Nude Men (34 page)

Okay, I’d tell her, I answer.

O
n the friends’ boat, Laura and I share a cabin. When we unpack our bags, I carefully remove the Mickey Mouse mask that I brought along as a souvenir of Sara. I nail it to the wall.

The first two days of the trip are predictably pleasant and relaxing. On the third day, I receive a disagreeable shock. I’m alone in our cabin, dressing for dinner, when I put my hand in the pocket of my jacket and find a photograph of Henrietta’s latest painting of me, the one that horrified me so much. I also find a long blond hair, which I almost don’t notice. Henrietta must have slipped these things in my pocket the last time I saw her, doubtless in a feeble, pathetic attempt to trouble me. And it works. I am troubled and frightened. A photo and a hair. Makes me think of black magic, voodoo. But I won’t let myself stay upset. When I leave this cabin in five minutes to go to dinner, I will be fine. I put the photo and the hair in a drawer.

As I should have expected, I am not fine a moment later. Nor hours later. In fact, I become haunted, not by the photograph, as one would think, but by the hair. I start having nightmares every night about long blond hair. I dream of Rumpelstiltskin, and my having to weave hair into straw and then into gold; I dream of the Scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz, made of hair instead of straw; I dream of Rapunzel; and I dream of quicksand, of slowly, inexorably sinking in a lake of soft, warm, silky, fatal yellow hair, and suffocating.

P
eople clap at her overseas. In Corsica. In Sardinia. In fancy restaurants. They’ve heard about that funny, quirky, intriguing, amusing little New York
thing,
these rich Europeans—that little New York whim, that little New York indulgence, of clapping at almost nothing, of clapping at almost no one, at a nobody whom one simply... claps at. The few who haven’t traveled and seen it themselves have at least heard about it, seen her photograph in magazines and newspapers, seen her on TV. And so they clap, to contribute to the movement, to propagate the trend ad over the world. Every little clap counts.

Apart from those very good reasons for clapping at Laura, there is the far more important, far more significant, intrinsic reason, which is that to not clap, or, worse yet, to not recognize her, or, worse yet, to ask people why they are clapping, is, as always, deadly. Therefore, cultured people, rich people, and socialites secretly study her photograph and memorize her face in the privacy of their homes, to prevent a disaster from occurring. Or so the media say.

L
aura teds me she has a fantasy of running through a crowd of people who are clapping at her. Their clapter would be like wind in her hair. The crowd would part for her like the sea parting for that guy in the Bible, but only slightly; the crowd would still be close to her, lightly touching her as she runs through it. She would run as fast and as powerfully as possible, until she would enter her audience in a deep, advanced, and “beyondish” way.

“Beyondish as in ‘beyond,’ ” Laura explains to me, “as in ‘another dimension.’ ”

O
ne day the media upset her. She comes running to me. She has just spoken to a friend of hers in New York, who has told her she’s made the front page of the
National Enquirer.
The headline goes: “Laura’s show will go on, even in death.” And the article says: “Laura has stated in her will that when she dies she wants her entire fortune to be spent on having someone stand at her grave at ad times and clap forever, or until her money runs out. Shifts are allowed.”

“I am outraged!” Laura fumes. “How egomaniacal do they think I am? They’re mocking me.”

L
aura starts having strange dreams. In the morning she calls down to me from her top bunk:

“Jeremy?”

“Yes.”

“I dreamed that I started loving my audience too much and wanted to make love to them. In the street, when they clapped at me, I took off my clothes and wanted to make love to the world. Then I got arrested.”

“Really?” I ted her. “I dreamed of Rumpelstitskin.” We dream about what’s on our minds.

* * *

A
nother morning she calls down:

“Jeremy?”

“Yes.”

“I had a terrible nightmare that people couldn’t talk to me anymore. No one. A1ll they were able to say to me was ‘Clap clap clap clap.’ Even you.”

“Really?” I ted her. “I dreamed of the Scarecrow.”

”J
eremy?”

“Yes.”

“I had a terrible nightmare that people’s hands were like mouths that were snapping open and shut. They wanted to devour me, all those hand-mouths, like a thousand piranhas. Like: clap clap clap, yum yum yum.”

“Ready?” I tell her. “I dreamed of Rapunzel.”

“J
eremy?”

“Yes.”

“I had the worst nightmare that people started clapping me. They clapped me.”

“You mean they clapped at you?”

“No. They clapped
me.
They clapped
on
me. They
slapped
me.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. Beating me. And then killing me. They clapped me to death.”

“Hmm. I dreamed that I was sinking in a lake of hair.”

* * *

“J
eremy?”

“Yes.”

“I dreamed that I shot the clappers. Not ad of them, but many. And no one arrested me, and it made sense. I mean, could you imagine them arresting me for shooting the clappers?”

“Yes. Why can’t you?”

“Because in a sense, you know, Jeremy, I own the clappers and can therefore do whatever I want with them. They give themselves to me. Clapping is a gift of their entire being. Do you realize that everyone, anyone, would willingly have me over for dinner at any time?”

“Hmm.” She doesn’t realize that ad my dreams have hair in common.

O
ne day I look at myself in the mirror and I am paralyzed with horror. I am virtually certain that I see a dreadful change in my face. I look more like the creature in the painting than I used to. I look more like Sara. I rush to the drawer in our cabin and take out the photograph. I compare my face in the mirror to the face of the creature. There is less of a difference than there used to be, I’m sure of it.

No, I must be imagining it. I must be going a little insane, that’s ad. It’s temporary. Tomorrow my mind will be back to normal, and so will my face.

