Love in Infant Monkeys by Lydia Millet (best feel good books .txt) 📕

Stone was recovering rapidly. As she hiccupped on the chair she reminded herself this had nothing to do with the deceased Widdle Puff. Her father was also long dead, run over by a tweaking preteen at an off-road vehicle rally in the Imperial Dunes. As for the poor little deer, she reflected, well, it was sad. It just was. But she’d tried to be a vegetarian once and it was super boring; plus she’d had venison for the first time this past Thanksgiving. Pretty good. So she wasn’t one to talk, as far as eating deers went. And her own dog, a Boston terrier, was safe in the care of an elderly neighbor.

No one was trying to hurt her. She was going to be fine. She had to get back into character and scrub her face of its streaky makeup.

She smiled tearfully at the maid, took a deep breath, rose from the chair and nodded at Rajaputra.

“I’ll be fine. Gimme a couple of minutes,” she promised.

She sat down on the ground in sukhanasa, folded her fingers into ling mudra and closed her mascara-clotted eyes to prepare for healing. It crossed her mind, before she began clearing it, to wonder if the real Sharon Stone would have yelled out “Jesus Christ! Jesus Christ!” But probably it was OK; the star was rumored to be a Buddhist these days.

The maid curtseyed and retreated.

Meanwhile, Rajaputra came to a decision.

He left Sharon Stone where she was and came looking for me. He would tell me to kill the lizard, kill it immediately, shoot it point-blank through the head. He would have liked to do the deed himself, in full view of his assembled servants, but he suspected Sharon Stone would not appreciate that. If he were a woman, he thought, he would find it highly erotic, but he was not a woman and he was certainly not Sharon Stone. She had already refused a leopard coat he had offered her, on the grounds that it was not nice to flay dead creatures and steal their furry coverings. This was what he had gathered, at least. He did not quite fathom her religion, but no doubt in time he would learn to predict its irrational prohibitions.

Of course, I had come to be fond of Komo and was not inclined toward murder, even beyond the fact that it was illegal and went against the ethics of my profession. But I had worked for Rajaputra for almost a year by then and knew the billionaire’s volatile moods all too well, so I agreed to dispose of the lizard, provided Rajaputra would permit me to use lethal injection instead of a firearm.

Rajaputra contemplated the request for a few seconds, then seemed to realize the gun gesture would work only if he himself were the shooter. I would steal his fire if he let me kill the dragon myself with his favorite .45. Mine would be the glory. Other staff might see the execution and think I was more manly.

“Fine, fine,” he said hurriedly. By now he was quite transparently afraid I might in fact cling to the firearm idea, which he himself had foolishly handed to me on a platter. “Yes. Injection. Do it today! And send the skin to Andre in Tokyo. I want a jacket and two pairs of boots. Size 26 men’s.”

Then he returned to Sharon Stone, who by this time was lying on her back on a towel and pulling up her legs one by one into vatayanasana, the wind-relieving pose.

I ducked into staff quarters to consult with the chief animal keeper, my confidant in matters of herp care. We did the math and decided on an appropriate dose of sedative; we made calls; I filled a syringe; we pulled on our protective legwear and, along with two assistant keepers, marched over to Komo’s indoor enclosure, where the lizard was by then slumbering. He had consumed about 40 percent of his body weight in a single sitting; seeing my patient was full of deer, I upped the dosage.

It took Sharon Stone almost a week to realize that her situation was less than ideal. The revelation came when Rajaputra presented her with a diamond ring hidden in a chicken pot pie (he was convinced the pot pie was a rare American delicacy, but his Japanese chef, annoyed to be asked to prepare such plebeian fare, had actually ordered the pies online from Marie Callender’s). When Sharon Stone remarked that the ring was beautiful but closely resembled a symbol of engagement, Rajaputra told her she was free to choose whether they married in four weeks or six. After a brief bark of laughter, Sharon Stone sobered up; she could see the billionaire was not joining in her merriment. She told him with regret that she had obligations back home, to her career, her fans and above all—remembering in the nick of time a tidbit from the tabloids—her adopted son Roan. He was still a toddler and was staying with his grandmother, she added quickly, at the moment.

Generously Rajaputra conceded her son Roan could be brought to join them. But perhaps the boy was not necessary? For he would give her many more sons, he said, and better ones too; she might be well into her forties, but his sperm were like superheroes. They could go anywhere and do anything.

“Well, you know,” said Sharon Stone distractedly, both amazed and insulted, now that she thought of it, that she was actually being seriously mistaken for a woman in her forties, “he’s my son, after all. I do love the kid.”

“You may have him, then,” said Rajaputra regally.

Sharon Stone wondered what else to say. Until now she had thought the billionaire highly eccentric, true; but she had not worried too much about it, for extreme wealth was well known to distort. The fact that he wore an unsheathed dagger tucked into his trousers at all times, the fact that he allowed no plants, vegetables or