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1
BRUCE CALLS FROM MULHOLLAND
Bruce calls, stoned and sunburned, from Los Angeles and tells me that he's sorry. He tells me he's sorry for not being here, at campus with me. He tells me that I was right, that he should have flown to the workshop this summer, and he tells me that he's sorry he's not in New Hampshire and that he's sorry he hasn't called me in a week and I ask him what he's doing in Los Angeles and don't mention that it has been two months.
Bruce tells me that things went bad ever since Robert left the apartment they were sharing on Fifty-sixth and Park and went on a white-water-rafting trip with his stepfather down the Colorado River, leaving his girlfriend, Lauren, who also lives in the apartment on Fifty-sixth and Park, and Bruce alone, together, for four weeks. I have never met Lauren but I know what kind of girl Robert is attracted to and I can picture what she must look like clearly in my mind and then I'm thinking of the girls who are attracted to Robert, beautiful and pretending to ignore the fact that Robert, at twenty-two, is worth about three hundred million dollars, and I picture this girl, Lauren, lying on Robert's futon, head thrown back, Bruce moving slowly on top of her, his eyes shut tightly.
Bruce tells me that the affair started a week after Robert left. Bruce and Lauren had gone to Café Central and after they sent back the food and decided just to have drinks, they agreed it would be sex only. It would happen only because Robert had gone out West. They told each other that there really was no mutual attraction beyond the physical and then they went back to Robert's apartment and went to bed. This went on, Bruce tells me, for one week, until Lauren started dating a twenty-three-year-old real estate tycoon who is worth about two billion dollars.
Bruce tells me that he was not upset by that. But he was "slightly bothered" the weekend Lauren's brother, Marshall, who just graduated from RISD, came down and stayed at Robert's apartment on Fifty-sixth and Park. Bruce tells me that the affair between him and Marshall lasted longer simply because Marshall stayed longer. Marshall stayed a week and a half. And then Marshall went back to his ex-boyfriend's loft in SoHo when his ex-boyfriend, a young art dealer who is worth about two to three million, said he wanted Marshall to paint three functionless columns in the loft they used to share on Grand Street. Marshall is worth about four thousand dollars and some change.
This was during the period that Lauren moved all of her furniture (and some of Robert's) to the twenty-three-year-old real estate tycoon's place at the Trump Tower. It was also during this period that Robert's two expensive Egyptian lizards apparently ate some poisoned cockroaches and were found dead, one under the couch in the living room, its tail missing, the other sprawled across Robert's Betamax--the big one cost five thousand dollars, the smaller one was a gift. But since Robert is somewhere in the Grand Canyon there is no way to get in touch with him. Bruce tells me that this is why he left the apartment on Fifty-sixth and Park and went to Reynolds' house, in Los Angeles, on top of Mulholland, while Reynolds, who is worth, according to Bruce, a couple of falafels at PitaHut and no beverage, is in Las Cruces.
Lighting a joint, Bruce asks me what I have been doing, what has been happening here, that he's sorry again. I tell him about readings, receptions, that Sam slept with an editor from the Paris Review who came up from New York on Publishers' Weekend, that Madison shaved her head and Cloris thought she was having chemotherapy and sent all her stories to editors she knew at Esquire, The New Yorker, Harper's, and that it just made everyone very blah. Bruce tells me to tell Craig that he wants his guitar case back. He asked if I'm going to East Hampton to see my parents. I tell him that since the workshop is just about over and it's almost September, I don't see the point.
Last summer Bruce stayed with me at Camden and we took the workshop together and it was the summer Bruce and I would swim in Lake Parrin at night and the summer he wrote the lyrics to the theme song from "Petticoat Junction" all over my door because I would laugh whenever he sang the song not because the song was funny--it was just the way he sang it: face stern yet utterly blank. That was the summer we went to Saratoga and saw the Cars and, later that August, Bryan Metro. The summer was drunk and night and warm and the lake. An image I never saw: my cold hands running over his smooth, wet back.
Bruce tells me to touch myself, right now, in the phone booth. The house I'm in is silent. I wave away a mosquito. "I can't touch myself," I say. I slowly sink to the floor still holding the phone.
"Being rich is cool," Bruce says.
"Bruce," I'm saying. "Bruce."
He asked me about last summer. He mentions Saratoga, the lake, a night I don't remember at a bar in Pittsfield.
I don't say anything.
"Can you hear me?" he's asking.
"Yeah," I whisper.
"Is, like, the connection clear?" he asks.
