The Royal Family (94 page)

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For I know my transgressions

and my sin is ever before me.

 

Against thee, thee only, have I sinned . . .

 

P
SALM
51.3–4

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At City Lights the leaves of books hung as limp as those of banana trees on a summer jungle day, and the browsers were more quiet than usual, turning pages ever so slowly, or standing over a table of books, reading the spines, motionless: strange day it was, sunstruck day, the blinking lights around the perimeter of the Hungry I’s sign reduced in power, so that they resembled mere kernels of corn. Tyler read the tale of a wicked King who went conquering successive cities in the desert. From each victory he’d keep a young woman for a concubine, and put her parents, brothers and sisters to death secretly by having them smothered in hot wet Turkish towels, so that, being unrelated to anyone, with no past (her city razed, the rubble smeared across miles of dark stony plain which the King’s troops then scraped and scratched down to the yellow earth), she’d be as pure as an idea. A special caravan transported the bodies, tightly bundled in linen, with the King’s chop-mark printed on the wrappings, so that no one could open them, and no one could find any graves—for to the extent that the concubines had been well chosen, they grew favored, and as they succeeded in gathering about themselves their own troops and satellites, they naturally sought the flesh they’d come from, not only out of love and duty, but also because they longed to be
related
again, for it is lonely to be a mere formal cunt like Domino, Strawberry, Yellow Bird, Beatrice, Bernadette, Lily, Chocolate, Sunflower, Kitty. They desired that their soul-light be clothed in something, so that their obliteration would be undone, and they could live and die again. But although they tossed many a gold ring to the Canaanite runners who loped far back among dead years and cities, seeking paternity or even paternal tombs in that deep red sand aswarm with ants where once there’d been hot and palmtree-walled streets, the runners never found anything except shattered archways and jackal-gnawed bones and on one cool and quiet night a ghost who came to visit them in a pale mask with long dark tresses, its robes constructed with such complexity as to resemble the hybridization of many artificial insects. Then morning came, and once again the air was alive with flies. So the runners turned back and told the concubines that they were alone, that they did not have and never had had any kin. And when the concubines knelt before the King, begging him to at least inform them from which particular cup of bitterness they ought to drink, he could reply to them in all truth: There is no proof that your esteemed parents do not continue in good health! —But the King had a daughter by one of the concubines, and when the girl became fourteen she found—what? Tyler didn’t want to read anymore. It was all too sad, as when one reads old letters and realizes for what seems to be the first time, but can’t possibly be:
She loved me!
She was sincere, passionate, good; she even wanted me. And now I don’t even know where she is. Does she still think of me? I haven’t thought of
her
for years. Does she still love me if she does think of me? I hope not and I hope so.
—How could these moments, so powerfully articulated with love, have given way to the torpid weariness of the present? He couldn’t understand life.

A cold mist stung his nose. The back of his neck was stiff and his legs ached. He went into the liquor store in Laurel Heights where adjoining the twenty-year-old, sixty-dollar Ardbeg which was so to John’s taste they also kept the thirty-year-old, equally or almost equally amber, for a hundred and fifty-five dollars. Perhaps John had not seen that yet. It gave Tyler malicious pleasure to assert to himself that John maintained his relatedness to the world through stubborn and jealous possession of fine commodities which could always be vanquished through the primeval domination of
ingestion.
When the Ardbeg had been drunk, and John had won, he found himself immediately adrift again, like those storybook concubines on their lifelong journey through that desert of destroyed and not-yet-destroyed cities. Certainly Tyler himself, as he fully confessed, had sought the same relatedness by employing first Irene, then the Queen, to be his friendly viands. Perhaps there’d been no harm in it; perhaps he was a criminal. And what if he could give all that up, in order to walk naked into the desert, searching for nothing save self-divestiture? Well, he’d die of thirst, naturally. Strawberry was always complaining of a dry mouth. She would have hopped up and down with excitement to see him here. He smiled sourly. The salesman, big and bald, sat reading a newspaper. —Even you, Henry, the Queen had said. He remembered, and was ashamed of his unbelief. —Next to the Ardbeg, amidst the other glories, thrones and authorities, there stood a bottle of cask-strength Glenfarclas, priced at sixty-five dollars, which was Domino’s minumum price for allowing herself to get sodomized. John and Irene had given him a bottle the Christmas before last, perhaps because the rather sulphurous flavor accorded with John’s supposition of his vulgarity. As he recalled, John had preferred to keep for his own stock eighteen-year-old Glen Morangie with the dullish steel engraving or watercolor or whatever it was, shrunk down and offset, of the distillery buildings, most of which were long and low and abutted what Tyler supposed must be a Scottish firth, with more coast across the water. John, probably trying to do the brotherly thing, had slit the lead foil from around the cork and pulled the cap out with a cheery, squishy, echoey pop. The whiskey had been very mild, pale, pale gold like his supposition of Irene’s urine. But the pressure of the absent Irene upon their fraternal conviviality had been light—not on account of the absence—why, it was heavier than ever now that Irene lay in her grave! but simply because the conversation had that day actually been of interest. John was feeling rather sleek (in retrospect, it occurred to Tyler that the affair with Celia might have entered into its most luxuriant blossoming just about then) and Tyler himself had just gotten paid for a highly succesful skip-tracing job. Indeed, when he thought back on how easy and lucrative life had been in those days, he could almost weep with self-pity, forgetting his immense anguish over Irene, whose face, body, soul, breath and life had tormented him so. Where had she been that day? Christmas shopping for Pammy, Steven and her parents, most likely. And what was her nephew’s name? John, taking the initiative as always, was showing off his liquor cabinet. It was before cigarette smoking had been stigmatized and pipe smoking had come into fashion, so John couldn’t have owned his three mahogany humidors yet. That year he collected mainly single malts. Mr. Rapp had provided initial instruction at the office, and John learned the rest on his own. He poured his brother a learned sip of this, a celestial dram of that—smoky Laguvulin, jet-black Loch Dhu which stained one’s tongue with its rummy sweetness, sherry-flavored Balvenie Double Wood, Highland Park, whose taste he could no longer remember,
Ardbeg, of course, with its iodine-peppermint taste, then finally Johnnie Walker Blue, bland and expensive, like John’s ideals—the Blue was not a single malt, actually, but such a delicious and above all prestigious blend at two hundred dollars per bottle that it well deserved its place on John’s glass shelves. John had a book on Scotches and was explaining it all. Tyler let himself be instructed in peatiness and the Speyside virtues.

