A breeze would curl up from the arbor and worm through the saffron curtains, billowing like great gauze mizzen sails. Kit detected the sweet scent of rotted fruit, fallen mango bursting forth in perfumed waste.
Once when he was a golden boy with elbows and knees barked from roller-skating down the long macadam driveway he swiped a mango from the gardener's tree and bit into it as if it were an apple. Juice from the deceptive skin poised his lips and caused them to blister. Next day he met the gardener at the curb of the estate. The wool of his head blazed red and so did his wild highland beard. He winked and spoke to Kit.
"Ask b'fore ye take, laddy."
*
The conch-blower knew whalesongs. Plaintive and mournful by human interpretation, the music rotated around, boxing the compass. Like Taps. Melody lingered far after the raggedy avatar had dissolved into the indigo night.
Kit dreamed then of this spectral woman climbing wantonly upon his bed. The maw of her cunt was a bloody portal wherein the moon resided. Her heavy locks, dark as anthrocite, tumbled down. A hungry Medusa, with gales of warm spiced breath. Transfixed, his only dream-thought was of a pagan whore he had met eons ago on Ibiza, who drew down the moon and fucked him in a bed of molten sand.
*
He woke becalmed. Looked across the room to a framed lithograph of the vampire by Sir Edward Burne-Jones and chuckled. Happy that Kat had come home. More than wife, she was the Goddess Mother he had always desired. This morning the clock in his chest pumped placidly, one moment at a time. Beside him he found a note: "Your play reminds me of 'The Milk Train Doesn't Stop Here Anymore.' More so of Joseph Losey's take on it. 'Boom!' Who can forget Noel Coward as the Wailing Witch? Seriously, though, all your stuff needs pruning!"
*
"What was the name of that film version of 'Milk Train' ?"
Kat had scorched her scrambled eggs, so she smothered them con queso with picante sauce. She took a taste and smiled. "Said it was 'Boom!'. The sound each moment makes in passing."
"Ridiculous."
*
The heft and gloss of Semio-Stage surprised Kit. The cover art reminded him of Basquiat's pricey doodles. Too much money spent to look overly nice. She'll go broke within the year.
He examined the mug-shot of Cassandra next to her by-line. Gray crew cut. Getting jowls. Her expression: Fuck You. Something slipped from the open pages. Not a subscription card.
A personal note.
Out of the past. His little blond butch. What happened to you on Ibiza?
*
He showered and shaved, trimmed the goatee. It had acquired the feel of Spanish Moss. Then with a dab of queer gel his tumultuous mane danced once again. Positively leonine.
Now where did Kat get that Howard Hughes notion?
He slipped into some soft clogs and went to his Toshiba laptop.
The Semio-Stage webpage looked like a decal transfer sliding from its paper backing. And there was the younger face of the Sorbonne brat from long ago.
"Hello, old friend."
*
Her personal note was a gas: "Remember when you played 'Om' by Coltrane and Inez fled and hid in the loo? She must have soaked her pussy in that bidet until it wrinkled like a California raisin. She was gone such a long time. You pud of shit. You put that record on again just so it was playing when she returned. I swear she went mad. Coltrane's cacophony. Bleating moaning shrieking howling screaming chanting. Conjuring caterwauls. Yage hallucinations of buggering shackled lambs, goats, while grunting fealty to an amphetamine deity. Stainless alloy teeth dripping like hypodermic needles. Ah ah ah, wheek wheek wheek! Then the amphetamine deity shouts to the analfucker, hey man, move over and let me have a whack! The sax cries out satanic jubilation as the two of them bludgeon the creature with tire-irons."
*
Inez was such a trippy cunt, Kit recalled. She and Cassandra had gone to a Pola Negri revival at the cinematheque. When they returned Inez was in a dither, shouting to him, face to face, that men were all misogynists and lunkheads.
"What's biting her?" he asked Cassandra.
"We saw 'The Woman He Scorned.' Mizz Negri plays a reformed prostitute who cannot escape her past. In the end she surrenders herself to the sea and drowns."
"I'll go out for a while."
"You're sweet."
One sleety afternoon he walked in on the two of them as they perfected Yab-Yum on the Persian rug using a sex toy. Their climax was a real hootenanny.
*
Kat was toned to perfection. She had less fat than a pint of cottage cheese. Even her ass had muscle definition. Watching her towel off, Kit remarked, "Nice glutes."
"Glutes to the max, I hope. Spent hours in the gym."
"A set of ab-crunches would kill me."
"Start with five reps a day. You'll be fine. Do you walk any?"
"Yeah. To the postbox."
She wrinkled her nose. "What a lazy skunk!"
"I'm glad you're home. Really mean that."
She popped the towel at him. "Come with me. Let's stroll the beach."
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