The Sacred Beasts (24 page)

IN THE MIDDLE of the night, Alex woke up in a state of excitement
after powerful dreams. She put on a robe, went to a room that had been
functioning as her study, and opened a notebook she used for her ideas on a
great novel she meant to write. She had been fascinated by Ruth’s description
of the book she was writing and found its ideas relevant to the novel.

The early twenty-first century, she wrote, is a time of traumatic
change in every sense—economic, political, psychological, technological,
environmental, cultural—and the novel’s narrative structure must reflect this.
My intuitive sense of my time, in terms relevant to narrative, is
disorientation in the order of beginnings and endings. Our civilization
exhibits the strong potential for a catastrophic end and a new beginning or
transformation, both of which may occur almost simultaneously. The novel should
therefore begin with the end, which is foremost in my thoughts as fear. It
should proceed to the beginning, which is shadowy but implicit in the end. It
must end in the middle, as all life does. Chronological time will therefore be
preserved in the story or narrative.

The end and the beginning are inherently a cry of the heart and
demand first person narration from a highly intelligent female character that I
will temporarily call Ruth. The middle, which will come last, is more erratic
emotionally, full of ups and downs, as life is. The narrative should hence
shift to third person or omniscient narration, staying close to the thoughts of
all characters but not drowning in a stream-of-consciousness, which would
undermine the intellectual position and narrative theory. Whole scenes can
consist of the characters’ thoughts that respond to one another as an elegant
ballet, with little dialogue or action.

The intellectual position of the novel should reflect the imminent
catastrophe (and human moral failure to prevent it) envisioned by Ruth. Her
ideas draw together all the forces active in the trauma of today into a single
theory that displays the biological basis of our conflicts in primatology. The
intellectual position will rarely appear as such in the story; the narrative
can only be about the lives of women living today. Though the intellectual
position of the novel is tragic, the story will nonetheless have strong comic
elements. The ridiculous and the sublime will always be in close proximity, as
they are in life.

The novel’s vision or its visionary potential should be capable of
viewing art and nature holistically, as my artist friends do, because this
vision has moral strength. To completely revere the earth, as art does, is to
save it. The novel should even look directly into the mind of an artist
frequently and capture the moment of creation.

The novel will assert itself against most American literary
fiction, which I see as anti-intellectual (even modestly intellectual fiction
will be called pretentious, at least by critics in the media), relatively
emotionless, and very much a product of the university writing schools. They
sabotage a writer’s boldness of vision and intelligence, which require a leap
of faith, intellect and energy, rather than an appearance at a seminar of critics.
I want my characters to reflect the women I know, all of whom are intelligent,
ambitious, and often charismatic. I want them as real and vivid as my friends,
the women who meet in this house. In fact, I want this amazing house to be a
character, the intelligence and drama of the lives of women who come here
portrayed exclusive of the major characters’ perception of them. I don’t find
the women I know in any American fiction of today. The portrayal of women who
are ambitious, self-confidant and exploratory is virtually non-existent in
world literature.

In fact, I find no novelist anywhere who will grapple with issues
as broad, compelling and important as what I heard from Ruth today. We truly
have no reason to go to bed at night and expect our civilization to be there in
the morning. Almost all literary fiction is concerning itself with relative
trivia while human beings are in process of rapidly destroying the fine web of
ecological relationships that allow the inherently fragile natural and civilized
worlds to exist.
If I do not write this novel, no one else will.

Now, how on earth do I write this book? Alex stared into space,
sighed and realized that she had a headache. She decided to take two
acetaminophen and go back to sleep; so quickly, she concluded, has the
ridiculous followed the sublime.

THE NEXT DAY, both couples—Alex and Sylvie, Ruth and
Monserrat—were in the Gothic Quarter in the late morning for the very few hours
that sunlight could penetrate its narrow streets surrounded by steep buildings.
Lanterns, nineteenth-century in appearance, also lit the dark, cramped
cobblestone streets at all times. It is a Medieval and Baroque urban jungle
with spidery Gothic embroidery at the edges, Ruth thought, and it held what
were short, brutish lives with minds void but for a hysteria called religion.
Many in America would return us there. She and Monserrat had been walking the
streets for some time when Monserrat brought her into the Gothic Cathedral of
Barcelona and finally to a statue of Saint Eulalia, one of the city’s patron
saints.

