In the City of Shy Hunters (41 page)

Around and around on the tape, Ruby's breath in and out, traffic sounds, someone crying.

Even myself, me.

Then a low voice, far away: Peace, brother.

IF YOU UNDERSTAND
that the difference between fool and Harlequin is Harlequin knows that behind his costume he is hiding, then you'll know what's important about Rose and yourself, and why you've come to New York.

Lunch at the Waldorf.

I was not Rory Calhoun that day, not Randolph Scott, not Errol Flynn, not Hedy Lamarr or Garbo.

On the corner of Park Avenue and Fiftieth, I was Jimmy Stewart, including the hat, rolling a cigarette, standing in front of the bright doors of the Waldorf Hysteria, just at the place where True Shot had parked Door of the Dead van my first night in Manhattan with the French Vogues. The sky was real blue with sifty clouds pointing at the sun. Warm, big gusts of wind up the avenue.

Two o'clock the third Thursday in October, on the corner of Park Avenue and Fiftieth, a cab pulled up and a guy with a long white beard, no mustache, wearing a black turban and a long blue-black velvet cape got out. Lots of gold. Gold rings, gold bracelets, a gold loop in his queer ear, a thick gold choker. Purple fingernail polish. A gust of wind blew the velvet cape and the cape flew up, the wings of a crow.

It was Rose.

Rose and I embraced and kissed like they do in Europe, both cheeks. The doorman opened the door and I took Rose by the arm, the way a man takes a woman by the arm, and Rose and I walked that way, the Sheik of Araby and Jimmy Stewart, into the Waldorf Hysteria.

The people in the foyer, the Calvin Klein Polo tweeded Ronald
Reagan and Nancy Connecticut blond tourist Republican people, were staring at us. Every eyeball on me and Rose.

Rose smiled theatrically, bowed deep to the crowd.

L'Amérique profonde
! Rose said.

My first impulse was to run. I'd never been out in
L'Amérique profonde
with Rose before. But Rose's hand was tight around my arm, and so I stood. Rose was extra tall in the black turban, extra strong. And Rose's black eyes, two shiny round ebonies steady straight ahead, meeting every gaze with his.

All my life I'd been new-shoe stiff, clean, pressed, polite, driving the speed limit. All my life I'd done all I could not to get noticed, and there I was in all the world in the lobby of the Waldorf Hysteria, every eye in the place on me, arm-in-arm with the Queen of Conspicuous.

Rose and I walked arm-in-arm up the stairs, through the crowd, Rose smiling and waving his hand, elbow elbow, wrist wrist wrist, the Queen of England.

The huge clock in the foyer struck two chimes just as Rose and I stepped into the restaurant. A Brazilian version of Daniel the boss's brother in a tuxedo flashed his Rolex and showed us to a table in the back comer. One business-suit guy looked up and poked his friend, but Rose didn't see.

When I put the match flame onto Rose's cigarette, Rose's eyes were on the match, then Rose closed his eyes, inhaled, and leaned back, and, just like that, Rose was an old photograph of Rose.

BLACK AND WHITE
, a shadow across his face, Rose in a black turban and beard leaning against a fringed brocade cushion between a peacock mural on his right and a brass vase of primroses on his left, Rose just opening his eyes, just about to look at me, just starting to smile.

Rose is just about to say, Even myself, I am just here, isn't it?

You put the photograph in a magenta velvet photograph album with gold edges. This is when I lived in New York City, and I had lunch at the Waldorf with my friend, an Arab prince.

WHAT YOU LOOKING
at me that way for? Rose said.

I'm taking a photograph, I said.

Paparazzi wherever you go! Rose said.

You ever know a guy named Ruby Prestigiacomo? I said.

The magician, Rose said.

What? I said.

Prestigiacomo means magician in Italian, Rose said, And no, I do not know him.

You're a lot like him, I said.

The magician? Rose said.

Ruby, I said.

We both exaggerate ourselves so we can be noticed? Rose said.

Is that what you do? I said.

No, Rose said.

TURN THE PAGE
of the velvet book; the sound of the page turning sounds like fire.

