by John Rechy
“No,” Richard said to Malissa as he watched the priest leave the house. “He isn’t running away.”
Outside, the flowers were black. Icy stars shone desperately. The gray moon was as beautiful as a simulated pearl. Distant lightning trembled softly on the rim of the horizon. In the alcove where he and Jeremy had spoken before, Blue waited among mute statues. Mantled in the night’s amber-lit darkness, they seemed to listen.
Moments later the priest stood before Blue. “I didn’t know you were here,” he pronounced the automatic words he must say.
“Yes, you did, man; you righteous did,” Blue said.
Jeremy’s voice entered the room where the others listened inside the giant house: “I didn’t know you were here.” And then Blue’s answer: “Yes, you did, man; you righteous did.”
“This is a terrible outrage!” Tarah said to Richard. “You’ve wired the alcove in order to listen— . . .”
“The play has merely shifted scene,” Richard said.
“It’s to us they have to confess,” Malissa understood excitedly. “Inspired, Richard!” she complimented. “Is all the island wired—and the house? . . . Listen!”
The speakers carried Blue’s voice: “You came out here, man, because you know you have to listen to my confession; like I’m the only one who can absolve you of the righteous sin of running away.”
The priest sighed.
The speakers conveyed Blue’s voice: “This is what I want to confess.”
Then: Empty silence.
“The microphones, Richard!” Malissa said impatiently. “They’ve gone dead!”
“No,” said Richard. “Some confessions are wordless.”
“But what’s occurring?” Malissa asked impatiently.
“They’ll tell us,” Mark assured.
Valerie felt imprisoned within the long ensuing silence. She thought: Paul. And the name assumed a form which melted quickly into: A fleeing black bird! She felt her brother’s eyes on her; like the shape of her thoughts, his gaze was physical. And although she saw him standing apart from her, she felt his mouth on her neck. To save him! Those words became colors: Red! Tinted over by dark blue into: Purple! Deepening to: Black! Suddenly she felt herself scream—only felt it, because she heard no sound and no one reacted; it was a silent scream as she faced Lianne’s insane smile as if she were staring into a mirror.
Outside: Blue removed his shirt.
His voice came through the speakers: “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. This is my sin.”
Again: Silence.
Blue’s tall body stood naked before the priest. In the hidden amber lights of the grotto it was tarnished gold. Now Blue’s hands rested on the other’s shoulders. The priest did not react. Blue’s fingers removed the priest’s collar, which fell, curled, to the ground.
Understanding the sounds which punctuated the electrified silence, “A quiet confession indeed!” Malissa said delightedly.
Blue’s lips touched the priest’s, which did not open; they merely allowed the contact. There was no reaction; the priest’s body might as easily be preparing for violent rage, wound tightly, to uncoil, as for the release of bound passion. Now Blue’s hands removed the priest’s coat, the shirt. Flesh against flesh.
Blue’s voice entered the listening house: “With Cam—that night, man; it bum-tripped me, and I haven’t been hard since— . . .”
In the black grotto, he opened the priest’s pants. Now he stared at the priest’s naked thighs. “And I knew it had to be like someone special and beautiful and pure, man. You, man.” Now he took the priest’s hand, guiding it downward along his own body. His other hand explored the priest’s flesh—but not his groin. (The fear, remembered: “You’re not hard!”) And there was still no reaction from the priest. Anger? Passion? Blue’s hand did not yet dare commit itself to the answer. If the priest wasn’t aroused— . . .
La malaspina! The priest grasped for a reason for this scene in which he was a player.
“So I had to kill him,” Blue said easily. The words emerged like flotsam finally surfacing from a deep ocean.
Malissa’s fingers seemed to attempt to pull the sounds from the speakers.
Blue’s body pressed against the other’s. “My confession, man—listen. I killed Mr Stuart.”
“It wasn’t Cam,” the priest said. Not even his voice contained a hint of what his reaction would finally be.
“It was me. I planted Mr Stuart’s money on Cam; the jewels. I knew he’d run away. I threatened the Blue Woman if she didn’t testify for me.” His lips brushed the priest’s face, the eyes, the cheeks; his tongue licked the other’s mouth.
