Jay McInerney - Bright, Precious Days

Checking his e-mail, he found invoices for materials for the new school in the township, a request for a water-catchment system from a nearby district and an unwelcome missive from his ex.

Luke

I can never remember what time it is there and I don’t want to risk waking your child bride, but need to talk to you about Ashley. She came down to the city last weekend and was a mess. You know I’m hardly one to think a girl can be too thin, but Ashley’s beyond skinny. I tried to talk to her about it, but of course she’s in total denial. I really don’t know if it’s drugs or not, but I think she may need to go somewhere and I think you really need to get involved here. You know she doesn’t listen to me; you seem to have succeeded in turning her against me. She’ll be out of school as of mid-May and I think you need to be on deck. She can stay here at the apartment with us the last two weeks of May, but after that we’re going to London and then we’ve chartered the Lawlors’ yacht for two weeks, cruising the Amalfi coast, and I don’t think she should be here in the city alone. Sarah Bradley has invited her to stay at their place in Southampton, but I don’t think she should be on her own all summer. I know there are lots of needy orphans and teenage brides in Africa, but your own daughter needs you right here in America. Charity begins at home, Dad.

Sasha

Luke immediately dialed his daughter, but his call went straight to voice mail. “Ash, it’s Dad. Please call me.”

He thought about calling Sasha but knew that he’d have a hard time keeping a lid on his emotions.

Sasha

Am deeply concerned about your report on Ashley’s health. When I saw her last month, she seemed well, if thin, but if you think she’s underweight, then the situation must indeed be dire. As you may recall, your sarcastic attitude when she was a little heavy as a teen helped to contribute to these body-image problems, and your diet pills certainly helped launch her drug problems. I’m going to talk to Ash and some of her friends, and you can be sure I will take whatever action is necessary.

Luke

The American obesity epidemic did not extend to wealthy Manhattan and its spheres of influence, its satellite prep schools and summer colonies, where females in particular seemed susceptible to anorexia and bulimia, at least the ones in his immediate orbit, his ex-wife, his daughter…possibly even Corrine. In the case of Sasha and her friends, it was a religion, practiced at Pilates studios and private gyms and restaurants’ ladies’ rooms. For all those bony Upper East Side women with their sharp elbows, slenderness was a virtue, standing in for all the others that had been discarded.

It occurred to him that the solution to at least two of his own problems might involve a quick trip back to New York.

All at once the lights went out and the computer screen faded. Luke reached for the flashlight on his desk and fished his key ring from his pocket, unlocking the top desk drawer, where he kept a loaded SIG Sauer. The power was somewhat intermittent in the valley — in most of the Cape, for that matter; Eskom, the power company, was notoriously unreliable. On the other hand, late-night farm invasions had become increasingly common to the north, armed gangs breaking in and murdering white families, with the tacit approval of the ANC, which advocated the redistribution of land and sent out periodic calls for “colonialists” to abandon their farms. Rape, torture and mutilation were common features of these attacks, which usually began with the intruders cutting phone and power lines, and Luke couldn’t help tensing up whenever the lights went out, even as he felt paranoid for doing so.

He went to the window and looked out over the vineyards, but he could detect no movement; hurrying to the bedroom, he found Giselle asleep on her back, her arm draped across her face, her head in the crook of her elbow — her habitual pose in sleep. He was grateful that she was a heavy sleeper, since he was a restless one. He was about to check the phone, when he heard the generator kick in and saw the glow of the hall light in the bedroom doorway. He picked up the phone and was reassured by the dial tone. As soon as he put the receiver in its cradle, the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Luke, Charles here. Just wanted to make sure all was well.”

“We’re fine here for now. The generator’s gone on. You’ve got power there?”

“Same as you. Just another blackout, then.”

“Thanks for checking in.”

“Sleep well.”

“Who was that?” asked Giselle, opening a single eye.

“It was Charles, just checking to see we were okay. The lights went out.”

She sat up in bed. “Oh shit.”

“They’re on again now.”

“Jesus. Now I’ll be awake all night.”

“It was nothing.”

“No, but it could’ve been.”

“Let’s not dwell on that.”

“How can I not dwell on that? That’s absurd. You can’t will yourself not to think of something. Did you hear what they did to those women and children up in the Transvaal?”

“It hasn’t happened around here.”

“No, but it’s only a matter of time. It’s not as if we’re stuck here. Charles and Emma don’t have much choice, but we can leave anytime we like.”

Even as he was listening to her, he was admiring her, the swell of her breasts emerging from under the sheet, framed by her cascading strands of blond hair. He couldn’t help desiring her and despising himself a little for it.

“Of course there are problems,” he said, “but I think things are moving in the right direction.” Even as he said this, he realized he was arguing a position in which he no longer believed. He’d lost much of his enthusiasm for his adoptive home, yet he felt it necessary to defend his former position, to maintain the old battle lines.

“Wanting that to be true doesn’t make it true. It’s only a matter of time before what’s happening in Zimbabwe starts up down here. Mbeki thinks Mugabe’s a great leader.”

Luke couldn’t help recalling a safari he’d taken in Zimbabwe not long after the civil war there finally ended, to Hwange and Victoria Falls, when it seemed that the transition would be successful, when Mugabe appeared to be responsible, even idealistic.

“Sometimes I think you’re so afraid of being perceived as racist, with your southern American guilt; you can’t admit what’s actually happening in this country. This isn’t the United States. I grew up here, I love this country, but it pains me to say that I don’t really believe there’s a future for me here. For us. I wish it were otherwise. But we have to at least think about the future. Luke, you know I want to start a family, but I don’t want to raise my children in a country that doesn’t want them, a country where they’ll be blamed for the sins of their ancestors, always seen as colonialists and usurpers.”

Luke could understand this part of her argument; if he’d had any interest in starting a family, then he would want to do so back in the States. But he was fifty-eight years old and already had a twenty-year-old daughter. “Sometimes I worry you married me for my passport,” he said.

“God, Luke, that’s a terrible thing to say.” She turned away and buried her head in her pillow.

“I didn’t mean it,” he said, rubbing her shoulders. “I’m sorry.” She remained obdurately burrowed into her pillow. “It’s just that I can’t walk away from the foundation.”

“You don’t need to be here day to day. I mean, fund-raising’s your primary obligation, and you certainly aren’t going to find any funds here. And the winery pretty much runs itself most of the time. As long as you’re here for harvest and crush. Or you could probably sell the winery to Charles. It’s not like you’re making money at it.”