Read Quipu for Free Online Page B

for people who want to lose weight. I’m aiming at the kind of cuisine that came into its own at Le Restaurant des Frères Troisgros.”
    “The ‘new-new’ cuisine, as it’s been called. Low in fats and oils, high in flavor and enjoyment. Let’s eat.”
    “I could do with a knife and fork,” Ray tells the hovering chef.
    “No, no. With the fingers. And watch the bones.”
    “Oh, great.” Now he sees the reason for the large finger bowls and paper serviettes. The fricasseed rabbit comes out with a sucking noise, moist and cold, suitable no doubt for the screening of this program during the coming summer. It explodes in his surprised mouth with flavors that bring him near to tears. “Oh,” he says. “Great.”
    “I thought we were supposed to be discussing intelligence testing,” grumbles ungracious Joseph.
    “I thought you were starving,” says Ray.
    1969: joseph misses out
    brunswick that athens of the South
    November 69
     
    O woe and gloom and drabble me drither—all the nature of his usual cry, mark you, marking no whit, for that matter, any matter not usual. That’s how it is round this roughcut end of the earth, or so it seems.
    I gather from my spies that a Postal Strike is presently or at least currently and almost without question presently also laying siege to all non-oral communication, and that when eventually it finishes (until which time, one imagines, this poor letter will languish crushed in a canvas bag, creased and cross) a hundred million pieces of mail will on the instant be funneled through the fumbling paws of posties working under stress and pressure, with a yield in losses, mutilation, hold-ups of a post-Post Strike sort.
    I went to this party run by the Revolutionary Syndicalists on Saturday night with Martha and Bob. Fifty cents at the door ‘for the Cause.’ Drive ya to drink.
    There was no spare bed to be had there so I taxied home to Brunswick from Kew a sadder & a poorer & yes a wiser man at four in the morning.
    In the midst of the dull slugs who are the revolution’s vanguard only two of any beauty turned up: Libby and the lovely mad Quintilla (a name she must surely have devised). They came to share our huddled corner, and when they speared off together at a comparatively early hour in Libby’s mummy’s car, Libby offered me a lift. To Brunswick? I cried. Why, said she, it is all one to us. I declined. Fool! How drunk was I? My sense of proportion and nuance evidently deserted me at that crucial moment. That matter shall be rectified. At least looked into.
    I miss you. If you listen carefully.
    Why do you insist on denigrating yourself? Antony is right: magic sea sprite sadly beautiful. Take this for reassurance—everyone at that damned party came forth with unsolicited testimonials to your warmth and excellence, and expressions of amazement at my letting you slip through my fingers. Indeed.
    All my love, old trout.
    kiss kiss
    Joseph
    1979: red menace
    It’s winter-dark in the Uskadar, but warm, friendly with fat soft candles and cloth hanging in folds and tucks from the ceiling. The Nitting Circle shamble and straggle into the place, peer at the Turkish menu, agree grudgingly with Joseph’s plan that all are to share a set menu. For the best part of an hour and a half they gorge on tiny pieces of meat (lamb chops, slices of lamb, shish kebab, sausage), on dips glistening with oil, on the wine and beer they have fetched with them. It is carnage, and nervous Joseph abandons his thoughtfully prepared mineral water. When Cabernet Sauvignon is pressed on him, Joseph is a goner. His voice rises to the hangings. His arms levitate. A reckless note of song enters him.
    There are not quite enough cars to see them all back to Marks St. Happily, several of the brights relish the stroll, setting off into the blackness with Wagner, who knows enough about Brunswick to get them there. The street smears before Joseph. Cats prowl his hallway when he clicks home the key. He’s