Death Or Eurydice by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Chapter 11- Adjustments
Later in the day his mind focused on serious matters and Orpheus said; “We’re going to have to make some kind of plans.
This is a huge problem and we probably will never be able to anticipate every possibility. At the very least, when you go to work tomorrow, get me a large black leather blindfold that can be put on very securely with at least three clasps. Secondly, whenever you are about to enter the house, yell out my name and don’t open the door until I answer ‘Mask on’.”
Eurydice said; “I have another idea. Instead of you having to be masked whenever I’m around, I can have a hood with a veil added to this shroud and wear that, at least sometimes. You won’t be looking at me; you’ll be looking at my garments. You can’t do your work with a blindfold on.”
He considered that a while and said; “No, it’s risky and I don’t want to take ANY risk. Even if your clothes are not you, I might accidently see a hand or a foot, unless you wrapped up like a mummy, which is ridiculous.”
“But, you still have to work, to make everything palatable for me. I don’t plan on spending my whole life at that damn bakery. Six months is the most I can handle and I might not make that.”
“I’ll work whenever you’re gone, maybe six months. Whenever you think you can’t take it anymore, we’ll try to formulate another plan.”
“I might not last the week.”
“Fine. Do your best. But, can we cross that bridge when we come to it? In the interim, things could change and more time will probably give us both more ideas.” He held her.
“Okay, baby. I’ll be yelling at the door, waiting for you to yell back.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ve got some new avenues to pursue with my work and I’ve made a recent discovery. Touch may be more important than sight.”
Eurydice said; “You look extremely silly with that pink rag on your head.”
He extended his hands into the blackness. Participatory patronage prevailed placidly.
D was having a miserable day despite the auspicious pre-dawn beginning. She had to stop watching Orpheus and Eurydice and consider her options. A plethora of new ideas did not work their way into her head. Her only remaining source of sure power was her right to end her life and that of Orpheus, not exactly what she desired. She had already used her option of killing Eurydice and stupid Orpheus had to go and get her back.
She might be able to do it a second time and even if she succeeded, Orpheus would no doubt do his act again and despise her even more than he did now. She realized that she may have inadvertently given the sweet black beauty immortality. Just great. How can a day that started with such hope turn to refuse, so quickly? If she couldn’t kill Orpheus’s love, the Tribunal had agreed that the Second Death -- Claire, could not perform the act, at least not for another hundred years. This was all so confusing; she momentarily wished that she had kept her simple job. Is this something inherited by mortals?
She found what she thought was the key. Though Eurydice was the love of Orpheus’s life, for reasons D would never understand, at least he was attracted to her white flesh and without a job D had all the time in the world to use it. If Eurydice forgave the dalliance in consideration of Orpheus’s heroics, she could at least keep him from his pot making business and cause economic problems. She decided to pay him a visit tomorrow after Eurydice went to work. She contented herself the rest of the day and night absently gazing at the sky, seeing odd cloud formations and dissipations. Nothing lasted more than a few minutes.
Reverend and Ruth Paul sadly spent the rest of their day holding hands and also staring blankly. However, in their case it
was at the charred remains of part of their dreams. They worried.
The show was over and the audience had departed, leaving them in the absolute silence their god gave them as a birthright. They tried to think of what other gifts may have been imparted and drew at straws. The Reverend knew that the church financial powers couldn’t be more delighted. The financially challenged enterprise’s burning would completely solve their problems, as soon as the insurance check arrived. It seemed ironic that the clear winners did nothing to promote their largesse, merely sitting back, unaware of and unconcerned with the deeds of the day. He recalled his school days, studying Theology, when he read of the Sufis, who believe that the best thing one can do in this life is to sit under a tree writing poetry.
He was happy to have learned that no bodies were found in the ashes and he thought, ironically, that the absence of bodies in the church and school were precisely at the root cause of his worries, as if his church and school were a thriving financial enterprise, they would be rebuilt, instead of the authorities taking their money and running. For a few moments he thought that he was criticizing them for attitudes he shared, but he decided that he only shared them because he was well acquainted with the rules of the road, without having been invited to vote on their adoption. “What it is” is “what it is.”
He, too, spent the night watching the sky, noting the random and continuous creation of clouds, the dark ones threatening rain. No water ever touched the ground and the clouds continuously passed out of existence, the space created making way to repeat the cycle. All the frenzied activity produced only momentary change, which quickly reverted to the old story. Something new was needed to break the “random sameness.” He momentarily wondered if he should have ignored god’s call to join the ministry, or maybe his mistake was that the call was for a different institution to minister. Or maybe he shouldn’t have joined any institution, at all. Maybe Eurydice was the member of the family with the best brain and she chose to pay more attention to the call of the wild. He was yet unaware that his daughter’s obsessions had taken a decidedly mercenary turn when she became responsible for running her own household.
Most significantly, what he was certain of, was that imminently he would be host to a financial Cardinal or Bishop and the best thing he could do was to be on his gracious, deferential best behavior and hope to salvage a decent new assignment.
