by Derek
“It’s like I always say: Clothes make the inhuman.”
“Smell!” Schiaparelli sprays Shocking! Sprays herself. Perfume clings to dead skin. It smells pink. “The top note—sugar.” Pink popcorn, pink cotton candy, pink bubble gum. “The middle note—sawdust.” Pink sawdust.
“The bottom?” Chanel says.
“Blood!” Schiaparelli says, spraying. “The blood of little boys, the blood of little girls. A bead in every bottle.” She sprays. “To the living, it’s undetectable. To the undead, it’s delectable.” She sprays. “From miles away, we can smell it, we can follow it, we can find the women who wear it. The women who wear it, the men they’re with—” She sprays Chanel. “And you!”
“Which perfume do witches wear?” I say.
“Brumes!” Schiaparelli says. “By Coty!”
“Which perfume do werewolves wear?”
“Flèches!” she says. “By Lancôme!”
“Fragrance and fashion are only the beginning,” Schiaparelli says. “I will create carnival cosmetics in kewpie colors. Pink lipsticks. Green rouge. Yellow mascara. Compacts like little Mirror Mazes for makeup.
“Brass rings as earrings,” she says. “Dangling earrings shaped like that silly ride, The Swings. Do you know it? Children sit in chairs suspended from chains. When the ride spins, the chairs fly. It’s a chandelier. Children are teardrops.
“Wigs in pink and blue, like cotton candy,” she says. “Furs in pink and blue, like cotton candy, and glazed like candy apples. Silk scarves printed with glowing eyeballs, the sort one sees painted on the walls in a Haunted House. Capes trimmed with foxtails. Carnies staple tails to the walls of Haunted Houses.”
“Who’s afraid of foxtails?” I say.
“Foxes!” Schiaparelli says.
“Haute couture?” Schiaparelli says. “Haute horreur!“Department stores in downtowns across the country,” she says, “will sprinkle the aisles with pink sawdust.
“Mirrors on columns, mirrors on counters,” she says. “Why do department store perfume departments have so many mirrors? I will make them into Mazes.
“Do you know what a factice is?” she says. “A promotional perfume bottle. I will create factices of Shocking! that stand two stories tall. Department store customers can step inside them. See the world as perfume sees it. It will be a ride!
“Escalators I’ll cover with boards,” she says. “Customers can slide down them as they do Funhouse chutes. The slide will burn holes in their trousers and skirts and hose. They’ll have to buy new ones—from me!
“Tightrope walkers will walk from floor to floor, across first-floor courts, over the counters of Cosmetics and Notions. Acrobats will dangle from ceilings, contorting. Elevator cages will contain lions and tigers and dancing bears.
“Valentines will fly over Fifth Avenue,” she says. “Store show windows will feature freaks. Mannequins with three arms, mannequins with no legs. Female forms fitted with heads from male mannequins. Department stores will be sideshows. Saks, Bergdorf Goodman, and Henri Bendel. Bullock’s in Los Angeles. Neiman Marcus in Dallas. Wanamaker’s in Philadelphia. Marshall Field’s in Chicago.”
“Lord & Taylor?” I say.
“Bite your tongue!” Schiaparelli says.
“When all the world’s well-dressed women are dressed and perfumed like freaks,” Schiaparelli says, “I will make them freaks—in a carnival, a vampire carnival—a carnival of fashion and death!” She changes. Fangs flower. Pupils as pink paillettes. “And freaks are only part of the fun!
“Men will be rides.
“Women will be games.
“Children will be snacks.”
Schiaparelli’s face is a special eff ect.
“Mr. Carter,” Schiaparelli says. “I see you staring at my sequins.” Beneath her sequins: shadows of sequins. “Would you like to stroke them?”
“So shiny!” A.P. says.
“So sparkly!” Spellbound, he shuffles toward her. “So …”
“So stupid!” Maybelle wallops him with her shoe. Plow shoe. The sole’s wood. Leather’s oak-tanned. Supple as steel. “What are you—French?”
“Dear Jesus,” Maybelle says.
“Holy Father in Heaven,” Sara says.
“Ow.” A.P.’s bruises are coming up blue.
“Thank you for saving your stupid son, A.P.” Maybelle and kin drop to their knees in the Mirror Maze. “Mrs. Schiaparelli seduced him with sequins. Shininess is a sin. Satan is satin. Country music is for plain folks. Help him be plain. Help him be navy, gray, or black. Maybe brown. Amen.”
“Prayers can’t protect you from my paillettes!” Schiaparelli says. “Ecru is not a cure! My sequins are sirens—rich, radiant, ravishing—”
“Evil!” Chanel says.
“Your sequins are evil!” she says.
“It’s not melodramatics!” She crosses to where bats clutch the Carnival Collection. When she sprays ys Chanel Nº5 on the Electric Girl Dress—
Bang! Bang! Bang!—spangles spark. “Holy water destroys them,” she says. Bang! Bang! Bang!—spangles blister, then burn. Scorching scorch marks. “Christian sequins would not be charred by Chanel Nº5!”
Otto shakes his fists at her. Fist. Fist. Fist.
“What’s the secret of your sequins, Elsa?” Chanel says. “What makes them as volatile as vampires?”
“They are vampires,” Schiaparelli says.
Wind whips up.
“Sequins, c’est moi!” Schiaparelli says, floating off the floor.
Thunder! Lightning! Chanel’s blown off balance. A.P. clings to Sara, who clings to Maybelle. Maybelle’s dress clings to her like it’s a Vionnet. It’s not.
“I make them,” Schiaparelli says. “And they make me!” How to make movie thunder—shake an X-ray. How to make movie lightning—flick lights on and off.
