The fourth thing he hated: Lillian White.
She blanked him – refused even to look at him. She peered at Étienne with nasty slits for eyes. Her new bosom buddy was Tilly Warhol, who played the part of bereaved wife to Corpse No. 2. They went around together, whispering – they had that prim air of schoolgirls who’ve been insulted by a group of boys and huddle together outside classrooms, talking in aghast voices about how insufferable and disgusting boys are, and honestly, Tilly, I’m going to tell my daddy about this and then those rotters will be in for it, oh, yes they will!
There were portrait shots of all the actors and actresses from The Mortician pinned to the wall in Roger’s office. Someone had drawn a phallus going into Bart’s mouth and a garland of garlic around his neck. The catering staff continued to giggle in Bart’s presence but there was now a new undertone – whereas before it had been flirtatious, in the way that old matriarchs are with young men, now it was barbed, or at least it felt barbed. Bart felt entirely alone. He was entirely alone – Étienne was in Las Vegas with the set painter, who was apparently straight and talked about ‘pussy’ all the time, but really, it only took a few drinks for all that to change.
‘Oh, that’s sad,’ said Roger. ‘I’ve had similar things happen to me, back when I was still deemed attractive by the ladies – yes, there was a time.’ They were in Roger’s office, Bart’s defiled photograph on his desk. Roger was eating a plate of macaroni – the room stank of it; a cheesy baby-vomit funk. ‘I think what happens is, a person is rejected and they’re hurting. And some – ya know, the real insecure types – will turn that hurt into anger and throw it out at the person who rejected them. And when the person who rejected them is a fruit, like us, that’s – I think the target is made that much bigger. An easier hit. Something they can’ – he pinched his fingers together and mimed throwing a dart – ‘aim at real easy.’ He spooned macaroni into his mouth and chewed.
‘If I wanted a magnanimous response I’d be speaking to Étienne,’ said Bart. ‘If he were here.’
Swallowing, Roger picked up Bart’s picture. ‘You want me to say she’s a bitch? All right. She’s a bitch. It’s just I know some things about Lilly. She had a real tough time of it growing up. I know’ – he held up a hand of admission – ‘no excuse.’
‘She’s a fucking child.’
Roger nodded. ‘I’ll speak to her about this.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t, actually,’ said Bart.
Roger raised his eyebrows. Drank his root beer. ‘Your choice. I’ll replace the picture. Just hang tight and stay professional.’
*
Bart had kippers for breakfast. He requested, as an accompaniment, a whole onion, sliced, and a bulb of garlic, peeled. The waiter furrowed his brow but acquiesced. Bart ate the onion slices with the fish and put the garlic between two pieces of thickly buttered rye bread. He drank four coffees and smoked five cigarettes. He didn’t brush his teeth.
When they kissed, he pushed his fingers into her arms, pressed hard, hoping for bruises. She in turn had pooled her mouth with extra saliva and let it ooze into his. He didn’t know what she’d had for breakfast, but it smelled like tripe.
The last day of shooting – another defaced portrait picture. A speech bubble in the comic-book style coming out of his mouth: ‘One sucks cocks. Jolly good.’
Bart ripped the picture off the wall. He found Étienne smoking a cigarette with the set painter (Gabe was his name). How chummy they looked – their arms slightly touching. Friends did that. But so did clandestine lovers – he should know. He took Étienne to one side and showed him the picture.
‘What can I do?’ Étienne said.
‘Nothing,’ said Bart. ‘I hate her. I fucking hate her.’
Étienne squeezed his arm. ‘It will be over soon.’
‘Don’t touch me in front of people,’ said Bart, pulling away.
Gabe had a grey-purple blemish on his throat – a love-bite.
Six times – six fucking times. He’d never fluffed a line this many times before. Lillian rolled her eyes as if she was sick of dealing with such amateurs. Oh, to slap that face and get away with it. To punch it.
Lunch break was called and, unable to find Étienne, he got his own food from the buffet table, his hands shaking so badly the salad tongs kept clattering out of his hand. ‘Fuck!’ he said, dropping them on the table. He felt a hand dab his elbow. It was one of the caterers, a small Mexican woman with plump cheeks. She picked up the tongs, transferring a chicken piece to his plate. ‘More?’ she said, looking up at him. He nodded and she added another. ‘Salad?’ she said. He nodded again, saying, ‘No cucumber please,’ in a humbled whisper. She reached up and patted his cheek. ‘Good job. Don’t be sad.’ And she smiled and walked away, wiping Bart’s waxy make-up onto her smock.
He rushed to his trailer and burst into tears. He caught sight of himself in the mirror – mucus streaming from a prosthetic nose, tears tracking through the ghoulish face paint – what a joke. And where the fuck was Étienne? Where the – he ripped the nose off and dashed his food to the floor. A flap of torn rubber hung down over his lip – dangling from it, a droplet of cold snot.