The prevailing agent of discord, Roscoe, paid a triumphant midday call on Judge Caprice. His short-lived exuberance
terminated when the front door opened and was greeted by another man pointing a rifle right at him. He heard the Judge’s voice, emanating from the back of the entry hall, call out; “That’s the one who’s trying to shake me down.”
Roscoe said; “Hey, hey, wait a minute.” He pushed the gun barrel to the side and said; “Get that out of my face. I got business with the Judge.”
The Judge replied; “You’ve got no legal business with me and if you keep bothering me, I’ll have my boys take care of your business.”
The rifle barrel was now in Roscoe’s face and the holder said; “You trespassin’, boy.” His four similarly equipped associates found mild humor in the remark.
Roscoe saw that his military position was hopeless, so he tried a different tactic. He said; “Judge, I don’t think you’d like it if a lot of people knew what kind of business you’re really in.”
The Judge said; “And you’re going to be stupid enough to tell them, I suppose.”
“Yeah, I just might be.”
“Thereby admitting that you’re an arsonist? You can do a lot of time for that. This is America, boy. You get hell for destroying property. And, I’ve got news for you, genius. If anyone believed your story, they’d consider me a hero and look
the other way, right at you, an admitted black criminal. A lynch mob might have a night’s fun.”
Roscoe realized he had no position whatsoever and felt stupid for expecting justice. He contented himself with the fact that the up-front money he took was more than he would have asked to do the job. So, he turned to depart, but said; “Okay, Judge, you know I’m your boy, but you owe me one.” The only sound he heard was the slam of the door as he left the property.
When he got back to his east side home, he lingered outside and listened to a number of conversations angrily saying, “You damn well know that the whites did this.” He was surprised to see that blacks who wanted no part of the church or school were also angry, or at least playing the part.
The initial glee of the whites, happy to see an end to the daily black parade and riots in their neighborhood, quickly gave way to worry. They realized that the blacks would blame them for the deed and feared retribution. They, too, strongly thought that one of their own was responsible. Could they find a scapegoat and hope that would assuage the minority?
So, the day that started with a simmering, unsettled town, ended the same way, despite the grand schemes and heroics, though some of the players had switched roles. The winners played no part and spent their day and night without bothering to look at
the sky. They had their answers right here on earth and were content to sit in their grand offices counting money.
Chapter 12- The Devil’s Day
Eurydice trudged off to the bakery the next morning and was greeted by a belligerent June Boy, unhappy with her taking “sick days” so early in her employment. She apologized and assuaged him as best she could and even verged on begging. She managed to conceal her distaste of the entire situation, concentrating on her hopefully short term need for her promised remuneration, at the same time hating it and him.
As she did all the baking, she was painfully aware of June Boy sitting in a corner staring at her legs. She knew she could change her circumstances by getting friendly, but decided against it as the circumstances likely to change would merely be her duties and result in noxious flesh contact. Becoming conscious of the continual eyeball onslaught she became nervous, annoyed and clumsy, at times dropping metal plates. She saw that June Boy’s eyes got even brighter when she bent down to pick them up. This was a vicious cycle she had to break, so she tried to relax by thinking of Orpheus scantily clad, producing some new version of pot.
She survived the morning and moved its products to the counters in front and waited for customers with wary eyes. She cursed the powers of the universe for giving this cretin the ability to do exactly what Orpheus couldn’t. This dumb, odious,
fat slob knew how to run a business. She got the usual snide treatment from the first few customers, but already had a system with which to handle it. She didn’t reply to any personal comments and only talked of the baked goods. This procedure had a degree of success and was similar to setting a clock to the most desired time and then stopping it. She thought of the time she would be with her un-businesslike savior, Orpheus.
The day’s intrusive monotony was broken when Cheryl and Corrine entered the shop.
Cheryl smartly greeted her with; “How’s your daddy, working girl?”
Eurydice stuck to her plan, but with an edge and drolly said; “What type of buns do you want to stick your face in today?”
Cheryl snickered, looked at Corrine and responded; “Dark ones, just like you.”
Eurydice silently and unemotionally retrieved and placed on the counter those with the closest hue to her own.
Corrine said; “June Boy, can’t you teach this girl any manners?”
June Boy shrugged.
Cheryl insisted on following her one train of thought and repeated; “I asked you; how’s your daddy?”
Eurydice defiantly stared into Cheryl’s eyes and calmly instructed; “Sniff my buns.”
Corrine playfully stamped her feet and said; “Whew, I wouldn’t take that from a white girl.”
Cheryl had no “smart” response handy. She decided to take the issue to a higher power and said; “June Boy, if you can’t teach this bitch to be polite, I’m taking my business elsewhere.”
June Boy sternly said; “Eurydice. Answer the customer nicely.”
Eurydice made one last effort to remain professional and uninvolved. She turned to June Boy and told him; “I didn’t come here to discuss my family or anything else except baked goods.”
