A Dirge for the Temporal (17 page)

A Fixture on River Street

W
e had just come out of the Rumdog Café, feeling just about right, when Jamie drew our attention to the street musician on the next corner. The bright glint of his sax caught the eye first, then the man himself, black as the surrounding darkness, and every bit as ancient. The smell of the Mississippi was on the air, seeming to hover out here on the fringes, in accompaniment to the old man’s soulful song. The din and bustle of thumping River Street to our backs, we might have been on the brink of a ghostland.

  Jamie’s first time to town, he was fascinated by the prospect of the lone jazz artist doing his thing in the soft light of an old-fashioned street
lamp. They didn’t have such fixtures where he came from. Tina and I were amused by his excitement, but followed him for the beacon of innocence
that he was, not to be left out if any cosmic secrets were revealed. 

  Spotting us, the old man put more passion into it, bleeding through his instrument, summoning the longings of the night. As we crossed to the glow seeming to radiate from the musician himself, we saw that he was barefoot. Between his feet rested a tip bowl with scarcely a dime in it. Jamie immediately plunged his hand in his pocket, finding to his satisfaction a whole fistful of coins, which he tossed into the bowl when we reached the curb. The man played on, with renewed intensity, his eyes closed as he expressed his gratitude in the one way he knew how.

  Tina, to my surprise, produced a bill of some denomination and let it waft down into the bowl. The old man pretended not to be aware of it, but I knew he could see through his lids. Men with bowls between their feet always can. I backed up into the street as the wailing reached a painful pitch, but it proved to be the finale, taking what emotion had been called forth and warping it out of all context. Jazz. You wouldn’t know I loved it by my wince.

  “Man, you are the
shit
!” touted Jamie, shaking the old man’s leathery hand.

  “Where ya from?” the old man said in a gravelly voice.

  “I’m from Knoxville. My friends here are from New Orleans. We’re in town for a convention. Record industry thing.”

  “Good place for it.”

  “That’s the truth.” Jamie’s fogged eyes seemed to catch another burst of revelation. “Man, do you
do
.”

  The old man was used to the one-too-many sort, in fact seemed to appreciate Jamie’s straightforward way of expressing his appreciation. Revealing an incongruous collection of nicotine-stained teeth, he said, “I been doin’ it for a long time. Always comin’ back here, where they love to groove the most.”

  “Good-looking instrument.”

  “Old as dirt. One day I’ll be able to buy me a new one. It’ll do til then, though. Hell, it’s been doin’ since Bobby Bones was cookin’ up the blues on the corner. You’d be too young to remember him, I s’pose.”

  I thought I vaguely remembered the name, from down around the Quarter, but I told him I couldn’t be sure.

  “He was better known hereabouts,” said the old man.

  “Bobby Bones played that very sax?” asked Tina.

  He nodded, eyes seeming to slip back in time.

  She said, “The Rumdog Café’d probably give you a new one for it. They’ve got jazz paraphernalia hanging all over the walls.”

  “Nope. Gots to be on my terms,” he said. “Hangin’ it up like a museum
piece is too damn final for my taste. I’d just as soon wait till I’ve collected
enough pennies.” He looked down at the bowl. “Which ain’t gonna be too long with tips like that.” He offered Tina a yellow grin.

  “But…” Jamie’s face had fallen under a shadow. He looked at the emptiness around us, down at the bowl. “Have you got nobody, Pops? Do you get by on tips?”

  “No complaints, young man. I play my sax. I do my thang.” He leaned forward, conspiratorially. “On top o’ that, I got this other gig.”

  The way he said it made us all want to know what. Licking his lips, he said, “For a five-spot apiece—‘ceptin’ you, young lady—I can take ya to see Bobby’s body.”

  “His bod—are you kiddin’ me?” Jamie swayed on his feet, his body not up to its sudden reaction.

  The old man waved his hand. “Never mind. It’s for kids anyway.”

  “I’m a kid!” said Jamie. He turned to us. “How about you guys?”

  Tina giggled. “A body? Sure, I’m a kid. What about you, Mark?”

  Whatever Gramps was up to, I didn’t see that any harm could be done. He was too old to mug, maul or molest. I was in.

~

  Having stashed away his money, he led us, saxophone like a torch in
his hand, down dark city blocks to a walled place near the river. Though I’m rather young to have to visit them often, cemeteries have never bothered
me much. Tina, on the other hand, was thrilled to the point of
latching on to me—for which I silently thanked our guide. Overhead, stars pierced the urban pall, bringing some light to the places lamps did not reach.

