The Royal Family

by William T. Vollmann

  Well, that’s a start, said John.

  Would it make any difference if I threw a tantrum? she rasped, revelling in her pain and his anger. And would Irene—

  Let’s leave Irene out of this, John exploded.

  Celia lowered her face, and her long hair occluded it, clinging to her tear-sodden cheeks. John took her hand.

  It was at that moment that Tyler had driven by.

  Now that Irene had removed herself from a position which had necessarily obstructed Celia’s aspirations, Celia found herself proportionally closer to John, but only in the sense that she had fallen into his orbit, becoming Irene’s successor planetoid. Casting his harsh radiance upon her, he remained on his own cosmic trajectory while she whirled helplessly round him. (As for Tyler, he was a lonely comet who scorched himself as he rushed far away from John and Celia’s solar system. Emerging from the Chinatown evening with the gold pores of skyscrapers oozing moist light on the edge of the financial district, he drove past Tokai Bank on Sacramento Street, crossing the decorative grillwork in the dull orange door-light of another house of Mammon, and plumbed the tired old bricks and clean desolation of commercial night until he’d reached Bush Street. No John. No Brady. The bright and open demarcation of Market Street lay ahead. He crossed it, and returned to the Mission district where he felt more like himself.) Meanwhile, Celia’s question hung in space, written in letters of stardust: What was the right thing? The only way to know was for her to envision John’s behavior should she draw still closer to him, or should she leave him. And because she did not have a great deal of faith in herself, both of these hypothetical images buzzed and wavered blurrily before her.

  | 420 |

  And even now she’s costing me, John had said to her that morning. There’s a greens fee, just like at the golf course. They have to keep mowing the grass over her bones, I guess, and there’s no friggin’ deductible for dead people on my insurance . . .

  Did you love her so very much? said Celia. Please tell me what you’re feeling for once.

  Oh, I don’t know, he sighed. Sometimes I get so angry. Irene had her points . . .

  Celia, who would have trusted John much less had he always sung the dead woman’s praises, nevertheless felt a truth-seeking impulse powerful enough to overcome her fear of becoming dislikeable. She said: Who do you love more right now—Irene or me?

  You, he said without any hesitation.

  Well, that’s the right answer, anyway. What made you marry her?

  She was a very good wife in so many ways, he said. She was loving, or tried to be; she did things my way; she was pretty . . .

  | 421 |

  During the overture John’s attention drifted, as it always did. For no particular reason he found himself remembering a hot outdoor Vietnamese wedding in San Jose, the vows stuttered and inaudible. Two Vietnamese violinists in gangster sunglasses uncertainly played, while the soloist wiped sweat from her wide brown forehead and sang “Ave Maria” so sweetly that it brought a lump to his throat. The bride, faintly reading a poem about love, wept. Yellowjackets settled on people’s sweating shoulders, and hot dry grass stood all around. Whose wedding had that been? For a long time he couldn’t recall. Had Irene been there? Yes, and she was out of sorts. Why, that had been Irene’s best friend’s wedding! He remembered it now . . . Irene had been a bridesmaid. She’d looked so beautiful that John had been very proud of her.

  Celia squeezed his hand. And then suddenly, with a nauseating feeling of dread, he found himself thinking of Domino.

  | 422 |

  At the intermission, those spectators who didn’t need to relieve themselves sat stretching or reading their programs or gazing at each other through their spectacles.

  Well, what did you think? said Celia, stretching her ankles (her mirror-black shoes melting light like butter).

  It’s fine, said John. At least they gave us decent seats. I hate being too close to the aisle. Once when I brought Mom here they tried to pull that one on me. I made quite a scene, I’ll tell you.

  Do you think it’s good? Celia said hesitantly.

  What do you mean, do I think it’s good? It’s Puccini, that’s all.

  John.

  What?

  John, she said, taking a deep breath, um, John, you would never lie to me about anything important, would you?

