Chapter Six

i.

Paul, the shaggy one, who speaks like all the time like this, you know? He comes in late for his fine arts class, which is not unusual, but on this suitably grey morning he walks up to his teacher, Bob Bryant, and says in a low hushed whisper, "Souiel's back." He is panting.

Bob's remonstrant face freezes with keen interest. "Souiel?" he asks under his breath.

"He's, like, back."

"Back?"

"At the Clairol. I mean, I walked by and saw like a lot of commotion. Limos, guards, the works, you know? I asked around. The word was, Souiel's back!"

Bob folds his lecture notes, dismissing his class with the words, "That's all for today. The new-wave Romanticism of the netherworlds must wait. At our next session we'll be discussing Souiel's return to Dieledon." In a lower voice he says, "Thanks, Paul. Good work. Let's go."

"Where is he? We have to see him. Nothing can stop us."

"He's not to be disturbed," says the clerk at the hotel registry desk.

Bob looks through the clerk, picks up a dial-less phone, calls upstairs for Kevin and gets Lynn.

"Hi, Lynn. Souiel's back. Is Kevin back?"

"No," she says regretfully, her neck not yet holding her head erect.

"But Souiel is. I'm in the lobby. If you hear anything, call me. I have to speak with him."

While leaning to hang up the receiver Lynn taps Marie to give her the news.

Marie springs up as if the clip holding her prostrate was released. Upon being informed, she says, "Oh great," and drops back down to sleep off a hangover, dream of her encounter with John, and mourn her lost cash.

Lamont, Michael and Crystal are sitting with some coffee and danishes in the lobby cafe.

"'Continental Breakfast.' Eight pestos. Wow," says Mike, tossing the menu card on the table.

Bob and Paul dash over to them. "Have you seen him?" asks Bob, breathlessly.

Lamont says, "No, but at least we know he's arrived in one piece. He's in his room taking a nap."

"Kevin wasn't with him," adds Crystal, accusingly.

"He'd be crazy to come back now," retorts Lamont.

The table falls silent.

Bob finally speaks. "Isn't that something? All these years I assumed she found a new boyfriend and settled down. Children naturally followed."

Michael's assumption was, "I thought she'd gone back to her parents."

"It seemed so natural that after the film she'd never want to see any of us again" says Crystal.

Bob adds, "They were inaccessible throughout the months they were making Friends. When they called about starting a new film, I was too grateful to ask questions."

"That coffin was a little heavy."

Lamont reminds Crystal, "It was light. She was a wisp of a thing."

Crystal nods, disillusioned. "So we were all burying her in that scene. And a cop almost fined us for not having a filming permit."

Paul shakes his head with admiring wonder. "That Souiel. For art, anything is justified."

Bob smiles, hearing one of his lecture remarks quoted aloud.

Several shady figures, one of which is obese, slip out of the dining room. A good-natured waitress nearby hears the name and asks, "Souiel? Isn't that him leaving the coffee house? I love this job for the famous people I meet. Why just the other day I served Peter Robbins."

Her last words are lost on the men as they gather their belongings and approach the exit where they are presented with the bill. Seconds tick by as they divide payment.

Minutes later, Souiel is huddled from a limousine into the Beledon. His black shirt and brown pants, which were his customary Dieledon attire in the past, blend well with the men in dark suits who rigidly protect him from the rain.

"Hello, Souiel," says Sarro with a firm grasp of the hand. His office personnel gather around the reception area as he continues, "Congratulations on being the recipient of a Special Pyramid Award for Meritorious Achievements in Cinema. Set your mind at rest about it. It's yours, no matter what you say, but would you mind stepping inside? Forgive the haste, but I need answers."

They enter Sarro's office.

"I'm sorry your partner can't join us, but I'm sure you can appreciate the urgency; the awards are tomorrow."

Souiel is impressed by Sarro's claim on the plush office where they are both standing alone. Sarro offers him a chair, settling himself behind the desk.

"How was the flight?"

"Dramatic, especially when we started circling the city."

"The weather's been miserable," Sarro admits.

"Those guys you sent were great. Not a drop of rain has bespeckled me since I arrived."

"We're doing our best. Did you sleep?"

"No. I watched Friends on the video player you so kindly installed in my room. Thank you."

"You're most welcome. What did you think?"

"I'm awed by the cassettes. An entire film is now about the size and weight of a paperback."

"Yes. How was breakfast?"

"I didn't have any. I'm dieting."

By abstaining from food and sleep, Souiel has considerably improved his appearance. His face has lost pigment; the rashes have receded. His puffy eyes have been opened wide with starvation, his lips are swollen and he has bought a dapper hat to cover his nearly bald skull. This hat still rests on his head.

"Oh." Sarro shifts in his seat, wondering how to proceed.

Souiel relieves Sarro by breaking the silence. "The entire sound track was canned. Who dubbed Diane's voice?"

"Kevin did, by speeding up his own."

"It's very well synched."

