380
PARTISAN REVIEW
an account of simple pleasures of the mountain village: riding the yak,
eating the Sherpas' famous brown cheese pie, and a reminiscence of the
yogi who stopped his heart each afternoon from three to three-fifteen;
and featuring An Assault on K2: bizarre misadventures; hallucinations
unique
to
the Himalayas; intimations on the pathos of reversion; and
mysticism, the rustic's mainstay.
As Ursula Dolmon and Mrs. Sheehan sank away, Tina tiptoed to
the sofa and sat beside me. Her expression inscrutable, she whispered,
"Tell me about the chicks."
I smiled.
"Are they cute?"
"Moderately."
"Are they fat or skinny?"
"They're so bundled up, it's hard to actually see them. But as a
rule they're nicely plump."
"Oh, 'nicely.' So you like that, do you?"
"Do
I?
Yes, in a way."
She squinted for greater inscrutability and said, "And in what way
do you like them which aren't plump?"
"Anyone you have in mind particularly?"
"Me, dummy!"
"Oh. Well yes, I'd say you're a rather nice little thing."
"Little
thing!" she squealed most scrutably, and woke the ladies.
"But of course if you give the yak its head, it will go right to the
edge, for they love to look out into the sky. One wonders what they're
thinking... " Ursula Dolmon and Mrs. Sheehan settled back.
"All right, you," Tina whispered, scooting closer. "What kind of
'little thing' am I?"
"Well ... a peach. A ripe peach."
She closed her eyes. "Umm. I like that. Yes, I like that a lot. And
am I sweet or tart?"
I sneaked a yawn. "Both at once."
"And do you nibble me or fill your mouth all at once and gobble
me up?"
"Nibbles first, then to gobbling."
"Oh yes," and she opened her eyes-and looked not at me but over
my shoulder, her eyes widening.
As I turned, a blur slid across the window, leaving after it the
moon-gray night on the lawn.
"That was nothing," I said. "Your imagination. Or perhaps a very
large owl."