I'm staring at a drawing: a cup of cappuccino overloaded with foam and beneath that two words scrawled in black: the future.
"Mellow out," Bruce sighs, finally.
After we hang up I walk back to my room and change. Reynolds picks me up at seven and as we drive to a small Chinese restaurant on the outskirts of Camden, he turns the radio down after I say Bruce called and Reynolds asks, "Did you tell him?" I don't say anything. I found out over lunch today that Reynolds is currently involved with a townie named Brandy. All I can think about is Robert on a raft, still somewhere in Arizona, looking at a small photograph of Lauren but probably not. Reynolds turns the radio up after I shake my head. I stare out the window. It's the end of summer, 1982.
2
AT THE STILL POINT
"It's been a year," Raymond says. "Exactly."
I have been hoping that no one was going to mention it but I knew as the evening went on that someone would say something. I just didn't think it was going to be Raymond. The four of us are at Mario's, a small Italian restaurant in Westwood Village, and it's a Thursday and late in August. Even though school doesn't start until early October everyone can tell that summer is ending, has ended. There is really not a lot to do. A party in Bel Air that no one expresses too much interest in going to. No concerts. None of us has a date. In fact, except for Raymond, I don't think any of us sees anyone. So the four of us--Raymond, Graham, Dirk and myself--decide to go out to dinner. I don't even realize that it has been a year "exactly" until I'm in the parking lot next door to the restaurant and almost hit a tumbleweed that blows in front of me too quickly. I park and sit in my car, realizing what the date is, and I walk very slowly, very carefully, to the door of the restaurant and pause a minute before I go in, staring at a menu encased in glass. I am the last to arrive. No one is saying a whole lot to anyone else. I try to keep what little conversation there is on other topics: new Fixx video, Vanessa Williams, how much Ghostbusters is grossing, maybe what classes we're going to take, making plans for surfing maybe the next day. Dirk resorts to telling bad jokes we all know and don't think are funny. We order. The waiter leaves. Raymond speaks.
"It's been a year. Exactly," Raymond says.
"Since what?" Dirk asks uninterestedly.
Graham looks over at me, then down.
No one says anything, not even Raymond, for a long time.
"You know," he finally says.
"No," Dirk says. "I don't."
"Yeah, you do," Graham and Raymond say at the same time.
"No, I really don't," Dirk says.
"Come on, Raymond," I say.
"No, not 'come on, Raymond.' What about 'come on, Dirk'?" Raymond says, looking at Dirk, who isn't looking at any of us. He just sits there staring at a glass of water, which has a lot of ice in it.
"Don't be a jerk," he says softly.
Raymond sits back, looking satisfied in a sad sort of way. Graham looks over at me again. I look away.
"It hasn't seemed that long," Raymond murmurs. "Has it, Tim?"
"Come on, Raymond," I say again.
"Since what?" Dirk says, finally looking at Raymond.
"You know," Raymond says. "You know, Dirk."
"No, I don't," Dirk says. "Why don't you just tell us. Just say it."
"I don't have to say it," Raymond mutters.
"You guys are being total dicks," Graham says, playing with a bread stick. He offers it to Dirk, who waves it away.
"No, come one, Raymond," Dirk says. "You brought this up. Now say it, pussy."
"Tell them to shut up or something," Graham says to me.
"You know," Raymond says weakly.
"Shut up," I sigh.
"Say it, Raymond," Dirk dares.
"Since Jamie . . ." Raymond's voice breaks. He grits his teeth, then turns away from us.
"Since Jamie what?" Dirk asked, his voice rising, getting higher. "Since Jamie what, Raymond?"
"You guys are being total dicks." Graham laughs. "Why don't you just shut up or something."
Raymond whispers something that none of us can hear.
"What?" Dirk asks. "What did you say?"
"Since Jamie...
Revue de presse :
BRUCE CALLS FROM MULHOLLAND
Bruce calls, stoned and sunburned, from Los Angeles and tells me that he's sorry. He tells me he's sorry for not being here, at campus with me. He tells me that I was right, that he should have flown to the workshop this summer, and he tells me that he's sorry he's not in New Hampshire and that he's sorry he hasn't called me in a week and I ask him what he's doing in Los Angeles and don't mention that it has been two months.
