In the City of Shy Hunters (29 page)

Fiona took her hands off my body, lifted her hair off her neck, twisted her hair around, and tied her hair up in a knot. Her armpits weren't shaved, the smell from her pits.

I love it when you talk, Fiona said.

Fiona put her open palms, one on my waist, the other on my open palm.

That's not all there is! Fiona said.

All her face was smiling but her lip.

Look, I'm just like everybody else, Fiona said. I have a belief and I am working myself into that belief. This
is
all illusion, this
is
all folly, and my choice is to live my life as aware of that folly as I possibly can. But that doesn't mean it's
only
folly.

My spirit, Fiona said, Has gone to Susan Strong for an extended vacation. Your spirit has gone to Will Parker for an extended vacation. This birth. This incarnation. What's important is the lesson. What's important is this moment—here together now, looking at each other.

Fiona's eyes were special blue in the kitchen-stove telephone-booth light. She leaned back a little, her hips into my hips, so she could see me better, her hands looping her arms around my neck, her lip a life all its own.

We need to look into every situation, Fiona said, And examine it, so we won't be fooling ourselves. I want to make a personal discovery of reality, Fiona said, Through my own intelligence and ability.

It's a sense of trust, Fiona said, That when you look into a situation, you know that you will get a response, a message. Trust, Fiona said, Is knowing there will be a message.

Fuck trust.

Fiona undid my white waiter shirt, one, two buttons, slid her open palm against my heart.

Your heart is beating, Fiona said. My heart is beating. What is it that is beating our hearts?

Shit happens.

Everything is an illusion, Fiona said. Everything. Even death is an illusion. So we must listen to our Higher Knowing, Fiona said, And be present, because this is our life. When the vacation's over, We go home.

You're sure about that? I said, Absolutely?

Absolutely, Fiona said, If you trust hard enough, you will get a definite response, and what you know is a tiny bit bigger, and what you don't know is a tiny bit smaller.

Underneath it, Will, beyond the illusion, this all means something, Fiona said.

Believe that it hath been given, Fiona said, And it shall be given unto you.

Did Argwings Khodek say that? I said.

No, Fiona said, It was Tarkovsky.

Is Tarkovsky another one of your AUIs? I said.

There's only three, Fiona said. Argwings Khodek, Leonard Cohen, and Tarkovsky.

And Joni Mitchell? I said.

And Joni Mitchell, Fiona said. And John Kelly doing Joni Mitchell.

Fiona put her hands, palms open, onto my shoulders, shook my shoulders.

There is a deeper meaning, Fiona said. Otherwise we'd all turn into Andy Warhol and live in the world of appearance.

Fiona's hands smooth across my shoulders, to my neck. One finger touched my throat.

It was
Adam's
apple, Fiona said, Not Eve's.

Then: Come on, Will, Fiona said, We're on vacation. Let's have some fun!

Fiona's smile, her broken lip trying to smile. Fiona's lips at my ear.

Show me your underneath, Fiona said, And I'll show you mine.

The needle on the record: Stevie Wonder. Fiona put her long fingers on my eyes.

I'm a man of many wishes, I hope my premonition misses.

This won't end up a performance piece somewhere? I said.

You are so fucking beautiful! Fiona said. I love your bottom teeth.

Most people misconstrue this for standoffishness.

My breath in. My breath out.

Then: My friends call me William of Heaven, I said.

JUST BEFORE SUNRISE
, the both of us pissing on Avenue C pointing uptown. The sky above us and beyond midnight blue, lighted doorways of six-story walk-ups, streetlamps on the avenues, garbage cans overturned, black plastic bags ripped open. Fiona and I walked, following Third Street across Avenue B, Avenue A, First Avenue, to Second Avenue, talking talking, past Angel's Pizza, Dress Suits to Hire. Past the Greek restaurant on Second and Fifth Street, past Fish Bar.

Fiona got my whole long sorry story.

But it's not the truth.

I didn't know the whole story, hadn't remembered the whole thing yet.

Not yet.

On the stoop of 205 East Fifth Street just across from the rectangle of earth where I'd plant the cherry tree my arm over Fiona's shoulders and her arm around my waist, just like that, at the same time, Fiona and I looked up.

