THE MADNESS OF DR. CALIGARI

by Dennis Weiler

  She’s brought home spanikopita and moussaka and lemony potatoes and baklava and, queerly, a stack of pancakes. It’s all delicious. They drink the bottle as they eat and talk, and she opens another as he wipes off the plates and puts them in her dishwasher.

  The soothing effects of the wine are negated by her picking up the DVD.

  “No blu-ray?” she asks, surprised.

  He shrugs. “It’s not like it’s going to get any sharper,” is what he says, rather than the truth: that this is the one he always takes home.

  “Fair enough.”

  She turns out all the lights. It’s dark and pleasant in her living room; the light of the screen casts everything into sharp, comforting angles. It’s been a long time since the Somnambulist has watched The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari with another person. He’d worried the experience would annoy him, but he ends up pleased. Dimitria is quiet and respectful throughout, only pausing it once: to pee and refill their wine.

  Terrified of embarrassing himself, the Somnambulist watches Dimitria more than he watches the film. He’s curious to see her reactions. Out of the corner of his eye notes when she leans forward, smiles, or cants her head curiously.

  When it’s over, she turns off the DVD player and sits back with a sigh. She doesn’t turn on any lights. Neither does he. He likes sitting with her in the darkness.

  “That was amazing,” she says.

  “What did you like about it?”

  “I mean, the ending is so good. The twist! But Cesare,” and he has to shift on the couch to accommodate his erection when she says the name correctly—three syllables; hard che at the beginning—“is so intriguing! I loved it when he picked up Jane and took her away… but to what end? Worse than death?” She winks at him. The Somnambulist is once again struck by how outrageously she is flirting with him, and then she goes to say, “Nothing like some old fashioned sexual menacing.”

  “There is something about it…”

  “And I mean… Cesare scooping up Jane and spiriting her away… I’ve wondered if his taking her was defiance, or just another manifestation of his role as the agent of Caligari’s desires…” Similar to his fantasy where he stays home to execute some of Caligari’s more private desires, the Somnambulist has also imagined kidnapping Jane, taking her back to his master so that Caligari can command him to use her, and be used by her, as he watches, eyes glinting behind his spectacles…

  “Hmm, I suppose it could be either…” Dimitria sounds dreamy, not drunk. “That’s hot… I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, first date and all, but I’m all about psychosexual moments like that, in film I mean…”

  The Somnambulist almost startles; he hadn’t realized they were on a date. Then again, they did just have dinner and watch a movie…

  “I remember the first time I saw The Rocky Horror Picture Show… Have you seen it?” He nods. She laughs, and her face lights up the way he likes. “Oh, why did I even ask? Of course you have. Anyway, yeah, I was just a kid—seventh grade! I’d never heard of it but my friend said it was this illicit sexy thing. And there I was, watching it at this big slumber party, and they were all laughing and talking about how weird it was, but I didn’t say anything because I was having this moment. I felt like I was learning something new about myself. Later, I went on to be a part of the show, locally—I was Janet for a while—got my tits felt up a lot—and then Magenta.” She shakes her head. “Maybe it sounds silly, but the movie changed me. In a lot of ways. I still remember how I felt watching the scene where Frank N. Furter gives Janet the time… I know people say it’s rapey, and maybe it is, but I tell you what…” She makes a little groan that the Somnambulist would not be averse to hearing in another context. “But it didn’t just change me that way… being part of the show’s cast got me interested in doing theater stuff, even if I’ve come to like painting scenery and doing makeup more than acting.”

  The Somnambulist is fascinated to hear Dimitria, too, was seduced by images on a screen; that she was bewitched, altered by something external and fundamentally impersonal. He knows movies affect people—he works in a video rental store!—but while plenty of people joke about this or that film “putting them through puberty,” or whatever, never has anyone been so frank with him about a film being an essential part of their erotic life.

  He clears his throat.

  “I know what you mean,” he says softly. “The first time I saw, saw Caligari, I… it…”

  She sits up a bit, looking intrigued.

