The Caterpillar King (9 page)

Inside, conditions are on par with a
rainforest. Quite wonderful, really. The steam’s refreshing,
invigorating. Immediately want to get lost in it, sink into the
moment like a warm bed. But can’t quite yet.

“Ahgutaguhhh!” A terrifying shriek from the
shower. Spy the little bugger through the steam. He’s got the water
on full blast, smashing away at his face. Can’t tell if he’s loving
it or in pain. Leaning towards the latter. I wade through a pool
that’s nearly up to my ankles. Where the hell is the drain?
Supposed to be useful for just these instances. Look into the tub,
and see the boy’s foot is right on top of it, pushing it closed. Of
course it is. Move his leg, lift the metal piece, and the drain
gurgles to life. Finally, turn off the shower. Order’s almost
restored, but the child starts to cry loudly.

“What?” I say. “Tell me.”

Water sinks all around him. He splashes his
hands into it with surprising violence.

“Oh?” I say. “You want the water back
on?”

Flip the shower on but keep the tub
draining. Smile spreads across his face instantly. A man after my
own heart.

Glance at the mirror; it’s completely fogged
up. My canvas calls to me. Tate looks happy and alive enough. No
reason to delay for even a moment more. Now’s the perfect time for
steam art.

“You want to see Daddy work?” I say. Room is
full of my equipment. Generally have a few pots of boiling water,
along with a pair of electric kettles. Really adds to the effect.
Can’t turn on the kettles now or I’d get zapped. Shame, but there’s
plenty of steam. Approach my canvas, a mirror the size of the wall.
Galla thought I was quite vain to have it installed. Explained my
true intention- to use it for my art- and still she repeated
herself. I suppose art is a vanity, after all.

Look at the mirror, blank and foggy. Wait a
measure. Never make the initial strike too soon. A poor first
sentence is the end of a book. Wait another beat. Listen to the
steady hum of the water. Steam swirls around, envelopes me.
Normally would do this naked, but with the child in the room, seems
somehow boorish.

Pointer finger is drawn to the glass almost
magnetically. Skin touches steam, dissolves it with a medium-thick
stroke. Pull downwards at a 60
°
angle,
curl up slightly at the end. Absolutely no idea what I’m drawing,
but that’s not a cause for concern. Create on instinct and
intuition. Logic has nothing to do with it. Fingernail against
glass, thin brush. Two slight curves that hug each other. The
painting reveals itself as I push on. Thick straight line,
horizontal. Use prints to fill in underneath it, playing the mirror
like a muted symphony. Ah yes, art comes on the offbeat. Takes a
minute before I realize what I’m painting. It’s the scene from the
cave. The caterpillars in the back, the cloth protruding from the
middle, the completed bags on the side. I’m absolutely haunted by
it. Study my painting for another moment, then crushed by
disappointment. It doesn’t look right at all.

Want to make adjustments, but then the drips
set in. Oh God, the drips. Can be minimized by a slight thinning
and upturn at the end of lines, but that always rings false to me.
Would rather just live with the result. Used to bother me more, the
way they sink from line to line, connecting everything into some
jumbled mess. Unfortunately, they’re a part of the process. Now, I
don’t mind as much. Come to think of them as my very own
craquelure
. Step back, try to envision the next step.
Realize it’s hopeless. Wipe the board clean with one large
sweep.

While I wait for the rebirth, I check on the
child. He’s pulled himself up to the edge of tub and is staring at
me. Seems quite enthralled with my work. Never had an audience
before, but I think I like it. A minute passes, and the mirror fogs
up again, good as new. I start in on the 2
^nd
layer.

Know what I want now, and it comes to me
easily. Focus on one caterpillar in the back. In my memory, they’re
all moving, save for this one. Not quite dead, but well on its way.
Work carefully on detail this time. Able to create some decent fuzz
effects with nails. The eyes are hollow and black. Pause, let the
steam return, filling the empty body. Creates a kind of
stencil-like appearance. Really coming along beautifully. Enter a
meditative, trance-like state. No idea how much time passes. Rudely
awakened by a banging at the door. Handle tries to turn, but I’d
wisely locked it.

“Arboss?” says Galla.

“Yes?” I say.

“What on earth are you doing? Where’s
Tate?”

“Tate’s exactly where you left him,” I say.
“And I’m a bit busy at the moment.”

