Mirror, p.28
Mirror, page 28
He was about to fit it into the lock when he thought he heard a noise on the other side of the basement. He listened, sweating. There it was again. A faint scratching sound, like rats tearing the stuffed-cotton entrails out of a couch; or somebody stealthily making his way nearer across the furniture. He listened and listened, his key still poised, but the noise wasn’t repeated.
‘Overactive imagination,’ he told himself, and inserted the key into the lock.
The lock was extremely stiff. He grunted and strained at it, and the key cut into his fingers. He wished he had thought of bringing a screwdriver and a pair of pliers, although he probably would have ended up breaking the lock that way. He twisted the key again, grunting with effort, and at last he felt it budge.
‘One more try,’ he gasped to himself. ‘Come on, you bastard; open up!’
He was struggling so hard that he scarcely heard the singing. High, and clear, but oddly ghostlike, as if it could have been very close or very far away.
Apples are sweeter than lemons
Lemons are sweeter than limes
But there’s nothing so sweet as the mem’ry of you
And the sadness of happier times.
He allowed himself to catch his breath; then with quivering fingers he turned the key all the way around and felt the levers in the lock slide rustily open.
The singing continued, but Father Lucas didn’t hear it. He lifted the lid of the safe-deposit box and peered inside. The lighting in this part of the basement was so poor, however, that he couldn’t see anything at all.
‘Well, now,’ he told himself, ‘it can’t be anything to be frightened of. Only claws and tissue paper, and more of that hairy stuff.’
He cautiously inserted his left hand, groping around the sides of the box. It seemed to be empty. Perhaps somebody else had gotten here first and taken the contents away. Perhaps the claws and the hank of hair were all that was left.
He reached a little farther; and then his fingertips touched something wrinkled and supple and faintly oily; like a sack of soft and heavy leather. He didn’t like the feel of it at all, but he ran his hand all the way around it, trying to make out what it was. He tried to lift it, so that he could see what it looked like in the light, but it was too heavy, and seemed to be fastened to the back of the safe-deposit box.
Father Lucas took his hand out. He found his handkerchief, wiped his fingers, and sniffed them. The thing in the safe-deposit box had a curious smell; rather like machine oil lightly mixed with fish.
He bent over and strained his eyes, trying to catch even the faintest reflection from the thing inside the box. ‘Now, what the hell are you?’ he whispered. ‘If you’re part of Satan, I’d darn well like to know which part.’
He was about to reach inside the box a second time when he heard a high, childish giggle. He looked up, alarmed, his heart pumping in huge, slow spasms. At first he couldn’t make out where the laughter was coming from, but then right across the basement, on the far side, he caught sight of a face. Or rather, the reflection of a face in the tilted mirror of a discarded hotel dressing table.
Father Lucas shuddered. His eyesight wasn’t very clear, but he had no doubt who it was. Those clear pale features, unnaturally white; those bright-burning eyes.
‘Boofuls,’ he whispered.
‘Hello, Father.’ Boofuls smiled. ‘What are you doing here? Interfering? Poking your nose in where it’s not wanted?’
Father Lucas crossed himself. ‘Almighty Lord, Word of God the Father, Jesus Christ, God and Lord of every creature: Who didst give to Thy Holy Apostles power to tread upon serpents and scorpions – by Whose power Satan fell from heaven like lightning –’
‘Father Lucas!’ cried Boofuls. ‘You meddled in matters which were nothing to do with you, and now you have to be punished! Look after your teeth, that’s what I told you! Look after your teeth!’
Father Lucas caught sight of a glint of glistening white down in the darkness of the safe-deposit box. He was so terrified that he was unable to move; literally unable to do anything but kneel where he was, open-mouthed. His mind told him to scramble down and run for his life, but his body refused to obey.
‘Meddler!’ screamed Boofuls. ‘Meddler! Meddler!’
His voice reached a pitch of unintelligible hysteria.
And then something reared out of the safe-deposit box that was all shiny gray gristle, a thick tangled column of unspeakable muscles and naked arteries. It was like nothing that Father Lucas had ever seen – blind, swollen, dangling with rags of slimy gray skin, reeking of oil and dead fish.
