Elvissey (37 page)

"What's the matter with these people?" E asked.

"Nothing's wrong," said Leverett. "They're yours, all of
them. They believe, they follow. See them, love them-"

"They all look like they got hit over the head with somethin' and don't know it yet," E said.

"Incoming," Malloy said. "Behave yourselves, now."

A man approached us, padding over on ropesoled feet; he
carried twice the weight that Elvis ever lugged. The pullover
he wore bore a photo of the King, legended round with the
words ONLY RESTING. Standing before us, blocking the hall
with his mass, he studied each of us in turn; drooled as he
read Malloy's lapelled ID, wiping his mouth with a dirty
cloth afterward. "I never heard of you before," he said; his
accent was unplaceably, but unmistakably, American.

"Then we're even," Malloy said, walking away, raising his
head as if to pose for a portrait. We followed.

"Note that, Isabel," Leverett said, once we were out of
earshot. "A grown man in this century who's never heard of
Dryco. Now do you understand?"

"Generally the likes of Porky there overstuff these events,
as I gather," said Malloy. "Seminars and theory groups are
ongoing in these quarters," he continued, gesturing toward
a row of double doors. "Let's see what's ongoing." A ribbonscroll running above the entranceways listed events and the
rooms in which they might be found; most of the allusions
were so arcane that I had difficulty comprehending what
material was being covered in what way, my indepthing in
Elvisiana notwithstanding. "Recent Sightings, over here in
Chamber Three. Let's eavesdrop."

Malloy led our quartet into the darkened room, careful
not to disturb the meditative state of the onlookers within.
I stared at the dais, where a middleaged man aimed a
pointer toward a screen behind him.

11
-this is the conclusive, right here," he said, sounding so
American as the man in the hall. A blurry snap of a blond
woman wearing glasses imaged on the white glow silhouetting him. A low murmur rumbled through the audience's
midst; a woman in a babushka stood and pointed at the
screen, speaking with a French accent.

"Is a photo of a woman," she said.

"The King held the camera." The audience accepted his
word as truth; the most unnerving hush settled over all, even
the inquiring woman. Before the speaker could proceed we
exited; once we'd halled ourselves I doublechecked E.

"What's thought?" I asked him, lowvoicing as best I could
and still be heard.

"They're crazy, aren't they?" E said. "Ever' one of 'em."

"You'd find similar percentages within any group," said
Leverett, interrupting.

"Ah," Malloy said, calling us from across the hall. "This
bears a look. The Interpreters are meeting within. Follow, if
you dare."

E braked himself as we entered, and tried to turn away;
Leverett seized his arm and pushed him forward as we dove
into a sea of Elvii. "As I understand the subtleties, it's an
open question as to whether the Interpreters are more shamanistic or fetishistic," Malloy told us, loudspeaking heedless of who might hear; none around us overted any opinion
regarding his commentary. "Bit of both, I'd expect. They
live their belief at all times, serving as example to all as to
how the proper life should be led. Mind you, they can be
temperamental."

The gallery must have held five hundred Interpreters of
all ages, sexes and colors crammed shoulder-to-shoulder.
Every one wore black hair, puffed and upswept; each wore a
polychromatic jumpsuit of trad design, if amateurish execution. Caucasoid males going in for fullest decolletage
crisped and teased their chest hair; Asians, Indians or those
not so natureblessed glued merkins to their pectorals-to
their breasts, in the case of women. The room's humidity
peeled the wigs up at the edges; some Interpreters appeared
to have tucked furry animals into their bosoms as if to warm
them. Nearly all were multinecklaced, with chains dangling
icons and personal totems: twelve types of crosses, stars of
David, swastikas, ankhs, watches, painted miniatures of the
King, shrunken heads, bulls' ears, lightning bolts atop the
initials TCB, weasels' skulls, crystals and chickens' feet. Feeling something bumping against my leg I stepped away, and
looked down; a nongender-specific child grinned at me as it
adjusted its bejeweled cape. The Interpreters stood chatting,
comparing leg and hip wiggles, studying karate gestures,
running ringed fingers over each other's scarves, headshaking in order to demonstrate proper methods for flopping
one's hair; all radared the room, looking roundabout to see
who might be the most real.

