—No, it’s Eribó who wasn’t possible. (Petty laughter) Bustrófedon and Here and . . . was Bustrófedon there?
Boustrofelon. Trespissing is cuntsidered a phallony.
—I don’t know.
—It’s your story not mine.
—No, it’s your story.
—It’s yours.
—It’s yours!
—It’s mine but it’s about you, so it’s your story.
—It’s both our story.
—O.K., then, it’s both our story. The story goes like this. (Giggles) This fellow (little giggles) and I and I think Códac too. No, Códac wasn’t there. But Eribó was. Was Eribó there?
—No, Eribó wasn’t there.
—No. Then Eribó wasn’t there. So there we were, Here (giggles) and Códac . . .
—Códac wasn’t there either.
—Wasn’t he?
—No, he wasn’t.
—O.K. then, it’s better if you tell the story, since you know it better than I do.
—Thanks. I’ve got an inflatable memory. There we were (S-laughter), this fellow and Bustrófedon and I, all fours of us . . .
—You only said three.
—Three?
—Yes. Three. You and me and Bustrófedon.
—So that makes two of us, because Bustrófedon wasn’t there.
—He wasn’t there?
—No, I can’t remember him and I’ve got a log for a memory. Do you remember if he was there?
—No, I don’t know. I wasn’t there myself, remember.
—That’s true. O.K. then, so here we are (laughter) here we were (laughter) there we were in the park (laughter) Codac and I . . . Was I there? (Laughter on Tenth Avenue)
—You’re the Memorandum, don’t you remember? Mr. Memory. Mamory Blame.
—Yes, of course I was there. There we were. No, of course I wasn’t. I should have been there, wasn’t I? If I wasn’t there where am I? Help! To the rescue. To the risqué! I’m lost bare-assed in the park! Ataja! Achtung! Au-secours! Al-ladro! Astopthief!
We both laugh. It’s always us two who do the laughing. They didn’t even realize that this version by Bustrófedon of the Surprise Symphony was the story that never got begun. We then went on to invent other games. Who for? For anyone who doesn’t like it hot, three tips of metaphysical Horse Feathers marilynaded with inedible dungus. Athlete’s food.
—Would you like me to sing you a song?
This was a gambit Bustrófedon had stolen from a dodgy reverend and which Arsenio Cué had perfected to infinity, while making it his own. Petty L’Arseny. I will now be his erect fall guy, his bent straight man, his fool pigeon, and as Magalena or Beba or Bebalonia both said Ugh! meaning enough’s enough or you’re being a drag, I began right away. Señoras y señores. Ladies and gentlemen. Tenemos mucho gusto en presentar. We are glad to introduce, to insert (Cué made an obscene sign with his finger: his mudrá), to present, por primera y única vez, once and only, al Gran! the Great! Arsenio Cué! Arsenic Ui! Music. A rine of applause, please. Music and song. A gong is borne. A great internationally renowned singer. He sang in Covent Garden. In the vegetable market, of coursage. Belittled by Rliza. He sang in Carnegie Hall. Right there in the lobby. He also did some scales at the Scala, since then known as La Schola for Scandals. A hunique occasion. They will never repeat it. . . .
Our passengers gave a repeat performance of the noise they’d made which sounded like something they’d eaten. It was a belch that hit us under the belt, straight from the gut strings of boredom and tedium. Too much metaphysical duck soup. I ushered in the performance with a patriotic element, borrowed from that tenor who whenever he got the bird or a frog in his throat or both covered it up by croaking, Viva Cuba libre!
A tribute to a great Cuban artist.
Cué gargled tunefully. Mimi Doremy. I approached him, lapel salt shaker in hand.
—Are you going to sing, sing?
—By General Consent, I’m going to say Three Words.
—That’s a fine title, I said.
—It’s not the title, Cué said.
—Is it another song?
—No. It’s the same song.
—What’s its name?
—I was crossing the Khyber Pass when I fell over a dead ass. I didn’t fall upon my foot Nevertheless (that’s my right foot’s middle name, the other foot’s called Nevermore) but passed right over that gassed ass.
—Isn’t that rather a long name for a song?
