Chapter Seven

 

i.

 

      "Initially, this segment of the show was to feature clips from the films of Vargas and Souiel.  While reminding our audience that formal charges have been lodged against neither of these men, let us vary from the scheduled program and welcome to the stage noted physicist Doctor Norman Bergtraum, Professor Emeritus at Folgers University.  Doctor Bergtraum."

 

      The announcer, a notorious film director (notorious not only because his films have been so graphic, but because his homage to other directors so often took the form of imitation), having proven he can also be an expressive reader of cue cards, claps politely and disappears.

 

      The guest speaker is greeted with confused murmurs and scattered clapping by the more automatic members of the audience.  He materializes in deepening shades through enormous filters of shifting acrylic and stops center stage before a podium nearly as tall as he, leaning his mouth against what appears to be a slender silver garden hose hypnotized in mid-air.  He distrustfully spills a greeting into it. 

 

      "How d'you do."

 

      A slender youngster, standing beside him like a giant, bends the mike downward so that he need not lecture on tiptoe.  She dances to the wings like a silk handkerchief in the wind to applause from her growing group of fans among the audience.

 

      Dr. Bergtraum smiles in her direction and turns to the audience.  Further speech reveals he rolls his r's and pulls his vowels.  "If I can not begin to expr-r-ress my soopr-r-rise at this chance to speak to so gr-r-reat an assemblage of people about so singularly loo-rid a matter as this it is because, to be pear-fectly fr-r-rank, if someone had said but five days back that I would even be attending these pr-r-roceedings, I would have called him with conviction, mad.  My home is in the lab-a-tory, not in the spotlight.  Yet my pr-r-resence here, despite my misgivings, is not without r-r-reason."  He coughs in falsetto, turns to his next page of notes and proceeds.  "Two days ago an unyoosual hypothesis was br-r-rung to my attention.  Unyoosual, do I say?  Yes, for it could be discerned thr-r-rough a simple appleecation of Physics and giometr-r-rics and I have, thr-r-rough my computations, discovered so." 

 

      When he turns to the next page in the loose-leaf binder the audience grows restless. 

 

      "I dr-r-rew gr-r-raphs fom ser-r-ries of stills, akchoo-al mooving pictcha fr-r-rames fom the film, Fr-r-riends, where a young girl, ah."  Lifting his glasses, he squints and falters.  "Diane Haydee?"  Louder members of the audience assist him.  "Yes?" he asks, encouraged by participation.  "Heyday?  Excuse my notes.  Diane Haydee, Heyday."  He promptly corrects himself while raising his voice to silence the disobedient listeners.  "I am speaking of the scene when she pools a young man; this boy is Kevin Vargas.  He is the boy in the film.  Specifically, she pools an umbr-r-rella which was in the tight gr-r-rip . . .."  He fists his hand.  The audience murmurs as boos swell like a tidal wave.  He scolds, "Yes, I said pools.  Ladies, gentlemen, please.  There can be no error as this diagr-r-ram, a computer animation, demonstr-r-rates please.  The scr-r-reen."  Cawing softens as the houselights dim and eyes are diverted to the left.  Dr. Bergtraum narrates as the images pass silently by.

 

      "Fir-r-rst, see the film at its pr-r-roper speed."

 

      They vie for the umbrella and, in a matter of seconds, Diane lies, chest up, on the plank floor. As the images interact, Bergtraum urges, "Observe."  Kevin leans forward violently; Diane writhes like a specimen pinned alive to a cork board.  A spotlight returns to Bergtraum. 

 

      "I was sent a videotape of this film and fom it plotted points on each still of the pr-r-revious scene, minimalizing the figures to what looked like star constellations evolving over a billion years.  But please."  He raises a hand, this time to stop himself.  "I pr-r-rogrammed these white dots on a terminal which also served as my pictcha scr-r-reen and the inf-a-mation was stored in the memory of ISAAC, the br-r-rain center at Folgers where I confirmed what alr-r-ready I perceived was so.  Here is the computer animation that came back to me.  See for yourself." 

 

      Eyes are again redirected left.

 

      "Fig-ya 'A,' above, weighs a mere forty-five kilos while pr-r-ressure exerted was measured -- "  The mike picks up sounds of shuffled papers.  "-- thirty six kilos, a twenty-eight kilo incr-r-rement, as much as five g's gr-r-reater than the fawce fom natural gr-r-ravitational pool fom this height of only thr-r-ree feet."  He looks around, accusing, "So somebody was doing something.  Where does the additional weight or-r-riginate?  Not fom fig-ya 'A' for muscles around his upp-a tawso and shold-a are limp and shins show no stiffness nor momentum."  (Arrows blink on and off on the graph superimposed over the still of the film.)  "Momentum is minused; balance, upset.  The pool centers here, in the shoulders and tightened elbows of fig-ya 'B' below.  Watch now gr-r-raph and film in unison."

 

      The moving dots liquify.  Diane's hands seem to be the eye of a whirlpool with Kevin's frame wrinkling to the flow like a pointilist rag floating in an emptying bathtub suddenly sucked into the unplugged drain.  The audience, as a whole, gasps at the spectacular effect worthy of a planetarium's demonstration of the end of the universe.

 

      The image fades as the screen rises and light gradually returns to the stage and auditorium.  Bergtraum, wasting no time, is asking, "Why was there so fatal a move taken?  Was she acting purely on impulse, unaware of the vuln-able place inches below the r-r-rib cage?  And to the question of special effects, I leave to others more skilled in this area for, though I have looked closely, I can not r-r-reassure that this was innocent tr-r-rick photogr-r-raphy."  He gravely shakes his head.  "All I have to off-a is fom what is given.  I say, base your interp-a-tation on that."  He nods with the stern satisfaction of an English professor who has just concluded the definitive explanation of an obscure poem.  "Bee-faw I take leave of you millions, I add that only pr-r-rosecutas will define what cha-ges should be pr-r-ressed, but my view is that there was a gr-r-reat deal of negligence due to lack of adult sup-a-vision under which this gr-r-ruesome calamity would most surely have been pr-r-revented."  He looks into the camera and points scoldingly at parents throughout the world.  "Childr-r-ren should not be allowed to play in this way.  Thank you."

 

      He walks briskly off the stage and into the wings.

 

      "Thank you, Dr. Bergtraum, for your liberal analysis, and a special thank you to Folgers University for sparing him and their impressive facilities."

 

      Charles Rayovac, who earlier heralded Dr. Bergtraum, has miraculously reappeared, much to the credit of the stage direction, to further announce, "And now, without further ado, we present this special Pyramid to Louis Souiel and Kevin Vargas for their meritorious achievements and developments in cinematic expression, and for the pioneering of the 'floating stage line.'

 

      A voice from beyond booms through the auditorium.  "Accepting the award for Mr. Vargas is . . .."  A spotlight floods a figure sprinting down the wide left aisle.  "No, wait.  It's Kevin Vargas."

 

      Ooos, ahs and cool applause greet them as they climb to the stage.  Souiel's weight has been effectively contained in a silk three-piece suit.  His gaze is godly.  Kevin, sopping, appears even more lost than he would have had he missed the physicist's explanation.  Certain extrasensory members of the audience, following with their eyes as he walks to the podium, discover that with their second sight they can actually receive signals of a little black cloud hanging over his head, thundering and raining upon him.

 

      As Vargas and Souiel take their place before the podium a steadycam cameraman weaves around them to demonstrate their achievement to home viewers.

 

 

      John had been half-watching earlier portions of the show and, although he was pleasantly diverted, the striking faces of the announcers and recipients led back to his facing the facts of his own life, drawing him toward definitive action.  His divided attention magnetically conjoined at the mention of the Vargas/Souiel award.  He was aware of Kevin's absence when the camera failed to spot him in the audience.  Now, with this audacious surprise appearance, John's concentration intensifies to the sharpness where he can also see a little black cloud hovering over the TV screen as he stares at its scanning ray in his lonely motel room.

 

      So, thinks he.  It's as if the heat of the moment made up for years of premeditation.  He's actually getting away with this.  He has his own misery-laden storm cloud to separate him from the human race. 

 

 

      Vargas politely accepts the small silver shape from the polite girl next to Charles Rayovac as a puddle widens on the mirror finished black floor beneath him.  He shakes Charles' hand and turns to the mikes saying, "Thank you.  Thank you.  I had to swim to get here."  For all the water exuding from his body, his throat is dry.  He croaks, "I don't know what to say except thanks, I.  I, I, I, I'm wet.  And not even to demonstrate a point I find I'm all wet."  His eyes are dismal caves but his smile is winning.  The audience quivers with laughs.  From them he finds warmth and encouragement to continue in this nervous manner but, in turning to his collaborator, he is face to face with a wall, entrapping him in fearful solitude.  He cover the mike and says, "Are you thirsty?  I'm so thirsty."  Souiel remains dignified, unperturbed and unsupportive.

 

 

      John's motel television catches none of Kevin's shifting mood.  All he hears is appreciative laughter from the audience which batters his brain, causing him to yell from within, I must break through that shield separating him from mankind.  They're all trying to protect him but he won't be safe from me.  He's so impregnable up there in that twenty-fifth floor suite in the clouds but I'll get to him.

