Chapter Five

 

i.

      So far they are enjoying themselves in each other's company.  Philip is made happy by new surroundings; Kevin is made happy by Philip whose presence is a unique expression of Kevin's current taste in human beings.  From whatever angle, at whatever moment he chances to glance at Philip, he finds himself thinking, what a photograph!  Both feel refreshingly alive to be away from Dieledon, although they are merely substituting one hotel for another.

 

      It is early afternoon as they debark from the plane, and their baggy eyes and dulled reflexes portend they are ready for bed.  The time on the Mirian Peninsula is six hours ahead of Dieledon and the seven hour plane ride, while quiet, was hardly restful. 

 

      -- In the air they were offered free-flowing liquor, a midnight crepe, an Antonioni film and wide, reclining seats suitable for sleep.  They might have napped, but when they were finally settled the piercing sunlight rose over the horizon like a glowing, quivering nucleus which they watched split, one half to compress and intensify in the sky, and the other to spread with color and light dispersed on the ocean and islands below.  They gazed through separate windows at the mystic calm while gliding over snow-peaked mountains jutting like icebergs out of white clouds.  Philip snapped pictures frequently as they neared their destination and dawn became an ordinary day with all the world's colors defined by the direct rays of the sun.

 

 

      They now find themselves in the near empty airport terminal observing their luggage conveyed from pickup area through customs to a cab.  The drone from the plane, which was a constant for seven hours, is noticed in its absence.  They walk to the loaded taxi as if in a fog.  Rather than being polite, considerate and friendly, Kevin tips the porters generously to maintain the ethereal distance from their surroundings. 

 

      As they are driven to the hotel, he leans into the seat and watches through half-shut eyes the unmoving sky whipped into a flashing blur by the exotically curved street lamps.  Philip sits up and stares with wide-eyed wonder out the side window.  "Everything is so different here," he observes.  "Even the shrubbery."

 

      "Looks the same to me."

 

      "That's because you're leaning down.  Get up.  Look out the window," he scolds, playfully.

 

      "I don't care where we are."

 

      Brief silence follows.

 

      Philip pleasantly justifies Kevin's sentiments.  "That's because you've been here before.  What's it like?"

 

      "Old.  The decay is much more permanent than in Dieledon.  It's been falling apart for ages instead of years."

 

      "Do you know the sights?"  As Philip speaks he is thinking, I am really very good company.

 

      "Frankly, all I know is that there's a good seafood restaurant built out on a jetty in the harbor.  It's directly across from where we're staying.  I hope to have dinner there tonight.  How about you?"

 

      "I've never been here," says Philip, answering his own question, not realizing Kevin was extending an invitation to dine.  He continues to make pleasant talk.  "What's our hotel like?"

 

      "I don't know.  Last time I stayed a couple of blocks away at a real dive."

 

      "A dive?"

 

      "You know, a fourth class place -- community bathroom facilities.  Not like ours.  The Alberto is the best."

 

      "You must feel mighty fine returning to stay at the ritziest hotel.  Look how far you've advanced since then."

 

      "It does feel good, now that you mention it."  Kevin is surprised to be saying this.  "I hope I can keep it up," he adds.

 

      "Why not?  You have plenty of money."

 

      "Yes, but I need more."

 

      "Of course you need more."  Philip smiles affectionately at Kevin who grins, folds his arms and slouches further into the soft back seat of the cab.

 

 

      The Alberto is situated at the tip of a bay, facing the water on two of its four sides.  The corner pointing toward the horizon is its entrance, into which the taxi drives. 

 

      Two adjoining rooms on the twelfth floor are reserved for Philip and Kevin.  Kevin's room features a porch hugging that corner overlooking the southern seas which he observes shimmering like liquid crystal as he walks from one side of the porch to the other.  The room and its sunny view fill him with warmth and respect for the world's fine hotel accommodations. 

 

      He and Philip have left each other to their separate rooms to unpack, shower and rest.  Kevin finishes his cigarette on the porch and walks back into the room to do just that.

 

 

      The phone rings seven times.  Kevin rolls to that side of the king-sized bed and brings the receiver to his face.  He hears, "Hi, I'm starving."

 

      "Philip?  There's a good seafood restaurant across the street.  It's on the water."

 

      "Sounds great.  Let's go there."

 

      "Good.  How was your nap?

 

      Philip is lying half-way off the side of the bed resting the top of his head on the floor.  He yawns while saying, "It was . . .."  He somersaults to the floor with a clunk which reverberates in Kevin's room.

 

      Kevin looks around.  "What was that?"

 

      "It was really good."

 

      Kevin stays on the phone to make dinner reservations, after which he dresses himself in a navy blue blazer, beige slacks and a white, open-collar silk shirt, all designed by Norton Simone, while sipping a drink concocted with the little liquor and juice bottles stocked in the mini-fridge.  When he sits out on the porch, he smokes as well, his eyes having been seduced by the packaging of some foreign cigarettes at a newsstand he passed earlier that day.

 

      Minutes later, Philip enters the room through the partition door. 

 

      Kevin calls to him.  "We have time.  Fix yourself a drink and come sit out here."

 

      Philip appears on the porch wearing white pants and a colorfully sunny but predominantly blue floral shirt with short sleeves.  He is carrying a vodka and orange juice and, seeing the cigarettes in their seductive box on the steel grated table, lights one and tries puffing on it.  On the table by the ashtray is a religiously pure wax candle in a glass cup suitable for keeping vigil beside a saint's figurine.  Kevin lights it to illuminate Philip's face and says, "So, you slept well?"

 

      "Yeah.  I feel great."  He sounds groggy.  The light flickers on his eyes as he thinks of something to say.  He decides upon, "Do you really think you can find him?"

 

      "If I take it step by step there shouldn't be any problem, so long as he's stayed where I left him."  He adds, for the record, "I look forward to seeing him again."

 

      Philip selects some of the words in order to further the conversation.  "You have much to look forward to."

 

      "Like what?" asks Kevin, with a hint of hostility.

 

      Now he must think of examples.  "You're returning to receive an award and further fame.  As for me, the future isn't so promising.  All I have to look forward to is, well, nothing.  Seeing Marie again, I don't know."  He shrugs uncomfortably.

 

      "Philip, what are you saying?  You're career is just happening.  You're great looking; you move well. I'm told you can sing, dance, act, do administrative work . . ..  Things happen slowly.  Be patient.  Be in the right spot at the right time and you have it made."

 

      "Now with Marie around.  I can't do anything with her breathing down my neck.  She never lets me be me."

 

      "You must consider your career first.  Don't let others get in your way."

 

      Philip dreamily shakes his head.  Kevin knows not what to say or do.  He leans toward Philip, almost touching him, and adds, "She's not breathing down your neck now."

 

      The nearness of Philip's glance pierces through Kevin as he awaits with bated breath for the trembling and wisely expressive mouth with its little decaying teeth to form words brilliantly in tune with what he needs to hear, but Philip only murmurs, vaguely, "You avoided so much in your life.  How can I do that?"

 

      Kevin is surprised that Philip has reached this conclusion.  He does not admit the truth of the statement to himself but admits it to Philip by saying, "Don't tell me you're another one.  Don't you want to get out there and live life to the fullest?"

 

      "I'd rather be like you."

 

      "Oh boy."  Kevin is very surprised.  He notices some self loathing since the emulation remark makes him feel a dislike for the speaker.  He says, "You know, this is life, too.  Don't think you've escaped much being here.  What is there you want to avoid?  What do you think I've avoided?"

 

      Philip's face appears to be alert.  Kevin tenses as he wonders what painful truth is contained within.  Philip's lips part as if to contribute something of value.  He yawns.

 

      Kevin is stung but suddenly suspects that Philip is miles away; farther than Kevin sitting on the twelfth floor porch of the Alberto, and it seems impossible to him to imagine being farther away than that.

 

      Kevin is right.  Philip has merely been talking without any particular intent in mind.  He is slightly absent even from this slightly absent locale.  He has thought of more conversation fodder.  "You missed some great Flamenco dancers at Sarro's party."  By the way he looks out at the twilight over the horizon it seems he is watching them, still.

 

      Kevin sighs at the shredded conversation.  "I didn't know he was planning to have that kind of entertainment."  He recalls how, at the time, he avoided the party because he wanted to escape interaction with people, not wanting to be compared with them, nor curious to compare them with himself.  Besides, he was already acquainted with most of the guests.  It would have been tedious to have undergone the same stages of conversation again.  He thinks, I had to work on the sets, and realizes, I don't really like people.  Aloud he adds, "I'd had a hard day.  I might have changed my mind, though, if I'd known about the dancers; and if I'd known you were to be there."

 

      "Do you like to dance?"

 

      "I dance, yeah."  Kevin is liking Philip again for bringing up dancing.

 

      They lean back to silently study the harbor view which they enjoy for another sixty-five seconds before becoming restless.

 

      Kevin is patting his stomach.  "Philip, that was a wonderful meal."

 

      It was an exquisite dining experience: fresh sword fish simply but imaginatively prepared, nor did the chef attempt to disguise the fish with flavors but rather enhanced what was already a succulent substance with the lightest of tomato sauces and the most adroit use of onion.  The ambiance of the restaurant was especially noteworthy, for beautiful and festive was the nighttime atmosphere on the harbor.  A string of lights around the outdoor dining area reflected off the mirror finish of the still water which obscured the dismal and murky depths below the docks.

 

      The acts of ordering and eating entirely occupied Philip and Kevin.  Apprehension at being alone with Philip later that night at the hotel gave Kevin something diverting to look forward to during the first half of the meal and, what presently pleases him more, the excellent food and drink were so satisfying as to dispel that quaking, lustful urge.

 

      He and Philip may have become drunken from the wine, but the meal was concluded with strong cups of coffee so their eyes are plastered open as they stand face to face in the hotel hall by their respective doors.

