Annotation
Winner of the 1993 Sunday Express Book of the Year Award
A turn-of-the-century love story, set in Manila, between an American woman and Filipino-Spanish mestizo by the popular storyteller William Boyd. It's a memorable tale, richly detailed.
William Boyd
PROLOGUE
LOS ANGELES, 1936
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
MANILA, 1902
TONGUE
THE FIRST BODY
THE NIPA BARN
CHEZ DR ISIDRO CRUZ
THE AERO-MOBILE
BAD BLOOD
A DIET OF BEEF TEA
ON THE LUNETA
THE HOUSE AT SAN TEODORO
DAWN ON THE PASIG
THE BRIDGE AT SANTA MESA
PITCH, YAW AND ROLL
INTO THE BODY
A 'SIMPLE SURGEON'
TEA WITH PATON BOBBY
THE FOUR-CYLINDER 12 H. P. FLANQUIN
1903
TWO PROPELLERS PUSHING
RAIN
SCALPEL
THE BLUE AFTERNOON
THE GIRLS ON THE PONY
HIPPOTHEETICAL
THE SUTURED HEART
AN OFFICIAL ENTERTAINMENT
TRIAL RUN
BRAHMS
IN THE NIPA BARN
THE RAID
THE LETTER
PRAGMATISM
VIENNA, PARIS, MOSCOW, ROME…
A BOTTLE OF BLOOD
A FUNERAL
THE LOST FLIGHT OF PANTALEON QUIROGA
ESCAPE
LISBON, 1936
WEDNESDAY, 3RD MAY
THURSDAY, 4 MAY
FRIDAY, 5 MAY
SATURDAY, 6 MAY
SUNDAY, 7 MAY
About The Author
William Boyd
The Blue Afternoon
PROLOGUE
I remember that afternoon, not long into our travels, sitting on deck in the mild mid-Atlantic sun on a slightly smirched and foggy day, the sky a pale washed-out blue above the smokestacks, when I asked my father what it felt like to pick up a knife and make an incision into living human flesh. He thought seriously for a while before replying.
'It depends on where you cut,' he said. 'Sometimes it's like a knife through clay or modelling wax. Some days it's like cutting into a cold blancmange or… or cold raw chicken. '
He pondered a while longer and then reached inside his coat pocket and drew out a scalpel. He removed the small leather sleeve that protected the blade and offered the slim knife to me.
'Take this. See for yourself. '
I took the scalpel from him, small as a pen but much heavier than I had imagined. He looked down at the remains of our lunch on the table: an edge of cheese with a thick yellow rind, a bowl of fruit, four apples and a green melon, some bread rolls.
'Close your eyes,' he said. 'I'll get something for you, an exact simulacrum. '
I closed my eyes and gripped the scalpel firmly between my thumb and first two fingers.
I felt his hand on mine, the gentle pressure of his dry rough fingers, and then he lifted my hand up and I felt him guiding it forward until the poised blade came to rest on a surface, firm, but somehow yielding.'Make a cut,' he said. 'A small cut. Press down. '
I pressed. Whatever I cut into yielded easily and I moved the blade down an inch or so, or so it seemed, smoothly, with no fuss.
'Keep your eyes closed… What did it feel like?'
I thought for a second or two before replying. I wanted this to be right, to be exact, scientific.
'It felt like… Like cold butter, you know, from an icebox. Or a sirloin, like cutting through a tender sirloin. '
'See?' he said. 'There's nothing mysterious, nothing to be alarmed about. '
I opened my eyes and saw his square face, smiling at me, almost in triumph, as if he had been vindicated in some argument. He was holding out his bare left forearm, the sleeve of his coat and shirt pushed back to the crook of his elbow. On the bulge of muscle, six inches above his wrist, a thin two-inch gash oozed bright blisters of blood.