“Did you get the bag?”

“Yes, yes, charmed my way into it. We’ll
rehang at sundown tomorrow. Can’t interrupt inspiration.”

“We need to talk about this
now
,” she
says.

“The boy’s fine, he’s a regular fish. Take
another handful of pills and relax.”

Silence, but I can tell she’s fuming. She
pounds at the door one final time, but it doesn’t budge. Hear her
footsteps trailing away. Look back at the mirror to check my work
and feel a familiar disappointment. Steam has overwhelmed the
image. Once more, I’m staring at a blank slate. Not a trace left
behind.

Galla’s in the dining room, three shades
paler than usual. Looks a bit like she’s been poisoned. Wonder if
she took my advice seriously.

“Where. Is. He,” she says.

“No idea what’s gotten into you. A few hours
ago, you’d have been happy to throw him out with the rubbish.”

“Where. Is. He.”

“Don’t see why you’ve got to go on repeating
yourself. He’s in the tub. Galla? Hello?”

Realize she hasn’t quite regained her
faculties yet. Her brain’s snagged on a thought, and can’t let
go.

“You need some rest, so I’ll just see myself
out,” I say. Decide to head anywhere but here.

“Your art…” she says.

“What?” I say.

“Your art…it’s idiotic.” The woman
does
know how to get my attention, I’ll give her that.
“Can’t sell it. Can’t even see it. Here one moment, gone the next.
Left with nothing at the end.”

“Wonderfully symbolic, don’t you think?” I
say. Feel like I’ve lived this conversation before. Arguments have
a way of repeating themselves long after they’ve stopped serving
any purpose.

Galla senses my disinterest and backs off. I
think about helping myself to another brandy, decide against it.
Alcohol’s boring in low quantities, and I don’t have the energy to
get properly drunk. Galla stands unsteadily and hobbles away.

“Ready for the rehanging?” I joke.

“Only if it’s you in the bag,” she says. She
makes her way to the bathroom.

“You’re taking him out of the tub? He won’t
be happy,” I say.

“I’m tired,” she says. “If he doesn’t like
sleeping, he can find a new home.”

“Where do you intend to…store him?

“He’ll be in my bed,” she calls back.
Bathroom door creaks open.

“Unlucky fellow,” I say. “Suppose I’ll just
be in the guest room?”

“You always are,” she says.

Hear the child cry out. Assume she’s just
picked him up. Footsteps fade away, sounds get softer, a door
closes. Not silence, but close enough. It’s dark outside. Decide to
have the drink after all. I could stand to be a bit more bored.

***

What on earth does the creature
want?
Wake up at some inhuman hour to the sounds of a dog being skinned
alive. Takes a second before I realize it’s our precious Tate. Find
a pair of earplugs lying on the desk, jam them in immediately.
Fantastic little devices, earplugs. Mumble a silent prayer of
thanks to Galla and roll back over. Then the light flicks on.

“Hulmmm…” Galla’s voice comes from somewhere
underwater. Eyes still attempting to adjust. Nothing more cruel
than a light switched on before dawn. Reminds me of my
apprenticeship. The filthy old hound would wake us and set us to
work, only to lock himself in the cabin for the day. He’d go right
back to sleep (or do god-knows-what.) May he suffer eternal
torment.

Torn from my hateful memories by my hateful
present. Feel a hand shaking my leg. Can’t pretend any longer. Roll
back over and face the light. Lovely scene before me. Galla’s
holding the child out like a gift, apparently ready to drop it on
my bed. Tate is red-faced from screaming; Galla’s exhausted from
lack of sleep. I take out my earplugs, screeching intensifies.

“Yes?” I say quite innocently.

“He relieved himself in my bed,” says
Galla.

“Don’t see what I have to do with this,” I
say.

“Make it stop,” she says.

“I’m really not much of a father…”

“Help me,” she says.

“Fine,” I say. “You should try looking this
pathetic more often. I almost actually feel
bad
for
you.”

Back in the kitchen, wait for the sun to
rise. Feels like this night will never end.
Never shall I forget
this night, the first night, which murdered my God and my soul and
turned my dreams to dust…
Consider throwing him back in the
tub, consider leaving him. On and on goes the screaming. Wonder if
the fall caused some sort of brain damage.