 

      John remembers his tour of Dieledon from the air and the spoken lines, "Five from the roof on the left-hand corner."  He switches off the TV to heed that invitation, missing Souiel's inventive gesture.

 

 

      Souiel has a way of looking out into the valley of people as if he is doing them a big favor, one he will not soon let them forget.  Kevin is upset because Souiel is clearly ignoring him in front of the world.  He cheerily cackles, "Better late than never," referring to the award.  His voice cracks.  Embarrassed, he feels Souiel think him a fool.  He offers a greeting.  "Hi, Lou.  How are you?"

 

      While awaiting the conclusion of Kevin's thank you, Souiel had begun conversing with Mr. Rayovac, with whom he has much, stylistically, in common.  Interrupted, he turns to Kevin and automatically replies, "Fine."  Belabored, he adds, "How are you?"

 

      "Wet," he gags.

 

      Since Souiel's throat is also dry, he reaches into his jacket for a flask which he opens, pouring liquid from it into his cap.  He hands it to Kevin while raising the flask and says, "Cheers."

 

      "Thanks.  Will this make me dry?"  He sways drunkenly.

 

      He taps Kevin's throat and says, "It's a toast . . .."  He smirks over the idea that while they are up here they should poison themselves, adding, ". . . to the Pyramids."

 

      The idea is sufficiently outrageous to also cross Kevin's mind, except that he believes Souiel is serious.  He smells the liquid and speaks a flippant aside to the mike.  "Odorless, colorless."  His tone grows ominous.  "Poisonous.  Should I drink it? Is that the right thing to do?  I'd like to see a show of hands."

 

      The audience gasps in apprehension and confusion.  Charles Rayovac backs away in awe.  The awards girl, hitherto unrecognized by Kevin, steps forward and takes both men by the shoulder while enunciating into the mike, "Boys, boys.  Later.  This is not the time or the place."

 

      They freeze at being upstaged, gazing sheepishly into her mindless stare as she guides them off the stage to immense applause.  As members of the audience rise to their feet in appreciation of her saving the show, she turns away from them and whispers into Kevin's ear.  Souiel watches jealously.

 

      "And I didn't save you for nothing.  I'm Diane's sister.  Catch you later."  She flutters away to continue her duties.

 

      Kevin cringes and turns to Souiel, saying with a sickly smile, "Oh, these menials.  Always trying to draw attention to themselves."

 

      She leaves them in the wings from which they silently watch the show in progress.  No one bothers them.  Presenters and stage crew, too busy and preoccupied to take notice, whoosh around them.  After another few awards are presented, a production number follows, during which Sarro walks over to them and says, "Here.  Look what the last announcer gave me.  You forgot these."  He gives them their Pyramids and guides them to their seats.

 

 

ii.

 

      Kevin does not get to see Philip again until after the awards during the party that follows in the Beledon lobby.  Kevin is still wearing the same evening suit, deciding the wet look is in.  Crystal is with him, pressing the question, "But given the chance would you have drank it?"

 

      "Given the excitement and spirit of the moment, yes.  Of course, I probably would have dropped dead instantly.  We both would have.  He should have just offered some sleeping potion for knocking out elephants so we could have awoke later to see it on the news.  Especially interesting would have been the improvised camera work resulting from us suddenly sprawled on the floor."

 

      "Oh well, next time," says Crystal with an unlikely air.  "What exactly was he offering you?"

 

      "I don't know.  Perhaps we'll ask him later when he's less busy."

 

      Souiel is against a curtained wall near the bar.  A dense semicircle of people enclose him as he makes a point.  The Souielists, who are close by, are pale in conviction next to their mentor.

 

      "When you recognize the shade of difference between making likely the unlikely and making the unlikely likely, only then will you begin to respond to the full impact of that man's work.  I've been out of touch these several years but I'll never forgot how that was the crux of why I felt so good watching his films."  Effective gesticulating accompanies his words.

 

      "But it's the same thing, only vice/versa," says a desperate voice in the crowd.

 

      "But only when you realize that the order is what establishes the priorities will you recognize the precision in what I'm saying.  Most directors of fantasy make the unlikely likely and then make it happen; but he first makes the unlikely happen and then makes it likely."

 

      Crystal, able to hear the discussion from several yards away, says, "It'll be hard to disturb that conversation."

 

      A lad near Souiel screams in exasperation, "I don't think it ever becomes likely.  It's completely unlikely!"

 

      Kevin has spotted Philip talking with someone at the corner of the ballroom near Souiel and his entourage.  "Crystal, a report, if you please, on the droopy-eyed fellow next to my travelling companion."

 

      "That's J. T. McGuilty, adventurer.  He brought back Souiel."

 

      "Excuse me, please."  He nods to Crystal and approaches them head on with a greeting.

 

      "Hello, Mr. McGuilty, is it?  Pleasure.  I hope Philip thanked you for your hospitality that night on the Peninsula."  He adds with slight reprimand, "Did you, Philip?"

 

      "Of course," he answers with customary irritation.

 

      Mr. McGuilty's memory is suavely unclear on this issue.  "When?" he innocently asks, then remembers without help.  "Oh yes.  Certainly it was nothing.  And you're Kevin Vargas.  Philip has told me all about you.  Congratulations on tonight."  He speaks with the sincere cordiality of a legend in his own time.  He asks, "Tell me, what ever are you up to?"

 

      Kevin decides this person is excellently insincere to the point of the untouchables and admires him for it.  "I can't say," he replies.  "Is the Peopleview article on the stands yet?  They interviewed me before we left and after I've read it I'll be better equipped to answer."

 

      McGuilty says, "I haven't read it," as if it is doubtful he will.

 

      Peter Robbins is on hand to acknowledge the article.  "Kevin, you haven't even seen it?  You're on the cover! and the article tells all about you."  His smile is full of newly released secrets.  "I never knew you were so bizarre."  He edges Kevin away from Philip and J. T. and continues with hushed excitement.  "And now this with Philip."  As an afterthought, he adds, "And that awful news about Friends.  You're in all the headlines.  You have a checkered past.  I love it.  Tell me," and he wants the truth.  "Are you two happy together? because, though he's pretty, I'm surprised he's your type."

 

      "It may have been just a holiday romance."

 

      "Oh," he drones and then continues with renewed enthusiasm.  "You look stunning in that wet suit.  I love how it clings."

 

      "Yes, I loathe dry clothing."  He itches the seat of his pants.  He confronts Peter with a question.  "Peter, you say you like my appearance, demonstrating a sensibility for the ridiculous, yet you wouldn't do my number for the Dieledon Experience.  Why?"

 

      "Kevin," he explains without a hint of malice.  "It just wasn't for me.  You meant it to be ironic, sarcastic, or satirical or something and I'm too sincere, especially when performing."

 

      "Oh," he says flatly.

 

      More enthusiasm:  "Did I tell you?  Sarro has a gig lined up for me in October.  I'm playing the Beledon.  That's why I'm here tonight.  I'm so excited.  It's big, but I have the plans to match.  It will be my crowning achievement."

 

      "That's terrific," Kevin's tone a pale reflection of Peter's.  "What'll you be up to 'til then?"

 

      "Recording, vacationing.  How about yourself?"

 

      He says honestly, "I don't know."

 

      Peter's forehead shows deep concern.  "Kevin, your life."

 

      "What about it?"

 

      "It's probably still in danger.  Not everybody will be satisfied that you were pulled."

 

      "Are you?"

 

      "Of course.  It's perfectly obvious."

 

      "Not to me," he murmurs.

 

      Robbins adds, to clarify his position, "Only I certainly didn't think it was real.  No one in their right mind wants to get killed.  Only the threat is, or can be, well, you know."  He looks sure that Kevin understands.

 

      Kevin finishes the sentence.  "Arousing.  Very."

 

      So Peter asks, "So what happened there?  Why did she do it?"

 

      "I don't know.  I thought I did it."  He is preoccupied with looking around.  "Are there any girls here, like Lynn?  I mean, where is she?"

 

      Robbins senses the delicacy of the matter, feels sorry for Kevin and glances off for someone else to talk with.

 

      Kevin speaks as if to himself, "So my short range goal for the next month is to avoid attempts on my life.  Great."  He nods with passive acceptance.

 

      "Kevin, don't joke about it."  He whispers, "Even your collaborator, whom you went through such pains to bring back, may, in the future, have some, shall we say, less voluntary plans for your demise."

 

      "Souiel?"  Kevin is incredulous. 

 

      Souiel is still cornered in the distance saying, "No, no, no.  It's short and clipped, like this:  Ma, ma, ma."

 

      Robbins nods.  "Look at the man.  He's out of his mind."

 

      "No, he's not.  He's teaching that pretty girl how to talk with his imaginary farmyard friends."

 

      "You can't ignore what he tried to do tonight."

 

      Kevin tries to be more serious.  "Yes.  You're quite right."

 

      "If you're interested, I have the number of a good bodyguard who protected me while I was down south."

 

      "Thanks.  I'll call for details if it becomes necessary." 

 

      A little old couple, known in the movie industry for designing creatures the world forgot, takes this lull in the conversation to ask Mr. Robbins for his autograph.