"Yes." He reluctantly begins, "You know, Souiel, my opinion has always been that art belongs on a plane high above reality, and I admired your films for that, among other reasons. Their content explored desires that, if they had been unleashed in real life, could not be viewed objectively and would be condemned, outright. However, as a make believe, they offered the viewer a chance to look within and learn more about his or her feelings and responses. Now, should you answer my next question with an affirmation, my reaction will be to regret having written about a certain film of yours as if it were art. While art should seek to imitate life, it should avoid reducing itself to the real thing. If it does, it becomes something else: documentary, perhaps, but not art. Reality demands a moral response; art merely asks for one. Which is your film, Friends, art or reality?"

As mischief forms in Souiel's mind, he innocently shrugs. Sarro's cool preface is trying his nerves.

Sarro presses. "In the process of making this film, did your female lead accidentally die?"

Souiel lowers his head so his hat conceals his expression as he says, "No matter how much he changed and switched scenes prior to its release, that much is the same. While she so lustfully pried open his mouth with hers, he inserted a scalpel into the back of her neck. It's her blood that ran down the drains in that embalming table scene."

Sarro's statuesque face, attacked by muscle seizure, is sufficient reward for Souiel's verbal exertion.

Souiel covers his mouth as if flooded by a surge of the past. "Or maybe it was the scene in her apartment."

"Was it? Yes or no?" asks Sarro, trying to regain footing.

Souiel nods agreeably. "I remember now because it was the last scene we shot prior to her departure date. She was returning south to her parents, who were more like grand parents since they gave birth to her so late in life." He chooses to overload Sarro with information to prevent further questioning. "Her father had been spending the last ten years or so dying of leukemia and her mother was firm against her moving out when he was needing more and more nursing. I suppose she eventually became guilty and intended to return for his final days, and I'm sure her mother never forgave her for not doing so." He is hyperventilating with all this speech. He gasps and continues, "Since we were aware of her plans, we rushed into this last scene. Naturally it was raining that day, so Kevin and I met earlier to discuss an alternate scene of them jousting without horses." He explains, "They were going to run into each other with poles on a deserted thoroughfare on the lower west side." He shakes his head in disbelief, dislodging and setting afloat in his brain a memory. "I don't know how we were going to do that. Anyway," he breathes deeply, "I recall Kevin and I talking at a booth in the diner while he kept flipping through the menu of the juke box."

"I finally got up the nerve to call her this morning. She was friendly but she said, 'no jousting today. It's raining and she's still sick from throwing up all last night. Happily, we got an invitation to come over and visit her this evening. Perhaps we can wrap up the film then."

Toasted buttered bagels arrive as Kevin concludes his report. He and Souiel are majestically oblivious to their locale. They are younger, their skin is shinier and their faces are less defined due to remnants of baby fat around the cheeks and chin. They munch as Kevin elaborates, "She couldn't keep any food down. She keeps throwing it up. Isn't that great?" He bites into a bagel half.

"I get the idea. It's too bad about the jousting." Souiel seems disappointed. "She's been throwing up a lot lately. Do you notice how it's affected her?"

"She's getting thinner but not so that she looks dried up. I think she absorbs water in all the right places. At least, she doesn't look dry."

"Oh." Souiel adds meaning to the words. "Have you still not checked her insides? What about Sunday night?"

Kevin shakes his head in bewilderment. "I couldn't even kiss her good-bye. Throughout the evening we had nothing to say. We just got each other depressed. It's so different when you're around. When you're not around I feel so inhibited and afraid."

"There's something in her manner that's enticing but, yet, it also keeps you away."

Kevin elaborates, "I think it centers around her mouth. It's so sensual because she has individual control of the million little nerve endings around her lips, yet it's so apt to scorn and snarl. Her teeth show themselves at what seem like inopportune moments."

"I think it's fantastic," says Souiel.

"It is. I wish I could do it." Kevin stretches his thin lips in a single meaningless motion.

Souiel looks elsewhere, saying, "Forget it."

ii.

"Souiel! Wake up. Are you all right." Sarro shakes him.

"What happened?"

"You passed out."

"When?"

"Just now. You'd better go back to the hotel."

Souiel blinks, appearing alert, as memory impulses continue to spark in his brain. "No. I'm fine. I remember. We were talking about the three of us. They would have these fantastic, metaphysical conversations, but only when I was there. They were physically attracted to each other -- you could see that -- they were as evenly proportioned as a dance duo. She was friendly with me, too, but we never slept together. The only times she ever became physical, as far as I know, were with Kevin, but -- the same thing -- only when I was around.

"We use to walk from school together. I remember passing all these bannered car dealerships while they would be telling each other their dreams. We were silly and immature, but the dreams were cinematic, so we adapted them for the screen. By the time we got to filming the sixth or seventh dream, the killing had become a routine."

Sarro can not resist adding, "The audience, too, becomes callous. The excess of the imaginary murders is viewed with an off-balanced perception. The step-by-step process becomes more involving than the end result. Also, they seemed to be having an increasingly good time."

They weren't, thinks Souiel.

"Film captures feelings better than any other medium. It doesn't seem to matter what you do on film so long as you look good doing it."