June Boy sat still with his belly hanging over his abdomen, looking pregnant, obviously gazed at Eurydice’s legs and ordered; “You came here to do what I tell you and I’m telling you to answer Cheryl.”
Eurydice felt the day’s first pangs of anger and came up with a way to follow the letter of the law, but not the spirit.
She rolled her eyes, looking at Cheryl and said; “My daddy is fine. Have you found out who yours is yet?”
Corrine enjoyed the interchange and wanted to see more.
She shook her head, looked at the floor and mouthed; “Whew,
whew, whew.” She laughed and said; “Cheryl, you got it down to ten possibilities last I heard.”
Cheryl had to join the laughter herself and said; “Well, I’ll tell you that if any of the ten had a fire yesterday, I’d be with them today. I guess educated bakery waitresses have different ideas about things.”
Eurydice got the gist and changed her tone to a soft one;
“What fire are you talking about?”
Cheryl detected another opportunity to insult Eurydice and said; “June Boy, don’t she know nuthin? Didn’t you tell her?”
June Boy extended his palms, again shrugged and said; “I thought she knew. Everybody else does.”
Corrine flatly said; “This has got to be the dumbest girl who ever went to school.”
Eurydice, nervously spoke to no one in particular; “My father had a fire?”
June Boy responded; “Yeah, some white guy torched the place.”
Eurydice looked his way and asked; “Is everyone okay?”
June Boy said; “Yeah, I think so, but the church and school are gone.”
Eurydice took off her apron and walked quickly to the door.
June Boy called out; “Hey, you can’t leave now.”
Eurydice called back; “Give the job to Cheryl. Maybe she won’t have an excuse to **** so many guys. One might be her daddy.”
Heading northwest, she saw a lot of other black people on the path, going the same way, including Roscoe.
Roscoe was yelling; “Whitey did it. You know damn well.
What do they think this is, Alabama?”
Calls of; “Let’s get the *************” rang from many lips.
Eurydice worked her way through the crowd, speaking to no one and was relieved when she saw the house still standing untouched. James and Ruth Paul were sitting in the garden path with Betsy. Eurydice ran over, dropped to her knees, hugged her mother and started to cry.
Ruth said; “It’s all right, baby. No one got hurt, at least not physically.”
James said; “The damn tragedy is that in five minutes one idiot can destroy the work that thousands have taken years to accomplish.”
Eurydice moved to her father, still crying and held him.
“Don’t get me all teary eyed,” he said, not fully realizing that it was his commentary that prolonged and increased the raindrops.
Eurydice blubbered a bit more and chokingly told her father; “‘New Testament’ and all that ‘turn the other cheek’
crap aside, it ends with Revelation and some people would do all the others a favor if they were put out of their misery.”
Betsy said; “If all the miserable ones were gone, there wouldn’t be many left.”
Eurydice completed her rounds and gave Betsy a hug. The bitter tears had dissipated and Eurydice said; “What are you going to do now?”
Betsy said; “Same old thing. I’ll probably get a job with some rich family and be best friend to their little girl.”
A crowd of black faces had congregated in front of and on the church property. The sight of the cold ashes inflamed them.
Profanity, yelling, anger and tears were the order of the day.
Roscoe remained in the group, but was no longer vocal. He thought that there was no further need to encourage the throng to do exactly what he wanted. He became a contented observer, but gave everyone the appearance that he was a wounded comrade.
Reverend Paul walked over to the angry mob and was greeted with a series of pats on the back and vows of solidarity. He climbed the charred remains of the statue of some now unrecognizable saint and said; “People, people. What you’re doing now will do no good whatsoever. If anything, it just
helps the forces of evil. So, I want you to go home. I want you to go home and pray.”
A disconsolate Elvira was dissatisfied with the Reverend’s instructions, thinking about her kids not having a chance at an education and she too sought a perch. She found what was left of the step, where people formerly kneeled to receive Communion.
But instead of using her knees, she stood on it and said; “Pray to who? Someone who allows this to happen? And for what? He doesn’t provide any justice. We have to get our own.”
The Reverend understood her dilemma and made no reply, instead focusing his half shut eyes on the burned out, vacant cross. Elvira screamed; “The only way to fight fire is with fire.” The invigorated crowd walked northwest, on toward the white school. Eurydice remained with her little family. The damage had already been done. Countless white eyes were witness to yet another “race riot”.
D donned her most provocative outfit and popped in on Orpheus, now not wearing any blindfold. He was sitting by the library window in the sunlight, measuring and cutting three by three inch tin squares. At his side were ten small paint cans and two tiny brushes. He heard a chair leg scrape against the floor, turned and saw her sitting on it, shoes off and milky white legs open, covered only by a ten inch tight red skirt.
The straps on her belly previously supported a matching blouse, but were now untied. Her eyes were made up to accentuate the roundness of the doe like baby blues. Her cruel thin lips appeared lush under the blood red lipstick.
He said; “You’ve got to be kidding.”
She crossed her legs and fidgeted with her straps. She said; “You really know how to hurt a girl, don’t you?”
