I sometimes laid away my father's clothes in his trunk. The houses they flitted to and from were glutted with hangers-on, servant/mistresses, and errant prostitutes. She could not speak. My reply to all of them has been the same. And they pay her. She thought me— filthy. The musician. “I’m a vampire. ” She scoffed. The doctor's lessons, perhaps delivered with too much serious emphasis, had destroyed that buoyant confidence in her ability to take care of herself. So, here he was, on the last lap of middle age, in China, having missed all the thrills in life except one—the war against Death.
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