Henry put Mary Jane's letter back into its envelope. "How do you do that?" he asked Victoria.

"Do what?" she asked, as if she hadn't meant her smoke rings to be provocative.

"Blow smoke rings," he said.

"Ancient secret."

"Teach me," Henry said.

"It's all about the tongue," Victoria said.

He did not want her, and it was not just because she was older and he knew her body would be less exciting than Peace's. He didn't want Victoria because she didn't paste magazine pictures onto doorframes, didn't make belts out of old neckties and purse handles out of old belts, didn't know how to give ma.s.sages that were more like conversations than talk, didn't make him want to kiss her even after she'd asked him to. Henry did wonder-his wondering such things was after all a habit of being-if Victoria actually would cheat on her husband with him. It amazed and intrigued him that he had never yet slept with a married woman. But then he thought of Peace; she was the only one he really wanted or intended to want.

WHEN HENRY CAME HOME THAT NIGHT, Peace was wearing another new pair of boots, and she kept them-and only them-on when she led him to the bed to make love. Gymnastically, she got them close enough to his face so that he could smell their mixture of leather and marijuana-a head-shop, flea-market smell.

"Where'd you get these these boots?" he asked her after he lit a cigarette and she lit a joint. boots?" he asked her after he lit a cigarette and she lit a joint.

"Do you like them?" she said. She was lying beside him now, and she lifted her legs at a perfect ninety-degree angle, admiring the boots.

"You stole them, didn't you?" Henry asked.

She clicked the heels against each other.

"Did you?" Henry asked her.

"I think everything should be free," Peace said. "Don't you think everything should be free?"

She giggled and let her legs fall heavily back onto the bed.

"Where'd you steal them from?" he asked her.

She sang: "Stone free, do what I please. Stone free, to ride the breeze."

He knew he should scold her, but he was beguiled.

He asked her to pose for him.

"In just my boots?" she asked.

"Exactly," he said.

"Stone free," she sang. "I can't stay. Got to, got to, got to get away."

Henry sprang out of bed and found some charcoals and paper. He sat on a chair about two yards from the bed.

"Find a position you can hold," he told her. "Other than asleep."

She looked slightly wounded. "I know know how to pose," she said. how to pose," she said.

"I'm sorry, baby. It's just, you know. It's not as easy as you'd think."

But she was a good model, reminding him of Annie. She was in fact excellent. She found a position, up on an elbow, and then another, curled around a pillow, and then a third, her back arched, her shoulders as perfect and polished as two stones.

"You're amazing," he told her, hungrily sketching.

She grinned.

"It's like you've been doing this all your life," he said.

She giggled.

"Well, not all my life," she said, but then she told him that, between auditions, she had been modeling for Geoffrey Whitehall.

Whitehall was famous-and not just in London-for his psychedelic designs, which adorned everything from record alb.u.ms to shop windows, posters, and clothing. His considerable success as a graphic designer had been converted to near icon status by the fact that he'd started a trend for painting on bodies. Women's bodies. Nude.

"How the h.e.l.l did you meet Geoffrey Whitehall?" Henry asked.

"Martini introduced us," Peace said.

"Did you let him paint you?" Henry asked.

"I told you I posed for him."

"No. But I mean did you let him paint on on you?" you?"

"Not yet," Peace said. "But he says he wants to. Isn't that fab? He says my body's a perfect canvas."

"It is," Henry said. "But it's my canvas."

She looked at him. "Are you done drawing?" she asked.

He nodded, perturbed.

"Then let's go out," she said. "I heard that Jimi Hendrix might be at the UFO tonight."

"Who told you that?" he asked her, with a sudden desire to know everything she did during the day.

She shrugged. "I don't know. Someone," she said.

But he managed to talk her out of going. He gave her a ma.s.sage, using the Tiger Balm she had brought home. He didn't ask her where she'd gotten it.

After he had made love to her again, she fell asleep, and he stood up to turn off the lights. Her skirt, sweater, and belt formed a checkerboard and patent-leather puddle at the foot of the bed, and beside it her new boots stood sulkily, drooping in opposite directions, as if they had had a fight.

