"What are you doing here? I told you to leave." Pellet laid his large calloused hands upon me so tightly I was instantly immobilized. Then Elaina Munroe to my horror began to sing.
That song was -- mere words cannot describe it. I felt each note swirling around me, pushing its way into my head to stir my thoughts into a roiling cloud of confusion. My body reacted to the songbird despite my every wish it wouldn't, and the humiliation made me want to weep as I stood there burning up. That singing, that horrible, beautiful, singing -- I think it stole something from me then just by listening to it; stole it and for the life of me I would never get it back. I wanted to cover my ears, wanted to shut it out before my tears blinded me, but Pellet’s fingers held me tight, pinching off my muscles, and I could do nothing but submit to her power. Her singing was like a siren calling me toward the rocks. That is, until Mr. Pellet broke the spell.
"Shut up!"
His sonorous voice shook the room. Elaina Munroe stopped singing, but the smile did not leave her stained face. And still I couldn't stop looking at her soft naked body. My head burned feverishly.
"You promised me," Pellet said, crushing my arms in his anger. "You swore you wouldn't make me wait."
"And you won't," she said. "Not much longer. But I’m so very empty."
She'd already begun singing her last few words, as though incapable of controlling herself, and her voice as she continued was haunting and rhythmic, though I didn't understand the language for long. The words became old and guttural -- like prototypical words, still unformed by an evolving tongue -- and their effect on me was inconceivable. My body revolted, going into spasm, kicking and struggling in front of her while her large dark eyes focused narrowly on me. Her skin was so pale, the curves moving against one another, the sweet flesh so close, that I lost my mind. I must have fought like an animal to be free, but Pellet's giant hands pinned me. If they hadn't, if somehow I'd broken free, I don't know what would have happened. I might have run straight towards Elaina or run away screaming. The heat was unbearable, and it only increased the closer she came. When the song stopped we were separated by no more than an inch and I could feel the heat coming off of her like a furnace. Her touch was searing; my skin blistered beneath it, filling my nostrils with the smell of cooked flesh. I began to convulse, stars swimming in my head as my eyes rolled upward and I lost all control of myself. I saw her stained lips stretch thin in a rictal smile as she looked up at Mr. Pellet above me. She stood on her toes, bringing her face to his. I'd become weak, with just enough strength left to look into her face as her lips neared his. At the very last moment, a clear membrane slid up and over her eyes, like a reptile about to strike. I fell from his grasp and crumpled to the floor, covered in my own filth.
Weak, burning with fever and incapable of rational thought in that furnace, I nevertheless clawed at the ground, pulling myself toward the door only a few feet away. I couldn't be sure what was real and what was my delirium, but there were sounds behind me, indescribable sounds -- of things being stripped, being broken -- and as nauseating as they were I knew even in my state that I must not look back. If I did, if I saw what was becoming of Mr. Pellet, saw the soft curves of Elaina Munroe, I would break permanently. As soon as enough strength returned to my limbs I pushed myself to my knees, then to my feet, and stumbled through the door. The wet sounds behind me intensified, leaving a cold streak crawling down my spine, and I staggered as quickly as I could along the wooden backstage corridor, its once square walls suddenly askew, the corridor twisting to form some impossible geometry. I used my hands for support, dragging them against the scratched wall until they were streaked with blood. I was in a daze, the door back to the Nightingale so far away it might not have existed at all. The only noise was the heightened ticking of the watch in my pocket -- or was that the sound of the corridor twisting in on itself? I couldn't be sure, but what followed left no doubt in my mind that I'd stepped into some horrible nightmare. It wasn't the sound of flesh being rent from bone that chilled me. That sound had blissfully gone. No, as my legs began to shake and my mind to split along its seams, what I heard behind me was the sound of the purest dread, and it took the form of a soft voice singing once again.
My mind cracked, I think, and I must have gone mad, because I remember little else, and what I do remember is only in flashes, pieces of memory rescued from my shattered sanity. I remember the panic, the flailing of my arms, the screaming. I remember the corridor alternating between dark and bright, and I remember clawing at the door, leaving the knob slick with my bloodied fingers. I also remember falling a great distance and the sound of voices -- human voices, none screeching like a flurry of owls -- and looking up through murky eyes at a face I did not recognize. The face said, I think, "Hey, are you all right?" but all my crippled ears heard was: "You are not right.” Then I was on the floor of the Nightingale, and I couldn't stop crying.
I was left in as many pieces as my friend Albert Pane, but I took the trip he had not overseas and stayed in a small cottage I rented along the coast of Portugal, far away from any nightclubs or singers. My mind slowly began to put itself back together, one quiet day after another, and it took only a year for those horrible sounds to stop echoing in my memory.
Still, I've never returned. I've received letters from that side of the world, some press clippings too, but none of it has been successful at luring me back. The Nightingale is gone I'm told, burnt through by a fire until not even its skeleton remained. Upon investigation the authorities found the remains of twelve bodies there, or at least parts of them, including teeth and bones, but none of them belonged to Albert Pane. Perhaps she kept him somewhere special where she could sing to him and only him, perhaps she'd held him close as both she and the Nightingale were consumed by fire. Sometimes I don't care to know, other times, I want nothing but.