Souiel recalls Sarro's reviews of the past. They were filled with such observations. In his present state of mind, he does not think much of them. He continues, "It was raining that night, so we had an umbrella with us when we got to her apartment to do the filming. The other equipment had already been delivered earlier that day."

"Tell me what you planned for the scene."

"Nothing. The umbrella argument arose as a variation on the jousting tournament but, let's face it. Underlying all this symbolism was the simple fact that Kevin wanted to have sex with her and he couldn't bring himself to do it. She was leaving the next day, so this was his big chance. That was how the scene should have ended, though they never got very far. She was dead before they removed an article of clothing.

"They were playing a dangerous game." He hypothesizes, "It seems they would act out their fantasies without arousal, and then later, when they could permit the arousal in private, they masturbated. For them the film was a rare opportunity to combine narcissism and voyeurism. They could get off on watching themselves. I can't assume more than that. I never guessed how their relationship would end, though I assure you, she wasn't supposed to get killed."

"One can't rely on instinct alone," Sarro helpfully adds, hoping his words will return to Souiel in the future.

Souiel pretends he has not heard. "They competed to get the other so excited that there'd have to be a breakdown of some sort. Later they'd have their wet dreams, alone, but in the back of Kevin's mind was a growing dissatisfaction with fantasy. He needed to be relieved by the real thing. In the original dialogue, which Kevin saw fit to erase, they were both yelling, 'stick me!' while assuring each other they couldn't feel a thing. It wasn't nearly as cool and poetic as it appears today without the dialogue and with the music."

"Didn't the filming of this scene get unusually noisy for apartment life?"

"Are you kidding?"

"No. I'm curious. How did you attain such privacy?"

"She was living in a cruddy tenement house inhabited by the latest cartons of immigrants. Kids crawled all over the halls. The neighbors were used to noise because they made so much themselves." He exhales sardonically. "Noise was not a problem. The problem was when he was standing over her with the umbrella finally in his hands, he's figuring that he only has to point it in the right spot and she'll split open, breaking down the middle, exposing real feelings beyond her mask of sarcasm by giving way to an orgasm, acknowledging that she is human, or, to make it even more basic, acknowledging that he has made her feel something. But, while he's aiming for that spot, she tricks him by raising her foot between his legs and pressing him. He's caught with that explosion of feeling instead."

"You're saying that he was coming when he fell on her?"

"I think so."

"Well, why all the avoidance? It's a perfectly natural occurrence."

"He says he feels defeated after he comes."

This puzzles Sarro.

Souiel explains that, "After an orgasm, his awareness of the subject matter of his arousal changes drastically, so he doesn't want to give in. However, it's an effort not to give in. Her action enraged as it excited him. He retaliated by leaning his full weight onto the umbrella and into her." His head sways. "He murdered her. Good night." Again he passes out.

Sarro also needs a rest, although he considers the conversation far from finished. He rises and walks from his desk, hand rubbing his chin, thinking, I liked the movie for its inventive use of cinema. I never considered these psychotic implications. He lifts Souiel form the chair and guides him to the tufted leather couch. "Rest here. I have a comforter in the closet. I'll shut the blinds."

Sarro is by the door, hand on the light switch. He adds, "I have a hunch about all this. At this point, a hunch is worth pursuing, don't you think?"

Souiel rolls over and moans.

"I'll see you in a little while." He dims the lights, leaving Souiel in total blackness, snuggling in a soft furry comforter on the couch.

Philip and Kevin remain in Souiel's former abode. As they scramble about the floor of the dark bedroom in the middle of the sunny day, they argue loud enough to let the whole village hear. They are only wearing their white underwear, having removed the rest of their clothes due to the heat produced by the sun baking the black flat roof.

"Come on. Do it to me." Kevin sits on Philip's stomach.

"Do what?" Philip's eyes gleam.

"What I showed you yesterday." He turns around and lies on his back on top of Philip, grabs Philip's arms and rolls over so that Philip rests on top of him.

"When yesterday?"

"Come on. I can't wait." He starts to get up. Philip tries to pin him down, rubbing his underpants against him. Kevin corrects himself. "Whenever. Recently. You know, what I did to you."

"Oh, when you," his hips press hard against Kevin. "That was disgusting."

"Please, let me help you."

Philip is lethargic and Kevin is more restless than before. "Okay, let's get out of here; I can't bear to stay another second."

"Where will we go?" Philip has sunk himself into the soft bed where, though beads of sweat roll off his ribs, he appears comfortable as if seated upon a throne.

Kevin throws a pair of pants at him. "I no longer want to run away from my problems. We're going back to Dieledon." He helps Philip dress.

Philip finds a book under the bed which he decides to take back home as a souvenir, although it was printed and bound in Dieledon. While Kevin finishes dressing himself, Philip opens the door to the steps. He finds tempting crusty food waiting on the floor in a serving tray, its rich musky aroma rising with its steam. Mouth watering, he kneels before it.

"No. Don't eat that, Philip. That's what kept Souiel under her power for the past five years." He leads Philip down the steps and into the hot light of day.