 

      Kevin continues.  "I had a good time eating."  He is still eating.  He has a peach in his hand.

 

      "It was fun," says Philip.  He has a lit cigarette wedged between his fingers, the smoke of which creeps up his bare arm like ivy.

 

      "Well," he pushes the peach up over his teeth, slurps and swallows, "good night.  I'll call you when I wake up."

 

      Philip should plan to wake Kevin bright and early, but thoughts of Sarro's instructions are as far off as Sarro.  He fumbles with the cigarette as he brings it to his mouth, being too suave.

 

      Two people can look at the same body, at the same parts, and form entirely different perceptions.  A person looking through the eyes of desire might note the acute angles formed at the joining points of the lips, legs, ass, fingers, and even where the arms meet the shoulders.  He or she might be aroused by the vulnerable easiness in Philip's stance and the preoccupied canine stare in his eyes; but Kevin, so satisfying was the meal, walks into his own room thinking, Philip has yet to learn how to hold a cigarette.

 

      He tosses away his peach pit and lights his own cigarette, pulling at it while methodically undressing, tossing off his clothes while wandering aimlessly about the room, considering again where he is and what he has so well forgotten.  He believes his little shelf-hole in the Alberto is far enough away from anywhere, including earth.  This is a restful thought and one that, following his talk with Philip on the porch, not even the most minor incident, innuendo or long distance phone call has threatened to dispel.  He slips into a fresh pair of thin silk pajamas colored baby-boy blue.  They have shiny, lighter blue weavings, also of silk, depicting flying wild geese and they make him feel cute and childlike, but with great untapped power from riches and fame lurking within his frame.  He snuffs out his cigarette with a single definitive gesture and tucks himself in between the smooth cool sheets where sleep gently crawls upon him.  Distant thoughts of Philip and even Souiel receive consideration but impressions and memories intrude and he becomes involved in a specific incident that occurred much earlier that day involving the taxi fare.

 

 

      The sun is out.  The sky is iridescent.  Down below, surrounded by leagues of shimmering blue sea is a single tan colored island.  On it are two figures, youngsters without clothes, male and female, throwing their slight weight around, falling and rolling over the island's billowy surface.  Should they, by chance, make contact of any kind, from a graze to a knock, with anything, but especially with each other, they feel nothing but pleasure, pain unfathomable in their state of mind. 

 

      However, feeling too good leads to a messy defeat.  The land upon which a child is overwhelmed with pleasure, a surface of unblemished human flesh, will seem torn and bloodied, as if by a buckshot pellet.  As for the child, it will be no more.

 

      Both tempt each other to reach that rapture.  As they uninhibitedly toss themselves over hills and dales, mounds and cleavages, they treat each other as targets at which to aim.  Upon conjoining in an intimate valley hidden from the splashing shores, they furtively rub their legs between each other, varnishing until shiny, their muscles hardening with the exercise as they are roused by a sporting sense of competition.

 

      From an aerial view, it is difficult to umpire, but the confident boy thinks he is surely winning, masterfully regulating his cool while making his pre-pubescent playmate lose hers.  Seeing her before him, lying on her back, noticeably excited, swollen insides spilling out, convinces him that he need only finger her at the right spot and she will explode. 

 

      He stalks toward her like a bomb expert about to depress the detonation button.  She smiles back, her eyes radiating unsuspecting submission and love, her feet pedalling the air.  She extends an upraised foot at the flesh between his legs, causing his brain to bubble and madden.  With both hands he grips a long rod in front of him -- a rod unidentified despite a thunderous flatulence from the clear blue sky.

 

 

      Kevin awakens, crazed and terrified, his nerve ends inflamed.  The bed is damp with sweat. 

 

      He pounces out of it onto the floor, franticly untangling his legs from sheets and shredded pajamas.  He balances on two feet and paces, naked, picking at his back, coffee caffeine pulsing in his forehead.  His heart is racing; his body throbs.  Though sweating, his hands and feet are cold and clammy.  His penis is large and soft.  He scales the walls for several minutes, bathed at intervals by the light of the moon, trying to choose from the single all-consuming choice, what diversion, what course of action needs to be taken so that restful sleep may follow.  He ties a robe around his tense bluish frame and steps with care toward the partition door on which he knocks.  He knocks again.  Again.

 

      Philip's right side becomes visible as the door separates from the wall.  "What," he croaks alertly.  He is wearing underpants and now, the curved slice of him displayed through the partly opened door elicits for Kevin an entirely different response from that in the hall an hour ago.

 

      Kevin rapidly whispers, "I can't sleep.  It's the damn coffee," while his penis inflates, finding its way between the folds of the robe.

 

      "Come in."

 

      The door shuts and Kevin's room is silent.  There is only the faintest hint of echoed breathes and sighs, the faintest rumble of voices, incomprehensible, emanating from the numerable rooms of the hotel.  In the distance blows a single plaintive ship horn.

 

 

      Philip stirs.  Suddenly, he is wide awake.

 

      "Good morning," says Kevin, propped up against the headboard like a rag doll.  Earlier, he had forced himself to rise and use the bathroom privately in order to make himself presentable.  The novel locale and situation did much to hasten his customarily tedious awakening process.

 

      "Mmm?"  Philip scratches his throat, for he slept with his mouth open.  He rolls over and eyes Kevin.  "I thought you were Marie."  Dried saliva outlines his cheek.

 

      "I wonder how she's doing?"

 

      "Yeah," is his disinterested reply.

 

      There they lay in anonymous luxury, the morning sun vibrantly illuminating the room.

 

      "Thank you for letting me sleep here, Philip.  I should never ever drink coffee.  I hate to think what I would have done without you.  There are times when it's so imperative to have another person near, to hold, to touch.  I think of people who haven't had enough physical contact in their lives.  It shows.  Their features shrink; their skin texture becomes less supple.  Without the touch of another, one's body chills and dies.  When I used to sleep alone the end points of my body got cold.  Late at night, when all was silent, I'd lie awake and feel the cold in my hands and feet travel like death up my arms and legs; and the cold in my ears would enfold my skull.  Do you know what I mean?"

 

      Philip, adjusting to being awake, caught enough words to be responsive.  He says, "My hands and feet get cold.  Sometimes my nose."    

 

      "You don't say.  My nose, too."  They have something in common, so it sounds by the tone in Kevin's voice.

 

      "Not now, though."  He gazes at his naked body under the white sheets.  "I wonder how we look together."

 

      "Now?  Like two undressed rag dolls, I suppose."

 

      "Now; then," he says evasively.  "I just wonder."

 

      "Oh," says Kevin, skeptical about hinting that the two of them were even together in the same bed, let alone suggesting that they recruit a camera crew to preserve the moment.  "We could always open the closet door, or just buy some large mirrors or a self developing camera . . .."

 

      Philip hops out of bed.  "I'm taking a shower."

 

      Kevin lies serenely staring at the molding on the ceiling.  He is startled by a clatter and a thud.  "Philip!  What's the matter?"

 

      Philip shakes his head and lifts up his limp torso by pulling at the rim of the toilet bowl.  "Oh, I don't know.  I don't feel well.  I feel sick."

 

      Retching noises follow.

 

      Kevin's eyes bulge as he jumps out of bed to be at Philip's side.  He nervously tries to contain Philip with shaking hands.  "A doctor.  I better call a doctor."  He moves with a purpose toward the phone.

 

      Philip continues to regurgitate in waves, pausing to inhale.

 

      "Hello?  Please, operator, a doctor.  It's an emergency."  He covers the phone and calls out, "How are you doing, Philip?"

 

      Philip is crying.  "Oh, I'm throwing up."

 

      "Don't worry, it's good for you."  He uncovers the phone.  "Yes, what?  Room twelve eighteen.  Please hurry."

 

      Philip's stomach is empty.  He stands, leaning on the bathroom door looking at Kevin, and looking like an El Greco figure, his face teared and disgusted.  He melts to the floor.  Kevin rushes to catch him.

 

 

      Lying in bed as an invalid, sheets covering to his shoulders, Philip never looked lovelier to Kevin. 

 

      "Yes, it must be the strange sea food and jet-lag and the mineral water, and the cigarettes and liquor and the coffee and all that shit."  Kevin, dressed, is loosely translating the doctor's diagnosis.  Philip listens weakly.  The doctor is preparing to administer a big pill.

 

      "Kevin."  Philip has grabbed hold of Kevin's sleeve which he shakes.  "Don't let me hold you back.  You do what you have to do.  I'll rest."  He releases the grip, letting his hand drop to hang limp beside the bed.

 

      "Can't I get you something?"

 

      "Some magazines?"

 

      "I will."  Kevin almost cannot think of anything further to do.  He looks around unnecessarily, bites off a piece of his finger and spits it on the floor.  Finally, he says, "I guess I'll go get Souiel." 

 

      He has gotten a commendably early start.

 

 

ii.

      Several blocks away is the UrBlessance, the "dive" where Kevin and Souiel originally stayed, a darker hotel than the Alberto -- inside and out, obviously of less celestial hardware, but the years of vine growth clothing its outer walls add to its quaint charm.  To Kevin it stands as a concrete specter of his past.  He walks in and out mumbling, "Let's venture inland for less expensive, more provincial lodgings where we can live out our days in seclusion and peace."  His words, inexplicable to the old guests at the hotel, alienate him from the present as he briskly passes under the hanging plants that spill from the outdoor veranda.  He turns the corner to study the vaguely familiar configuration of hills slumbering in the distance.

 

      After an hour of walking along a thinly paved road, he is encouraged to find a path of grey cobblestones which he follows.  He passes under a stone arch and enters a village, once the suburbs of a grand feudal estate, and halts by a single story building shaped like a cube.  Although it is not identified with a sign, he knows it to be a linen store.  He enters calling, "Wilhemina?"

