Clarisse touched her friend’s cheek affectionately with a sharp nail and headed for the bar. She edged between two sumptuously dressed women and got the bartender’s attention by tapping the corner of her letter on his forearm. When she had distributed the drinks, she turned and began with interest to look over the party.
The room was crowded. Costumed figures spilled out and in through the two wide glass doors that led to the deck, edged through into the tiny restrooms, and made an attempt at appearing casual while parading across the lighted stage. Some were immediately identifiable, others were not. There was little dancing yet. With the long nails on her fingers, Clarisse herself was hard put simply to hold a glass.
She turned and looked at the personages on either side of her—the two women dressed in high-forties skirted suits, their hair bound in snoods, with careful tasteful makeup of pearl-shaded powder and ruby lipstick. She furrowed her brow, wondering who they might represent. Then she saw the nametags attached to the lapels of their tailored jackets. HI—I’M EVA BRAUN! and CLARA PETACCI WISHES YOU A PLEASANT EVENING they read. Eva had a period camera around her neck, and begged Clarisse for a photograph. Clarisse graciously linked arms with Mussolini’s mistress, and smiled for the Leica’s flash.
When Valentine and Terry came up, Eva Braun bent forward and kissed Uncle Tom on the cheek, smudging his makeup. Terry introduced her as Ann, his administrative assistant in a Boston publishing house. In turn, Ann introduced her companion, Margaret, from Toronto.
“Oh,” said Valentine, “I was looking in your windows earlier this evening.”
The two women stared dubiously.
“We’re neighbors,” Valentine explained. “Clarisse and I have the third portion of Noah’s house.”
“Oh,” said Margaret relieved, “I thought…”
Clarisse’s brow furrowed. “I think we were all on the ferry together, weren’t we?” she asked.
Ann nodded. “Yes. I loved it. They had a great bar. I think bars on boats are great.”
“You think bars anywhere are great,” snapped Terry.
“Yes, I do. But I especially like bars on boats. The only trouble is you have to drink fast so you don’t spill any.” As if in illustration, she guzzled off the last of her drink, and set it on the bar to be refilled. Margaret’s glass was still quite full.
“We’re having a wonderful time here,” said Margaret. “We love Provincetown.”
Clarisse smiled.
“I want a picture of all of us!” cried Ann enthusiastically. She took the camera from around her neck and asked a man dressed as Charlotte Corday to take a photo of the small group. This done, Terry went to the bathroom to check his blackface and straighten his wig. Eva and Clara left to take a walk around outside on the deck, just as Lizzie Borden swept past, the lace of her bodice speckled with blood, and a small ax tucked into her belt. Valentine followed in her wake. “Oh Val,” said Clarisse, grasping his sleeve and pulling him back, “look at Polyphemus over there!”
She pointed to a man standing against the glass wall that looked out onto the deck. His only clothing was a well-fitted loincloth about his narrow waist and a pair of leather sandals laced up to his calves. His shoulders were broad, his chest heavy with muscle beneath a mat of luxuriant tawny hair. Covering his forehead and eyes was a stiff flesh-tone mask, with one stylized eye, glossy and bright, painted in the very center. Slits for his own eyes were effectively concealed in the lines representing folds of flesh. He was talking to Joan Crawford, whose heavy hand rested on the shoulder of a catatonic Christina in white pinafore and yellow sausage curls.
“That is the single most beautiful man I have ever seen in my entire life,” remarked Clarisse. “Dump Uncle Tom, and bring this one home so that I can get a look at him in the morning. I’ll pretend that I’m the cleaning lady, and I’ll make up the bed while he’s still in it, how’s that?”
“You missed your chance. I took him home on Wednesday night. His name’s Axel Braun—as in brawn.”
Clarisse rolled her slanted eyes. “You don’t waste any time in this town, do you?”
“A bartender has a reputation to maintain.”
“Axel certainly looks like he’s worth a repeat performance. Not to mention preservation on videotape.”
“He is,” said Valentine, exchanging nods with the man in question, “and the nice thing is, his looks are the least of his appeal.”
“The least?”