‘Almighty Lord, Word of God the Father,’ Father Lucas babbled. But then the thin skin around the top of the column peeled slowly back, revealing row after row of razor-sharp teeth, five, six – seven rows in all, glutinous with fluids. Father Lucas’ voice disappeared, and all he could do was stare at this terrible apparition; trying not to believe in it, trying to tell himself that this was only a nightmare; and that any moment now he would fall off the safe-deposit boxes and find himself in bed.
His nervous system suddenly reconnected itself. He thought, Jump! But he was a fraction of a second too late. The glistening gray column swayed swiftly toward him and burst straight into his mouth, smashing all his teeth aside, dislocating his jaw, cracking his palate apart from front to back.
He couldn’t scream: the thing filled his mouth. Blood sprayed wildly across the safe-deposit boxes and onto the basement ceiling.
Choking, he thought, Out! Out! Got to get it out! but it slithered through his hands, greasy, rubbery, unstoppable.
It forced its way down his throat, tearing away his larynx. The agony was all the more unbearable because his lungs were full and yet his windpipe was blocked and he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe!
He struggled and thrashed and kicked his legs; and at last he lost his balance and toppled off the side of the safe-deposit boxes onto the floor, with the gray thing’s tail still protruding from his stretched-open mouth. It had a tail like a soft, collapsed sphincter, a sphincter that contracted and expanded each time the thing forced itself farther down his throat.
Something had jarred in his back when he fell. He lay paralyzed on top of a folding chair, his eyes bulging, his face blue, his mouth bloody. And the gray creature pushed its way with tearing teeth down to his stomach, ripping soft membranes into shreds – inflicting on him the greatest pain that it was possible for a man to suffer. It was worse than seppuku, the most agonizing form of Japanese suicide, because it came from deep inside him, and it wouldn’t stop, and it scissored and wrenched and ripped at every part of his vitals.
The thing’s tail disappeared into his mouth. He felt its dry palpating sphincter slide down his throat. He choked, gagged, sicked up blood and pieces of flesh. He was conscious of every expansion and contraction as the thing bulged and heaved, bulged and heaved, cater-pillaring its way into his abdomen. The most terrifying thing of all was that he knew that he was already dead. Nobody could survive this ruination inside the body and survive.
He felt his stomach straining. He looked down at himself, his eyes wide. There was a moment when he felt as if his pelvis were breaking apart; and that the whole world was collapsing on top of him. The Hollywood Divine, the night sky, everything. Ton upon ton of agony and humiliation.
‘O God, help me,’ he bubbled.
And then the gray column exploded out from between his thighs, its teeth bloody and decorated with viscera of all colors, his own torn manhood hardly recognizable among the shreds; and it stiffly swayed, nearly four feet long, the swollen member of the Lord of Darkness, mocking him, arrogant, obscene, Satan’s penis between a priest’s legs. Now he knew why the mirror had spat semen at him. Satan relished the sexual degradation of the clergy.
‘O God …’ Father Lucas whispered.
One by one, the rows of teeth were concealed by sliding skin. Then the gray thing dragged itself away from Father Lucas, its body rustling on the dusty floor, and burrowed itself deep beneath the stacks of folding chairs, into the darkest corners, where it shrank into dryness, like an abandoned sack, and waited for the day that was near now; nearer than ever. The day that was almost here.
And Father Lucas’ blood slid stickily across the basement floor and in between the painted toes of the African statue. This little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed at home.
That morning at eight o’clock sharp, Boofuls danced and sang for June Lassiter at 20th Century-Fox.
They used the set which had been built for the television mini-series Ziegfeld Follies, partly because nobody else was using it, and partly because it included a mock-up of a theater stage. June Lassiter sat right in front in her director’s chair, dressed in an off-white suit by Giorgio Armani. Beside her sat her executive assistant and the bearer of her Filofax, Kathy Lupanek, all frizzy hair and huge spectacles and radical opinions.
Morris Nathan was also present, of course; with Alison. So was Chubby Bosanquet, the Fox finance director; John Drax, the choreographer; and Ahab Greene.
