“Isabella here is a real bona fide enigma. A visionary tout corte. She’s got the most amazing cast in this house and they’re all pioneers of social experience. Isn’t that true? You know, I think I should make your experiments part of my upcoming book—something about a temporary space where the rules of society go astray and that this kind of structure is, in fact, critical to the production of the city,” blustered Bruno emphatically. “The city would be a kind of canvas . . . ”
“Bruno, you simply must stop. You’re making no sense. I won’t let you bore us.”
“Ha, Isabella is too funny! Too funny! See, I need you! I don’t know what I’m saying.” Bruno slapped the table and laughed obnoxiously.
“You most certainly do not,” intruded Sibel. “Now please stop for a second. I must talk with your friend Mr. Daniels. He seems so quiet back there.” Sibel smiled sweetly at Gregory and he smiled back. Even reserved as he was, he didn’t appear uncomfortable.
“Great move, Sibel!” yelled Rana. “Excellent maneuver! A cheers to Sibel!” Rana raised her glass and Bruno gave her a toast. They threw back their drinks smiling goofily.
The young Gregory Daniels leaned over to Bruno and whispered. Bruno laughed and said, “Don’t be silly. Don’t be silly. Yes, of course! Of course!”
“I’m fine back here,” he said, leaning his chair back slightly.
“Are you a poet, Mr. Daniels. I get the feeling you are.”
“You get the feeling I am? What kind of feeling is that may I ask?” Gregory said with a smile on his lips.
“A beautiful feeling. A feeling of Sambuca running down the back of my throat.”
“Are you having that feeling right now?” he asked, still smiling.
“Yes, yes, I am.”
“Then it is quite possible that I am a poet.”
“He is a poet, ladies! This guy is a lexiconic demon! He will get you swooning and crooning, I know! I know ladies. You watch yourself. He’ll get ya, like he got me! Yep, huh, Greg? Huh?” Bruno was smiling and shoving his hand into Gregory’s shoulder. Pushing him around. “Oh, no. That’s it. He’s gone!”
“Woo me, please, Mr. Daniels,” said Sibel in her little girl’s voice. She leaned over the table and stared deeply into the eyes of the poet.
Gregory stood up from his chair. He placed his hands over his heart. “I believe that I would be a fool to not attempt such a wooing, but I hope it will be understood if first I get a drink to prepare myself.”
“That will not do at all,” said Sibel. “I need sufficient wooing now!”
Rana and Yosune laughed and began to woo like the bellowing horns of a train.
“Woo woo!” they sang.
“Wooing now?” he laughed. “Demanding, aren’t we? I suppose that is what you like. I will not argue, my dear. I will give only what you need and nothing more.”
His voice was the irresistible mix of sarcasm and sincerity that radiated excitement. He grabbed Rana’s drink and threw it back into his mouth.
“You come to this place
A full deck but no ace
Bluffing vanity as a rule
But these cards aren’t giving
And meanwhile you are living
On the words of an insufferable fool
“I raise my glass high
To your beautiful eye
For you are a princess no more no less
And with a quick swallow
I beckon tomorrow
When we recline in our mutual mess. ”
The Persembes laughed and Sibel blushed. A poet he certainly was and a snarky one too. Sibel stood up and threw her drink back.
“Presumptuous most certainly, but daring and dashing, too.”
Sibel looked him over. The smile of his lips unwavering, he held her look with earnest fascination. She put out her hand, which he kissed most gently. The touch put shivers down her spine. She loved attention. And she loved kisses.
The table erupted in laughs. “Bravo! Bravo!” the sisters laughed hysterically.
“You’re a real dandy aren’t you?” smiled Sibel. ”Okay, you win. You won. I’m yours. Do with me what you will, but let us get away from these women from hell. I can’t stand it! You can take me to the overlook, but I warn you; be a gentleman. I tire of this unflattering company.”
They scooted out of their chairs and headed into the crowd. Gregory could be seen giving a last look of satisfaction to the Barrister Bruno. Bruno raised his glass and finished it off.
