A loud, unbelievable laugh from one of the actors distracted me. It was the worst pretend laugh I’d ever heard, and I had to see who was responsible. For the next twenty minutes I was held spellbound by this minor character- his inauthentic smile, some plainly hilarious eyebrow acting, and then a whole scene of tearless sobbing- and when the play finished, the lights were turned on, the audience was applauding (perhaps sincerely) and I scanned the room in time to see Oscar Hobbs sneak out the back door.

The next day in the morning paper there was, surprisingly, a review of the play. It astonished everyone involved in the production- a play that small and shoddy in a theater that foul and dingy didn’t usually attract professional reviewers as much as it attracted homeless people looking for some soup, and having so little faith in the professionalism of their own work, the organizers hadn’t bothered to alert the media. The strangest and most suspicious thing wasn’t the review itself but the content: it focused solely on the play’s lighting: “deeply atmospheric,” “moody and arresting,” and “bold and shadowy.” Everyone who read it agreed it was the silliest they’d ever seen. The actors, the director, and the writer weren’t mentioned. Anouk was startled both by having been singled out in the review and by the ugly and childish reaction of her colleagues, who turned on her viciously, accusing her of planting the review, bribing a journalist, and “showing off with the spotlight.”

Anouk was confused, though I wasn’t. I’d seen Oscar Hobbs at the hall, and it wasn’t hard to see his fingerprints all over this thing. What did I make of it? It was no more than amusing. The gods can step down and salivate over the mortals like the rest of us, can’t they? Anouk had one of those bodies that demanded, as a man, your rapt attention, and Oscar Hobbs was just a man, after all. As I said, it was amusing, nothing more, and while I enjoy watching the befuddlement of my family, friends, and peers, I can’t hold on to secrets for very long. So that night, after Anouk hung up the phone at the end of a long argument with the play’s producer, I told her.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she screamed.

“I just did.”

She scrunched up her face so her eyes, nose, and mouth were no bigger than a mandarin.

“What the hell does he want?” she said quietly.

I gestured at her body and said, “Take a guess.”

“But he can get anyone he wants!”

“Maybe because of something you said to him in the casino. What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on.”

“All right,” she said. “I told him his soul’s got one of those stains on it that smudges when you try to wipe it clean.”

Two days later I was at work, standing outside the building smoking a cigarette with my boss, Smithy, and I was thinking I’d have to leave the job soon and I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t announce my coworkers’ faults on the way out. I was wondering whether they’d give me a quitting-in-a-huff party when I saw a Porsche Spyder drive up to a no-stopping zone and stop there. It was the kind of car James Dean died in. It was a nice car. I’d die in there too, if I could afford it.

Smithy said, “Feast your eyes on that.”

“I’m feasting.”

Oscar stepped out of the car and walked up to us. “Jasper.”

“You’re Oscar Hobbs!” Smithy said in shock.

“That’s right,” he said back.

“That must be the problem with being famous,” I said. “Everyone tells you your own name.”

“Jasper. Can I talk to you a minute?”

“Sure,” I answered and, turning to Smithy, excused myself. Smithy nodded at me enthusiastically, still wearing that shell-shocked face, the one that looked as if he’d just found a vagina among his own genitalia.

Oscar and I stepped into a small patch of sunlight. He looked nervous.

“I feel kind of funny coming to see you about this.”

“About what?” I asked, sensing the answer.

“Anouk came into my office and really let me have it for that review.”

“She did?”

“I also made sure the media reported an environmental demonstration she went on. But she was furious. I don’t understand it. She really hates me, doesn’t she?”

“It’s not personal. She hates the rich.”

“How can I get her to like me?”

“If you could demonstrate that you’re oppressed in some way, that would help.”

He nodded rhythmically, as if to a beat.

“What do you really want with Anouk, anyway? It seems that you’re making a lot of effort here. I’ve seen the women you go for. Anouk’s nice, and she has her own style of beauty, but it doesn’t really make any sense. You can rake in the über-women anytime you like. What gives?”

“The thing is, Jasper, the world is full of ordinary people. Some are beautiful, some are not. What’s rare is extraordinary, interesting, original, and creative people who think their own thoughts. Now, while waiting for this extraordinary woman, if I have to spend my time with an ordinary woman, do you think I’d be with a beautiful ordinary woman or an unattractive ordinary woman?”

There was no need to answer that, so I didn’t.

“Women like Anouk are rarer than you think.”

After he left, Smithy said, with forced nonchalance, “How do you know Oscar Hobbs?” and I said, “You know, from around,” and because I’m as pitiful as the next man, with the same howling ego, I felt for the rest of that day like someone important.

Still, I was confounded. This man wasn’t just running after Anouk like a snorting dragon, he was actually infatuated with her, and she was shooting him down! Power may be an aphrodisiac, but one’s own prejudice is a turnoff, and evidently the more potent of the two. I remember her dragging me once to a rally where the speaker said the media barons were in the pocket of the government, and then a month later to another rally where this speaker said the government was in the pockets of the media barons (she agreed with both), and I remember trying to explain to her that it only looks like they are, because by coincidence the government and the newspapers just happen to have the exact same agenda: to scare the shit out of people and then to keep them in constant freezing terror. She didn’t care. She decreed her everlasting hatred for both groups, and nothing could persuade her otherwise. I began to think of Oscar’s rich and handsome face as an amusing test of the strength and vitality of her prejudices.

I arrived home around sunset and walked dreamily through the advancing shadows of the labyrinth. It was one of my favorite times in the bush- the edge of night. As I approached my hut, I saw the Towering Inferno on the veranda waiting for me. We hurried inside and made love and I studied her face vigilantly during it, to make sure she wasn’t thinking of anyone other than me. To be honest, I couldn’t tell.

Half an hour later a voice was at the door. “Knock knock,” the voice said.

I grimaced. It was Dad this time. I climbed out of bed and opened the door. He was in a bathrobe he’d bought months earlier, and the price tag was still hanging off the sleeve.

“Hey, tell me something about that girlfriend of yours,” he said.

“Shhh, she’s asleep.” I stepped onto the veranda and closed the door behind me. “What about her?” I asked.

“Is she on the pill?”

“What business could that possibly be of yours?”

“Is she?”

“As it happens, she’s not. She has an allergic reaction to it.”

“Great!”

I took a deep breath, determined to bear him with as much patience as I had stored in my depths. His grin drained the pool.

“All right. You win. I’m curious. Why is it great that my girlfriend is not on the pill? And this better be good.”