Martin sat at the very back, in darkness, feeling tired and withdrawn. He was praying in a way that ‘Lejeune’s’ audition would prove to be a complete flop. If that happened – if it was obvious that nobody wanted to remake Sweet Chariot – maybe Boofuls would retreat back into his mirror and let Emilio go.
Some hope, thought Martin. If Father Quinlan’s theory about the reincarnation of Satan were even half true, Boofuls would make sure that, this time, he accomplished what he had been born to accomplish. No more interfering grandmothers this time. No more vorpal swords.
At last, Boofuls appeared on the soundstage, and bowed. He was wearing a royal-blue Little Lord Fauntleroy costume that he had borrowed from wardrobe, and Martin found it totally uncanny to watch him, fifty years after his death, strutting into the spotlights as if time had stood still, as if World War II and Korea and rock’n’roll and President Kennedy and going to the moon had never happened.
‘Doesn’t he look adorable?’ June cried out, and clapped her hands.
Martin felt a sinking in his stomach. She was won over already: give him five minutes and Boofuls would have her eating out of his adorable hand.
Morris said, ‘He’s a natural; an absolute natural. Never seen a child star like him.’
‘And what did you say his name was? Lejeune?’
Morris nodded. ‘That’s right. But don’t worry about his name. You just listen to him sing.’
Boofuls knelt and sang ‘The Sadness of Happier Times’. His voice was so pure and poignant that even Martin was moved. June Lassiter was unashamedly wiping her eyes with her handkerchief, and Morris blew his nose so loudly that Kathy Lupanek jumped.
When all of them were dewy-eyed, or very close to tears, Boofuls suddenly sprang up and danced the sunbeam dance from Sunshine Serenade. He kicked and flew and pirouetted as if gravity had no effect on him whatsoever; his blue-slippered toes scarcely touched the floor. Ahab Greene started applauding long before he had finished, and the rest of them joined him. Morris even stood up and shouted out, ‘Incredible! That’s incredible! Would you look at that, June? That’s incredible!’
Boofuls finished his dance and bowed low. Still they clapped him. At last, his cheeks flushed, breathing hard, he came down the steps at the side of the mock-theater stage and walked directly up to Chubby Bosanquet, completely ignoring June Lassiter.
‘Well?’ he asked in his high-pitched voice. ‘Will you do it?’
‘Lejeune–’ put in June. ‘That really isn’t Mr Bosanquet’s decision.’
‘He arranges the financing, doesn’t he?’
‘Well, certainly but –’
‘Then that’s okay. I know you like it, Ms Lassiter. All I have to know now is whether Mr Bosanquet is going to come up with twenty-five million dollars.’
Morris Nathan came forward and was about to lay his hand on Boofuls’ shoulder, but Boofuls stepped away.
‘Come on, now, Lejeune,’ said Morris, smiling uncomfortably. ‘Let’s not go over the top about this. It’s up to Ms Lassiter whether Fox makes this picture or not. And it’s a little impertinent, don’t you think, to assume that she likes it even before she’s had a chance to read the screenplay or listen to any of the songs?’
Boofuls pouted. ‘If I didn’t think she was going to like it, I wouldn’t have bothered to come down here.’
June Lassiter stood up and came closer. Boofuls beckoned to Martin to bring him the revised screenplay. Martin handed it over and said, ‘Sweet Chariot, a total rewrite. Updated, dialogue altered, motivations overhauled, characterizations sharpened up.’
‘And what makes you think I’m going to approve it?’ asked June. ‘Remember, it was only last week when you tried to persuade me to do the Boofuls musical; and I turned you down very, very flat.’
‘That was then,’ said Martin. ‘This is now.’
‘So tell me the difference.’
Martin scruffed up Boofuls’ hair. He was the only one whom Boofuls allowed to do it. ‘This is the difference, and you know it. He sings and dances better than Boofuls. He’s going to be the greatest child star there ever was.’
Kathy Lupanek pulled a so-what, child-stars-yuck kind of face. But June Lassiter gradually allowed herself to break into a smile.
‘Do you know something, Martin, you’re probably right. I’m going to recommend this project. Morris – you and I ought to talk some business.’
Boofuls said clearly, ‘Mr Nathan is not my agent.’