Chapter 9
Fennel was busy as a bee at Derrilous’s den. Beakers were abounding and fire was a spurting. Bunsen burners and smoke. Boiling and sulfur. Electric zaps and occasional giggling from the radiator. Derrilous was a fuzzy little man. He was adorned in a splotched and stained apron and he stood at the same height as Fennel—just a couple of small folk. His hair was a morass of dreadlocks that piled in a crumpled tangle on his back. Fennel paced along the back of the laboratory with goggles on and his finest fire retardant leisurewear.
“If I place this here,” said Derrilous. He was utilizing some thin pliers and was attempting to place a receptacle onto the slot. “No. No. Wait. Hold it. No.”
“Too late. I know it. Oh of all the times . . . what is the use? Huh, Derrilous?”
Fennel was just pacing and mumbling. Derrilous barely listening to him.
“That’s it, baby. That’s it. You just need to sit. Sit, please. Sit there,” Derrilous’s voice was breathy and wispy—a man perpetually in the throes of asthma—wheezing words and wheezing theorems, wheezing his way into another mixture. Right now he was testing the solution that Fennel had complained about. He had used the proper combination of scopolamine, thiopental sodium, and even amobarbital. He felt sure as shinola that his solution was up to par, but if that’s what he wanted. He had better because the Blue Goo hadn’t been finished yet and Fennel was going nutty.
“And where else do I go? Where else do I wander off to? I’m just a pacer now. I just pace. I just move the legs to the whim of the foot. Am I a troublemaker? Am I an architect? Am I anything that would make me grin? No. No. Nopa. I am a pacer. The great pacer. The walker of yards. The treadmill boy scout. Call my name and I will move back and forth for ye. I travel by night but only back and forth. He is consistent. He just likes to cover his tracks. Yes, I do. I do it for you, Mr. D. I do it for you. I move there to here to there to back again and over for you, my good doctor.”
“Tighten this knob when I say, Go!” Derrilous was yelling above the sound of steam. Fennel ran over and grabbed the knob.
More concentration on the placement. Derrilous had to be sure of placement—just putting this on the proper spot and catching the solution in the heat blast should do it, but it had to be in the right place.
“Gotta be in the right place, see?” yelled Derrilous.
“What?” barked Fennel.
“Right place! Right place! All about location here! Ok. Wait . . . Now one, two . . . ahh . . . shi-oooot! No, no. Never mind! Go back. I’ll call you in a little bit!”
“What’s the problem?”
“I said I’ll call you in a little bit! I need space. Get, get!”
Fennel walked back to his spot and sat down at the desk. He was bored and depressed. He just wanted the Blue Toil Solution done in time. His project and her project. He perched his little feet up on the desk. They were doing their own thing tonight. Independence made Fennel sad. He missed his sister. As much as he had things to do, he didn’t head into them with the same kind of dismissive zeal. That’s fine. He did have things to do. If this project worked out—well, she is out with those horrific women. Could they be a part of her secret? That would really be a mistake. She wouldn’t be so naïve. Well, maybe she would.
Fennel thought back to the Drunken Boat. The sound of the lunatics filled his heart with a twisted pleasure. He rubbed his tummy at the feel of it. But they were taking that away. He saw it with his own eyes. He wasn’t a conspiracy theorist. No, he didn’t ne
ed to be. He witnessed the conspiracy right there out in the open. They were literally hauling off the few creatures that really got it. He and Isabella had seen signs of this in the past. The emergence of clocks on the street, the growing belching factories with the line of beat down men in muck, the new murmurings of equality that got the idiots excited and the police force that made it illegal to have a good time. These growing provocations bothered him immensely and placed his heart in the hands of a slightly bad mood. This city was out to get rid of the little water they produced. Evaporators. All of them.
He wiggled his toes in his shoes and looked up into the ceiling. Pipes dripped and cracks abounded. The rust was peeling back. The dust was glittering with fragments of magnesium. He saw in the cracks the image of a cat—a snaking Siamese cat in the brush. He should really look into animal vision. Marty had mentioned that when they had been fishing together. Animal vision.
