The Royal Family

| 351 |

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.

| 352 |

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.

| 353 |

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

| 354 |

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.

Hey, you old coot, if that’s your wife you’d better keep her on a leash! Your wife’s been giving me blow jobs every Friday night!

Why, you—

Wrestling, hugging, screaming, the two johns strove against each other like the rutting animals they were, while Domino laughed and laughed, with the dull clickings of a spent cigarette lighter, until her sides ached. It was shaping up to be an excellent evening; people were paying attention to her. But finally Loreena ran out from behind the bar with a cutting board, which she held high above the warriors’ heads, shouting: Now, stop it, boys! Stop it or I’m gonna whack you…

Sheepishly, the men had already started pulling apart when Domino leaped down from her stool and screeched: You stop it! You stop it right now or I’m gonna call the cops!

Shaking their heads, the two johns wandered out the back door.

Well, said Domino, drumming her fingers on the bar with the triumphant click-click-click of black girls striding down Turk Street with their chins up, shading their doubledark sunglasses lenses with their hands, I think I deserve a free drink, Loreena.

And why’s that?

Beause I broke up that fight.

You broke it up? cried the barmaid in amazement.

That’s exactly right.

Dear, you’re too friggin’ much. You take the prize. You’re so bad you’re good. Have an ever-lovin’ drink.

| 355 |

A man was pulling up his pants as he watched the magnificently dangling breasts whose lease had now expired. The mouth slowly began to drop open, like a rotten trestle giving way. Upon the lower lip a pretty silver pearl of drool gathered. She couldn’t keep her eyes open. The head slowly tilted on the neck; the neck was giving way, too.

What now? the man said.

Oh, go out there, and see if I can get lucky, the whore mumbled.

Ah, said the man wisely, surreptitiously checking to make sure that she hadn’t lifted his wallet.

Well, sighed the whore, I guess I should make my departure.

She dragged her stained and stinking T-shirt back down over her head and let her calloused toes seal-dive back into the high heels. Then she stood up. The world rocked; she felt literally at sea. She bit her tongue sharply and tasted blood. That woke her up. She staggered toward the door.

All right then, the man said.

You too, the whore said.

She opened the door and stepped out. The hallway was dark. She would have liked to stay longer because the man’s bed had been comfortable and the man was nice. He had given her a glass of water. But she had to make more money. Her feet hurt. She closed the door behind her and crept slowly down the hall. When she got to the stairs she held on tightly to the bannister and took her time. Now for the street door. She hobbled back into the night and in ten minutes had managed to achieve an entire block before two Brady’s Boys found her.

| 356 |

Sitting on a concrete bench beside a trash can, the Queen in somebody else’s ancient leather jacket and baseball cap drew one hand from shoulder to shoulder in an almost Catholic gesture of self-blessing, then hunched forward and began to smoke. Lines deepened around her lips when she inhaled. She held in that strange bluish air of hell, then turned her head sideways and breathed it out with a smile of pleasure. Against a granite wall behind her leaned the tall man with one foot up, his projecting knee like a wood-saw blade. He pressed his head back against the wall and yawned. Over a parking meter padded by his quilted jacket slouched Tyler with his cap pulled low, his chin on his palm as he picked his teeth. He stepped back three paces, folded his arms across his chest, stepped forward, narrowed his anxious, squinting eyes, and leaned his stomach against the parking meter.

For the moment, vigilant uncertainty seemed to afford him the greatest integrity. He longed to think, to understand, to close his eyes and see some certain and loving image whose kiss would purify him. He stood against the parking meter, trying to decide whether he still loved the Queen, and what kind of love he’d been full of if it could be destroyed like this, and whether he ought to go away from her forever.

Henry, she said, not looking at him.

Yeah.

C’mere.

He came.

Henry, I see what you’re thinkin’. Baby, you think I can’t see right into your heart?

I know you can see, he whispered.

S’pose I was what you used to think I was. You think I really could’ve been that?

Closing his eyes, he thought for a long time. — Yeah, he said. You were perfect. Until you georgia’d Domino.

Allrightie. You think your nightmares about Irene gonna come back now?