He lit a cigarette and picked up the letter he’d received from Bettina two days ago. He re-read it, imagining her at her writing desk, cheek resting on the heel of a hand. ‘You’ll probably be packing by the time this reaches you. If I believed in God I’d pray for your safe passage. But of course I don’t, and anyway, what chance does the ocean have against you, you indestructible bastard? All my love, and our daughter’s, and our unborn foetus’s, your exemplary wife, Bettina.’
They’d been arguing a lot, he and Bettina. Constantly trying to catch each other out, expose the other’s hypocrisies. But none of that mattered now. Really, it didn’t.
The door blasted open and Bart dropped the envelope, startled. It was Étienne, wide-eyed and out of breath.
‘Roger is at the hospital. He choked on a chicken bone. I think he’s dead.’
‘Oh, fuck,’ said Bart.
Bart looked at the floor. The shiny-bald gristle of a thigh joint glistening next to a shard of white ceramic. Bettina was always trying to find significance in everything, little scraps of symbolism to put in her book. Well, there it was. There it was.
Barney was a huge barrel-torsoed man with a messy grey-peppered beard, an underbite and ice-blue eyes that glittered keenly. A sort of Walt Whitman. It was easy to imagine Barney living in a log cabin, trailing his muddy boots all over the freshly swept floors and eating huge steaming bowls of porridge with a wooden spoon. He was wearing a fine-tailored suit but had removed his tie and loosened his collar in the heat. He took a pipe out of his breast pocket, stuffed it in his bulldog maw and got it going. ‘You fellas go inside’ –puh, puh – ‘before kicking-out time.’
Bart and Étienne walked in, their hands bumping together. The chapel was cool, dark and empty – most people (and there had been many) had paid their respects in the morning. Their heels clipped against the stone floor and the clips echoed. The sunlight coming through the stained-glass window cast a fuzzy reflection along the centre aisle in yellow, blue and red. The casket was huge and lacquered-white, so shiny it looked liquid. Roger lay amongst the lilac satin in a white suit. His skin looked more orange than ever, his serrated shrimp lips daubed in a most unsubtle pink. His small hands with all their jewels lay crossed over his chest. Bart glanced at the door then took Étienne’s hand.
‘I would have liked to get to know him better,’ he said.
‘Me too,’ said Étienne.
‘He was warm-hearted. I don’t know many warm-hearted people.’
‘Hmm.’
‘How old was he?’ said Bart.
‘Fifty-four.’
‘That’s – I was about to say that’s young. But it’s not. My father was thirty-five. It could happen’ – Bart snapped his fingers – ‘like that. We should start taking better care of ourselves.’
‘Oui. Oui.’
The chapel doors swung open and Bart quickly snatched his hand away from Étienne’s. Barney walked up the aisle, clomping like a Minotaur.
‘Lady just told me five more minutes,’ he said.
‘We’ll leave you to it,’ said Bart. ‘So you can say goodbye.’
Barney raised his hand. ‘Stay.’ He held onto the coffin rim with both hands like a man about to be sick over a bathroom sink and gazed down at Roger, his lips tightening until they lost their colour. ‘Damn you,’ he whispered, a tear spilling into his beard. ‘Motherfucker.’ He pointed a giant finger at Roger’s face. ‘You cocksucker. You stupid fat cunt! Goddamn stupid prick, I—’ He raised his hands and held them half clenched over Roger’s head, hesitant, as if not knowing whether he wanted to caress or strike. ‘You’re a fucking cocksucker. A cocksucker! Stupid greedy motherfucker – I told you to stop eating that shit! I should kick your ass.’
Bart and Étienne watched, open-mouthed, as Barney clutched Roger’s face and fiercely kissed his lips. He looked up at them, little blue eyes glittering. ‘He was the love of my life!’
*
Of all the people, she had to sit next to him. She was wearing a mourning veil and her eyes peered out of it, jewelled by spent tears. The great actress. He touched Étienne’s thigh to get his attention. He nodded, without looking, to show he was aware of the woman’s presence.
A black-smocked priest floated up the aisle chanting Latin and holding a thurible of incense, followed by a procession of altar boys and another black-smocked man tinkling a tiny bell. The pall-bearers began their sombre procession, headed on the right by Barney. Two of the other bearers were men with plucked eyebrows and rouge and another looked like he could be Roger’s younger brother. A strange, beautiful mix of queer family and real family.
He felt Lillian grope for his hand. She found his fingers and grabbed them tight. Leaned her head towards his, that familiar perfume stink immediately molesting his nostrils. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘Please forgive me.’
‘I’m going to have one more,’ said Bart. ‘Just one more.’