“Well, maybe not the least,” Valentine admitted. “But in this town—looking like that—he could shoot off arrogance and attitude like fireworks, and get away with it. Last Wednesday night I was down a little, and when I’m down I don’t approach anybody—much less a man who looks like that. But he came up to me.”
“Did he need a light?” asked Clarisse. “Directions?”
“It was Janet Gaynor in Seventh Heaven all over again. He was very sweet and we had a wonderful time.”
“So why is he standing over there, when you’re over here?”
“There’s a problem.”
“What is it?”
“His husband is a jealous woman.”
Terry O’Sullivan returned and took Valentine off to be introduced—and shown off—to a group of his publishing friends from Boston. Clarisse ordered another drink and looked over the crowd again, finding it considerably increased. The far end of the room was now a writhing mass of dancers. Clarisse moved slowly and carefully about the room to observe the costumes. Attila the Hun and Anita Bryant made a handsome couple, she dispensing oranges from a large wicker basket on her arm. Charles Manson lingered at the foot of the stage in close conversation with Richard Speck, who had eight blood-spattered nurse’s caps dangling from his belt. The Wicked Witch of the West, Patty Hearst as Tanya, the present governor of Massachusetts, Indira Gandhi, Captain Hook, Ramses II, Svengali, Ilse the Beast of Belsen, and Goliath were all there. Clarisse was complimented on her realistic portrayal of Tokyo Rose, Madame Chiang Kai-Shek, and Fu Manchu’s daughter.
In passing once, Valentine stopped her and said, “Have a good time tonight, get drunk. You don’t start work until ten tomorrow.”
Clarisse choked on her scotch. “Tomorrow! Tomorrow is Sunday!”
“This is Provincetown. This is the season. Only the dead sleep on Sunday.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?!”
Valentine shrugged. “I was too overcome at seeing you again.”
Her glare was ominous, but before she could frame a retort, they were separated by the milling crowds. After a few minutes she found herself not far from Axel Braun. Joan and Christina Crawford had disappeared and a young man, dressed as Ulysses, also in a loincloth and sandals, had taken their place. He carried a sharpened stick. He was small but by no means delicate, with short wavy black hair, and a face that suggested a well-stocked cupboard of resentment and long-treasured grudges. Though she was close to them she could not hear their conversation, for a music speaker was placed just above their heads. Their quick hand movements and rapidly moving mouths, however, implied an argument rather than conversation. This interpretation was confirmed when Ulysses turned sharply on his heel and went out on the deck in the midst of something that Polyphemus was saying to him.
“And that,” said Valentine appearing suddenly at Clarisse’s shoulder, “was Scott DeVoto, the jealous husband. You’ve just seen round three hundred forty-nine of the longest lovers’ battle on record.”
“Perhaps we should introduce Polyphemus to him,” said Clarisse, nodding toward the bar and indicating a young man wearing a white chiton, with a leather sling containing a large stone hanging from his belt.
“I saw Goliath in the men’s room. Is that David?”
“No,” said Clarisse. “He’s got an X on his forehead. Must be Cain.”
“He’s cute.”
“His name’s Jeff King.”
“Oh?”
“He’s the one from the ferry this afternoon, the one you thought I should
have picked up for you.”
“I’ve always trusted your taste in men.”
“I wonder if he found somebody to put him up, he was—Oh, Jesus, look!” cried Clarisse, interrupting herself.
She pointed toward the dance area. The music had gone from a heady disco number to a rock piece heavily underscored by an African drumbeat. The center of the area had been cleared and beneath the flashing colored lights, the White Prince as Salome was performing an exotic Dance of the Seven Veils. He whirled and leapt, discarding a veil. He slithered to the floor and writhed, tossing aside another. His mouth gaped, his shoulders undulated, his head lolled—and miraculously, the tray with the severed head was never even jarred.
“It must be sutured to his scalp,” said Valentine.
“I’m going to comfort Noah,” said Clarisse. Her uncle stood far away and cringed with every round of applause the White Prince received.
Clarisse took Noah out onto the deck, and they settled into sling chairs carefully turned out of sight of the dance floor. They talked of family and the future. The time passed more pleasantly out here than inside, where the decibels and the temperature seemed to increase with every quarter hour.