  “What?” she asks.

  If she had commanded, him, issued him the order, “Tell me more!” or perhaps, “Go on…?” he might have been able to do it, but as it is, the Somnambulist opens his mouth… and fear away steals his voice. As she said, this is their first date. He can’t possibly tell her the truth: It changed me into the sort of person who gets dressed up in a costume and jerks off thinking about being ordered around by a horrible insane old man. Just the thought of saying it aloud makes him blush, want run away.

  And that’s what he does.

  “I should go,” he says, almost falling in his haste as he stands up. “It’s late, and…”

  “What’s wrong?” asks Dimitria. She flicks on the light; color returns. “Jordan, please—”

  “Thank you for dinner,” he says crisply, as he steadies himself, grateful she didn’t tell him to wait, or sit down, which might have tempted him. “I had a very nice time.”

  “Did I say something?” she asks.

  “No,” he says, shaking his head. “No, I’m just tired. I’ll see you around, okay?”

  “Okay,” she says, looking just about as lost as he feels.

  ***

  The Somnambulist sleeps poorly; dreams of running, lost, along unmarked roads. He reaches a sign, but it is painted with curving words he cannot understand, in colors that hurt his eyes. He cannot read it; weeps for wishing for someone to tell him what it says, but everyone who passes him has neither eyes nor mouth, only soft swirls in every tint and hue imaginable. When he wakes, eyes crusty, mouth sour, the first thing he sees is his cabinet through the open door of his bedroom. Only then does he realize he left the DVD at Dimitria’s house. After he treated her so poorly he’s not sure if he’ll ever see her again, which means he might never see it again. The Somnambulist closes his eyes, hating how he’s unsure which potential loss terrifies him more.

  ***

  The Somnambulist feels dead on his feet all morning, and then wishes he had actually died when Dimitria comes in during the early afternoon. He’s behind the counter, cashing out the till—he’d told the barista from last night not to bother.

  Embarrassed, he looks back down at the till. “Hi,” he mutters.

  “Hi. Are you okay?” She places the movie on the counter; he feels a sense of relief as he nods yes. “What the hell happened last night?”

  He shrugs; still doesn’t meet her eyes.

  She makes an annoyed little sound in her throat. “Jesus. You seemed to be having a fine time, and then…”

  “I was having a more than fine time,” he says. It’s not like he wanted to hurt her; he likes her—a lot—it’s just…

  “Then what happened?”

  In the sober light of day, the Somnambulist is even less willing to talk about the matter. Anyway, he has his DVD back. “Just let it go, will you?” he snaps.

  “Yeah, no problem. I’ll let it go.” Dimitria shrugs in annoyance; turns—but one hand lingers on the countertop. She says over her shoulder, “but you need to let go of being such a wretch. I’ve been trying to get to know you for what, almost a year? You’ve never let me in, never given me a chance. And when you did, I was so excited.” She shakes her head. “I tried to tell you something last night, about myself, and you paid me back by… well, whatever. Fool me once, you know?”

  The Somnambulist watches her go, wrangling with her c
ommand to get over himself. The idea of opening up, confessing… it terrifies him, but it occurs to him that losing his chance with this cute, sexy woman—a woman who, given her own experiences, might just understand what makes him tick—would be even more terrifying.

  “Wait,” he cries, shimmying out from behind the counter. “Dimitria, wait up!”

  “What?” she snaps. She’s outside; her key is in the door of her car, but she doesn’t turn it.

  “Can we, do you have to go? Can we talk?”

  She frowns. “About what?”

  “Me getting over being a wretch?”

  A ghost of a smile. “Well… when you put it that way…”

  There is a park across the street from Starstruck, with a few live oak-shaded benches at an acceptable distance from the playground. He gestures; she nods.

  In silence, they walk, and sit. Strands of Spanish moss create a sort of bower around them, and the Somnambulist feels safe, protected. He closes his eyes.

  “Tell me,” she says.