Morris looked perplexed. ‘Hey, come on, now! Didn’t I set up this audition for you? You have to have an agent! You can’t work without an agent! He’s such a mazik, this kid!’
Boofuls approached Morris and stared at him with those welding-torch eyes. ‘Not a mazik, Mr Nathan. A dybbuk.’ Not a little devil, Mr Nathan, but a demon from hell.
June tried to break the tension by saying, ‘Lejeune, honey – Mr Nathan’s right. You do have to have an agent, just to protect your legal interests. I mean, if you don’t want to use Mr Nathan, I can talk to your parents and recommend plenty more –’
‘I don’t have any parents,’ said Lejeune. His voice was high but expressionless.
June looked uncomfortable. ‘You must have somebody to take care of you. Some legal guardian.’
Boofuls paused for a moment, looking around. Martin could recognize that cunning strangeness in his face; the wolfish expression of an adult man. ‘My grandmother,’ he said. ‘I live with my grandmother. She’s my legal guardian.’
‘Well, I’ll call her myself and explain that you have to have an agent,’ said June.
‘I should work off my toches fixing this audition and then I don’t even get ten percent of thankyouverymuch?’ Morris demanded.
‘I’m sorry, Morris, it’s Lejeune’s choice,’ June told him.
Morris turned on Boofuls and stabbed a stubby finger at him. ‘You’re not a mazik and you’re not a dybbuk. You’re the gilgul of my old dead partner Chaim Selzer, that’s what you are!’
Martin came forward and took hold of Morris’ arm. ‘Morris, forget it. I’m sorry. I just automatically assumed that Lejeune would want you to be his agent.’
Alison squeezed Morris close and said, ‘Come on, Morry, forget it. It’s better you don’t represent him, believe me. If he can’t be grateful for what you’ve done for him, Martin’s right, you should forget it.’
Morris tugged his large white sports coat tightly around his stomach. ‘Forget it, you bet I’ll forget it. And you, Martin, you bet I’ll forget you, too!’
‘Oh, come on, Morry, don’t be upset!’ Alison cooed; but glanced across at Martin at the same time with an expression which meant don’t worry, I’ll cool him down.
‘All right, all right already!’ Morris snapped. ‘I’m not upset. I’m nice! Just don’t let me have to look at that kid’s face again, ever! And I don’t want to hear his name, neither!’
Boofuls meanwhile had eerily circled around so that he was standing in Morris’ way as Morris prepared to leave. Morris stopped and stared at him. Boofuls stared back, and then gradually smiled.
‘Are you sure that’s what you want?’ Boofuls asked him. ‘Never to see my face again, never to hear my name?’
‘Got it in one, Goldilocks,’ Morris told him. ‘Now, if you’ll kindly ex-cuse us!’
Taking Alison by the arm, Morris waddled out of the soundstage and into the sunlight.
‘I didn’t mean to make him cross,’ said Boofuls, watching him go.
June Lassiter laughed. ‘Don’t worry about Morris. He’ll get over it. Now – let’s go get some coffee and cake, shall we, and talk about this musical of yours? We must talk to your grandmother, you realize that, don’t you, since she’s your legal guardian.’
‘I understand,’ said Boofuls sweetly, taking hold of June’s hand. Martin followed behind them, with a feeling of increasing dread. He wished to God that Morris hadn’t yelled at Boofuls like that. If he had killed Homer Theobald just for touching the key to the safe-deposit box at the Hollywood Divine, there was no knowing what he might do to Morris.
Kathy Lupanek, walking beside him with her clipboard clutched to her flat chest, said, ‘I really hate child actors, you know? Especially snootsy-cutesy ones like Lejeune.’
Martin said nothing. He didn’t know how sharp Boofuls’ ears were. He wasn’t even sure that Boofuls couldn’t penetrate right inside his mind, and hear him silently screaming, ‘You hideous evil son of a bitch! I’d kill you if I had half the chance, and I’d chop you up into pieces, just the way your grandmother did!’
They were back home in Franklin Avenue well before eleven o’clock. Martin wanted to go see Ramone, and so he told Boofuls to stay in the apartment and watch television.
‘Can we go out later for hamburgers?’ Boofuls asked him with a surprisingly childish whine.
