Authors: Chris Adrian
The Great Night (34 page)
“Something horrible should happen to you!” Henry said, not sure whether he was talking to all of them or just the terrible lady.
“You were never here,” she said again. From very far away he saw her turn her back on him, and all the others followed suit except his friend the black dog, who watched him mournfully over his shoulder as he was dragged along, and then they were gone, and Henry was standing at the entrance to the park, not sure why he was crying.
“
A
-one,” said Huff, “and a-two!” A tiny man, dressed in a paper bag and a monocle, was still running to hit his mark. “Don't make me count to a-three!” Rehearsals were under way, and though time was short (there had already been two false alarms about the Mayor's return), the players were all industrious, and the addition of the Mayor's ever more numerous defectors was a piece of edifying good fortune. They did whatever the lovely lady told them to, but Huff wondered whether the grand necessity of the project didn't also command their loyalty. It had seemed grander by the hour: the additional players made it possible to perform a much more complicated entertainment. Now there were more songs, and more scenes, and more things happening in every scene, and Huff felt like a hundred little tentacles had erupted from his head, each one topped with an eyeball and equipped with a clever little satellite brain, because it felt like he was doing a hundred different things at once, writing dialogue or lyrics or humming out a theme or choreographing a new step, and yet the whole time he was sure as well that he could never take his eyes off the lady.
A
-one,” said Huff, “and a-two!” A tiny man, dressed in a paper bag and a monocle, was still running to hit his mark. “Don't make me count to a-three!” Rehearsals were under way, and though time was short (there had already been two false alarms about the Mayor's return), the players were all industrious, and the addition of the Mayor's ever more numerous defectors was a piece of edifying good fortune. They did whatever the lovely lady told them to, but Huff wondered whether the grand necessity of the project didn't also command their loyalty. It had seemed grander by the hour: the additional players made it possible to perform a much more complicated entertainment. Now there were more songs, and more scenes, and more things happening in every scene, and Huff felt like a hundred little tentacles had erupted from his head, each one topped with an eyeball and equipped with a clever little satellite brain, because it felt like he was doing a hundred different things at once, writing dialogue or lyrics or humming out a theme or choreographing a new step, and yet the whole time he was sure as well that he could never take his eyes off the lady.
Princess had her jai-alai baskets back, and the industrious defectors had copied a dozen more pairs and added to them hulking costumes of straw and grass to turn the largest among them into fair semblances of backhoes and bulldozers. Now they danced in blocky mechanical steps and leaps, squaring off in a musical confrontation that the fleshly were destined to lose. It was a sad scene in a sad play, but Huff explained, carefully, when the little man he called Mr. Peanut (because of his size and the brown color of his bag and his monocle) said he was accustomed to singing happy songs and didn't see why there couldn't be one or two in this production. Happy songs, Huff said, were not going to move the Mayor to vulnerable, regret-stricken tears.
“You may as well try to wring tears from a stone as from the Beast,” said Mr. Peanut.
“Faith! Faith!” Huff shouted at him. He shouted it a lot, all through rehearsal, because, impossible as their task seemed, he was feeling better and better about it and had confidence in the power of artfully executed musical theater to change a person's soul. Six hours ago, before he had met his lovely lady friend, before the world (and the musical) had become peopled with strange creatures, little and big, before his crew had been gathered and become outfitted with a new enthusiasm, before things had suddenly started to fall into place, he had been more of a doubter. He hadn't liked to admit it, but he knew it was possible that they might be arrested or killed or turned into stew before the first transfiguring bar was sung, and that the Mayor might be deaf to their effort and unchanged by itâthey might all be wasting their time, just distracting themselves before they became burritos. “But you might say that about anything,” he said to the lady. “You might say that about life in general, that we are all just distracting ourselves before we become burritos.”
“I don't care for burritos,” she said.
“I don't like them either, those burritos of futility and despair,” he said. “Though I have eaten them, over and over, down to the last bean and stale tortilla nubbin. But people who believe that it's all for nothing deserve to have it all turn out for nothing.”