Orpheus stood up, looked incredulously at her and loudly said; “You’re a killer!”
She said; “You knew that from day one.” She paused and then added; “I’m sorry. My love for you got the better of me.
Besides, you brought her back. I promise I won’t do it again.”
Orpheus had to laugh at her last comment. His gaze softened as did his voice; “I don't know what to say. I’d like to kill you and I’d like to make you happy. Most of all I’d like you to go away and just let me experiment with my paints.”
“Do you have any idea of what it’s like to be feared and hated by everyone?”
He was really confused now. He felt for her, thinking of all the time she spent as a friendless outsider, but still wished that she would simplify his life and leave it. In a pleading tone, he said; “Why did you choose me?”
She sensed and welcomed the note of capitulation. She uncrossed her legs, looked up at him with big sad baby blues and
plaintively said; “I don't know. I don’t even think I had a real choice in the matter.”
He thought he detected moisture in her right eye, was completely overcome, got on his knees and put his arms around her belly. Potent powers presided.
No painting experiments were carried out that day, at least not on tin. They spent the day laughing, caring, drinking and eating. D did masterwork with the utensils, numerous times, encouraging Orpheus to “have another slice of pie.”
They lost track of time gorging themselves and were startled when they heard Eurydice at the door yelling;
“Orpheus.”
He mumbled; “Oh no,” as he immediately thought that Eurydice might have seen D through the open window. He whispered; “Come on. Get out of here.” D smiled, looked at the open window, pursed her red lips into a big kiss and vanished.
“Orpheus,” Eurydice again yelled. “I know you’re in there.
What’s going on?”
“I’m trying to find my mask. Hold on.”
He found the pink rag and tied it around the top half of his head and yelled; “Mask on.”
The door flew open and Eurydice briskly walked in and said;
“What’s going on in here?”
“I’ve been recuperating from yesterday. I ate a lot of pie and experimented with the paints.”
She looked at the unopened cans and dry brushes on the floor and said; “I believe the pie part.”
He looked away and she changed the subject, telling him about the fire and her complicated feelings for her father.
While she thought that the last thing the world needed was another church, a new school fit her notion of progress. Maybe things come in package deals. Her father’s preoccupation with money and rules was at least temporarily forgiven as she saw him as a good, kind and strong man whose years of work didn’t deserve to be destroyed in one misbegotten dark morning. She felt sorry for him. While in the past a threatened cessation of his ministerial duties would have prompted her to respond;
“Good, go get an honest job,” now she didn’t want to even think about the possibility that recent events would result in him having to suck up to bigger hypocrites.
Orpheus listened to her thoughts and concerns and paid perfect attention. He was interested and also sensed that he was on thin ice. He wished that he could again see her facial expressions, feeling that he was not getting the spirit of the message and was now confined to only words. He found her sorrow compelling. Though she spoke matter of factly about the whole thing, he was able to put himself in her place and saw that she
was probably having the worst day of her life and felt guilty that, no doubt, his entry into her life was a major cause of it.
Yet what could he do? He always believed that when people are in love that it was impossible for one to do something for the other without doing something for themselves at the same time, but now he was confronted with the reverse thought. Since he was innocently causing his love harm, would the best thing he could do for her be to leave? He didn’t want to dwell on that thought and instead extended his arms, found her, held her and she gently sobbed. She was released from her stiff upper lip and the softness allowed the water to flow down.
When he could feel her body stop heaving, he said; “I guess you forgot all about my leather blindfold.” She just looked at him and then realized that he couldn’t see that, so she had to say something. She really was at a loss, feeling that any response she could think of would sound stupid. She finally said; “Tomorrow I’ll get you a leather collection, all of my choice. Kiss my black feet.” As he slowly dropped to the floor, he ran his hands all over the curves of the voluptuous body he loved so much, thinking about the mind he loved even more. Progressive patterns paid periodic perfumery.
That night Eurydice had a dream. She still was vaguely entertaining thoughts of the white woman she seemed unable to escape, possibly seeing her again today, but was too distraught
about other things to have been paying full attention at the time. Now, in the tranquility of slumber she saw the white woman dressed in her provocative black leather uniform; a tube top and a short tight skirt bottom. Her face was rigid and unsmiling; her black hair tied straight back. She was looking down at a naked Orpheus, who had black leather chains on his hands and feet, which must have been attached to something she couldn’t see, as he was squirming his hands and legs around to no avail. His grinning face betrayed his protestations and he articulated his hunger. Eurydice watched him beg for something to eat and then her point of view changed from six feet away at ground level to twenty feet in the air above the playful couple.
She was shocked when the new view included her own naked black body in the same position as that of her lover and she was uttering the same words. The only difference between the two was in the way the black leather chains stood out against Orpheus’ white body and their golden compatriots shone on her black skin. She woke up aroused. Princely prior pushing prevailed in perpetuity.
Elvira was fired up and moving quickly. The crowd had found a leader and followed her down the road northwest. People called out, “Revenge,” “Never again,” “Justice,” “Equality,” and
some meaningless epithets that were known to be particularly offensive to white people.