—It’s not the name of the song. Nor is it rather a long name. It’s a very long name.
—So it’s not the name of the song?
—No. It’s the name of the title.
—What’s the title then?
—I don’t remember. But I can tell you the name.
—What’s the name?
—Victoria Regina.
—That’s the song. I know it. Delightful!
—No, it’s not the song. She’s just a friend. We are not a music.
—A friend? So you’ve dedicated it to her? To Rectoría Vagina?
—No, she’s just a friend of the song.
—A fan.
—No, she’s a woman. Though being a woman she’s liable to use one.
—Use what?
—A fan.
—That’s short for fanatic.
—Then she’s not a fanatic. As a matter of fact she’s a bit skeptical herself and if you want to know who she is and not what she isn’t, all I can say is that she’s a friend of the song.
—So what’s the song then?
—The one I’m going to say.
—What are you going to say?
—Three Words.
—That is the song!
—No, that’s the title. The song is what comes under the title.
—What comes under the title?
—The subtitle.
—And under that?
—The sub-subtitle.
—But then, you Sonofabitch, what’s the song?
—The name is Cué, if you please. I’m not a Russian. So don’t call me Cui. Czar Cué. One against five.
—WHAT IS THE SONG?
Here
or
there
—That’s just another title.
—No. It’s the song.
—The song? But it’s only three words.
—Three Words, but exactly!
—Coño, but you didn’t even sing it!
—I never said I was going to sing this song. Coño? I don’t think I even heard of it. I said I was going to say Three Words, not sing them.
—In any case, it’s a beautiful composition.
—That isn’t the composition. The composition is something else.
We braked. They hadn’t laughed. They hadn’t budged an inch. They hadn’t even protested yet, not loudly in any case. They were dead to being—and also to nothingness. Sartre would have made nothing of them. Or being. Or perhaps Ness. Infemmey thy game is human. Thy name is woeman. Thy game is omen. A bygame for tribs. It’s all over. Over. And out. For the time beings.
The game was over but only for us. It hadn’t ever begun for them and only Arsenio Cué and I were playing. The nympths with eyes blind to the night stared at the night of the bar. Woman I Arsenio said. If He hadn’t existed it would have been necessary to invent God to create her. (Or to fabricate Adam, which spelled backward means nothing. At least in Spanish. Adán = Náda. It was my voice I heard, half in earnest, half in jest, adding now: Bugger, blow Blues and Soda.) But Arsenio, as always, had the last word. Softly he said:
—Women: Sphincters without secrets!
XVIII
I think it was at this point that we began wondering tacitly (in the style of Tacitus, Bustrófedon always said when alive) whether it was worth making them laugh. What were we? Clowns, 1st and 2nd gravediggers when we weren’t laughing or human beings, common and garded persons, people? Wouldn’t it be easier to make love to them? This was, doubtless, what they expe
cted. Cué, who was more resolute or less aloof, began with his Murmur for the Left Hand in one corner and I said to Magalena why don’t we go off someplace. Where? Commonplace.
—Outside. Alone. By the silvery moon.
The moon wasn’t alight but all you need to turn it on is a cliché.
—What if she miss me?
—Then I’ll Mrs. you.
The criminal always returns to the scene of his.
—I mean, she’ll get mad at me.
—Do you have to ask her permission?
—Permission? No, not now. But what about later?
—Later you’ll be old enough to hold your own.
—I mean later now. She’ll start talking and making comments and giving me hell.
—So what?
—Whaddya mean so what? She keeps me.
I’d guessed as much though I didn’t say it.
—I’m staying with her and her husband.
—You don’t have to explain why you can’t.
—I’m not explaining, Ise just telling you so you know why I can’t.
—You’ve got a life to live.
It was truism versus altruism.
—Don’t let them live your life for you.
Love versus self-love.
—Don’t put off till tomorrow what you can enjoy today.
Horace Cué’s argument wins. Even in the battle of the sexes vanity is the one forbidden weapon. She looked like she was Cuénvinced by my Cuban carpe diem or at least she looked like she was chewing it over, which was more than a good beginning and with the same pretense of thinking over, or a continuation of it, she gave a sidelong look at Beba Beneficencia. We were in the lead. Old Pindar and me.
