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.
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