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Hope was never a thing with feathers.
—CLAUDIA RANKINE
Valerie is not a biography; it is a literary fantasy derived from the life and work of Valerie Solanas, American, now deceased. Few facts are known about Valerie Solanas and this novel is not faithful even to those. All characters in the novel should therefore be regarded as fictional, including Valerie Solanas herself.
This also applies to the map of America, there being no deserts in Georgia.
A hotel room in the Tenderloin, San Francisco’s red-light district. It is April 1988 and Valerie Solanas is lying on a filthy mattress and urine-soaked sheets, dying of pneumonia. Outside the window, pink neon lights flash and porn music plays day and night.
On April 30 her body is found by hotel staff. The police report states that she is found kneeling by the side of the bed. (Has she tried to get up? Has she been crying?) It states that the room is in perfect order, papers neatly piled on the desk, clothes folded on a wooden chair by the window. The police report also states that her body is covered with maggots and her death probably occurred around April 25.
Some weeks earlier, the report goes on to say, someone on the hotel staff had seen her sitting by the window, writing. I imagine piles of paper on the desk, her silver coat on a hanger by the window, and the smell of salt from the Pacific. I imagine Valerie in bed with a fever, attempting to smoke and make notes. I picture drafts and manuscripts all over the room … sun, perhaps … white clouds … the desert’s solitude …
I imagine myself there with Valerie.
BAMBILAND
NARRATOR: What sort of material do we have?
VALERIE: Snow and black despair.
NARRATOR: Where?
VALERIE: The crap hotel. Last stop for dying whores and junkies. The last epic humiliation.
NARRATOR: Who’s in despair?
VALERIE: I am. Valerie. I always wore rose-pink lipstick.
NARRATOR: Rose-pink?
VALERIE: Rosa Luxemburg. The Pink Panther. Her favorite roses were pink. Someone bikes away and burns down a rose garden.
NARRATOR: Anything else?
VALERIE: People lying dead in the desert and I don’t know who’s going to bury all those people.
NARRATOR: The president, maybe?
VALERIE: Death is seldom in the same place as the president. All activity has ceased in the White House.
NARRATOR: Where will you go now?
VALERIE: Nowhere. Just sleep, I suppose.
NARRATOR: What are you thinking about?
VALERIE: The girls from the underworld. Dorothy. Cosmogirl. Silk Boy.
NARRATOR: Anything else?
VALERIE: Prostitute stuff. Shark stuff. Me reeling at the prospect of all this eternity.
NEW YORK MAGAZINE, APRIL 25, 1991
The day Dorothy is interviewed by New York magazine over a bad telephone line the sky above Ventor is the same pink as a sleeping tablet or old vomit. No one ever comes to fix the lines in Ventor anymore; desert birds have eaten the withered black wires, distorting conversations and laughing at Dorothy and the way she persists in her role as the victim of unfortunate circumstances. Her words flutter like wrapping paper in the wind.
NEW YORK MAGAZINE: Dorothy Moran?
DOROTHY: Yes.
NEW YORK MAGAZINE: We’d like to talk to you about Valerie.
DOROTHY: Yes.
NEW YORK MAGAZINE: It’s three years today since she died.
DOROTHY: I know.
NEW YORK MAGAZINE: Tell us about Valerie.
DOROTHY: Valerie…?
NEW YORK MAGAZINE: Your daughter. Valerie Solanas.
DOROTHY: Thank you, I know who Valerie is.
NEW YORK MAGAZINE: Tell us something …
DOROTHY: Valerie …
NEW YORK MAGAZINE: Why did she shoot Andy Warhol? Was she a prostitute all her life? Did she always hate men? Do you hate men? Are you a prostitute? Tell us how she died. Tell us about her childhood.
DOROTHY: I don’t know … We lived here in Ventor. I don’t know … the desert. I don’t know … I burned all her things after she died … papers, notebooks …
(Silence.)
NEW YORK MAGAZINE: Anything else?
(Silence.)
DOROTHY: Valerie … used to write … fancied herself as a writer … I think she had t-t-talent … she had talent … She had a fantastic sense of humor … (laughs). Everybody loved her … (laughs again). I loved her … She died in 1988 … April 25 … She was happy, I think … That’s all I have to say about Valerie … She was dedicated, reaching for the sky, the way I see it … I guess that’s how it was …
NEW YORK MAGAZINE: Was she mentally ill? People say she was in and out of mental hospitals throughout the seventies.
DOROTHY: Valerie was not mentally ill. She even lived with a man for a few years. In Florida. On the beach. Alligator Reef. In the fifties.
NEW YORK MAGAZINE: There is evidence she was in Elmhurst Psychiatric Hospital. We know she was in Bellevue. We have reports she spent time in South Florida State Hospital.
DOROTHY: That’s not right. Valerie was never mentally ill. Valerie was a genius. She was an angry little girl. My angry little girl. Never mentally ill. She had some strange experiences with strange men in strange cars. And once she pissed in a nasty boy’s juice. She was a writer. You can write that down … I’m hanging up now …
NEW YORK MAGAZINE: It’s alleged that she was subjected to sexual assault by her father. Did you know about that?