 

      Kevin asks, taking Peter's empty glass, "Do you want another drink?  I'm going to try for another drink."

 

      Robbins says, "No thank you, Kevin.  See you later."  He turns to the couple to say, "My pleasure.  Who's it for?"

 

      "Us.  We love your music.  Your album, Magic . . .."  Momentarily speechless, the woman continues, "For us it will always mean that first cozy night we spent up north by the fireplace."

 

 

      Souiel's pretty listener is taken from him by her equally pretty boy friend.  However, another girl, not pretty but sleekly clad in a tight corset, whispers heavily into his ear, "Oh Souiel, to hear you speak gets me wet."

 

      He is embarrassed and flattered and drinks whiskey from another larger pocket flask.  Then they converse.

 

      Lamont walks by and slips a plastic 'baggie' of red pills into Souiel's jacket.  Sarro, who has been standing close by to watch over Souiel, sees this and urges Lamont to the wall where they lean, side to side.

 

      "What did you give him?"  Sarro asks.

 

      "Nothing.  Don't worry.  They're only quaaludes.  He hasn't slept in days.  These'll bring him down."

 

      "I thought you were through with dealing, Lamont."

 

      "He was begging me for them."  Lamont knows best is implicit in his voice.  "He hates it here.  The least we can do is make it bearable for him."

 

      "He has me worried with these suicide threats.  Next time the police will come and, on top of everything, they'll charge him with drug possession.  Take back the pills."

 

      Lamont interrupts Souiel's talk with the girl just as her nipples were about to spill from her corset.  "You hear that?  He's worried about you."

 

      Sarro would rather Lamont have removed the pills than open the discussion, but he explains to Souiel, "It would be disappointing were you to throw your life and freedom away.  Remember the plans we discussed in my office.  I look forward to helping you with them, so," he jokingly adds with encouragement, "Stay alive."

 

      Souiel takes a swig of whiskey and says defiantly, "Sure, I'll stay alive if you keep me alive."

 

      "What's bothering you, Souiel?"  There is disappointment in his voice.

 

      He answers with self-righteousness.  "Everyone seems to think it was okay for Diane to die for art, so maybe I'll follow in her footsteps."

 

      Sarro shakes his head.  "Don't waste your life on a gesture."

 

 

      Kevin wanders with his latest drink by two suntanned critics whom he hears speak.

 

      "It's yet another year where interest in an incident during the ceremony will outweigh interest in the choice of winners."

 

      "I move that the girl handing out the awards be tonight's guest of honor.  I love the way she moves.  She was the star of the show."

 

      "I second the motion.  That handiwork of hers saved the day."

 

      "I can't fathom why those so called innovators are here partying and she's not."

 

      "I should think they'd be spending this night with the D. A."

 

      "When you're where they are you're a cut above the rest, no matter how much it is denied."

 

      "There must have been payoffs."

 

      Kevin is amazed to be hearing these flagrancies against him since he is standing conspicuously with no one else to talk to.  "Excuse me," he says, pausing for a breath.  "But just what are you insinuating?"

 

      Prestige as a critic makes him bold.  "You killed that girl, Vargas."

 

      "Okay.  Granted you think that; what are you, as a fellow human bean" (He emphasizes the bing! in bean.), "going to do about it?"

 

      The two of them back away as the shorter one says, "We don't carry out sentence.  We only reach the verdict."

 

 

      Marie walks toward Crystal.  A large blotch on the front of her blue and pink chiffon dress is a shade darker than the rest.  "I think Philip's changed," she says, looking about with horror.

 

      Crystal watches McGuilty kissing Philip hard on the mouth.  Philip tenses and shivers, teeth chattering.  The deeply red mouth stretched across his angular pale face looks luscious.  "I'm still cold.  Brrr," he says.  McGuilty warmly kisses him again.  They laugh.

 

      Crystal recalls the orange velour shirt and designer jeans from Sarro's meeting, though now they are wet.  He tells Marie, "That's McGuilty, a travelling man.  He does pretty much what he pleases."

 

      "You'd expect it from that type, but Philip," she cries, unable to mention their activity.  "How could he?  Better I never saw him again than to see him like this."  Her face clearly reads disgust.  "Where is Souiel.  I must speak with him.  He said he'd be here."

 

      Crystal spins her around, points her in the right direction and sets her loose.  She tries gallantly to defer Souiel's attention from a newly gathering flock of admirers.  Her difficulty makes her love him more. 

 

      Two girls know of Crystal's work.  They compliment his sets, ask of his latest efforts, then tell of themselves.  Kevin sees this, still with no one to talk to, and nonchalantly wanders over to engage the nearest girl in separate conversation.

 

      "A lot of weather we've been having," he says as an opener.

 

      "I see a lot of it on you."

 

      "Isn't the rain something?"

 

      "Not at all."  She usually makes light of what others find incredible.  "It's April.  We must have showers for May's flowers."  She grins.

 

      Kevin begs to differ.  "Don't you think it's gone past the saturation point?"

 

      "Oh really, it takes so little to cripple the people of this city."

 

      "Oh.  Do you live here, work here, or both?"

 

      This small but well-spoken lady then embarks on an offhanded summary of her expanding career as a museum curator.  Kevin concentrates less on content and more, enviously, on the fluidity with which words pour from her lips.  Gradually, she feels his dull gaze and asks, "You often go into depression, don't you?"

 

      "I'm moody."

 

      "I've told you about myself.  What about you?"

 

      "Hm."

 

      "But I recognize you.  My God, you're Kevin Vargas.  I wrote to my congressman about you.  What have you been up to, Mr. Vargas?"

 

      Kevin decides hers is the most popular question of the evening and seeks to develop a witty answer.  He says, "I'm busy exploring the truth in the statement, there is nothing worth doing."

 

      "And what have you discovered."  Her attention has focused on him.

 

      He seeks to suck her into his complacent frame of mind.  "Nothing is worth doing," he says as though it is an event.

 

      She leans forward to confide, "I couldn't disagree with you more."  She easily turns to her girl friend since they are roommates.

 

      Kevin confides in Crystal who, though paces away, readily listens.  "I feel so lost in this progressive world."  He asks out of insecurity.  "Where's my dear wife?  Did she leave me?"

 

      "She's at the hotel."  Crystal returns to Kevin's side.

 

      "Why isn't she here?  How could she miss the social event of the season?"

 

      Crystal shrugs.  "I doubt she guessed you were coming.  We'd given you up for permanently absent."

 

      Marie has returned from her walk around Souiel.  She has gained a drink.  Kevin, noticing her blotched dress, says, "She has obviously given her husband a welcome home hug."

 

      Crystal says loud enough for Marie to hear, "Lynn and Marie had a rather bad time with the reporters on Saturday, and it was all your fault."

 

      Kevin stretches his neck and straightens his moist tie as if it had just received a compliment.

 

      Marie joins in.  "Not only that, we were almost molested in the park."

 

      Kevin's eyes glitter with the news as if congratulations are in order.

 

      Crystal explains, "All the hidden recesses and crevices in Affe Park are flooding, so the apes are getting forced from their caves."

 

      "What apes?"  Kevin is genuinely interested.  "The ones in the zoo?"

 

      "The smarter ones no longer live in the zoo."

 

      "That's progress.  Why isn't Lynn here tonight?"  He directs the question to Marie.  He has no other topic with which to make conversation.

 

      "She's too tired."  She adds enviously, "She spent the night with Souiel."  She blushes and clarifies, "I was in the room, too, only I fell asleep.  She and he were up all night laughing. She thought he was a scream.  I didn't."  She looks down at the floor and says, "I felt sorry for him, the poor man."  She looks at Kevin as if he is to blame, then concludes.  "And then I drank too much and it made me sleepy and I fell asleep."

 

      Crystal has a pleasant topic for the three of them to share.  "I hear he bought a new sports car."

 

      Marie has something to say on that issue.  "I was the first to have a ride.  Lynn didn't want to go.  It's beautiful.  All shiny red and comfortable."

 

      "I'll bet it's a Porsche," says Kevin, knowing he is right.

 

      They are standing by a grand staircase leading to the upper mezzanine.  Philip, sneezing and chattering like a jagged spirit, passes by with McGuilty.  Ignorant of being watched, the two men climb the stairs and get lost in the shadows.  "First thing you must do is get off these wet clothes," says McGuilty, pulling off Philip's shirt. 

 

      All talk of the Porsche is quashed as Marie and Kevin follow with their eyes in disbelief at the gall of this man, until the figures of he and Philip disappear behind a mirrored supporting beam. 

 

      Kevin finds McGuilty strikingly attractive, travelling the world on missions under assumed personae, socially involved but in control, master of his fate.  Under the circumstances, he wishes he were Philip.  He also wants to be taken.  He is like Philip in other ways as well.  When he seeks to further the comparison, he realizes that he, too, is freezing.  He turns to expressionless Crystal and pathetic Marie and says, "I must be crazy standing here all wet.  I'm going.  Good night."

 

 

iii.

