The Book of Lies

by Felice Picano

  My heart was still racing. When I looked into the rear-view mirror to check that I was alone, I saw my face too, my face as I’d never seen it before: bloodless, haunted, gaunt with fear.

  Although her car was parked outside, I didn’t see Conchita in the house when I entered. I went straight to the kitchen bar and found an open bottle of bourbon in the cabinet and, standing in the almost dark room, I poured it neat into a glass and drank it. I was still shaking. I drank another shot. After a few minutes I felt a smidgen better I went out and got my bags from the car and dropped them in my room. I was still shaking. I went back to the kitchen for another shot of bourbon.

  This time Conchita was there, in a dressing gown, barefoot, not sleepy at all. She looked at me and did something with her upper lip. I looked at what I was doing and said, ‘I had a terrible flight back. Driving back here from the airport someone tried to run me off the road.’ I sipped again. ‘He kept on crashing into me. I don’t know why. I thought we were going to crash. Go up in flames. I’m lucky I’m alive. The car must be a mess!’

  I was about to pour another drink, but her hand shot out and stopped me. ‘I’ve got pills,’ she said. ‘They’re better. They’ll calm you down.’ She took the bottle away from me and put it back on its cabinet shelf. She vanished into her room. A minute later she was back with two flat yellow pills in the palm of her hand. ‘Go on!’ she urged. ‘Take them.’

  I took the pills. Washed them down with water.

  ‘You got a delivery. Urgent,’ Conchita said. ‘I left it in the library.’

  ‘Who from?’

  She shrugged.

  I slogged up the stairs into the library and turned on the desklamp. A hand-delivered envelope. Same day. It was on Dr Irian St George’s office letterhead and without greeting or preamble it read: ‘Be in my office tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. Before your classes. This cannot wait!’ No signature. What the hell?

  Conchita was standing at the sill of the library door. ‘Mr Von Slyke phoned. I said you were gone. He didn’t sound too happy. He said he’d call again tomorrow.’

  I tried to think what in the hell this was all about. Could the papers have not arrived at the Timrod Collection?

  Whatever it was, on top of today, tonight, the last half-hour, it was more than I could handle. I shut off the library lamp and walked past Conchita back down the stairs and into my room. I don’t think I even said good night to her. I did begin to brush my teeth. By then the liquor or the liquor and the pills or the liquor and the pills and the shock of the driving assault and all the adrenalin leaving my body conspired to totally enervate me. I dropped the brush in the sink. I did manage to get my clothing off and myself into bed. Barely.

  That night I had strange dreams. In one of them, Conchita was straddling my body as I lay in bed. She was totally naked, sitting on my cock, her rouged, pointed breasts bouncing up and down, her head and hair swiveling back and forth, strange high whinnying sounds coming out her throat. I couldn’t move, couldn’t do a thing but lie there. I didn’t feel any particular pleasure, or pain – anything, really. The dream seemed to go on a long time. It was replaced by others far more fantastic.

  St George was on the phone when I entered his office. I took this as a good sign. He waved a finger in a roughly corkscrew direction, gesturing me to sit and wait. I did. He was listening to someone on the other end of the receiver. ‘In-dis-put-ably!’ he expostulated, then spun in his chair to face away from me toward the window overlooking the campus. He continued to listen. Said something I didn’t catch.

  That morning I’d awakened early and surprisingly refreshed, I supposed because of the pills Conchita had given me on top of the bourbon on top of the length and multitude of experiences of the previous day. I’d not seen Conchita and guessed she was out early on some domestic errand. But as soon as I’d had my coffee, I’d phoned the Timrod Collection, and spoken to the director’s Connecticut-lockjaw assistant, who confirmed that the Von Slyke papers had arrived there intact, in toto, last Friday. He faxed me a copy of the receipt listing the number of boxes and confirming my own list of contents, and also faxed me a copy of the sizable check he’d cut for Von Slyke, which was to be sent directly to his bank account. Thus armed with nothing but good news, I’d tried phoning the author at the last number I had for him in Majorca. Received a high-pitched male British voice phone-answering machine. I’d left a message saying when I expected to be back at the Casa Herrera y Lopez, and I’d driven to UCLA early. I’d of course noticed the many new bumps and crunches and paint-scraping marks on the back and side fenders of the poor Celica, but it was far less damage than I’d feared. Now, a half-hour before my literature class was to begin, I felt a jot of contentment that whatever urgency St George wanted to see me about, it wasn’t any bibliographic screw-up.