  But it was into the deepest, darkest hearts of the cemetery that he
led us, an interwoven canopy over our heads challenging any and all illu
mination, the markers and resting places of the dead darkening to shadows within shadows. He brought us to an impressive tomb amidst these, producing a key which clinked on its ring in the mute night.

  “How did you get a key?” Tina whispered.

  The façade of the tomb was columned, and before its massive door was a sill wide enough to accommodate the four of us as the key was inserted.

  “Bobby had no one but me,” said the old man. “His fans loved him
enough that they paid for this beautiful tomb for him—he was truly a legend
on River Street—but they were fans not family.”

  The door opened inward. The stony silence enveloped us as we entered. Along one wall was a ledge on which lay an open, rather scarred saxophone case. As the old man placed the instrument in the case, our
eyes wandered to the opposite side of the vault, where an ornate iron han
dle provided access to the body’s resting place.

  “It’s scary as hell,” said Tina.

  The old man held out his hand. Jamie and I produced the required fee.

  Stuffing away the bills, he stepped over and grasped the handle. We stiffened for the worst as the drawer came open on its grinding runners.

  It was empty.

  All eyes fell on the saxophonist.

  “One of these days I’m gonna have that brand-new sax,” he said. “And when I do, I plan to set River Street on fire all over again.” He tossed his key ring behind the instrument case.

  Returning his attention to the void that had been revealed, he added, “I’d ‘preciate it if you’d close it behind me. And the door, too, as ya leave. It will lock on its own.”

  And with that, he climbed with some clumsiness into his songless bed.

Mousse

P
ut a whole pile of mousse in my hair that evening. Best threads, packed wallet, Italian shoes. Gone hunting.

  At the door, they took me at my style, waved me in ahead of the line. I felt the envy of the men like the spray of a flamethrower on my back. Fed on it. Took it for just what it was—inadequacy, weakness. I felt nothing from the women except the venomous greed slinging from their collagen-bloated lips onto their exposed, silicone-narrowed cleavage.

  Stepped into the Spaceship, as I like to call it, with an air of supremacy.
Whatever I said was the Word, whatever I did was the Example. Beneath the strobes, the globes, and the scent of perfume and smoke and sweat, all eyes were upon me.
Come to me
, they said.
Oh let it be me
.

  I chose her for her delicateness, I chose her for her sass. I chose her for her fearlessness, I chose her for her ass. I chose her because she
dripped superlatives. Because she was an exceptional wine. Because she was less impressed by me than the rest were. Because she thought herself
my match.

  “Are you a vampire?” she asked me.

  “No.”

  “A psycho killer?” she asked me.

  “Now, now.”

  “Do you find me alluring?”

  “You appeal to my darker tastes.”

  Red tongue, clear green eyes, the viper. “I would not wish myself upon any man.”

  “Perhaps I am no man.”

  “What then?” Pressing herself closer.

  Let us dance, I intimated. Dance we did. Killed each other, killed the house with our moves. Carnage strewn about the place. Seemed the lady and I did not honor the fair spirit of competition. Go home.

  Suggested it to her. Tongue appeared, disappeared again.

  “Of course.”

  “Are you a vampire?” I said.

  “Are you the devil?” she returned.

  “Perhaps that,” I said. And out into the night, wings tucked in by our sides.

  Her vehicle. Her suggestion. I had never played the game that way before. She drove a sports car, not dissimilar to my own. Will you drive, she offered.

  With pleasure, lady. Did that. Fucked with the dial, brought up some jazz as we pulled out of the parking lot. My place?

  She reached over, undid the three top buttons, ran her fingers across my chest.

  “Anyplace dark,” she said.

  “My place is dark,” I promised. And put the machine towards getting us there forthwith.

  My place is beneath an overpass. My place isn’t my home. My home is my home, my place is my place, two different sets of coordinates. She didn’t mind.

  Place is certainly dark, the murky river seeming to draw everything but the last glint in our eyes into its depths. I like to take her by the absence of light glancing off its opaque surfaces. Expression snatched in shadow, words lost in the black wind that does not blow. Fish lying dead and disoriented on the concrete bank. I do it with any one of my tools, sometimes my teeth, sometimes my knife, sometimes the wire. Would do it this night with my flask and a lighter. Because she dared so much. Because she would be my equal, venom bitch.

  Took it out of my jacket pocket, like whiskey, like gin, drew a long mouthful, gasoline burns, yeah Jesus it does. She smelled it, I knew she smelled it, they always did, but it didn’t make any sense, gasoline in a flask, gasoline killed. Yeah it did, come here, sweet temptation, match
book at the ready. I pretended to swallow.