I still carry that place, that woman, with me. It ticks inside my heart steadily, counting down the days to my death just as the gold fob watch does in my pocket. Its lid is scratched so badly the engraving has completely gone and, quite frankly, the thing keeps horrible time, but I like it more now than ever before because of how familiar it looks. We've both been scarred by Elaina Munroe and left unrecognizable and broken as a result. Or perhaps we're both just out of time.
PALE LIGHT IN THE JUNGLE
"Explain it to me again."
Richard huffed. "Can we at least put the couch down first?"
They had been moving Michael into his new house for over an hour and the truck was almost empty. He was amazed at the amount of possessions he had. He was even more amazed at how many of them were once Richard's.
"Western culture, on the whole, is moving towards a bad place, right? There are so many distractions now, so many ways to fill up one's hours, that there is no time left to think. Instead, everyone's in a state of constant distraction, never stopping to think for themselves. Why should they, when there are twenty-four hour news stations who'll do the thinking for them, only in easily digested bite-size chunks?"
"And that's why you're giving me your television?"
"Yes. I don't want it anymore."
Michael shook his head. It was incomprehensible.
"I loathe that life I had, Mike. I don't know how else to explain it. Sometimes I'd look at all the things I'd accumulated, the endless cluttered shelves of it, and I felt suffocated. It's better the television is here with you, someone who can still appreciate it. I don't know if I'll ever be able to again. At least, not for a while."
Michael thought for a moment.
"You aren't joining a cult, are you?"
Richard laughed harder than Michael would have expected.
# # #
He had spent months looking for a house, desperate to leave his tiny downtown apartment. Still, with the money he'd managed to put away, he couldn't afford much, and certainly nothing he would want. It was heartbreaking to see what his savings could afford. One of the houses he was shown smelled like a dog kennel, and inside
each of the rooms he found the remains of rodents, long since dead and desiccated. What horrified Michael the most, however, was that no one thought to clean the place before it was shown.
It was thus a gift from above when Michael found the place on Benman Boulevard, deep in what the locals called the "Ben Jungle.” It was set back from the street with a large tree in the front yard, and had an odd-shaped lot that kept an abnormal distance between his house and his neighbors'. Inside, the hardwood floors had been freshly polished, new large windows installed. There were issues, of course -- the bathroom was a horrible pink color, and the backyard needed to be re-landscaped -- but these were relatively minor and easily fixed. The best part was that the owner who had redone the place fell ill shortly after the renovations, and once he passed away his children wanted to sell the property quickly. Michael for once was in the right place at the right time.
Richard seemed impressed.
"You really lucked out with this place, didn't you, Mike?"
They had finished moving everything into the new house, and arranged the furniture so there would be somewhere to sit. It was still hard to believe, looking around, that it was all Michael's, especially as he was so used to seeing that same furniture in Richard's home.
"Do you miss your stuff yet?"
"Hell yes," Richard laughed. "I can feel it calling to me, trying to lure me back. Part of me wants to surrender to it, but I have to remain strong. Kicking a habit is always toughest at the beginning. Once I get some time away to build up new habits I think I'll be okay. The one thing that helps is knowing that this is it -- if I can't break free after this, I'll never be free of it. That possibility simply frightens me."
"As long as you promise you won't end up in a bubble with boxes on your feet, you'll be fine."
They both raised their plastic cups of beer to toast the truth.
# # #
But Michael did not feel so jocular the next morning; his head would not stop throbbing. He should have known not to get so drunk, at least, not before putting his bed together. He'd been forced to spend the night in the living room, sleeping on his mattress as it lay on the floor. The beer had made his head spin all night, and filled it with pounding and scratching noises that didn't ease until sunrise.
He had to start unpacking, but couldn't bear doing so first thing in the morning. Instead, he dug out his electric kettle and made himself a mug of instant coffee. It was weak, and he hadn't been able to find the sugar, but accompanied by a cigarette it was tolerable. He leaned against the counter and looked out of his new kitchen window.
It was small, much smaller than the front window, and the only view through it was of his neighbor’s house. Still, it was his window. It belonged to him. The thought made him both giddy and scared. He was finally an adult. The feeling would likely fade, especially once he was properly unpacked, but for the moment he tried to enjoy the sensation.
Due to the odd nature of the lot, his kitchen faced the neighboring house at an awkward angle, and Michael suddenly realized he could see right through the window and into that other house. There, an old man sat in front of a television, its pale light illuminating his face. He looked ancient, hunched over in front of the screen, and he did not move beyond occasionally lifting the remote. Michael could not be sure what the man was watching, but it seemed to be some sort of religious program. The sight pleased Michael; the older his neighbors, the less concerned he had to be about them being noisy or intrusive. He'd had his share of that type while living in his apartment, and it was one of the reasons that drove him out and into his own house.
His head continued to throb from the night before, and he thought it might help to take a quick walk outside in the cool morning air. He dug out his robe and a pair of slippers, and lit another cigarette before going out the door that led into the backyard.
