The Age of Cities

by Brett Josef Grubisic

  “Ignore him, Bette. As you well know, he’s no gentleman. I wouldn’t spend one minute alone with him if I were you. Buyer beware, I say.” Miss Satterlee drank from her glass as though it held a nerve-calming tonic.

  “Slatternly.…” Johnny acknowledged her with audible growl in his voice.

  Miss Satterlee thrust out a hand as though she were trying to stop traffic. “Don’t you come too close to me, Mr. Leslie Thomas Flynn, or I’ll give you something to be sorry for. Again.” Winston smiled, astounded to be in the midst of such an unlikely quarrel. “’Sides, I’ve made a few good friends with fat wallets down at a magazine you’re quite familiar with. They’re always interested in hearing what fresh news I can dig up for them.”

  Satterlee grabbed Winston by the arm. “That man, he gets my dander way up. You watch your back.”

  “We should get a move on, sport,” Johnny said, close to Winston’s ear.

  Directing Winston toward the table of bottles, he added in a loud voice, “Ya gotta wonder if that dame is knitting with both needles.”

  “They dropped dead, like flies upon the autumn’s first frost. It was a divine message, but we could not fathom the true nature of our mortal sin.” While Essex tended to fortifying their drinks, the Black Prince was explaining the rigors of daily life under the pall of the Black Death to a man who had been introduced as “the notorious studio hack, Mr. Michael Curtiz.”

  During the few moments that he actually spoke, the man spat out words with a German accent. He wore a shimmering red ascot and used a monocle with expert flair. His hair was combed straight back and glistened with grooming oil. Winston continued, spurred on by the director’s intent nods: “Elders of our holy church implored us to fast and pray. They dictated that mortification would be our salvation. But still the suckling babes and ancient relics, monstrous sinners and living saints alike, fell into fevers and died twisted in agony.” He clutched the man’s shoulder. “We burned them all, denying their souls proper burial in hallowed ground.” He was tickled with the picture of devastation he was painting—like something from a Bosch canvas—even though he was no longer sure about the details he kept throwing on.

  Curtiz removed the monocle and gripped it in his hand. He exclaimed, “Éclaircissement, as za French vould zay! I haf read of zis Seuche, but haf never imagined vot a visual spek-tac-le it vould be. Vot a picture it vould make! Epic! Tragic! Ja, I vill haf to talk mit Herr Varner about dis.”

  “Gentlemen. I come bearing gifts.” Essex was carrying a small metal tray loaded up with their particular mixes of vodka. “Cheers,” he exclaimed as the Black Prince and Herr Curtiz reached for their glasses.

  “Bevare of creeps bearing gifts, no?” the director said to Winston with a wink.

  “Hell of a good party, Essex. Very good. Nice.” Ed was dressed in khaki trousers and a rumpled white linen shirt. His hair was parted differently. Winston could see that he’d shed some weight.

  “Pleased to meet you. Jake Barnes.” He shook Winston’s hand. “Edward of Woodstock, eldest of the children of Edward III and Phillipa of Hainault. Keeper of the realm. Sworn enemy of Philip of Valois and all his kin.” Winston knew he was drunk and going on, but could see it was funny. He knelt for a moment in mock deference.

  “This here’s my girl, Georgette. Georgette Hobin. She’s French. She’s a dancer, damn splendid one. A man would be a fool not to marry her. It’s rotten that she’s already married.”

  “Milady,” Winston bowed his head.

  “Cheers,” Georgette said, and tapped her glass to Winston’s.

  The balcony had become the location for a gathering of historical importance no oracle would have foreseen. Winston was watching General Custer and his wife as they listened to an animated Elizabeth Tudor—the gesticulations of her hands reminded him of an Italian merchant, not an English monarch—and her consort, another Essex. The tableau would prove a challenge for Alberta to capture in her next pillow cover, he thought with a start. He’d have to suggest it, even though she’d surprised him by not being terribly enthusiastic about the antics of the gang that he had relayed so far.

  “…and, let me tell you, we had to put a few of the royal jewels in hock after that,” Elizabeth was explaining to Custer as Winston approached the balcony. The group erupted with laughter. Staring to the east, he saw the Shell Oil clock and its otherworldly neon glow. The General asked his lady if she would care to dance, and the pair passed by.