Bruce tells me that things went bad ever since Robert left the apartment they were sharing on Fifty-sixth and Park and went on a white-water-rafting trip with his stepfather down the Colorado River, leaving his girlfriend, Lauren, who also lives in the apartment on Fifty-sixth and Park, and Bruce alone, together, for four weeks. I have never met Lauren but I know what kind of girl Robert is attracted to and I can picture what she must look like clearly in my mind and then I'm thinking of the girls who are attracted to Robert, beautiful and pretending to ignore the fact that Robert, at twenty-two, is worth about three hundred million dollars, and I picture this girl, Lauren, lying on Robert's futon, head thrown back, Bruce moving slowly on top of her, his eyes shut tightly.
Bruce tells me that the affair started a week after Robert left. Bruce and Lauren had gone to Café Central and after they sent back the food and decided just to have drinks, they agreed it would be sex only. It would happen only because Robert had gone out West. They told each other that there really was no mutual attraction beyond the physical and then they went back to Robert's apartment and went to bed. This went on, Bruce tells me, for one week, until Lauren started dating a twenty-three-year-old real estate tycoon who is worth about two billion dollars.
Bruce tells me that he was not upset by that. But he was "slightly bothered" the weekend Lauren's brother, Marshall, who just graduated from RISD, came down and stayed at Robert's apartment on Fifty-sixth and Park. Bruce tells me that the affair between him and Marshall lasted longer simply because Marshall stayed longer. Marshall stayed a week and a half. And then Marshall went back to his ex-boyfriend's loft in SoHo when his ex-boyfriend, a young art dealer who is worth about two to three million, said he wanted Marshall to paint three functionless columns in the loft they used to share on Grand Street. Marshall is worth about four thousand dollars and some change.
This was during the period that Lauren moved all of her furniture (and some of Robert's) to the twenty-three-year-old real estate tycoon's place at the Trump Tower. It was also during this period that Robert's two expensive Egyptian lizards apparently ate some poisoned cockroaches and were found dead, one under the couch in the living room, its tail missing, the other sprawled across Robert's Betamax--the big one cost five thousand dollars, the smaller one was a gift. But since Robert is somewhere in the Grand Canyon there is no way to get in touch with him. Bruce tells me that this is why he left the apartment on Fifty-sixth and Park and went to Reynolds' house, in Los Angeles, on top of Mulholland, while Reynolds, who is worth, according to Bruce, a couple of falafels at PitaHut and no beverage, is in Las Cruces.
Lighting a joint, Bruce asks me what I have been doing, what has been happening here, that he's sorry again. I tell him about readings, receptions, that Sam slept with an editor from the Paris Review who came up from New York on Publishers' Weekend, that Madison shaved her head and Cloris thought she was having chemotherapy and sent all her stories to editors she knew at Esquire, The New Yorker, Harper's, and that it just made everyone very blah. Bruce tells me to tell Craig that he wants his guitar case back. He asked if I'm going to East Hampton to see my parents. I tell him that since the workshop is just about over and it's almost September, I don't see the point.
Last summer Bruce stayed with me at Camden and we took the workshop together and it was the summer Bruce and I would swim in Lake Parrin at night and the summer he wrote the lyrics to the theme song from "Petticoat Junction" all over my door because I would laugh whenever he sang the song not because the song was funny--it was just the way he sang it: face stern yet utterly blank. That was the summer we went to Saratoga and saw the Cars and, later that August, Bryan Metro. The summer was drunk and night and warm and the lake. An image I never saw: my cold hands running over his smooth, wet back.
Bruce tells me to touch myself, right now, in the phone booth. The house I'm in is silent. I wave away a mosquito. "I can't touch myself," I say. I slowly sink to the floor still holding the phone.
"Being rich is cool," Bruce says.
"Bruce," I'm saying. "Bruce."
He asked me about last summer. He mentions Saratoga, the lake, a night I don't remember at a bar in Pittsfield.
I don't say anything.
"Can you hear me?" he's asking.
"Yeah," I whisper.
"Is, like, the connection clear?" he asks.
I'm staring at a drawing: a cup of cappuccino overloaded with foam and beneath that two words scrawled in black: the future.
"Mellow out," Bruce sighs, finally.
After we hang up I walk back to my room and change. Reynolds picks me up at seven and as we drive to a small Chinese restaurant on the outskirts of Camden, he turns the radio down after I say Bruce called and Reynolds asks, "Did you tell him?" I don't say anything. I found out over lunch today that Reynolds is currently involved with a townie named Brandy. All I can think about is Robert on a raft, still somewhere in Arizona, looking at a small photograph of Lauren but probably not. Reynolds turns the radio up after I shake my head. I stare out the window. It's the end of summer, 1982.
2
AT THE STILL POINT
"It's been a year," Raymond says. "Exactly."
