Our Lady of Babylon

by John Rechy

  I not only agreed, but I extended my hands slightly wider.

  “Well, it has to be within reason,” Paris cautioned thoughtfully. “Now promise.”

  I did.

  I saw no danger in this new situation. I knew that Menelaus would bask in Paris’s borrowed glow, perhaps be excited to think he was entering the same place Paris had entered, brag to others that I had chosen him over the manliest of beautiful men.

  The adventure proceeded. I sailed with Paris to Troy, always intending to return to dull Menelaus, although I longed to escape to a life of my own. Then, as Cassandra would say later, a series of accidents conspired, and Paris and I became the center of the storm threatening both countries. Menelaus, not knowing that I intended to return to him with his reputation enhanced, thought his manliness was being assaulted, especially on hearing my “confirmation” of Paris’s prowess, confirmation Paris encouraged and I contributed only to please him. So the conflict between Greece and Troy grew.

  For the last few seconds of my narrating the encounter with Paris, Madame had been covering her mouth, looking down, turning sideways. I had noticed all this but had chosen not to remark on it, until now, when her body — Surely her body was not shaking?

  “What is the matter with you, Madame?” I said.

  Her hand fell from her mouth and she emitted a loud guffaw — I have to call it what it was. Her body shook with raucous laughter. Between attempts to restrain herself, she managed to gasp, “Now that’s a good one! The Trojan War fought because Paris wasn’t hung!”

  “Madame?”

  “A figure of speech, just a figure of speech I heard from—” Madame again lost control, gales of laughter emanating from her. Ermenegildo raised his head in surprise. She would stop, resume, stop, become sober, and then a roar would erupt once again, and her body would quake. “Well, that’s one for the books!” She even slapped her thighs.

  “For Paris it was a serious matter, Madame,” I told her, with loyalty.

  Wiping tears from her eyes, she controlled herself, after some unsuccessful attempts. Then she said soberly, “Lady, do remember that out of that a war was fought and you were blamed.”

  I nodded yes.

  When the wooden horse was pushed forward past the gates, and raiding troops spilled out, materializing Cassandra’s perceptions — when the City was sacked, and blood mixed with fire and smoke, I saw Cassandra wandering like a ghost through the rampage, and I understood the profound despair her smile always tried to veil.

  It was then, as I stood with Paris on the bastions of Troy where we had remained, that a soldier — Greek or Trojan — pierced by a lance, blood spurting out like a melted rose, looked up at me and shouted —

  “Say the word, Lady, so it will lose its power!” Madame encouraged.

  “Whore!” I supplied the word of blame with which the soldier had cursed me, only me.

  The day had shifted without transition into dusk, a time I often cherish, when perception is least definite, when distance and shapes become vague, yet assume another clarity.

  “He’s there.” Madame was aiming her opera glasses at the château on the hill. “The new tenant is there. He’s greeting . . . someone who just arrived in a dark carriage.”

  “Madame! That earlier time when I rushed to intercept the coach hurrying toward my château, I found it waiting there. When it dashed away, I discovered a basket left inside my gates. In it was a cat! — with two kittens, slaughtered!” I blurted out the incident that had filled me with terror.

  Madame put down her glasses. “We must waste no time in preparing for interviews,” she said.

  XIII

  HAVING SEDUCED HIM IN HIS OWN CARRIAGE, the wily Whore, in collusion with her Pimp, set out to ensnare the honorable Count ever more deeply within their web of corruption so that he would be kept in their control for what they ultimately planned: a forced marriage.

  There are those who claim the Whore and the Reverend Pimp drugged the Count; others echoed the suspicions that the Whore had the “dark powers” of a sorceress. (The Writer performs a slow sign of the cross and extends it to the Reader.) Still others, much more knowledgeable and sagacious — and the Writer exhorts the Reader to consider this — attributed the Count’s succumbing to the Whore to the fact that she connived to arouse his pity with a falsified version of an act so harrowing that the Writer pulls back from it here.