They walk through the maze of the village for probably the last time, over roads meant for the wooden wheels and iron hooves of horse and buggy. As they pass under the last vestige of the town, the stone arch, Kevin remembers, "I wanted to get more embroidered linen table cloths for Crystal. They make such a lovely gift and I owe him so much for past kindness and they're so inexpensive here, too. Oh well, next time."

iii.

Sarro returns to his office. Before entering, he asks his secretary, "Did he sleep well?"

"Why no, not at all." She has a charmingly girlish smile embanked by pigtails as she looks up lovingly at her boss. "I'll be glad when you get him out of here." She confides, "He's been groaning and falling on the floor. What's his problem? I took a peak in after a big clunk seemed to shake the whole room, and I found the lights on, the shades drawn and him in the corner. He was wrapped in a blanket like a guilty prisoner. When I began to leave, he begged me to stay."

"Was anything broken?"

"Not that I could tell."

"What about that little hand decorated lizard egg that J.T.'s daughter gave me?"

"It's still safe on the table."

"Okay. I'm going in. Hold all calls."

"Oh," she is reminded. "It's not terribly important but a Marie Vine has been calling about Philip, that quiet page you sent with Mr. Vargas. She seems to think something terrible has happened to him and that you're somehow responsible. Here's her message."

"I'll call her. Thanks, Mabel." He enters the office. When he shuts the thick door behind him it becomes obvious how noisy it is everywhere else.

Souiel is crouched in a corner, hanging on to himself. He immediately stands and assumes the posture of a professional gentleman.

"Sorry it couldn't be more comfortable for you here."

"It's not the office. I need a sedative." He wipes off his pants. "I've gotten over-tired." He wonders how to get in touch with Lamont.

"Perhaps you wish to rest a little longer?"

"No. Please don't leave me. We can talk more. How did it go with your hunch?"

"Fine, thank you. There are still problems. Are you sure you don't mind talking, because we don't have to jump back into this depressing business right away."

"No. Let's."

"All right. Fill me in. What became of the body."

The question brings new creases to his brow. "I feel terrible about it. She should have been allowed to remain there so the stink of unavenged murder could crawl through the halls. That's how it was at first. After he stabbed her we didn't do anything except sit there and listen to her die. She made a lot of noise, groaning maliciously and murmuring over and over, 'stupid shits. You stupid shits." She continued to startle us with dying breaths throughout the night." He seats himself on the chair near Sarro, who inches away.

"Then dawn broke. It was a new day." He imitates a cheery voice. "'Things aren't so bad,' said Kevin. 'We have an ending scene we can tag onto the one we filmed last night. Friends is finished.' Then he jumped up and said he felt refreshed, having stayed up and stared all night. Sure, that made sense," he says sarcastically. "He hadn't slept in over thirty-eight hours but he was raring to embark on a new film, although the plot still wasn't clear. All we had was the beginning, a funeral scene. It turned out to be about two fellows brought together by a mutual girl friend's suicide. Do you know it?"

"Of course. It's called, The Bear that Walks Like a Man."

"That's as good a title as any, I suppose."

"We released it last year. Kevin always made explicit that Friends, although released later, was made before. Essentially, he's a truthful person."

"I think you mistake truthfulness for tactlessness. Anyway, it took her a while but she was dead by dawn. My father, who died many years prior, had groomed me for such a situation."

"He was a mortician."

"Yes. He owned a funeral parlor which my uncle may still own today. Rightfully, I know I should have inherited it, but I've let that pass. That's how we got to use a real embalming table for that other scene. You know," he adds with a sick smile. "The one where she wasn't killed."

Sarro wonders if he will ever get a feeling response out of Souiel.

Souiel continues, "My father taught me a lot. He showed me how to pack a body. I wrapped her in her bed sheet so she looked like a big caterpillar cocoon." He spots a file cabinet against the wall. "I had a tall legal size file cabinet in my apartment, which was not far away. I gave Kevin the keys and told him to get it while I wrapped Diane." He pauses. "Diane. That was her name. I almost forgot she had one. Diane Heyday. I never knew if that was her real name. I remember getting home later and finding all my precious files strewn across the room like so much trash. I threw them all away. That wasn't very considerate of him. We slipped her into the file cabinet and stuffed it with newspapers. Then, we put a white sheet over it. We called Lamont, Michael, Bob and Crystal. We woke them, of course, but they came. It wasn't even six A.M. but they were so glad to hear from us and excited by the prospects of working on our new film that they were back-breakingly accommodating. They never liked Diane. Lamont, in bringing over his station wagon, landed himself the lead in the film. It was Lamont's film. He pushed us to get it made. Is he in the city here? He's one of the few old friends I'd really like to see again."

"Yes, he's here to attend the awards. He's been keeping out of trouble, living in the country since his cocaine racket finally met its doom during the great sweep of four years ago."

"Oh." Souiel is disappointed. He consoles himself by thinking, maybe Lamont still has connections to procure less fashionable drugs.

"What about the burial?"