  ‘In-dis-put-ably!’ St George repeated again loudly, then spun around and flung a manila envelope on the desk. It was addressed to him at the English Department, and he gestured for me to open it. ‘Then it’s sett-led!’ he said, and hung up the phone.

  ‘This ar-rived this morning from Mr Rice Sen-ior!’

  I opened the envelope and four eight by ten glossies slid out. All of them were taken from maybe fifteen feet away, all from the same angle, and all of them quite clearly showed a threequarters view over the lip of the Jacuzzi hot tub to within, picturing myself, half in half out of the water, receiving a blow job from Ray Rice Junior. I knew that when they’d been taken, I had been trying to push his head away from my genitals. Here, however, it looked exactly the opposite, as though I were pushing his head toward them. The snapshots looked as though they’d been taken from above the level of the terrace itself. From where, though? Maybe the open windows on the corridor of the house outside the dining room? Using what kind of equipment? I’d noticed no bright flashes. It must have been infrared film? The next question was who had done it? But since Ray had himself easily sneaked back into the house, it was apparent that someone else also might have come back specifically to take photos. It was a set-up from the beginning.

  To say I was appalled by these photos doesn’t begin to describe it. That horror must have been clear on my face when I looked up at St George, who was staring away from me, carefully, needlessly, checking his perfectly manicured fingernails.

  ‘Ad-mir-at-ion would be my na-tu-ral res-ponse!’ St George said, ‘if the sit-u-a-tion were not so fraught with ex-traneous im-pli-ca-tions! Un-for-tu-nate-ly for us both, it is so fraught!’ He moved his gaze to his other hand. ‘Al-so, un-fort-unate-ly, ex-plan-at-ions are un-ac-cept-able in these very serious matters of teachers con-sorting with students. You’re aware of the rules. There can be no ex-cep-tions. Someone else will take your class, of course! It’s already been assigned.’

  Shock after shock.

  ‘You mean someone will be taking it over today?’

  ‘Nat-ur-al-ly! But all is not lost! I’m sure no charges will be filed against you. And if so, I’ll put them off somehow. The act certainly ap-pears con-sen-su-al. Although they can argue otherwise. You’re not without re-sources. You have your the-sis to work on. The Von Slyke papers too!’

  ‘I finished them last week. I sent them off. They’ve been received at the Timrod Collection.’ I showed the faxed receipt. ‘And paid for,’ I added.

  He looked at the papers with a weary smile.

  Encouraged, I went on, ‘As for the thesis, I worked up a rough first draft of it for you. After meeting with Axenfeld and De Petrie. That went well. They were helpful, and very nice to me.’

  ‘I’m very glad,’ he said, not sounding it. ‘You brought something for me to look at?’

  I handed him the envelope containing my intro and photocopies of all the documentation. Len’s five fragments, the letters and diaries and statements of heirs and executors. My heart was thudding worse than last night when the black pickup had been chasing me, but I knew I had to soldier on, not fall victim to complete despair.

  ‘These photos
! They’re not what they seem to be.’ And when St George looked at me as though to say please, don’t bother, I added, ‘I mean they are obviously what they seem to be. But it was all his doing. He surprised me in the hot tub. I didn’t make him do anything or even want him to or …’ I trailed off. St George had said before it made no difference what explanation I came up with. The truth sounded lame even to me. ‘Ray told me before that he’s gay and his father doesn’t want him to be gay and he’s very upset about it. Although I don’t know why he’d set me up like this. Unless … Well, I don’t know.’

  St George was inspecting his cuticles again.

  ‘At any rate, I’m sorry you have to be involved in all this. Really I am. Very sorry. Although to tell the truth, I don’t know how I could have possibly avoided it happening. Except by not taking the class in the first place. Which is, I guess, what Ray Rice, Senior and Junior, wanted.’

  Still no response. The phone rang and, given his usual languid manner, St George all but jumped for it.