La malaspina. . . . “All because he didn’t desire you,” the priest said. “But you said that later you and Cam— . . .”
Blue held the priest’s hand, still guiding it. “That we made it on the blood? I lied, man,” Blue said. “That, uh—it never happened. We just fought on the blood. Cam never wanted me, he never got hard.” Now the movement of his hand narrowed about the priest’s groin. (“You’re not hard!” the remembered, terrifying memory bludgeoned him.)
“And you sent him to prison—and he could have got death—only because he didn’t desire you,’’ the priest understood.
“Yes,” Blue’s voice came coldly through the speakers. “Because he didn’t desire me.”
“And why didn’t you kill Cam? You still desired him?” the priest asked.
The dark-blue eyes expressed rage, as if a secret had been exposed; but the steel-cold voice said: “No! I wanted his punishment extended, through the bust, the trial, the sentence. I wanted it to be righteous long.”
A murderer! A powerful ally! Bravo thought.
In the alcove Blue’s hand led the priest’s to his cock, which was aroused, hard for the first time since the rejection by Cam. He said quickly: “I’ll give you absolution from your sin of fleeing life.” And his other hand finally committed itself to the fatal discovery: It touched the priest’s groin. The priest was hard too.
In the house they heard Blue’s sigh of triumph.
Suddenly the priest withdrew from Blue. He was aware that the hard organ against his was enclosed by a rubber. The blue rubber with the pentagram.
Blue’s arms clung to the priest, containing his resistance. “You are hard!” he said victoriously.
The priest wrenched away. “And that’s all you wanted to prove, that you could do it!”
“And I did, man!” Blue said.
“You substituted me for Cam,” the priest said slowly. “And if you hadn’t . . . won . . . would you have killed me too?” Even in the darkness he could see the demonic smile on the angel’s face before him. The priest adjusted his clothes hurriedly, as if to dispel the reality of what had occurred between them—all, all made possible by Richard, the atmosphere of hallucination, the careful traps, the drug. . . . Now he looked evenly at Blue. “The face!” the priest struck in sudden retaliation, like an expert killer.
“What face?” Terror clutched Blue.
“The leering face you saw in that mirror long ago—it’s back!” the priest continued his counterattack.
“No!” Blue shouted, covering his face. “That face, man—it’s ugly!”
“It’s back!” the priest moved relentlessly.
Touching his face anxiously, “You’re lying!” Blue shouted at Jeremy. “Liar, liar!”
The priest abandoned him to the darkness.
“Motherfuckers!” Blue shouted at the enclosing shadows.
The priest entered the sudden vacuum of silence in the house. Through the speakers, still connected, he heard Blue’s desperate voice: “Liar, liar, liar! It isn’t back!” And the priest knew they had all listened, to everything. He felt rage like a sudden overwhelming fever. But he could not verbalize his ferocious accusation. Any words he uttered would release their judgments—and what form would that finally take?
The priest, a powerful ally, Bravo knew.
A blond shadow—d
ressed again, again barefoot— Blue entered the room. Anger was etched deeply into his face.
A murderer! An invaluable ally, Bravo evaluated again. But his victory over the priest had turned into rage against him; if it could be redirected against Richard, and Richard’s faction included Malissa. Bravo moved quickly: “You look different,” she accosted Blue suddenly.
“What, man—uh, why; what? The face!” Blue reacted.
“Yes, your face, your features—they’re distorted,” Bravo used the priest’s assault for her own purpose.
The reaction she sought: Blue touched his face, again in panic. The leering face of long ago! The externalization of the horror within him? Was it possible that both the priest and Bravo were lying?
Bravo swept on: “A distortion— . . .”
Blue turned toward the mirror. He stopped suddenly. With a moan, he turned from it without looking into it. If the face was back! He did not dare find out.
“Richard brought it back!” Bravo redirected the rage.
“You did!” Blue said to Richard. “It was you who prodded and pushed!” He turned to the priest: “Help me, man! You’re the only one who can!” he shouted, wiping his face as if to wipe away the despised, remembered, accusing visage.
