Pale Fire

When Maggie was gone, I reread big portions of the great novels.  The Brothers Karamazov.  Crime and Punishment.  The Idiot (with which I naturally identify).  I have a lot of time on my hands and the books calm me down after the meetings and signings and other nonsense.  Now I’m into Nabokov.  Lolita.  Bend Sinister.  Ada. My favorite is Pale Fire.

[This is an excerpt from Diary of a Heretic, the novel. Click here for the first episode, or here for the previous one.]

My middle finger holding my place in the falling apart paperback, I open the door.  We smile—instantly naughty, giddy, complicit with each other.  The man does know how to work me;  give him that.  Carlos is standing there, barefoot, in a deep red, absurdly elegant cashmere smoking outfit, with claret and black striped satin lapels.  I think, Halloween?  No, that was last month.  And the idea that he’s dressed up like this for me expands in my chest, a helium ball of delight.  And, as if that weren’t enough, he puts on a show of flexing his sensuous strong brown feet, rocking from ball to heel. Rhythmically. 

“Oh, pretty good,” I concede, taking a step back.  “How ’bout a pirouette?”

“But of course.” Carlos turns, and bows.  He twirls around twice before presenting the bottle of Yquem.  He’s cradling the wine in one arm, and dangling from his other hand, a pair of clinking crystal wine glasses, stems entwined with his fabulous fingers.

“To what,” I ask, “do I owe the pleasure?”

“Can I come in?”

“Yes, come in, and tell me, why are you doing this?”

“Religion Without Rules,” he opens the Yquem, “is entering a phase of profound flux.”

He pours the golden wine into the goblets.  We raise them for a salutary clinking, but I stop.  “Profound flux?  Does that mean celebration or a shut-down or both?”

“A shut-down?”  Carlos’s mouth tightens.  “No.  Nothing like that.  Think of it as a changing of the guard.”

“Oh?”  The wine is sweet and I shut my eyes upon each sip. 

“It’s time for me to step down, Malcolm, or at least back.”

“Oh, really?” 

“I’m not walking away;  you can’t get rid of me that easily.  But:  it’s time for you to assume control.  You’re the one, Malcolm.  I don’t belong at the steering wheel.”

“Ah-ha!  Ah-ha!”  We’re in really deep shit, but I knew that already.  Taking hold of Carlos’s wrists, I learn, from his pulse, the cast of his eyes, the barely perceptible twitching of his flat cheeks and still dark, thick, but dry lips, something I wouldn’t have guessed:  Not that he’s afraid—of course he is, but so what?  Rather, he’s finished!  Out of his own game and he knows it.

My turn to laugh at him!

He breaks from my hands and parades the length of the room.  Shoulders back, hands accentuating his svelte waist, he steps high and pivots.  He sashays.  And just when I’m thinking well, maybe he’s not totally out of play—my God!  Carlos goes down on one knee.  Facing me, he bows and rubs his gray head.  He raises brimming dark eyes, and pleads, his raspy voice wavering, for just one more time with me.  My terms, however I want it, me on top, or him.  He won’t ask again, “Please!”

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