“But it
is
all for nothing, my love,” she said. “We've already lost, and there's nothing left but this lovely delusion. I am reduced, and you are dead already.”
is
all for nothing, my love,” she said. “We've already lost, and there's nothing left but this lovely delusion. I am reduced, and you are dead already.”
“Enough of that talk,” he said, and stopped her mouth with a kiss. They retreated behind a bush to make out more discreetly, though not for very long. The clock was ticking the seconds away to the Mayor's return, and there was barely time to properly rehearse, let alone make out, and yet it was necessary to explore the boundaries of her mouth with his tongue, since they might be in prison or worse when morning came. “Come away, my love,” she said, pulling at his belt and beckoning him behind deeper bushes.
“Duty calls, my lady,” he said, and led her out to the next scene. Short on time but long on players, they were rehearsing multiple scenes at once, five cells scattered around the field waiting for Huff to come inspect them or participate, since he had taken the part of Ty Thorn for himself. So when they had walked a few yards down from where the scoops were dancing aggressively around the food rioters, he joined Princess (who'd put down her baskets and put a rose in her hair) for their pas de deux around a corpse, Hogg in a suit stained with bloody berry juice. “Excuse me, my lovely loon,” he said to his lady, and fancy-stepped over to Princess. They joined hands over the body and released, each of them turning away and kicking a heel up backward just as they brought hand to mouth to bite the knuckle, then they each threw up their hands at the sky and threw back their heads as they stepped lightly on the balls of their feet, circling the body and singing.
There's been a murder here, a murder!
Mr. Fancy Feast is dead.
Murder most foul; murder most fancy;
Who killed him?
Was it you or you or
you
?
Mr. Fancy Feast is dead.
Murder most foul; murder most fancy;
Who killed him?
Was it you or you or
you
?
Huff blinked at the sky, open above the walls of fog and full of stars, and then brought his head forward to point with his eyes as well as his fingers. You or you or
you
âthat was just a preliminary motion, meant to tenderize the listener a little before the sharper jabs came later. He and Princess pointed accusatory disco fingers, now at the crowd and now at each other, and Hogg rose up to join them for a dramatic three-person tango, sternly (and somewhat sexily) charging them both to solve the mystery of his death.
you
âthat was just a preliminary motion, meant to tenderize the listener a little before the sharper jabs came later. He and Princess pointed accusatory disco fingers, now at the crowd and now at each other, and Hogg rose up to join them for a dramatic three-person tango, sternly (and somewhat sexily) charging them both to solve the mystery of his death.
Before the day is gone, baby,
Before the play is done, honey,
Find the truth!
Find the truth!
Before the play is done, honey,
Find the truth!
Find the truth!
Then he lay down again on his back and put his arms and legs in the air and shook them vigorously before he let them drop with a thud. “Don't shake like that,” Huff said. “You look like a bug. But turn your head to your side, and make your eyes bug out, and put out your tongue. A little more to the side. Precisely!”
“A lovely dance, my love,” said the lady. “Such grace! How can it be tolerated, on the hill or under it?”
“I dance in my head all the time,” Huff said. “When I'm trying to fall asleep. As a bit of flame, or a tampon on the wind, or a pony. And tonight it's as easy to do it as to dream it.”
“Well,” she said. They retreated to the bushes once again,
to nibble each other's nipples for a while. His were brown and fat, but she praised them sincerely. “Such beautiful buttons, my love,” she said. Hers were so perfectly formed and such a lovely shade of rose he could hardly believe his eyes when she parted her dress. He brought out a penlight, the better to see them with, and stuck it under her breast, looking to see if it was real. “Do you wish for them to glow?” she asked, and then they both did, with a light that was so warm he could feel it on his face.
to nibble each other's nipples for a while. His were brown and fat, but she praised them sincerely. “Such beautiful buttons, my love,” she said. Hers were so perfectly formed and such a lovely shade of rose he could hardly believe his eyes when she parted her dress. He brought out a penlight, the better to see them with, and stuck it under her breast, looking to see if it was real. “Do you wish for them to glow?” she asked, and then they both did, with a light that was so warm he could feel it on his face.