“I know you want to see women represented in art,” Monserrat said,
smiling.

“Oh, yes,” Ruth answered. “They are the endangered species in all
religions and definitely to be noted for that reason. Is that why you brought
me here?”

“No, actually, the cloister is one of my favorite places.”

They entered the adjoining cloister to find an open-air courtyard
with a fountain and pond. Suddenly, there was color, open sky and, as they sat
beside the fountain, a flock of white geese who lived there and paraded in a
stately line around the pond as though they were protectors of the premises.
They smiled in delight. “I would never have expected this—indoor birds that
look like guardians against human sacrilege,” Ruth said.

“I knew you would like it, since you are something of a guardian
of the earth, too. Now, I want to know everything about you, everything you
think.”

“You sound like my guardian. First, there’s what I just thought
of.” Ruth looked around and saw that they were alone; then she kissed Monserrat
and, on impulse, took her hand in hers and plunged both into the fountain. “I
was thinking that you should be loved a bit in your favorite city places and I
just baptized our love here. That’s the first thing I thought of doing. Then it
occurred to me that this is the first moment the cathedral has seemed spiritual
to me, just because we are in the open air, birds and water are present, it is
a place you love and I can love you.”

“What a romantic zoologist you are, with definite pagan
tendencies. The geese are an old Roman custom that the church preserved.”

“I want to know everything about you, too. What are you thinking?”

“That you are unique.”

“But you’ve been with so many artists and creative people. Hasn’t
one of them thought you should be kissed beside some geese?”

“Not a guardian. There are very few of you, apparently; I don’t
know of another. Damiana and I once made love at night in one of the church
pews of the nave we just left, close to the high altar.” They both laughed at
the thought of it.

“Don’t give me ideas like that. I’ll want to
repeat them. Did you like it?”

“It was extreme in every way. There was a terrible storm outside
and we were wet. It was very cold, very uncomfortable, very exciting and we
were both very young.”

“Youth can’t be repeated. I will have to come up with something
else.”

“You already have. What else have you responded to in the Gothic
Quarter?”

“The animal sculpture. You’ll find that I always notice the
animals and women first, a partly zoological habit. But, the animals seem far
more striking here than the sculpture of humans. The people are unmoving,
rigid, iconic. But, just in the few streets we’ve walked, I’ve seen dragons,
lions, horses and gargoyles that look far more interesting and, oddly enough,
more human, too. Their eyes are round with fascination and excitement, their
mouths open in awe, their fur and tails swirling and coiled. They show energy
and passion, the world’s real powers. They exhibit the cosmic element here, not
human religion, and as a spiritual belief, that fits me like an ancient glove.”

“Now you both amaze and delight me. You are definitely a pagan. We
will have to keep a forest of passionate animals in Barcelona.”

“No, just take me to more of your favorite places. That will keep
me entertained very well.”

“Will you think I should be loved in them all?”

“Oh, yes! Any animal would agree.”

AT THAT MOMENT, Sylvie and Alex were walking the narrow streets of
the Gothic Quarter, too, watching the shock of improbable overhead sunlight on
the blackened stones. Sylvie was wearing low heels and a deep-necked dress that
was red and black with abstract patterns on silk fabric. She had partially
pulled back the thick, curly mane of her dark hair, leaving smaller curls
around her neck. Consciously, she had not obscured the voluptuousness of her
body and she had dressed simply but seductively for Alex; the effect was
turning nearly every male head that passed. Many women also watched her
carefully and with intense curiosity. Sylvie was focused on Alex and the city,
however, and paid no attention to the subtle commotion she was causing.

