Chapter 2
After the porter left, I had a quick
tour of my accommodations: a large bedroom with driftwood floors, four-poster
and furniture; a bathroom with a sunken bathtub continuing behind sliding glass
doors into a small private pool, all blues, white, and marble; a semicircular
livingroom, with floor to ceiling windows, surrounded by a terrace hovering over
the marina and sea some 600 yards below.
On the terrace, surveying the
150-acre resort with a pair of binoculars and enjoying the fresh air filtered
through the pines, two Draken fighters swooped down, nearly ripping the roof off
my bungalow before disappearing over the marina. And this was supposed to be
‘peace and quiet’? Annoyed, I went inside.
Full, on the king size bed—after a
bloody sirloin club steak, no longer troubled by my vegan apostasy, a 1990
Musigny, Vieilles Vignes Domaine Comte Georges de Vogüé red burgundy, and the
staff having unpacked my four antique leather Luis Vuitton suitcases, my mood
plummeted. I’d wasted my life aimlessly mucking around. Should’ve heeded a line
from Machiavelli’s The Prince: Any man who tries to be good all the time is
bound to come to ruin among the great number who are not good. My canines needed
whetting. And how naïve to have believed in all those New Age books (the actors’
curse), with their ‘letting go and forgive’ mantras. New Age, like Christianity,
created by aggressives so we sheeple won’t rise; turn into rams and discover
that we’ve been dry-fucked all along.
I got more and more pissed. Had to
let off steam. A swim would do the trick.