Nonfiction 2

A Comment on the Statement of the Communist Party of the USA by Renmin Ribao editorial

By Renmin Ribao editorial

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She stood at a granite counter beside a stainless steel double-doored fridge. ” Linda threw ice cubes and mint leaves and grapefruit juice into a tall glass. “I’m having a drink. Grapefruit screwdriver. Are you interested? ” “I’m interested. But it’s half-eleven in the morning. ” “Is that a yes or a no? ” “I’ll have the coffee, please. ” Linda poured a large slug of Stolichnaya into her glass and brought me a mug of coffee. She sat on a cream-colored sofa that ran along the back glass wall, tucked her bare legs beneath her and gave me a smile.

I expected him to be at the funeral. I wasn’t ready to declare him dead, not yet. Not before I had some inkling of what had happened to him. It looked like I’d have to stick around after all. And since I’d had to borrow the airfare to get here, the first thing I was going to need was a job. I walked down Westmoreland Street, crossed onto O’Connell Bridge and stared down into the green water of the river Liffey. It didn’t smell anymore—in my childhood, the only respite from its seemingly perpetual stink was when the aroma of burnt hops from the Guinness Brewery up on James’s Street enveloped the city in a warm narcotic cloud.

Looking around, I was glad to see that we had attracted something of a crowd. On top of the navy blazers and sweaters, there was a younger contingent, the men in rugby shirts, the women in navy-and-white-striped tops. Maybe there was a club uniform, graded by age. I wasn’t thinking about them, however, or about Cyril Lampkin, who was staring goggle-eyed at me, his jowls working like a bullfrog’s, or even about the tall, wiry, dark-haired guy in 46 Declan Hughes shorts and a life jacket who had materialized at my side, and who looked like he could make life difficult for me if he felt like it.

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