 

      From facts assembled on his previous visit, he knows that linen is the town's only exportable commodity.  It is grown on the surrounding farmland and is spun by the women of the village for three sisters who embroider some and sell the rest in bulk.  One of the sisters, Wilhemina, used to be in charge of this store, a main office for their transactions with the outer world.  Kevin calls her name again, ringing the little bell on the counter while gazing around at the stacks of brown packages awaiting delivery.

 

      Two of the village's few children enter the shop repeating, "Wilhemina, Wilhemina," followed by a small, aged but alert woman.  Her eyes are clear.

 

      "It is remarkable how little you've changed," says Kevin, almost under his breath.  Her stoically plaid shirt, skirt, and even her tennis sneakers are the same.  He asks her, "Do you remember me?  Souiel's friend.  I was here five years ago."  He holds up a handful of fingers.  The children watch him with silent interest from behind Wilhemina's skirt hem.

 

      He continues trying to stimulate her memory.  "You had an ad on this cork board."  He points at it, checking her intense eyes for recognition.

 

      She innocently repeats, "Soo-eel?"

 

      The children skip around her, chanting, "Soo-eel.  Soo-eel, Soo-eel, Soo-eel!" pulling at her skirt strings.

 

 

      According to Sarro's judgment, Philip and Kevin should be awake by now.  From bed in his apartment, he calls the Alberto, specifying Philip's room, and acts as a long-distance wake-up service, just in case they are still asleep.

 

      "Good morning, Philip.  Do you know who this is?"

 

      Philip does not even know where he is.  He has been using his illness to catch up on sleep, from which he was just awakened.

 

      "Philip?"

 

      "Oh, hello Doctor Sarro."

 

      "Correct.  I called to say good morning and to remind you, we cover all expenses, including long distance phone calls so don't hesitate to call Marie."

 

      He blinks and says, "Oh, thanks.  Maybe tomorrow."

 

      "Philip, call her today.  To be perfectly honest, she's not coping well at all in your absence.  I'm told she made a scene at the bar the night you left, crying that she'd lost you forever.  A call from you would make her day."

 

      "Well . . .."  Sleeping has made him more sleepy.

 

      "Call her," he orders.  "Don't make such a big deal about it.  You sound as if I just woke you.  Is Kevin up yet?"

 

 

      Philip's news upsets Sarro.  "Alone?" he asks.

 

      "It was the strange seafood, jet-lag, mineral water, all that shit.  It made me so sick I couldn't even stand."

 

      "Even so, you shouldn't have let him go alone.  Who knows what he might do?"

 

 

      Wilhemina could barely understand Kevin, but she knew whom he wanted and, despite all helpful appearances to the contrary, had no intention of offering the least bit of assistance, not even by giving him the satisfaction of understanding the word, "Soo-eel," to mean a person.  As for the children, unusually playful for so subdued a village, they tried his patience.  Exasperated, he left to find the original lodging himself, hoping some sign of Souiel was still to be detected therein. 

 

      It is a plain two story box of clay painted pale green.  He enters it through the unlocked door and climbs the dark steps to the second floor where he faces another door on which he knocks.  Nothing stirs, but this door also creaks open with a turn of the knob, so he lets himself into the dwelling.  It has a musty odor uniting the smell of old skin with that of rat powder.  Through the dim hall and off to the side is a bedroom which he remembers as he does other architectural details, as if he is experiencing deja vu.

 

      The bedroom window is covered with taped pieces of brown paper.  Even now, at high noon, minimum light penetrates.  Lining the floor of a far wall are books on specialized studies such as histology and physiology.  The bed resembles a lumpy pillow or a haystack with a sheet thrown over it.

 

      He returns to the hall which leads to a combination kitchen, dinette, and living room appropriate for family discussions.  In this room, knobled plumbing sets the decor.  Water is pumped from a well.  The dining table belongs on a picnic ground.  There is still no sign of Souiel.

 

      Beyond is a spare room used for storage.  It resembles a messy garage and Kevin must take care not to trip and break his neck on an old broken bicycle.  Beside it, there are mattresses, dresses, tools, lawn chairs and barbecue equipment piled one on top of the other.  To the far end of the room is a wood skeleton of a door framing a thick black painted screen, menacingly torn at the bottom as if by an imprisoned puppy or a clumsy foot. 

 

      Through the screen window he sees a grainy image of a figure, back turned, in a wood barrel filled with water being scrubbed by a flabby female profile.  She wears a skirt tied about her waist with a ribbon which divides her stomach into two folds of flesh, one covered, one not.  Her exposed breasts hang enormously, appearing overripe as she sweats in the sun.  She is reaching into a bucket of yellow suds.

 

      Standing in the darkness, still unacknowledged, Kevin feels like an assassin perched to strike.  He considers how much easier a surprise attack is in comparison with walking outside to exchange words, but he has forgotten a weapon as carelessly as he would, on another occasion, forget a contraceptive.  Deep down he is grateful for he prefers this to be a fruitful encounter between him and his ultimate companion, the only person with whom he did not feel alone.

 

      He strains the screen door to pass through.  Springs stretch and squeal in anger and then rudely slam the door shut behind him.  In front of him is Souiel, a global mound of flesh with skin mapping brown and pink patches, soaking in a tepid slosh, staring peacefully into the tub.

 

      "Lou?"

 

      His name is a corrupted anagram, more accurate for Louise than for Louis.

 

      The woman, examining the thin boy so richly dressed in a white shirt, ecru summer suit and loose white tie, remains expressionless as she resumes her bathing procedure.  She squeezes a sea sponge and gently sudses Souiel's bloated back.

 

      His head rises.  Remarkably, his puffy face has sustained a pudgy boyishness amidst the rashes and irritations.  The skin around his eyes is swollen and creased, but his eyes have a mindless stamina, soft but penetrating like two suns eclipsed.  "It's important I bathe often," he says aloud with a voice smooth and sweet.

 

      "Maybe you bathe too much.  Is that a disease?"

 

      "I keep breaking out into these rashes.  First they redden and then they turn brown."

 

      "Perhaps it's on account of your living conditions.  I see you've gained a few pounds as well.  You don't look well.  You should move somewhere that better suits your choler, like to an incubator."  He thinks and adds, "or to a nice hotel."

 

      Souiel bulges his eyes beyond what resembles the folds of foreskin in order to more closely examine his visitor.  Recognizing the figure and face, he sighs with disappointment.  "Kevin, I said we shouldn't meet again.  Leave.  Do not torment me."  He looks down, giving the apparition a chance to disappear.

 

      "Gee, Lou, it's been five years.  You must have something more to tell me.  I have something to tell you."

 

      Souiel raps the woman's dangling breast and points.  She nods and snorts at the boy who has come to disturb their cozy domesticity, thereby verifying Kevin's presence as something more solid than an hallucination.  With that, Souiel's tone changes to one less bitter and more bland.  "What can I do for you?"

 

      Out of embarrassment usually reserved for members of the clergy, Kevin examines the view from the patio, which overlooks an orchard and, beyond that, an alley with other clay homes painted a spectrum of colors, all pale.  Clothes lines are being reeled back and forth by women out on their porches, humming as they wash their laundry.  Kevin thinks, this woman behind me is washing her Souiel.  He asks aloud, "Aren't you going to introduce me?"

 

      "This is Zoli," says Souiel.  "She lives with me; or, rather, I live with her.  This is her building."

 

      "That's nice," says Kevin, still with his back to them.  "Does she wish to cover herself?"

 

      "In this heat?"

 

      Upon closer study of the view, Kevin observes that most of the women are going topless while doing their wash.  Houses encircle the area so the back porches have all the privacy of a walled in courtyard.  He asks, "Where are the men?"

 

      "Working the fields."

 

      "Why are all the women fat?"

 

      "They're healthy."

 

      "Why are there no children?"  Kevin feels like an anthropologist.

 

      "All the women are past menopause.  The younger men and women move away."

 

      Kevin scrutinizes their cowlike mystique and says, strictly off the cuff, "I'm not a breast man myself."

 

      This angers Souiel.  "I knew it.  You've come to torment me."

 

      He checks himself.  "Forgive me.  I'm so accustomed to telling you my first thoughts.  I promise to think before I speak.  Actually, I bring good news."

 

      "Just bring yourself and be yourself and you've brought bad news."

 

      "What am I supposed to say to that?  We tried other ways to contact you.  This place is impregnable."

 

      "Only if you're looking for me.  Zoli is one of the three sisters."

 

      Kevin turns around to find Zoli seated spread-legged on a stool against the tub, resting and oozing in the sun, flies looking to her for a place to settle.  In awe, he says, "I had no idea you were living with so powerful a woman."

 

      Souiel explains, "Don't misunderstand.  It's her eldest sister who is in control.  Do you remember Wilhemina, the old lady at the linen store?"

 

      "Of course.  I saw her today.  She looks great but obviously senile.  She didn't recognize me and never even heard of you."

 

      "She doesn't want anyone find me living with her sister, so the only way you could have found me was from memory.  She's in control of the whole town."

 

      "This is quite an isolated nest you've fallen into.  You must feel like you've been adopted by a bald eagle.  I mean, it's fine.  I like travelling to out of the way places and, as you've been the cause of a job only I could do, thanks for making me so invaluable to the people back home.  Of course, it's always nice to see you.  I'm here to invite you to the Pyramid Awards.  They're being handed out this Tuesday at eight in Dieledon, at the Beledon for the first time.  Are you busy that night?"

 

      "What's today?"

 

      "Saturday."

 

      "I've always thought it better to watch that show on television but, since there's none here, I'll tell you what.  If I feel up to it, there's a likelihood I might attend but, on the other hand, it's in Dieledon?"  He shakes his head.  "Then it's unlikely."

 

      "What if I say that you'll be receiving an award, yourself?"

 

      "Why?"

 

      Kevin chews his knuckles to restrain his flooding emotion.  Telling Souiel is like realizing the full implications of the fact for himself.  "Why?" he echoes.  "I don't know where to begin.  Do you remember Thomas Sarro from Maxwell House.  He wrote for The Choice."

