The Royal Family (112 page)

God, her eyes! he muttered.

John?

What?

I want to ask you something.

What?

About Domino.

What about her? he said in an exasperated voice. He foresaw many, many questions, like a line of tweedy smokers’ elbows upon some long walnut bar.

Was she . . .

Was she
what?

Did she do anything I don’t do?

I’ll tell you something, Ceel. My brother Hank doesn’t have very progressive views about women, you know. And one time he said to me:
They’re all pink on the inside.

That’s disgusting.

Yeah.

No, I mean it. That’s really disgusting. That offends me.

Well, to be honest with you, I had a feeling as soon as you raised the subject of Domino that you were angling to get offended.

You’re so uncaring sometimes.

I admit it. But be honest, Ceel. Isn’t it convenient sometimes to be with somebody who doesn’t care?

As he said this, of course, he was thinking about Irene. Like most of us, he loved to generalize. He’d been married to a Korean woman, so he believed he understood the Korean character: the utter unthinking self-sacrifice for the family, the stoic attitude which drove them to immense lengths; combined with a secret resentment, even hostility, toward the object of that self-sacrifice; and an indifference bordering on arrogance toward anyone outside the bloodline. Had someone told him that not all Koreans were exactly this way, John would have shrugged. Ultimately, he didn’t care that much if he reified and oversimplified on his own time. The idea of analyzing Irene herself would have caused him such pain as to be out of the question.

Does your brother care? Celia was inquiring in an angry voice. About anything? I mean, to say something like that, it—well, I’d think he must be a very angry person, or. . .

He’s angry at me, I guess.

Why?

Because I got Irene and he didn’t. Of course, now that I think about it, if I had to say who got her, I mean really
got
her—

Okay, but is it only about Irene?

I thought we were talking about Domino.

That’s one of your tricks.

What do you mean, my
tricks?

I think that you kind of push people away and kind of keep yourself safe through the way you—

Oh, so we’re not talking about Domino or Hank. We’re really talking about me. I’m just going to shut up until I know what we’re really talking about here. Maybe you’ll change the subject on me again . . .

Does he have something against your life?

Do
you?

John!

Oh, fine. Whatever. He thinks I’ve sold out and turned corporate and plastic or something like that. He inherited the artistic temperament from Mom, except he’s not refined like her. He thinks it’s artistic just to sit around spending money you don’t have and pissing your life away.

Is it really selling out if you really start thinking about the world instead of only thinking about yourself? I mean, you’re out there in the business world. You’re providing a service—

Who are you trying to defend me from, little Ceel? he said with an ironic smile. We’re on the same side, for Christ’s friggin’ sake.

John, you
know
my deepest fear is being abandoned.

Now what the hell does that have to do with anything? Hank’s not here and if I can have my way he’ll never be. Anyway, could we talk about something else?

I think that either he’s afraid or he doesn’t want to hurt your feelings or he knows you want closure or . . . He’s so wounded, I don’t know.

Thank
you for the consultation, Dr. Freud. You never even met the sonofabitch—

What on earth do you mean? I’ve met him twice—once at that party at Lowensohn’s, and then that night when—

Yeah, when he was stalking us. You remember? We were kissing, and then suddenly he was shining his headlights on us . . .

I don’t know what he’s about. He seems so . . . Maybe he just—maybe he’s looking for the real thing.

What real thing? There is no real thing.

I just want the real thing. I just want somebody who loves me and talks to me and wants to be with me.

Well, you have that, and how
real
does it feel? Jesus Christ.

Well, if you don’t want to talk about that can we talk about Domino for a minute?

I am so
sick
of this conversation! John screamed.

You know what? I don’t care.

I can see that. I’m going home.

John.

What?

If you walk out of here right now, don’t ever come back.

The television said: Of course fertility difficulties are so common these days. Consult your fertility specialist. Next: Rose from Pleasanton.

Oh, so it’s going to be one of
those
nights, said John.

I just—I just wanted to know . . . about Domino—

Yes?

I wish I could meet her. I want to ask her—I want to know, I . . . I feel it every time I’m confronted with pornography and prostitution. Because she’s a woman, too, and yet I’m so far away from what she is. I can’t understand that part in a woman that is able to happily give her body and
sell
her body. There’s something about her that I don’t understand, like how she could so happily without any issues just get into brokering sex for men.

You’re repeating yourself.

Would you feel more attracted to me if you could just buy sex with me and then not have to talk with me?

That has
nothing
to do with anything!

But, you know, John, I don’t want to be a prostitute like Domino. Or this insect Queen the television keeps talking about. I don’t want to do what she does.

Good career move. Are you almost finished?

I guess the reason why I don’t want to do it is because
I don’t want to give men what they want.
Because men already seem to get what they want—

So now I’m the enemy because I’m male, huh? That’s just another version of
they’re all pink on the inside.
Should I be offended now? But you know what? I’m not. What you’re saying is so godamned
stupid,
so far
beneath me,
that
I refuse to get friggin’ offended!

I guess if I saw Domino, continued Celia in a dreamy voice, you know what I’d tell her? I’d say, I can’t relate. I just can’t.