  As I read those words aloud to you in my quarters, they open myriad wounds with their violent insinuations. I try to erase them by continuing to others perhaps less cruel — perhaps not, but right now my heart demands the risk:

  Now the Writer proceeds to document other profanities to which they exposed the virtuous Count to assure their nefarious ends: a series of sexual charades, often an affront not only to morality but to — the Writer inhales — patriotism.

  Pretending to be the Queen, the Whore connived to reduce the staunch Count to play her loyal Subject summoned from a long voyage in order to be reprimanded, for some breach or other, committed on the high seas. Remember that the Count was an innocent enticed by experts in vice. So he proudly wore the clothes they brought him, clothes which signified a devotion to country: a jacket fitted perfectly in the military mode, with gold-fringed epaulets, a holster to attach proudly to his belt, a cap resplendent with authority, and shiny boots. But where was the rest of this illustrious uniform? There was no more.

  In such a state, the Count was now compelled to kneel before the Whore as Queen, the Whore having cleverly evoked his patriotic fervor, as, an earlier time, she had stirred memories of his gentle, loving nurse in order to coax him to nestle within the lavishness of her breasts.

  Arrayed with cheap stones, the Whore-Queen sat on her “throne” while drinking wine out of a tawdry brass goblet. Her bountiful breasts were luridly exposed over a golden belt, which reduced her waist and made her already opulent breasts seem, if possible, even more formidable. (The Writer returns recurrently to the subject of the Whore’s endowments only to emphasize his thorough dedication to his True Account, here reflecting the description offered by those — and there were many! — who knew of the bounteous endowments.) A cape of garish red and tawdry purple flung cursorily over her bare shoulders parted to reveal the eager entrance to her sated body.

  Thus abominably propped, the scheming Whore-Queen demanded an expression of her “Subject’s” loyalty. The Count-Subject, already on his knees, was urged to kiss her hand, which the Whore had shrewdly placed on her lap. When the Count-Subject was about to do as she had bade him — lulled by memories of aristocratic fealties he had inherited from his noble family — the lustful Whore removed her hand, causing the Count’s face to fall forward and sink down. No justifiably shocked Reader will fail to imagine — though certainly not to the fullest extent that the abomination provoked in the entrapped man — the confused horror with which the hapless Count discovered what his lips, aimed at her hand, had kissed instead.

  Having thus exhausted the Count’s fortitude through a shrewd disorientation of his senses, the conniving Whore, in a moment of pretended compassion, encouraged the Count to rest upon her throne. To shelter his groin, still confounded by the events that had occurred during his coach ride with the Whore an earlier time, the Count placed his hand sturdily on his lap, a virtuous attempt the Whore foiled with her searching tongue — with such avid determination that the unfortunate Count clasped her head in a futile attempt to control her sordid delving.

  As wearily as Pilgrims undertake their righteous journeys, sustained by the knowledge that their trying goal is an honorable one, and that their reward, if no other, shall be the symbolic Grail of Truth, the Writer must proceed with his True Account: Further to secure their wicked purposes, the Whore and her Pimp devised even grosser acts.

  The poor Count was manipulated into pretending he was an Arabian Captain being given his “just reward” for triumph in a recent battle. As part of this debased charade, the lecherous Whore had brushed her profa
ne body with honey so that it glowed amber. The Count as Captain was coerced to bathe away the sweet glaze with his tongue. How was he coaxed? The righteous mind cries out for an answer. How else? By then the Whore and her Pimp had starved the Count, and he longed — perhaps now in a delirium — for sustenance, any sustenance to calm his ravenous hunger.

  The Whore writhed on the floor, exploring herself, screaming obscenities as the Count devoured the honey that, by the nature of the Whore’s lush dips and curves, gathered in special abundance between and on her breasts and at the entrance at her thighs. The Count added urgency to his performance in order to end this most loathsome of all banquets, and, exhausted, fell upon the Whore, who writhed under him and once again managed what she and the Reverend Pimp needed to assure for their eventual ends, the spilling impalement of the hapless Count.

