon harem trousers and a small
needlepoint vest open at the front to display a torrent of gold, silver,
jade, ivory, and various jewelled necklaces.
‘Maria!’ she called, telling us to grab seats.
A stout and irrepressibly cheerful Goan appeared wearing an
apron bearing the legend KING OF THE KITCHEN in huge red
letters.
‘Drinks, Maria,’ Debbie told the woman, rather haughtily, adding
to David, ‘I have to check the dinner. You can’t trust these people to
do anything right.’ She rose, heading into the house.
The harem trousers were utterly transparent.
Maria constructed three more florists’ cocktails. Ray Fiddled with
a Revox cassette player – the most expensive ghetto-blaster money
could buy then, and something only sound technicians needed to
purchase. Soon David Bowie was claiming he’d sold the world.
I mentioned that an Isabella had told us to tell him we’d met her.
‘Yeah?’ he said indifferently. Then he asked me, ‘Wanna fuck her?’
I shrugged, embarrassed.