  But she wouldn’t obey my gesture. She was cooler than that. You come, she said.

  I could not verbalize. Mouth full of gasoline, pain. I would bathe her, baptize her, bring her to her belly, serpent, writhing and screaming in agony I love to inflict so. Only she was teasing me, backing away from me as I came, backing away, away, around the car and opening the door as if to jump inside the car—but then slamming it against me, watching with pleasure my facial contortions as the gasoline went down. When the fluid immediately lurched up again, she threw the door against me a second time. I dropped to my knees. She retrieved my matches, lit one, what is your wish, Word and Example?

  I thought to welcome it. Deserved it, my inadequacy, my weakness…

  “Too easy,” she said, shaking it out. “Hurt a little.” And climbed into her sports car and drove away.

  Somewhere no doubt she’s smiling, knowing I’ve been hunting her ever since.

Coeur de Vie

P
assing a couple decked out in black, the scent of night and cologne about them, Cal Banes checked his watch. Almost midnight. He’d learned firsthand that the nightlife in Luxembourg City didn’t get started until after twelve. Upon leaving the casino, which had made his pockets five hundred euros fatter, he’d taken the advice obtained from a hotel brochure and made Chez-nous Disco his next stop. The cabbie warned him, but Cal said he’d check it out for himself. Sure enough, the Friday night crowd was not only thin, but on average a generation younger than he was.

  Not ready to call it a night, he wandered the streets. This was his
first business trip to Europe in a while, and although the night around him wasn’t quite as charged as he’d hoped, he wasn’t about to let eccentric
Luxembourger ways drive him to bed. The Grand Chateau, where he was staying, had its own various entertainments, but they were a little upscale for his tastes. As far as he was concerned, a man about town could do it on his own terms.

  Ahead, a red neon sign—one of many adorned with either an
X
or a curvy female silhouette—flashed
Club Rouge
. While the higher-class amusements weren’t Cal’s style, neither necessarily were the lower. He strode past the bulging suit manning the sunken, nondescript door with a curt nod. Yet before he reached the end of the block he had replayed the subtle, mystery-infused head gesture of the doorman multiple times. What, after all, did go on in such places? Cal had seen similar establishments in other European cities and always assumed they were simply more brazen, less regulated cousins of the strip clubs found in the States. He decided he would go in for one drink.

  The suit smiled conspiratorially as he held the door open. Smoke and music welcomed the customer into the narrow confines of the club. Men sat around a bar drinking out of tall glasses, eyeballing a topless woman dancing sinuously on a small, hard-lit platform. Two other dancers, covered,
were on hand as well. One of them drifted, while the second seemed locked in to the man she shared a drink with. Another bouncer type, maybe the clone of the suit manning the entrance, stood before a door of beads in the back. Otherwise—and this was what impressed Cal most keenly—the place was an excuse to play music of strange and bewildering origins.

  “
Oui, Monsieur?
” said the bartender as Cal sat on the nearest stool.

  “
Bonsoir
,” Cal said. “Do you by chance speak English?”

  “Yes, of course. What can I get for you?”

  “Recommendation?”

  “Bloody Mary is our house drink, though perhaps it is too early?”

  “Bloody Mary would be great.”

  Watching the bartender pour an almost equal amount of vodka and tomato juice over two ice cubes, dousing the blend liberally with tobasco and black pepper, Cal fished a cigarette out of his pocket. A slender hand
produced a flame, which he used before turning to find the drifter standing
there, her bare thigh lightly touching his knee. Her blue eyes had a lazy look to them as she sized him over. He hadn’t bothered to notice at first glance, but she was an unexpectedly good-looking woman.

  “You are new here, yes?” Her accent was heavily Slavic.

  “The bar or Luxembourg in general?”

  She shrugged, enhancing the gesture with a nuance of her nicely curved lips.

  He said, “The answer is yes to both. But I might ask you the same thing.”

  “I am Sonja. I moved here recently from the Ukraine. Yana, the girl dancing on the stage, found this job for me.”

  “Five euros, please,” the bartender said behind Cal.

  “Can I run a tab?” he asked, turning that way.

  The bartender and Sonja exchanged a pleased glance. Cal’s remark suggested his intention to be around awhile.

  “Sure,” the barkeep said. “Just settle up here before you go upstairs.”

  Before he…

  “Will I be going upstairs?”

  The bartender struck him on the shoulder. “Surely you would not wish to hurt Sonja’s feelings.”

