"It's time to go home", says Mr. Bloom to nobody in particular as he sits in the Executive Lounge on the fortieth floor of the Santa Margherita Hilton and gazes out over the sprawling city. Several observations prompt his thinking. First, what was once a stack of neatly folded socks, underwear and shirts is now a pile of rumpled and smelly laundry. Second, today's attire: wheras on Monday Mr. Bloom wore a suit and tie, his couture has gradually evolved to open-collared shirt sans tie and slacks. Third, his manner: in his first few days, Mr. Bloom was almost obsequiously courteous to all he met; now, he just wants his coffee, black, and pronto. Did I say make that a double? You bet I said double, and let's make it double-fast, Pedro.
Negotiations with Mindy Megan Africa Clausewitz du Monde went swimmingly well, "swimmingly" being a particularly apt description of said bargaining as the transaction closed in the pool of Miss du Monde's villa, in which Miss du Monde paddled the backstroke langorously while wearing the bottom half of a Wicketts WTF bikini - one of the smaller ones -- and nothing else. Mr. Bloom, wearing boxer trunks in a tropical print (kindly supplied courtesy of Wicketts) tred water lazily a dozen feet away, and found himself wondering if she preferred her ladyparts bejazzled or unbejazzled.
Miss du Monde rolled and dove beneath the surface and disappeared for a few minutes, then suddenly surfaced a few feet away from Mr. Bloom. "Deal!" she said, wiping water from her eyes, and with that closed a handshake agreement to provide a year's worth of digital media placements for condoms.com and Wicketts. In Santa Margherita, handshake agreements rule, but it pays to pay off one or two senior officials in the Ministry of the Interior, who can manage your counterparty risk by breaking the legs of counterparties who renege on an agreement, or who otherwise displease you.
Mr. Bloom declined the opportunity to initiate sexual relations with Miss du Monde, out of a sense of loyalty to June and fear of the consequences, but mostly fear of the consequences.
Life in Santa Margherita has its pleasures, but Mr. Bloom yearns for home. He dials the number. Molly picks up. "Hello?"
"Hi Honey, it's your Dad". Mr. Bloom has learned that "Hi Honey, still a virgin?" doesn't cut it as a greeting for his eldest.
"Hi".
"How's the Busoni coming?"
Molly perks up. "Oh, it's going well. I've read through the Preludio and first three Fuga and was just starting the Intermezzo when the phone rang. I knew it was you".
Mr. Bloom is flattered. Ordinarily, Molly wouldn't answer the phone if Ferruccio Busoni himself called to tell her that the tempi are a little too quick and to cut the slophouse with the left hand in the Variazioni.
"Well, I can't wait to hear it when I get home". Actually, Mr. Bloom doesn't mean this. Personally, he thinks Busoni is something of a nutcase who wrote music best suited for other nutcases, and he would much rather listen to Die Kunst der Fuge than to some fey Socialist's riffs thereupon; but he is resigned to the reality that for the next month or so he will hear little but Busoni banged out on the Bosendorfer, little sections repeated endlessly as Molly searches for that elusive perfect performance. He sighs.
It turns out that Molly only answered because nobody else is home, the Blooms eschew answering machines, and Molly knows that Mr. Bloom will persist in letting it ring until she answers. June Bloom is out seeking to purchase Christmas presents; Margaret is in the library; Catherine and Mr. Fuzzums seek Miss Kitty (the annoying cat next door), who is up to no good; and Mary is on her knees before Misstress Rene earning her second semester Science grade. A few whacks on the fanny, she figures, and she is well on the road to earning another bumper sticker for her Dad -- the one that says "My Child is an Honor Student at Beauneville Latin".