I have been hoping that no one was going to mention it but I knew as the evening went on that someone would say something. I just didn't think it was going to be Raymond. The four of us are at Mario's, a small Italian restaurant in Westwood Village, and it's a Thursday and late in August. Even though school doesn't start until early October everyone can tell that summer is ending, has ended. There is really not a lot to do. A party in Bel Air that no one expresses too much interest in going to. No concerts. None of us has a date. In fact, except for Raymond, I don't think any of us sees anyone. So the four of us--Raymond, Graham, Dirk and myself--decide to go out to dinner. I don't even realize that it has been a year "exactly" until I'm in the parking lot next door to the restaurant and almost hit a tumbleweed that blows in front of me too quickly. I park and sit in my car, realizing what the date is, and I walk very slowly, very carefully, to the door of the restaurant and pause a minute before I go in, staring at a menu encased in glass. I am the last to arrive. No one is saying a whole lot to anyone else. I try to keep what little conversation there is on other topics: new Fixx video, Vanessa Williams, how much Ghostbusters is grossing, maybe what classes we're going to take, making plans for surfing maybe the next day. Dirk resorts to telling bad jokes we all know and don't think are funny. We order. The waiter leaves. Raymond speaks.
"It's been a year. Exactly," Raymond says.
"Since what?" Dirk asks uninterestedly.
Graham looks over at me, then down.
No one says anything, not even Raymond, for a long time.
"You know," he finally says.
"No," Dirk says. "I don't."
"Yeah, you do," Graham and Raymond say at the same time.
"No, I really don't," Dirk says.
"Come on, Raymond," I say.
"No, not 'come on, Raymond.' What about 'come on, Dirk'?" Raymond says, looking at Dirk, who isn't looking at any of us. He just sits there staring at a glass of water, which has a lot of ice in it.
"Don't be a jerk," he says softly.
Raymond sits back, looking satisfied in a sad sort of way. Graham looks over at me again. I look away.
"It hasn't seemed that long," Raymond murmurs. "Has it, Tim?"
"Come on, Raymond," I say again.
"Since what?" Dirk says, finally looking at Raymond.
"You know," Raymond says. "You know, Dirk."
"No, I don't," Dirk says. "Why don't you just tell us. Just say it."
"I don't have to say it," Raymond mutters.
"You guys are being total dicks," Graham says, playing with a bread stick. He offers it to Dirk, who waves it away.
"No, come one, Raymond," Dirk says. "You brought this up. Now say it, pussy."
"Tell them to shut up or something," Graham says to me.
"You know," Raymond says weakly.
"Shut up," I sigh.
"Say it, Raymond," Dirk dares.
"Since Jamie . . ." Raymond's voice breaks. He grits his teeth, then turns away from us.
"Since Jamie what?" Dirk asked, his voice rising, getting higher. "Since Jamie what, Raymond?"
"You guys are being total dicks." Graham laughs. "Why don't you just shut up or something."
Raymond whispers something that none of us can hear.
"What?" Dirk asks. "What did you say?"
"Since Jamie...
“Coolly ferocious. . . . Truly unsettling.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“Skillfully accomplishes its goal of depicting a modern moral wasteland. . . . Arguably Ellis's best.”
—The Boston Globe
“Sparkles with a disturbing mix of humor and ultraviolence.”
—Detroit Free Press
“Ellis . . . has a keen eye for dialogue, a sharp eye for the moral bankruptcy of modern life, and a vivid imagination.”
—San Franciscop Chronicle
“Bret Easton Ellis. . . is an extremely traditional and very serious American novelist. He is the model of literary filial piety, counting among his parents Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Nathanael West, and Joan Didion.”
—The Washington Post
—The New York Times Book Review
“Skillfully accomplishes its goal of depicting a modern moral wasteland. . . . Arguably Ellis's best.”
—The Boston Globe
“Sparkles with a disturbing mix of humor and ultraviolence.”
—Detroit Free Press
“Ellis . . . has a keen eye for dialogue, a sharp eye for the moral bankruptcy of modern life, and a vivid imagination.”
—San Franciscop Chronicle
“Bret Easton Ellis. . . is an extremely traditional and very serious American novelist. He is the model of literary filial piety, counting among his parents Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Nathanael West, and Joan Didion.”
—The Washington Post
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- ÉditeurVintage Books
- Date d'édition2009
- ISBN 10 0307473325
- ISBN 13 9780307473325
- ReliureBroché
- Nombre de pages226
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The Informers (Movie Tie-in Edition) (Vintage Contemporaries)
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