  He smiled at Elizabeth, but she said nothing and looked at her suitor. Essex nodded curtly and led the regal consort inside by her raised hand.

  Winston turned and watched Johnny nod and say, “Ladies,” as he wound his way toward the balcony. Standing next to him, Johnny offered an explanation: “Bull dykes. They tend to keep to themselves. We think they don’t really like us men at all. Who can blame them?” Johnny sighed, leaning heavily on the ledge.

  Winston watched the women, now amidst the clutch of dancing couples in the living room. They may as well be Martians for all the insight he has about them, he thought. Below the calm—that thinnest of surfaces—stood another person. The Rosenbergs. Lesbians. The murderous lover, Leo Mantha, his mother’s former cause. He wondered what he’d learn if he could delve into the mind of Dickie or the skinny fellow wearing the bikini. Even Delilah Pierce and himself. Layer after layer of the same translucency like an onion? Or, as in a jawbreaker, one colour melting away to reveal another?

  “What a night, hey,” Johnny said. He bumped his hip into Winston’s and remained close.

  Johnny surveyed the rooftops and contours of distant buildings wrapped by tendrils of fog. Winston remembered Alberta’s vision of the prehistoric Valley and had no difficulty seeing murky reptilian heads cutting swaths through the fog. He smiled woozily and leaned against the balcony door. The muscles in his legs felt too feeble to bear his weight.

  “My good fellow, you’re pie-eyed. And I’ve barely had a chance to ply you with Judy Canova Collins.” He placed a hand on Winston’s shoulder. Winston resisted the urge to slide toward the floor.

  “Excuse me for a moment, good sir.” Winston’s belly warned him that if he didn’t keep moving he was sure to retch. He was mortified at the thought of it. An inebriated vomiting in plain sight was not a way he had ever imagined humiliating himself. Planted in a corner like a wallflower was his usual role. Whenever Winston turned down her occasional offers of a nightcap, Alberta told him he would have made a good Puritan. And here he was, drunk as a schoolboy. He breathed deeply, measuring the intake to steady his stance.

  Errol and Beverly were dancing inside, slowly circling in the living room and interlaced with other lively reincarnations of the recently deceased movie star. Standing at the edge of the crowd, Winston thought that with his bulk and all the hair on his back, the man actually looked like a dancing bear; his bathing trunks were incongruous, like the tiny peaked hat on an organ grinder’s monkey. For the scrawny and pale girlish dance partner he could still find no words and resisted an insistent urge to guffaw. Miss Washington tightly held her monopoly on the bittersweet blues, now telling her disappointing lover you don’t know what love is.

  Folds of smoke hung in the air as though fog had crept in from the night. Through the haze, Winston watched the hands of Peggy La Rue Satterlee squeezing an orange at the cocktails table. The revelry—warm perfumed bodies, blustery conversations, and shrieks of laughter—felt overwhelmingly close. Winston was propelled by the sudden belief that he required solitude to restore his calm. If he could locate his coat, he’d slip out like the proverbial thief in the night. It would take just a moment to change his clothes.

  He waited in the shadowy hall outside of the bathroom after rattling the doorknob on the closed door. The jack-o’-lantern sitting on the floor gave off a meager light; he did not remember it and wondered if earlier he had been too nervous to pay attention. Feeling slack, he slumped against the wall for support.

  Georgette opened the door opposite. Winston
gazed past her to see Frankie sitting in profile at the end of the bed, his trousers bunched at his ankles. His shirt was open and Winston’s eyes traced the line of hair from his chest downward. Frankie nodded at Winston and a smile spread across his face, evaporating as quickly. He ran his left hand along his taut belly before letting it settle between his legs. Georgette closed the door and hurried toward the party. The door remained shut.

  Winston rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand. Over the music, he heard the bathroom door scrape along the tile floor.

  “Have you seen my girl, you know, Georgette?” Ed asked.

  “Just walked toward the kitchen, I think.” Winston could not open his eyes when he answered.

  “Are you feeling alright?”

  “I’m fine. Dizzy. Need a minute or two for myself, that’s all.”

  “Just holler if you need anything, my friend.”

  “Thank you, Ed, I will.”

  Inside the bathroom—the door shut and locked—he walked to the sink. He was relieved that the mirror reflected nothing unseemly; the bandeau was intact and his drawn-on beard had not streaked. His lips were stained bright from drink.