The liquor salesman looked up and said: I’m closed.

Oh, how does
that
feel? replied Tyler, going out into the mist. A block or two higher, at the ice cream parlor, the music was loud and young. He went in and sat down with a groan, licking his moustache.

Sir, you’ll have to come to counter for service, said the kid behind the counter.

Well, let me just walk around the block and think about that, said Tyler. Let me get my goddamned courage up.

He went out and began to retrace his way. His throat felt scratchy. A lesbian-looking type in heavy-heeled boots clopped hollowly by, the chain links jingling from her ears. In a store window, pink and green irridescent bows hung upon twisted branches, accompanied by necklaces, bracelets and brooches of colored glass. A ceramic dog gazed benevolently into the rain.

Do you fetch newspapers? Tyler asked the dog. The dog didn’t answer. Had it been capable of movement, its gait would have duplicated that of some fat whore waddling into the pharmacy to buy more condoms.

Walgreens was still open, as he thought, but just before he reached the entrance, anxious to buy more itching cream, the security guard locked him out, turned his back, and strode over to crack jokes with the last cashier, who was now closing out her register.

The liquor store man gave him an unexpectedly friendly nod as he locked up. Tyler grinned and waved.

In the spacious coffee shop on Noe Street, two women in what looked like Catholic high school uniforms sat rapidly nodding, each girl’s hands tucked in her lap. The world was windy, clean and empty. —A woman on the steps of a Victorian was calling to a little boy who was getting into a car: Nicky, come here! Give me a big old hug! For a whole year Auntie won’t see you!
Good
boy! —But the child didn’t come back. He sat in the back seat, and a lady came around from the driver’s side and gently closed the door. Then she got in and slowly drove away.

He entered the Wonderbar and saw Domino, whose face now wore a profusion of sores like the red bulbs on the metal dance floor in Mexicali.

How are you doing tonight, sweetheart? said Tyler, squeezing the girl’s hand.

Oh, not too good, she said listlessly.

What’s wrong?

Just about everything.

Same here, he said, but she, wandering through her own maze of misery, could hardly begin to find his.

You know I care for you? You know the Queen loves you?

Fuck off. I don’t know that and neither do you.

A man came out from the urinal and slipped his arm around Domino. Tyler nodded pleasantly. The man glared and elbowed Tyler in the ribs.

See you, Domino, said Tyler.

Domino, her head hanging down, didn’t say anything.

He awoke with the taste of Irene’s cunt in his mouth.

I want a drink, said Domino, drunk.

You see that man over there? inquired Loreena. He paid for his drink. And you see that man over there? He paid for
his
drink. That’s how it works.

I don’t give a fuck. I want a drink.

Loreena thrust out her chin and said: Would you stop that, please? It’s not getting you anywhere except onto my shit list. You know what I tell people like you?

Bitch, I could smash your head right in.

So you didn’t like the beginning of my little speech? Well then. I bet you won’t like the rest!

But just then a john came to rescue Domino. He bought her three tequila sunrises all in a row. Then he placed a twenty-dollar bill on the counter in front of Domino.

Enjoy that twenty, he said.

Domino screwed up her drunken face and said: Whadya want for that twenty, a blow job? Fuck off. You can suck my big toe for twenty, you animal.

Enjoy that twenty.

I’m out of lime juice, muttered Loreena. Well, guess I can’t use a real lime.

Loreena, I wanna go to the bathroom, Domino said. I’m ready.

I’ll be right with you.

So you won’t take my twenty?

Look, replied the blonde. I’m not what you think. I’m a diamond in the rough and in the smooth and everyplace else. I’m a lethal weapon. And the only reason I’m letting you buy me drinks is ’cause my check didn’t come. A respectable person loaned me two hundred dollars but he was drunk and fucked up . . .

A second john was watching them.

Are you looking at me? asked the first john.

No, I was looking at her.

Well, she’s with me, the first john explained. She’s my wife. Don’t look at my wife like that.