Morning wind in the trees. The dust-storm light of the streetlamps on the green leaves, the shadows of the green leaves on the sidewalk, curb, on the street.

A color from another incarnation, Fiona said.

Fiona leaned against me, her head on my shoulder, her hand on my knee. We smoked the cigarette, present with the night, with the morning wind in the trees, with the color from another incarnation, enjoying, and enjoying that we were enjoying.

Then: He lives here? Fiona said.

Who? I said.

Argwings Khodek, Fiona said.

Apartment Two-A, I said.

Can I come in? Fiona said.

You want to see Rose? I said.

No, Fiona said. I want to see you.

BEFORE I
GOT
the lights on, Fiona went right to the bathroom. When she flushed, I listened to the sound of someone else in my apartment flushing.

My Art Family were all gathered around the ladder in the kitchen, looking out the window at sunrise on the city. One of them, the man with the bumps of mannequin beard on his face, was sitting on top of the ladder.

When Fiona came out, I walked to the ladder, stood among them. This is my Art Family, I said.

Art Family? Fiona said.

Make it aware, make art out of it, I said.

So this is you and Bobbie and Charlie and your mother and father? Fiona asked.

Sometimes, I said.

Fiona stood herself next to me by the ladder. I introduced them. Their names that day were Massimo, Grazia, Parjaner, Sophia, and Marlon. Fiona touched each one, their hands, their faces, arms, their backs, shoulders.

Out the window, below, the pit bull, dark shadows. The E.T. guy had already phoned home.

Kiss? Fiona said.

Fiona's mouth on my mouth. Not a big tongue kiss. Just lips to lips. The red onto my lips, the smell of the red.

Fiona's scar against my lips.

Nearly two years in New York City and no one had been on the premises in my apartment besides me, and just like that, out of the blue—abracadabra!—there she was, Susan Strong at my kitchen window, within my Art Family, the light, a color from another incarnation coming in on her white marble skin.

Susan Strong kissing me. I was kissing back.

Shit-faced. That's all it takes.

Car alarm in my ear. Another New Yorker gone to hell.

In my forearms first, the fear, then up my arms, through my heart, splash down into stomach, cattle prod to cock. New-shoe stiff.

But it's not the truth.

It wasn't stiff.

The muscles in my back jumping.

And something else.

Something clear and smooth and beautiful. The feeling of a finger drawing a circle around my heart.

Fiona took my shirt off. I kicked my shoes off, pulled off my socks. Fiona pulled my pants and shorts down together.

My body all smelly dance sweat and restaurant leftover.

Black bra and black panties under Fiona's black dress. I pulled the bra straps down, unclasped the back of the bra. The full sway of her breasts.

Fiona kicked off her shoes, pulled her panties down.

Vagina, pussy, Deep Flower, poon.

The unmistakable smell.

How big I was next to her. My skin so pink-brown and brown-blond hairy. Fiona's skin white marble. Black hair in her armpits, in her crotch.

Fiona and I stood so still, just like my Art Family. Fiona put her finger on each of my nipples.

Nice nips, Fiona said, And I love the hair on your forearms. Nice chest hair.

Fiona rubbed her hand across the hair of my chest.

You give great clavicle, Fiona said.

My hands were cold my feet were cold my cock was freezing. Frozen moments in time. I was smiling. Stopped smiling.

Beautiful skin, I said. I love this part. Under your breasts.

Which part?

Where it curves up, I said. It's so soft.

My nipples are ugly, Fiona said.

No! I said. They're fantastic.

Diamond nips, Fiona said. I'm in need of areola fulfillment.

My arms should be bigger, I said.

No, Fiona said. Look here, she said.

Fiona drew a line with her finger from my elbow, along my bicep, up to my shoulder.

Perfect, she said. The arc is just perfect. And look how nicely it moves to the chest.

Fiona's finger up my arm down across my chest.

I wish I were taller, Fiona said, With shoulders like yours.

I shouldn't be so tall, I said, So clumsy big. I love your size. I said, I'm so surprised by your strength.

You're shaking, Fiona said.

My whole body like True Shot's eyes.

Fiona's breath in deep, then exhale out her nose.

Will, we don't have to do anything—be any way, Fiona said. I just want to hold you, be held by you. I promise I won't hurt you.

Like Bernadette, I said.

Like Bernadette, Fiona said. I promise.

