by David Gordon
“Ah so. We are familiar with À Rebours?”
“I’ve read it.”
“I discovered Huysmans and Baudelaire when I was just a farm boy, believe it or not, hiding in my attic, strangely obsessed for reasons I could not myself comprehend by Poe, Wilde, and the withered lace in my grandmother’s trunk. Of course it was Huysmans’s À Rebours that inspired Wilde in the first place. In The Picture of Dorian Grey, his book is the poisonous French novel that is said to twist Grey’s mind toward decadence and nihilistic hedonism. The effect on me was similar: I found the book in the library—no one in Plainsview, Nebraska, was well read enough to ban it—and ran away to Paris immediately. Things had changed of course, but not as much as you might think. I met a theatrical designer and became his apprentice, in many things.”
À Rebours or Against Nature was a kind of rebellion against Naturalism and the realistic style captained by Zola and which, like so much nineteenth-century European bourgeois culture, continues to more or less rule today. Huysmans’s hero disdains accepted reality and the conventional culture that surrounds him, and out of disgust, desire, boredom—infinite desire, infinite boredom—turns to a world of decadent, brooding artifice which, taken up as an aesthetic manifesto, formed an important basis for Symbolism in poetry and art.
It is also essentially plotless, more an argument than a story, and a particularly intraliterary argument at that, a fictional character railing at great length against other books. A 1925 translation actually announces, in proud type on the cover, “A Novel Without a Plot.” This happened to be a pretty good description of my own literary endeavors, as well as the prime reason given for their rejection. Was there really a time when publishers considered this a plus, the selling point that would inflame the public frenzy? No plot! I could hear the electric buzz along the line outside the bookstore.
The warlock opened a lacquered Chinese box. “Cigarette? They’re Egyptian.”
“No thank you.”
He screwed one into an ivory holder, lit it with a glass table lighter, and blew a long stream of smoke at me while he narrowed his eyes, as if I were a chair he was thinking of redoing. I tried to look jaded and blasé. “I read that Huysmans modeled his main character on Robert de Montesquieu,” I said. “I happen to be a big Proust reader as well.”
“Ah oui, Proust…” he muttered and flicked ashes toward a standing art nouveau ashtray. They fluttered down like a tiny drift of decadent snow. “Yes, Montesquieu, we believe, was the main model for both Huysmans’s hero and Proust’s immortal Baron de Charlus.” He tossed this off as if he and the other foremost authorities had just been weighing the matter before my arrival. The real Montesquieu was a wealthy eccentric who lived in a dream world of his own making. According to the poet Mallarmé, whom Montesquieu reluctantly admitted to his home for a brief visit, there was a room done up like a monk’s cell, another like a yacht, and a hall that held an altar and cathedral pews. A fake snowscape contained a sled set on a snow-white bearskin. One can only imagine what or who was hidden, locked away in the dungeon when the poet came knocking.
Looking around again, I realized the extent to which my host’s own chamber, with its ratty furs and paper-mache skulls, was a small, sad attempt to cast his life in that heroic mold. This then was the final decadence, the darkest, smallest, sickliest flower at the far reach of the thinnest stem. First come the great originals, then their many descendents, on down through camp, drag, glam, goth, and metal, each one raising a spiked fist with nails of black and red. And finally it all ends here, with Kevin, whose own fragile playhouse was an artifice of their artifice, a third-hand thrift store copy. But wasn’t this the fate of all artists? Wasn’t it all a desperate fight against reality? And didn’t reality always win? Wilde in prison, then exile, raging against the drapes in his cheap hotel, Baudelaire, wasted on opium and ill health, Poe mad and drunk in the streets of Baltimore. Proust coughing all night alone under his blanket of pages. Even the greatest writers were losers. Those who triumph in real life don’t have time for poems. The only difference between the giants and peons, such as Kevin and I, was the depth of the crack each of our defiant blows would leave in reality’s mirror. Against nature, indeed.
The doorbell rang shrilly. “Who can that be?” Kevin demanded, turning on me. “I’m expecting no one!”