  At the toilet, he struggled with the costume, lifting and holding up the jupon while trying to roll down the leggings and underpants. Leaning with one palm flat against the wall behind the toilet tank and legs spread to keep the leggings secure, he watched the colourless stream jet into the toilet bowl. He chortled at the ridiculous picture he’d make. In real life, Falstaff would be unsightly and pathetic, a boorish guest who’d overstayed his welcome.

  Bowel and bladder movements on the battlefield, Winston thought. Now there was another example of the kind of mystery left unsolved by history books. Wishing not to make a mess, he held his member—the membrum virile as he had learned to call it in his high school days—and aimed for dead centre. The technique was noisy; it was his habit to strive for silence by directing the stream to the side of the bowl. He could change his ways, though, if it would be a benefit. Splashing over the floor would be almost as bad as vomiting. His manhood felt warm in his hand—flushed, expansive. Another attribute of firewater, he concluded. It was no wonder the stuff caused such havoc when settlers gave it to Indians.

  Winston imagined that a few minutes alone would help him regain his composure. He knocked on the bedroom door. No one answered. Curious to know if Frankie had fallen asleep, he turned the doorknob, stepped inside, and quietly closed the door. The heavy curtains were drawn in Dickie’s bedroom. Frankie was gone. Winston made his way to the bed, vividly recalling Frankie’s posture on the bed and Georgette avoiding his stare as she passed him in the hall. Winston told himself that he’d stretch out on the bed for a moment. He slid off his moccasins and lay down, resting his face near to where he’d watched Frankie.

  “C’mon, Sleeping Beauty, you ought to make your presence known to your minions.”

  “Not too much of a drinker, we see. You need an iron stomach for it, I suppose.”

  “What’s the time?”

  “It’s late. Everyone’s gone home.”

  “Some fresh air would do us all well. We’ll take a walk, see what’s going on out there.”

  “A walk to the Enchanted Forest.”

  “What’s that?”

  “C’mon, get your regular clothes on. A brisk trip out of doors will sober you up.”

  The fog had lifted and the night was starry and clear. He could smell the lingering scent of exploded firecrackers, but Winston heard no vestiges of revelry. It felt like the winter stillness of November had completely settled in with the frost.

  “We think you’ll love it there, Farmer,” Dickie chirped.

  “Why is that?” He thought that what he’d love was sleeping off his headache under warm blankets at home.

  “Just an inkling, really.”

  They crossed the street that evidently marked the border between city and park—no other apartment blocks with brightly lit lobbies stood before them—and walked toward a pond over which hung the residue of fog. The men remained silent. Even Dickie kept to himself. Winston guessed that only he among them had no notion of their destination. That put him at a disadvantage.

  “It’s rather difficult to see,” he said as they strode ahead unerringly.

  Dickie turned and explained in a loud whisper: “You’ll get your sea legs in no time.”

  In the gloom, Winston was barely able to distinguish the blank darkness of the forest and brush from the star-specked night sky. They walked over an elfin stone bridge; as they approached a road that severed grassy flatland from tenebrous wall of trees, Johnny and Ed huddled to light cigarettes.

  Dickie caught up and gestured for Winston to join them. He placed an index finger to his lips. Winston could not fathom where he was heading with these men and wanted to giggle at the ridiculousness of this rendezvous-at-midnight situation. Like Dickie’s purple bruise makeup, the silence and cloak and dagger skulking tilted into melodrama. It was trite, but he was hooked by it; the unknowingness had its narcotic effects. Besides, he’d heard, there was nothing like a trip away to make a man appreciate the comforts and routines of home—the idea being that grass would always be greener until it is visited up close.

  Dickie clasped Winston by the neck and whispered in his ear: “Here we are.” Winston watched the men, now in single file, slip into a passage between two stands of trees. He could not have seen that sliver of an opening himself; these night dwellers apparently had the eyes of cats. He followed closely behind Dickie, exhaling vapour into the frigid air.

  They stopped at a place where the trail widened into a grotto. “Stay right here. We’re going to wander for a few minutes. But we’ll fetch you, so don’t fret.”

  “You want to leave me here? What on earth for?” he whispered. This new part of their plan gave him instant cause for worry.

  Dickie once again placed index finger to lip.