"E," I said. "Are you all right?"

"Get me out," he said; his face gleamed with sweat. As I laid my hand on his shoulder I felt his shake. "Please, Isabel,
it's too much. Please-"

"Leverett," I said, "this is madness overmuch. We're leaving-

"Wait," he said; must have moved too carelessly, for at
once he upset an Interpreter standing nearby.

"Watch it, dad," he told Leverett, his accent decidedly
Slavic. "My shoes."

"Excuse," Leverett started to say; before he could distance
himself the Interpreter took hold of his collar, drawing him
back. "Unhand me, please-"

"Hey, who are you?" the Interpreter said. "Why you here?
Guys, look who I have. Is colonel Interpreter."

The Interpreter we'd offended was one of a larger contingent; examining his ID's nametag beneath the Elvis-head
pin, I gathered that he and his compatriots were Bulgarian.
They were barely contained by their white and red jumpsuits; by their size I estimated them to be miners, or even
Olympic lifters. As Leverett struggled to loose himself from
the Interpreter's hold, one of the others splashed a drink in
his face; the surrounding crowd, including the child,
laughed.

"Please, don't-" Leverett said.

"Our fault. Sorry," said the lead Bulgarian, lifting Leverett off the floor onehanded. More Interpreters were onlooking now, their eyes shaded with specs of many styles,
their sneers uniform. "Let me dry you off, please." As he
held Leverett he brought up his other arm, clipping his
elbow against Leverett's face; blood trickled from Leverett's
mouthcorner, and he staggered as the Interpreter let him
go. I grasped E's waist and started guiding him doorways,
trying not to bump anyone else.

"Too bad, colonel. Hope you get better." The crowd
around us laughed louder, and closed in as we withdrew.
Malloy was so tall as any of them, though not so broad;
blackclad as he was, from on high he must have appeared as flyspeck upon a pastel field. Placing one hand on Leverett's
shoulder, he interposed himself between the Interpreters
and us.

"We're leaving, mate," he said, smiling as if something
pleased him; nothing in his expression suggested any sign of
upset. "Pardon the trouble. We'll be off-"

"Can't you see we're Dryco?" Leverett said, his hands
muffling his speech as he pressed them against his bleeding
lip. Most Interpreters hearing the word remained reactionless; the Bulgarians, however, recognized its meaning.

"Dryco?" said the one originally offended. "My father
slaved thirty years for Dryco factory. Then thrown out like
other trash when old."

"Dryco killed my brother," said another. "You hate us.
You hate all people."

"Fuck Dryco," said a third.

"It's been real," Malloy said, pushing us forward as he
turned his back toward them, unmindful of trampling anyone else as he spurred us to flight. E was first through the
door, shooting hallways as if from a pressure chamber; Malloy kept close behind me as I exited, holding tight grip on
Leverett, guiding him along. "Don't run," he said. "It'll
challenge them." So we quickly strolled through the halls,
passing the exhibits and sales-stands, ignoring the stares of
other attendees. I glanced behind me, hearing mobsound;
saw the Bulgarians leading much of the room's populace
after us. Not until we exited did they begin throwing anything, and then rather than rushing our party they stayed
inside, cursing us as we dashed into the parking lot. For long
minutes we lingered there, bathed in building-light, catching our breath.

"Perhaps that wasn't so productive a tour as we'd have
wished," said Malloy, straightening his jacket, offering Leverett a pocket square to assist in blotting his blood.

"E," I said. "Forgive. I didn't expect-"

"Sunday night, Isabel," he whispered, tugging his wig farther down onto his head. "You promised. Once it's done,
it's done."