 

      "I read his articles.  He drew attention to a lot of awful films, perhaps to demonstrate his colorful writing skills."

 

      "He made them good, don't you think?"

 

      "After I read his reviews I found that the films were usually worth seeing."

 

      "That's what happened to our films."

 

      "Which?  The ones we made in Dieledon?"  He finds it a chore to stare, as his puffed facial skin quivers in a conspiracy to seal his eyes.

 

      Kevin nods as if Souiel were stupid for not immediately fathoming the situation."  He adds, "And now they're so big that we're getting a Pyramid Award for meritorious achievements in cinema.  Isn't that something?"

 

      Souiel shakes his head in disappointment.  "When I saw you walk out here dressed like a success I thought it was for something you'd done on your own, but of course not.  You just raked up the old garbage.  You should have burned all that stuff.  Wasn't that how we left off?"

 

      "I said I would burn them, yes, but how could I?  They were all I had.  I would lie there in Crystal's apartment and stare at them in their cans.  Late at night I would open them and unwind from the reels that innocent plastic ribbon, and I'd think, what secret sights, space, time and people are preserved within, ready at the flick of a projector switch to explode forth before the eyes.  Those films are the definition of my life."

 

      "You're an asshole.  I can't believe you didn't destroy them."

 

      "Well, I didn't.  If anything, the prints are clearer.  They've been re-edited.  The splicing is professional; it isn't just scotch tape any more.  And the sound tracks are completely rerecorded in quintaphonic sound, no less.  I did them myself; dubbing in some of my favorite songs.  Today, Vargas/Souiel films are big hits and the hottest news item of the year will be your return.  So come back.  It will be good for both of us.  I haven't been able to work without you.  What do you say?"

 

      "Favorite songs?  It might be fun to do my own sound tracks for the films," he says arbitrarily.

 

      Vargas freezes as if faced with a planned assault.  He can visualize the result; one theatre with the Vargas sound track in competition with the theatre across the street showing the same film with a sound track done by Souiel.

 

      Meanwhile, Souiel considers the offer with more seriousness.  "I'd be leaving Zoli."  At the mention of her name she strokes Souiel behind the ears.  His head flexes back.

 

      "Maybe Zoli can come along," he says with lessening enthusiasm, as he realizes how preferable it is to be the only celebrity of his type in Dieledon.

 

      Souiel concludes, "Stop by tomorrow and I'll inform you of my decision."

 

      He musters the poise to say, "Great.  I'll bring my friend, Philip, and we'll help you pack."

 

      "There's only one thing still worrying me, other than my appearance which must improve before I go anywhere."

 

      Kevin chants, "Good for you.  That's the spirit.  Take an interest in your appearance."

 

      "I'm sure you know what I mean."  He breathes with a belabored sigh.

 

      "Oh."

 

      ". . . not that I was the one who did it."

 

      "I know.  It's my fault.  May we speak in private?" he asks, eying Zoli who appears hostile while Souiel, stewing in the tub like meat in a soup, appears immobile.

 

      He says, "It's all right.  She doesn't understand anything."

 

      With lessening conviction, Kevin implores, "I'd rather it were somehow just the two of us."  He looks about to find them attracting not the least bit of attention from anyone except Zoli who watches Kevin intently.

 

      "How was living with it all these years?" asks Souiel.

 

      "I can vouch for the fact that it's possible.  No one in Dieledon knows of it so if you need a rap session you'd best stay here and confess to those who don't understand."

 

      "She really drove you crazy.  I never saw anything like it.  Lucky we had the cameras rolling.  I don't suppose you made an exception and destroyed that one scene?"

 

      "No.  I saved it like everything else we've done."

 

      "She loved you.  I wish she'd loved me instead so I wouldn't have had to rely on you to express myself.  With her, I could have been creative on my own, with emotions to express other than frustration.  I needed -- I still need -- to be loved."

 

      Kevin smiles with benevolence.  "Lou, I love you."

 

      "I don't want your love."

 

      "I missed you, too," he adds.  "I've never been so alone.  I hate people but I can't be alone.  I swear I didn't mean to kill her.  I told her there wouldn't be any love but that if she insisted on a relationship we could always make a movie.  You made it, too.  Hey," he reminds, "I couldn't have done it without you."

 

      Souiel is aware of that fact.  "What do you think has been gnawing at me, turning my body into this heap of irritated blubber?" he asks.  "I can't help but also feel to blame.  You wouldn't have done anything if I hadn't been there to edge you along.  If only I had been loved, I wouldn't have had any hostility to release; and I don't mean being loved by you as it's something you're incapable of.  I'm an artist who must have real love.  Support, consideration and criticism, but most of all, love."  He splashes the water for emphasis.  Zoli gently pulls and kisses his face.  He wipes her away.

 

      Kevin admits, as convincingly as he can, "I can say I love her now.  I see her on the screen and love her with all my heart.  She's still repulsive, but also arousing.  As I've matured, I've grown to appreciate a person who gets me aroused."  There is sarcasm in his voice mingling with sincerity.

 

      "I couldn't appreciate her at the time, either," thinks Souiel, aloud.  "I was too nervous, shielded by the camera while striving for the most interestingly composed shot.  How did it look?  Did it come out okay?"

 

      Kevin's voice becomes sincerely congratulatory.  "You're instincts were brilliant.  That scene was virtually cut in the camera.  The lighting worked out well, too."

 

      "Hm," says Souiel, genuinely interested.

 

      "I know how little you like dwelling on past achievements but this and the embalming table scene are unforgettable."

 

      "Yeah.  I'd like to see them.  Did you change much in the editing?"

 

      "I actually added footage -- out takes that seemed revealing of the characters.  In that scene, though.  What was it?  Two shots?"  It runs through his head as he describes, "-- The long profile shot with a wide angle lens with which you, as a cameraman, could do no wrong."

 

      Souiel nearly takes offense but is too engrossed to speak.

 

      "At the exact instant she's hit you rise up and glide smooth as a dancer over my shoulder to zoom in on her beautiful, contorted but dignified face, never so alluring as when struck.  Then, with split second reacting that puts years of consideration to shame, you stop, run around to the other side of us, breaking the stage line as Sarro went on to say, and resume filming with a memorably framed long shot including the window shutters on the right hand corner with me balancing above her while she spasms away into whatever."  He chooses, "Darkness, I suppose.  The effect is, and I quote, at once dislocating and all-seeing.  I doubt if anyone could have done a better job if they used story boards and divided the scene into ninety different shots.  Yes indeed, you cut that scene in the camera.  I left it as you shot it."  He reconsiders, salvaging credit for himself.  "I may have removed three frames to keep it synched with the music."

 

      Souiel is impressed at having partaken in this atrocity, especially at having done such a good job.  He asks out of curiosity, "Doesn't it cause you any pangs of conscience?"

 

      Kevin has an encouraging reply.  "Why only last night I had a nightmare about it.  I'm an emotional wreck."

 

      Souiel shakes his head, relating.  "I can't imagine where I'd be if it weren't for Zoli."  He looks up at her as she combs his few long strands of wispy hair.  He reaches for her face, saying, "I was able to lose myself in her."  He pulls her close and takes a deep breath.  "I need to lose myself in her now."

 

      Kevin is nauseous.  He vindictively asks, "Is she responsible for all the weight you've gained, and for your inconsistent complexion?"

 

      "Her cooking is sleazy but it leaves you wanting more.  I guess it could be partially to blame."

 

      Kevin thinks, she probably uses sleazy sex techniques as well.  He quashes his surge of envy of Souiel's womb-like security by implying he has someone of his own.  "Philip has been a great help to me these past few days.  Wait till you see him.  I'll try to bring him along tomorrow.  Anyway . . ." Kevin trades pangs of conscience for pangs of lust.  He thinks that solitude and boredom must be making Philip very horny.  He swallows and concludes, ". . . I'll be off now."

 

      "Fine.  I'll see you tomorrow.  Do you know your way out of here?"

 

      "No, and I need to get back to the Alberto.  How do I do that?"

 

      Mention of the five star hotel reminds Souiel of Kevin's wealth, which he envies.  "How much are you worth, now?"

 

      Kevin enjoys saying, "I'm independently comfortable, but that's beside the point since now I'm on an expense account."

 

      "So the Ur-Blessance is no longer good enough for you."

 

      "I didn't make the reservations."

 

      "I didn't get any money."

 

      Unable to comprehend what he heard about escrows, Kevin wonders where Souiel's money is going to come from.  "You will.  Lots.  Lou, I'll find own way.  We'll talk tomorrow.  Good-bye, Zoli."

 

      As he stumbles through the storage room he hears Souiel ask, as if to beckon him to stay, "Why weren't you thrown in jail?  Why hasn't this been discovered."

 

      He yells back, "No, don't get up.  I'll let myself out."  He pauses and then answers.  "I don't know.  It just hasn't.  All sorts of things go undetected."

 

     

      Kevin is preoccupied by the gravel before him as he walks down the hill.  Little does he appreciate the sunny afternoon or the plush fields of blue flowered flax to his right and left, and less inkling does he have that, at this moment, in another part of the world, it is a rainy morning where new developments are altering such unassuming plans as those of Lynn and Marie.

 

 

iii.

      Though they were up late the night before, they are off to an early start, beginning with a second visit to the Simone House so that Norton Simone might get more photos of Lynn in his latest outfits, and so that he might design something distinctively flattering for Marie.

 

      As they walk out of the elevator, they are confronted with this question:  "Miss Gurney, please. What is your comment on the new controversy surrounding your husband's old film, Friends?"

 

      She coolly replies, "Excuse me.  I did not know him at the time," and, motioning to Marie, says, "Come on."  They walk with haste toward the exit.  The reporter follows them through the lobby.

 

      "But you saw the film.  What do you think?  What is anybody to think?"

 

      "No comment."