  A second later, he covered the mouthpiece of the phone and said to me, ‘I’ll have to take this call. Stop by the Bursar’s office and sign for your final paycheck.’ One of his perfectly manicured hands had fallen like a talon atop the envelope containing what I’d put together of my thesis. ‘I’ll look this over and get back to you.’

  Despite that relatively high final note between us, by the time I managed to get out of the languages building without attracting anyone in particular’s attention, I could feel my entire body sagging, my steps falter, my heart bruised inside me as though someone had been pounding upon my chest. I aimed toward the bursar’s office via what I believe to be the longest and most circuitous path possible, partly to try to attempt to reintegrate myself from the blows I’d received as well as to avoid being seen in this condition and partly to keep off those campus short cuts students usually took. Despite this, I spotted Kathy Tranh – luckily before she saw me – on her way to Royce Hall, to my class, where in a few minutes she’d be treated to another teacher, astonished and, I hoped, grieved to discover I’d no longer be teaching. I wondered who actually had taken over the class, and how the person would react to my curriculum – follow it to the letter or amend it so much it totally warped the course.

  My business at Administration was accomplished quickly and without questions asked or emotions expressed by the clerk or myself. Within a half-hour after arriving I was off the campus again, driving back to Hollywood. Not the most pleasant drive of my life, although for once traffic conditions had nothing to do with that, nor with my inner state. I couldn’t stop thinking about those photos and how they’d been taken, how they’d been used, how naive I had been to have been so easily framed. I still couldn’t figure out why. I’d already made it clear that I liked Ray Rice and would pass him in class. Could this have been insurance? Or insurance that I’d not tell his father or anyone else what he’d done to me in that hot tub?

  I also kept thinking about what my brother-in-law Bart Vanuzzi had said to me at the Fort Myers Airport, about how inexperienced I was, how open to being gulled. He’d warned me. He must have sensed something was going on. Everyone said that was one of Bart’s major strengths as a quarterback, that he could intuit where the best receiver was and, even with three monster linebackers blocking his view, know exactly who to throw the ball to. I also couldn’t help but wonder how this incident would end up being reflected on my record. Could St George just X the entire class and my part in it? Or note that the course had been divided in two and taken over by two instructors? He could. But would he? I also wondered what more the Rices planned. Criminal charges didn’t seem likely, as Ray Junior was of age. There could be a civil action. It would be my word against his. That would be undoubtedly ugly.

  Conchita wasn’t home when I got there. I still felt terrible and wondered if I shouldn’t go to bed. I’d just entered the house from in front and was passing through the library when the phone rang. I picked it up and got Von Slyke.

  ‘The Timrod Collection received your papers and faxed me a receipt. They also faxed me a receipt for the check they deposited in your account.’

  ‘Yes! I know,’ he replied. ‘That’s what you said in your message.’

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased,’ I said.

  ‘Yes. Very pleased. You’ll be receiving a check for your services. Where should I have it sent?’

  ‘Excuse me!’

  ‘Well, it stands to reason that you can’t possibly stay there any longer,’ Von Slyke said.

  ‘What? Why not?’ Had he talked to St George? And anyway what difference would that make?

  ‘Why not?’ Von Slyke asked, sounded himself astounded. ‘Because I can’t very well be responsible for having you staying in the house at the same time Conchita is there. It’s out of the question! I have obligations to her.’

  ‘I gave up my apartment. Where will I go? Don’t you also have obligations to me? I don’t understand.’

  ‘You don’t understand?’ Von Slyke scoffed. ‘Well, let’s begin with your initial lies and prevarications about yourself and your personal situation. Then move to your betrayal of my trust.’

  ‘When? How did I betray you?’

  ‘Ross, don’t play innocent with me. Conchita mailed me your divorce papers. The papers sent to your address in Westwood and forwarded to my place which arrived as she was speaking on the phone to me here two days ago. She said they looked official and I asked her to open them. You do realize what I’m speaking about now, don’t you? The papers finalizing your divorce from, what’s her name? Here it is! Christina Ohrenstedt, nee Crowell. Does that name ring a bell? Sound at all familiar?’

  Chris. Again. I didn’t know what to say.