 

      Marie does not need a brick to fall on her head.  Reuniting with Philip at this party and finding him so evasive and cold, and the aloof way he stood there and took it while she hugged him; hearing him make fun of her pretty new dress to a stranger, and then walking right past her up the stairs with that horrid existential character: she knows what this all means, that he is lost to her.  She must turn elsewhere to bestow her boundless love and affection.

 

      Since that self-righteous pervert, John, stole their money (Wait until Philip finds out, she snickers.  He'd better find someone with money.  He's not as free as he thinks.), she has nothing to invest but her love.  Forced to transfer this remaining fund from Philip, she turns to Souiel as the next most likely receptacle.  He is rich.  She will not need money with him.  All those oglers surrounding him are only curious.  Actually, he has no one, for inherent in his garrulity is the refusal to open himself to anyone.  She recognized this yesterday in the way he spoke with Lynn.  They exchanged ideas and opinions, but in the end he sought to alienate her.  Obviously, he is filled with guilt and self loathing, and Marie sees herself as the one to break through his shield and save him, give him worth, and show him the way.  She says to herself, when all around adds up to zero, I'll be there.

 

      It would fail abysmally were she to expose her heart to him here, where her sensitive mesh of feeling would get gnarled with the flippant interruptions of the party.  She needs more intimate surroundings where she can open herself and he can not help but succumb.  She will go hide in his new car and wait for him; and there she will reveal her love.

 

      She concludes this thought at the finish of another drink, plants her glass in a sand ashtray and takes the elevator down to the garage.  The garage attendant is occupied by the T.V., despite its snowy reception.  She removes her heels and stealthily sneaks away from the elevator before the lethargic man turns to see who has gotten off.  He thinks, another pressed garage by mistake.

 

      She tiptoes to the unique red car and slips through its open front window, wedging herself in the sweet smelling back seat where she promptly falls asleep.

 

 

      Prior to leaving the ball, Kevin visits the bathroom, a black and white hall wherein he finds Souiel taking refuge from the party.  The bathroom's attendant is performing a perfunctory service, handing Souiel a paper towel. 

 

      Souiel, drying his scalp, lowers the towel away from his eyes and sees Kevin standing before him like a recurring hallucination.

 

      "Hi, Lou.  What happened to Lynn?"  Kevin's arms are contorted into his ribs; his legs are turned in at the knees.  He swerves to keep his balance.

 

      Souiel says, "I don't know.  Can you believe some girl before whispered in my ear that I made her wet?"

 

      "That's nothing.  The awards girl whispered in my ear that she was Diane's sister."

 

      "Did you get her number?"

 

      "She said she'd call.  How about you?  Did you get her number?"

 

      "The wet one?  Why should I?"  He looks away from the scrawny figure and finds himself locked, together with his collaborator, in the same rectangular frame.

 

      "Because you made her that way." Changing the subject, he asks,  "Don't you find it refreshing to get out now and again?"  Kevin looks into the mirror and thinks it reflects the state in which he and Souiel belong, together.

 

      "Yes."  He specifies, "I have to get out of here," although he remains stationary.  Since he returned to Dieledon, he has been on a diet, his only nourishments being pills and whiskey.  He takes another swig.  Snorting, he rolls his shoulders into action, about to leave, but Kevin asks, "Did Diane ever mention a sister?"

 

      "I never heard of one, but if she does, you're in trouble."

 

      "So are you."

 

      Souiel shakes his head in indifference and pulls a clenched hand from his side pocket.

 

      "What's that there?"

 

      "Quaaludes.  Want some?"  His hand slowly opens to reveal a pool of red.  At that moment, a tall thin man pauses by them before the mirror and downs a few pills himself before rejoining the party.  Others feed their noses and snort.  To accommodate a six thousand seat theatre, the men's lavatory is the size of a subway station.

 

      "Just one for me, thanx," says Kevin, pliably.  After moments of consideration, he arbitrarily selects a capsule from the bunch.  Souiel gathers a cluster in one hand and slips the rest back into his pocket.

 

      Kevin asks with concern, "Why are you taking so many?  You shouldn't."

 

      For that, Souiel adds another pill to the bunch.  "You should, to relax," he recommends, noting Kevin's deflated looking suit barely supported by his tensed form.  Ignorant that cups are supplied by the attendant, he reaches into his jacket. 

 

      Kevin, also forgetting about cups, is about to drink a handful of water over the sink.

 

      "I have something to wash this down," offers Souiel.  Vaguely recollecting their encounter during the awards, he smiles at Kevin and decides to play along for a second time.

 

      When the pewter of the small flask catches the light, Kevin sees visions of skull and crossbones.  The tap water slips through his fingers as Souiel commands, "This is better."  They both stare directly ahead, observing one another through the mirror.  Kevin turns and studies the quivering flask cap, which Souiel offers with an eye contact expression as somber as death itself.

 

      Kevin is struck by the revelation that the postman always rings twice.  He had not planned on suicide this evening but, never having planned a thing in his life and, given the spirit of the moment which he interprets as gravely serious, he chooses the affirmative action.  He accepts the cap, thinking, I have no argument to the contrary; I probably deserve it; it saves assassins the glory of killing me; my best friend is doing it; and, it's all one.  He looks at the lone quaalude in the palm of his hand, compares it with Souiel's plenty, and shrugs, "I suppose this makes the going easier."

 

      Around them are men bristling by like butterflies, moving like blurs as if at another, faster speed.  They stop at the mirror for inspection and a well-placed splash of cologne, avoiding Kevin and Souiel like support beams. 

 

      Souiel says, "If you've never taken them before, then one should be enough."  He adds with a vague, noncommittal smile, "They lighten the fall."  He raises his flask.  "I propose a toast to those who have surrendered and sacrificed themselves for art."  He busily dispenses the pills, one at a time, into his mouth.

 

      Kevin raises the cap, twitches a frown and adds, "To us."

 

      They swallow their doses, observed only by the bathroom attendant who sits in reverent silence by his tray of unearned bills.

     

      As Kevin awaits his own demise, sight and sound intensify, even as smell, taste and touch recede in waves into numbness.  The charged party noises worm into his brain in encoded indecipherable pulses.  His eyes are as rigid as a hand-held camera (without a gyroscope to smooth the jar of footsteps) as he dollies through the crowded hall staring straight ahead, not comprehending the suspicious remarks he is generating, aware only of entire figures, mushy blobs and shadows of indefinite substance no longer broken into constituent parts of hairs, eyes, mouths, noses, ears, breasts, waists and legs.  This limited perception accompanies the obliteration from his mind of the most regrettable action of his life: intentionally drinking poison.  The words of a familiar voice grow intelligible.

 

      "How are you planning to get back?"  The blob gathers shape and identity.  It is Sarro.

 

      "Back where?" asks Kevin who sees himself as already too far gone.

 

      "If it's to the Clairol, then you're in luck because I've offered Crystal a lift; or would you rather swim back the way you came?  We're leaving now."

 

      Kevin awaits the transformation from life to death in silence, wondering if it will be noticeable.  He is without sensation in both arms and legs.  He looks down for a consoling glance at his feet and sees death crawling up his ankles.

 

      Sarro is impatient with Kevin's introspection which he considers a drunken stupor.  "If you'd rather stay, perhaps you can hop a ride with Souiel.  He bought a new car."

 

      In the back of his mind, Kevin is angry at Sarro for turning so lovely a boy as Philip into a spy, but Sarro, who is quicker, has the next word.

 

      "You know, your latest thought on life came as a disappointment to a friend of mine."  He quotes, "'There is nothing in life worth doing.'  What made you say that?"

 

      "I upset her?"  He is incredulous, recalling not phasing that girl a bit.

 

      "Well," Sarro admits.  "No.  Me, though.  I was upset after she told me.  Can you look me straight in the eyes and say you still feel that way?"

 

      He taps under his nose, "I've never felt differently," and sneezes.

 

      "Gesundheit.  Then why should I bother with you?"  He disgustedly waves his hand.  "Your collaborator's been spewing that same defeatist crap since he got back.  Perhaps it's in everyone's mind but what good is it?  After all I've done for you, too."  He shakes his head.  "Who got his old friend, Norman Bergtraum, flown in for the awards; and who got Souiel back so you could face your crisis together; and who spent valuable time controlling this mess?"  He prods Kevin for the answer.

 

      "You," he whispers.

 

      "What?"

 

      He speaks up.  "You.  You did it all."  Any anger he had toward Sarro is gone.  "Thank you."

 

      That was all Sarro needed to hear.  "You're welcome."  His voice settles.  "I've tried to understand what it's been like for you with that poor girl's death stifled in the back of your mind.  It must have been paralyzing for you both.  Ever since we met I felt your separateness was the result of some awful, exclusive secret.  And then, at last, when enough people commented on that scene, I realized that was it; and I was actually grateful to know because, until you faced it, how else could you go beyond it?  At last, there is nothing to preoccupy you except the present."  He holds Kevin still and speaks directly at him.  "Try feeling the intensity of living now."  His eyes expand.  "That's the greatest gift man can give to his fellow man, the awareness of being alive.  Excuse me." 