Alex found Sylvie’s beauty so distracting that her role as guide
was becoming increasingly difficult. Often, she looked at Sylvie and felt that
her beauty caused actual physical pain and a soft, mute confusion. This was
followed by intense delight, followed by a bit of nausea, followed by a fierce
determination to master herself, followed by complete failure to do so. The
paradoxical result was a sense of the dark space as lit up with brilliant
energy. I’m going to have to get used to being very, very excited when I’m with
her, she thought. Nothing will be calm or easy for the foreseeable future.

Sylvie smiled and thought her emotions are so absurdly easy to
manipulate that I really must be very gentle and careful with her. She smiled
up at Alex, and Alex felt radiant warmth coming from the object of her adoration.
In unabashed joy, Alex thought, I wouldn’t be surprised if a mountain suddenly
fell on what is objectively this wretched little black pothole of a Gothic
Quarter.

Sylvie suddenly stopped and looked all around her. Her face
reflected intense emotion and intellectual focus, almost a hungry look, as Alex
noted. This narrow street of blackened soot is joined above by two stone
bridges connecting the buildings on either side of the street, Sylvie thought.
The sunlight falling on it is so extreme that it softens the edges of some of
the most intricate and convoluted latticework I’ve ever seen. The light has
edges of gold; all else is black looming over a river of diffuse white color,
becoming an eye into the past, gold-tinged. These blackened stones of steep
buildings and streets are obviously intended to suggest spiritual striving yet
truly, in their ancient darkness, they are spider webs spun at the most
frenetic pace, a spiritual night in tangled, half-organic lines. Such Gothic
tracery is where the energy of striving lies. The Holy Fathers are huge, fat
black spiders springing their webs and lures, pikes and lances into this
claustrophobic urban space, only to enmesh superstitious, pathetic and
frightened souls for centuries of hell in which the spirit is nothing but mute
black stone. I will paint this street with giant black spiders clinging to the
walls and hidden in corners of pure filth. Any human presence must show extreme
contrast, like this blaze of noon light. The solution is simple and elegant:
lines of nude women holding hands will dance their way over these streets and
bridges, oblivious to the spiders and their Gothic reach. All the cramped
surfaces, spider stratagems and churchly concerns, will be released into
sensuality. Yes! That is how I will paint it. Sylvie’s face relaxed and she
looked up at Alex.

“What was that?” Alex asked. “You suddenly looked at everything so
seriously, intensely. You went somewhere else. It was fascinating. Where did
you go?”

Sylvie laughed. “Ruth has observed that, too. I’m imagining a
painting I want to do when that happens. She says I look like a wolf drooling
over a lamb. Your description is much subtler and kinder to me. Thank you.”

Alex only uttered an “ah” of surprise and pleasure that she had
said something in a more appealing way than Ruth. Sylvie smiled and thought she
is so ridiculously easy to please. I really must take care of her. She took
Alex’s arm, and Alex instantly turned her head away to hide the look of
childish delight on her face. Yes, touch me, she thought. Lean on me, please!

I am leading a young faun or a foal, Sylvie thought. I have never
felt anything quite like this with a man. Of course, she would be
self-possessed and mature if she were not so besotted with me. Her intellect is
very impressive, and perhaps I have done no one a favor by wearing this dress.
On the other hand, since I knew I was dressing for my new lover and that I
would give her the pleasure of taking my clothes off me tonight, I wanted them
to be nice.
Apr
è
s moi le d
é
luge!
Besotted men only annoy
me but then, they are always trying to dominate me. What on earth is happening?
Is this beautiful city a love potion? What will this woman be like as a lover?
She can barely control herself. When I show her that her attraction is returned
a few hours from now, she will probably jump on me. Sylvie laughed softly as
they strolled over the dark streets.

I have never found Gothic buildings erotic before, Alex thought,
but with this woman, by-god, they are! Gothic tracery is now nothing but
couplings of lovers, astounding and contorted shapes copulating without cease!
Webs, stones, shadows, lances, grills of iron—pitch black and infernal—are
becoming pornography! What is this woman doing to my mind? At some point, I am
going to pounce on her like a wild animal!