After slowly sinking her teeth into his tongue, she said: This is
me
you’re feeling. Me doing it to you. Me hurting you to show that you’re mine. You’re so pretty when you’re in pain.

John thought to himself: I will never forget these words.

When she finally spat into his mouth, he drank it eagerly, sobbing and trembling. He awaited her pleasure, in exactly the same way that the Chinese prostitute Yellow Bird bowed her naked legs out while clicking her white high heels together, anxiously gripping her own throat with both hands while gazing into each man’s face with the expression of a beaten child. John paid to be beaten and Yellow Bird did not. What did that make each of them?

Domino’s mons was furry, broad and generous like the refreshing green mound of park on Gough and Sacramento with its wall of bushes, its palm trees, stairs and clouds, the rollercoaster drop of streets below, the financial district far away.

You bastard, said Domino.

Look, said John. I’m busy. I feel—I don’t know how I feel about you, but I feel something. I’ve got to do my job right now.

That won’t work, said Domino. You can’t do that to me. Part of you belongs to me now.

No it doesn’t.

Part of every man belongs to me, and I’m going to get my due. Do you understand?

John shuddered, momentarily unable even to speak.

She was weeping so hard that the bed shook, and then she was struggling so that he had to hold her down with all his weight, which afforded him an almost sexual feeling of riding her like a horse; all night, she kept sobbing: I’m no good. Finally she’d run down her batteries and lay there heavy and dead. Then he too collapsed. He slept. The sound of little bells woke him, and his heart vomited up dread. She was in the other bed squirming, and her anklets were tinkling. The hot dawn was already upon them like a nuclear bomb. He could not call out. After an hour she came and lay beside him, and he seized her hand and tucked it under her to imprison her to him, but quietly she slipped away. She was packing her little backpack. She came back a third time and kissed him, then got up and walked out the door.

Now I want to do the bad thing, she said. I can do anything, John. I can heal suffering. I can cause suffering. I can fuck Jesus. I can cook; I can make money. I can do this, too. Whatever I promise, I do. I promise I’m going to go away and never see you again.

John was silent. He could not forget how when Domino was sitting on him and then she began to smile and her eyes cruelly narrowed, he almost couldn’t bear the joyous excitement.

She glared into his eyes until, hypnotized and paralyzed, he fell back into strangling
dreams. When he awoke she was sitting in a chair snoring. He got up and put his hand on her shoulder.

Can’t you see I’m just waking up? she muttered. Stupid dick-sucking sonofabitch.

And a sliver of garlic, concluded the waiter with a genial smile.

There’s no egg in it? asked Celia anxiously.

Exactly, ma’am.

I love these olives, John, don’t you?

Not bad, said John.

This appetizer doesn’t taste like crab, does it? It tastes like really garlicky calimari.

There goes the Wine Train, said John, pointing out the window. I wonder if Mom would enjoy that. I don’t think she would.

You’re so good to your mother, John.

Well, somebody has to be, he said, regarding her through the tall green carafe of sodium-free sparkling water. The lemon half on ice at the bottom of his bloody mary glass resembled a triumphantly unbroken egg yolk.

I’m sorry, Celia said.

Sorry for what?

I don’t know. Sorry I’m not better to your mother, I guess.

She likes you fine, Ceel.

But you’re disappointed in me, aren’t you?

What’s all this about?

I’m sorry. I said I’m sorry. I’m sorry I keep bringing my thoughts back to you. The way you are. The way your brother is. The way I am. How can I spend another damned minute here?

So you’re in another of your moods.

I can feel that darkness inside me coming on. Maybe it has something to do with Domino. And you don’t care.

What do you mean, I don’t care? Aren’t I paying out good money right now to do exactly what you wanted to do, eating your lunch in the restaurant you picked, being driven up here in my goddamned car? Doesn’t that count for anything?

So you bought me for the weekend. You—

Cut to the chase. What do you want?

I don’t know. This is what I always come back to. That’s all I seem to do in life, she went on in her breathless whining tone, just one thing after another, because life just won’t let me have someone to love instead.

Oh, horseshit, said John.

Someone to look at every day, she mumbled, sloshing wine out of her glass as she tremblingly raised it to her lips. Someone to muss my hair . . .

Well, he said wearily, here I am. You want me to muss your hair or will you complain about your permanent?

They never stay. You won’t stay. Your brother buys sex and I masturbate. At least your brother’s not alone when he—

Oh, so it’s “they” now. Who are the
they
I’m a part of? Men? Jerks? Jesus Christ.

And the peach-crayfish fettucine for the lady, the waiter said. How were your appetizers?

Adequate, said John. The spring rolls were a little stale. Well, maybe they were just dried out. The lady would like more lemon.

I’m so often afraid, she whispered. I need a new thought, or a new interest, or something . . . With all the information out there, you’d think I’d be able to give the world one new thought—

So read the encyclopedia, Celia. Develop your goddamned mind.

I know you don’t know the answer. If you knew, I would have known it, too, and I would have already done something about it. If you knew, everyone else would know, too, because you’re not so smart, she muttered, her lower lip trembling spitefully.

Fine, said John. So I’m not the answer. Well, I’ve had enough of this for the afternoon.