  ‘I take it the name is familiar, then,’ Von Slyke said, triumphantly, ‘and that your two-and-a-half-year marriage to her was not a figment of the imagination of the State Family Court of New York. I also take it that you are not going to attempt the extreme foolishness of trying, in this advanced day and age, to explain it away or deny it. Are you, Ross?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good! Now if you’ll answer one more question. You’re not gay either, are you? Not gay. Not even bisexual, are you?’

  ‘You have to understand, Mr Von Slyke … I knew if I was going to write about the Purple Circle and be taken seriously by anyone, including yourselves, that I’d be totally suspect unless I fit in, unless I …’

  ‘Thank you!’ he interrupted. ‘I’ve heard enough. I see now you aren’t at all gay. Which is unfortunate, given how attractive you are. Not to mention how totally you fooled us all. However, it is also why you have to leave my house, today, Ross! Burton and I have advanced our air tickets. We’re coming home early tomorrow.’

  ‘You don’t let straight people stay in your house?’

  ‘It’s not that, Ross. But it is partly the reason why I’m afraid I can’t allow you to remain in the house with Conchita, not one more day. Or, rather, one more night. It’s not entirely that I don’t trust you, Ross, although why I should trust you after all of these lies I couldn’t begin to say. No, even if you swore you’d be a perfect gentleman and never touch her, I just can’t take the chance with Conchita also being aware of the fact that you’re not gay. Not now. Not given the extremely tumultuous and mentally troubled life she’s had. Her history of emotional problems, the various charges and allegations around sexual matters … I’m sorry, Ross, but I feel my debt to you is fulfilled. Or rather it will be fulfilled when you receive the check. As for Conchita, she’s been with me for years. I promised her mother I’d take care of her. I cannot go back on my word, not to mention jeopardize years of work, all the progress we’ve accomplished.’

  For the briefest of moments I thought I’d tell him all his work and progress had been for nothing, that Conchita had already gone and done what he was afraid of. It hadn’t been a dream – she had indeed drugged and fucked me last night. Instead, I said, ‘If I have to leave tonight, I’ll ha
ve to stay in a hotel. I can’t afford that on what …’

  ‘I’ll take care of a hotel for one week. Although it’s the sheerest generosity on my part,’ Von Slyke said. ‘Your check will not be a small one, when it arrives. Whatever else, I really do appreciate all you’ve done there. The people at the Timrod Collection said it was superb. But I can’t stake you to any fancy hotel. My hetero brother stays at the Holiday Inn in Hollywood. There are lots of “babes” around the pool, he said.’

  I passed the slur and said, ‘I’ll leave the name of the place I find inside your desk. It’ll probably be closer to school.’

  Twenty-five minutes later I had my bags and papers packed and was headed out on my second trip to the battered Celica parked in front of the house. I stopped, noticing the extreme oddity of the Casa Herrera y Lopez being left wide open, and a second later the reason why. Stationary there was Conchita’s Corolla and the same black pickup that had chased and crashed into me repeatedly the previous night. Conchita was talking to someone in the pickup. Not talking as though he were a stranger asking directions, but in a friendly, casual manner. I got the rest of my stuff into the trunk of the Celica. Using the cover of thick hibiscus bush that lined the circular driveway to the gate, I skulked my way to within ten feet of where they were. Given the quantity and location of paint scrapes on the truck’s front bumper, I was certain it was the same one that attacked my Celica.

  I was just in time to see Conchita take a single step up the tiny chrome running board of the black pickup and kiss the driver. This could only mean one thing. She’d told him when and probably also what flight I’d be on, coming into Burbank Airport, last night. She’d told him the car I’d be driving: the model, year and color. He’d followed me, not just after the freeway turn-off, where I’d noticed him, but all the while, possibly from the parking lot, maybe from the arrivals lounge. The attack had been planned in advance. I couldn’t think why that might be, although I now did understand something else about the recent phone call with Von Slyke: Conchita had seen my divorce papers in with the mail, had guessed what they were, opened them and only then had she called Von Slyke. Now that I thought of it, she’d actually asked me that day for confirmation of where Von Slyke was before she’d called to tell him about the divorce papers and thus screw me. The question was, why had she done it?