Thus far his errors had been abnormal, inhumanly perverted dallyings with the unspeakable.
—John Taine
Now come out the creatures that can see in the dark. Odd hunched-over beings, some of them with long heads and shining eyes. Half this, half that—it's hard to tell exactly what. Is it possible, Pooch wonders, seeing them, that we are as dangerous to each other as we seem to be to the more dominant sex? Are there such as Phillip, for example, but poisonous, now roaming these very streets? Why not? Pooch decides to keep an ear out for any ominous rattling sounds, and having thoughts about rattling brings her to rats. What about them? And what about those who are becoming rats? Perhaps that's who these gray figures are. There seems to be a devilish intelligence in their eyes. How to avoid them?
"Bop, bop?” the baby questions. Suddenly it's wide awake. “Bop, bop, bop? Littlely dittlely, littlely dittlely.” Pooch tries to shush it. She certainly doesn't want to attract attention in this part of town and at this time of night.
Except for that evening at Lincoln Center, Pooch has never been on the streets of the city at such a late hour and certainly never in such a dingy area, full of indigent men who, in this weather, sleep in doorways, their empty beer cans beside them. The bag ladies, it seems, have all disappeared, gone on to worse or better things, slithering into the sewers or ... well, perhaps these gray things are the bag ladies. Pooch wishes them every happiness possible in their new forms, but thinks that to sleep on the streets with these bright-eyed creatures roaming about seems quite dangerous. But what else is there to do? She turns down a side street to see if she can find some hidden basement doorway that is not already occupied. She passes several long-legged things with boas who are standing under a streetlight at the next corner. They have blue or green short-cropped—Pooch isn't sure whether hair, hats, or feathers—and large black areas around their eyes. It might be makeup, but it might be the way their eyes really are. They seem angry with her for coming near them and whistle their warnings. The baby, delighted with the colorful creatures, reaches toward one of them and calls out, “Littlely dittlely,” but the creature turns as if to peck it. Pooch is horrified to find herself giving a warning bark. It works, though. They hurry back into the shadows. Pooch trots away and a few minutes later she does find a secluded basement doorway. There she settles down to watch until morning, hoping that she can stay awake to guard the baby.
If only there really was a conspiracy, she thinks, but as far as she can tell there isn't. But if no one is in charge of all this, then perhaps someone should be. Perhaps she herself, inexperienced as she is.... A vast network could be formed, she is not sure for what purpose. Perhaps self-protection, or to help things along, though of course Mother Nature has always done fairly well on her own with only a modicum of help from human beings (or perhaps one should call it hindrance). In almost all cases Nature seems to know what she is doing, except, of course, where tail feathers are too long for decent flight or, as in the sex life of the snail, with its sex organs on its head and, one might say, a bit excessive in its passions, though Pooch, never having experienced such things as yet, realizes that she should not be judgmental of other creatures when she knows so little about it. Yes, perhaps they could all help Nature along a bit, or at least help to find some order in this chaos.
But perhaps it isn't chaos at all. Just seems so. If only she hadn't lost her voice! And now again, the enormity of her loss hits her. Not to sing! Perhaps never to sing again, let alone speak! Perhaps only to croak like a frog. No, no, she must admit it's barking. How could she have let herself regress so after all her hard work to be both human and humane? So the worst has already happened. This is certainly, if not the, then one of the fates-worse-than-death that she has heard about. Well, nothing for it but to go on. The baby needs her. Her friends back at the doctor's need her, for she is the only one on the outside who can help them. Does the world need her? Only if she makes that true by doing the best she can for it. And what about that slim tan-eyed young man? Good she did not try to relate to him. He would have been shocked at the sounds she might have made. She must be careful to keep her mouth shut from now on. That last bark was quite inadvertent. What a silly fool she was not to know better than to fall in love with an image. Hasn't she read that all romantic love is like that? A sort of mistake? Nice smile, though, there by the door. Very nice smile. And with that thought she dozes off in spite of herself.
"Nice ass."
"Nice tits, too. I'd like to see more of ‘em."
"Want to sleep with me, sweetie?"
"Sure she do. Man, you got the biggest."
"Yeah. Show her."
"Let her alone. She don't fuck around."
"All the better. I like the fucking ones that don't fuck around."
"Why don't she say nothin'?"
"If it ain't no, it's gotta be yes."
"She no cherry. She got a baby"
"Hey, gimme that fucking baby."
"Bop, bop?” it says, and then what sounds like, “Later, later."
"Lady, let me see them tits.” He pulls at her blouse, popping off the top buttons.
"She no lady."
"If that baby's a girl we could help it along some."