 

      "Are you still expecting your husband back for the awards."

 

      "Supposedly, he's coming back."

 

      "Won't these reports faze him?"

 

      She call out, "Bellboy, would you take this away, please?" pointing to the reporter.  The bellboy fails to make the connection but stays alert.

 

      "How 'bout a comment on accusations from Diane's sister.  She's the one who blew the lid off this thing."

 

      "She hasn't accused me."  They have reached the exit.  She concludes.  "Good day!"

 

      Upon stepping out of doors they are swarmed by reporters and photographers.

 

      "Ah!" exclaims Marie who, until this moment, was handling herself well.  The invading crowd and the sudden high humidity turn her demure poise into a blathering collapse of flesh and bones.

 

      Lynn yells, "Help!  Help!  Bellboy!"

 

      Bellboys unite to push and shove a path as two of them carry Marie into the waiting limousine.  As Lynn follows close behind she is overwhelmed with gratitude and wonders, can she tip enough?  In all the confusion, she does not get to tip at all.  As the car whooshes Marie and her away, she makes a mental note of services rendered for later.

 

      Marie tensely sits in the silent, atmospherically controlled back seat.  She suddenly grabs Lynn's shirt and yells, "To top it off, he's a murderer!" 

 

      "Shut up, Marie."  Deadpan, Lynn stares directly into her eyes while stilling her shaking hands.  She adds, imploringly, "Kevin wouldn't hurt a fly."

 

      Marie is not comforted when Lynn's thumb points directly at the driver from behind his seat.  She does not intend to supply him with anything newsworthy.

 

      "Ah, Philip," says Marie, shaking her clenched fists while looking at the car ceiling.

 

      The messy state of affairs has irritated Lynn.  "You'd better forget your Philip," she recommends with contempt.  "He obviously forgot about you."

 

      Marie slides to the floor as if Lynn's words have made her bones disintegrate.  Lynn's face softens.  She suggests, "Perhaps Kevin has him sedated."

 

      Marie's response is a soft groan.

 

      "Get off the floor.  We're almost there."

 

      "I don't want to go."

 

      "Why not?  You should think of yourself for a change."

 

      "Everybody there makes me feel small.  Even the mannequins."

 

      "Can they help it if you're small?" she asks facetiously, being several inches taller and much thinner than Marie.  She controls her irritation.  "I'm sorry."

 

      "Just look at me."  Marie persists in sitting on the car floor.  "I'm stumpy, ugly, overweight . . .. "  She exaggerates for the sake of argument.

 

      Lynn cuts her off.  "Stop it.  Simone can make a new woman of you.  You've centered your life around another person and it's very harmful.  It's high time you thought of yourself."

 

      "Oh, but I can't bear to see that man again.  The way he made eyes at me, like he wants so much to be believed, and I can't believe in him."

 

      "If you'd only let yourself go he can make you feel quite good.  I heard what he was telling you:  Sweet. Lovely.  Shapely.  In flattering you, he's only speaking the truth."

 

      "I miss Philip."

 

      Lynn decides that Marie needs personal attention.  She says, "Get off the floor," and then, to the driver, says, "Never mind the Simone House, Ed.  Take us once around the park so the reporters have a chance to trace where we were headed, and then take us back to the Clairol."

 

      They ride through a little-used thoroughfare that weaves through the middle of the park.  Lynn closes the partition so that she and Marie might have some privacy.  She asks, "Is it that hard without Philip?"

 

      Marie moans.

 

      Lynn is aroused.  She makes further conversation.  "Why are you moping so?  Is it that time of the month again?  Not that I'd know myself.  I haven't had my period in over a year."

 

      The car slopes downward and stops before a wide puddle.  Lynn knocks on the partition.  "Can you drive through that?"

 

      The driver presses and intercom button and says, "I think it'll be all right."

 

      She finds her button and presses it.  "There's a pond over on the left."

 

      "That's odd," says a preoccupied Marie through sniffles.  "I get my period every two weeks."

 

      "You must get it for both of us."  They laugh with relief that they are laughing and that tension is unwinding.  They lean toward each other with mutual affection.  Meanwhile, the car moves forward.

 

      Water seeps in through the doors.  Marie jumps from the floor.  Lynn presses the intercom button.  "Go back!" she exclaims.

 

      Transmission gears softly shift followed by total stillness except for the sound of racing ventilation fans.  Over the tinny intercom speaker they hear, "I'm sorry, Lynn."

 

      "There's water in here.  Do something!"

 

      Turning the ignition key does nothing.

 

      As moisture spreads through the tight strands of the floor carpeting, the patter of rain seems to grow louder and more insistent.  Rolling off the car, it makes the windows appear to be melting as dark, sopping creatures, quadrupeds tenuously standing on hind legs, draw near. 

 

      The chauffeur makes no move to go outside.  Lynn asks, with feigned calm, "I suppose we're pretty safe in here."

 

      As the door locks snap she is assured.  "We are.  I'm calling for assistance."  He picks up a phone and says, "Hello.  Car forty-one here.  Stalled in a large puddle on the upper west side thoroughfare of Affe Park North.  Yes.  That's where we are now.  Yes, sir.  I can see some of them approaching us."

 

      Hairy fists begin to knock; thick skinned palms squeak against the finish; dark hairy faces press against the windows, parting the clear curtain of rain with their cheeks and mouths, their eyes peering at the girls, lustful, attached to grubby hands.  Unintelligible grunts and savage screams join together, dulled by seeming miles of distance as heard through the soundproofing.  Sopping bodies climb upon and rub against the outer shell of the car.

 

      "What did you drive us through, Ed, jungle habitat?" asks Lynn.  She is nervous but outwardly remains calm.

 

      Marie is frightened and outwardly remains frozen.  A slight thaw of her icy fear occurs when a startling bump emanates from atop the car.  She screams, "Ah!  Ah!  Ah!"

 

      The apes go wild.  The chauffeur says, "Best not look at them, miss.  It only gets them more excited.  Pretend they're not here.  Help is on the way."

 

 

      By the time they are within sight of the Clairol, their day is complete.  Lynn is so happy to be back someplace safe that she vows not to leave the building again until after the rain stops.  She is amazed to spot several reporters and photographers persistently lingering under the Clairol awning, and she recalls Sarro's foreboding of this troublesome publicity. 

 

      It is threatening enough to her that her husband's mysterious past is being dragged into the present, but she did not expect a constant plague of questions to remind her of that fact, especially since, as she constantly reminds herself, his past did not involve her.  She is even more amazed by the lines of people across the street awaiting the early show of Friends.  She becomes convinced that the world is crazy and this gives her renewed courage and dignity.

 

      From out of the disabled limousine, raised to a slant by a tow truck, climb the two girls.  Although the apes were easily frightened away, the girls refused to exit earlier, preferring the confines of the car until they could trade it for the protection of the Clairol awning where, to their dismay, more harassment still awaits. 

 

      Lynn holds Marie up straight and looks directly ahead toward their immediate destination, the lobby where all reporters are supposedly barred.  She ignores all questions, since she has no answers, and refuses to pose for any pictures.  Photos of her and Marie are taken anyway to be printed on the front page of the evening newspapers along with more extraneous gossip on Kevin's trip.  Although Marie hopes to make Philip a star, this, for her, proves to be unwanted publicity.

 

 

iv.

      By adding one piece at a time, the fire Philip starts in his bathtub for the express purpose of burning his old money gets out of his control.

 

      For kindling, he uses any paper he can find, beginning with the shiny gold Alberto matchbooks and, moving onward in a rage of mass incineration, he proceeds to add the room service cards, the bible, entire rolls of toilet paper, and the onion skin stationary -- which burns in a flash, as well as the soap -- which melts.

 

      For a house dress he has chosen a short tight undershirt, the soft cotton fabric of which rubs his torso as he frantically scurries about the room.  By twisting and turning, he hardens his nipples.  He is indeed, as Kevin suspected, most horny and, as for his early morning nausea, it has been subsumed and, in fact, has added to his lust and pyromania.  As he nihilisticly prepares to burn the oldest and most troublesome of his and Marie's money in the pyre, he is stilled by the clicking of a door lock.  Panicking, He abandons the money and the blazing fire to run scared into bed to pretend he is still recovering.

 

 

      Kevin sings, "Philip, I'm home," as he walks in the room to find Philip panting, lying face down, partially covered by a white sheet.  Wiping his brow he exclaims, "What a day!  How are you feeling?"  He loosens his tie, sniffs and enters the bathroom, asking, "What the fuck is this?"  He turns on the shower, shuts the bathroom door and returns to the bedside, pulling the cover away to discover Philip tensely naked from the waist down.  His paternal instinct to spank this shamelessly naughty child sicken him.  He asks, "Is this how you spend the day, making fire?"

 

      Philip rolls over.  The daylight casts a vibrant brightness upon the room and on Philip.  He remains silent and tight, his eyes sparkling in seductive fear; and his mouth is frozen, half open in half feigned surprise.  Kevin feels a violent science fiction urge to squirt from his mouth and eyes a poolful of space age petroleum jelly with which to bury Philip.  His mind's eye focuses on a pleasant smelling aloe after sun lotion among the accoutrements in his cosmetic bag.  He rushes into his room and returns, removing the squirt top of the large economy size plastic bottle, squeezing its contents over the bed's lower regions, using his hand as if the dressing were added and he is now hand tossing a salad.

 

      Philip is horrifyingly thankful as the lotion moistens his entire body, his undershirt and hair.

 

      Kevin, realizing he is not wearing his new safari suit which he makes a mental note to wear tomorrow, and since he is not especially fond of his present apparel, chooses to sacrifice the clothes for the moment, although he does remove his jacket prior to laying atop the human marsh he has created, making his body one giant enfolding claw.