  And John turned red, shamed almost to the point of vomiting, seeing before his eyes his crooked, grungy brother Hank, who lied through his teeth and who at this very moment was probably lurching down some Tenderloin alleyway muttering: Irene, irridium, lady, palladium, ladium . . .

  Oh, you’re mad, whispered Celia, entirely misconstruing his complexion. John, I made you mad. Oh, John, I’m so, so sorry.

  John, unable for the moment to speak, scarcely able to breathe, longed to get the thing done, but what thing it was he couldn’t have said—make a confession to Celia, break off with her, break off with Domino . . . He was afraid of both women as he had never been afraid of Irene.

  John, Celia was saying. Please forget what I said, John.

  The lights dimmed until the red carpet and the dark suits of the orchestra members were lost. The conductor came striding out, as the audience applauded and Celia gazed apprehensively at the side of John’s rigid face. And John, almost panic-stricken, longed to rush down to the Wonderbar to see Domino. He knew that it would be absurd to see her without a reason. He must want to break it off, he must . . . Surely that was what his heart-thud meant.

  | 423 |

  Now all the well-dressed people had gone inside, and only newspapers twitched on the long steps. A gentle old man in a suit stood at the summit of the red carpet, while a partridge-plump photographer, also in a suit, took his portrait. The opera had long since begun, and at first Tyler thought that he could faintly hear it—a soprano, no overture—but then he saw a shopping bag man, a fat man, a sad dirty man, a homeless man who was sitting there with his suitcase opened, and within the suitcase an old gramaphone was playing for his sadness. Was it battery powered? Now Tyler could hear the sob-like scratches in the woman’s song. She died, and then the homeless one began to play another record. This time a man’s voice was singing: Beautiful woman, my desire.

  They don’t know how to train ’em anymore, the homeless man said. Beverly Sills, now, she was the last one who was really trained to sing.

  Now Tyler saw that the phonograph was crank-operated. —It’s kind of fun, the man said.

  Then it was midnight, and John and Celia were driving home. (Bowing his head and grimacing, his tie flying ahead of his chest, Mr. Rapp descended the steps.) John made a quip, and Celia pretended to be amused, although beneath her bright smile lurked an almost terrifying hostility. A black boy was getting handcuffed in a doorway, the back of his submissive neck shaved and sad. He stared into the wall, so that no one would see the shame upon his face.

  | 424 |

  Night. The clock had just disgorged that extra hour which it had swallowed in the spring. So now it got dark much earlier. Roland came running out of the office tower, his black shoes gleaming with goldness from all the riches of window-light that fell upon them, and followed the crosswalk between white lines, then ran into his wife’s car. On John’s floor the lights were very bright. Tyler was cold. A number 15 bus went by, displaying its cargo of standees as if it were a mobile aquarium. A man swung a square briefcase, leather-padded, which emitted palely poisonous gleams from its brass fittings. The man stepped into the street, and the gleams vanished.

  Hello, Domino, said Tyler.

  Look, said the blonde. I’ve got to go make money. Let’s move things along.

  Same to you, darling. Where’s the Queen?

  Downstairs. She’s interrogating again. Does that make you scared? You wanna get interrogated?

  By you? With which mouth?

  Laughing, she threw a mock punch at him and shouted: I love you, you old misogynist!

  A misogynist is somebody who’s really good at eating pus
sy, right?

  Oh, get lost. Always talking about pussy. You know what you and your brother have in common? You’re pussy-whipped pussy addicts.

  So how is John these days?

  Still hates you—ha-ha-ha! Hey, did you hear the one about the hooker with a glass eye? This one’s really rich. I forget who told it to me. Okay, so, there’s this hooker with a glass eye, see, and the john comes up to her and says he doesn’t have enough money to stick her, so she says: Never mind, honey, I’ll keep an eye out for you any time! Ha, ha, ha! Ain’t that rich? I heard that one in jail, from some girl named—oh, what the fuck’s her name?

  Yeah, that’s a good one, all right.

  And guess what else John said? I think John is really well connected.

  Well, sure he is. He’s connected to you.