When word was brought to him that the White Prince wanted to be taken home—not wishing to spoil his hour of triumph by remaining too long in his public’s eye—Noah kissed Clarisse good-night and went off. But Clarisse was too comfortable where she was, and just the thought of returning to the crush of the mob inside was enough to bring on the beginning of a headache.
There were a number of persons at the party with whom Clarisse was already acquainted, men and women to whom she had rented apartments in Boston over the past several years, and these she spoke to when they passed near. No one recognized her in the elaborate costume and makeup. Valentine came out periodically and kept her supplied with drinks and lighted cigarettes.
On the deck Clarisse was witness to many matchings—and almost as many partings. Anita Bryant, very drunk, spilled her oranges into the pool before she passed out in the arms of Attila the Hun; he eased her into a chair and left the party in the tender embrace of Captain Hook. Patty Hearst accused Indira Gandhi of sneaking around her back with Lizzie Borden, but after some heated discussion Bonnie Parker succeeded in making peace. One who kept reappearing and always in close conversation with someone different was Jeff King as Cain. She’d seen him in one corner speaking low with Ronald Reagan and John Hinckley, and then ten minutes later he was sitting on the edge of the diving board with Cardinal Richelieu. Twice, however, she saw him with Axel—Polyphemus—and their exchange was more than friendly. Axel evidently provided Scott DeVoto ample justification for his jealousy, she reflected. She nodded to Jeff once with a smile, and he smiled politely back, but the puzzle in his luminous cobalt eyes suggested that he did not recognize her.
Toward three in the morning, when the party had thinned to the extent that she did not think her chair would be taken if she left it for a minute, Clarisse stood and went to the railing of the deck. The tide, which had been full an hour before, was beginning to retreat. The black water seemed still and gently reflected the meager lights of the town. Its voice was no louder than the whispers of the couples who walked the narrow beach below. She breathed the cool air deeply and with contentment, actually glad, for the first time that day, that she had come to Provincetown for the summer.
Her reverie was disturbed by a sudden violent scuffling behind her. When she turned around she saw Jeff—his chiton askew—come stumbling out onto the deck, as if he had been pushed from inside. He grabbed one of the posts that supported the awning to break his fall. Scott DeVoto stepped out next, his body tense, his face set in anger. He slammed his pointed stick on the deck railing with such force that it broke in two, half of it spiraling off into the air over the beach. Then Axel appeared on the threshold, hands at his sides, still wearing the single-eye mask. None of them took any notice of Clarisse, who had set aside her drink, and stood with folded arms, watching with undisguised curiosity.
“Scott,” said Axel sternly, “stop it. You’re being stupid.”
“You want to go home with that?” Scott demanded derisively, looking up and down Jeff’s by no means contemptible body. “If you want meat, there’s better inside,” he said to his lover. “There’s that bartender you snuck off with on Wednesday night—go get him. At least he didn’t give you the clap. If you want chicken, you can find that inside too—and it’s younger and cleaner than this piece of shit!”
Jeff looked around uneasily. His eyes locked with Clarisse’s, but she did not alter her expression.
“Listen—” began Axel.
“Go on,” snarled Scott, in whose voice Clarisse detected a good deal of liquor, “take this one home. But lock the cabinets, and give me your wallet. And tomorrow, go get your shots!”
“The only one I’m taking home is you,” cried Polyphemus. He grabbed at the much smaller Ulysses, but Scott dodged him and ran back into the bar. Axel nodded a curt farewell to Jeff.
Jeff watched Axel go back inside, then looked around the deck. He and Clarisse were alone.
“Well,” she said, “being left in the lurch is better than a poke in the eye with a pointed stick.”
Suddenly he recognized her. “Oh, it’s you!” Jeff said, the diffidence and pleasantness with which he had addressed her in the afternoon entirely gone.
“I’m going for a swim,” he said in disgust, and with surprising agility he leapt over the deck railing onto the sand, alarming several men who stood directly beneath. Clarisse turned and watched his shadowed figure splash out into the black still water of Provincetown Bay.