It looked worse than he had remembered, especially in the early daylight. The grass had dried up or worn away, and in its place the ground was covered by the tracks of animals running rampant. Shielding his yard at the rear was a line of tall evergreens whose low-hanging branches dropped acidic needles into the soil, preventing any grass from growing around them. The most disconcerting, however, was the tree standing only a few feet from the house. It was unlike the rest, and not merely because it was dead.
The tree was leafless, dark and dry, and its crooked trunk climbed into the air with difficulty. It had not spread its branches like the other trees, and Michael wondered if the old man had pruned it that way, allowing the power-lines that fed the house to tangle in the stumps of its missing branches. He put his cigarette in his mouth and touched the trunk with the flat of his hand, then pushed it a few times to see how sturdy the thing was. The tree was going to have to come down, but there was still work to be done inside before he could tackle that. Work such as setting up the new television.
It seemed so big when he looked at it; he could not believe it was in his home. With his old set, all that was necessary was plugging it into the wall, but this new monster required far more care. The screen had to be centered, the stereo equipment connected and wires run around the room. It took him most of the morning to install everything, moving still-unopened boxes as needed, but when he finished he sat on the already overburdened couch and hit the power button. There was a high-pitched sound like a scream, and then it was as if he were in heaven. The screen was huge compared to what he had previously known, and his eyes had to move to take everything in. It was remarkable, made even more so by Richard having relinquished it to instead live some hermetical existence.
"More like a Spartan existence," he said when Michael telephoned him later. "I haven't sworn off people, just any unnecessary belongings. Why don't you come over tonight? I could use the company."
It took only thirty minutes and two cigarettes to walk the distance, and when he arrived Michael was amazed to see how much smaller the interior of the house appeared.
"I know it doesn't seem like it, but I have a lot more space, now. Enough to get utterly bored in."
The two of them sat in Richard's front room on small mats, Michael with an ashtray between his legs.
"I thought this distraction-free life was what you wanted? Isn't it supposed to be cleansing you?"
"Supposed to, yes, but a funny thing happened when I finally rid myself of all society's vacuity. There I was pitying those I'd left behind, those still stuck in their routine daze, unable to see their way out, and I felt a bit smug, a bit superior. Then, I took a seat and the cold horrible truth of where I was hit me. I have nothing. I spent so long consuming that it's all I really know."
"Are you," Michael tried to phrase the question delicately, "going to want your television back?"
"No, no," Richard smiled, "You don't have to worry. I'm made of sterner stuff. It is a bit strange though, living without it."
"How so?"
"Well, things are quieter for one. Can't you tell?"
Michael took a moment to stop. The noise of the street beyond was there, albeit faint, and suddenly he realized how still the air was. Without the background electrical hum, he could hear the small scratching of his pants upon the woven rug.
"It's weird living in a place this quiet now. One thing I've noticed about it is I can hear things I'd never heard before -- not with the television running all the time. Last night, I heard animals outside in my yard. I couldn't see anything, but I imagine it was a family of raccoons looking through my garbage pails. I could hear their chatter, which struck me as odd as they almost seemed to be communicating in some weird dialogue. I know, it sounds crazy, but you think many strange things when it’s the middle of the night and you're trying to sleep."
"I'm sure you'll get used to it. I managed to survive downtown with only my tiny television for years, though I also had a radio to keep it company. I'm sure you'll be able to make your books stretch far enough."
He scratched his head. "I suppose. If not, at least I'll finally have time to do some cleaning
. Until today I never realized how dirty my windows were." Michael looked over at the glass; it was as if something large had pressed up against the windows and smeared filth across them. "I suppose the first step to breaking an addiction is to give yourself some physical work to do to keep your mind off what you miss most. This place ought to be gleaming by tomorrow."
When Michael finally left it was well past sunset. Richard thanked him for coming to visit, for helping him through the initial stages of his recovery, and then turned his head towards the darkness at the side of the house. If there was something there, Michael didn't see it.
He walked home at a brisk pace, the temperature having dropped enough to remind him about the jacket he'd forgotten to bring. Cigarette in hand, he passed by row after row of houses in the Ben Jungle, each one with a pale blue square of light emanating through its front window. It was like a wave of energy, fizzling in the air, sending out radiation. He could almost feel the glow on his skin, and wondered what it must be like for Richard to have that world go so suddenly black. Even though it was by his own hand, Michael didn't blame him for feeling dislocated.
He passed under a row of street lamps and saw ahead a shadow dart across the street. It disappeared so quickly he couldn't be sure of its size, but thought it might have been one of the raccoons that Richard had reported, out on the hunt for something new to eat. He slowed as he approached, and heard its moist mouth working, presumably on that night's dinner. He squinted, but could see nothing in the shadows that made the noise. Instead, he shrugged and lit a fresh cigarette before returning home.
There, he decided to relax and watch his brand-new television.
# # #
When he awoke in the morning it was still on, humming with electricity. His eyes felt too big for their sockets, as though he'd spent the previous hours staring at the screen through closed lids. He rubbed his face and stood, wincing from the kinks a night on the old couch produced, and shuffled off to take a shower.
Nightingale Songs Page 12