"The funeral scene was not in the least suspicious with the cameras rolling. We filmed it on a mound among the hills and dales of Affe Park. I think it was Bob who had the idea to plant white styrofoam kickboards all around to give it that graveyard flavor. Lamont tied handles onto the file cabinet. It could have been close. I think we were even summonsed by a policeman for filming without a permit, but by then the body was deep in the earth and we all had a full day ahead: classes, work. It wasn't even nine A.M.. We had gotten an early start."

Sarro is preoccupied. "Where's the party? I mean, the body. Forgive me. I was thinking of the party after the awards. It's in the Beledon lobby; the first affair since its restoration. I have too much on my mind."

"Are you with me?"

"Yes. I'm disturbed, though, by your description of her death. If she was alive all that time, why didn't you call an ambulance?"

"She never asked."

Sarro looks down at an unrelated checklist. "Where's the body?"

"Toward the southwest tip of Affe Park."

"Jungle territory," he adds.

"Yeah. It might have been dangerous any other time, but it wasn't so bad at dawn because that's when all the muggers sleep. The next morning, I went back there alone to inspect the grounds and I found everything quiet, though the grave site was a mess -- not at all as we'd left it. The hole was partially filled. The surrounding ground had been ripped open with grass and plants de-rooted and withered. I was so enraged by the desecration that I jumped into the hole, half expecting to be surrounded by police watching from the bushes. All became stiller than before. No one approached; nothing stirred, yet I felt a stare from all directions. Suddenly, my curiosity took over. I clawed at the earth, tearing my pants and breaking my fingernails. The coffin was gone. Still no one approached, though I was watched all along, and I began to suspect it was by those vultures that stole the body. I walked off, dazed, still expecting to be apprehended by someone. It was only a tenth of a mile to the road that ran through the park. My observers seemed to part as mysteriously as the Red Sea as I made my way passed. On the road I found I was the only pedestrian. Plenty of cars drove by and none considered stopping. I guess I looked like a bum. I took the downtown subway home."

Souiel continues. "Weeks passed. I never went back there. We continued to shoot the new film. I treated my work like a job, as if Lamont had hired me to photograph him and Kevin. Nothing much happened. Our crime seemed like one of thought. I tried to convince myself I wasn't to blame, but it's worse being a passive observer. Kevin wasn't affected. He was too close to appreciate what he had done. I could, and I hated his complacency. He believed he belonged dead but he wasn't willing to bring it upon himself, and he expected me to feel the same. After I shot, what is it called?"

"The Bear that Walks Like a Man."

"After I shot The Bear, I withdrew my inheritance from the bank and bought a one-way ticket to the Mirian Peninsula where I was to begin an even more complacent chapter of my life. Kevin came with me, not willing to lose track of his accomplice. We were inseparable until he knew I was safely out of the way."

"All this can not lessen your contributions to cinema," Sarro says encouragingly. He prefers that Souiel not harp on this unpleasantness, especially in such a deadpan manner.

Souiel is again amazed, thinking, I talk of murder and he talks of film. Doesn't he realize I'm psychotic? or worse, is he not taking me seriously? With less emotion, he says, "Thank you. I never tried to be too flamboyant since that came naturally. I simply reacted to the characters while they became wrapped up in themselves." He grins wickedly.

"If you see any recent movies while you're here, you will find that the reason you are receiving a Pyramid tomorrow," Sarro explains, "is that your directing style has been often imitated but never matched by the big-budgetted directors of today Any analysis of current cinema stems back to your films and, although one director in particular, Charles Rayovac, has utilized your technique to great effect, none has achieved your straightforward economy of perpetual motion. You never overwhelmed the actors; you enhanced them."

"I don't know how I achieved that. In real life, people repel me, but behind the camera I was allowed to see how beautiful they could be. Especially Diane. Alone with her I was threatened, as if I was too close to appreciate it, like I was a little Gulliver getting a microscopic view of the pores on a woman's breast, but behind the camera I had the perspectives of God, the creator. I could watch and move among a poetic interaction of figure and form that was otherwise unknown to me. I could become oblivious to the ugliness that was myself." His mouth tightens.

Sarro shakes his head and quickly says, "I hope to find work for you again in the future. I have great faith in your potential."

Thanks, but why bother. I can't distance myself like that again. I don't want to. It isn't right. I'd rather devote myself to furthering a charitable cause." He gets an idea. "What do you think of this? I'd like to set up a foundation for runaways. It will be only for girls, an all girls home where they'll get free food and shelter and where they'll be taught self-actualization and self-respect. I don't want another to fall prey to monsters like Kevin Vargas. I have money now and that is how I'd like it spent. Would you help me with this?"

"Souiel, it would be an honor. We must talk about it in more detail after the awards. Meanwhile, I intend to do my best to see that justice is done to you and Kevin." He looks at Souiel, a poor misguided youth. "Believe me when I say I have both your interests at heart."

"You do?" Souiel has become a little boy again.

"You'll see why at the awards ceremony."

"How are we accused?"

