Aquinas Spengler was a mandarin.
His vast need for understanding coincided uneasily with a façade of indiscriminate cynicism. Made suspicious by his ill-hidden idealism others chose to flee him with radical enthusiasm. What Mary saw in him it was difficult to say for perhaps it was only sentiment. He reminded her more of her cousin than her cousin did, and for Mary the past was a terrorist, appearing unannounced, with the cheerfulness of the densest suitor, the one who loves you in spite of yourself.
As with Mary, it was Alastair who first pointed Aquinas out to Dion one evening at Fitzgerald’s. They had gone there to hear Les Fauves, a band of mythic reputation, known for playing 3-hour sets of unidentifiably merry covers of Velvet Underground songs.
They had arrived late and after some difficulty at the door (Dion’s lack of a Texas ID, Alastair’s babyface) they succeeded in maneuvering their way up the stairs to the second floor, where, divested of their cash, they could see Les Fauves in action.
Leaning against the bar, copies of Der Gesellschaftnuze under his arm, was Aquinas. He saw them and nodded to Alastair, lifting a long-fingered hand in languid generosity. They made their way through the crowd until they were either side the corporeal phantom. Dion could barely hear Alastair shouting into Aquinas’s inclined ear.
-How long have they been playing? he cried, gesturing towards the stage.
-For about seven hours, I think, Aquinas shouted back.
-Yeah? This song, is it a Fauve original?
-Nah, it’s that old Dylan song … what’s it called …
After a moment of brutal concentration Dion said:
-‘Stuck Inside Of Mobile With The Memphis Blues Again.’
-Yeah, that’s it, Aquinas said, ‘they’ve been jamming on the second verse for 45 minutes now.
As it was impossible to engage in conversation Dion turned his attention to the stage. The rhythm guitarist was in the process of demonstrating a Chuck Berry duckwalk. Performed with a certain facility, true, but the fever was artificial. This, the much-heralded leader of the Fauves, struck Dion as an uneven fusion of Buddy Holly and Dennis the Menace’s father … not terribly flattering, but a just description all the same. The other Fauves were distinguished only by the complete absence of anything remarkable. The crowd was approaching a point of ruptured jouissance … for himself, Dion seemed to be moving in another world. Perhaps it was exile’s fatigue or perhaps it was being witness to a spectacle he had come to abhor: the metamorphosis of rock and roll into a public agony of banality. He moved through the crowd with some trouble, buoyed by the erotic perfume of feminine drunkenness. He moved under the benediction of incense, the braided scent of beer and cigarettes, and for a moment felt himself transported to the white and silent corridors of La Paloma Hospice on New Year’s Eve.
After a penitential medley of derailed train-songs Alastair led him away. Outside, the breeze loitered its way through a dozen Stop N Go bags moving in ghostly herd up Studemont, and the stars burned their pichettes of pinprick in the empty sky above The Heights.
They were joined by Aquinas, cigarette dangling from his lower lip.
-The crowd seems to love ‘em, Dion said, indicating a rain-pulped poster of the Fauves, resplendent in their hides of shredded tiger, leopard, and zebra.
-Ah, they’re spuds,’ Aquinas slurred, fixing Dion with his deceptive eyes.
-by the way, I’m Aquinas Spengler’, he added, ‘editor of Der Gesellschaftnuze. Here, have one.
He extended a copy of Der G to Dionysius, along with his hand to shake, in tacit camaraderie.
-Pleased to meet you. I’m Dionysius Wilde.
Aquinas turned to Alastair.
-When are you going to write something for us? Artorius has been on my back about you. The review you did of Stevie Ray was killer, especially that opening quote from Hegel.
Alastair smiled and glanced at Dion.
Dion gazed back with the expressionlessness he affected when witness to arm-twisting and seduction. The review in question had been his own composition, written as an act of shocking generosity. They had seen Vaughn in Austin and Alastair’s serious attempts to de-skirt, explore, and penetrate their Austin host’s twelve-year old sister had left him too pissed to put pen to paper.
-Well, I’ve got to catch a ride back to Der G …’ Aquinas said, backing away.
He had only gone a few steps when he called out to them.
-Hey! I’ve finally got my band sealed up. You’ll have to come check us out at rehearsal. I’ve discovered this guitarist who sounds like the Spiders Of Mars on speed. She also writes these decadent songs about priests and pansies and things.
-Your guitarist’s a girl? Alastair asked.
-Yeah, Aquinas laughed and paused, as though what he was about to say should be perfect as a gestated dress rehearsal.
-a rock and roller with the mannerisms of an unyielding Catholic schoolgirl who’s just about to yield. You may know her? Her name’s Mary? Mary Effingham?
The soft pang of a zeitgeist moth secreted a brief moisture of jealousy in Dion’s heart.