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312 pages, Paperback
Published June 15, 2021
A small pleasure, some might think, to stand upon a horse’s head. To those doubters I would say, “Imagine yourself to be the last hummingbird west of Chile, caged and uncaged at the whim of others, powerless, blown about like a feather, and then tell me what is a small pleasure and what is not.”
So what, I thought. (We) had nothing to fear. Unless we broke rank and confessed, he would never know. He would never know unless walls and floors and the night itself could talk, and only my grandfather believed that possible. “I have heard the trees whispering to each other a thousand times,” he said, “and never do they sound the same.”
• Fly on, Zephyrax, zoom at speed. I dropped to one hundred feet and entered what appeared to be the poorest quarter. A few citizens were leaning over the seawall, pouring fecal matter from wooden slop-buckets into the harbour. Babies cried, women cried, men cried or shouted. Enough, Zephyrax. I returned to the wider avenues. There, at intervals, box-like carriages on horizontal poles were being carried at a trot by quartets of dark-skinned men. White hands tap-tapped from curtained openings. We were in Asia, I understood, but racial privilege seemed unaltered, identical to that of Brazil or the Carolinas.
• I pondered the coincidence that there were “Indians” in North America and “Indians” in India, yet they were culturally and linguistically worlds apart. Someone must have made a mistake, historically, to give them the same name. Or, alternatively — more likely — white people made up the name for the North Americans. Looking at darker skin, they saw nothing worth differentiating. “Let’s call them all Indians, whoever they are,” they said, and so it came to pass.
• He was too hurried, thoughtless at the speed of his movements. If women were anything like female hummingbirds, I thought, then go slower, Andrew, go slower, bury your head in her neck, and whisper, whisper to her.
”Well,” I said, “I asked for this, and now I know what my husband truly is.” I reached for a teaspoon without shaking. “Nothing will be easy now. By marriage I have passed all of my possessions into his hands. He could throw me under his carriage, run me over with impunity.” “I doubt he would go to such extremes,” replied Emerson.” “Your wife and Miss Albertson,” I said, “have already concluded that he has tried to kill my father and brother. Why should he stop at them?” My footman did not bat an eye. He advised me to visit my London solicitor, to ascertain my rights. I had already thought of that of course, and I would do so. “We’re not leaving London, Emerson,” I said, “you never know, we might even run into Andrew on the street. It happens in novels, it might happen to us.”