—O.K., let’s go then.
We got out. Above us the red blue and green letters that spelled out Johnny’s Dream flashed on and off. Exotic colors. Neonlithic Age. I almost fell over during one of the dark phases of the sign, but my fear of ridicule more than my sense of balance turned it into a dance step.
—I was dazzled, I said, explaining myself. I’m always explaining myself. Verbally, that is.
—It’s real dark down there.
—That’s what I don’t like about clubs. She was taken aback.
—You don’t?
—No. I don’t like dancing either. What’s so great about dancing? All it is is music. A man and a woman. Holding each other tight. In the dark.
She didn’t say a word.
—You should have said and what’s so bad about that? I explained.
—I don’ see what’s so bad about it. But don’ get me wrong, I don’ go in or dancin’ neither.
—No, just ask me: What’s so bad about that?
—What’s so bad about that?
—The music.
It’s no good. She didn’t even smile.
—It’s just an old joke of Abbott & Costello.
—Who’s that.
—The American ambassador. It’s a double-barreled name. Like Ortega y Gasset.
—No kidding.
Pervert. Seducing little girls. Little minds. Prévert.
—No. That’s just another joke. They are two comedians in American movies.
—I don’ know them.
—They used to be famous when I was a kid. Abbott & Costello meet the Invisible Man, Abbott & Costello meet Frankenstein, Abbott Costello meet their Mummy. They were very funny.
She attempted a vague gesture and vaguely it faded out.
—You must have been very young.
—Yeah. Quite likely I’d not been born.
—Would you had never been born. I mean, you would have been born later then.
—Yes. Around 1940.
—Don’t you know when you were born?
—More or less.
And you’re not afraid?
—Why should I?
—Wait until Cué hears about it. No special reason. At least you know you were born.
—Ise here, ain’t I?
—Circumsized evidence. If you and I were together in bed, it would be conclusive. Coitus ergo sum.
Of course she didn’t get what I meant. I don’t even think she was listening. I didn’t even have time to be surprised by my high dive. That’s what happens to a timid soul on a springboard.
—Latin. It means that when you’re making love you know you exist.
Sonofabitch. Sexus Propertius.
—Like you imagine. You’re here. Now. Walking. With me. In the heat of the moon.
If you go on like that you’ll end up saying, You Jean, me Tarzan. Antilanguage.
—Youse confusin’ me. You muddle everything up.
—You’re soveryright. But exackly.
—You do go on so. Like nonstop.
—You bet your sweet etcetera you’re right. You’d beat Descartes at his own game.
—Yes, I know Descartes’s game well.
I must have jumped. As big a jump as the one Arsenio Cué gave one day in the Mambo Club, this whorehouse, one day, one night rather, a night full of whores and a table piled high with handbags, and music on wings alas I—Alas de Casino, a singer who was all the rage then, and fuck would have it that one of the girls was in love with his voice, and as she couldn’t have aural intercourse she did nothing but put on his five records again and again, until even I knew by heart not only how one record ended but how the next was going to begin, strung together like a single endless song. Cué began pedantically as ever, talking with another whore, a real cute one, a doll, and told her I was called Exilophon and that his name was Cyruscué and that I’d come to fight by his side in the War of the Sexes, our Analbasis, and there was a whore sadly sitting by herself at another table: she was about thirty: a bit old for the trade (yes, in the Mambo Club une femme de trente ans was an old bawd, you ballsy Balzac) and she lowered her eyes on Cué looking sweetly at him and asked, Against Darius Codomannus? and she launched into a 1,000-word dissertation on the Anabasis till it almost seemed like the retreat of the 10,000 whores to a broadwalk by the sea she knew it so well and it turned out she had been a high-school graduate who through accidents of history (she’d changed her name to Alicia, but she told us her real name which was Virginia Hubris or Ubria) and sailing through economic straits had landed up on this whoredom a short while back, the opposite of the others who had started off as putas when they were still puber—and you can bet that Arsenio Toynbee Cué, better known as Darius Cuédomannus, left his little bonbon half dressed in her silver-paper wrapper and this very elephantine pedant, Arsenic Babbitt, spent that night studying under Virginia Lubricious, mistress of clapsickal and medic-evil hysteros. What had he learned from her? Veni VD vice? I returned from my jump. (Sal de salto.) Less than two seconds had passed. Theory of relativity extended to include memory.