Pooch, who has been backed into a corner by the basement door, suddenly lunges forward, pulling her lips back from teeth and letting out a series of fierce growls, roars, and barks, all combined one with the other. The three boys turn and try to scramble up the stairs at the same time. Pooch rips the pants of one of them and pulls the shoe off another, drawing blood in the process, though not much. She is, even right in the middle of it all, horrified with herself. Twice now she has behaved like a dangerous animal. There must be much of the she-wolf in her. More than she ever suspected. Certainly she deserves to have Isabel's reputation, more's the pity.
If only she were religious, she might pray for guidance and have someone to ask forgiveness from besides her master and the psychologist. Or if only they were here. And how sad to be so far from home. But she must not forget the operas, the wonderful operas, the big one that first night and the little one today ... yesterday, that is. Those memories will remain forever a comfort to her. Had she not suffered the trials of these last weeks, she certainly would not have had those joys, nor the joy of meeting so many new friends, nor would she have had the opportunity of easing poor Basenji's pain in whatever way she could. And the baby! Perhaps it is alive today because of her, for the mistress might have done much more harm to it later on and Pooch might not have been able to defend it. But then again, she herself is fiercer than she ever thought she was. Perhaps that's just as well. She turns and covers the baby's face with kisses as though to prove that she indeed still has a soft heart.
Just then a bright light goes on right over her head. It turns out that this is not the door to a basement, but to a basement apartment, and someone is looking out the heavily barred window at her. She can see big, suspicious black eyes and a big, black, Escamillo sort of mustache, though the face it is attached to seems a bit too pudgy. No, the mustache is larger than any Escamillo would have and curls up at the sides. The eyes are Italian, the mouth that of a voluptuary. Surely, Pooch thinks, this is the face of an opera lover like herself. Surely she has been lucky in her choice of basement doorways.
Behind the bars, Pooch sees that the window is open. She gestures toward the baby and then gives what she hopes is a graceful little bow not unlike what she saw at the end of the acts at the New York City Opera. She wants to say, “Kind Sir. Kind, kind, kind Sir,” or words to that effect. This is the first time since she lost her voice that she has actually tried to say, calmly, a few words, but all that comes out is a sort of yearning whine.
"Cut the bullshit.” The voice is high for one so wide as he looks to be. “I heard you and I saw what you did. Now get out of my doorway. And you better not have peed down here."
Pooch hangs her head, nodding at the same time because, actually, she had, in the far corner (where else was there to go?) and she never, never lies, except about such things as complimenting other people's hats.
"Get out of here ... bitch."
Blushing with shame even though, technically, she is a bitch, Pooch turns to gather up the baby and the rolled-up scarves she had been using for a pillow. She knows that one must remain philosophical about such harsh words. They are bound to come even to those with the best intentions and sometimes when one tries one's hardest to please, though of course this was not the case here since she didn't even know of the man's existence. Naturally, had she known this was his front door, she would have been more careful. If only she could speak and apologize, and perhaps if she could tell him what she's been through and what led to her spending the night in his doorway, he would be moved by her story and understand that she had had few choices. He might even take her in and serve her a good breakfast. (Pooch has not eaten for almost twenty-four hours, so this is on her mind.) But the way he said “bitch,” and took such slow pleasure in making the word sound ugly ... disgusting.... Naturally it's not the first time she has been called that, and she knows she shouldn't be insulted by the word since it's true, but they always mean to be insulting. She's heard them use the word girl the same way, telling some poor little boy that he's just like a girl, which, regardless of what he may think of girls, always makes him feel dreadful. If she could speak, perhaps this is the question to which she should address herself, not her own individual problems but this larger one, telling him that, while she is a bitch, she does not want the word used in a way that is demeaning to herself and to other bitches like her and that the same goes for the word girl.
Anyway I will leave here like an opera star, she thinks. She has become quite angry about little boys being called girls as an insult. The poor little fellows suffer so from it. One should not allow it. (Pooch is always quick to anger at injustice to others, though seldom rouses herself when it is she who is put upon.) In her most regal manner, then, she starts up the stairs.
"Wait a minute."
The fat man has opened his door and is looking out at her. His voice sounds quite different. All the shrillness has gone out of it. Now it is low (more befitting his size) and seductive. It is clear that he considers himself quite charming when he wants to be and that, at least for the moment, he wants to be.
"You're no ordinary bitch, are you?” Now bitch means something entirely different, though again he dwells on the word.
And suddenly Pooch realizes the power of a pose. He has taken her for what she has pretended to be these last few moments as she started to climb the stairs. She turns, still in the role of prima donna, and does not deign to answer even with a gesture. They stand, looking at each other, Pooch forcing herself not to look away. As she stares into his eyes, as soft and brown as her own, the idea that she has killed a man comes to her, or rather that she has probably killed one, and also that she has escaped a fortress. Even though the doctor was probably a murderer himself, she feels terrible about her crimes, and yet, if the circumstances warranted, she knows she would do such a thing again. And so she does not look away. He, it is clear, is also bold. They cannot stare each other down.