The buzzer sounded again, loud enough to wake drunken firemen. “Yes!” he thundered, opening the door. A hefty old woman with a clown’s worth of bright red hair peered through the screen door.
“Kevin? Kevin?”
“Yes, Mrs. Greenstein, what is it? Can’t you see I’ve a guest?”
“Is Tora here? She didn’t come home last night and I’m worried.”
“No she is not, thank you!”
“Well I’m worried because she didn’t come home last night.”
“Yes, I believe you mentioned that. But rest assured, that randy, mangy alley cat is not in my home. Though last night she was as usual screeching in heat outside my window. I’m sure she’ll come home when she’s hungry, and pregnant no doubt.”
“You don’t have to be nasty. I own this house. And your rent is late. Again.”
“Please,” he groaned. “Mrs. Greenstein, if you insist on humiliating me before my guest, I will explain that I am expecting payment, momentarily, for some royalties due.”
“What guest?” The landlady pressed her nose to the screen. I waved.
“This is Mr. Samuel Kornberg, an author.”
“Hi,” I said.
“He is interviewing me about the strange life and tragic death of a dear friend with whom I once collaborated intimately, the illustrious filmmaker…”
“Nice to meet you, I’m sure,” she said, and curtsied slightly. “I didn’t see you there. I’m worried about my Tora. She didn’t come home last night.”
“That’s too bad,” I said. “I’m sure she’s fine.”
“Yes, yes, she’s fine. Thank you, Mrs. Greenstein, I will be in touch.”
“OK, well as soon as that royal payment comes…”
He shut the door. “Forgive me. My neighbor is losing her senses, poor thing, and I don’t like to be cruel.”
“Not at all,” I said.
“Now where were we?” He retied his robe. “Zed avec Huysmans. Zed proposed a series based on the Black Mass, a kind of nonnarrative exploration, a dark pilgrim’s progress of the soul one might say. We conceived it in three parts: Invitation, Consummation, and Ascension. He used Huysmans’s other novel, Là-Bas, or Down There in English, which describes the Black Mass rather accurately.”
“Zed wrote a script about it?”
“Yes, well.” He shrugged and lit another cigarette. “I use the term ‘wrote’ loosely. I rarely saw him sitting down unless he was eating dinner. He was more of a pacer and a talker than a writer. He had vision though, and passion to the end. He was ablaze. But his wife did most of the actual writing. I did sets and costumes and someone else the camera.”
“Who? I’d love to interview him as well.”
“Funny, I don’t recall. Just this kid from somewhere, you know.”
“Can you tell me more about Mona?” I asked. “I’m particularly interested in her, as background you know. You say she wrote? She acted in the films too, I heard.”
“It was no act, believe me. The rituals were quite real, and as far as I know the only ones on film. I even procured the host from a wayward priest of my acquaintance.”
“The host?”
“The desecration of the host, the consecrated wafer, is key to the ceremony, my dear. The priest inserts it in the vagina of a priestess, then has sex with her atop an altar, ejaculating onto the wafer. This defiled wafer is removed and used in the mass. The priest in our film was Zed and the priestess was played by Mona.”
“Really?” I saw her in my arms again, then in the billowing cloud of the curtains, and then gone. “And she did this by choice? She was… she liked it?”
“She was no
victim, if that’s what you mean, not like some of the women back then. Like this Mexican girl, their pet. She had that born-to-be-used look. One felt a bit sorry for her. But not Mona. She was right in the very thick of it. I saw her getting whipped and spun on the wheel, hot wax dripped on her loins. I saw her take on a half dozen men, women whatever, but she always seemed I don’t know, victorious.”
A dreamy look came over him, as odd emotions welled up in my chest. I felt hurt, jealous, angry, but at whom? A dead woman I barely knew? Her suicided husband? I dreaded telling Lonsky and sullying the image of his dream girl. My dream girl too.
“This Mexican girl, do you recall her name?” I asked, changing the subject. “It would be helpful if I could track her down.”
“No, sorry. Her name didn’t seem to matter if you know what I mean. I think she went back to Mexico after Zed died. Everything dispersed.”
“But you shot those three films before he died?”
“Three? No,” he corrected me. “There were only two.”