They stopped on the grounds of the white school and immediately ran out of gas. While many thought that partial justice would be found in burning the now empty structure, no one wanted to be the one to start the flame.
As their calls quieted and they got still, each looking at the other to do something, Aazaziel watched with disgust and restlessness. He stopped working at his easel and smeared his face and head with the black paint. He opened the cabinet drawer where he kept his matches and winced when he saw there was only one left. He looked at the wall calendar and saw that he wouldn’t be getting another delivery for three months.
“Goddammit,” he said out loud, as he didn’t want to spend any time without part of his arsenal. He then laughed at his choice of words and sloppy impatience and thought; “Right, goddammit.
If these mortals can’t do anything themselves, I’ll have to do it for them.” He took his match and went to the school.
He materialized inside and was alone. He ignited a blaze in one room and nurtured it as it grew. The sight of a new fire always fascinated and excited him. He admired his artwork, even though others seemed to have their reservations. He was proud of his ability to work in different formats. Not many other supposedly “creative” people did. He reluctantly left when he
saw it reach the roof. When the crowd saw it, they first cheered and then timidity quickly took over. First one, then two, then three, then everybody ran southeast toward home, each afraid of being shot or captured.
The horses pulling two fire wagons to the burning school reared up at the sight of the sprinting black throng covering the path and then pulled the wagons off the road and into ditches.
Later in the week Reverend Paul hosted his well anticipated visitors from headquarters in Boston. Their horse drawn carriage was reminiscent of the one his daughter saw fleetingly a week prior. This one, however, was drawn by two huge hooved, brown Clydesdales. The Reverend watched from the dining room front window, as the thin, scraggly, white driver turned the horses onto the church property. Blinds opened in the gilt inlayed black lacquered carriage and the dignitaries viewed the damage.
As they got closer he could see that the driver’s face was uneven, pushed to one side, as if someone had sat on it at birth, or used immense forceps to pull it out, when bones were still soft. It was impossible to tell if he was grinning or scowling. His deformed countenance seemed less than cordial.
As the carriage slowly navigated the remains of the garden and its attendant path, the Reverend went to the front door to greet
them. In his mind he was merely waiting for the second shoe to drop, but pragmatically, he conjured up enough energy to put on a good, optimistic show, full well knowing its irrelevance, as no doubt the decisions had already been made.
Chapter 13- Holy Visitation and Down to Business The horses were stopped right in front of the main door and the driver gave the Reverend what appeared to be a strange look, but might have been mundane normality, with a contorted smile or grimace and no cheery greeting. It was ignored as the Reverend knew no appropriate response to one possibly possessed. James was not trained in exorcisms, so the driver was easier to disregard and attribute the demonic appearance to merely the result of an unfortunate birth. The driver got down and opened the carriage door. Hands held by two helpers, a magisterial presence made its careful way down the steps to the ground. The Reverend saw an unexpected black face, with a gigantic reddish nose. He was tiny and that was made painfully obvious by the two foot tall red hat he wore. It bellied at its center and then tapered to the top, was decorated with golden borders and designs, culminating in a hard point aimed at the sky. The ridiculously loose, heavy and stiff scarlet robe ended just short of the ground. Pinned to it were gold figures, ostensibly of some religious significance and awards that the great one had accumulated over his sixty odd years. The two hand holders remained at the retractable steps, marching in place at attention, ready to perform their duties whenever required. They wore identical outfits, their garb and demeanor
making one think of crested blue jays, hopping around chasing robins. The Reverend watched the little one approach holding onto his hat. He wondered if it was expected for him to kneel and kiss some ring. When the master got near the Reverend, he extended his right hand in a fist and James performed the required act.
Leaving his three subordinates outside, Tiny followed subordinate James into the living room and took a seat on an elaborate mahogany, blue upholstered Chippendale wing chair.
James took the opposite side of the card table made in the court cupboard style and sat on a simpler walnut Queen Ann arm chair.
Reverend Paul was nervously a bit presumptuous and said;
“It’s a pleasant surprise to see a black face.”
Tiny looked around to see if he was still within earshot of anyone else and then said; “Shh, in Rome they think I’m dark Italian.” He paused a second, squirming around uncomfortably and tried to keep the monumental hat from falling off his head;
“Can anyone see us in here?”
“No, not unless your people come to the side window.”
“No, they’re going to stay by the door and carriage.” He stood up and removed the cumbersome paraphernalia, revealing a heavy light blue work shirt and black denim pants. He sat back down.
“Whew, that’s a lot better. By the way, call me Sammy.
It’s short for Samedi. Do you have any cigars around?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
“Ah, well, let’s get down to business. How is Ruth taking all of this?”
“Not well. She’s upstairs sleeping. It’s been quite a shock.”
“I’ll bet. You’ve got some really nice stuff in here. Is it American?”
“I’m not sure. It could be English. It’s hard to tell the difference. If I might, I’m really curious about something.
Please don’t be offended, but how did you get this job?”
