Horse Latitudes | Page 8

the song tell you?" I asked.
She shrugged, pressing her hands deep into the pockets of her jacket. "I
don't exactly know. Maybe the story of the place. What what went on
here in the past; what'll happen in the future. I don't know exactly. It's
enough for me just to do it."
I put the flask in my pocket. "Listen Frida," I said, "the atmosphere in
here is definitely not growing on me. Would you like to go
someplace?"
"I don't live too far away." She paused and said, "Maybe I could play
you some of my music."

"I'd like that," I said. As she stood she said, "You know, you managed
to still not tell me your name."
I looked at her for a moment. An old man shuffled between us, nodding
and waving to sleeping friends. I thought about the Music of Jungles.
Was this woman insane, I wondered. I'd been dreaming so long myself,
it hardly seemed to matter. I told her my real name. She hardly reacted
at all which, to tell you the truth, bothered me more than it should have.
She picked up a bulky purse-sized object from the floor and slung it
over her shoulder, looped her arm in mine, and led me into the street.
"This is a digital recorder," she said, indicating the purse-thing. "I go to
Marin and Oakland whenever I can, fewer people means I get cleaner
recordings. I prefer binaural to stereo for the kind of work I'm doing. It
has more natural feel."
"Teach me to use it?" I asked.
"Sure. I think you can handle it."
"Why do I feel like I just passed an audition?"
"Maybe because you just did."
In the quivering light of the mercury vapor lamps, the activity of the
Chinatown looters was almost indistinguishable from the sleeping
ballet of children and merchants.
2 RTEXTR*ch

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