DOROTHY: I’m hanging up now … Put down that she was a writer … Put that she was a research psychologist … Put that love is eternal, not death …
(Call ended—)
BRISTOL HOTEL, 56 MASON STREET, THE TENDERLOIN, SAN FRANCISCO, APRIL 25, 1988, THE DAY OF YOUR DEATH
The blood flows so slowly through your body. You claw at your breasts, weep and cry out, fumble with the bedding. The hotel sheets are dirty, gray with age, and foul-smelling, urine and vomit and vaginal blood and tears, a golden cloud of pain floating through your mind and gut. Blinding streaks of light in the room, explosions of agony in your skin and lungs, pitching, plunging, blazing. Heat in your arms, fever, abandonment, the stench of dying. Slivers and shards of light still flickering; your hands searching for Dorothy. I hate myself but I do not want to die. I do not want to disappear. I want to go back. I long for someone’s hands, my mother’s hands, a girl’s arms. Or a voice of any kind. Anything but this eclipse of the sun.
Dorothy?
Dorothy?
The desperate screeching of desert animals. The sun burning over Georgia. The desert house with no pictures, books, money, or plans for the future. The swollen pink Ventor sky pressing against the window and everything again overlaid with a mantle of merriment, warm, moist. Dorothy has found some singed old dresses in a suitcase and you are probably on your way to the ocean again, to Alligator Reef and endless skies, just the two of you. She twirls in front of the mirror with cigarettes left burning all over the room. In plant pots, on the bedside table, in her compact.
VALERIE (chuckles affectionately): You little pyromaniac.
DOROTHY:
All these dresses have black marks on the cuffs. Look at this snowy white one. It looks as though it’s been through a nuclear war.
VALERIE: You always were kind of like a nuclear war.
DOROTHY: It’s strange how you can forget one of your favorite dresses. I can’t remember where it came from. I just remember how everything around me was made completely white and scrubbed clean when I was wearing it. The sky, my breath, my teeth … Do you remember when I forgot all the candles in the bar and the curtains caught fire?
VALERIE: I remember you setting fire to that old guy’s beard when you were lighting his pipe.
DOROTHY: Do you remember when I set fire to my hair?
VALERIE: You were always doing it and I was always running for water to save you. I remember forever saving you.
DOROTHY: You did.
The glint of skyscrapers and tarmac in the darkness as the airplane continues its circling over Kennedy Airport; factories working, surfers gliding along beaches, fields of cotton, deserts, towns, New York traffic edging slowly forward. Splinters of light and memories glimmering faintly in your consciousness. The dark red-light district outside, neon lights, girls chasing the wind through the streets, skin and sparks of life, seductive smiles and puked-up dreams.
And if you did not have to die, you would be Valerie again in your silver coat and Valerie again with your handbag full of manuscripts and your building blocks of theory. And if you did not have to die now, your doctorate would shimmer on the horizon. And it would be that time again, the forties, fifties, sixties, Ventor, Maryland, New York, and that belief in yourself: the writer, the scientist, me. The great hunger and swirling vortex in your heart, the conviction. Slogans echoing between the buildings on Fifth Avenue and the president crouching behind his desk in Washington. There are only happy endings.
A girl can do anything she wants
You know I love you
The shouts die down and the heat evaporates, the smell of New York full-blown and burning. Fifth Avenue is sucked into a blackness, a narrow, foul-smelling underground tunnel, only the sour taste of deadly disease and never-ending porn music. And there is daylight in the Tenderloin with vomit-colored curtains at a smeared window, piles of notes and your bloodied underpants over the back of a chair, and on the bedside table a bottle of rum you will never manage to drink. The itching has taken over your body. It is worse than the pain in your chest and the difficulty breathing and the fact you have long ago lost all sensation in your hands and feet.
Mason Street is deserted, no shouts, no traffic, but a short distance away is the real city with real people and sun and trees and girls cycling with books on carrier racks, and farther away the cold ocean still pounding against the shore. The salty breath of the Pacific sweeping over sandy beaches, the sharks’ expectation in the deep. Death by drowning, suffocation, lying on the beach, murdered, raped. April has always been the cruelest month. I wish the daylight would vanish, that someone would hang a blanket in front of the sun and the neon signs, that someone would switch off the porn music and this incurable disease. I do not want to die. I do not want to die alone.
There is a flash of Ventor and Dorothy in the room—a strip of burning paper flaring up and dying out in a room that’s completely dark—the desert sand always blowing into your eyes and blurring your sight. The sand turning everything to a sweet, hot mist, a drug that numbs and soothes.
It is such a long time since your last visit to the desert and the yellow dive in the middle of nowhere. The porch facing countless hours of sun, a hidden winemaking machine in the corner and one long season of heat and parched grass. A bowl of golden light, a light that was yours until you ran away into the desert and wanted never to come home again.