“Frankly, I think I was just in the right places at the right times, managed not to lose any money and never offended any of my bosses. Some people think that my size makes me appear innocuous, but I don’t agree with that one. It probably makes me look more accessible than I really am and that helps. Are you sure you don’t have a cigar? Maybe a parishioner left one somewhere.”
“No, sorry, I’m certain. My wife hates the smell of those things and would have found it by now.”
“God damn it. Sorry. All right, James. Here’s the deal.
You’re going west, young man. I’ve got a crazy situation in the territories right now. Somebody made a stupid loan to a
moonshiner. When he didn’t pay, the Church acquired his property.”
“Where?”
“Albuquerque, New Mexico. They tell me the weather is good. There aren’t a whole lot of black people there, but this will be a low overhead operation. No school. No church. Just a big old adobe house built by some Spaniard in the 1600’s. One of the eight large rooms was used as a place of worship, with a cross, a little altar and all that kind of crap.”
James said; “Nice house, Sammy?” realizing that it was an irrelevant stupid question, but he wanted a little more time to think.
“That’s what I’m told. It’s very large for the area and I understand that adobes regularly need maintenance. The worst thing is that some design genius came up with the idea of a flat roof.”
“Why?”
Sammy threw up his hands and said; “Don’t ask me. It shouldn’t be a huge problem. It doesn’t rain much. Listen, I’m really pressed for time and desperately need to get a cigar somewhere. It’s a lot better than cleaning the Church toilets in Boston. The way I figure it, if you could get as little as twenty parishioners tithing, you’re in the black. I will honestly tell you that the place is full of Indians with no use
for a church and Catholic Spaniards, who seem to think they are missionaries. But, I think you can do it, as you could run a small school out of the place, too. And, between you and me, we’re kind of stuck with this thing and the powers that be have to be somewhat pleased that somebody is living there, taking care of it.”
“Sammy, I asked you a couple of stupid questions. I can see very clearly why you’re in the position you’re in. You know what you’re doing.” Sammy stood up and extended his right hand.
James followed the lead and stood to accept the shake, saying; “Thanks, Sammy. Sincerely.” The little one donned his heavy uniform and said “Ruth will like it there. Good luck, James.” As he walked out of the room he said; “Isn’t there a cigar store somewhere around this place?”
Business was still nonexistent for Orpheus’ parents. His father’s outlook improved when he stopped staring at his pile of iron and resumed making it into nails. The stupid nails started to pile up in place of the ugly blob of iron. All shapes and sizes congregated dreaming of a piece of wood, of any variety.
Mr. Christopher missed his son and wondered what he was doing, but he didn’t need any help in piling up more anxious slim pieces of black iron. Joe McCready resumed his former cheery facade when Mrs. Christopher offered to pay for the milk in
nails. Sad Joe perked up when he was able to extract three times the value of his milk in forged iron. Presumably, his worries about the destitute condition of Pokey’s food regimen were alleviated when he got him piles of nails to eat. It’s hard to describe the degree of happiness in the typical day experienced by the Christophers when they resumed hearing Joe’s effervescent “Good morning, how are you today’s?”’ as he made his well announced and thereby noticed deliveries.
So, the stereotypical recession in miniature produced the usual winners and losers. Mr. Christopher wondered why the fires did not occur in something that would be rebuilt expeditiously, such as a prison. Mrs. Christopher’s demeanor was exemplary.
While her goal was to expand their half cape to a full one, she decided that it was far from necessary and most likely the dream would merely be deferred. She never mentioned it to her husband, which had the effect of making him more aware of its importance.
She, too, was curious about her son’s doings and rather than expending any worry, she thought she might have an idea of why he was too busy to drop in and was pragmatically glad that he didn’t, considering his possible effect on future nail business.
Despite her attitude of the previous day Eurydice left for the bakery the next morning to get her fair share of abuse and its attendant pieces of gold. She expected that June Boy would
put up with a lot to look at her legs and cop a feel or two. D
paid Orpheus her regular morning visit. She was more than mildly surprised, when she was greeted by an adamant Orpheus.
She was a bit hurt, standing there in her red leather tube top and half skirt, when he looked at her disinterestedly and said;
“Don’t you ever change?”
She said; “Well,..... I guess you require more variety.”
Orpheus looked away from her toward the tin and paints he still had on the floor and said; “Let’s get a few things straight. I will not have you hanging around here all day and posing for Eurydice.”
“I’m not POSING for Eurydice. Sometimes things just get carried away. You know.”
“I don’t care. You will leave here no later than 5 PM, eastern time, all right?”
She wasn’t accustomed to taking orders and now her hurt feelings were accompanied by a probable decline in power. She said; “Maybe I just won't come at all.”
“Don’t play stupid with me. You know I’m not saying that and I think that outfit does wonders for you, but I have to get working on these damn pots and today, I’d like you to help me with that.”
She was impressed with his devotion to Eurydice. It was one of the things that made her love him. But, it was difficult
to get over not getting her way. She said; “You know I’ve been waiting since creation to find out all about the timeless mysteries.”
