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322 pages, Hardcover
First published July 1, 2008
Daddy swore out loud and rushed to the garage where Hilton kept the company limousine, a shiny black Buick. We had two of them—Dynaflows, with the chromed, oval-shaped ventiports along the front fenders.
I told him that I hated caviar, and Daddy said it wasn't about taste, it was about having things that other people couldn't have, and there was a certain burden in that.
Violeta Casal announced that Fidel had ordered his own family's cane burned first because they, too, were exploitative landowners. I guess you couldn't call him a hypocrite.
The rain let up, and wind was vacuuming out the last low, ragged clouds as La Maziere continued along the Malecon, looking back periodically to be sure no one was following him. The moon appeared, glowing like a quartered orange section that had been ever so lightly sucked, its flat edge thinned and translucent.
He turned and headed up La Rampa, in the direction of the Tokio. He assumed she was still there, still in her zazou getup, her legs painted in prison chain-link, as smearable as when he'd last left his handprints on her soft and unathletic thighs, six months earlier.
La Maziere doubted going to Japan would convince him that femininity was the art of walking in stilettos, that it had much to do with poise or surfaces, makeup and neck ribbons. Whatever female essence was, he had caught it only fleetingly, a thing women reflected when they were least aware. He couldn't name this quality but suspected it had something to do with invisibility, a remainder whose very definition was predicated on his inability to see it.