The priest turned from him. His own life had been a search for a pure crystalline symmetry. “They” had not allowed it. And Blue had been their instrument.
The stake.
The knife.
Blue knew: Murder was easy.
The priest felt Blue’s presence like an iron shadow.
The stake.
Blue saw: Blood. The automatic smile which hid, with the glow of an angel, the features of a killer, kissed his face.
The stake. The knife.
“A new queen, Richard!” Malissa moved. “A pure one!” She pointed her black-jeweled finger like an uttered curse at Valerie.
Richard blocked Malissa’s path as she advanced toward the girl.
“Oh?” Malissa’s purple gaze attempted to direct to Mark the significance of Richard’s overt move. “Why don’t you want her to play the pure queen, Richard?” she struck, her look on Mark emphasizing for him the significance of what was occurring. She began to understand— . . .
“The pure queen!” Mark seemed to insist.
In defiance of his father? The wedge? Malissa stood abruptly between father and son.
Richard.
Malissa.
Mark.
A triangle.
“Let her ascend the throne, Richard!” Malissa’s words cut.
The melting figures disappeared from Valerie’s mind. There was a diamond clarity. She stood before the throne.
Beside her, the mamaloi and the papaloi were like attendants at a dark wedding.
25
Tarah knew she must thwart this scene. In testing Valerie they would test Paul—and Paul must not be tested. In a monstrous way—she knew it—Paul had been Richard’s substitute for Gable. Or—her mind dashed furiously—was this only part of the ultimate, shattering experiment to be revealed? “There’s nothing to be tested in this girl,” Tarah said. “A test implies a doubt.”
“Precisely!” Malissa countered. “And so why should she hesitate to play the role?”
“Leave them alone, Malissa,” Tarah warned.
“Them?” Malissa seized. “We’re testing only Valerie—and you’d deprive us of the pure queen?” she said to Tarah, but she looked at Richard. “Why, perhaps she might cleanse us all,” she mocked. “Give her the mask!” she ordered Topaze peremptorily.
Clutching the eye-mask, Topaze leapt toward Valerie.
Richard’s lips parted.
To protest?
Mark turned quickly toward him.
A challenge to his father? Malissa wondered eagerly.
Mark. Richard. A silent exchange between them.
Suddenly: “I’ll be the blind queen!” Tarah offered herself in substitution. She snatched the mask from Topaze. She fastened it quickly over her eyes.
Valerie retreated from the throne. The black man and woman still guarded her.
And so again the girl’s scene had been thwarted. Yes, the twins were the focal point of the evening’s games! Malissa understood progressively more clearly, though there were still important deductions to be drawn. She felt no disappointment that Valerie had been substituted. For now. Just another postponement. Now it would be Tarah, and certainly that indicated enormous entertainment. Malissa began immediately: “But what prince can purify Tarah?” she asked derisively. “She’s confessed that she’s tried everything—and everyone! What special prince?”
“Perhaps none,” said Richard. “Perhaps one.”
Behind the scrim veiling the throne again—this scene too would be played by shadows—Tarah questioned herself feverishly: Why did I submit, like the others? And the rapid answer: To stop the assault on Valerie! Valerie? Paul. But why? Because Paul must remain unassailable—as she had wanted the priest to remain. But for what reason? Gable— . . . ! Another reason! Because my body is craving! (And desire immediately clouded anger. . . . The building sensuality of this tense day! The beautiful youngmen surrounding her. Images of naked bodies— . . .) No! Another reason! Because this is how I’ll prepare to kill Richard! I’ll force him to confront me! But how by surrendering to a role in his play? To discover how!
As if he were aware of the clashing doubts, “You do want to play the blind queen, Tarah?” Richard asked.
His voice—the remembered imitation of kindness—she resisted it. “Yes!” she said.
“You’re sure, Tarah?” he questioned.
“Yes!” she asserted, to him, to herself. The reasons! Remember the reasons!
Jeremy thought: The acceptance of the invitation. And suddenly he looked at Richard in disorienting surprise.