My hand, my index on Fiona's lip, the scar, the map of the Known Universe.

Tell me about your scar, I said.

Fiona's blue eyes got dark blue. The breath in her raised her diamond nips against my chest. Her tongue stuck out and licked the scar, licked my finger.

Lletre ferit
, Fiona said. Two words put together, formed by Fiona's red lips.

What? I said.

It's Spanish, Fiona said—Catalan, that is, not Castilian.

Catalan? I said.

Go to Barcelona, Fiona said. Stop anybody on the street and ask them about the bastard son of King Ferdinand.

Believe me, Fiona said, They'll tell you.

What's it mean? I said.

Lletre ferit
, Fiona said, Means
the word that hurts
.

Fiona's index pressed on the scar.

You have touched me, Fiona said, Where I hurt.

My arms on Fiona's shoulders, my hands on her neck, under her hair. Fiona pushed her hips against my hips. Pubic hair to pubic hair.

It's all drag, I said.

Fiona's fuck-you smile that was never a smile.

I was born with a cleft palate, Fiona said. I've had three operations. The first they put a roof in my mouth and then did two plastic surgeries on my lip.

Does it look weird? Fiona asked.

I love it, I said.

And what about your scar? Fiona said. Where'd you get yours?

I stepped back, turned around, and showed Fiona the scar; a half moon on my left cheek.

AyaHuaska, I said, Charlie's horse, bit me.

The scar on my ass you could read like tea leaves.

Really? Fiona said. Cool.

Fiona put her hand on the scar.

Nice ass, Fiona said. Just enough hair on it. I like men with hair on their ass.

Fiona brushed the hair on my ass back and forth, back and forth.

But I didn't mean
that
scar, Fiona said.

What scar? I said.

Fiona's lips at my ear. You know, Fiona said, The one on your spirit. How'd you get your heart so broken?

Fiona's open palm on my heart.

Oh, that one, I said. If I told you that, I said, I'd have to tell you everything.

THE SHEETS COULD
'
VE
been cleaner. Glad I had two pillows. I turned off the lamp the shape of a wagon wheel with cowboys and Indians riding horses on the lampshade. Fiona lay down, her bushel of black hair on the pillow, the white of her skin the same white of the sheets, if the sheets had had a heart and veins that were blue.

I lay down next to her. My forearms when she folded herself into me. My arm under her neck, my hand in her hair. Her head on my chest. Her hair in my mouth.

The hair of her crotch against my leg.

My heart, the broken pieces scraping up against my chest.

My breath. There was no air.

I sat up quick, grabbed my tobacco, the papers, rolled a cigarette, one for Fiona, one for me, lit hers, mine.

Only silence.

Fiona pulled her legs into her, wrapped her arms around her legs. Her foot tapped against my hip. Her white white fingers pulled tobacco from her teeth.

Men got it rough, Fiona said. All that macho stuff they got to live up to. Prowess, achievement, all that I-came-I-saw-I-conquered shit. Plus, you don't get to talk about it.

Men in the eighties are like women in the fifties, Fiona said, Isolated, unaware of the social construct keeping them isolated. Each man thinking his problems are only his.

Fiona's big toe slow between the futon and my ass, into the crack of my ass.

Plus, Fiona said, A man's life source—the nipple, his food, his sustenance and source of ecstasy—has been dependent on a woman. On his mother most of his life. Then one day—no rite of passage, no help from his family or his culture—all at once he's got to go out and be this stud.

Way uncool, Fiona said.

And this size thing . . .

Fiona's whole foot between my ass cheeks, her toes up and down, up and down, on the back of my balls.

. . . I really think it's a guy thing. I mean, Fiona said, Just imagine yourself a woman being chased by some big ape with this huge hard reptilian schlong he wants to shove up inside your body.

Not tonight, motherfucker! Fiona said.

In the broken-green-dish ashtray, I stubbed out my cigarette. Fiona stubbed out hers. I pulled the sheet over us. We curled into a ball, my back to Fiona. Fiona's hands on my back, on my shoulders, on my ass.

Lips at my ear.

Nothing's as sexy as vulnerability, Fiona said, Men or women. I can understand why people get into children. I mean I'd never do that, Fiona said, Too blatant a power trip. But openness and innocence is definitely a turn-on.