He drank a beer, then another. In his hand, a hot dog bun, split down the middle like a woman’s private parts, and here was Suzie, her eyes tearing from the smoke, taking up the tongs and laying the phallic frankfurter right in the slot created for it, then heaping up the chopped onions and piccalilli relish to smother it and chase the image away. Elated, he compared notes with Charlie, with Tim and Dick and the students themselves, moving easily from one group to another, the sun a sacred glowing disk in the sky and the air as sweet and fresh as if it had been created on the spot. The only casualty was Julius, sitting slumped in a lawn chair at the edge of the patio, his eyes vacant and hair mussed, an untouched soda clutched in one hand and his shoes untied, as if he’d tried to get them off and given up. But what was one compared to all the rest? Counting the guides, fifteen had gotten the dose, and only one had broken down (though admittedly the one who’d flung his retainer at the statue might have gone through a rough patch or two). Par for the course? Worth the risk? Yes. Sure. Of course. They’d all gone through it, they’d all suffered, but they’d gloried too—and so would Julius, if given another chance.

He was standing there with Charlie, jabbering on about anything that came into his head while Charlie jabbered right back, feeling unconquerable, feeling like Superman, when an unseen hand took hold of his earlobe and gave it a twist and he swung round on Flora Lu and the monkey perched on her shoulder. The monkey was grinning—or showing its teeth, in any case—and Flora Lu, in a tight red dress and a shade of lipstick to match, pursed her lips as if she were going to blow him a kiss and said, “Don’t mind Thelonious—he just likes to make human contact, that’s all. Or monkey contact, I mean. Or monkey-human.” She turned her face to the monkey, their noses inches apart, and crooned in falsetto, “Doesn’t he, naughty monkey? Huh? Huh?”

Charlie—was he leering at her?—said, “Hey, it’s only natural. Who doesn’t want a little contact?”

They both looked to him now and he said, “You won’t get any argument from me.” He was watching her, the huge liquid eyes and high cheekbones that were like Audrey Hepburn’s, and saw that her eyes were dilated and wondered if she were off on a private trip—and if so, how she could possibly tolerate the brightness of the sun.