"Won't you come in,” he says softly.
She is tempted to walk proudly away. Certainly she would never consider going in except for the thought of food, especially for the baby, and though he has not mentioned inviting her to breakfast, she feels a tiny drop of drool at the corner of her mouth. In order to keep up her dignified pose, she doesn't dare lick it away. She hopes he hasn't noticed. She comes back down the basement stairway as though entering a grand ballroom, though she is inwardly laughing at herself and her notions of her own grandeur. And yet it seems to be working. She wonders how long she can keep up the pose.
Yes, it certainly is the apartment of a sybarite. Pooch, horrified, quickly covers the baby's eyes with her hand, but the baby protests to such a degree that there is nothing for it but that she take her hand away. The baby looks at everything with obvious delight. Clearly it has seen nothing that pleased it so much as these, the statues, the paintings, the paraphernalia (the uses of which Pooch has no idea), the doodads, large and small: pornographic candles, pornographic magnets, pornographic pillows on the sofa, pornographic lamp with pornographic shade, pornographic ash tray.... The baby crows out its whole repertoire, “No, ouch, bop, bop, littlely dittlely, later!” and proceeds to play an enthusiastic pattycake. Perhaps the baby in its turn will one day become a voluptuary.
The fat man, clearly delighted with the baby's delight, points out to Pooch the old-fashioned shepherd-shepherdess wallpaper with its little pornographic dramas going on from scene to scene, from bush to bush. “The original paintings from which these were copied,” he tells her, “were made for Louis xvi. You must come and look at them more closely.” He is all solicitude, his arm around her shoulders. “But, my dear, I imagine you're hungry. Why not study my wallpaper while I go and fix you a nice little steak?"
Perhaps he did see that bit of drool dripping down her chin. And now she can't help drooling even more than before, but she has not forgotten her vows. She shakes her head a vigorous no and then, keeping her dignity as best she can and also as gracefully as she can manage it, she pantomimes vegetables and nuts, first herself as carrot, then broccoli, then cashew nut, and finally she ends with herself as rain, the sun, shining down with a bright smile. Will he get the point? She gives a final little curtsy. He answers with a mocking bow. (Somehow he makes her feel operatic. No one has ever done that before except sometimes when she was singing.) “Then a salad it shall be,” he says.
After he has moved out into the kitchen at the back, Pooch puts the baby on the floor and, keeping an eye on it, tries to find something to look at that's not pornographic. In a few minutes she finds a magazine that she has heard about but never seen before, the Opera News. It is on the little writing desk next to a pornographic eraser (worn down just “there"), and a pornographic pencil (two crocodiles entwined, each one's head to the other's tail). Pornography or not, Pooch thinks, how can he not but be a worthy person if he has this magazine, and she is immediately engrossed in it. She does not get far, however, before she sees a small ad:
—
Will the creature who sang out from the balcony on the night of May 14th please contact the impresario Valdoviccini at 555-6656 as soon as possible.
—
Pooch of course is instantly in tears. This, more than anything so far, brings home to her the disaster of the loss of her voice, but there is no time for self-pity. Luckily that name and telephone number are etched forever in her mind, for now she is interrupted by a shriek from the baby. Pooch lets out an unpremeditated little yelp which she stifles with her hand. At first she can't find the baby, but then she sees it crawling out from under the bed with four bloody scratches on its cheek. In the dark beyond it, under that huge, king-sized bed, she sees two luminous blue eyes.
"Pussy!"
The fat man has heard the commotion and is immediately down on his knees trying to poke the creature out with a large wooden spoon. “Pussy, you ungrateful wretch. Didn't I rescue you from several fates worse than death, as well as from death itself!"
"Out of the frying pan...."
"Come out and behave yourself."
"Not until she and that other thing go."
"Don't be jealous. You were, yourself, not so long ago, in the very same situation as this young thing. Come out. We'll have a nice ménage à trois."
"It came after me."
"Don't be ridiculous. It's just a baby."
The spoon is evidently not long enough.
Pooch, watching it all and hardly realizing what she is doing, licks the blood from the baby's face. She stops herself in a moment and sees that there is really not much damage done, though there is always the risk of cat-scratch fever.
The fat man is flailing out quite violently now. By the wall at the far side of the bed appears a slinky, light tan (almost white, in fact) and almost black ... a seal point, the blue eyes startling in that dark face. And no doubt about it, of royal birth and at least as pedigreed as Pooch herself, or even more so.
"You look ridiculous down there,” the Siamese says.
The fat man is still on his knees reaching under the bed from the other side, but now he leans back and sits on his heels. “Well, well, Chloe, may I introduce.... This is.... Well, who are you?"