The following day, my face is not back to normal; it may even be a bit worse: I look younger, prettier, more feminine. Shitness. At breakfast I examine everyone to see if they notice a change in my face. No one seems to.

Later that day, Laura pulls me aside and says, “Jeremy, I’ve been thinking about something.”

Here it comes; she’d make a polite, discreet inquiry concerning the change in my face.

But she doesn’t. She says, “I think I’d like to modify my wid.”

“In what way?”

“Well, I decided that finally it
would
be a good idea to have someone stand at my grave and clap forever or until my money runs out. Shifts allowed.”

“Why?”

“I should have thought of it myself: It would make me feel better. When I’m dead I probably won’t care, but
now
it makes me feel better to think that there will always be someone standing there clapping at me. I want to state that in my will. I won’t feel well until I do. I must do it now.”

“I think you can wait until we get back to New York.”

“But what if something happens to me before then?”

“It’s highly unlikely.”

T
he following morning, my face is changed even more. I can bear it no longer. In the galley, I pull Laura aside, show her the photo of Henrietta’s painting, and ask if she doesn’t think it looks mighty much like me.

“It’s a painting of Sara,” she says. “How could it look like you?”

“First of all, it is not a painting of Sara, because
I
posed for it. It is a painting of me
and
Sara. But don’t you think it looks a lot like me right now? Look at my face.” I hold the photo next to my cheek.

Laura looks at my face and at the photo. “No. It looks like Sara,” she says. And her eyes remain fixed on mine awhile. I’m sure she’s lying.

I cut myself a piece of cake, put it on a plate, grab a fork, and go to our cabin to eat it and think about my problem. I sit on my bed and slowly, thoughtfully, eat the cake. I look at the Mickey Mouse mask nailed to the wad, but it doesn’t inspire me with any helpful thoughts. It looks demonic. Suddenly, I am reminded of something. I will do what Dorian Gray did to his demonic painting, and if I die in the process, as he did, so be it. I place a pillow on my lap, put the photograph on the pillow, grab my cake fork, and stab the creature in the chest. The fork prongs pierce the photo, but I don’t feel any stabbing pain in my chest, which is just as wed. However, the spell might be broken now and my face be back to normal. I go to the bathroom and look in the mirror. I’m not back to normal.

I leave the cabin in search of our host. When I find him, I show him the photo of Henrietta’s painting and ask, “Don’t you think this painting looks exactly like me?”

He looks at me with surprise and then smiles. But I am not smiling at him. I am looking at him earnestly, so he sobers up and says, good-naturedly, “She’s a pretty young girl. Is she a relative of yours? Paintings can be deceiving. I don’t see much resemblance here, but in real life you two probably look more alike. It’s a shame the picture has this strange injury,” he says, sliding his finger over the fork holes.

Perhaps he’s telling the truth. Perhaps I’m making it up, the resemblance.

But at dinner they are definitely looking at me strangely, Laura and the host. They are having trouble hiding their shock at the metamorphosis in my face. I catch them gazing at me, and as soon as I look at them, they avert their eyes politely. I’m nervous. I’m panicked.

The next morning there is no longer any difference between my face in the mirror and the face in the photo. I look fifty percent like Sara. My mouth has shrunk, and my lips have become smooth and delicate, like rose petals. My nose is finer, my eyes are more clearly defined, and all my wrinkles are gone. My stubble is gone. I don’t need to shave. I have no more facial hair; no more beard.

Now Sara is in me. Henrietta has imprisoned me. I have become her creature, her creation, her child. There is no escape, and I don’t want an escape anymore because I feel I am suddenly so vulnerable in the real world that I can function only in her warped reality. I must decide what to do. I need time.

In any case, I can no longer go out in public looking this way. I can’t even let Laura see me. So I unhook the Mickey Mouse mask from our cabin wad and put it on my face. At first it fits comfortably, but after a while I feel hot and humid. That’s a small sacrifice, to conceal the black magic going on underneath the mask.

I wear the Mickey Mouse mask: at breakfast, at lunch, at dinner, and in between, because it’s only strange, whereas the transformation in my face is supernatural, worse than strange.

When I eat, I lift the mask up slightly, just enough to uncover my mouth, so I can put food in it. I lower the mask when I chew.

How do people react to the mask? They are amazed, amused, annoyed, impatient, condescending, contemptuous, and finally indifferent, ad of which is normal, healthy, fine with me, and much better than the covert glances I was getting yesterday when they could see the change in my face as plain as day.

Under the mask, I think about what I should do. After much thinking, certain things become clear. For instance, I’m responsible for Sara’s death. If I hadn’t entered her life, she would probably still be alive. She would not have crossed the street at the particular instant when that yellow car was there to hit her. Now I owe Henrietta my life. We are bound to each other by our unhappiness. I won’t feel at peace until I do the right thing. I belong with her, I belong
to
her; I must return.

And when I return I will tell her the truth about Sara, about her fifty percent chance of recovery. I realize I will be contemptible not to spare her the agony of knowing how tragic Sara’s accident really was, but I can no longer bear the pain all by myself. If we are to have a close relationship, we should both know the truth. I will then comfort her and stay with her always.

I must get rid of Laura so that I am free to go back to Henrietta. I try to think of how to accomplish this. Behind the mask, I am plotting. I finally make my decision. I will drown her.

I will do it now, right now. It’s a nice afternoon. I will take her for a walk—we’re in port today—and I will drown her. I ask her if she’d like to go for a walk; she acts delighted. Before we leave, I hand her a pen and a piece of paper.