"At first there was only the rumor generated with the videotape sales of the film. Then, the Post Mortem accused you outright, basing their story on information supplied by Diane's sister. I neither know who, nor where she is. The Post Mortem 'journalists,' and as I use the term it is synonymous with 'sensationalists,' are protecting her by keeping her whereabouts a secret. That paper isn't taken too seriously but it has a wide circulation, and once the accusation was printed, audiences discovered that the film convicted itself, much to the increase of this week's gross."

As Souiel wonders how he can meet Diane's sister, Marie bursts into the office demanding, "Where's Philip?" The sight of the imposing figure seated near Sarro stuns her.

Rising, Sarro says, "Honestly, Marie. I can't be interrupted all the time. You must learn to be patient." He leaves his office to find Mabel, away from her post. He calls out, interrupting her whisperings with one of the typists.

iv.

Souiel looks briefly at Marie and instantly places her in the context of what he has seen and heard regarding Philip. His first glance is one of such heartfelt understanding, generosity and sympathy, as if he has already reserved a room for her in his girl's home, that it penetrates to her heart.

He realizes she is returning his stare so he averts his eyes, unable to bear the sight of this pathetic creature while feeling so pathetic himself.

Marie cannot think with Souiel's glance upon her, but when he looks away like a hurt boy it is as if he has removed an arrow from her breast. Her penetrated heart goes out to him. He is so forlorn; and his husky ugliness is as freakish to her as is Philip's frail beauty. Both belong in a circus. Both are display pieces potentially suitable as receptacles for her overflowing love. While she wonders how to take Souiel under her wing, she continues to stare.

He can not bear to be looked at, especially by her. Silently, he skulks out of the office to the elevators, one of which he catches on its way down.

On his way back to his office, Sarro sees the elevator doors close on Souiel. He dashes back to Mabel, saying, "Call down for Andy to meet him in the lobby. He's to get Souiel directly into the limo and back to the Clairol where he should be brought to his suite. No television, no interviews. Just rest."

"Marie, Philip's actions are out of my hands. He has a round trip ticket in his possession. He can come home at any time, with or without Kevin, but it's up to him."

"But I can't get in touch with him. He doesn't call . . .." Her emotion is tiring in and of itself. Her love can not flow without a specific destination.

Sarro's voice picks up as hers trails off. "I'm in the same position. They haven't been back at their room in days." Meanwhile, he prays Philip remembers the second, equally important phase of his mission, to get Kevin back to Dieledon by Tuesday. He asks, "How did you discover that Souiel was back?"

"Lynn got a call early this morning from Mr. Bryant."

"That means everyone in Dieledon knows by now. The hotel must be jammed."

"Pick up on eight," calls out Mabel through the open door. "Souiel is trying to buy a new car."

"Already?" Sarro listens to and then says into the phone horn, "Yes. I'll vouch for his credit. Give it to him. He can afford a hundred of them."

While Sarro and Marie were exchanging words, Souiel was being, and is still being driven to the Clairol. En route, he caught sight of a bright shiny shape floating by like a red planet through the grey overcast street. His eyes locked into it and the weight of his mind lifted as he asked the driver, "What is that?"

"That's the new Porsche. Nice, huh?"

Souiel always admired the car, and this years curves convinced him of its charm. "I'd like one exactly like that."

The driver, Andy, accommodated Souiel by pointing out the phone in the limousine, so Souiel is making his first purchase as a wealthy man from there.

"So I can expect it at the Clairol this evening? Great. Thank you."

Feelings of selfish extravagance at the sudden expenditure are alleviated by thoughts of his philanthropic plans for a girl's home. He plans to donate all his excess cash to this home for all the homeless helpless aimless runaways who come to Dieledon in search of freedom and excitement. It will be a dull restrictive place run by a delirious religious order of nuns bent on teaching these girls a lesson. No, wait. That's no good. It should be something warm and cheery like the home in Little Women so that all the girls will like him. He tries to rest in the rainy-day traffic jam, but can not keep his eyes shut for more than a few seconds without shivering. To break the silence he accosts Andy.

"How is it with you, driver?"

"Ah, you know. Could be better; could be worse. It's a job."

The response is, "Oh, what a mob," for they have come within sight of the Clairol.

Lynn is among the group of people waiting to see Souiel. Because she vowed to remain within the Clairol during the storm, she is pleased that he has joined its registry. She does not have to go out in search of excitement. His return is generating enough right there at the hotel. She even goes out of her way to be with Bob Bryant, the man largely responsible for this commotion, knowing he will lead her directly to Souiel. No matter how mundane Souiel may be, his status as a celebrity guarantees that his personality will be memorable.

Though Souiel is hostile as he exits the limousine, he dallies in the lobby to enjoy the welcome of reporters, fans and friends, since he has no desire to return to his room just to be alone. He shrugs at potentially unpleasant questions like, "Whatever Happened to . . . Diane?" and the more insistent reporters, those of the Post Mortem, give him a holiday on this, his first day back, since they are sitting on the story, anyway. He discusses general matters on art and reveals a severely critical tendency. Of course, the Souielists treat his words as gospel truth. If he dispenses a favorable opinion, the object of his praise reveals a depth and greatness hitherto unknown or only subconsciously perceived by the avid listener. The thing becomes collectible. If Souiel had developed his opinionated survey within a more formal standard of thinking, he might have made a better star maker than Sarro.