Pooch goes to the writing desk and takes a piece of note paper and, having dared so much already, dares again, twice. First she dares to pick up the pornographic crocodile pen, and second, she dares to write Pucci, for after all, she once could sing and, evidently, rather well. That is clear from the ad.
"Pucci! And a very charming and accomplished lady, I must say. And now, my dear, if you would like to eat, you must promise me ahead of time that you'll reveal charms and accomplishments of an entirely different sort from those you have already shown me. I am sure you will comply. You would not want the baby to go hungry, would you? And it is obvious that you, also, would enjoy a bit of breakfast."
With that he goes back into the kitchen and returns with two trays of food, each more inviting than the other, with marinated vegetables, green salad, dark bread, two kinds of cheese, and a little bowl of nuts on the larger tray for Pooch.
"I will consider your eating my food as acquiescence to my plans, but now you must excuse me for a moment,” he says, putting the trays on the Louis xiv coffee table, “while I go and take my aphrodisiac."
The baby immediately begins to eat and Pooch, of course, cannot bring herself to try to stop it. Since this is the case, she thinks that she might as well eat a mouthful or two herself, though there is no guarantee that, if she eats only a little, she will only have to comply with his sybaritic desires by an amount commensurate with what she has eaten. No, she might as well gobble it all up. Perhaps there is another way out than starving herself.
Chloe now sits opposite them on the floor and, with regal disapproval, watches them eat. It's disconcerting, but even so Pooch doesn't stop the baby from making a mess of it. She does try to counteract that image by eating with all the elegance and grace she can manage, even though this does detract somewhat from her enjoyment.
"Can't you speak?"
Pooch is not absolutely sure, but shakes her head no. She would not want to try again and have barking come out.
"Are you interested in serious questions?"
Pooch gives a little I-don't-know shrug.
"I have heard there are efforts being made. For us, I mean."
Pooch hopes Chloe is not referring to such things as the doctor was doing. She is hoping that, if efforts are being made, they are on an entirely different level than the experiments to which she has been subjected. She makes the I-don't-know shrug again.
"Up or down?"
Pooch points up.
"I also."
Pooch makes a gesture to show that that is obvious. It seems to please Chloe, and her manner softens a bit.
"I'm sorry I scratched your baby,” she says.
Pooch gives a forgiving wave of her hand.
"He wears the key around his neck. On a gold chain, no less. A short one. I tried once, but one can't get it over his nose without waking him up."
Just then the fat man returns. He has changed out of his purple silk pajamas and now he wears an embroidered headband and a loose black satin robe with gold braid about the collar. He is carrying three little paper cups with an inch of liquid in the bottom of each one. “I made this outfit myself,” he says, “including the embroidery on the headband. I know it doesn't match, but I can't resist wearing it every chance I get, and I wanted you to see the workmanship. Now Pucci.... “(In spite of herself, Pooch visualizes it as Poochie.) “Pucci, see to it that the baby drinks this. It's very mild. It'll just make it sleep for an hour or two. It should like it. It's cherry, if you'll pardon the expression. And here are your aphrodisiacs. I'll be watching, so don't try to throw them in the dieffenbachia."
Pooch rushes to the writing desk for more paper and the lewd pen. “Kind sir,” she writes, “for I know you are kind, I have seen it and felt it.” This is not exactly true, but better to err on the side of expecting virtues than the opposite, in the hope of making them come true. “Surely a man of your sensibilities will not ask of me what I have no right to give since it is certainly the property of the man I may one day fall in love with. As the root yearns toward the stalk, as the bud yearns toward its flowering, as the chrysanthemum as well as the delphinium...."
"Enough!” the fat man shouts, reading over her shoulder. “You cannot wriggle out of it. You ate, therefore you promised, and I can see you are not the sort to break your word."
With that he snatches the pen from her and, leaning over her, breathing, deliberately it seems, on the back of her neck, he draws a quick yet practiced rendering of a strawberry. Clearly he is a man well versed in many arts. “But let some others convince you,” he says. He opens a book and reads: “'only there, do hearts less etiolated by the thousand little worries of vanity,’ vanity it says, my dear, ‘find delicious pleasures even in the lesser varieties of love,’ lesser varieties, it says. ‘For I have seen far more furious transports and moments of intoxication caused by a caprice,’ caprice it says! ‘than were ever brought about by the wildest passion here in the longitude of Paris.’ So. No more stalling. Come, both of you. Take your aphrodisiacs."
Pooch decides there is nothing for it but to do so.
The fat man turns out the lights (anyway, it is now dawn) and, with a little Baryshnikov flourish, leaps onto the bed. “First you two be Tristan and Isolde for a while,” he says, “and then I'll be Queen of the Night. I want to save myself for last."