Thomas M. Disch (25 page)

But then, in the middle of
The Flintstones
, unable to fathom its allegories, which seemed of a sudden inane and infantile, he became bewildered, disgusted, and despairing, as though all the sins of all the phantasmal figures swirling on the glass of the Trinitron had boiled up inside him. He darkened the Trinitron, and, to be doubly sure its simulacra would be stilled, he removed the small flexible pipe by which the Trinitron’s sorceries (and myriad others no less marvelous) were accomplished. Delilah had shown him where the pipe connected to other pipes hidden within the walls of her little house. “You got to plug in the cord, dummy!” she’d explained, whipping his bare thigh with the end of the cord, which was tipped with metal like a scourge, which, at first, he’d supposed it was.

Now she was dead, and that was
Tertius
, for hell like heaven is eternal. One cannot die again in hell and thereby escape its torments. And Delilah assuredly was dead. In the hot air of the little house, her body had begun to stink, and her body, once so very limp, had become rigid. A great quantity of blood had soaked into her bed linens and the mattress beneath, and now that blood had dried and darkened. He had killed her, but not by cutting off her right breast. That had been done
after
he had strangled her, in the hope, that by himself performing the act that had caused him such distress when first he’d seen it done by the Legate’s torturer, he might undo the sorcery that had transported him into this nightmarish otherworld, this neither earth nor hell. For it had been at that moment, witnessing the interrogation of the heretical Marquesia de Gaillac, that he had been translated into this other realm. It had seemed somehow congruent that he subject Delilah, who so much resembled the Marquesia, to the same chastisement. A futile experiment. So far from undoing the original enchantment, he had only been inflamed with the fires of a further lust, and in his drunkenness he had yielded to the temptress’s final, posthumous seduction and ravished her mutilated and bleeding corpse—an act that now, his passion spent, seemed inconceivably vile. What had he become? What had this woman’s sorceries made of him?

Silvanus was no stranger to the sins of the flesh. Often enough in his youth, and in maturity as well, he had yielded to his carnal nature. He was human, after all. A tonsure does not change the essence of a man. But never, never had he acted upon his desires as he had done under Delilah’s insatiable incitements. When he had sinned heretofore, it had been done in a manner suited to the act, hastily, in darkness, and when he had spent himself, he’d felt repugnance and remorse. With Delilah one act had followed on another, with a lust that was unremitting and that became, finally, its own punishment.

She it had been who’d urged him to tighten his hands about her throat, such moments as their mouths were not united in an unholy kiss. Even now, remembering the moment of his supreme penetration, he was possessed by lust.

The woman’s very corpse seduced him!

And yet this was not hell. Rather, it was the time foretold by the apostle John, the reign of the Antichrist. Once Silvanus had realized that, the world about him and his own place in it began to make sense. The indelible mark that had been placed upon his flesh, the tattoo that Delilah had praised and anointed with a comforting balm—what else could it be but the Mark of the Beast? Not everyone in this world bore such a mark as yet, but Delilah had assured him that the day was fast approaching when all young men and many women would be tattooed, and she had said he was, by virtue of his tattoo, a warrior in the vanguard of this New Age’s army.

Delilah had understood that she was living in the last days and even possessed her own copy of the Holy Scriptures (not in the Vulgate but translated into her own barbaric tongue) and a book of commentaries on the prophecies of Ezekiel, Daniel, and John,
The Late Great Planet Earth
, by Hal Lindsey. Silvanus had never been a skilled reader, and though he possessed the gift of tongues and could speak this alien language, he read it, as he read Latin, haltingly and with difficulty. Even so, he was able to learn much from Lindsey’s commentary. For instance, when Ezekiel wrote: The flaming flame shall not be quenched, and all faces from the south to the north shall be burned therein.

