Why do the old men remember the details of a life they lived at five years old and forget they life they’ve lived five minutes ago? Well, on no knowledge basis whatsoever, might it be supposed that it has something to do with the random distribution of memory?
Thus, having glimpsed a bit of disturbing medieval spring in Mary’s apartment, we are now compelled to replay an earlier meeting which occurred that fateful preceding winter, on a night when the sky was heavy-laden with the possibility of rain, the certainty of dead stars still bright after a million years in the blacked-out ward of the asylum.
Alastair and Dion plunged into the pre-ordained chaos of Der G’s offices.
In a great rush Alastair seized the lovely cut-and-paste girl and poured out his soul:
-iknowitoldyoui’dthavethisstoryinlastnightbutsomethingcameupyou
knowhowtitisbutifit’snottoolatei’dbeeternallygratefulnostrings
attachedifyoucouldsqueezeitinterriblysorryforthefuckup.
Cut and Paste wrinkled her little cat nose, made a circle 8 in the air a few inches from Alastair’s chest with the tip of her Exacto knife and mused for a moment, half a centimeter of pink tongue caressing the incising edges of her brilliant lower teeth.
Could it be squeezed in? It could. The chaos of Der G was not, after all, a mere façade designed to deceive the uninitiated. It would require a sentence reduction in Peggy Sioux’s film review of Herzog’s latest, and the photo of Pete Townsend would leave him shivved off at the knees but Alastair’s (read Dion’s) syntax would be preserved intact.
With obsequious relief Alastair groveled backwards, with a quick winking turn towards his fellow conspirator. Dion turned away, unsympathetic. Deadlines were there to be met, not regarded as though they were slovely slumlords to be bought off with sufficient whining.
-What’s this? Dion said, gesturing to the bulletin board which groaned under the weight of directives, memoranda, letters to the editor, pleas for help, Jade Dragon menus and other irrelevant ornamentation. Alastair, who had been halfway out the door, returned looked, and cried out:
-Oh God. I knew I was forgetting something. The Billets Doux, that’s Aquinas’ band. It’s their first gig tonight.
Downtown flew past, deserted as ever. Its lonely neon lights spilled upon the damp streets their reflections of vulgar color, muted rivulets of blue and orange mingling with the day’s runoff of rain and garbage as though someone, at the heart of the dark city, had shattered a giant vial of cheap perfume.
-Alastair, it’s 11:30. We’ve probably missed them.
-Dear Dionysius, this is rock n roll. The fuckers are never on time.
They found the place with only a minimal amount of sudden reversals and wrong-way turns down one-way streets. They pulled up to the curb in time to see a dozen or so locals exuding from the exit, hands cupped over ears.
-Looks like you were right, Alastair said, a rare concession.
They waited until another twenty people had emerged onto the sidewalk and then went in. The place, modestly called The Place, consisted of a large, high-ceilinged room, appended with the Siamese extension of a narrower room, repository of imported beers and domestic drunks. The larger room was given the illusion of structure by four pillars of conglomerate concrete, flaking to powder with each diminished seventh. The Billets Doux had just finished and were making way for The Usuals, who were headlining the show, evidently an act of charity on their part.
Aquinas backed towards us, carrying one end of a bass amp. He nodded in passing and said:
-I’m not sure where Effingham is. She was here a minute ago.
Was he psychic, Dion wondered, or merely preemptive.
He went outside as The Usuals began to tune up. The acoustics of The Place were terrible, but then so were those of the universe according to someone …. Descartes, was it?
He found her on the corner of the next block, standing halved by shadow and the blue neon of the Cartwright Hotel. She turned towards him, her mouth and hands whitening in the sudden flare of a cigarette lighter.
Whether it was the heart throb of the occulting neon or the wavering of air set up by the first exhalation of smoke from her nostrils, Dion was suddenly conscious of the curious depth of her eyes. The pupils seemed dilated, the irises overwhelmed by their unreflecting darkness. There was a hint of diamonds on her lashes and under their faint tendrils of moisture the darkness in her eyes swayed like the body of a drowned faerie, seen at the bottom of a deep well.
-Can I bum a light? Dion asked, lifting a cigarette towards her and wondering how many friendships, marriages, one-night stands, life-long love affairs, had proceeded from the cliché of that particular question.
If she recognized him from earlier glimpses across crowded rooms on not-so-enchanted evenings, she gave no sign, only holding her cigarette out to him. He took it from her and noticed a tiny half-moon of blood where her lips had been. He was blown by a slight erotic tremor, not entirely unexpected, though hardly warranted. Was this desire, or merely fear?
He returned the cigarette and attempted an easy smile but was defeated by an attack of nerves that brittled his features to a sudden goofy grimace.
-You’re the guitarist with the Billets Doux, aren’t you? I’m Dionysius, a friend of Aquinas.
A drop of rain grazed his temple.
-Oh, she said and then nodded:
-yes, I’m one of the guitarists. I’m the better one.
Dion laughed but Mary simply stared at him, smoke from her cigarette trailing upwards into the pattern of the Volga and its tributaries.
Down the block The Usuals were declaring the death of Punk and the ascension of Disco in soft cadence with the equally slow-falling rain.
Mary lifted her face to the sky, letting the rain hiss out the red embers of her cigarette. In the blue light her face was impassive, pale, infinitely vain.