“Sure, you ken see da world from a cat’s eye. Sure. Ol’ ol’ trick, Scratch. Can’t believe ya never tried it. The things you waste yur time on, boy. Look, you gotta flick the wrist like this. A snap. Now see, yu can look from a Flounder eye too. Easy. I do all da time. Get in dat water and get to checkin' tings out. I do. I just put in some rat hair, tooth, and dat pride mix. Oh, I’ll show ya one day. I bet you would love it, Scratch. He he. Be a Siamese. Dems da monkey barrel. You can look up ladies' skirts with it. Sure can. Would ya like dat? Heh? I wonder if you would. You still look damn faggotish to me dough. Damn awful faggotish. But ya just might like a little peek-a-boo up a grown woman’s dress. Yup. Just be a little ol’ missy cat prowlin' about and then snoop . . . you be under the canopy, boy . . . You can bet I do it. I do and I like it. I like it plenty.”
Marty knew so many beguiling tricks. If only he would teach Fennel animal vision. He would be a cat. No, not a cat; fish would be good if it was a fish in some mansion’s indoor pond. A Coy! Yes, a Coy would be hilarious—plump and orange with a top hat. Oh, he would make little fish clothes. If he had felt gloves for his tiny fins that would be too much! Too much!
Or the Cawing Cretin? Yes, the Raven could strike! Strike down poppers and drunks! One fell swoop. Animal clothes. An easy year could be spent making animal clothes. The Cawing Cretin would get thin red fringes off the wings. Let them flap about as he sails in for the kill. Swoop! How hard would that be? Animal vision. Hmm.
“Hey, Mister, what would it take to look through the eyes of an animal?”
“Just a few more seconds!” replied Derrilous.
Isabella could be a tree frog and he could be a lemming. No. They would have to be creatures that traveled at the same pace—similar leg structures or something. Birds would be best. Birds of a feather. What if they could talk with animals? Fennel almost fell out of his chair. Dr. Doolittle. Was Dr. Doolittle really alive? Oh, if he talked with the animals, maybe, maybe, they were more interesting than these sub-humans. Maybe there were secret societies of elks and turkey vultures. Of course there were! They would gather in circles and discuss foreign policy. No, nothing as droll as that. They would discuss the style of their hikes. Yes. More haiku-like. Very zenny. He would just be one of them—with his top hat of course. Ohhh, too much!
“Hey, Mr. Animal Vision!”
“Okay, yes. It’s time. Now, as I said, when I say 'Go!', just give that knob a big turn.” Derrilous was bent over with his pliers, attempting proper placement. Fennel jumped up and ran over to the knob.
“Here we go. Ready? Wait. Okay. Ready? One, two, three . . . Go!” screamed Derrilous.
Fennel gave the knob a big turn with both hands and steam blasted into the room. Pssssst! He ran for the back of the room hoping his goggles hadn’t been affected by the steam. He had paid good money for the goggles. The steam cleared and Derrilous was standing there smiling his uneven toothed smile.
“I told you! I told you! Look at this, Fennel! It’s perfect.” Derrilous waved a tube in the air and bounced around. “I don’t lead you astray.”
“Fine, fine. You’re a master of mechanics and fluids. Now, Mr. D., this doesn’t do much for the Blue Toil.”
“All that work to verify and all I get is a change of subject.” Derrilous shook his head. “Time. Your Blue Goo will take time. I thought I had the derivatives aligned, but I still need to work on it. You can’t just come in here and rush me. What do you think I do with all my time? I just work. Isn’t that enough? What’s wrong with you?”
“Ahh, hop to it, Mr. D! I need my mixture! Hey, what do you know about animal vision?”
“Excuse me?”
“Animal Vision. For example, can you conjure up a solution that will let me see through the eyes of a fish or a bird?”
“Animal vision? Is that what you’re jabbering about? First you come to me with this wacky notion of a monk in someone’s head and now we have Beastmaster. Look, I don’t think you understand how completely amazed I am that this Blue Goo is going to work. It’s never been done before! Do you hear that, little snot? Never before! And now, you come in here, all impatient, and you’re asking to be one with the jungle. I give up! You’re an ingrate. Ingratitude, my friend."