  Between my beloved Count du Muir and me, love augmented passion, passion augmented love. It is that profusion — oh, and so much more! — that this record of calumny attempts to sully, transforming the joyful spectrum of our sexual desire into lust, only crude lust, the Count’s eager passion into forced compliance, the spontaneity and delight of our lovemaking into crass manipulation. I shall provide you with an example of such coarse conversion:

  On the day that my wedding gown was to be tried on me for the first time, assuring that every one of its hundreds of tiny pearls was in place, my devoted seamstress was so delighted with the result that she coaxed her handsome husband, a tailor for the most noble gentlemen in the City, to come over from his shop next door to witness her creation. Other seamstresses, a few customers, and the tailor’s helpers were so overwhelmed by exhilaration at my approaching marriage that they joined in what became an impromptu “rehearsal” of the wedding to occur within days in the Grand Cathedral. They pretended to be “bridesmaids” and “attendants” lavishing praise on my beauty and my gown, admiring me from every angle.

  The Count du Muir would often suddenly yearn for me and appear unexpectedly wherever I happened to be. That occurred that day in the bridal shop. He rushed in — yes, like a boy, an exuberant boy delighted to be in love; and he lifted me in his arms, spun me around. My veils swept about us, enveloping our love and kisses while the others in the shop applauded.

  That lovely incident, a spilling out of our abundant joy in each other, is exploited in the salacious “Account,” like this:

  The dastardly Whore was often called upon by her Pimp to satisfy the most depraved and blasphemous fantasies, recurrent assaults on all established values, including — the Writer puts down his pen for a saddened moment and bows his head in heavy grief—holy nuptials. Once she pretended to be a pure bride, surprised by her betrothed during the fitting of her gown. The young Lieutenant — for so they assigned the role — was played by a sturdy, tow-headed Lad from the country with strong loins and thighs developed from honest Christian work and in healthy display because he wore snug pants he had almost outgrown, to the point that one seam, at his back, had begun to separate. Only the Devil knows what deception was perpetrated to coerce such an untried Lad into participation in this gross charade.

  The Whore-Bride wore the travesty of a wedding gown, including veils, which she often used to entice, because they clung to her exaggerated, wanton body that some persisted in describing as “overflowing with sensuality,” a phrase the Reader will detect as not the Writer’s. The Reader can surely surmise who in that company played the officiating Holy at this mockery of a wedding. Who other than the Reverend Pimp?

  As she walked toward the Lieutenant-Lad, the Reverend Pimp’s friends, men and women, plucked at the blasphemous Whore’s nuptial adornments, until, when she stood before the robust Lieutenant-Lad (who was quivering so from fright that the weakened seam, at the back of his snug pants, split), she was “clothed” only with the bridal veil, which she raised over him, engulfing him under it for practices that the Writer must — the Writer must — the Writer must — Yes, engulfing him under it — for practices so lewd — engulfing him — vile, oh, vile, and lewd, yes, yes, lewd, it was vile, and — oh —

  The dutiful Writer, having, at this point, pushed himself to the verge of exhaustion in recording these lecheries, must leave the Reader for a moment. He shall resume this True Account when, through rest and pious thoughts, he regains the necessary strength.

  Madame Bernice shook her head after she had read that passage during that afternoon’s tea. Along with my cowl and my lantern in preparation for cool nights, I carried the base “Account” with me, to explore its lies for clues. “Alix’s contribution is clear — his festering desire for you, Lady.” Madame announced what I well knew. “And we detect the Pope’s predilections, don’t we? And Irena’s sharpened malevolence is obvious throughout. But we cannot attribute only malice to all this. There are added purposes in this ‘Account,’ disguised questions . . . We must expose its lies and the lies of history.”

  “We shall!” I asserted our resolve, and proceeded to tell her what had occurred at the bridal shop after my beloved had left and the fitting resumed.