“Forgive my doubting, lovely lady!” he said. He put his face between them to make a joyful little speedboat sound. He had almost been arrested, once, for lurking in a Laundromat to press his face into the piles of warm laundry, and now he knew what he had been seeking when he did that, the ideal experience of which that, pleasant as it was, was only a degraded iteration.
“Do pinch them,” he said muffledly, of his own nipples, raising his hands up on either side of her and snapping his fingers like a pair of castanets. He looked up to see her smiling down benevolently on him. “Perfect!” he said, because she was pinching just hard enough and no harder, and who can ever do that at first pinch? But even through the perfect pleasure he heard strains of music and voices arguing. “Duty calls us,” he said, and bowed three times, once to the left breast, once to the right breast, and once to her face. “Shall we have a part two?” he asked her.
“And three and four,” she said. “We would have endless days and nights, my love, if this weren't the last night. But pleasure has a way of lengthening the hours.”
“I've always found it shortens them,” said Huff. “And cold nights are longer than warm ones.” He closed her dress, and took her hand, and led her from behind the bushes in a dance, so everyone would think they were merely rehearsing back there.
Mary and Princess were arguing nearby. “Feather step, feather step, feather step!” Mary said.
“Do-si-do!” said Princess, and did just that, circling Mary but keeping her eyes on Huff the whole time. “Right, boss?” A small crowd, drooping streamers in their hands, surrounded them. Bob and Hogg, dressed respectively as a chair and a couch, were sitting on the ground quietly talking.
“You can't just make it up as you go along,” said Mary. “That's not
choreography.
”
choreography.
”
“You're just jealous of my moves,” said Princess, and struck Mary with her hip. It was obvious that she meant it in a friendly way, but Mary pushed her. Huff sighed, and thought of all the things he could say, that this dance was very important, that its intricate geometries were meant to hypnotize the Mayor and make him more receptive to the subtle lessons that would come later in the play, that the delightful irony of Furniture dancing with furniture would cause him to let down his guard so the more serious ironies yet to come could strike home. He shook his head, and drew in a breath to scold them with, but caught sight of his lady's face before he spoke and had a different idea. He held out his hand and she took it. Without speaking, they started to dance, and with their feet and their hips and their jiggly necks showed the quarreling girls and the lazy boys and the crowd of limp-ribboned extras exactly what he meant. They all fell into step, the furniture and the Furniture, following him through the steps he had created, the high-grass kick and the lawnmower and the jackin-the-box and the yoga-master-taffy spin. It wasn't effortless, but it was so easy he started to cry.
“Why tears, my love?” asked his lady, spinning her hand round and round above her head, so all the little people danced in a ring and waved their ribbons.
“For happiness, of course,” he said, which wasn't exactly
why, so he tried to dance it out, instead, how wonderful and overwhelming it was to want something and to get it.
why, so he tried to dance it out, instead, how wonderful and overwhelming it was to want something and to get it.
“Happy or sad,” she said, wiping his tears away, “I cannot bear them.” She drew him away from the crowd, now a self-sustaining choreography, and they went behind another bush.
“What rank delight,” she said, before she blew him.
“Your mouth,” he replied, “is like ⦔ But he could think of nothing to compare it to, and then it seemed rude or ungrateful to try. The lesson of the dance, that words were not necessary, or not enough, was still with him, so he answered her with a moan and a giggle and a deep gurgling sigh, and then went nosing under her skirts, to give her a reciprocating thank-you, but the way seemed very long, from her ankle to her crotch. Her skirts were white and transparent, layer by layerâinitially he could see her white leg aglow with a special mixture of moonlight and starlight and torchlightâbut the world beneath them darkened as he nosed upward, until he was navigating only by touch and smell. Even the way up became notional; he wasn't entirely sure where his arms and hands had gone, and his head seemed to be floating sideways and down as much as up. Then there was a faint light in the dark, and a soft wind blowing a scent against his faceâsomething like rosemary and gourmet cat foodâand then he had arrived. He gorged himself on her, eating with his lips and tongue but also somehow just as much with his cheek and nose and eye, and pressing his eye to her as if to a keyhole he thought he saw the source of the light, flashes of lightning deep inside her.