She remained at the railing a long moment before she turned away and fumbled to light a cigarette. Before she could accomplish that, Valentine had wandered out to join her.
“How are you doing?” he asked.
“All right. But this party is turning into a parade of bruised bodies and broken hearts. Where’s Uncle Tom O’Sullivan?”
“Eva Braun—that’s Ann, I think—had too much to drink, and he and Clara Petacci took her out for a little air.”
“Have you made your decision yet?”
“What decision?”
“Whether it’s to be a single or a double ring ceremony.”
Valentine grimaced. “Maybe he’ll be satisfied if I just give him the wedding night.”
“Oh, dear,” sighed Clarisse. “Life is hard when you’re an object of universal admiration. Be sure you let Uncle Tom down easy. But in the meantime,” she said brightening, “my glass is empty.”
Chapter Five
AT FOUR-THIRTY, when the disc jockey announced last call, Clarisse was leaning wearily against the deck railing by the pool, an empty glass in one hand and the stub of a half-consumed cigarette in the other. Her chignon had come undone, and her hair fell thickly about her shoulders. The top few buttons of her gown were unfastened, and if she turned to face the breeze out of the east, she felt actually chilled. She closed the eye from which she had lost a contact lens, and scanned the portion of the crowd she could see through the open doors of the bar. She alternately prayed to see Valentine and, in case he had already left with Terry O’Sullivan, cursed him for abandoning her. Despite the DJ’s announcement none of the guests seemed disposed to leave the bar; those who had remained this late were determined to bitter-end it, braving the unflattering light of dawn.
Just when she had begun to despair, Valentine and Terry appeared through the glass doors. Terry had his arm possessively around Valentine’s waist. Valentine’s face and chest were damp with sweat, his linen shirt clung to his arms and back. Most of Terry’s black makeup had been wiped off onto his sleeves.
“One for the road?” Val asked.
Clarisse groaned, “I couldn’t even see the road.”
“Guess you had a good time,” remarked Terry pleasantly.
“The blister on my foot came to a head and exploded,” said Clarisse. “One of my Bausch and Lomb
contacts, which is advertised as eighty percent water, sank into the swimming pool. Someone stole my letter. And after puncturing my wrist three times, I broke every one of the nails on my right hand.” She fanned the jagged remains before Terry O’Sullivan’s face. “Who’s going to call a taxi?”
“We live six blocks away, Clarisse. And the taxis stop running at two.”
Clarisse sighed desolately. She set her glass on a table and flicked her cigarette over the deck railing. “Would Uncle Tom like to tote a weary load down Commercial Street? I’ll give you a quarter.”
A shriek tore across the deck.
“You fucking little bitch!” Joan Crawford roared as she dragged a very drunk Christina to the edge of the pool, stiff-arming aside those in her way. She lifted Christina erect at the edge of the deep end, and then tripped her in. The girl’s pinafore billowed whitely about her and the sausage curls formed an aureole of gold around her submerged head. Joan Crawford dropped to her knees, bent far forward over the edge and grabbed a fistful of lank blond hair. She began violently bobbing Christina’s head up and down in the water, and pushed away anyone who tried to stop her.
“Life is hard when you’re constantly in the public eye,” remarked Clarisse. She slipped her arm into Valentine’s. “Hold me up. I’m so plastered I couldn’t hit the floor with my hat.”
It was impossible to get out through the bar. The doorways were jammed with people watching Joan and Christina. At this late hour, however, the bouncer had unlocked the gate that opened to a flight of steps down to the beach, and they escaped that way. As they trudged away across the sand gleeful cheers and the sound of many more bodies splashing into the pool followed them. Terry had moved to the other side of Valentine and once more slipped his arm about the bartender’s waist. Clarisse carefully disengaged herself and moved off a few feet.
They walked toward home down the ribbon of hard wet sand left by the retreating tide. “This is probably a lot more pleasant than Commercial Street right now,” said Valentine. The houses to their left were black tumbled boxes, with only here and there a lighted window or muffled laughter to indicate that the boxes were inhabited. The early morning breeze lifted Clarisse’s hair from her shoulders and dried Valentine and Terry O’Sullivan’s glistening faces.
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