  I looked out the window and saw a slight, plain woman, pallidly fair, peering in. With her was another woman, a stolid matron, older, heavy, indeed cumbersome in her awkward bearing, staid to the point of drabness, with only one partridge feather in her hat as intended but unsuccessful decoration. I assumed they were poor souls who would never know the joy of love and so paused to spy wherever they detected it. What harm? When a coach stopped on the street near them, the two rushed on.

  The Contessa emerged out of the carriage and swept into the bridal shop. I dismissed all those attending to me, knowing she would have an urgent message.

  She did: “My dear,” she rushed her words, “your every step to the altar must be watched — even at the altar. Those two people peering in; one was Irena —”

  “I thought I recognized her,” I realized only then. “But the matron —”

  “— was the Pope.”

  As the Contessa departed in her coach, I looked out and saw that with her was a nun.

  “The nun originally employed as her guardian,” Madame connected. “But most important, Lady, the only other witness to the interlude in the garden under the shadow of the angel.”

  “Witness?” I did not know what significance she was adding to that. She had gone into deep concentration.

  “You described Irena as fair?”

  “Yes. What an odd question, Madame.”

  “She’s not beautiful?”

  If the first question had been odd, this was startling coming from Madame, the same who had objected to my dwelling on descriptions of beauty. “No, she is not, and the thought of her naked —” I shivered.

  Madame said something under her breath, something that clearly amused her privately — she smiled behind her hand. I heard only a fragment: “. . . the only one not . . .” Seriousness returned to her face as she leafed through the pages of the “Account” that was the scandal of the City. She located a certain part. “The Contessa’s husband was fair, too! It says so here!” She jabbed the page with her finger.

  I glanced at it. “‘. . . a Nobleman of great wealth and aristocracy, a fair man,’” I read. “Madame, that means the writers want it to be believed that he was an equitable man, although of course we know he was a tyrant.”

  “That’s not what ‘fair’ means here.” Madame’s odd excitement escalated. “Note how others are described as fair or dark throughout, meaning coloring.” She was unaccountably exultant. “You do remember — don’t you, Lady? — that your beloved husband referred to the Contessa’s husband —”

  “— who was his father —”

  “— as an old codger, and he referred to himself as acting like ‘the son of a gypsy I am’ — his words, Lady.”

  “A figure of speech at an exuberant moment.”

  “A gypsy who was dark, like the Count, and handsome, like the two brothers.” Madame leaned back triumphantly. “I believe we’ve uncovered, Lady,
what Irena wants to believe about the events in the garden between the Contessa and the Gypsy, events she assumes you may have gained intimate information about, from the Count and the Contessa.”

  My head was spinning. Where was she going?

  Wherever it was, she was continuing: “The Contessa vowed she’d never have her husband’s children, true?”

  “Yes, but she did, the twins —”

  “No doubt about Irena, an unattractive girl who resembled the Contessa’s husband,” Madame was mumbling to herself. “Don’t you see, Lady? If Irena could prove what she wants to believe, it would be to her vast advantage.”

  “Madame, what are you saying?”

  “That Irena would like to uncover that the Gypsy was the father of the twins!”

  The thought was staggering. And impossible. I had to stop this illogical pursuit. Irena was capable of horrors, yes; I didn’t have to be convinced of that. But she was not illogical. The area Madame was delving into was beyond possibility. “The Contessa herself told me that her husband interrupted her last interlude with the Gypsy, who had been in exile for a year. The passage in the novel — a passage clearly directed by Irena — confirms it.”

  Madame whispered, unnervingly enigmatically: “The life-fluid of gypsies is lavish and mysterious, and there were flowers —”

  That did it. “Madame, you’re rambling. And what is not a ramble is utterly illogical.”

  “Illogical? My clearly presented perception of what Irena’s conjectures may be? I — illogical? And rambling?” Madame Bernice was so furious that Ermenegildo, dozing at her feet — he seldom dozes during our encounters, but Madame had explained to me that he had had a restless night — woke with a start and scurried nervously about. “If you believe that — before I even finish, Lady — then I shall keep the matter to myself until your resistance lessens!” She folded her arms, sternly.