6.

Not Anybody's Baby The Beatles walked into the Soho Square studio on a brisk November morning, and they were at once more vivid and less real than Henry could have imagined. They had, however, virtually no interest in being at the studio. They were under contract to come by twice during production, and this-six months into the project-was merely the first of their required visits. There were two still photographers and a film crew with them, following every gesture the Fab Four made as they encountered their two-dimensional cartoon selves. Predictably, they mugged with the cutouts, but to Henry they seemed to be downright bored. They were also a bit disheveled. Only Ringo's hair looked as if it had been recently washed. Paul had a five o'clock shadow, and though George was wearing bright red pants and a red silk ascot, he looked slightly gray-either hungover or just exhausted.

"What's it about, then?" John asked his cardboard double and flashed a peace sign to match the cutout's own.

Not until Jack led them into the editing room-where he ran several scenes for them on the Moviola-did their outlook seem to brighten. Suddenly, Paul was asking if it was too late for them to supply their own voices. John wanted to know if the Apple Bonkers' green apples were meant to look like the one on the Beatles' record label. Ringo picked up one of the models of the submarine itself and began to examine it from every angle.

Most of the artists ducked back down to their drawing boards. Even Victoria seemed to be hiding behind her floppy hat. But as he had long ago with Walt, Henry remained unfazed by fame, looking first Paul, then John, right in the eye.

"Hey, mate," John said and immediately walked up behind Henry's shoulder to look at his drawing board. "Mind if I have a go?"

As Ringo and George departed, and Paul embarked on a side discussion of distribution rights, John Lennon sat in Henry's chair, picked up a pencil, and began to sketch.

Lennon was wearing a black turtleneck and round wire-framed gla.s.ses, behind which Henry could see heavy-lidded eyes that seemed to mask any hint of inspiration. With Henry standing beside him, Lennon drew one simple flower, then another, then a third, the last one with a pair of petals that were flung out like ecstatic arms. The fourth flower Lennon drew had a face, and one of the petals was coquettishly hiding all but its eyes. Henry tried to appear neutral, but a small storm was starting in his heart. How was it possible for this man to come from nowhere and sit down without warning and simply create? No hesitation, no copying, no doubt, no mimicry. What John Lennon drew came from his pencil the way water might come from a faucet. There was no suggestion of any source more challenging or profound. In a way it reminded Henry of Peace: that same confidence and facility-the same instinct to fill surfaces with patterns, s.p.a.ces with furniture, silences with sounds. It was the very instinct Henry lacked.

But perhaps it would be enough, he thought, to stay close to someone who did have that instinct, to have a little house somewhere: an eager, warm, brown-haired woman with a beautiful voice-and someday, perhaps, a beautiful child.

CHRISTMAS WAS ON A MONDAY and Boxing Day a Tuesday, and though Henry had had to work through the weekend, he had been given both holidays off. Defying the British custom-as well as her casual Chanukah memories-he and Peace opened their presents on Christmas Day, beneath a tree they had trimmed the night before with pipe-cleaner peace signs, curlicues of used animation cels, painted tomato paste cans, and tissue-paper flowers. Peace gave Henry clothes and, implicitly, a lesson in mod. She had long since picked out his bellbottom jeans and the wide leather belt that held them up. To his mild relief, she had not given him the pair of plaid bells she had pointed out on Carnaby Street the weekend before. Instead, she gave him a purple b.u.t.ton-down shirt, a pair of secondhand boots, and an evil-eye bead on a black leather choker. Henry wore them all for the whole day, even though the boots were at least a size too small, and he could feel, practically before they reached the corner pub, the rawness on his heels. Peace gave him, also, the pink and orange scarf she had been knitting off and on since the day they had first arrived in London. It was easily ten feet long by now, but Peace had never gotten around to figuring out how to finish it. She had literally tied a piece of yarn through the final row, like a drawstring.