And all flesh shall see that I the Lord have kindled it: it shall not be quenched.

the prophet was describing the arsenals of the Antichrist, which were stockpiled with weapons of inconceivable deadliness, thousands upon thousands of “thermonuclear missiles,” each one capable of leveling an entire city with all its inhabitants. Apparently, those who read this book (millions, by the book’s self-proclamation) believed that they would be exempt from the horrors of Armageddon. They could not see what was so very plain to Silvanus: that they were all minions of the Antichrist—and bore his mark upon their souls, as Silvanus bore it on his flesh. They could not smell the reek of his dominion in the air. They could not hear it in the obscene incantations that issued from the Trinitron. They were as blind to their own damnation as the heretics whom Silvanus had heard singing the blasphemous praises of their false god even as they were marched to the pyres of their execution.

Silvanus knew himself to be a sinner, so he was not utterly amazed to find himself translated into the realm of the Antichrist. All the prayers and litanies and Masses, the indulgences he’d accrued, the sacred relics and vestments and vessels—none of these had power to blot away the stain of his sins. And if he was not in hell, that was no matter, for surely he was accursed. But did that mean, as he’d first supposed, that all sins were permitted here and all virtue reckoned sin? Even Delilah had had some compunctions about the public display of lust, for when he had tried to engage her in sexual congress at the Limbo Bar and Grill on that first memorable night, she had restrained him. “Later, Damon, you demon!” she’d told him as he tried to enter her. “We can’t flick on top of the fucking bar, for Christ’s sake!” So there were limits and decorums even here. A woman might display her breasts; she might blaspheme; she might enact sexual congress with an unseen incubus and call it “dancing.” But yet she would not publicly perform the act she solicited, for some little residue of shame and decency remained to her even in her depraved condition.

Silvanus inferred from this that her killing, though she had urged him to it, would not be lightly regarded by whatever authorities interested themselves in such matters. In this the Trinitron concurred. One of its most recurrent themes was murder, usually of temptresses like Delilah, and the discovery and pursuit of their murderers by the police and other interested parties. Often, the murderer seemed to be regarded with approbation. He was shown to be virile, prosperous, wellspoken, and meriting respect, but for all that he was judged to be, at last, a guilty wretch, whom the police would shoot down with what Silvanus surmised to be a form of thermonuclear missile, for their weapons had the same wonderful and instantaneous efficacy. These scenes of murder and retribution seemed to be more accurate representations of the world that Silvanus had glimpsed beyond the confines of Delilah’s little house than many other things revealed by the Trinitron, but were they, even so, to be trusted? Was not the Trinitron the voice and mirror of the Antichrist? Could anything he witnessed by its agency be accepted at face value? The claims made for Total or Prep aration H? For Pepsi-Cola and Miller Lite?

To these questions Silvanus had no answer.

Meanwhile, Delilah’s corpse was decaying in the summer heat.

The angels were getting on Father Mabbley’s nerves. They were nice enough angels in their way—angels, one might say, of the upper middle class.

He could identify a few. Two had to be Botticellis, another an El Greco. The one in the corner, with purplish wings, might be a Titian, but he wasn’t sure.

They were none of them simpering or insipid or otherwise tawdry, but having them grouped together in a single room tended to make the very idea of the angelic a little suspect, as though they were part of some con game that would have simple souls believe that the afterlife was the ultimate children’s playground. And that was unfortunate, if one wished to believe in angels, as Father Mabbley did. Admittedly, the angels he believed in were of a fiercer sort, like Rilke’s angels, demonic and terrible, in the Italian sense of terribilità. One admired them, but feared them, equally. Lucifer, after all, was an angel.