—It’s French. Ecarté. Like vingt et un. I can play ‘em both. Beba taught me. She taught me polker too.
Jeux Descartes. If wise men played bridge the way women play poker. Polker. Poke wisdom. Cogitus interruptus.
—Yes. It’s the same game.
I decided to change the subject. Or rather, to return to the previous subject. Cycling. Marrying Mircué Eliade with a bicycle. A twindem. My twindom for a hussy!
—Don’t you like to dance?
—Would you believe no?
—Really! You have the face for it.
Shit, that’s racism. Physiognomancy. It would serve me right if she said you dance with your feet not your face. Chiropsody.
—Honest? When I was a girl I was just crazy about dancing. Not anymore, am not kidding.
—You were kidding then.
She laughed. At last a real laugh.
—Youse sure funny.
—Who do you mean?
—You and that friend of yours, wasisname, Cué.
—But you didn’t laugh till now.
—I mean funny peculiar. Youse weird. You say real strange things. Both of you say the same strange things. Youse like twins, youse somethin’
else. Whew! And you talk and talk and talk. Whaddya talk so much for?
Could she be a literary critic in disguise? Mary Magarthy Maga McCarthy.
—So maybe you’re right.
—Sure Ise right.
I must have made some kind of face because she added:
—But youse not so bad by yousself.
Better. Was it a compliment?
—Thanks.
—Youse welcome.
I saw she was looking hard at me, and in the half light her eyes looked, almost felt, like they were burning bright.
—I like you.
—Yeah?
—Yes, really.
She looked at me and planted herself opposite me looking in my eyes and she raised her shoulders and neck and face and opened her mouth and I was thinking that women feel love felinely. Where did she get this expression from? Nobody told me because there wasn’t anybody to tell me. We were alone and I took her hand, but she removed hers and scratched mine as she did so without meaning to or knowing she’d done it.
—Let’s go down there.
She pointed to the darkness of the shore behind us. Was she that susceptible to light? Photophobia. I couldn’t see a thing! Nyctalopia. On the other side of the river the lights of the Malecón were shining. We walked. I saw a shooting star fall into the sea behind La Chorrera. I took an invisible hand. It grasped mine firmly, digging its retractile nails into my flesh. I turned her around and kissed her and I felt her breath on mine, with its carnal taste, warmer than the night, warmer than the summer and it was a gust, a dawn breeze, another river and she filled, flooded the wasteland with her kisses her scent her love moans her wild smell, her domestic perfume (because I got some vague whiff of cheap Chanel, false Nini Ricci, I’m not sure, I’m not a scent scholar) and she kissed me firmly, hard, rough, on my mouth, her tongue pressed my lips open and she bit my lips outside and in, and my mucous membrane, my tongue, my gums, as though seeking something, my soul maybe and she tightened her fingers which had now become claws around my neck—and I remembered Simone Simon I don’t know why, yes I do know why, out there in the dark, and I gave her back kiss for kiss tooth for tooth till our kisses became one long single kiss and I kissed her neck dracularly and she said, she moaned yes yes yes and I opened her blouse and she wasn’t wearing any undergarment or bra, or what the French call a soutien-gorge, a throat support, a soutien-George, Georges, though who was supporting whom or what I don’t know and as I was surrounded by her nipples her nibbles her kisses her caresses her expert hands her nails drawn in now as they searched for a love breech, a beach head, I thought, I had the idea that she was dreaming she was a flying trapeze artiste without a net, in no Mayden-Form Bra, last night and I laughed inside myself while outside myself I was taking my tongue for a tour over her naked breasts (I was beside myself) around the world in two hemispheres and I went back along the same route, slowly along her neck toward my home in her mouth and I wetkissed her again the very moment she had found her road, her inner path and
Three Trapped Tigers Page 42
