A Book of Common Prayer by Joan Didion

Warren to see them. When she finally spoke her voice was neutral. “Who exactly was on this plane?”
    “All friends of yours, I have no doubt. Which reminds me, you look like hell, your veins show.” Warren took the glass and drained it. “This Levant creature, whoever he is.”
    “Bashti Levant controls three out of five pop records sold in America.” Leonard seemed amused. “As you know perfectly well.”
    “Yeah, well, I had some fun at his expense, I don’t mind telling you. I had a little fun with him and this fat castrato he had along to bray at his jokes. This pasty Palm Beach castrato. ‘P.L.U.,’ he kept saying. ‘People Like Us.’ I let him know what category that was, don’t think I didn’t. Fawning capon. French cuffs. Parasitical eunuch.”
    “You didn’t like him,” Leonard said.
    “Palm Beach trash hanger-on. I let the women alone.”
    “The last Southern gentleman,” Leonard said.
    “Not that they deserved it. Two terrible women. Terrible voices, terrible brays. The castrato only brayed when the Levant creature snapped his fingers, but the women brayed all the time. 3,000 miles of braying. Le island. Le weekend. Les monkey-gland injections. Le New York trash.” Warren held out his glass to Charlotte. “I believe one of them was married to the Levant creature. Whoever he is, I have no idea.”
    “That surprises me. Since Leonard just told you.”
    “That surprises you, does it.” Warren rattled the ice in his glass. “You surprise easier than you used to. I suppose this creature is a client of Leonard’s.”
    “As a matter of fact he is.”
    “Leonard’s got all the luck. Arabs. Jews. Indians. Bashti Levant.”
    “Niggers,” Leonard said. “You forgot niggers.”
    “How exactly did this creature come to your attention, Leonard? He rape an Arab? Or is that possible. Actually I believe that’s a solecism. Raping an Arab.”
    “You’ve had that Arab in the wings, I can tell by your delivery.” Leonard took Warren’s glass and filled it. “I got involved with Bashti on a dope charge a few years ago. Involving certain of his artists.”
    “I don’t believe what I’m hearing. Bashti’s artists.”
    “There was a civil-liberties issue.”
    “Of course there was.” Warren choked with laughter and slapped his knee. “I knew there was.”
    “There was,” Charlotte said.
    In the silence that followed she could hear her voice echo, harsh and ugly. She fixed her eyes on the ring Leonard had brought her from wherever he had gone to meet the man who financed the Tupamaros.
    The square emerald ring.
    The big square emerald from some capital she could not remember.
    “Listen to that voice,” Warren said. “Let’s have that tone of voice again.”
    Leonard looked at Charlotte and shook his head slightly.
    Charlotte picked up a cigarette and lit it.
    “No wonder your daughter left home,” Warren said.
    The red rose Warren had given Charlotte fell from the table to the floor.
    Charlotte said nothing.
    “All I hold against your daughter is she didn’t catch Bashti Levant with that pipe bomb. Bashti and certain of his artists. That’s the only bone I want to pick with your daughter. Your daughter and mine.”
    “He doesn’t mellow,” Leonard said finally.
    “What did you expect, Leonard? You expect I’d hit forty-five and start applauding the family of man?” Warren drained his second drink. “It’s my birthday, Charlotte. You haven’t wished me happy birthday.”
    “I’ll tell you something I expected, I expected—” Charlotte broke off. She did not know what she had expected. She concentrated on the emerald.
    Bogotá.
    Quito.
    She had no idea where Leonard had met the man who financed the Tupamaros.
    “Today’s not your birthday,” she said finally. “Your birthday was last month.”
    “Your husband expected a humanist.”
    “Leonard,” Leonard said.
    “Pardon?”
    “Her husband’s name is Leonard.”
    “I stole that rose for you,” Warren said.