  “No, of course not.” He sucked on the cigarette before braving the con
coction the man had prepared for him.

The mixture was surprisingly pleasing to the taste buds. Much like Sonja to the rest of the senses.

  “So what does ‘going upstairs’ entail?” he asked her.

  She mistook the question. “Four hundred euros.”

  “Four hundred—? Christ.”

  She pushed his thigh aside and slithered up against him. “And very much worth it.”

  He looked at her, her lips but an exhalation from his own. No way. No damn way.

  She kissed him, convincingly, seeming to fully lose herself in the moment.

  Against every instinct and ethic, he had to give consideration to the fact that his pockets were five hundred euros fatter from his casino winnings. “How long?” he said.

  She touched his chin with her fingertip. “All night if you also buy my drinks.”

  “Are you…I mean, is it…”

  “Safe? Yes, completely.”

  He measured her a moment longer, then turned to the bartender. “One for the lady, please. And I’ll be settling up now.”

~

  The second floor was divided up not by partitions, but by long plush rugs forming paths between bunches of ornately covered mattresses and pillows. The smell of liquor, incense, smoke, and sweat filled the spaces. In the far wall was another door of beads, though this time no one manned it. Two of the sections were in use, their occupants giggling and fondling, but no one appeared to have gone any farther than that. With all night at their disposal, Cal thought, why indeed rush?

  Sonja leaned back against the wall, the mattress beneath her emanating a perfumery—no doubt some spray to cloak deeper smells—that Cal might have found hard to swallow had his senses not been otherwise engaged. The euros had already been deposited in the hands of the man watching the beads downstairs, and the absoluteness of the thing hung there in direct opposition to the theory of romance. And yet, after only a
little while in her company, Cal found himself liking her. What’s more, she seemed to like him. He wasn’t naïve enough to imagine this chemistry
was anything more than business, but he did appreciate its relaxing effects.

  “So what kind of music are we listening to, Sonja? It reminds me of a public radio program they used to run on Sunday mornings back when I was in college…
Tours through the Inner Cosmos
, they called it. Played all kinds of strange New Age music.”

  “New Age? They just call it
Vie
here. Life. My employers prefer this form for Club Rouge.”

 
Form
, she said. As though it was all about the music’s artistic value. Sipping his vodka tomato, he concentrated a moment on the sometimes clear, sometimes hollow sounds, unable to determine what precise instruments they came from. While strings and keys and wind definitely contributed, most of the sounds were synthesized. The music was about mood more than melody, atmosphere more than beat. It was eerie, he thought. Whale songs with more sinister implications.

  “Your employers have odd tastes,” he said.

  She smiled. “When you are rich, you can afford odd tastes.”

  “Isn’t everyone in Luxembourg rich? That’s what
my
employers told me, to prepare me for the mindset, I guess.”

  “Then you are here on business?”

  “A conference.”

  “Your associates have left you to fend for yourself. Good for me.”

  “Ha. The moment these things end, I slip out the door. I don’t need to be surrounded by work all night, which I’ve learned is exactly what you get when you go out with your associates.” He smiled to himself, wondering
what they would think of this place.

  “So where do you come from in America?” she said, gliding a fingertip
along his arm.

  “Southwest,” he said. “Boring.”

  She kissed his forehead. “Not boring. Do you have a family there?”

  He frowned. “I don’t know that I’d like to go there, Sonja. Why would you ask that?”

  An unfamiliar face appeared with another Bloody Mary.

  “I didn’t order this,” Cal said.

  “And yet it is here,” smiled the waiter, depositing it on the surface beside the bed. “This one is on the house.”

  “Would you bring the lady one too, then?”

  He downed the rest of his first one, invited her to do the same with her mixture. As she complied, her eyes merged with the drink’s similar color, supplying the clear blue depths for whalesong.

  Though Cal knew he had downed at least three ounces of liquor in the house specialty, and on top of the four or five drinks he had already consumed tonight, he reached for the new glass. Maybe he needed a sampler
of oblivion to help with the inhibitions. Family, she had asked. What nerve.

  Before he returned the glass to its perch, Sonja abandoned her spot to him, coaxing him back against the wall. She began kissing him, her fingers unbuttoning his shirt, her lips roaming over his neck, chest, slightly neglected belly. A cold drop of liquid caused him to open his eyes abruptly; he realized she still held her drink aloft, while he had yet to return his to the ledge. He was feeling rather in limbo. What proof vodka had they used, anyway? When Sonja told him not to worry about such things, he didn’t remember asking the question aloud.