Still, this was Bing’s party, and Father Mabbley was certain Bing would have been pleased. Certainly, he’d have preferred the ambience here at Schinder’s Memorial Gardens to the institutional blandness of McCarron’s. This was Minnesota’s answer to L.A.’s funereal Disneyland at Forest Lawn, a necropolis in the grand manner and a genuine tourist attraction, with its own restaurant and coffee shop. For all its glitz, Schinder’s was not that much more expensive than McCarron’s, since the place was selling its atmosphere, not caskets gussied up to look like catafalques. Admittedly, Father Mabbley had opted for one of the less costly chapels, which was decorated with reproductions of art masterpieces rather than the genuine articles. Was that cheeseparing? Or a sensible economy, in view of the fact that he was not anticipating a large turnout? Aside from inserting a notice on the obituary page of the two Twin Cities newspapers, Father Mabbley had not known how to contact Bing’s friends and relations. He might be the only mourner, and that would be a sad thing, but not that unusual for Father Mabbley. People were always coming to Las Vegas to die in solitude, which, after all, is one of the basic facts of death. At the end, every man is an island, and there’s no one there to talk to but God.

Meanwhile, it was four o’clock, and Wiley’s secretary was still conveying his regrets at hourly intervals. Father Mabbley had yet to book a hotel room, since the secretary had thought he
might
be given the keys to Bing’s house, though she wasn’t certain. Father Mabbley found the notion that he had become, at this late date, a home owner disconcerting in a pleasant way. As a priest, Father Mabbley had always been comfortably domiciled, but the homes he’d lived in had never been his, and in that sense they hadn’t been homes at all. He felt as he had when, at the ripe age of thirty-four, he’d got his first driver’s license: an authentic citizen and a grown-up at last. He would have his own backyard, with his own trees, which he would own. He would have a lawn mower. A garage. A basement and an attic!

It was as he was counting these chickens that the first mourner arrived—a young man with a pencil-line mustache and a haircut that ventured in the direction of hip-hop without finally daring to go the whole way. Very Minnesotan.

“This is the Fra Angelico Chapel?” the young man asked.

Father Mabbley winced. They weren’t Botticellis at all! They were Fra Angelicos! It was written right on the plaque over the door, and he hadn’t even made the connection.

“I think so,” he said. “Are you a friend of Mr. Anker’s?”

“A relative,” the young man said. “You’re not Reese Wiley, are you?”

Father Mabbley shook his head. “No, I’ve been waiting for him myself.”

He offered his hand. “I’m Mark Mabbley.”

The young man took his hand tentatively. “You’re a priest?”

“Yes, though I’m not here in that capacity. I’m a friend of Bing Anker’s. Did you
need
a priest?”

The young man laughed. “No, no, I said that because you said your name was Mark. I thought priests always said they were Father somebody-or-other.”

“I must be the exception to that rule. Priests do come in many varieties. For all I know, you could be a priest.”

The young man gave him a sideways look. “Do I look like a priest?”

“Yes, in fact. You look a good deal like someone I went to the seminary with, years ago. He didn’t have a mustache. We weren’t allowed any facial hair in that century. But aside from that, you look a good deal like him. I’ve forgotten his name, isn’t that terrible. But I remember his face, and it’s very nearly yours. As for your not wearing a Roman collar, most younger priests tend to dispense with that formality when they’re not serving in some official capacity.”

“So you were a friend of my cousin’s?” asked the young man. There was something in the way he put the question that made it clear to Father Mabbley that what he was really asking was whether he was, like Bing, a faggot. The hostility was uncalculated and perhaps unconscious, but it was there.

“Oh, more than just a friend.” He paused, and then added, in a professionally unctuous tone, “A brother in Christ.”

“I didn’t know he was that religious.”

“Then you did not know him well. Were you close, Mr… . ? I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”

“Greg. Greg Romero, and no, you couldn’t say we were close. In fact, we only met the once. He came to my sister’s wedding a few months back and gave her this incredible tree in a ceramic pot. It was huge. At the time she was a bit ticked off. Like, if he was going to spend so much money—and it must have cost a lot—why not get something useful? But she’s got so that she likes the thing. It’s been growing like crazy in the backyard. Anyhow, at the wedding I remember the guy sitting off in the corner of the hall by himself, so I went over and started talking, basically just doing my family duty, and what happened, we started trading jokes. He’d tell one, and that one would remind me of another, and it went on like that for quite a while. We were both pretty lubricated, so I can’t remember that much more about him.”