“You named three, Invitation, Consummation…”
“Yes, three were proposed, originally. But we only ever made two. There was no Ascension.”
“Why not?”
Kevin smiled. “Are you a religious man, Mr. Kornberg?”
“No, not at all.”
“Then you probably won’t understand. But once you invite forces such as these into your life, or offer yourself as an instrument, as Zed did, in the Black Mass…” He shrugged theatrically.
“You’re saying the devil appeared and took him?”
His smile widened and he tapped my hand again. “I’m saying be careful what doors you open… Bitch!” He jumped to his feet, startling me as his robe fell open and revealed a vanilla body, old now and withered, covered with melted tattoos. He pointed at a small black kitten regarding us from the kitchen doorway, head cocked adorably, with big green eyes and oversized ears.
“Meow?”
“There’s the little slut!” he shouted. “I’ll get help. Don’t let her out of your sight!” He gathered his robe and ran out. “Mrs. Greenstein!”
Smiling, I turned to the cat, speaking as I might to a madman on a ledge.
“Hi, Tora. Good kitty.” I put my hand out and she split, fleeing into a closet. “Fuck.” How did I end up in this spot? Cautiously, I pulled back the door.
It was a linen closet, shallow shelves lined with flowered paper and stacked with sheets and towels. The floor held cleaning supplies, rolls of toilet paper, a pile of shoes. Then I noticed a furry tail, wavering slightly as it curved between a pair of blue rain boots. It slithered away like a snake and disappeared, seemingly into the wall.
I looked over my shoulder. Kevin was still nowhere in sight. Curious, I moved the Lysol and Bounty and found a gap. I pushed and the wall of shelves folded back, revealing a small hidden chamber, no more than an archway really, that had been cleverly disguised by an expert set designer.
The inside of the space was painted red, and there was a pentagram in black on the floor. On the wall hung an upside-down cross, silver this time, and atop that an animal skull, some kind of ram, with two great horns, curling like shells into spirals. On the floor were melted candles, red and black, along with a few books, bound in black leather, and two large Betamax videocassettes. Faded labels, written in a fine, sloping hand read Invitation and Consummation. The cat regarded me from the center of the star. It hissed and darted past me in a blur.
Shaken, I quickly shut the panel and the closet door. I grabbed my bag and hurried outside, where I saw Kevin on the front path, tugging Mrs. Greenstein, who pushed along on a walker. He waved in alarm.
“Wait! Don’t go! I haven’t told you about my work in the musical theater! I have a scrapbook!”
“That’s OK. You’ve been too kind already. I’m afraid I’m late. I’ll call you.”
I hustled to my car and got in. The warlock watched me from his front lawn, robe fluttering about him in the hot wind, while the old woman crept toward the door.
42
NEXT I RELUCTANTLY DROVE back out to Green Haven to endure a scolding by Dr. Parker, but this time, when I walked into the lobby, the reception desk was abandoned. I waited a few minutes before I noticed the buzzer, which I pushed. There was no sound, but the cute nurse emerged from a door.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s been crazy here today.”
“Isn’t that usually the case?” I said lightly, trying for charm. She blinked. She wasn’t listening. I gave her my name. “Dr. Parker is expecting me.”
Now her eyes widened and focused on me. “Do you have an appointment?”
“He wrote me this morning and asked me to come in.”
“He wrote you? Dr. Parker?”
“Right. Just ask him, I’m sure he’ll tell you.”
“Ask him?” she repeated, dumbly.
“Listen, will you just…”
“Please,” she said, her voice cracking, and put up a protective hand, although I hadn’t moved. “Just please wait here one second.” I stepped back as she rushed out. I waited, and waited, and resisted the urge to buzz again. Then she reappeared, poking her head through the door.
“Sir?” she called. “Will you please follow me?”
I did. She led me down the familiar hall that reminded me (I imagined) of the White House (blue carpet, white walls, high moldings) and into the doctor’s office. He wasn’t there. Instead, I found a different, younger man in a black fashionable suit, and a cop, in a not at all fashionable Pasadena PD uniform. Two other men, in coveralls, were unpacking equipment in the back, as if they were there to repair the air conditioner.