  “Hold on,” he said, pushing her away. “Just cool it a sec, all right?”

  “Yes?” she said, her sultry look defying his concerns.

  “Yeah, thing is, I do have a family. My wife and I have been separated
for more than a year. Two kids, boy and girl. Freedom don’t taste much like freedom, y’know?”

  “That depends on where one is from, yes?” she said. “Compared to my home, this”—she gestured around them—“is total liberation.”

  He looked at her for a minute then held up his drink. “To liberation.”

  “Liberation!” she said, meeting it with her own.

  They might as well have been in Paris, at a revolutionists’ convention.

 
“So what’s through that door?” Cal asked, gesturing at the beads
stirring on the strange sounds that kept everything at a mesmerizing pitch.

  “You are ready for the third floor already?”

  He looked around the room. The other couples continued to play their soft games, contentedly. Maybe there would be some privacy after all.

  “What is this, like the foreplay floor?”

  “To foreplay,” she said, holding up her drink.

  He tapped it and drank yet again.

  Her voice seemed to fade into the background, among the strains of the Inner Cosmos, as she asked, “Does anyone know where the bad boy has gone tonight?”

  “Who’s the bad boy?” he said, letting his eyelids droop deliriously.

  “You are the bad boy, Cal. Does anyone know you are here?”

  He laughed. “Yeah, I told everyone at the conference to meet me at the…what’s the name of this joint, Natalie?”

  “Club Rouge,” came her underwater voice. “And my name is Sonja.”

  “Ohya, Natalie’s that other harlot, the one I called a wife. Y’know, maybe I should put the drink down for awhile.”

  “Ah, so soon?” announced the voice of the waiter. “I’ve brought you another.”

  “I think Cal wants to take it upstairs,” Sonja said.

~

  Circumstances had changed. Environment. Things had become steadily clearer as Cal ascended the stairs. By the time he stepped foot on the third floor, everything was back into focus. The highly visual,
almost dazzling sumptuousness of the furnishings only made things sharper to his receptors. Sonja, moving like liquid before him, was a goddes
s in her chamber.

  Floor three was otherwise unoccupied. Its luxuries would be theirs alone once the waiter was on his way. Cal didn't notice the absence of the tall glass the guy had made a habit of bringing until the tray appeared before him. His pulse quickened as he saw what lay there.

  “What is that?”

  “Would you like to get high, Cal?” said Sonja.

  “I don’t know that I’ve ever thought about getting high like
that
.” What he was looking at was a syringe, and beside it a small paper container of clear fluid.

  “Look, there is nothing to be afraid of,” Sonja said, motioning the waiter away. Picking up the syringe and drawing some of the fluid into it, she offered her arm for his examination. “See. No marks. Nothing like that. Only…”

  She squeezed her fist, tapping the valley above her forearm, then pressed the fluid into a vein. “Liberation…” She lay her head back, and seemed to taste it on her lips.

  “Christ, I’m just a businessman looking for a night on the town.”

  She lowered her head, eyes sleepily engaging him. “You can go searching the town for Natalie. Or you can forget her here.”

  He studied her. “Your English gets more impressive by the minute, Sonja. I wonder how long you’ve been out of the Ukraine—”

  “Who cares?” she said, spitting fluid out of the needle.

  He looked from the very obvious thing in her hand to the very obviousness of his surroundings. A deep red hue seemed to be the motif—cushions, art, carpet and all. Passion. Lust. Fierce emotion. The music, now that he stood back from it, had assumed the role of undertone. A
poised, strangely majestic accompaniment. The difference in texture and quality from what he had been listening to downstairs was near impossible
to pinpoint, yet it was different. As if the music moved with his own mood.

  He gritted his teeth. “Yeah. Who cares.”

  Clenching his fist, he held out his arm, watched with determination. Blood rose into the cylinder. To his surprise she removed the needle from his arm, shot his blood into the depleted cup of clear fluid. She drew a few cc’s of the blend back out, told him to be still, shot it into his arm.

  Warmth chased the chill that ran through him, saturating him in wonder. “Drink your drink,” she said. “I’ll be back.”

  “But the waiter took my drink…”

  “I’m here, sir,” came the familiar masculine voice. “House drink, Bloody Mary.”

  Cal grasped the cool glass in his fist. “Is she really a Ukrainian?” he said.

  “No, they’re only make-believe, like us Luxembourgians.”

  Cal tried to chuckle. “I’d rather it was all real.”

  “Then quit trying to entomb yourself. Except for that flaw, you’re a prime candidate.”