These Dreams of You

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Zan is shocked by the tactlessness of the conversation, but it’s history that’s been tactless. “The father was ambassador,” he says, looking at the house, “before World War II. One of his sons became president. He was shot. A few years later his brother ran for president and he was shot too. Some people think the new president’s campaign was more like the brother’s.”

“Would the brother have become president,” says Parker as the driver starts up the car, “if he hadn’t been shot?”

“Hard to know. Some people think so.” Zan says, “I’m not so sure.”

The driver pulls out into traffic. “Funny place, the States.”

In the small Bloomsbury hotel, Zan and his children have a room on the third floor. The woman at the front desk says, “Are you Alexander Nordhoc, the author?” An international warrant must be out for my arrest, he thinks. WORLD’S MOST OBSCURE AUTHOR FLEES DEBT COLLECTORS reads the headline in his mind, INTERPOL ON THE HUNT. On their first day the father and children wander the neighborhood, submitting to fish and chips at a corner stand; twice Zan yanks Sheba from the path of oncoming taxis. “We’re not in the canyon,” he admonishes the kids, “this is a big city, a real city. Not like L.A.”