As the minutes he spends with old friends wear on he becomes bored by feelings of redundancy. Therefore, he welcomes a pretty newcomer like Lynn into his world.

Philip is silent. Kevin sulks. The plane is crowded and they do not have a window seat.

"The more I think of Souiel's departure, the more amazing it seems. He had no money, and even if he got some, these flights have to be booked in advance. Maybe he's still waiting to leave. Could he have gotten in touch with Sarro on his own? Philip, why don't you talk to me? What can you make out of this odd turn of events?"

Philip has taken to reading. Kevin looks at the book and whines, "That's another thing. All his books were gone."

He forgot this one, thinks Philip, shrugging automatically while remaining intent on the printed page.

"What are you reading?"

He lifts the book, still reading it. It is a hardcover, pocket edition of The Picture of Dorian Gray.

"I read that." Kevin reminisces like a big game hunter. "That reminds me of the time I first got interested in poise. Yeah, I started wearing a jacket and thin ties at all times. I tried to seem distinguished and polite. I became something of a dandy."

"Boys?" (Philip's first word in five hours.)

"Poise. Presence, posture, looking good . . .. Don't you know what poise is?"

"No." Philip does not wish to be spoken to. "Leave me alone."

"You're not very friendly today."

"I'm reading."

"Still, you're right. You spoke truer than you purposed. It was around that same time that I became interested in boys. It was all Souiel's fault. I hadn't noticed either sex till then, but he has the power to dominate as he accommodates a person. I felt I was dominating him, but all the while he was getting me under the control of his own subtle will. I found myself wanting to please and entertain him, to meet standards he set; and his inclinations drew my attention to guys whom I previously hadn't noticed as potential sex objects. Crystal is a perfect example. He gave Crystal a lot of attention, pampering him like a girl, and I found myself wanting him. I wanted to make physical love to him while being watched by Souiel. I thought that making a film like Insomniac -- by having Souiel watch me and Crystal from behind the lens -- I thought that process would relieve me of those inclinations of which you have so recently been the latest unfortunate victim. Clearly, artistic purges don't work for me. Just because I made a film of it, doesn't mean that the yearning for it is out of my system. All the wants I've ever had, whether they're instinctive, instilled or installed, tend to exert their pull in varying cycles. It's as if each desire follows its own separate elliptical orbit. Though they individually seem to scatter so far away that I forget they ever were, they maintain a gravitational link to me and, therefore, will circle and boomerang back at odd intervals. I still haven't gotten the knack as to what desire or combination thereof will draw near enough to affect my orbit again. Maybe I should look into astrology. What do you think?"

Philip's lips are pursed in rage. "What?" he asks, displaying clenched teeth.

"Forget it." Kevin wants a window seat now more than ever.

Kevin has been noticed, but not approached by the other passengers, most of whom are more aware of his notoriety than he is, since they glance at the papers once in a while.

Due to stormy weather the plane ride is prolonged into the evening. When they finally land, it takes another hour before debarking is allowed.

Under the flat white light of customs inspection, the luggage is ravaged mostly by Kevin in search of his black evening wear. He pulls it out and runs to the nearest bathroom because there is no longer time to stop at the Clairol to change for the awards.

The soft fabric comfortably contains him as he returns, fastidiously conservative except for his hair and shoes, saying, "I hate to rush. If only we'd gotten an earlier start."

v.

Kevin has sent the luggage on ahead to the Clairol. He and Philip are in a taxi bound for the Beledon. It is seven-thirty. Night is upon the rain-drenched city, the taxi has absolutely no suspension, yet Philip's obsession with reading persists. Kevin says, "You've been perfectly horrendous company these last hours. You can stop reading now. You don't have to ruin your eyes and upset your stomach on my account. Talk to me."

He shuts the book in exasperation. "All right. Let's talk."

Kevin flusters while how's the book? are you hungry? what's new? what was your favorite part of the trip? and other inanities flash through his mind. Moments pass in silence.

Philip shakes his head and reopens the book.

Finally, Kevin becomes sincerely inquisitive. "So what was it like spending the night with animals in the jungle?"

Philip does not immediately comprehend the question. "What?" he asks with annoyance.

"Or wherever. In that lair where you were so well cared for."

"Oh. It was perfectly nice."

"And where did you really go that night?"

Philip can not think of anything more insulting than the truth so he tells it. "First I went to the linen shop to make a phone call."

"It couldn't wait?"

"Dr. Sarro told me to call as soon as I knew how to find Souiel; and he emphasized I should be alone."

"I see. You were following orders. Then what happened?"

"The guy I was supposed to call couldn't make sense out of my directions so he told me to wait for him. He picked me up in his convertible and together we found Souiel. Then he handled the matter with ease. Souiel was very amenable. I also told him what you were doing to me and he let me spend the night with him."

"Wasn't he a godsend. Why tell me you slept with the animals?"