 

      Man and wife, both executive members of the Beledon board of directors, stand beside Sarro.  They congratulate him on a well-orchestrated awards ceremony and comment on the building's renovation, noting the exact duplication of Beledon's carpeting of yesteryear.  Sarro raises the subject of basketball, for the man is also coach of the Maxwell House basketball team.

 

      Crystal, having concluded his good-byes, approaches, dressed to go.  He tightens the belt around his trench coat.

 

      Sarro exchanges farewells and leads Kevin through the main exit awning where his car awaits. 

 

      Crystal offers to drive.  The hissing rain has him yelling to be heard.

 

      "Good idea," Sarro yells back, walking around, eager to resume his conversation with Kevin. 

 

      The three men sit in the front, Kevin, in the middle, looking tortured.  The windshield wipers wap back and forth with annoyance.  "We're in a submarine," says Crystal.

 

      Sarro feels Kevin squirm.  "Are you all right?"

 

      He is sure that he feels the poison eating into his stomach.  "Yes," he says heroically, "I'm fine."

 

      Sarro sympathizes.  "You look like you're in pain, Kevin.  Admittedly, the truth is often painful.  It will probably get worse, too, in the weeks ahead, but at least it'll be the pain of living, instead of the former dull throb of existing.  What you're feeling is the softer, more vulnerable part of you edging out of its shell where for years it's been contracted in fear -- afraid of being wounded again.  As it is expanding again, it probably hurts, but if you permit it, it will raise you to heights you've only imagined you've imagined.  I'm telling you, Kevin.  You can come through this experience stronger than ever."

 

      They watch as an ocean falls from the sky.  Sarro acknowledges it.  "What weather.  It's all one.  A storm this ferocious has been forming for years.  Now, when it's loosed upon the world, what else can we do but let it run its course?  In the same way, you also had a black cloud festering over you."  He pauses with inspiration.  "It festered like a wound that sealed without being cleaned.  You tried to hide it but it blackened and swelled.  No matter how painful the remedy, the wound had to be cut open again before it consumed you entirely."

 

      The fear of death gnaws at Kevin's insides along with the gastric digestive juices ulcerating his otherwise empty stomach.  Where will he go?  What will he do?  How much longer can he procrastinate and still be saved?

 

      Taking his cue from Kevin's silence, Sarro continues, "Why do I help you?  Because, no matter how you prevent it, I believe in you.  Through your films, I recognized in you and Souiel both the need and talent for meaningful self-expression.  Society, as a whole, does little to help its artists.  I, the individual, am here to check its neglect.  Now, I don't consider myself an artist.  I can only hope to participate in the conservation of artists, and I'm in the position to help you.  Consider my other recent project, saving the Beledon, a landmark building, which up until last year was marked for demolition.  Confidentially, the satisfaction I receive there, which is sizeable, pales when compared with the satisfaction from saving my fellow man."

 

      Crystal Glances at Sarro to show his encouragement.  He is feeling mellow, as he drives to the tune of Sarro's voice.

 

      "On our first meeting, which we both owe to Crystal, I sensed your creative drive, so I did my best to first remove you from the world; not Crystal's apartment, but literally the urban pavement with its hostile growing conditions, where it's crowded and everything there tries to choke and gnarl growth.  I tried to transplant you into a green house where you were free to flower whatever audacious sprouts you wished.  Despite the healthy environment, thrived something of the outside world concealed within you.  Some diseased remnant of your past was stunting your growth, despite my efforts.  There was still the final, painful step, the lancing of the secret that sizzled like --"  He pauses with inspiration.  "-- like a poison in your stomach.  But how could I act until I knew it was there, killing you?  If only you could have told me, we could have dealt with it sooner, and perhaps less painfully, but you did not.  Why, Kevin, why?"

 

      At the rate Sarro was going it was only a matter of moments before metaphor matched circumstance to force Kevin crying to admit, "My stomach!  There's not much time.  The poison.  Souiel's poison!"  His eyes are moist with fear; his mouth is blubbering.  He blurts with a screech, "I drank it in the bathroom!"  He rolls into a fetal ball crying, "Eheh.  Eheh."

 

      Crystal takes the next right, detouring to Saint Dymphna's where drinking black liquid makes Kevin regurgitate the emptiness in his stomach.  The nurses perversely greet his isolated complaint with welcome relief from treating victims of flooding and other problems arising out of the rain.  Tests on the half pint of vomit recovered detect traces of quaaludes, Souiel's poison being water.

 

 

iv.

 

      Souiel decides he should have eaten something today.  As he moves about the bathroom there is a volatile equilibrium splashing against the inner walls of his skull which he attributes to hunger.  He looks into the mirror where he and Kevin stood together only moments ago and imagines that behind them are not urinals and stalls.  Rather, he envisions a surreal flat terrain, a barren mine field, a land where they both used to play and into which Kevin has returned.  Souiel considers that field an escape from responsible thinking, whereby one retreats into sensuous stagnation, spastically moving only out of either fear or frustration.  He thinks:

 

      That's where I put them.  I rigged the mines and dropped him and Diane there where they could taunt and pull at each other like two warrior birds in a cock fight.  One survives, the other is destroyed.  The winner waits calmly until another contender of perhaps greater prowess is dropped into the arena. 

 

      Souiel continues to watch at a safe distance, betting against himself, his camera preserving every writhing move they make.  Again, one wins, for the other, due to clumsiness forced by the constant fight, miscalculates, trips and explodes on a booby trap.  Souiel's eyes widen with love and arousal.  He adores the victor while relating to the loser.

 

      But he wants no further part in this game.  He sees it all around and personally dreads walking through that competitive world.  He is far too large, awkward and insecure.  He fears "losing" to an exquisite extreme, like someone who becomes more ticklish from the dread of being tickled.  Instead of returning to the party, he heads directly for his car where Marie awaits, snoozing.

 

 

      In discussing consequences of withheld information being revealed, Sarro neglected the possibility that retaliation, swift and merciless, will come not from city officials, or any other organized instrument of justice, nor from Diane's relatives or friends, but from a mere viewer coerced into becoming a murder accomplice through passive voyeurism.  When Sarro, helped by Crystal, walks a dazed Vargas into the Clairol an hour before dawn, he fails to heed the warning of such a man.

 

      They stop at the registration desk for the room key.  The night clerk recognizes Kevin's name and says, "An unidentified gentleman has called several times from long distance.  He doesn't leave his name.  He's just interested in knowing whether you arrived safely back in your room."

 

      "Well don't give him my name!"  Kevin is puzzled.

 

      The clerk clarifies pedantically, "No.  He already knows your both name and your room number.  He just wants to know that you got back okay.  He sounds concerned."

 

      The switch board buzzes.  A red light blinks.  "This is him again."  He connects the line and says, "Yes, hello?  Yes, safe and sound."

 

      Sarro whispers, "Ask who it is."

 

      The clerk does so, listens and presses hold.  "His name is John.  You saw him last week at Cafe Arnold's."

 

      Kevin guesses, "Maybe it was that nice waiter."

 

      Crystal says, "It's not.  It's that guy who bought our plane.  He still owes us money.  I'll speak to him."

 

      "Oh.  That insulting bastard.  Let me have it."

 

      Sarro advises, "Kevin, don't speak to anyone now.  Tell him to call back in the morning."

 

      The clerk ignores Sarro and hands the phone to Kevin, saying, "Here.  Tell him you're okay."

 

      Crystal, suspecting a vested interest, leans over the counter and spies a work book for a legal scholastic aptitude test and a stop watch by the phone.

 

      Kevin grips the receiver as if he is the only person to take care of the matter.  "Hello, John?"

 

      "Kevin Vargas?"

 

      "Yeah.  What is it, John?"

 

      "Kevin Vargas."  He gulps for air.  "In the morning they'll be taking you out with the garbage."

 

      He drops the receiver as if it has turned snake.  "Ueh!" he shivers.  Upon regaining himself, he finds that the party on the other end has hung up and his friends are wondering what upset him.  He springs into command.  "I want guards in front of my room and my wife moved down the hall where she'll be safe."

 

      Crystal and Sarro keep him on his feet by gripping his armpits.

 

      The clerk wants these people out of here so he can resume his studies.  He quickly checks and says, "We were booked solid but, as it happens, a single checked out earlier when the rain stopped.  Here are the keys."

 

      Crystal asks Kevin, "Tell us, what's the matter?"

 

      "That guy's a nut.  What if he's registered here?"

 

      The clerk says, "That call was from a long distance."

 

      Sarro wants to conclude matters and go to bed.  "Notify security of the threats."  To Kevin he says, "You're safe here, Kevin.  Call me tomorrow.  Good night, Crystal.  You did a great job on the show.  Kevin, don't answer any more calls."

 

      "Dr. Sarro," says Kevin.  "Thanks again.  I'm sorry about putting you through all this trouble."

 

      He is tired but he says, "I don't mind if you learned something from it."

 

      Kevin smiles thinly with introspection.  "I think I did."

 

      Crystal says, "I guess we should call it a night.  Are you coming?"

 

      "Yeah."  Kevin turns back to the clerk.  "Hold that room just in case.  Good night."

 

      "Tell you what.  Here.  Take the key."

 

      Kevin does so.  The clerk turns his head back into his LSAT work book, hoping that preparing will get him a higher mark to get into a better school so that he may eventually become a clerk of the law.