  The Somnambulist slowly opens his eyes.

  “I ran because I was frightened,” he says. “When you told me about how Rocky Horror affected you… that was me, too, but… but with Caligari.”

  “That’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s clearly sensual, even erotic. I think I even mentioned it got me a little hot!” she quips.

  “But… no, look, it’s not like I think it’s hot. It’s… more than that. I actually…” He takes a deep breath, heart racing.

  “Tell me,” she says again, and the intensity, the command, frees him.

  “I have a costume. And a… a cabinet,” he says. She doesn’t laugh, to his relief; in fact, she looks intrigued. “I like to… it sounds so stupid, saying it out loud like this.”

  “It’s not stupid,” she says, firmly. “People buy all kinds of shit to get off, some of it necessary. A good vibrator can set you back over a hundred bucks, which is probably about the same as a cabinet plus, what, a turtleneck sweater and some greasepaint?”

  Now he’s smiling. “So you don’t think it’s weird?”

  “No, I think it’s very weird,” she says, and wounded, he draws away from her but she grabs his hand and squeezes it. “But that’s not a bad thing? In fact… it’s kind of hot. It’s really hot, actually. Tell me more… do you put partners in there?”

  The Somnambulist realizes how light he’s been on the details. “No… no partners. I’m not a virgin or anything,” he says hastily, “I’ve been with girls. Women, I mean, sorry. Not for, uh… not for a while, though. And I’ve never… that… with them.” He swallows. “Anyway, I go in the cabinet.”

  “Oh!” She seems surprised, but pleased. “What you said, about Cesare as an agent of Caligari’s desires… you’re looking for a Caligari?”

  He nods. He wants desperately to kiss her, but he doesn’t know if she wants him to; if she’s volunteering, or just talking with him.

  “I could get down with that,” she says, looking him up and down appraisingly. “It’s been a while since I’ve been in costume with full make-up… ”

  “You’d do that for me?” he asks, astonished.

  “Why not?” she says. “I’m not minimizing your struggle here, telling me—that took a lot of guts, opening up after keeping this to yourself for so long. But plenty of people get dressed up for sex. Sure, this is a little more outré than ‘cheerleader and the QB’ but, eh,” she shrugs. “Ordering you around a bit sounds like fun, honestly.”

  Now he does kiss her. She tastes delicious. He savors the feel of her lips, the taste of her breath. It’s been so long, and he moans into her mouth.

  “Whoa,” she says, when he lets her go. “Goddamn. Okay… fuck, I have to get to work.”

  “Sorry!”

  “No, don’t apologize.” She looks a little dazed; he realizes she’s wanted this for a long time, too. “You work tomorrow?”

  “Yes…”

  “And you’re done at 11?”

  “Yeah…”

  “Leave a spare key to your place here, along with your address,” she orders. “I’ll pick it up tomorrow during the day. Set your outfit out before you go to work, and then come right home.” She looks at him intensely. “Do you understand?”

  The Somnambulist nods.

  ***

  Even though he takes the time to clean and tidy his place, put fresh sheets on the bed, and lay out his outfit as directed, the Somnambulist worries all day. Dimitra’s never seen his place—only been alone with him once—and yet, he’s letting her in to do what she wants, figuratively and literally.

  Maybe it’s better this way. If it doesn’t work out, he’s not so invested as to have his heart broken, and she doesn’t know any of his friends, so whom would she tell?

  When he gets home, she’s there by the door, in a bathrobe. She puts a black blindfold over his eyes, and leads him to the bathroom.

  “Get dressed,” she says. “And knock before you come out.”

  The Somnambulist’s hands are trembling, but he manages to get on his ensemble and makeup without too much trouble. As he musses his bangs over his forehead, he hears a bang, and some rustling beyond the door.

  He knocks.

  “Turn off the light,” she says.

  When he opens the door, the Somnambulist finds himself in his cabinet. She’s taken the back off, and slid the entire thing flush against the jambs. He doesn’t need to be told what to do. Taking a step forward, he shuts the door behind him, and stands, motionless, eyes closed.