"They'll regret," I heard Leverett say; turned to watch him
smearing his blood from his mouth. "They'll regret."

Once back at the hotel I stopped at John's room. Our imbroglio had thrown off our evening's schedule, and we'd
returned an hour earlier than planned. My husband's door
opened as I rapped it; before coming inside I'd stared upward through the square trees and saw that his room's light
was on. I hesitated before entering, wanting only to go to my
room and sleep; against my wishes I'd been kept wakeful
that afternoon, and now everything I looked upon shimmered with a hallucinatory sheen. Wandering in, closing but
not locking the door behind me, I saw John lying on his bed.
If the situation hadn't felt so dreamlike I surely would have
screamed, and awakened him; still, frightened that I had
come upon my husband as I'd always feared I one day would,
I waited until I discerned breath uplifting his chest before I
approached.

John meditated; he'd so tranced himself as to be unaware
of my presence. Feeling safer once I'd ascertained he was
outbodied, unwilling to ponder why I felt so blessed, I stared
round his room, seeing a dupe of my own. He'd tossed his
jacket onto a chair, as he'd always done at home; his copy of
Knifelife lay openfaced upon it. Picking up the booklet, I
read the page's sole passage, Jake's Golden Rule:

Love dead. Hate living.

He'd underlined the words; I suspected he'd memorized
them long before. A domestic compulsion overcame me; as
I lifted his jacket, thinking I should hang it up for him, I
puzzled over its weight. Spotting his fruit pocketed within,
feeling unexpected hunger, I drew the bag out, at once detecting a strong chemical odor, an ammoniac parfum; in
my addled state I started to wonder how dried fruit could
turn, and opened the bag. However long I tried, afterward,
to convince myself that in my half-awake state I'd only misinterpreted what visibled, I knew then and know now that
when I dropped the bag I saw ears spill out onto the oriental
carpet.

John began muttering as I started edging doorways; lowvoicing as if he sleepspoke, he began a litany, seeming to stir
himself slowly into consciousness with his chant.

"Living must live," he said. "Living must live. Life demands purpose. Life demands purpose. Purpose essentials
living. Living must live. Living must-"

Even at our meet, we'd masked ourselves with our preferred looks, the ones we could bear to show to others;
throughout our years together, the gilding we'd long overcoated enabled us to continue the worship of icons that in
no way resembled the people underneath. When had my
disguise slipped away? Was it still there? He medusaed me
when his fell from his face that night; I couldn't see how I
would ever be as anything other than stone to him again. His
lidded eyes were tearing; he shifted his feet, as if he were
running from whatever rose up in his dreams. Before my
husband could reembody himself I'd left his room, and run
to my own. Several hours later I heard him come by; I still
lay sleepless, seeing ears whenever I shut my eyes. He
knocked twice; called my name through the doublelocked
door.

"Forgive," he said, and walked away. Believing I felt kicks
within, I pulled the covers over my head, and thought of my
baby; uncertained whether my image still, if ever, matched
its look.

"Thank you for lying," I told Malloy.

"It's one of the more challenging arts," he said, pulling
my chair out for me once the maitre d' showed us to our
table. "Easy to do, but hard to do well. When Leverett asked
where you were I told him I'd sent you forth to resolve
certain unspecified matters regarding tomorrow night's affair. At first he insisted upon retrieving you but I stalled until
he grew confused; it didn't take long."

"When you called me this afternoon I couldn't imagine
what you'd said-"

"Said whatever he needed to hear. Shortnotice romance,
nothing better." Malloy whisked his napkin from the tabletop and lapped it. "Willy's presence undoubtedly added
weight to my argument."

"Was John around-?"

"For a time, this morning. Then Leverett sailed him off to
investigate our avenues of retreat, following the fest. Hadn't
returned when I left to meet you. Please pardon, Isabel, but
I can't imagine the two of you married."

"We're divorcing when we return next week," I told him.
"I'm divorcing. It's as well-"