"Because I did dream it. I figured you would like it." He squints his eyes in contempt.

"And your ripped shirt and foul smell -- that was all part of the ploy?"

"He had a big red dog who did that to me while I was playing with him. I didn't even remember my dream until you asked me."

Kevin is fuming. "So that's how Souiel could up and leave so easily. I knew he couldn't have managed it on his own. Maybe we could have all come back together in triumph as one big happy family, but no. You wouldn't trust me to handle it in my own way. Crystal wouldn't have called that guy. And Sarro said he was needed for the show. He wanted someone on this trip with his interests, not mine. Well you're a good boy. May he reward you well." He looks out into the gloom and sees a clock materialize on a bank. "Eight, bloody-thirty. It started a whole half hour ago. And Souiel's there and I'm not." He leans forward. "Driver, could you step on it. Maybe you could even go up a few one ways."

The taxi driver confirms a growing suspicion. "Are you Kevin Vargas?"

"That's right. You know, if you just go up that one way we won't have to circle the whole block."

"Could you pay me now, please?"

"Here's a fifty. There are no holds barred. Do whatever you can; just get us there quick. Hey! What are you doing?"

He is pulling the cab to the nearest curb. "Get out. Both of you." He turns around, red faced, with fisted arms cocked and eager to swing. Philip and Kevin cower and shrivel to the floor. Snarling, he gets out into the rain, cursing himself for stepping into an ankle deep puddle, and walks around his cab to open the back door. He is big and brawny and easily pulls them out onto the curb while adding, with a smack on the back of their heads, "Get out of my cab. You can walk the rest of the way."

They are abandoned on a corner by the stone wall that surrounds the park. The Beledon is only two blocks away but they are faced with an obstacle, a giant puddle formed by a backed up sewer lapping onto the sidewalk. They walk along it, wanting to cross the street with minimum damage to their shoes; then they stand there, childishly waiting for what is literally a pond to recede. They look like little trees in winter with tenuous roots holding their ground during a storm.

Kevin's spine is tingling from emotion flooded with betrayal and the growing awareness brought on by the rain pattering on his head and shoulder pads that a man of imposing standards has made him become wet. He stares with grim satisfaction at the street he must cross, a running river casting back tremblingly hostile reflections of the glittering anti-colorful mercury street lamps. He frowns and whispers a general, "Why?" When he hears an unexpected response he turns to examine closely the estranged figure standing beside him.

Philip does not accept the driver as a reasonable entity worthy of consideration. Therefore, he takes Kevin's question personally as if, completed, it were: why are you so mean to me?

"Honestly, it was nothing personal. It's just that when I become constipated I get very irritable." Biting his under-lip, he looks pleadingly into Kevin's eyes. Due to the rain, he appears to be crying.

Seeing that face, dripping with rain, lit from side to side by the headlights of a passing car, fills Kevin with boundless forgiveness. He thinks: Angel. It's all my fault. I've poisoned our relationship by not keeping it platonic. Then he asks, struck by a brief clear glimpse into Philip's retina, "Philip, I'm sorry to change the subject but, are there other colors in your right eye? I never noticed that." His throat scratches with dryness for he is nervous and apprehensive.

The car illuminating Philip's face passes slowly by so as not to lose its brakes. However, a great, tall, heavy-duty, double-wheeled Mack truck does not worry about a flooded street, especially when a haywire traffic light in a chain of timed lights suddenly turns yellow then red. Its driver floors the gas pedal, passing the light and, in order to avoid the slow moving road hog, swerves dangerously near the curb on which Philip and Kevin are stranded. The truck plows through the deepest part of the puddle, invoking a monstrous splash that throws Philip and Kevin off their feet. They are dragged into the street with the undertow. As they struggle to the curb they resemble drowning dinosaurs rising out of, only to flop back into, the tar pits. Soaked carcasses of drowned rats, pigeons and worms float with the garbage around them. Philip and Kevin splash, laugh, hug and scream as they climb over and pull each other back into the water.

Despite their fun, this is hardly the time to be in the street. Tonight, Dieledon honors its own and, for most, this is the night to stay home, snuggle with a loved one on a sofa near a cool six-pack of beer, and talk back at the television, making unrestrained comments about the clothing and conditions of celebrities giving and receiving pyramids. The feeling achieved is that the gala affair is proceeding, with the king's permission, in the palatial confines of one's own living room.

John wants to do this and is in front of a television screen, black and white but adequate for transmitting the magic and excitement. A six-pack is nearby but, alas, no loved one with whom he might snuggle while spewing his frothing commentary. His crippled car, the nearest thing to a friend, is outside in the rain, virtually incapacitated, its left front wheel hanging by a wire coat hanger. He is staying at a motel on the outskirts of the city across the street from the Font Aspic Airfield where he awaits his newest friend, the one that flies which, with all the money he has amassed, he still can not and will never afford. Crystal kindly gave permission for him to test drive the plane again when the weather cleared. He knows his way about. Can he risk stealing so conspicuous a treasure?

Chapter Seven

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storm cloud -- dizozza