Lianne uttered: “Richard warned me!”
Mark cocked his head as if to listen more attentively.
But that was all Lianne said.
“Who’ll be the prince?” Malissa had ended the prologue.
Not Mark! As if a knife had been twisted in her, Joja thought: Would Richard allow it? Then she remembered Mark’s words: “My father didn’t have anything to do with any of it.” Would Mark dare? A further, hideous rejection of her?
Bravo counted Joja as an ally. An actress, she could be assigned any role she might be needed to play.
Karen’s eyes followed Bravo like a jungle animal’s awaiting the exact moment to strike. It seemed to Karen that her life had been a preparation for the invasion of fury; surrounding her, waiting to be allowed in. Now she allowed it. But as if the savage images of violence hammering at her mind were consuming her energy, she felt a numbing, draining weakness.
Rev.
Albert.
Topaze.
Freddy.
All caught in currents of loathing clashing in the room.
Blue: The mirror. He still did not dare face it. Deprived, then, of his sustenance by the possible presence of the leering, depraved, horrifying face. Was that the sinister presence he felt suddenly in the house? Or . . . Cam! . . . Cam and the priest! I am Lord Susej! The thought shaped suddenly on the black lake of his mind.
Richard’s back was to them, again; he faced Tarah on the throne.
Taunting them? the priest wondered. Knowing—Richard—that none of them would strike against him? Could they? All that was required was a slight movement—and the easy plunging of the knife into flesh.
Spreading their hands out, arms like wings, as if to collect the waves of hatred roaring in this room, the mamaloi and the papaloi stretched their bodies.
Just once—an echo—softly this time, hardly a whisper, her eyes captured by the black man and black woman, Lianne sighed: “Kill . . . death.” And this time almost delicately, she mimed the act of exorcism.
Behind the blind mask and the veiled scrim, Tarah waited on the velvet throne. Footsteps! Words! In rehearsal for this play? If it would test her life, it wou
ld also summarize the evil love— . . . encounter, she corrected herself. And still grasping for the iron reason for her presence on the throne (it existed, that reason, she had only to shape it), she found it: Of course: The insatiable sexual appetite which Richard had released again after taming it—the awareness of that—would trigger the murderous anger against him: She had “submitted” to conquer.
The veiled scrim parted; she heard it. A hand touched her breasts lightly. The mere contact engulfed her in desire. Who? The priest?—released finally by the encounter with Blue? But something was lost in her particular desire for him—he was no longer . . . pure. . . . Was it Blue then before her? The blond body. Eagerly she reached out. A bare chest, smooth, hairless. A muscular chest. Tor. The gleaming hard body. (Her mind spewed images quickly: Naked! The rock-hard body mounting her! Strong legs spreading her thighs!)
“A body,” Tor’s voice offered his tattered identity to her.
“Tarah! Do you choose him?” Malissa’s voice shattered the black silence behind the mask like lightning tearing the dark sky.
Contain desire! Frustrate it! Tarah urged herself. Allow it to simmer! Channel it into rage! Rage catapulting murder! “No,” she answered Malissa firmly.
Disoriented by the blind, masked eyes—eyes that did not stare—the muscular body removed itself from before the woman; and it retreated against the scrim as if needing to assert its presence, if only the body’s outline, to the unmasked eyes beyond it.
Again, the rustle of the curtains, parting. Now without reticence, Tarah reached out. A slender torso. This time the mysterious blond youngman? Blue. A gorgeous depraved angel. Blue? Rev? The tight wiry body. Yes, it was Rev, she knew; he was not tall. (The flaming images scorched her mind: Imagining: The hard tattooed cock, the tattooed hands parting her legs for its entry, and simultaneously the muscular body of Tor, and hungry lips, mouth to mouth, tongue to tongue, twisting bodies, hands on flesh, organs exploring front, back, mouth.)
His radiating violence—he had to say no word—that was Rev’s silent promise.
“Is he your prince?” Malissa’s voice attacked beyond the scrim.
Feeding the growing rage, banking it, “No!” Tarah rejected.
