Этимология китайских иероглифов. Сто самых важных китайских иероглифов, которые должен знать каждый. Хуэй Сюй
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СКАЧАТЬ northern California hippie town and headed off to UCLA together. I studied modern dance—a useless degree, but I couldn’t help myself. I’m very impractical. It’s one of the few things Gwen and I have in common, though for me it manifests in a rather crippling inability to make a decent living. Gwen’s impractical in a different way; she’ll pack four mink stoles, three pairs of stilettos, a satin gown and a cigarette holder for a trip to my Colorado hunting cabin in December. She doesn’t even smoke. On the career front, though, Gwen’s impressively together. She double majored in business and costume design. Now, at twenty-eight, she owns a beautiful little vintage clothing store in Los Feliz and she designs for a handful of little theatre and indie film companies scattered throughout L.A. It’s widely understood that Gwen only designs for period pieces, and only when the period is somewhere between 1952 and 1963. Everyone’s learned not to even call her unless their show falls between those dates; otherwise, their Juliets always end up looking suspiciously like Jackie O.

      Determined to solicit Gwen’s professional advice, I left my barely packed suitcase gaping open on my bed and drove east from Santa Monica toward Los Feliz. On the way, I stopped at a Rite Aid and bought a few things I’d need for the trip: Visine, mascara, ear plugs, a French manicure kit (when in Rome…). On my way to the register I passed through the stationary aisle and a small leather-bound book caught my eye. It looked completely out of place there amidst the juvenile primary-colored spiral-bound notebooks and plastic neon pencil boxes. It had a soft, buttery cover and the pages felt substantial as I flipped through them. I couldn’t find a price tag, but I stuck it in my plastic shopping basket anyway. It was an impulse buy, like the Snickers bar or Cosmo you snag just before you reach the checkout—it had the same reckless, slightly sinful flavor, even though I wouldn’t normally classify a blank book as indulgent.

      When I got to the register, the girl rang up everything else, her long, clawlike fingernails flying over the keys with practiced ease. When she got to the journal, though, she stood snapping her gum, flipping it this way and that with a puzzled look. “Where’d you get this?” She had a thick accent, maybe Puerto Rican.

      “Um—stationary aisle,” I said.

      “This is not a product we carry.”

      I furrowed my brow. “But…it was there. On the shelf.”

      “I don’t know what this is.” She snapped her gum some more, then called out to a short, acne-ridden boy at the next register. “Hey, Tom, you know what this is?”

      The boy glanced over his shoulder. “Looks like some kind of book.” He went back to ringing up an endless pile of Huggies for a sad-eyed mother.

      All at once I could see they weren’t going to sell it to me, and the thought made me feel oddly bereaved—even a little desperate. “You know what? I just realized. That’s my journal. I bought it at a bookstore down the street.” I reached out and yanked it from her, laughing my most convincing vapid laugh.

      She looked suspicious, but only shook her head in a way that communicated her thoughts on the subject perfectly (“Why didn’t you say so in the first place, bitch?”). She announced my total and handed me my receipt. I escaped with the mysterious book tucked safely inside the white plastic sack, feeling as if I’d gotten away with something.

      I’m not religiously inclined, but I do believe in fate and omens and mysterious forces pulsing just under the surface of our painfully normal lives. Looking back on it, I see myself as a messenger that day, a delivery girl, probably one of millions, transporting a necessary object from one place to another. I was like an ant, clutching a crumb in my pincers, following my instincts blindly, all the while working for the good of the colony.

      I had no way of knowing that little leather-bound journal would save my friend’s life. Well, her love life, at least—which maybe, in the end, is the same thing.

      I pushed the glass door open and the bells jangled brightly, drawing Gwen’s attention. She was at the counter in a bold black-and-white spiral-print sheath. In one gloved hand she gripped her phone—the retro kind that makes you think immediately of Marlene Dietrich in a feather boa, lounging on satin sheets. Her lips were painted that old-fashioned cherry red that no one under the age of eighty can pull off. Except Gwen, of course.

      “So, tomorrow, then?” she was saying into the phone as her eyes followed me around the store. I was browsing, but without much intent. I knew I would have to surrender to her superior taste if I was going to pack a suitcase filled with Paris-worthy ensembles. “Eight o’clock? You think she can get here from San Diego that early?” There was a pause. Gwen played with the rhinestone earring in her hand. She considers pierced ears gauche and always removes her right clip-on before answering the phone, just like the women of film noir. “Okay, great. I guess I’ll see you then. Can’t wait. Bye.”

      “Was that Coop?” I asked as she hung up.

      She nodded, looking dazed. “Oh my God, Marla. What am I going to do?”

      “About what?”

      She let out a gusty sigh and adjusted the white scarf at her throat as if she found it suddenly constricting. “We’re leaving for our trip tomorrow.”

      “Oh, right—to Mendocino?”

      She nodded, and I noticed then that she’d gone utterly pale. I let go of the wool blazer I’d been examining and went to the counter. “What is it, G? I thought you were really looking forward to that.”

      “Was looking forward to it, yes. Not now.”

      I folded my arms. “Uh-oh. What month is this?”

      She rolled her eyes. “Yes, we’ve been dating three months, but—”

      “Gwen, don’t do this. You always do this.”

      She slapped the counter and her gloved palm made a hollow thudding sound against the glass. “I’m not doing anything! Guess whose retreat got canceled because the swami kicked it?”

      “What?” She was losing me, here.

      “Oh, God.” She yanked at her scarf again, this time more violently. “I’m going to have a panic attack. I can feel it.”

      “No, you won’t. Just breathe. Come on, in and out—you remember. Innn…ooouut. There you go. That’s right.” I spoke in soft, placating tones like a Lamaze coach. “Here, let’s just get that scarf off, okay?” I reached over and untied it with considerable effort; in tugging at it, she’d worked it into a tight little fist of a knot, but I managed to get it off her and a faint wash of pink started to bloom in her cheeks again.

      “So, let’s just start at the beginning,” I said when I was confident she wouldn’t hyperventilate. “Whose retreat got canceled?”

      “Dannika’s,” she croaked.

      “And who’s Dannika?”

      “Coop’s best friend from college.”

      “Okay,” I said. “So, she’s going to Mendocino with you?”

      She nodded, her face the picture of misery. “She’s driving us. Coop’s car is too small.”

      “And why is this freaking you out? Because she’s female?”

      She narrowed her eyes at me. “Female, СКАЧАТЬ