 

      Philip is angered at the clothing in general, and, specifically, at the canvas shoes.  He longs like a harlot to be pressed by smooth, soft, lubricated flesh and his first inclination is to scream, but he feels restricted from unabashed noisemaking by the subdued locale.  Quietly, he pulls and tears off the clothes.  Kevin's partially exposed flesh with a back bumpy with acne is the antithesis of smooth and soft, but the lotion makes it feel greased.  They fall with a clatter and thud to the floor.

 

      "Let go of me," Kevin orders, grabbing hold of him, "and get in there!"  As they crawl forward on their knees like a single misshapen animal, Kevin guides Philip toward the bathroom, as if, in this scene, taking disciplinary measures was his intention from the start.  Naturally, he imagines they are being filmed.  He pushes open the door and says, "Look at that mess!"  He is ready to rub Philip's nose in the ashes.  "Why did you do that?" he demands.  While looking at Philip's turned head, which he holds by the hair in his hands, his tone changes from argumentative to contemplative.  The shower noise predominates as he says, "You must be crazy to do a stupid insane thing like that.  Look at that stain.  Do you think it'll come out.  That's porcelain."

 

      Philip also speaks more calmly as his excitement settles.  "I'm sorry.  I don't know what got into me."  He is suddenly surprised.  "Hey, what are you doing?  No!  You're sick.  No, there isn't enough lotion."

 

      The clothing remnants hanging off Kevin have absorbed much.  However, he is convinced he will manage.

 

 

      They are kneeling, Kevin's front against Philip's back.  When Kevin jerks forward, Philip feels hot organisms squirm into his entrails.  "Oh, yech!" he screeches, shivering.  His hands stiffen and shake.  His face relaxes in a combination of thankfulness and disgust.  He looks down and sees sperm drip from Kevin's hand onto the tile floor.  Kevin's other arm is around his neck.  They hold that pose for a second and then release.

 

      "That's disgusting," says Philip, looking regretfully at the white stuff that was forced out of him.

 

      "Revolting," Kevin agrees, wiping Philip's ass.

 

      "Sick."  He looks at Kevin.

 

      "I feel much better, now."  Next, he wipes the floor with a towel.  "Let's forget about the whole thing," he adds.

 

      "Fine with me."  Philip stands, walks from the bathroom and observes, "This room is a wreck."

 

      Sheets are strewn across the floor.  The night table is knocked over.  A lamp is smashed.

 

      "That's all right.  We have another one."  Kevin silences the shower and has a closer look at the new permanent brown stain in the bathtub.  He can no longer feel anger.  "Oh well.  Why did you do this?"  He turns, looks by the sink and asks, "What's this?  Money?  In the bathroom?"

 

      "It's old money.  That was the reason I started the fire.  Then I got preoccupied.  With everything I try to do with it, that money becomes more trouble than it's worth.  I can't bring myself to burn it.  Do you want it?"

 

      "I'll take it."  Kevin can not believe his ears.  Thinking, this is better than stamps, his fists tighten around the money as if he will never let it go.

 

      "Keep it.  It's caused us enough grief.  It just means bad memories."

 

      "Sounds like my films.  They're bad memories but they're worth a lot."  He scrutinizes one of the bills.  "This is almost seventy years ago."

 

      "Nobody'll take it.  When we tried to use it at the cafe they gave it right back to us."

 

      Kevin guesses, "Their bill tester must have given the ink a bad reading, so they refused it.  But you could take it to a federal reserve bank, though.  They'd exchange it for you.  It's still a hundred pestos."

 

      "Yeah, but then we'd have to claim it.  We have tons of these bills.  The ones you have there are just the oldest.  Marie thought I could get rid of the lot of them here.  I tried.  I went downstairs to buy a magazine.  They wouldn't take it at the newsstand, either."

 

      Kevin is angry at himself.  "Shit, I meant to buy you those magazines."

 

      Philip continues, "And they kept me waiting down there in my bath robe for two hours," he raises two fingers, "while they called in the police to inspect it.  I thought I was under arrest, but then they finally gave back the bill and told me never to try it again.  This money is damned because of its past."

 

      Kevin is perfectly willing to make amends.  "I'll buy you all the magazines you want after we eat, but what do you mean by the past?  Was your father a loan shark?"  He notices, with a diverting cringe of dread, that Philip walking away naked below the waist with so shapely a derrier is beginning to have a hardening effect again.  And only a moment ago he felt so cured.  "Tell me about it later," he calls out, referring to the history of the money, while hiding it under the lining of his attache case. 

 

      He does not remember to ask Philip about the money until some time later.

 

 

      After they eat, rather than return to the claustrophobic confines of their hotel rooms and the fresh memories contained within, they go sightseeing, walking leisurely at first to smooth out digestive cramps, as twilight creeps upon the narrow streets of the port city.  Gradually, as the sky blackens, they move faster, picking up speed.  Soon they are charging along the harbor past street lamps casting pale illumination on semi-convincing transvestites.  As Philip and Kevin run so wildly they imagine themselves blurring and eventually turning into butter and maple syrup.

 

 

iv.

 

      Marie meets her connection, Lamont, at the Walnut Bar while thinking, during her remaining moments of drug free consciousness, what her parents would say if they were alive to learn that she had stooped so low.  They had dreaded drugs with such passion that it was almost inevitable that she come to rely on some form of narcotic, especially since quaaludes did the job so much more efficiently than liquor, while requiring only half the recuperation time.  She thinks, I'll take anything to relieve me from being alive and nowhere. 

 

      She pays with the oldest of her old cash -- the sum total of which she has been keeping on her person at all times -- figuring, let Lamont get rid of it, as indeed he will. 

 

      As she toasts, drinks and downs the pills, she fails to notice the angry man staring at her shaded figure through the single massive window pane.  He has seen quite enough, and so he walks along the sidewalk to the Clairol entrance.

 

      He got conned into driving her and Philip into the city and was in an accident on their account, only to be abandoned by them in that moment of strife.

 

      He reappeared at Cafe Arnold's to reprimand and eat lunch with his cowardly passengers only to have his anger frustrated by their ludicrous behavior and by the unexpected presence of Crystal and Kevin Vargas, whom he still feels are the most loathsome fagots in movies today, despite their offering him their plane at a modest price.

 

      After lunch he returned to his hastily parked Benz, only to learn that it had been dragged off to the docks where erring cars, common and noble alike, are treated with equal disregard.  Since no distinctions were made, the tow-ers violated his antique car's front end with their brutish methods while assuming no liability for damage.  Imagine his surprise and subsequent difficulty when, in turning to get on the highway, his left front wheel fell off.

 

      And now, direct from an intolerable dinner at his relatives' cramped rinky-dink box-car apartment in one of the many hundred story cinder block buildings on the upper west side, here he is, John, situated on a comfy chair in the Clairol lobby where he lurks behind a smeary copy of the trashiest evening newspaper Dieledon has yet to offer, The Post Mortem.  On the lower left corner of its lurid black, white and red front page is a photograph of Marie and Lynn, deliberately not posing, as they are caught entering the Clairol.  It is captioned, MORE DETAILS AND EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW WITH VARGAS'S WIFE, LYNN GURNEY, PAGE 3.

 

      John has chosen a seat near the Walnut Bar, and he intends to sit there until he encounters Marie, or until the House Dick gives him his walking papers.  As the hour nears two A.M., industrial vacuum cleaner sounds fill the brightly lit lobby. 

 

      What few other visitors there are are friends and family of staff members who clock out at this hour.  John nods amicably in their direction as he shakes his newspaper, crosses his legs and reveals a pipe hidden in his shabby jacket.  He stuffs, lights and puffs the pipe while rereading the article in the Post Mortem afternoon edition which succeeds in enraging him anew.

 

 

            With well-timed flight to the Mirian Peninsula in search of collaborator, mystery man Souiel, film maker Kevin Vargas appears to have fled shocking charges of murder.  His close friend and associate, Crystal (Joel Monroe), remains in Dieledon unavailable for comment having been given brush for new "friend," young Beledon page, Philip Vine.  Both men left early Friday morning.  Unconfirmed sources call Vargas's wife, model Lynn Gurney, "scared" as she keeps close guard of "friend's" wife, Marie, whom she restrains from commenting in the photo on page one.

 

      (In that photo, Lynn's arms protectively surround Marie.  It is possible to interpret this embrace as a sign of restraint.)

 

 

      Out walks Marie, without an escort, from the Walnut Bar.  John lays down his paper and pipe on the adjacent coffee table and beckons her toward him with the words, "There you are, you bitch.  I thought that was you under those fancy clothes."

 

      Marie looks behind her shoulder, points at herself and mouths, "Me?" unable to clearly hear John over the noise of men and machines cleaning the carpet.  She is beckoned so she approaches, thinking, Could this be the man who drove us into the city at a time that now seems so long ago?

 

      He has not stopped talking.  "I told you those guys were shtrange, but you wouldn't listen.  You got yourself mixed up with them anyway, just to get ahead fast.  So what happens:  Your country lad husband plays the transcontinental whore while you, his bumpkin wife, become a big city stooge.  I warned you about this.  If you play with gunpowder it just blows up in your face.  That's what comes with shortcuts and not paying your dues.  See?  See?"  He prods the paper, tearing it.  "It blew up in your face."

 

      Marie is too drunk and stoned to yell.  This is like a nightmare in which she has lost her voice.

 

      John examines her.  "And these designer clothes," he observes with horror.  "What happened to your tight jeans, flannel shirt, that cute knapsack and the healthy looking skin that went with that innocent outfit?  Now you've marked your face with paint and hid your soft pudgy thighs under this ugly 'whatthehellisthis'."  He attempts to grab her dress but Marie hops away, her eyes remaining locked on him as he continues.  "You've lost weight.  Your face has gotten pale.  You look sick, too, just like the rest of them emaciated, anerexic, bolemic ... ."

 

      She finally manages to cough up the words, "Excuse me.  I only came down to see the manager about leaving here."