He gave her a guitar. He had bought it the week before at Macari's on Charing Cross. Victoria had been buying a flute for her older daughter, and Henry had gone along, with Peace in mind. She had been talking all fall about how much it would help her in her auditions if she could play an instrument. Henry knew the guitar was likely to be as much a fashion accessory as a career move. But he was delighted to see her face when he gave it to her, so fantastically happy.

Someone had already taught Peace three simple chords, and she practiced them relentlessly all afternoon and evening. Henry was expecting her to try to sing something current, and it touched him ineffably that what she seemed intent on playing first was "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star."

At five in the afternoon on Christmas Day, Peace's great stoned revelation was that the Alphabet Song shared the same music as "Twinkle, Twinkle." Another hour and another joint later, Henry started singing "Baa, Baa, Black Sheep" to her, and she collapsed in a heap of giggles.

"You're kidding!" she said. "That one, too?"

They had s.e.x even while she was still marveling at this great discovery.

BOXING DAY MORNING, Henry lay under the Indian-print covers, looking up at the ceiling, where Peace had recently affixed a dozen or more flower-shaped vinyl stickers. On the floor there were, as usual, her cast-off clothes: today a purple sweater, some velvet gloves, and a black-and-white chevron-patterned miniskirt.

She was still asleep, her dark hair crosshatching her pale face.

"Morning, baby," he said to her.

She stretched, catlike, provocative. "Why do you always call me that?"

"Call you baby? Why? Does it bother you?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Really? Why?"

"Because I'm not your baby. I'm not anybody's baby."

Henry smiled what he thought was a shared-orphan smile.

"What?" she said.

"Well, you were someone's baby once," he said.

"I didn't mean that," she said, sounding truly annoyed. "G.o.d, Henry. Not everything's about that, you know."

The radio was playing "Big Girls Don't Cry," and for a moment Henry was back at Berkeley, sitting on Mary Jane's couch, listening to The Beatles vs. The Four Seasons The Beatles vs. The Four Seasons and observing the patterns of bird droppings on her orange-tinted window. and observing the patterns of bird droppings on her orange-tinted window.

HENRY HAD BEEN MEANING to write back to Mary Jane, but there had been something needy and vaguely punishing in the tone of her most recent letter, and the last thing Henry wanted was to feel beholden to her. In the afternoon, however, Peace decided to take a nap, so Henry finally sat down to the task.

Dear MJ: Merry Christmas! Happy Boxing Day! Merry Christmas! Happy Boxing Day! Of course I remember George. He was the guy who wrote you all that lowercase, e.e. c.u.mmings-wannabe poetry and looked like Warren Beattty except without a jaw, right? Of course I remember George. He was the guy who wrote you all that lowercase, e.e. c.u.mmings-wannabe poetry and looked like Warren Beattty except without a jaw, right?

Here Henry inserted an impressively hideous ill.u.s.tration.

It was good to see your handwriting, even if you were scolding me. And you're wrong, I have not gotten tattooed. I keep wanting to tell you this-that I have finally done what you always told me to do, and that is make a choice. You've met her already. Peace Jacobs. Yes, the one I met at the funeral-the one who was the baby in the practice house. Honest and truly, MJ, I have not so much as kissed anyone else, and no it's not because I've suddenly grown a hump. And the weird thing is it must be the real thing because it's such a strange place and time to be picking one person. Everyone s.h.a.gs everyone here. s.h.a.g, s.h.a.g, you Yankee gal, means what you think it means. you Yankee gal, means what you think it means. Now, what are these projects you so calmly mention coming to fruition? Kidding aside, I hope you've landed the kind of newspaper job you always wanted and are raking muck all over the place. Any chance you'll be "crossing the pond" at some point? London is totally swinging. The movie has to be done by summer, so I've been working fiendishly. Here is one of the fiends: Now, what are these projects you so calmly mention coming to fruition? Kidding aside, I hope you've landed the kind of newspaper job you always wanted and are raking muck all over the place. Any chance you'll be "crossing the pond" at some point? London is totally swinging. The movie has to be done by summer, so I've been working fiendishly. Here is one of the fiends: Henry supplied a drawing of the Chief Blue Meanie. He mailed the letter on his way to work.