Do you remember, Dorothy?
Do you remember how we would go to the river together?
The top down and a new guy at the wheel. Your scarf flapping in the wind. Your fair hair, newly washed. The song. You, singing and chattering in the front seat.
You and I beneath the crazy sky.
BRISTOL HOTEL, APRIL 7, 1988, A FEW WEEKS BEFORE THE END
The manifesto has disappeared among the sheets streaked with dirt and brown fluid oozing from your vagina and rectum, a burning, vile-smelling outpouring of loneliness, a seeping humiliation. If there are more ways to humiliate me, bring them on. It is not like you to lie in a hotel room raving to yourself when you know you are alone, about to die; it is the fever, making you delirious. All you want is to stay in this room, not fall into the darkness and through the smell of forest and lemonade and stagnant river water and sunlight spilling onto the picnic blanket, the strong synthetic light of the forties.
Valerie, sugar
Time for food now, Valerie
Dorothy shouts from a blanket by the river where the sun’s intensity has turned the grass into withered brown tufts. Behind her, columns of sunlight stand between the trees, and she waves away midges and dragonflies trying to nosedive into the picnic. America has just dropped the atom bomb on Nagasaki and still it is that time, a forgotten age of car rides with the top down and fried chicken sandwiches on the backseat and Louis in shorts with his shirt undone, stretched out on a blanket. An age when nights are deepest blue and crystal clear and little desert holes like Ventor have no electricity for months on end, and it is still all right to drink from the river and Louis drives back and forth to the textile mills to lay cables and you stopped calling him Daddy a lifetime ago.
You run under the silver-leaf maples, in your white dress again, the one that is really too thin and too childish and has lucky threads of gold and silver sewn into the petticoat and you only wear it because Dorothy likes it so much. Your feet sweating in your gym shoes and in your mouth the taste of metal and blood and something strange, choking. It is so quiet when you run, all sounds around you muted and only the blinding light cascading from the trees and the fateful dress swirling, far too tight across your chest and shoulders.
The forest invaded by dead animals and the soft smoky light motionless, lingering between the trees. And, when you think of it now, Dorothy’s face is above the treetops and her dress smells of sex and sugar, her arms perspire as she reaches out to you, and she swears at the sun-bleached umbrella blowing over all the time, and her hands and arms are covered in liver spots. The sun burns so fiercely through the treetops and her eyes are black lakes you want to drown in and she strokes the fabric of your dress, stars and smiles and snow, and she swats the bluebottles away from your face.
Dorothy?
Dorothy?
Are you there, Dorothy?
DOROTHY (over by the hotel room window): I’ll do whatever you want, my sunflower.
VALERIE: As long as you don’t wear those vile pearls.
DOROTHY: My white pearls. They’re my favorite pearls.
VALERIE: Not at the funeral, not at my funeral.
DOROTHY: Whatever you want. No artificial pearls, no plunging necklines, no fur, no makeup. Tell me what to put on and I will.
VALERIE: Dorothy?
DOROTHY: Yes, Valerie?
VALERIE: I’m so scared of dying. I’m so scared of dying on my own.
DOROTHY: It’s only heaven, my darling … only heaven can love you for yourself alone and not your yellow hair.
VALERIE: I don’t have yellow hair.
DOROTHY: I know, but never mind. It’s just a metaphor.
VALERIE: I do
n’t have yellow hair.
DOROTHY: It doesn’t matter anymore, Valerie. It’s not important what you call it. You’re my little yellow-haired girl.
VALERIE: But I think I’m gray-haired now. And it’s getting thin. It’s falling out, horrible piles of it lying on the sheet when I wake up.
DOROTHY: Don’t be afraid, baby.
VALERIE: I’m so light now, just a cloud. I have no hands. I miss my hands so badly.
Valerie
The sun burns through the umbrella. The brown, ferrous-smelling river water unmoving, stagnant. Dorothy and Louis still down by the riverside on their day out, drinking beer and lying outstretched on a blanket in the heat. Transistor radio, sweaty cheese, beery kisses, picnic.
You go down to the river’s edge alone. Your feet in dark mud, in river slime, birch trees reaching for water, specks of rotting surface pollen. You will remember forever the magical light, the sludgy water creatures, distant birdcalls, rolls of ponderous clouds above. The shade of the trees, a shimmering green yearning and for what, you do not know, just a beast in your stomach wanting out and shafts of light descending through the green darkness. Just a song somewhere that sounds like a legend, but not here; a garden full of kindling, a wasteland, a leap of snow leopards hunting across the plain. You want only to hold that song, to possess that foreign language and the legend living and breathing in the river.
Your feet slide in the brown, vile-smelling muck and you do not know how you are going to catch up with all the longing and how you will cope with it if you do. You just know there is a song, like a legend, but not here, not now, only green darkness. The swaying crowns of the trees, dapples of light all around, making you tired and dizzy, and when you fall asleep by the river you dream you are flying high above snowcapped mountains and people applaud you far below.
Valerie Page 1