  She speaks.

  “Awake, Cesare! I, Caligari, your master, command you!”

  The Somnambulist opens his eyes as she opens the door, and almost gasps. She’s made up as well, her face leaden, with darker areas along her browbone, and under her cheeks. Swept back from her face is a shock of white hair, falling lankily just over her ears and streaked with gray. A huge grey tweedy coat falls to her ankles, but does not conceal her outfit: she is wearing a white, high-collared shirt and a black waistcoat, and a grey wool skirt, with black nylons beneath. In one hand, she grasps a black, silver-topped walking stick. Her eyes glint at him from behind round spectacles.

  She is illuminated by a handful of bright white lightbulbs that shine out from behind the, dark, strangely elongated angles of his bookshelf, TV, and couch. She’s done something to mess with their shape. They could be on a set, together.

  It’s perfect in every way. The Somnambulist is amazed by how much care she’s taken. Amazed by her.

  “Come to me, Cesare!”

  He almost swoons, but the urge to obey saves him, and he staggers to where she points with the tip of her cane. When she commands him to kneel he drops to his knees with a dizzy elegance.

  “Cesare!”

  She lifts her skirt, and the Somnambulist sees her stockings are crotchless. She is wearing no panty beneath them. Her pubic hair is dark and thick; he wants to bury his face in it, but he does not. Tormented by longing, he waits for her command.

  She reaches her hand down, and pulls herself apart with her fingers.

  “Lick!”

  The pinkness of her shocks him, reminds him of just who they are, what they are doing. He feels sheepish, silly—what a ridiculous thing they are doing together!—but Dimitria senses his lack of focus, brings him back to the moment—bring him back to himself with a sharp bark.

  “Lick!” she says, Caligari again.

  He complies, eager to please her. That, he realizes, is the most important part. He thrills when she grunts as his tongue runs over her clit, then darts inside her.

  She keeps him on his knees for a long time, then steps away.

  “Arise, Cesare!”

  On bloodless legs he lurches to his feet. As he waits, trembling with anticipation, he realizes he towers over her. How small she is! Her head barely
comes up to his chin…

  “To the bed, Cesare,” she hisses.

  He surprises her then, scooping her up and carrying her into the next room. She’s done this one up, as well—his bed sits at a crazy angle, the headboard askew; hidden lights showcase her modifications. Grinning like a maniac, he tosses her gently down on the mattress, and climbs atop her like a spider.

  “Cesare,” she gasps, her eyes wide with desire. “Fuck me, Cesare!”

  He does.

  He fucks her for a long time, repositioning her or himself as ordered. When he begins to lose control, through heavy-lidded eyes, she commands him a final time. He has no problem obeying her order. The pleasure is so intense it almost hurts.

  When the Somnambulist awakens, she is there—Dimitria—face freshly scrubbed, in a white cotton nightgown that clings to her breasts and belly. Her hair and skin are brown again. He’s still in his costume, but she’s removing his face makeup, dabbing at him with a little wet cloth that smells of cucumbers.

  Panic sets in again. The Somnambulist is suddenly, deeply unsure. What does this mean? Did she have a good time? She came—or seemed to—twice, actually… which pleased him. But now, does she expect him to be fixed, over his desire for… whatever it was they just did? It was so good he wants to fuck her again like that right now—or at least, he would, if he wasn’t so sleepy and happy…

  “Sleep, Cesare,” she says, softly.

  Fear makes him disobedient. He opens his mouth to protest.

  “Cesare!” she says, more sharply this time. “Sleep!”

  The Somnambulist closes his eyes.

  ZERO

  The sack surrounds me: a room of no light. I float, weightless. Breathe without breath where my lungs are empty. The scalpel slices, saws. The room opens to spill me into the blankets and the air bursts to my lips as the cord is stretched and severed.

  Her flesh on mine, the heat of it. Her milk in my mouth.