Yeah.

I’m so sorry, honey. Queen’s so sorry for you. Henry, lemme ask you one more thing. If I was perfect then an’ I’m not perfect now, why might that be?

I don’t know. Because — because you—

God did it, she said with terrifyingly burning eyes. He sent His Son, our Enemy, down here to be on our level for a while. You think Jesus didn’t sweat an’ piss like everybody else? You think He didn’t get fearful an’ stupid like us?

| 357 |

Do you think that Christ could be here now? Irene had once asked him despairingly.

What do you mean, honey?

If I went down to that Loaves and Fishes place in Sacramento and put up a notice on the bulletin board saying if one of you homeless guys is Christ please come and meet me next Thursday, would Christ see it and come?

Tyler cleared his throat. — Sure, Irene, but maybe He wouldn’t be your Christ.

What do you mean? cried his sister-in-law in horror. What you’re saying goes against the Bible. There’s only one Christ, and He’s my God. He’s my Lord. I swear before you and before God I believe that.

In that case, Tyler had said, all you have to do is learn to recognize your own Christ, or else trust God to bring Him to you.

And now here he was, like an earthquake survivor pinioned and half crushed beneath some vaulted slab, unable to believe or disbelieve, unable to take his own advice.

| 358 |

The Queen said: It’s up to you to figure all this out. My girls, now, I gotta give ’em some happiness. But maybe I wanna give you somethin’ different. Somethin’ more secret than happiness. Do you believe that?

A warm shadow passed across his heart, and he whispered: Yes.

An’ you know why I did what I did to Domino? Justin, move away please.

Why? said Tyler.

Want some business, want some business, muttered the tall man across the street. Gonna sell you pussy, world. Gonna sell you dimes and keys. Gonna hotwire this car.

She laid down her head on his shoulder. — You really wanna know why? ’Cause she kept insulting you. An’ I love you. I couldn’t take it no more. I don’t care half as much about anyone else.

| 359 |

Sitting astride him, tall and black, she gazed down at him with loving eyes. Yes, he was close to another pair of eyes, brown eyes which blinked and sometimes cried and sometimes even saw the soul-smell of another human being, smelled the feeling and heard the smell of skin, dust on skin, dirt and sand rubbing between bodies. And once again he believed; so he was innocent again; he had never sinned. He did not need to think anymore because what he and she called love (it must have been love) numbed everything else into irrelevance while his world decayed. How could he make his life right? Where would anything end? She led him into the Pleroma to show him the Four Darknesses of Cain and the Four Lights. And because he was a Canaanite now and forever, he preferred the Darknesses to the Lights. Cain was not so evil, he kept saying to himself. Cain at least killed his brother only out of jealousy, not as a sacrifice to God, Who called on Abraham to sacrifice his son, and Who sacrificed Jesus to Himself to consolidate Himself upon the world of Canaanites whose demonic dreams and desperations sent them wandering from one necessity to another until all volition had been scorched out of them, and they gave or thieved without sin. It was a sin when Cain killed Abel, but in his centuries of after-struggle across primeval continents all of a lichenous red color darkened by blue haze, he committed no further sin when he killed and robbed for his living, just as the false Irene was sinless, and Domino with her crazed lightning-flashes of intellect sought only to escape her own torment like a fish wriggling on a gill-hook, so wasn’t she sinless, too? Wasn’t the Queen perfect? (He didn’t think that merely because she loved him. He swore it.)

You love me? she said.

Yeah.

You gonna let me hurt you?

Sure. Yes, I will.

Does it hurt now, baby, what I’m doin’ to you?

I feel it, all right.

Tell me to do it again.

Do it again, Africa.

Does it hurt?

It kind of… — Oh! It hurts!

Does it hurt?

Yeah. I love you—

Does it hurt?

Oh—

He thought less and less about Irene — less about his business also, and people who met Tyler at this stage frequently thought him abstracted, careworn, apprehensive, even sad. In truth he’d changed vastly, as he himself knew, although whether for worse or for better he really couldn’t say. The Queen absorbed him. He believed that he was learning intensely beautiful and secret things.