 

 

      Kevin cracks open the thick solid door and slips in as if to keep out as much hallway air as possible; as if the hall and the room are two different pressures that would equalize given two minutes of free flow.

 

      Crystal, seeing that Kevin has safely disappeared into the room, frees the elevator and rides down to his own room on the other side of the building.  He can not recall ever having seen Kevin in such a frazzled state.

 

      Kevin double locks and chains the door from the inside.  He leans on it and listens to the darkness.  The room hums with automatically circulated air.  From a distance that sounds miles away is the wail of ambulance and fire engine sirens.  They fade further still.  The blackness smells pure and healthy with a proper medium of humidity and temperature suitable for sleep.  He feels safe and alone in his suite.  It is good to be back.  He switches on a light to illuminate this, the living room, and plops on the couch.  His digestive system has been cleansed by experts so he feels completely purged as if he had fasted for days.  I must get my stomach pumped more often, perhaps once a month, he thinks.  He licks his lips in apprehension of the hearty breakfast he plans for the morning: fluffy pancakes with maple syrup, whipped butter and sausages.  His stomach growls.  He would actually prefer to eat that immediately.  Now that his system is clean, he yearns to dirty it again.  How do starving folk sleep? he wonders.  Since hunger will have him tossing and turning, he refrains from entering the bedroom and slipping between the sheets where he pictures Lynn probably sleeping like a lamb.  He chooses to spend the remainder of the night on the couch so as not to disturb her.  The phone rings.

 

      He reaches for it.  "Hello?"

 

      "Hello, Kevin?  Where are you?"

 

      "Hello.  This is the night clerk."

 

      "What," he says angrily, realizing the call has awakened his wife.

 

      "Why Kevin, you're back."

 

      "Lynn, I'm sorry.  I was just speaking to this joker downstairs.  What do you want?" he asks harshly.

 

      "I'm sorry if I woke anyone up."

 

      "Well you did.  Don't you remember me mentioning my sleeping wife?"  He warns, "You better get your head out of that book, sonny, and concentrate on your present occupation."  He stands with nervous energy.

 

      "Good-bye," says Lynn with a yawn.

 

      "Honey, I'm sorry."

 

      The phone clicks.  The clerk asks, "Hello?"

 

      "I'm still here," says Kevin, though he feels faint from rising so suddenly.

 

      "That man called again.  Now he's asking if you checked out.  I had the police trace the call."

 

      "Oh boy."  He sits.  The deadly black wave smoothens over his brain, leaving him functional.  "So where did they learn?"

 

      "What?  Well, he's over eighty miles away.  He called from a pay phone on the Font Aspic Airfield."

 

      "That's where I keep my plane."

 

      "The police are notifying the district commander to send someone over there to investigate."

 

      Kevin is grateful since he is not about to do anything himself at this time.  "Leave your name with the day man and I'll remember you in my prayers.  Seriously, I thank you.  Is that room still available, now that my wife is up?"

 

      "You're both safe where you are."

 

      "Yeah but I'm Kevin Vargas.  Haven't you been reading the papers?  Would you like to sleep in the same room with me?"

 

      The clerk hardly knows what to say.  "Well, no."

 

      "Well have it available."

 

      "You have the key.  It's there if you need it.  Good night."

 

      Lynn startles Kevin.  She is standing before him, leaning on the bedroom door, yawning and breathing, warm from the bed, wearing only a tight white undershirt that reaches her hips.  He is chilled by her blatant lower nakedness for she inadvertently stirs memories of Philip's shamelessness, although this is her customary bed attire.  She says, "Leave your suit out.  I'll have them press it in the morning.

 

      "At least it's not wet any more."

 

      She welcomes him by asking, "What are you doing here?"

 

      "I'm sorry."  He averts his eyes.  "I can leave if you wish."

 

      "No.  The pleasure's mine.  I ask for your sake.  It was probably safer where you were."

 

      "I couldn't bring myself to miss all the excitement.  Of course, I had no idea it was to be this exciting.  Why are you still here?"

 

      "Outgoing flights have been delayed or cancelled due to the weather.  Then, when that news broke, it became impossible to go out at all."

 

      "I'm sorry," he says again.

 

      "Marie kept me company a good deal of the time.  She was so sad and hurt over Philip that I couldn't help but feel better by comparison."

 

      "I'm glad you two hit it off.  It's only fitting since I was with her husband."

 

      "Yes."  She sits plop on the floor leaning against the wall, spread-legged like a wide-eyed rag doll just out of bed with hair all out of place.

 

      Kevin sits back down on the couch at the far side of the room, stiff, leaning forward, hands on his knees as if visiting.

 

      Lynn offers her analysis of Marie.  "She's basically likeable; she's just socially clumsy, probably because she tries so hard to be regular.  She should just let herself be natural."

 

      Kevin agrees.  "By using a pose she covers such instinctive reactions as those of common sense."  He moves on,  "She said you were up all last night with Souiel."

 

      "It's true.  He stopped sleeping, so I kept him company, like in Insomniac."

 

      "Permanent insomnia is almost preferable to daily undergoing the trauma of waking."

 

      She is familiar with Kevin's inner clock concerns.  "Yes.  He kept me awake.  He's a great raconteur.  I didn't expect that from him.  Funny how he came back to Dieledon while you were busy looking for him, almost as if it were timed."

 

      "It was."  He asks, "So you two hit it off?"

 

      "Yeah.  We laughed all night.  He's the only one who didn't talk about Friends.  Everybody else looked to me for answers.  For all I know, you developed the film in a solution of human blood."

 

      "I'm sorry."

 

      "Will you stop saying that?"

 

      Kevin says sadly, "Somebody else brought back Souiel.  He didn't do it on his own."

 

      "They should have left him there," she decides.  "In the back woods he would have taken years to destroy himself, probably through overeating.  In a big city like Dieledon, everything is a race.  It may only be a matter of days, or even hours, until . . .," she shrugs, fearing the worst.

 

 

      Souiel's appraisal of himself, exacerbated by his change of scene, has led him to the following precept:  Turn your back on the past.

 

      The elevator arrives and takes him down to the sub-level garage where the drowsy attendant fetches his car.  As Souiel drives out of the building he hands the ticket to the cashier and shuts the car window through which Marie entered.  Marie remains securely fit in the back seat, still unnoticed.  If not for the liquor she consumed, her backbone would have found her snakelike posture intolerable.  However, in her present condition, not even the slammed car door caused her to stir.

 

      While speeding through the sleek city streets, Souiel pursues his thoughts at an accelerated rate.  The night is still young, for it has only been ten minutes since he and Kevin parted company in the Beledon bathroom.  The rain has yet to stop.

 

      In searching for future alternatives, he sifts through his past.  Turning a corner, he decides that returning to Zoli is out.  The biggest advantage to his coming to Dieledon has been his escape from her lascivious mothering.  Now out of her trap, he must move forward, not take two steps backward, so a renewed friendship with Kevin is also unacceptable.  With a swallow of a mouthful of whiskey he thinks, although we are inextricably tied, we can not help one another.  Kevin's problems only heighten my own.  His guilt and paranoia always forced him to fabricate the world into an illusion of his own design, and he has not changed, as his reaction to the offer of an innocent mouthful of water demonstrated.

 

      In observing their reflection in the bathroom mirror, Souiel recalled games of provocation which he enjoyed when younger; but he has grown out of them.  He relinquished his role as God, the creator, director and voyeur.  Five years ago he put his camera to rest and now vows to never again let it blur reality with the heightened inhuman clarity of godlike truth.

 

      The street pavement glistens with reflected lights.  Enclosed in a separate world, that of his Porsche, he whooshes into the park along the path perpendicular to the grave site from which he long ago walked.  He sees himself, a derelict, skulking along the walls, forever haunting that path, pacing like a sentry.

 

      Even through puddles the size of ponds, the car takes the curves with total assurance, leaning to one side and then the other to maintain a steady plane.  As additional quaaludes take effect, he yearns for more speed, finding the ride to be the perfect catalyst for his disparate thoughts.

 

      He recalls the party and how he could not bring himself to return to it once he had visited the bathroom.  Its cynicism was too wicked, with double entendres and undercurrents of disdain to complex to pinpoint.  As did the reporters that gathered at the Clairol, the celebrities at the party looked upon him as a freak.

 

      Even Lynn, Kevin's gracious wife, naturally the person with whom he became closest since his return, left him last night with the feeling that he and she were on different wavelengths, and from a different mold.  She has her own problems, the biggest being her husband; Souiel has no wish to add to them.

 

      To the other extreme, there are the Souielists.  To them he is accepted without question or reason.  Originally his dearest friends, time and maturity have degenerated them into crazed fanatics with power hungry dreams of a brotherhood that, if effectively organized, would mean aristocratic fascism and an end to the world of art as we now know it.  Their opinions would rule and he would be their front man, their messiah or Ayatollah.  He rejects them as rejects everyone else, totally.