“Oh, relax, Derrilous. It’s just a question. I just heard it was possible.”
“Did you? Well, I suppose one can hear all kinds of things when they go creeping through the night like a little miscreant. Now, why don’t you get along and haunt that person for their supposed animal vision because I’ll tell you right now, it’s not possible. Not only isn’t it possible, but it is possibly the stupidest thing I have ever heard you say.”
“I doubt that is true,“ laughed Fennel.
Chapter 10
“You owe me, Isabella. Pilfering my pal. What kind of hospitality is that?” gurgled the Barrister. He unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and looked around the room. “The crowd here is changing, you know, darling. This place was once the house of the houses and now it's most probably the house of the unhoused. All this new money everywhere and well, from what I can tell, they know how to party. But I digress, since you have stolen my only friend, I suppose I’ll have to peek about your V.I.P. room.”
“Yes, do that. Peek about,” said Isabella.
“That’s great for Sibel. She’s always timid. It’s a wonder she meets boys at all. Daddy’s little girl needs a helping hand at times,” said Yosune to Isabella. “Isabella, tell me more about what you do here. This place. I do recall seeing it from the street, but never for the life of me did I imagine this.”
“Yes, Isabella. Tell us more! I just can’t be in the dark anymore! I just can’t!” said Rana.
“I told you what she does here!” said Bruno. “She conducts this experiment. What else do you want to know? Isabella, how clear do I have to make this?”
“A little clearer would probably be more helpful. Why don’t you tell them, Bruno?”
What was that? She had seen something. She scanned over Yosune’s head. What was it? There. Back in the back of the dance hall she saw Chelsea Revan slide in the front door. She had died her hair red and her eyes were wide with excitement and fear. She covered her head in a black lace shawl with tiny glimmering rhinestones and tried her best to hide along the wall—her face a constant look of intrigued terror. It certainly wasn’t easy being this young girl.
“Now, Rana, if you were to host a social experiment, what would you do?” asked Bruno.
“Ha! If I were to host a social experiment I would have confessionals galore. People getting it all out so they could really loosen up. And something dark—something that would cast off the feeling of innocence and make us have fun as though we were all complicit in something. A sacrifice. Yes! Maybe a chicken or something. And then, yes, and then lots of drugs and a ton, a ton of dancing.”
“Isabella, put this woman in charge!” said Bruno.
“I need to go. Order what you want, kiddies. It’s on the house,” said Isabella, getting up.
“Where are you going?” asked Yosune.
Isabella
didn’t respond. She just walked out on them. Her mind was focused on something else far more important. She heard the bass and the drizzle—the back legs of frogs pushing out against the water. The call of water. She would go to her private den and invite her there. She gave Tugboat instructions on her way and then ascended the stone stairs to her office. The cacophony of horns and voices faded to the clip clop of her shoes. She opened the old oak door to her room—bookshelves and a lone chair facing a window that overlooked the dance floor—from where she could watch her social architecture.
It was interesting listening to Bruno try to explain what she did here. How could they really understand? How could they know it was just a heightening of the water sound? She could feel her plans feed the volume. These evenings here had captivated her a few years ago. The revelation that she could increase the volume of the glurb and bubble completely overwhelmed her.
With haste, she had built the evenings of Chateau de Crawler into a well-established cultural catalyst, but alas the sounds only went so high. There seemed to be a ceiling on the ecstatic possibilities she produced and, in fact, with every routine day, the sound of rapids and waves crashing turned to trickles and drips. The longer she held these parties, the less she cared. What did such things matter when the Drunken Boat had stolen her sounds with no effort at all? There was so much to learn and all she had were her acute ears. She would just listen so carefully. The sound of that boat came back to her. The vagabond symphony overwhelmed her—their gestures so uncontrolled, their pitches and degrees freed from the contaminated confines she continually ran up against. The water poured over the deck and drenched the sails. Waves toppled over the bow and the moon egged them on. The lunatics sang in a captivating harpy call. Their robes drenched. Their bedraggled smiles terrifying in their unrefined honesty.
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