“Well, join the club. But, first, today we have to try to come up with something I can sell.”
They both laughed at his inadvertent erotic comment. She stepped out of her skirt and said; “Would it turn you on if I paid you?”
“After the last few days I don’t think it’s possible to get turned on now. I’m exhausted.”
She walked over to his seat on the floor. His eyes were at the level of her belly button, but were looking nearby. He laughed and said; “Maybe I can handle once.” Her power index rose from their early morning lows to its opening level.
Permissive perpendicular prizes persisted.
When Eurydice returned after another long day of insults and sexual innuendo, her sight of a seemingly contented, relaxed Orpheus sitting on the floor added a kind of jealousy to her weary anger. She took some solace in not seeing any guests.
Orpheus saw something move from the corner of his eye through the open window, kept his head down and scooted into the bedroom and put on his rag turban.
She got to the door and yelled; “Orpheus.”
“Mask on.”
She entered and he was annoyed, saying; “You know, I almost saw you through the open window.”
“I wasn’t the one who opened it. If you want it closed, keep it closed.” She walked over to him, took his hand and put a black leather blindfold in it. She said; “Get that dirty rag off your head and put this on.”
He carried it to the bedroom and obeyed, having some difficulty attaching all the clasps. He made his way slowly toward her, guided only by intuition and scent. He was getting somewhat accustomed to making his way around blind, but the transition still needed work.
Eurydice said; “Come on over here, boy.”
Orpheus went at his own pace and when he re-entered the living area said; “Don’t tell me. Real bad day at work.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact I had a miserable day, but I also see that you did nothing all day.”
“I was working on the concept.”
She just looked at him. He heard the silence, so he continued; “Once I get the concept down, I can rattle them off like crazy. I just need one huge overall rule that works all the time.”
She was going to use her indignant, hands on hips posture, but realized he wouldn’t see it anyway, so she calmly said;
“There is no such thing.”
“Sure, there is.”
“Tell me one.”
This time Orpheus would have displayed the disdaining pose, but was half handicapped by not being able to show the wide eyed eyebrow raise. So, he just continued in her calm tone; “I’m not looking for the key to the universe. For instance, someone told me the best way to sell anything is to make it big and cheap.”
She was intrigued. He always had that effect on her, even when she started out mad as hell. She asked; “I understand how you can easily make something cheap. But how do you handle the big part?”
Orpheus smiled and said; “That’s what I’ve been working on.
It would be easier if I could see you.”
“You sure are a sweet, funny talker.”
“But, I’m serious on one level. This is what I was thinking: I’m limited by the size of the pot. I started cutting up some tin pieces and then they looked so small to me.
But, they’re the largest I can use. The only way to make them bigger is to wrap them around the whole base and I think that would look stupid.”
“I think you answered your own dilemma. They’re as big as they can be, period. Now, what are you going to paint on them?”
“That’s another concept I’m working on.”
She tiptoed up to him and said; “Ooooh, you.” She put her arms around his waist and followed with; “Just hold me and tell me everything’s going to be all right.”
He complied. Provocative phantoms propitiated proper prescriptions.
Somewhere Aazaziel was trying to burn off his nervous energy by trying to make the largest painting the world had ever known. He was generally pleased with the degree of discontent existing in his neck of the woods, but the fact that Orpheus and Eurydice were adjusting well to this mask business was like a fly constantly buzzing around his head. He kind of took for granted that they would have messed up already. Every other Orpheus and Eurydice he had known lasted less than a day. He didn’t have any bright ideas, so he diligently worked on his new piece of art and swatted at flies.
Chapter 14- Something New, Pure Art D was in an unusual mood the next day. She thought that just maybe she was seeing things from her own viewpoint a bit too much. She considered what Orpheus probably felt about her.
She decided that, know it or not, he loved her. How else could one possibly forgive someone who killed the love of their life?
So, she decided that she would love him back and help him get this painting business going. She probably could add a macabre element. She wished Alexander Pope had painted, as she couldn’t imagine how anyone could depict his words otherwise.
On her next visit, she dressed conservatively, at least by her standards. She wore simple light blue pants and a long sleeved pink blouse and saw him sitting on the floor staring at the tins and paints. Her long black hair was parted in the middle and hung freely over her breasts and to the middle of her back. “No ideas?” she said.
“Too many ideas,” he answered. “I have to get rid of some of them.”
“You’re confused.”
“I guess you could say that. New outfit?”
“I’ve worn it before. It’s a good one for fooling around with paints. What are you thinking about doing with them?”
“When I used to etch directly on the pot, I didn’t have much time to think about what I was doing, so I’d just quickly put down the first thing that came into my head. But, now that I have unlimited time to paint on tin, I’m thinking about whether I should try to gauge the most common taste, be cutting edge, be over the line, be bold, be cute, be meaningless, on and on.
“Well, that’s easy to fix. Give yourself a time limit for each painting and whatever comes out stays out.”