 

      Still, he is plagued by thoughts of that repellently voluptuous girl who offered herself to him by sniveling in his ear that her hole was running, as if he were supposed to wipe it.  Some girls are just sick enough to be aroused by him.  He wants no part of them, either.  They are all the same.  He might as well go running back to Zoli.  As tall pointy buildings pass him by, he imagines that girl's corset tightening even more, swelling her bosom until it explodes.  He stops the scene from becoming too visual, perhaps to think of it again later, when he can spread out on the bed in his hotel room.  In the car, he only has room to plan ahead.

 

      He must forge for himself a new artistic path, alone, without support.  Meanwhile, his creative process is frozen without love, and there can be none for a man involved in the murder of one of his fellow creatures.  Little does he sense the existence of someone as irrationally emotional and morally deficient as Marie.  He needs the security, dependency and resigned acceptance that comes with her love, and she is willing to supply it.

 

      Souiel is no nihilist at heart.  Never would he intentionally bring about his own demise, but his actions are compulsive and irrational.  He does what he feels.  Continuing to drive along the harbor, past the gloom of caved-in warehouses and tall ships, he finds solace in increased speed, not realizing that his need stems from the slowing effect of the whiskey and quaaludes.

 

 

v.

 

      In the Clairol Hotel Room 2437, several hours after Souiel and Marie are dead, Lynn is chirping like a bird at the sight of dawn.  "I never laughed so much."  She sings, "Ha ha ha.  He's a naturally funny character, just what I needed to get my mind off the reporters and the weather.  He's misanthropic but so physical in expressing it."  She is seated cross-legged on the bed, rubbing her heal into her crotch.  The first glow of dawn is penetrating through the sheer curtains.  "And attractive," she adds, leaning forward girlishly, grabbing her toes with her fingers.

 

      Kevin is lying on top of the bed covers, still wearing his white shirt and black pants.  The clothes are soft and comfortable.  Perhaps they will serve as pajamas.  He hears Lynn quip, "Overweight people can be so expressive, don't you think?"

 

      "I'm glad you were diverted," he says pleasantly.  "He has a gift but, did you notice?  After the laughing, where were you left?  And what was there to do about it?"

 

      "How profound for this time of night!  I was left feeling just as you say.  He drains you with his humor and then leaves you to face your emptiness alone or to acknowledge him as your master and be filled up with him.  I know because you like to pull the same stunt, so I wasn't affected, but Marie underwent a transfusion; so it seemed by her constant 'casual' inquiries into his activities.  Was she at the awards party?"

 

      "Yes, lil'dahlink, she was."

 

      She moans.  He rises from the dead to watch.  She asks, "And tell me, dear Vargas, for whom all relationships are clinging weights abandoning a sinking ship," she glares back at him.  "What happened when she rejoined her Philip, if indeed you even had the nerve to bring him there?"

 

      "I did and, there, abetted not by me, he blew that relationship to smithereens.  He ran off with another man."

 

      "Leaving her to Souiel," she adds, radiating sex.

 

      "In theory, yes."  He lies back down, restless with wolf's hunger but exhausted.  "Well, good night."

 

      "Good night."  Lynn does not appear to be ready for sleep.

 

 

      The sports car is engineered to such a high standard of road performance that every twitch of apprehension and uncertainty of its driver is magnified by its tightly exact response.

 

      Marie's drunken sleep is made jittery by the ride but her fraying nerves are soothed, as if by creamy ointment, with the unconscious sense of Souiel's nearness.  As she squirms, she vividly dreams of awakening to offer herself to him as proof of her love.  They embrace to sob teardrops, each on the other's shoulder.

 

      The car outlines the river for several miles as the road becomes marked with arrows and exit signs offering a choice of highways.  Souiel yearns for the wide open straightness of the farthest reaching route where he can open up his engine and the lines dividing the lanes will run rapidly beside him and he will go and go like a run-on sentence.  Only when he twitches awake does he realize he is falling asleep.  His head is keeling from one side to the other like a spinning gyroscope.  If it leans too far, it bops back up, steadying itself like a spinning top does after grazing an obstruction.  His every third thought is of sleep.  Every other train of thought leads him to sleep.  Though he is out of practice, his driving is instinctive and only suffers when he shuts his eyes.

 

      The entrance ramp leading onto the cross-county highway gradually rises in a borderless spiral curve.  The rain has transformed the surrounding valley into swamp land.  The uphill ramp curves menacingly and from out of the mist appears a great black garbage truck chugging ahead.  Neither lights nor reflectors grace its entire obstructive shape and its empty blackness is as startlingly dimensionless as a black hole.  Souiel slows drastically to adjust to its crawling pace.  His sudden use of brake knocks Marie against the hard back of his seat.  The jolt startles him but he is distracted when into the car enters an alarming odor smelling of fish, rancid butter, cabbage and rotting flesh.  The narrow ramp, at five miles an hour, seems endless.  Slowing down is withdrawal enough, but it is no escape from the vile truck.  Filth particles continue to seep through the vents so Souiel switches the defroster to recirculate. 

 

      It is the undeniable reality of a stench that forces Marie to her senses and out of her happy dream of being awake.  Her stomach unsettles so she fumbles between the bucket seats for a switch to open the back windows.  The sun roof hums open instead.  Ahah! says the smell, finding an alternate path into the car, stinking more pungently than before.

 

      Souiel, already on the side of the road, is startled by the rain falling in.  He turns around wondering, what is that thing in the back, a genie blown in with the smell?  No longer following the ramp's tightening curve, he eases into the marshy lowlands as Marie helplessly says, "Please . . .."  She dreads having upset him, not meaning to lose control of her plan.  As he loses the road, she leans over his seat to embrace him.

 

      The car neither crashes nor rattles but rather sloshes into softness, whereupon it begins to sink.

 

      "Oh," says Marie, settled.  "Oh," she realizes with alarm.  "We've got to get out of here!"

 

      Souiel is silently mourning the incapacitation of his new car.  It refuses to move any more.  He throws his arm over the steering wheel to rest.

 

      Marie pushes open the door.  Mud creeps over the carpeting.  She steps outside, losing her high-healed shoes to the liquified land swallowing them as it slurps at her stockings.  She urges Souiel to follow her.  She pulls him from the sinking car.  He leans on her like dead weight as she trudges toward the solid safety of the highway pavement, which looms before them as a raised ridge of moving lights as cars glide along it in a straight, unreachable path.

 

      Marie's burden is great because Souiel is not trying at all.  He almost slides away as she says, "Not in the mud.  You'll ruin your suit.  Hold on to me!"

 

      Darkness descends as the mud envelops the Porsche's tungsten headlights.  Only glimmers of light reflected on its red roof are visible.  The rain falls incessantly, beating down upon them.  The lightening takes flash pictures of their agonizing stroll.

 

      Souiel collapses to his knees.  Marie yells, "No!" as she struggles to lift him.  "You can do it if you want."

 

      He apologizes.  "Sorry.  I took something.  Let me go."  His eyes shut.  His face is without tension.

 

      "Oh no!  But you can surmount it."  Through a superhuman act of strength, she stands him up.  "You can't stay here.  You'll sink right under."  Her ankles are covered already.  She dislodges them from the clutches of the ground to step elsewhere, where they can begin sinking anew.  Souiel leans back like a stubborn mule. 

 

      "Come on!" she says.

 

      "No.  Leave me alone.

 

      "Soo-eel, please.  Whatever you took will only take effect if you give up and let it, and you can't do that!  Follow me.  I won't leave you.  I love you.  Can't you feel it?  It's burning inside me.  Feel my love, Soo-eel.  Open your heart and let me in."  She pounds on his massive chest.

 

      "Oh."  He tilts backwards.  She whirls around to catch him.  He says, "I feel it," collapsing, impressing her into the mud, submerging all but her white legs which flail out from under her skirt, as they are forcibly separated by the back of Souiel's enormous, exhausted body.

 

      Minutes later, he exhales deeply, sputtering like a beached whale and rolls over to rest, face down, in the mud.

 

     

      Dawn approaches.  Lynn, seated on the bed in a lotus knot, is talkative.  "You missed another good T.V. program, a report on male sexuality:  Here and Then It's Gone."

 

      Although Kevin is exhausted, a gentle floating into sleep is impossible with his empty stomach and stuffed head.  The trail threatens to be long and bumpy at best till he arrives at the cliff where he can take the leap and fall to sleep.  "How was it?" he asks as he rolls over onto his back and plays dead.

 

      "I can't say.  I didn't watch it.  I didn't even watch the awards.  I slept through the evening since I had been up all night with your friend, Souiel."  She crawls toward him and straddles herself around his chest, her arms folded judiciously.

 

      "That was the night you spent in hysterics."

 

      "That's right.  Like we used to do," she says, knocking his chest in reprimand.  She asks, "What about you?  How did you make out on your trip?"

 

      His eyelids tighten shut.  "I don't want to talk about it," he mumbles.

 

      "Why not?"

 

      He blinks up at her with unfocused eyes while restraining a boyishly mischievous smile aged only by fatigue.  With a rush of inspiration, he slips from under her and jumps off the bed, bumping into walls, searching the drawers for his tape recorder.  He has decided to confess in order to quiet Lynn and punctuate a period on this babble and, perhaps, on their relationship.  He finds the recorder, unwraps and inserts a blank cassette into it, squeezing it on.  Lynn freezes in outrage.