‘You are going to be sick on the boat,’ said Étienne.
‘And you’ll be within your rights to say I told you so.’
‘Don’t be a wet blanket,’ said Lillian.
Étienne pulled a face. ‘Wet blanket? I don’t understand. What is she saying?’
‘Go and do some card tricks,’ said Bart. Go and find your new boyfriend, he wanted to add. But they’d already argued about that twice today. Bart was apparently being paranoid and insecure. Well. Sometimes paranoia was justified.
Étienne looked at his wristwatch. ‘I want to go to bed.’
‘Then go to bed,’ said Bart. ‘I’ll follow on later.’
Étienne took his cards out of his pocket and, sighing, started to shuffle them. ‘I am a performing monkey.’ And he left.
They were in a shaded canopy at the end of the garden with a view of the house and pool. Bart could hear crickets chirruping in the lawn and the low buzz of the electric lights that were strung up everywhere. Further off – splashes and shouts from the huge outdoor swimming pool, the brass band in the conservatory. Barney sat atop a stool by the pool bar, conversing sombrely with Billy Haines. He hadn’t moved in almost five hours and his ashtray was bulging with black pipe ash and pistachio shells. The production team from The Mortician was here, still dressed in funeral attire. Joan Crawford was apparently on her way.
Stanley Yeltzin appeared at the canopy. Stanley – Reanimated Corpse No. 3 – was ravishingly handsome and always looked like he was on the verge of smiling.
‘My favourite corpse!’ called Bart, in greeting. ‘Come and join us!’
‘Some party,’ he said, sitting down next to them. ‘You wouldn’t guess that someone’s just died.’ He looked up at the stars. ‘Rest in peace, friend. Hell of a guy. Hell of a producer.’
‘A peach,’ said Lillian.
A great shrieking from the pool – a bunch of people had jumped in at the same time. ‘You sons of bitches!’ yelled a passing man, soaked through by the resulting wave. A female impersonator in a Garbo wig sneaked up and pushed him into the water.
‘What are we doing sitting all the way over here like old biddies?’ said Lillian.
‘I came here for some privacy,’ said Stanley. He pulled a brass tin out of his breast pocket and opened it up – inside was a vial of beige powder and a small pipe.
‘What is that?’ said Bart.
‘It’s dope, ya dope,’ said Lillian.
‘If it makes you folks uncomfortable I can go somewhere else,’ said Stanley, pausing in the act of tapping powder into the pipe chamber.
Bart raised his palm. ‘No, no. It’s a free world.’
Stanley blew out a thin plume of smoke and looked around with contented eyes, as if he’d just finished a slap-up meal. He offered the gear to Bart and Lillian.
‘Shall we be naughty?’ said Bart.
‘I think we shall,’ said Lillian.
Bart took the pipe. ‘Very, very naughty,’ he muttered. ‘There’s us, two innocent children, sitting away from the debauched revellers, not wishing to be tainted so. Then along comes the big bad wolf with his many temptations.’ Bart bit the pipe between his teeth, smiling.
Another great splash from the pool followed by shouts and cheers and shrill laughs, and this huge noise drowning out all others.
Such as footsteps. Approaching footsteps.
A hand shot out and slapped the pipe out of his mouth. The mouthpiece clashed against his teeth and the palm connected with his jaw. ‘Ow! Fuck!’
Étienne stood before him, furious. Fucking Étienne. Always right, always well fed and full on his rightness. He grabbed Bart by the arm and dragged him away from Lillian and Stanley.
‘Get off me!’
Étienne strengthened his grip. ‘You are coming home now.’
‘Didn’t I say he was a wet blanket?’ Lillian said.
Bart thumped Étienne’s arm – right on the bone – and tore himself free. Étienne came for him again, arms out as if to wrestle him. Bart threw a right hook – it landed with a meaty slap against his lover’s cheek. Étienne stumbled back, clutching his face. Looked at Bart. Too far. Too far. He punched him back, flattening his nose with a crack. Blood – a hot red sneeze of blood.
Then they were on the ground, scrabbling around, hatred twisting their faces while Lillian hopped about, saying, ‘Oh my gawd, oh my gawd, they’re gonna kill each other.’ And then Barney was there, huge hulking Barney with thighs looming over them like birches. With one hand he grabbed Étienne’s shirt collar and with the other Bart’s arm, and he pulled them to their feet and led them roughly up the garden path towards the swimming pool. He picked up both men and threw them in the water.
Bart twisted around in the water and emerged, spluttering, hair lacquer stinging his eyes and blood-pinked water trickling out of his nose. Étienne bobbed to the surface alongside a floating champagne bottle.
Poolside, Barney looked down at them, arms at his sides. ‘Have some respect for the dead,’ he growled.