 

      "Come on," he says, prolonging the vowels.  "I know.  Do you think I can't read it in your eyes?  You came down to get good and stewed before bed.  And who's up there waiting, that lesbian, Lynn Gurney?  Stay here and listen to me, 'cause I'm the only one who'll save you from this trap.  I just hope for your own sake that you got that roll of bills handy."

 

      She says, yearning for anything that resembles sympathy, "You can't help me.  Everything is wrong."

 

      "So whose fault is that?  What sort of logic do you follow, anyway?  You arrive in this stinking city, where you can't trust your closest friends, to embrace murderers just because they seem important, give the worst of them your husband while shitting on a nice regular guy like me.  That's what they are, you know.  Murderers!  Did you see the papers?  Do you see this front page?"

 

      Beside the little bubble photo of Lynn and Marie, Post Mortum, never known for journalistic restraint, has filled its cover with a blowup from Friends of Kevin wedging the umbrella under Diane's ribs.  One of the paper's staff photographers sneaked his camera into the movie theatre to snap the picture off the screen, and the quality of the still is all the more lurid because of this.  Block letters in red plastered above the headline read, REAL MURDER! 

 

      John knows the front page photo well, being overly familiar with the sadistic titillation he produced within himself while viewing it repeatedly -- made possible thanks to the video player within the private confines of his bedroom.  Seeing his guilty obsession publicized so sensationally does something to inflame his moral indignation, for he feels it threatens his self esteem.  She is really killed and he really enjoyed it, so he feels also to blame.  He, too, might be really sick, sicker than he ever knew.

 

      As Marie is examining the front page picture of herself, which does not look half bad, John pulls her closer.  She falls seated onto his lap as if to be read a bedtime story.  He puffs on his pipe and asks, "Do you see this?  He kills his girls.  Still impressed with him?  Well, so am I.  He's gotten away with this for over five years; but if you're still hanging out with his crowd then you must want to be killed too.  He's a fagot.  He hates women.  He likes seeing them in agony."

 

      "You're right, but I'm trapped," she says with resignation.  "I have no choice but to wait.  When I have Philip back we'll get out of here and strive for what we want, not through friendship and favors, but through hard work."  Through her stupor she recognizes the man's anger as frustration and masculine silliness.  She believes from his ragged appearance that he is down on his luck so she hops off his knee to her feet and says, "I was serious that time when I offered to pay for your lunch."  She reaches into her blouse.  "Here.  I got change.  I have a good ten pesto bill.  Please accept it with my apologies and gratitude and if there's anything else I can do, please call.  I appreciate your concern, really, and I find it very flattering.  I don't know how I got involved in this mess.  It seemed the best thing at the time, but that's my problem.  There's no need to concern yourself."

 

      As she speaks, John writes on a slip of paper.  He hands it to her.  It reads z15,000, cash.  "What's this?" she asks, incredulously.

 

      "That's my price to take care of him for good.  The way I figure, you owe me for my car, my personal damage, and for the plane I'm gonna buy.  Otherwise, I'm warning you.  I can talk.  I'll spread the word you're passing off funny money.  In fact, I'm not asking for the real stuff, just that weird shit you used at the cafe.  If you give it to me, I'll even get rid of Kevin Vargas for you."

 

      "Don't bother," she suggests.

 

      "Why not?  Think how he's taken advantage of your husband."

 

      "You can't expect me to give you all I have."

 

      "Let me put it this way, don't give me the cash," he lowers his voice so that she must move closer to hear, "and I can tell you your future in a few words."  The vacuum cleaners growl in the distance as he murmurs, "There's a mouthwatering rod that I've loaded in my pants that's been waiting for your mouth since I met you."  He unbuttons his jacket.  "I'll let you suck on it like a candy cane and then," his voice raises.  "When your tongue finds its hole and you realize what you've been sucking on, it'll blow up in your face, cause I'll be blasting it down your throat you pimp; you whore!"  He reaches under her dress and grabs between her legs to keep her from fleeing.  She cries, "Oh, God," as tears well in her eyes.

 

      They remain still, he seated in the easy chair, she standing patiently before him looking around the room to see if anyone can make out what is happening.  The cleaning men notice nothing.

 

      They hold the pose.  He lets go.  "Okay?"

 

      Her insides feel as though they have dissolved into liquid.  Exasperated, she yells, "Here!" reaching into her shirt.  "Take it, you pig.  You slobbery degenerate.  Oh, you disgusting man."  She throws the money at him.

 

      "More, more.  I have to buy the plane!"  He catches the bills like flies as quickly as she releases them.

 

      As she throws the last she says, "No.  That's all we have!"

 

      Lamont, walking out of the bar, stops behind here, asking, "Something wrong, Marie?"  She faints with relief into his arms. 

 

      John, his pockets stuffed, looks bitterly at the man and says, "I was just leaving."

 

      Lamont agrees, "I should say you are," while rolling up his sleeves.

 

 

v.

 

      "Is Lou home?  Can he come out to play?"

 

      Philip must bite his lip to restrain from snickering at Kevin's condescending manner of speaking to this large, middle-aged wreck before whom they are standing.  He taps Kevin while giving him a glare of lenient reprimand.  Kevin turns to Philip and says, "It's okay.  She doesn't understand."

 

      Zoli also glares at Kevin as she leads them through the lower level of the abode out into a fig garden.  She leaves them.  To Kevin's surprise, a fig lands on his head.  He looks up.

 

      "Lou, is that you up there?"

 

      Souiel tosses a fig into Kevin's hands.

 

      "Thanks.  You look great today.  Up and about, too.  Congratulations.  Yesterday I was sure we'd have to wheel you out."

 

      "If ever I should leave here, this orchard is the place I'd most miss."  Identical fig trees of equal height and shape growing equidistant from each other, consistently shading the large fenced-in yard.  They highlight Souiel as he climbs down one of them. 

 

      The surrounding air is rich with nutrients.  Souiel breathes deeply as he cautiously steps down the ladder and takes an agile jump from the last rung to the ground.  He struggles to maintain his balance as his massive shape reverberates with the impact of this twelve inch fall.

 

      They come to him, Kevin saying, "Meet Philip Vine, the friend I was telling you of."

 

      Philip shakes hands.  "Hello, Mr. Souiel.  It is a great honor to be the first member of the public to lay living eyes on you."

 

      Kevin laughs at Philip's observation and says, "Well put.  Isn't he amazing?" he asks Souiel.

 

      Souiel can lay his eyes on Philip for only the briefest moment.  A mere glance at such straight confident stature, the way the spinal cord rests on his pelvis, and the sincere innocent expression on his face is enough to warn Souiel that he is in the presence of no less than celestial beauty.  He experiences pangs of remorse over his own ill fitting figure, and envy toward Kevin for having obtained so striking a companion.  To his surprise, he finds Kevin's similarly compact appearance less odious with Philip nearby, as if good looks rubbed off on Kevin. 

 

      He announces his award decision, utilizing its dramatic effect to supply time needed to regain his bland, uncommitted but sociable disposition.  "I've been thinking," he says.  "To hell with the Pyramids.  I never liked them.  Why should I go out of my way to be a hypocrite?"

 

      Kevin is surprised but finds the idea most appealing.  To verify, he asks, "Are you definite about this?"

 

      "Definitely.

 

      "Hm."  Kevin pensively opens the belly of the fig with his finger and passes it to Philip.  He says, "I wouldn't mind staying around here myself for a little rest and variety.  How about it, Philip?"

 

      Philip, gnawing out the guts of the fig, pauses between bites to say, "Sure."

 

      Souiel turns to Philip.  Enticed, he offers his hospitality.  "I have the upstairs to myself when I want it.  Zoli won't mind a few visitors."

 

      Kevin considers and approves the prospect of a menage a trois because it will be much easier to reserve valuable moments of solitude during the time Philip and Souiel are occupied.

 

      Souiel musters the poise to continue conversing with Philip.  "What about school?"

 

      "I'm not registered this semester.  We've had family problems."

 

      "How well do you get along with Kevin?"

 

      "We've grown rather close in a short period of time.  He's my best friend."

 

      This latest news halts Kevin's daydream of their pastoral existence in this pretty garden.  Best friend? he asks himself.  He needs more time with Philip alone to explore the implications of this acknowledged closeness.  He tells Souiel, "We'll have to spend tonight at the hotel, though, to get our things and make a few phone calls.  Unlike you, I don't wish to cut myself off entirely."

 

      The mention of phone calls triggers in Philip's memory the call that he is supposed to make.  With more impulse than logic, his responsibility to Sarro and the mission becomes foremost in his mind.  "Where are we, anyway?" he asks.  "I mean, why is this place so impossible to find?"

 

      Kevin, himself newly informed, answers, "It's like a vassal house inside the manor of a feudal estate."  Then he reminisces, "We came upon it by stumbling into the outer fringes of the estate, listed on the tourist maps as a group of family stores, the first of which sold linen.  Inside the shop we learned of a room for rent by translating a notice pinned on the community cork board.  Wilhemina, who ran the shop, took us to see it.  As she led us we were pleased -- especially Lou, here -- by it's seclusion.  To get here we went through several entrances, each of which seems to lead about as far as you can go.  I had trouble finding it myself, yesterday.  Wilhemina was of no help this time because Souiel is living with her sister.  Wilhemina is a business woman and she has a typical corporate view of scandal."

 

      Dissatisfied with Kevin's summary, Souiel continues to explain, "I ran out of money and Zoli moved in with me.  Wilhemina thinks it's disgraceful and that I disgraced Zoli, which would have been hard, but she thinks I did and she specifically dreads the thought of her brother in Dieledon learning of our life of sin, so she is indeed very cautious with strangers."

 

      Kevin asks, "Isn't there another sister?"