“Good morning,” the suit said. “Mr. Kornberg?”
“Yes.”
“Hi. I’m Russ Fowler.” He was a well formed, evenly tanned man with dark eyes, white teeth, shapely eyebrows, and handsome hair and hands. He gripped my hand and gave it a firm, dry pump. “I’m told you had an appointment with Dr. Parker?”
“Yes, that’s right. He wrote me…”
“Well. I’m afraid I have some bad news. Dr. Parker passed away today.”
“What? When?”
The cop spoke from behind his sunglasses. “There was an accident at approximately eight thirty a.m. this morning. Single car. Apparently, the deceased had a blowout driving at high speed and lost control of the vehicle. He was alone. Responding officers found him dead on the scene.”
“That’s fucking terrible,” I said. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
“Sir, I will thank you not to blaspheme,” the cop said.
“What?” For a second I didn’t realize what he meant. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean anything. I’m just in shock.”
“I understand that, sir. But I am a Christian as well as an officer of the law of the City of Pasadena.”
Russ intervened. “Thank you, Officer Clemento.” He winked at me. “I’m sure Mr. Kornberg meant no offense.” Clemento gave me a hard look as Russ led me to the couch. He sat beside me. In the rear, the workmen removed a large painting of a landscape from the wall and revealed a safe.
“So, Sam,” Russ went on, patting my knee. “What were you here to see the doctor about today? Are you a patient?”
“Me? No. He wanted to discuss something.” I tried not to stare at his hand on my leg. “Why do you ask?”
“Sorry to seem intrusive. I’m here on behalf of the board of directors actually, to help clear the doctor’s desk, so to speak. You can imagine what a terrible time this is for all of us. Dr. Parker was the heart of Green Haven, not just the brains.”
He smiled warmly as, behind him, the workmen put on masks. They lit a blowtorch and, as the orange finger touched the safe, sparks began to jump. My phone buzzed in my pocket. I stood abruptly.
“Nothing like that,” I said. “It wasn’t a professional visit. Thank you both for your time though.”
Officer Clemento nodded his shades. “You drive careful now.”
“Thanks,”
I said, heading for the hall as the steel began to sizzle under the flame. “And God bless!”
It was Milo on the phone. He’d unjammed the VCR. “Guess what was in there? John Waters. Desperate Living. I was wondering where it was. It’s shredded. But Succubi! is good to go.”
Walking to my car, I told him about my visit with Kevin and the Beta tapes.
“What did you do with them?”
“Do? Nothing. I got out of there.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? Do realize what you had there? That’s like King Tut’s Tomb. No human eyes have been cast upon them in forever.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Not to mention what a copy is worth on the collector’s market.”
“How was I going to take them? He’d know it was me.”
“Whatever. Remember what you said about being a pathetic pussy?”
“I think ‘boring loser’ was my term.”
“We’re both right.”
43
SUCCUBI! (A.K.A. SUCK-YOU-BI a.k.a. The Demon Bitches a.k.a. Der Lesbo-suckers) tells the tale of two mismatched college roommates, Cassandra, a blond cheerleading type, and Val, a brainy, bespectacled brunette. Forced to do an anthropology project together for their sleazy, mean professor, the two roomies unearth a moldering old volume entitled Magick that contains a section on succubi, female demons who seduce men and drain their life force. Next, a series of horrible traumas seals their friendship. First, the anthro professor molests Val and threatens her with expulsion if she tells. Running home in tears, her T-shirt ripped, she is accosted by the troll janitor and his drunken white trash pals. Meanwhile, a bunch of jocks attempt to rape Cassie in the locker room. That night, in their underwear, the girls bond and, half kidding, they perform the forbidden ritual they find in the back of the book, the one that says Do Not Speak These Words: they light candles, prick their fingers, get naked and hold hands, boobs just barely touching. They speak the spell. A storm rises, lights flicker, Moogs moan, lightning spiders the night. They end up in each other’s arms, first in panic, then in lust, twisting in a fit of ecstatic torment before collapsing into sleep.