As the winter months unfolded and the staff struggled to complete the Sea of Holes sequence, Henry rarely did anything but work late and wake early. Peace didn't seem to mind his absence. After a winter of fruitless auditions and-as far as Henry could tell-fruitless acting cla.s.ses, she had finally gotten a promising callback for the cast of the British production of Hair. Hair. She talked about the casting agent as if he was a mercurial deity. She called him Mr. Fate, and Henry never knew his real name. Throughout April, Peace's practicing for the She talked about the casting agent as if he was a mercurial deity. She called him Mr. Fate, and Henry never knew his real name. Throughout April, Peace's practicing for the Hair Hair auditions made Henry almost nostalgic for the days of "I'm dead, thank you." Apparently there was a big opening number called "Aquarius" in which the whole cast was supposed to form a large circle and move in slow motion around some kind of altar. auditions made Henry almost nostalgic for the days of "I'm dead, thank you." Apparently there was a big opening number called "Aquarius" in which the whole cast was supposed to form a large circle and move in slow motion around some kind of altar.

For days, practicing the slow motion, Peace had not so much walked as drifted around the apartment. Every action had been excruciatingly prolonged: the peeling of a banana, the pulling back of a shower curtain, the toking on a joint.

"Why do they move like this?" Henry asked Peace.

They were walking to Geoffrey Whitehall's studio on a Sat.u.r.day morning, Henry having won the battle to chaperone.

"Mr. Fate told me it's supposed to be like moving under water."

"So you're going to be dancing," Henry said to Peace.

"It's not exactly dancing," Peace said, and then she shrugged, but in an exaggerated, slow-motion, underwater way.

GEOFF WHITEHALL'S STUDIO was on James Street, four blocks over from Rose. It was not so much decorated as strewn with the evidence of Whitehall's supposed genius: posters, prints, record alb.u.ms, book covers, portraits, advertis.e.m.e.nts, magazine stories, an entire cottage industry based on one artist's ability to invent a style and stay devoted to it. Henry hated him even before Whitehall extended his slightly damp hand.

According to Whitehall's instructions-and without the slightest hesitation-Peace lay on the floor wearing only her panties. The floor was painted with a Day-Glo rainbow and sky, and against it, her white body looked like a cloud. In one hand, Whitehall held a new sable paintbrush with a red handle and a white head. In the other he held a Cadbury's chocolates tin that was filled with black paint.

"Are you ready, luv?" he asked her.

She nodded, contented, as if she was lying on a soft baby blanket instead of a hard, painted bas.e.m.e.nt floor. Whitehall's first move was to circle her left nipple with an inch-wide black outline.

Henry didn't know if he was more troubled by Peace's nude body or by Whitehall's unabashedly nonartistic delight in it. Whatever the case, it was clear to Henry fairly quickly that neither Peace nor Whitehall had the slightest interest in his presence, and it crossed his mind at least briefly that they might be waiting for him to leave.

7.

Under the Table at the Scotch of St. James Henry was lying under a table at the Scotch of St. James. He had sucked on a sugar cube an hour before, and the acid had just kicked in. Beside him was Martin Doyle, the Great Martini, and beside him-also under the table-was a record producer whose name Henry couldn't remember but whose face looked disturbingly-and, minute by minute, increasingly-like a clown's.

"You're Peace's s.h.a.g, right?" Martini asked him.

Henry could see the words coming out of Martini's mouth, just as if they'd been drawn. He smiled.

"Right?" Martini repeated, and the word floated there. It was like the last scene in Submarine, Submarine, when the words appear above John as he sings "All you need is love." Henry wanted to tell this to Martini, but he knew it was far too complex a thought. So he simply smiled again. when the words appear above John as he sings "All you need is love." Henry wanted to tell this to Martini, but he knew it was far too complex a thought. So he simply smiled again.

"She's a tart," Martini said.

"Apple tart," Henry said, not focusing.