  You pervert! He says, the whole entire Tenderloin’s gonna be sterilized. And then they’re gonna do Capp Street. And then it’ll all be over.

  How does that make you feel?

  Scared, she said frankly.

  And what can he do about it?

  With a choking, coughing laugh she said: I’m still bargaining for that. I . . . Anyhow, Maj keeps insisting it’s the end, so why even—

  Well, at least we don’t have to repent of our sins, because we’re Canaanites. And John has his good side. I’m sure he’ll take care of you. And, you know, you and John have a lot in common, too. You’re both in business; you both like to get straight to the point . . .

  | 425 |

  But to what extent would John really take care of her? Having never slept with any Canaanites before, he had expected his affair with Domino to be easy and pleasant. (Henry Tyler had begun beclouded by a similar illusion regarding the false Irene.) The seduction of Celia had proceeded smoothly, just as soft round lights go on like excited robot breasts over those elevators in banks; and likewise the courtship of the true Irene—or so it all seemed in his recollection. But finding out how bitter and anxious Domino was made him anxious. Sour tyrant, rapacious thief, unwashed liar, she ruled him so rigorously that whenever he was away from her, as when he drove beneath blue clouds up the rainy hill to Washington Street, the degree of his submission amazed him, troubling his steadfastness toward all that he had previously believed.

  She insisted, for instance, that John make love to her three or four times every night they were together. When he didn’t or couldn’t, she’d fly into a rage. And the sex also had to occur in a very particular and laborious way involving manual, oral and penile stimulation. But then she could assert the frequency of their intercourse as proof that she withheld nothing from him, that he was using her solely for his own pleasure.

  That’ll work, she always said when he paid her, but somehow it never did.

  From time to time, either wearied of her own imprecations or else (what was more likely) caught up in bitter brooding, she’d fall silent, so that for a moment or two his eyes could close. But just as he was about to be swallowed by sleep’s narrow gorge, terror would strike a shocking blow upon his breastbone: —sometimes it was her actual touch, grasping and pinching and slapping to prevent his escape into unconsciousness; sometimes it was strange words; often it was simply a presence which suddenly invaded him; his eyes would fly open; he’d emit a strangled groan, and see her still sitting at the foot of the bed, gazing at the wall, her long, greying hair flowing down her back. He waited for her to turn around and commence upon him again.

  | 426 |

  Now you’ve pissed away an opportunity, Domino, and I don’t like that, Smooth was saying. An opportunity, you see, to save our Queen.

  God save the Queen.

  I’ll talk with him myself.

  Whatever.

  Does he turn you on?

  Excuse me?

  Does he make your pussy wet? Does his presence kind of loosen up your insides?

  I’ll give you fifteen minutes in there and that’s it. My business is my business.

  Oh, so you’re worried I might steal him away?

  Smooth, John’s not going to give you the time of day.

  Hmm, the pedophile said. If I tell him what color your insides are, maybe I’ll get his interest.

  Fuck you.

  You don’t like me, do you? Smooth whined. I’ve done you so many favors, I’ve put in good words for you, and now it comes out that you have a heart of brass.

  I don’t have time, the blonde contemptuously replied, and she went her ass-wiggling, heel-clacking way down Jones Street.

  Smooth entered the Wonderbar, where John was sitting, anxiously and morosely staring at his watch. —Hi there, he said. I’m a friend of a friend. May I buy you a beer?

  A friend of which friend? said John.

  Let’s spell it backward, John, because that’s more fun. Spelled backward, her name is Onimod. I’ll bet that’s in the Bible somewhere, don’t you think? If not, maybe it’s one of those monsters in the Book of Mormon, which is one of my favorite books because some Mormons are polygamous.

  What do you want?

  I’m here to help you out. Well, actually I’m here to help Domino out, but isn’t that sort of the same thing? I mean, you’re in love, so I understand.

  I’ve met insects like you before, said John. What’s your name, fellow? I like to know the name of the fellow who’s bothering me.