  Winston could not help but think of the pranks and worse that children play on one another when left to their own devices. When he’d read Lord of the Flies, he’d guessed that Mr. Goldman’s childhood experiences on the school playground had been the root of his pessimism. Civilization was, after all, the thinnest of veneers. But these men had never shown themselves to be pranksters; he’d never known adults who played practical jokes.

  “You’ll see soon enough,” Johnny said.

  The men melted like spectres into the shadow. Winston stood rigid, hands balled in the pockets of his coat. Alone and literally in the dark, he felt chilled and foolish. What would Edward the Black Prince have done? He snorted aloud. Obviously, he would have never agreed to be taken anywhere; courtier heads would’ve rolled instead. His stomach felt queasy.

  Winston could smell the mustiness of decaying leaves and the fresh sap of tree needles. The Enchanted Forest: he pictured wart-specked trolls lurking under bridges, crafty wolves, droopy-nosed dwarves in straw huts. Fair-skinned innocents waylaid by magical spells. He’d never thought about the actual Black Forest darkness of those stories; how frightened the orphaned children wandering under a sunless leafy canopy must have been. It was not fear that Winston felt now. The partial sleep and hangover had him bustling toward rancour. He was impatient for the mystery to be explained and until that happened his peering uselessly into the void made him feel as though he stood on the side of a road waiting for a bus whose schedule he did not know. Time had slowed to a crawl.

  He wished that Dickie had handed over a clue about what he was supposed to be seeing or encountering in this place. Or when. Unlike the Port-Land, about which he had made suitable—if finally laughably inaccurate—conjectures, what offering a patch of forest in the middle of the November night could make to sightseers was completely puzzling. So far there was nothing noteworthy to glimpse.

  Winston’s mind grew fiery with images—witches at midnight covens, white slavers, Soviet agents, the Ku Klux Klan—that he instantly extinguished. Some ideas just did not have the legs on whic
h to stand. It would serve reason that natural phenomena such as the aurora borealis or phosphorescent sea creatures would be closer to the mark. Yet, he could not come up with a thing offhand that might show up in a forest in the middle of the night. Some nocturnal animal, perhaps? Raccoons were hardly headline news. And it seemed unlikely these men would have any abiding interest in nature. They weren’t of the bird-watching sort. Delilah mocked city slickers for having no appreciation for the rhythms of the seasons, and would blanch if she spent an hour in the company of these gentlemen.

  In the aftermath of the Judy Canova Collins, Winston’s whole body registered its complaints. His thoughts turned to Alberta’s detective novels and their inevitable Mickey Finns. Why would these men bother? Or might the whole clandestine undertaking be a charade, one of Dickie’s odd jokes? Dickie had never shown himself to be vindictive for no cause; he seemed more bark than bite. None of it made any sense.

  As his senses adjusted to the blanketing shroud of darkness, Winston heard movements and watched mobile orange orbs—lit cigarettes. He squinted, trying to make the black against black shapes coalesce. Other men came here, then; it was not a secret only the gang was privy to. Everyone followed the rule of silence. Its strict adherence, Winston thought, lent credence to his nocturnal animal theory.

  A silhouette holding a glowing cigarette made its way toward Winston, its movement reminiscent of a singular though sluggish firefly. It stopped a few feet from him and drew from the cigarette. The shape moved closer until it stood next to him. Winston was frozen. A hand settled on his thigh and did not lift again. The hand squeezed gently; a moment later it crept upward, resting on the fly of his trousers. A finger dug under the flap of the fly. Winston could feel the hard edge of a fingernail run up the zipper’s metal surface, the vibration an electric shock.

  In a smooth, practiced movement, the shadow was crouched in front of him, the mouth directly on his trousers, the breath a sharp contrast to the autumn air. Winston’s mind was stalled; he wanted to push the shape away and tear out of the bower, and yet he was curious. He was aroused. With veteran ease, the figure unhitched Winston’s trousers and underpants; hands stroked his behind and a mouth—hot and soft and moist—enveloped his manhood. The sensation was like no other. Winston clutched the man’s head, felt the warmth of the ears, the oiled smoothness of the hair, the prickly stubble of his beard. Breathing in the pungent tobacco smoke, he could see other figures getting closer and then fading back. The moment climaxed in no time. The figure pulled away and, like the gang minutes before him, dissipated into the forest. The night air was cold on his exposed body. Winston tucked himself into his underpants and fastened his trousers. His senses reached out as he stared with dread into the fathomless dark of the night.