 

      "Barbizon.  Yes.  She's extremely holy so I often see her pacing under my window like a sentry covered in a black and white habit with her hands tangled in beads, mumbling.  The three of them always lived in this little village sewing and embroidering linen for the fat lord of the manor under conditions worse than the sweatshops in Dieledon.  Then their brother emigrated to Dieledon, the land of opportunity, where he became a successful businessman involved in gambling, prostitution and drugs.  One sunny day he returned for a visit and, as a present, killed the lord and bought them, at a discount, the bulk of this miserable town where they had hitherto lived and slaved.  Now all three of them are the lords and he is there god, especially to Wilhemina, the more practical of the three.  She remembers their life of servitude because she always worked the hardest, and she still does.  Heaven forbid, with his temper, that he should ever learn of me and Zoli."

 

      "Heaven forbid for you," says Kevin, grinning.

 

      "So where is it, exactly?" presses Philip.  "I mean, how would you describe it for someone to get here?"

 

      "Starting from that archway by the linen house, you go through the major square to the left minor square within the central estate of the village of San Rozanna.  You'll notice the pink house here among the row of houses, painted different colors.  Ours is pink.  I'm on the second floor.  That's not to say such information will get us any mail delivered here."

 

      "I'm never gonna remember this.  Do you have something to write with?"

 

      "There's a pen somewhere in the house, but I doubt it still works," says Souiel.

 

      "Where's there a phone?"

 

      "There's one in the linen store.  I never used it so I don't know how good it is."

 

      "Kevin, don't you have a pen or anything?"

 

      "Philip, all you have to do is repeat the address over and over to yourself while you wait for me out front.  Then you'll know it by heart by the time we get back to the hotel and you can call Marie with all the details."  He pushes Philip toward the house.  "Now run along.  I'll be with you in a few minutes."

 

 

      Philip is amazed at the stupidity of Kevin's suggestion.  As he walks through the ground floor of the house he passes Zoli, whom he asks, "How do I get to a phone?"

 

      She makes a skeptical face and says, "Take this package.  I'm going there myself."

 

 

      As Zoli adds her brown package to the pile in the linen store, Philip connects with the number Sarro told him to call.  He informs McGuilty, the excited party on the other line, of Souiel's complex whereabouts.  While he speaks, Zoli slips through the shop door and heads for home, disappearing through a separation between two buildings.  Minutes later, Philip finds himself standing on the hard, shiny cobblestones, alone, waiting.  The noon sun beats down upon him without mercy.

     

 

      As soon as Philip departs, Kevin confides, "I can't believe he called me his best friend.  He must feel very alone.  He's married."

 

      "That's funny," says Souiel.  Without Philip's near proximity he feels the return of a profound fatigue.

 

      "Her name is Marie.  She's very pushy -- acts first and asks questions later -- but her heart's in the right place.  She has great love for him.  It's impressively cruel of him to think of abandoning her like this."

 

      "It must be pathetically one-sided."

 

      "So it seems.  I think he responds better to me.  He's come to mean a great deal to me in the short time we've been together.  Love between two men is on a higher, more intellectual plane in comparison with love between a man and a woman, which is so base, so common, so earthy . . .."

 

      Souiel cuts him off.  "All right."  He gets the idea and would prefer not to be made sick.

 

      Kevin insists on baring his soul to Souiel.  "And Philip is not only a delicate work of art to be merely admired and revered; I can participate as well.  He's art that's to be tested and driven to the limit.  That's what his beauty and, also, his personality compel me to do.  Oh, and guess what?  I'm also married, or did I mention it? to Lynn Gurney, a very close friend with whom I also have sex."

 

      Souiel hears poison in the words but, as he has felt many times before, because Kevin has given a convincing rendition of expressing his deepest thoughts, Souiel desires the therapeutic satisfaction of confessing likewise.  He begins by helpfully remarking, "I guess a pliable but pretty person like Philip can remove you from yourself.  In loving his beauty your heart goes out to him and that's probably a great relief."

 

      Kevin is immensely thankful for these empathetic words of understanding.  He adds, "It's a great relief to the chestal cavity," patting his hand there for emphasis.

 

      Souiel contrasts the observation with his own personal torment or hang-up.  "But I don't think a male relationship is for me.  I have a decided preference for the female."  He has difficulty pressing on.  "I hate the way a man has to ram himself into women; I mean the way he fucks.  Why does he have to do that to such delicate gentle creatures?  He can kill that way."  He stares accusingly at Kevin.  "I wish I were a woman.  I would be a lesbian."  He looks down in spirit.

 

      Kevin tries to perk him up.  "Lou, don't be glum.  Why that almost makes you heterosexual."

 

      Souiel examines Kevin's slender, unmuscular arms exposed by rolled up shirt sleeves.  "You're effeminate," he continues, "so you need to prove yourself far more than most men.  You have to demonstrate to the world that lodged in that skeletal frame is the muscle of a man.  You're the worst kind.  You killed because of that."

 

      "Do you think I have to kill in order to have an orgasm?"

 

      "I think it was weakness, but only you know what you felt at that moment."

 

      They sit on the ground.

 

      Souiel circles his finger in the dirt saying, "I'd much rather discuss generalities then ask you anything specific but . . .,"

 

      "What is it?  I'll be glad to answer anything.  Do you want to know if I came when I stabbed her?"

 

      Souiel says angrily, "I don't give a shit, but am I to understand that despite all that, you released the film?"

 

      Kevin nods.  "I had to, because it's a landmark Vargas/Souiel film.  Why, in its first two weeks it's made more than all the others combined."  Kevin rises to his feet and swings around the trees.

 

      Souiel lies back on the ground, exhausted but tempted by ready fame and money.

 

 

      When Kevin eventually takes his leave of Souiel he discovers that Philip is nowhere to be found.  He has abandoned me! thinks Kevin.  When he questions Zoli, who is in her ground floor kitchen stewing pork, she looks back as if she can not begin to understand.

 

      Humiliated that his lovely friend has left without warning, Kevin returns to the garden where, to his surprise, he finds Souiel back in the trees energetically picking figs.  "Lou, Philip's gone."

 

      "What do you want me to do?"  Souiel supposes Philip got lost looking for a phone, a possibility Kevin fails to consider because, being easily insecure, especially after a display of honesty, he discounts all possible explanations with one exception: that Philip intentionally left with good cause, and that cause is Kevin Vargas.

 

      "Ask Zoli what she knows," he begs.

 

      "You'll have to wait.  Now I'm up here I want to finish picking this branch."

 

      Kevin hates being told to wait.  "Where could he have gone?"  He breaks out in a sweat.  "Oh really, this is intolerable.  I'm hungry; my bones ache from running last night."  He removes his Panama hat and wipes his beaded brow with a handkerchief.

 

      Souiel tosses the picked figs, one at a time, into a basket on the ground.  He prides himself in getting them all in.  Each successful aim increases Kevin's exasperation.  He thinks, fuck this, and says, "I'll walk back to the hotel keeping my eyes open for any sign of him along the way.  If he comes back here, tell him to either walk back to the hotel or stay here and I'll come 'round again tomorrow.  Since we expect to stay for a while he may as well start getting used to it tonight.  Have fun, you two.  As for me, I'll be at the hotel, sulking.  Good-bye."

 

      Souiel, ignoring Kevin, continues to impress himself with his sharp aim.

 

 

v.

 

      For the past twenty minutes Kevin has been standing, indecisive and disillusioned, upstairs in Souiel's apartment by the dirty wooden picnic table.  He has a note in his hand and, in looking at it he must hold the table for support. 

 

      It is the following day, Monday, thirty-six hours before the Pyramid Awards.

 

      Through the open door, Philip quietly appears out of the dark hallway.

 

      Kevin's stare at the letter breaks.  He asks, incredulously, "What happened to you?  I was at the hotel all night by myself.  What did you do?  Where did you go?  Were you here?"

 

      "I got lost.  It got dark.  I spent the night outside.  This morning I followed the instructions Souiel gave me and,"  he shrugs, "So here I am.  This is sure a peaceful town."

 

      Kevin is annoyed and hurt.  "I missed you.  I need you.  Come here."  They embrace.  He sniffs.  "You smell funny."  His hand slips through a hole in the cloth on Philip's back.  He clasps a shoulder blade.  "Your shirt is torn.  What happened?"

 

      "I met some nice animals."

 

      They unlock.  "What do you mean, nice animals?  What did they do to you?"

 

      "They were nice to me."  Philip embraces himself and spins, knocking his hip on a heavy stool which clatters to the floor, doing naught to alter his airy mood.

 

      "What kind of animals?  What are you talking about?"

 

      "They weren't people, that's for sure."  His smile emanates alienated warmth.

 

      "And they treated you well?"  He picks up the stool and moves it out of the way.

 

      "They did after I took off my clothes.  Then they crawled over, nuzzled, pawed me and led me to their lair.  That's where I spent the night."

 

      "Look," says Kevin, impatiently, "I'm glad you're okay and that you came back, even if you are a little nuts.  Study this note."

 

      "Who wrote it?"

 

      "I don't know."  His voice strains in exasperation.  "It's signed Souiel, see? but the big question is, where did he get the pen?"

 

      Philip reads aloud, "'Kevin, didn't wish to be a bother.  Am leaving this place for good.  I've chosen to face the consequences.  Souiel,'" and asks, "What consequences?"

 

      "It doesn't matter.  Consider this: he left with no car, no plane ticket, and now this note . . . written with a pen.  Now that's a clue.  We know he didn't have a pen; he said so.  Someone else was here."

 

      Philip innocently suggests, "Maybe Zoli had a pen hidden away somewhere."

 

      "Wait.  Perhaps I can make out the ink.  Let me just keep this."  He slips the note into his pocket.  "It's so like him to clear out after getting me to do just the opposite."  He eyes Philip.  "So, now it's just you and me."

 

      Philip stares passively, tapping his foot like a hoof.

 

      Kevin continues, "All I know is I need you badly.  Let's stay here forever, just the two of us."

 

      Music swells in their ears.

 

 

 

Chapter Six

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storm cloud -- dizozza