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came the women. The clubs of women. The ice. The glasses of ice. The eyebrows in distain. Down under distain. Re- moved from Stavorgin and Michael with their talk. With their men leaning like coat hangers all over the room. Not laughing at all. The women ingaged in argument. About intentions. Intentions are about why one is where one is, after all. Is that not so, dear wishful thinkers. Then again the the first ice. The ice that snickered Bash and O'Neill out of Chicago in Lord Go Away. The cop looking for licence plates. None to be found. Stavrogin is laughing, out loud now walking down the beach toward the water through the beach towels. The towels bright. Red and blue. But the bodies are not black. They are golden. And they look all the same like black in the night. But they are golden in the sun. In the blazing sun. And the hair is yellow. But there is no ice! And Stavrogin is laughing. The cop. The cop on his lost Chicago car beat with his hand whiping his brow like a movie star in disbelief. No plates! And the ice in the glass in the posh living room. The fine long wood floor table. And her serving drinks. And seducing O'Neill. And promising plates for their exit. This teacher of acting. And Stavrogin is shaking his head. But nobody cares. And the beach is full. Filled up to his hips. And the film rushing but tight in its use, of frame. Chicago. With Lord Go Away waiting out side the Old Town/Pub. And The Classical Music Stavrogin didn't understand even though the German names could be pronounced easily without