Eventually, decide he must be hungry. Find
the nicest food in our kitchen (imitation roast) and heat it. Child
starts bawling when he smells it. Nearly has an aneurysm when I put
the plate in front of him. Try again, this time a piece of ham.
Nothing. A slice of truffle cake. Repulsed. Run through the
cabinets, increasingly despondent. Chance upon some instant mash.
Worth a shot. Heat it up, take a bite. Just like grainy cardboard.
Pass the brat a lukewarm bowl. He splashes around in it as if he’s
back in the tub. Licks his fingers and gives us an adorable grin.
Then he claps his hands together, spraying Galla with the remnants.
Can’t help but laugh.

Our little Tate devours the mash. Should’ve
seen it coming. After he finishes the bowl, he passes out in
Galla’s arms. Patches of yellowish potato serve as clothing for
now. Apparently the boy goes swimming in anything he likes.

“Should I…?” whispers Galla. Seems afraid to
make a move, lest she wake the sleeping beast.

“Might as well bring him back to bed,” I
say. “Sheets are soiled, you said.”

Notice Galla’s eyes are already closed.
She’s fallen asleep with him, just sitting in the chair.

Sun’s coming out, poking its way into the
kitchen. Impossibly bright in the early morning. I retreat to the
guestroom, half-delirious. Lay eyes on the white cloth from the
clinic. Wonder if we’ll actually rehang this evening. There’s no
evidence it’ll work, no evidence it’s safe. To be frank, it seems
completely mad. On the desk, see the card the dandy gave me. Pick
it up, glance at the boss’ name and number. Goes by Ms. Sabonne.
Sounds French, find myself intrigued. In my delirious mind, half
five seems like the appropriate time for a call. Dial the number,
not really expecting an answer. She picks up after a single
ring.

“Oh…” I say. “Err…I’m a recent customer of
yours in need of some assistance. Don’t suppose we could meet
sometime? Soon, if possible?”

She breathes in.

“Yes,” she says. “I believe I’m free for
lunch today, Mr. Covington.”

12.

Sound of my own name startles me.
How’d
she know?
Ms. Sabonne hangs up before I can ask. Spend the next
few seconds completely mystified. Then I realize there’s Call ID.
Feel like an idiot. Behind every magic trick is a dull
explanation.

Galla’s in the kitchen, doing a poor job of
waking up. Wait an hour, but alas. She doesn’t move, neither does
the bundle in her arms. Kick her chair to help her along. Once
she’s come to, I inform her of my plan.

“Wait, who? And she’s coming when? Better
yet, why?”

“Ever heard of a rehanging? Didn’t think so.
Have to make sure it’s done properly. Besides, this whole affair’s
got me quite curious…”

“Oh thank God,” she says.

“What?” I say.

“For a moment, I thought you were being
selfless. Scared me half to death.”

Next few hours go by in a concert of
screams. Tate to Galla, Galla to me, me to Tate. Lovely scene,
really. Try feeding him mash, but he seems to have developed an
immunity to it. Finally stick the boy back in the tub, and he’s as
happy as can be. I mention something to Galla about not dozing off
this time. She looks less than pleased.

9 A.M., a knock at the door. I answer it.
Could be none other than Ms. Sabonne. Blonde, petite, rosy-cheeked.
Seems impossible. The woman materialized out of my fantasies. I
press my luck, fantasize about a hundred other things in rapid
succession. Open my eyes, nothing’s changed. Should be thankful for
even a single gift, I suppose.

“May I come in, Mr. Covington?”

“
Mais oui
,” I say.

“What?” she says.

“Right this way.”

Guide her into the kitchen, inspect her
frame from the back. Smart black blouse, slim white trousers. A
decent outfit paired with impeccable posture can elevate any woman.
More admirable than sexual, really. And yet, quite alluring in its
own way. Only imperfection to speak of is her hands. They’re
thoroughly wrinkled. A bit frightening, really.

“Fancy tea?” I say.

“Chai,” she says. “If you’ve got it.”

An auspicious start. Come to realize I
attract harsh women.
Of course
I have chai.

“Galla, can you put the kettle on?” I
call.

Bring Sabonne into the kitchen. Galla’s in
the chair, slothlike.

“No wonder he was in such a hurry to call,”
says Sabonne.

“Not a clue what you’re on about,” I say.
“Please, sit.”

Galla interrupts. “I remember quite clearly
your “curiosity” was aroused. Always been fun, handling your
curiosity.”