When they emerged again from the bushes she was riding on his shoulders, having ascended there somewhat accidentally. Without her armor, she was very light, and he pranced merrily to that portion of the field where Bob lay on a bier of sticks and stones while the wonders of the lost world were projected, shadows on a white sheet held up by taller defectors, for
his sad, dying, benefit. There was disagreement about how the images should be sequenced, and Mary was complaining that there was no color in them, and Princess was calling her a snob and a colorist.
his sad, dying, benefit. There was disagreement about how the images should be sequenced, and Mary was complaining that there was no color in them, and Princess was calling her a snob and a colorist.
“Black and white was good enough for everybody for hundreds of years,” she said. “Hundreds of years!”
“Is it time for me to sing?” Bob asked, staring at the screen with his head cocked to the side and an empty glass in his hand.
“Garçon!”
said Huff, snapping his fingers at one of the little people walking about with a bottle on his head. He took the bottle and poured for Bob, then took a swig for himself, careful to balance his lady by holding more tightly to her leg with his other hand. “It's time,” he said to Bob, not bothering to hush Mary or Princess.
said Huff, snapping his fingers at one of the little people walking about with a bottle on his head. He took the bottle and poured for Bob, then took a swig for himself, careful to balance his lady by holding more tightly to her leg with his other hand. “It's time,” he said to Bob, not bothering to hush Mary or Princess.
“I don't know if I've had too much or not enough,” Bob said, sniffing at his glass.
“Drink up,” said Huff. “It's good for your voice.” When they tried the song earlier it had not been plaintive or sad enough. Bob had sounded like James Cagney singing “You're a Grand Old Flag,” and Huff had told him to take a break, and a few more drinks, and to reflect on sad things. Now he just looked confused, and Huff thought of pinching him again a few times to get him in the right frame of mind. The scene and the song was meant to convey Sol's great wearinessâhe felt
constantly afflicted
, Huff had explained, pinching. He just wants to
get away
from it all. “I get it!” Bob had said, slapping away Huff's fingers, but now Huff realized he had forgotten something. With his lady on his shoulders, it was almost as if he could borrow a little of her being to think with, and now it was stunningly obvious that Sol was as nostalgic as he was despairing and believed death would somehow bring him back to the good old days. He wanted to explain that, but Bob was already singing:
constantly afflicted
, Huff had explained, pinching. He just wants to
get away
from it all. “I get it!” Bob had said, slapping away Huff's fingers, but now Huff realized he had forgotten something. With his lady on his shoulders, it was almost as if he could borrow a little of her being to think with, and now it was stunningly obvious that Sol was as nostalgic as he was despairing and believed death would somehow bring him back to the good old days. He wanted to explain that, but Bob was already singing:
Other books
Fat Boy Swim by Catherine Forde
Trading Futures by Jim Powell
Christmas Lovers by Jan Springer
Fifty Shades of Greyhound (The Pampered Pets Mystery Series) by Sparkle Abbey
Cause to Kill (An Avery Black Mystery—Book 1) by Blake Pierce
Recluce 07 - Chaos Balance by Modesitt, L.E
One Long Thread by Belinda Jeffrey
Deadly Dozen: 12 Mysteries/Thrillers by Diane Capri, J Carson Black, Carol Davis Luce, M A Comley, Cheryl Bradshaw, Aaron Patterson, Vincent Zandri, Joshua Graham, J F Penn, Michele Scott, Allan Leverone, Linda S Prather
Love Finds Lord Davingdale by Anne Gallagher
El and Onine by Ambroziak, K. P.