“Let’s try it.” He opened all the paint cans and picked up a small brush.
She said; “You have one minute. Go.”
He looked at the myriad of choices at his disposal and was initially overwhelmed. Thinking about the possibility of time running out, he reverted to painting the safe picture of a red rose, but gave it a long green stem accentuated with black thorns, each half the size of the petals.
“What do you think?” he said.
“It’s all right. Do another. Go.”
He painted a little white house with a black roof, surrounded by brown leafless trees.
She said; “I think I may have influenced you.”
He laughed and said; “No doubt.”
She said; “Okay, one more. Go.”
Not wanting to duplicate himself, he painted a black night sky containing an orange moon and yellow stars.
She winced.
He saw that and said; “No good?”
“It stinks.”
He looked at it for a few seconds and said; “You’re right.”
He used the pink rag formerly used to wrap his head to wipe the tin clean. He added; “See, no problem on tin.”
D said; “Come on. One more good one. Go.”
He returned to the scene of his earlier success and painted another flower; this time a blue tulip with a short green stem, devoid of thorns, with a small yellow sun at it left.
“I like it,” she said.
He looked at it, contemplated and said; “I like the flower, but the sun is weird.”
“That’s probably why I like it. It makes me wonder why it’s so small.”
“Maybe because I made a crappy picture.”
She laughed and said; “Yes, but maybe, just maybe the artist is making some statement about the relative importance of the two, or maybe he’s saying the sun is way off in the distance.”
“I didn’t have either of those thoughts.”
“But, the one viewing the brush strokes doesn’t know that.
If it makes someone think it means they’ll look at it longer and be more likely to buy it.”
“What if someone asks me what it means?”
“Then you say that you can’t recall. It had its time and place but that’s gone now.”
“That’s kind of true anyway. This could be a fun job.
Let’s keep going. How about you try one?”
He handed her a clean brush and said; “One minute. Go.”
She painted a poppy, on very long winding green stem, but with a purple, rather than white flower, sitting in a blue puddle with pink raindrops which exited a pink cloud. She looked at him softly, flipped her long black hair and said;
“What do you think?”
“I like it. What does it mean?”
“Love is the drug.” Partial petunia petals.
When Eurydice got home the sight of the hundreds of mini-paintings lying on the floor elevated her mood to merely cantankerous. She said; “Have you been painting those things blindfolded?”
Orpheus laughed and said; “Do you make your buns blindfolded?” He tried to find her sound, his arms stretched.
She grabbed his right hand with both of hers and said; “Wait right there, Romeo. I don’t want any more pawing today.”
His lightheartedness gone, he realized what she was going through. This kind of day was her grand prize for loving him, commemorated with a trophy of nervous fatigue. He was at a loss for words and could merely wish that things were different for her. Why couldn’t they go back to their fathers’ houses and play like children?
She could feel the sadness in his covered eyes and put her arms around him. They silently held on to each other, grateful for the other’s being there. She broke away first saying; “I’m really bushed. I need to lay down a while.” She went to the bed in the other room and he followed, holding on to her hand.
They laid down, she on her left side and him behind her with his right arm around her belly and his right leg over her left.
They never felt any better. They dozed wishing the sleep could restore them to where they were such a short time ago.
Aazaziel contented his anti-heart with the monumental task of single handedly trying to complete a painting the size of two house walls. He didn’t want to repeat something that appeared elsewhere, yet he thought it would be impossible to finish if every symbol had to be unique. He wasn’t the one trained in making snowflakes.
He was the one trained in creating chaos, or merely pointing out its existence. He realized that he had become
lazy, falling into a formula of about ten approaches which always worked. To finish his masterpiece without using some cheap concept like shadows, smoke and mirrors, he would have to come up with thoughts not previously in his repertoire. If he could use rituals or circles, like going to church, he could make a lot of progress, but dismissed the idea as just another form of repetition. He pondered the task of creating a huge depiction of evil. Was it even possible, if someone didn’t first create a huge depiction of good? He felt weakened by the realization that he was entirely derivative, a mere anti thing.
He decided to take a day off and just go strolling in Boston to see if he could find anything good that he had not yet damaged.
The cobblestone streets were modestly empty the night he arrived. He kind of felt at home under poor lighting. He looked in the shop windows seeing the usual stuff and some things for the Halloween soon to come. He got no ideas until he turned a corner and found a decaying once grand Grecian colonial house with a wooden sign at the curb, “Shelter for the Poor”.
He had his new direction. SHELTER. He thought; “I’ll do anti-shelter.” It was so simple he felt extremely stupid for not having thought of it previously. He was again chagrined, feeling completely derivative, but decided if that was all he was capable of, what could he do about it? What the hell? Most
people aren’t even capable of derivation. What is essential to human beings? Food, clothing and shelter.
He got right back to his studio and quickly proceeded to try to depict food, anti-food, clothing, anti-clothing, shelter and anti-shelter. This could go on forever. It was special fun to do the anti-clothing part. Best thing to do was to keep working hard.