 

      He clears his throat.  "I have something to say about Philip," he says, barely restraining a smile as he struggles with his equilibrium.  He returns to the bed and cautiously announces, "Well, I think what I would very much, if I may, like to discuss at this late hour, is something I think you should know about what's been going on between Philip and me in the spare time during our travels.  How can I put this?  We've been relieving ourselves through physical contact.  We've come all over each other.  It's incredible.  I love it.  I wish I could transmit the ultimate pleasure he has given me, from me to you.  If I only could."

 

      Contracting, Lynn's mouth shapes a soundless, helpless why? pointing at the tape deck.

 

      Pained at possibly having upset her, he less flippantly adds, "This has affected me emotionally.  I want to preserve the moment it is revealed.  This is the unadulterated truth; not a husband's softened prefabrication for his wife, but the harsh reality of the eternal, unalterable past which, perhaps I'm weakening and warping through tactlessness, fumbling and ludicrous presentation, but this is it.  It's this volatile substance I've been keeping down inside me.  It remains liquid till I blurt it out into the cold world where it freezes, shaped by the words I used to tell it.  Now, if I were tactful, I'd have poured it out slowly, into a pleasing and carefully smoothed shape.  Neither endowed with that self-discipline, nor do I advocate it, I've taken the truth like it's a bucket of water, and I emptied it out the window into sub-zero temperature.  But what the fuck, it's all the same, right?  Here, take it.  Have the truth."

 

      She has run into the bathroom by this time.  He hears the shower turned on full force.  "Truth is best!" he yells, shutting off the recorder to follow her, very pleased at having preserved his truth improv.

 

      He confronts her.  She speaks under the shower noise in a controlled monotone.  "Was that a surprise? as if I'm not well aware that when you talk of someone it's predictable what you want to do with them."  Her tone gets discursive.  "And he was responsive.  I can just see you rubbing your spine into the ground in the height of ecstasy, like you were receiving an immaculate conception, while he rammed it up your ass.  Who do you watch more, him or yourself in his arms?  Sure you can fuck, but can you kiss on the mouth?"  Softer still, she adds, "You really must tell me all the details, but not on tape.  What goes on between us doesn't get put on the market.  I suppose if you had a movie camera or video camera, you'd have rigged them as well.  The Height of Creativity: The Release of Feeling.  Just think.  You could have edited it to suit your ego and turned it into your long awaited latest opus.  How easy, too.  Instant Drama.  Go ahead.  If you want to go back in there and tell it to the tape recorder, fine, but I'm not playing along.  Find some other frustrated exhibitionist for that part.  I'm your wife.  When you want to tell me, tell me."  She jabs him in the chest and returns to the bedroom, opening the blinds to bathe in the dawn and observe the mist rising off the park.

 

      "You're right."  He joins her, rubbing his ribs.  "Forget the tape recorder.  I turned it off.  Sorry.  I just wanted to preserve an emotional state, that's all.  I'm telling you mainly in case I caught any diseases.  I understand you not wanting to spend another minute with me so I got us separate rooms.  You can move down the hall.  Here are the keys."

 

      "Bullshit, you . . .," she whispers, checking the tape deck.  It is convincingly still.  "Oh.  I'm not moving down the hall."  She turns back to the window and its view.

 

      "I can be big about this," he declares.  "I'll move down the hall.  But if someone busts down the door and releases a spray of bullets," he sings, "don't blame me."

 

      Preoccupied, she assures him.  "I won't.  And as for that business with Philip, I think he's kept you out of trouble."

 

      He shakes his head.  "Okay.  Let them kill us; let's go to bed.  I'm exhausted."

 

      Lynn offers her shoulder on which he leans.  She adds in the tone of a football coach encouraging the team, "And let's really try to get some rest."  She crawls into bed after him and pulls his fingers between her legs where it is moist and soft like cutlets.

 

      "Lynn," he blurts, pulling his hand away.  "Those stories in the paper about that murder are true."

 

      "But she's alive in the next scene.  I like that scene.  'Til then you'd been treating each other as objects.  The more you talk, the closer you become, and you lose your objectivity, so to speak.  It's a very believable scene."

 

      "Thank you, but so what?  We filmed it first.  Although each scene has a ring of truth, it's an overall false film because the order's wrong.  The fact is, following that happy ending, I kill her."  His face is hard as stone.

 

      "That you took it upon yourself to perform so decisive an act seems to me unbelievable.  You're passive, Kevin.  Everything has had to happen for you.  Even when we fuck you just stand around watching it happen.  She must have done it herself."

 

      "You just don't know the real me.  I'm a psychopath.  I got us separate rooms for your sake."

 

      "Why this campaign for separate rooms?  I don't know what your Diane friend may have wanted, but I know myself and I want to live." 

 

      Scratching his head, he decides, "So do I.  I thought I committed suicide earlier this evening and I was so mad.  We all die, so why should I go out of my way for it?"  Staring at the ceiling, he lies on his back.

 

      "Kevin."  She watches his eyes and calculatingly whispers in his ear, "If ever I want to die, you'll be the one to kill me."  Finding his hand she returns it to her thighs.

 

      He feels the hidden flesh with new understating, realizing how glad he is to see her, and how interested he is in getting to know her better and better.  He says, "Thank you for being here with me."

 

      "You may as well thank the weather.  If not for the rain I'd have gone days ago, perhaps to never see you again."

 

      He decisively says, "We're leaving Dieledon today, together.  Enough of big cities and the spotlight.  I'll be glad when we're back home in our mansion overlooking the sea.  I'll put up the heat, we'll take off our clothes and to the sounds of waves crashing against the cliffs I'll explore your deepest corners."  He rolls over, onto her.

 

      Rays of light catch her eyes.  Squinting, she says, "And look.  I can see the sun rising over the park."

 

      He sighs.  "Yes, Lynn.  Not only is it daybreak, but the storm is over.  'Scuse me while I draw the blinds."  Rolling over again, he falls off the bed, stumbling to the window with a starved glaze over his eyes.

 

 

      The city air, filtered by the rain, is thin and pure.  No longer do buildings seem stuck, wedged or rammed into the atmosphere.  Instead, they look like two dimensional cutouts pasted on the sky.  The rising sun is drying the few lingering clouds.

 

      A small aircraft, a single engine pipercub with a prop on its nose, flying low over Affe Park, is pulling at trees.  John, its pilot, has decided to return it to one of its original owners, no small test of aim, and he is faced with moments of uncertainty as to his exact destination.  He prefers not to trust something so fallible as memory for so precise a job.  He recalls on his previous ride being told it was five from the roof on the left corner, but how can he be sure such information is accurate?  The slightest error in approximation will mean death for innocent hotel guests.  As he checks the windows in its vicinity to see if it looks distinguishable, he notices a flicker on the pane as a shade is drawn.  He accepts that as a sign that Kevin is in there, restless with anxiety at this early hour of the morning.  He decides to go for it, intending to bail out at the last instant.

 

      John has searched his soul and has found little there of value.  He is a man of whims with no tangible ambition, no wife, no children and no religion.  Nor has he learned to build on his innate talents, of which he seems to have many, as his varied hobbies attest.  Nor does he have a career, any more.  His failing upholstery business, inherited from his father, was abandoned in mid-swing with this trip to Dieledon.  Prior to leaving, he mulled over plans, spreading thoughts so thin that they snapped and he was left surrounded by shreds of himself.  He would sit and watch scenes on his TV, thanks to his video recorder, a machine which lent him easy access to his wildest fantasies as filmed and performed by others.  The scenes, chosen for their violently erotic nature, made his life vicarious, and action became pent up in his mind.  He muscles became flabby.  It was about time he did something for his satisfaction, and for the benefit of humanity as well.  To aim and abandon the plane will be a worthy challenge of split second timing, but maybe he does humanity a double service by staying where he sits.  Will he be hurt if he ejects?  Does his parachute have room enough to spread?  He regrets not having done better research on the matter of the chances for his own survival but, as the window draws near, there is hardly time.  While it grows, he pictures the future collision.  Impact at a velocity over 150 miles per hour will tear off the wings at the roots, taking with them the fuel in their feathery flutter to the ground.  The spinning propeller will instantly splay, wrapping itself around the engine cowl.  Hot oil from the motor will spurt in all directions, lubricating the passage to the cul-de-sac where lies Kevin, smashed and obliterated.

 

 

      Although Kevin and Lynn want the same thing, they can not seem to get it from each other.  She is resting on top of him saying, " Come on.  No more squeezing out our insides.  I don't want to risk popped blood vessels to get you to come.  Go in and out.  Get it?"

 

      "Yeah," he says to her hips which sway in emphasis.  "Do it," he encourages.

 

      She stops grinding and rolls over so that he is on top of her.  She says,  "You do it.  Come on.  Fuck me.  Understand?  In and out."

 

      Cinder, brick and glass implode as the plane enters the room.  Chips of fiberglass crinkle off its steel frame as it accordions.  The impact against the granite wall produces an awesome crack that runs rapidly down that side of the building.

 

 

 

Chapter Eight

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storm cloud -- dizozza