That night I saw him out in the faux lagoon, desperately blubbing and trying to scrape together all of the pieces of Nancy in London that had washed up on the faux rocks. He never slept, but sat up til dawn crying, burping and singing into Nancy’s answering machine until the tape ran out. They played some of these tapes back at the inquest after Nancy went missing: hours and hours of morose love songs, forgetting the lyrics and drifting off into another tune, interspersed with profanities and Latin quotations:
‘I’ll be a strong as a mountain… Or weak as a willow tree…
Anyway you want me — That’s how I will be…
“The gladiator greets you from the arena.”
I’ll be a tame as a baby… Or wild as the… the… raging sea-a…
[fumbling for lighter; drops cigarette; burns himself]
Hell. Damn. Shit on me.
“–Good swimmers are often drowned.” Memento mori. In vino veritas. [burp]
Anyway you wan-ant-ant-ant me, that’s how I will be…’
At last I had to crack a new bottle of gin and pop him in the pink Cadillac. About six o’clock he went rolling on over the hill to our neighbour’s ranch, Casa Estonia, which belongs to the personable actor Greg Stone, who also has a side-line business raising alpacas.
Continued Next Post: Sweet dreams ’til Sunbeams Find You