The photograph of me, my elbows on the table, my Jimmy Stewart hat pushed up off my forehead, my tie an old pattern of butterflies and dice, my big face, crooked bottom teeth, intelligent Tom Selleck– handsome Einstein, the look on my face like I'm about to ask a question.

Rose? I said. You're a Shakespearean ac-tor, I said. You know all about the Greeks, you're doing a one-man show of Antigone on the accordion and piano and maybe the violin, you're a Shy Hunter, Elizabeth Taylor is your best friend, you're an extra-lovely African American who lives upstairs from me with your three dogs, and you kissed me on the lips.

I think of you as my friend, I said, But I don't know anything about you. Rose, I said, just who
are
you? Where did you come from?

Rose looked down at the Gauloise box, closed the box with his fingers, the purple nails, then looked back up, his ebony eyes hard stones.

Bloomingdale's, Rose said. I had some things to pick up.

The Bloody Marys came right then. The waiter's name tag said
RAMON
and he was short with black hair and had a little mustache and those big glasses that are light sensitive. He set the Bloody Marys on the white linen tablecloth.

Rose tapped the ash of his Gauloise into the cut glass ashtray, then raised his Bloody Mary. I raised mine and we toasted.

The story, Rose, I said. Tell me your story.

The black turban, the glued-on Sheik of Araby beard. The gold loop in his queer ear.

Rose put both his arms up on the back of the banquette. His right hand under the peacock mural, his left next to the brass vase of primroses. Rose's Adam's apple up and down, just above the gold choker.

You want story, Rose said, Or do you want history?

Sixth rule, Rose said. The stories you tell tell more truly who you are.

Jimmy Stewart took a bite of his celery.

So tell me your stories, I said.

Then I'll tell you about Antigone, Rose said.

Antigone?

Rose's eyes were even darker under the black turban, the coiled-up black serpent, ready to spit.

Hers is the story I'm telling these days, Rose said.

For lunch Rose ordered a bottle of the Graves, and the medallions of veal with basil and oven-roasted tomatoes and cappellini. They didn't have a Waldorf salad, so I ordered the chef's salad with fresh grilled artichoke, roasted beets, and spiced green lentils.

When Ramon presented the bottle of Graves, Rose asked me to test the wine, so I did my Vin et Vous gurgling routine and didn't get a drop on me.

Dry, spicy, I said, Just the right touch of fruit.

The primrose color inside Rose's lips. Rose's big Harlequin smile. The liar's space between his two front teeth.

Then: Your story first, Rose said, bracelets clack-clack.

No, I said. I asked you first.

But, Rose said, You are my guest. Guests always go first. Will Parker, Rose said, What on earth is
your
story?

The crystal wineglass was at my lips. Through the bottom of the glass, Rose was distorted like I was on True Shot's mirrors. I put the glass down, wiped the moisture of my fingers against the starched white tablecloth.

William of Heaven, I said.

What? Rose said.

My friends all call me William of Heaven, I said, And I was born in a trunk, I said, In the Princess Theater in Pocatello, Idaho.

Rose smiled big, the gap between Rose's two front teeth. He raised his wineglass.

Well, then, William of Heaven, Rose said, Here's to stories!

Here's to stories! I said and lifted my wineglass. We clinked.

Fuck history, Rose said.

Fuck history, I said.

Fuck hope, I said.

Then: Why Antigone? I said.

Rose lowered his chin, his face up close to my face, his ebony eyes hard stones.

Comment?
Rose said.

Why not Electra, why not Ariadne, why not Athena, why not Madonna, why not Elizabeth Taylor?

Rose put both hands to his turban and moved it to the left.

Are you mildly curious, Rose said, Or do you really want to know?

Still a half bottle of Graves, two inches left of Bloody Mary.

I'd like to know, I said.

Maybe there's some things you shouldn't know, Rose said.

I took my Jimmy Stewart hat off, undid my tie.

Maybe there's some things, I said, You're afraid to tell.

I was smiling. Stopped smiling.

Rose's smile got bigger.

That one may smile and smile and smile and be a villain, Rose said. I'm preying, I said, For truth.

The gap between Rose's front teeth. The inside color of his lips.

Then: You know I'm falling in love with you, Rose said.

My heart beat. My breath.

Rose, I said, Why Antigone?