  Strangely enough, Smooth, ordinarily more invincible in his defiance than Henry Tyler himself, felt daunted by John’s abrasive confidence. Perhaps he should have stuck to his subject, although I myself, as a believer in the Queen and her prophecies, remain sure that his actions would have come to nothing in any event. Instead, Smooth made the mistake of trying in the face of this strong current of hostile contempt to swim at an angle, as it were, but because he was a little drunk and because he was limited and damaged like anybody else, the only topic of small talk he could conceive of just then was children, a category which his obsessions had long polished into the same fascinating legitimacy as Celia’s mind had done with stoneware dishes. Sincerely seeking to entertain John, in order to ingratiate himself and then buy the favor of the Queen’s safety, Smooth began to relate a tale he’d heard not long since when he and Tyler were at the Inn Justice bar on Bryant Street, drinking with a quasi-colleague from the public defender’s office. The public defender said: So this one cop goes into a massage parlor in the Tenderloin, and he fancies a prostitute, I forget whether the chick was Laotian or Thai or Vietnamese; anyhow, he snatched her right out of there. This is kidnapping, right? This is no five- or ten-year case. This is a life case. All right. So he drags her out, actually starts doing her in front of some tourists, then thinks better of it and drags her somewhere else, then makes her orally copulate him. Now here comes the interesting part. The evidence, well—you’ll like this, Smooth—there was semen all over the place, because I guess she didn’t want to swallow, so she, well, anyhow, they found the guy’s semen on her. Did a DNA match. It was definitely his. Now here comes the cha-cha-cha. Guy said for his defense: No way in the world I’m gonna make anybody in the world orally copulate me, because my father used to force me to watch my sister orally copulate him when I was a kid! And the sister, who’s also a cop, takes her place on the witness stand and confirms it. This is like, well, it’s talk show justice! The cop did get convicted, but he only got six years. If it had been one of our clients . . . Kind of a unique defense, don’t you think? —Smooth chortled and chortled, thinking about the cop’s defense made absurd by the semen itself but rendered somehow amazingly believable by the sister’s tears; and he was trying to explain this to John, who cut him short, saying: You sure know how to be a sleazy asshole. I’ll say that much for you. I don’t care whether you’re a friend of Domino’s or not. Get out of here. —And he balled up his fists, which even the tall man had never done to Smooth, and Smooth left the Wonderbar in apprehensive haste, he couldn’t have said exactly why . . .

  | 427 |

  It was Saturday evening. The worst of the traffic had alread
y drained from the financial district, rendering John’s driving pleasurable as he descended the hill at Bush and Grant with Celia in the passenger seat, her shoulder belt and lap belt both safely in-clicked, and John felt richer and more luxurious than silk because they were about to try Camponegro’s Grill, whose pesto-lobster gnocchi came highly recommended by both Rapps and both Singers; and to John the expectation of excellent food in a refined atmosphere, no matter to what degree reality might compromise that expectation, always spellbound him into celebratory thoughts and sensations. The next two hours would probably be the pinnacle of his weekend (he couldn’t speak for Celia, of course). Upon them both beamed the yellow sun-star on the blue of the Triton Hotel sign.

  Then his heart slammed so nauseatingly that it almost burst. On the corner, in a silver miniskirt, stood Domino, grinning at all the passing cars.

  Don’t let her see me, he prayed.

  But she saw, and her gaze was like light coming through many upturned silvery shot-glasses.

  Hey! she yelled. Hey, John!

  The light would not change.

  The blonde came striding menacingly toward the car as if she were about to pound on the windshield with her nightmare claws, and Celia sat there gaping. She was almost upon them now, smiling crazy and evil like a monster who would never forgive him for being her prey. Suddenly John realized that he had always known that it would end like this, with his being exposed and humiliated in front of Celia as he sat paralyzed just as in one of his nightmares of Irene’s avenging specter.

  The light changed.

  John, you fucker! screamed Domino, thumping on the side of the car with her fist as he pulled away.

  She knows you, Celia said quietly.

  For God’s sake. Just let me—

  You’re all pale and sweaty, John. Tell me what this is about.