Rose's chin started going up. He folded his Sahara Desert palms together. One huge black fist. He rolled just his eyes down from the ceiling. A muscle under Rose's right eye, ticking.

Give me one good reason, Rose said, Why I should tell you.

I put my skinny pink hand on Rose's one big black fist. I'm your friend, I said. You can trust me.

Rose folded his Sahara Desert palms around my hand. Trust? Rose said. In Rose's eyes, the deer in the headlights.

Sweet William, Rose said, Dare I trust the truth of my sore heart to you?

Why do we live except to be loved
?

Yes, I said. I am a Shy Hunter, I said, Also.

I folded my hands inside Rose's, like when you pray but don't stick your fingers up.

I promise, I said.

La promesse.

Then: Waiter! Rose yelled out. Waiter!

The Peacock Room quiet as only New York can get that fast.

Two dirty Bombay Sapphire martinis up with olive! Rose yelled. Chill the glasses!

ROSE PUT HIS
chin in his hand, rubbed his chin.

Antigone, Rose said.

His eyes moved up to the ceiling, down to the floor, then side to side across the whole room.

My hands were tight around the Bloody Mary glass. Maybe what Rose wanted to say, Rose couldn't say yet.

Then just like that, Rose snapped his fingers loud.

Let's say I'm Rupert Murdoch, Rose said.

Rose picked up the largest silver knife next to his plate. He balanced the silver knife on the end of his index, then let the blade end tilt down.

And my power of persuasion, Rose said, Is strong enough to convince you that this knife is in balance, even though both you and I can see plainly that it is not.

Where we get into trouble, Rose said, Is when we are persuaded to see balance where there is no balance, order where there is no order.

Rose tossed the silver knife in the air, and the knife flipped end to end. Rose caught the knife, and then—abracadabra!—the silver knife disappeared into thin air.

The element in excess so dominates, Rose said, That it creates the illusion of order, of reality, and we live in that illusion as if it were true.

When we live in an illusion as if it were true, Rose said, We are actually living in chaos.

Rose put his elbows on the table, leaned closer and closer to me. We are living in chaos, Rose whispered.

I started rolling cigarettes.

Rose held the silver knife blade pointed directly at my heart.

My entire existence is based on a false assumption of reality, Rose said. My existence is not grounded in my body, my heart, or on mother earth, nature, substance, the firmament, but rather in what I
think
.

What is real, Rose said, Is actually a concept of what is real.

Rose's smile. The silver knife pointed at my heart had become a silver spoon.

We are not seeing with our hearts, Rose said.

We are just
Man Thinking
, Rose said.

Rose's Sahara Desert palm clasped my hand around the silver spoon. Rose put his thumb with its purple nail into the valley of the spoon.

The female, Rose said, Is the bringer of life from out of darkness. She brings life, but because she gave us life, now we must face death.

And therein lies the rub, Rose said. Our fear of death has turned us against the female; our fear of darkness has tipped the Golden Mean to allow the male principle to dominate.

The excess of the male principle, Rose said, Has created an illusion of reality we all assume is true.

But what we are really doing, what we are grounded upon, Rose said, bracelets clack-clack, Is a monster, the excess of the male principle.

The way I was staring at Rose made Rose smile big, made the big old liar's space between his teeth show. Made Rose wipe his forehead with his white linen napkin.

Antigone had the same problem, Rose said. The society she lived in feared the female as well, for the same reason every mother's son has ever hated the female: With life comes death.

Antigone's brother Polynices is lying dead outside the walls of the city, exiled, Rose said. According to divine law, the right thing to do is to anoint his body, but Antigone can't because Polynices has been officially declared an enemy of the state. For Antigone, the law of the state is in contradiction to divine law.

L'énigme!
Rose said. The holiest act Antigone can perform as a woman has been declared a crime by the government.

Antigone has two choices, Rose said: Obey the manmade law, or break the law and go where her female heart leads her.

The punishment for breaking the law, Rose said, Was to be buried alive. Antigone knew the stakes, yet she chose to tend to her brother, Rose said, bracelets clack-clack. Antigone broke the law. She dared to go beyond the proper place for women, did not give way when everything was against her, defied the status quo, trusted her heart, tempted madness, and went ahead and anointed Polynices.