“They’re in my veins!” Schiaparelli smashes a mirror with her fist. What’s bad luck to a vampire? What’s seven years? With a sliver of silver she slits her wrist. Glitter gushes out. “I’m the Vogue vampire. I don’t have blood—I have embellishments!”
“Sequins!” she says.
“Beads!” she says.
“Crystals!” she says.
Le sang by Lesage! Fancies flflow from Schiaparelli, then blow through the Maze. Whirling like weather in the wind. The forecast—frou-frou.
“I can’t see!” Maybelle says.
“I see sequins!” Sara says.
“Srgmmmff ft!” A.P.’s mouth full of frippery.
“Ciel!” Chanel says. Sequins sting like sand. Crystals cut like ice. Blown beads embed skin like BB’s. She feels her way forward. Is that a bat, or a floater? Is the mirror chipped, or is she seeing things? Is that sweat sliding down her skin, or blood? Coco Chanel and the Carter Family crawl from the Maze.
Blood seeps out in cc’s.
THE NEXT NIGHT …
Carrie Rodgers.
Carrie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers.
Carrie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers.
Carrie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers.
Carrie Rodgers and Elsa Schiaparelli and me in a Mirror Maze.
“A present.” Schiaparelli hands her a doll.
“A kewpie?” Carrie says. Plaster of Paris. Painted black. It’s bumpy: the doll’s bones bulge from her body. Ribs in relief.
“A kewpie of you,” Schiaparelli says. “You in your costume—the Human Skeleton Dress.” The doll’s face is airbrushed on. Glitter rouges cheeks and lips. There’s a slot in her skull. Schiaparelli slips in a penny.
It rattles in the doll like TB.
“Why?” Carrie says.
“You’re the star of my carnival,” Schiaparelli says. “When it’s over, fans will have a souvenir—a memento of you.”
“And me?” Carrie turns the doll upside down. Scratched into the base: Southern Statuary. Statuary companies make dolls as a sideline. Tombstones pay the bill
s. “What will happen to me when the carnival ends?”
“I’ll devour you.” Schiaparelli brushes back Carrie’s hair. “Tonight, a taste.” Fangs flash. She bites her neck. Carrie can’t speak. She drops the doll. Sound eff ect. Schiaparelli steps back so the camera can capture: nail polish leaking from her lips. On Carrie’s neck: scarlet sequins.
3
“Carnivals!” Schiaparelli says.
“Calliopes and carousels!” she says.
“Cute kewpie dolls!” she says. “And candy!
“Children love it all,” she says. “Vampires love children.”
Carrie Rodgers.
Carrie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers.
Carrie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers.
Carrie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers.
Carrie Rodgers and Elsa Schiaparelli and me in a Mirror Maze.
“At my vampire carnival, the gent at the Guess Your Age game will guess your age within a hundred years—or you win a prize!
“At my vampire carnival, I will not give away goldfish. Play the Fish Pond and win—a baby! Play the Milk Bottle Toss and win—a baby! Boy babies, girl babies, arranged on prize racks, screaming their lovely lungs out!”
“At my vampire carnival, I’ll pinken popcorn with baby blood. Snow cones will come in a single flavor—baby blood. Babies stretched from taff y hooks.
“At my vampire carnival, when you play the Baby Rack, you won’t have to pitch baseballs at stuff ed dolls. Pitch them at real babies. Break them! Bust them! Pulverize them like plates! Floating in the Fish Pond—dead babies. Corpses puff y like soufflés.
“At my vampire carnival, prizes will be dolls—dead babies stuff ed with sawdust. Dead babies will dangle from bamboo canes. Pillows will be babies stuff ed and stitched with sayings:
Home Sweet Home. Mother Knows Best.
“At my vampire carnival, candy apples will be candy babies. Hot dogs stuff ed with stillborns. Baby hamburgers. Baby back ribs. Bar-b-que? Baby-que!
“At my vampire carnival, when you pitch balls at the Dip, a baby will drop into a tank of water and drown. When you swing the hammer at the Test Your Strength game, a baby flies up the rope. If it rings the bell, you win!
“At my vampire carnival, you’ll win balloons made of babies—soft skin stretched out and stitched shut and blown full of air. That balloon has eyebrows! At my vampire carnival, the wax museum will feature babies—babies who died being dipped into barrels of molten wax. Frozen forever!”
“At my vampire carnival, buy bubble gum made from a baby’s tongue. Root beer! My secret ingredients are sassafras, nutmeg—and baby!
“At my vampire carnival, Shooting Gallery guns will bear real bullets. The targets will be babies. BB’s pour les bébés. At the Knife Throw, you’ll throw knives at babies strapped to a board. Win the one you wound! Drink it there or take it home! Sawdust soaks up blood. Blood makes it hard as wood.
“At my vampire carnival, the torture exhibit will put the ‘die’ in ‘dioramas.’ All the familiar favorites—the Iron Maiden, the Chinese Water Torture, the Rat Cage, the Rack. The tortured will be babies—living babies! The Funhouse will be fun. Try walking over a pit of squirming, squalling babies—now that’s a Turkey Trot!”
“At my vampire carnival, you’ll see pickled babies at the freak show. Real babies, wrested from the womb and drowned in jars of chloroform.
“At my vampire carnival, freaks will be babies—babies I infected with tuberculosis. With smallpox. With wounds that go gangrenous. The hues! Some with ichthyosis, so their skin scales like they’re lizards. Some I’ll poison with silver nitrate, so their skin turns a pretty purple.
“At my vampire carnival, the Mirror Maze’s mirrors will be printed with pictures of movie stars. At my vampire carnival, the Haunted House will be haunted. Babies dressed as priests and nuns! Baby Jesus in a bed of hay! God himself will drop down from a trap door. A Salvation Army suit stuff ed with sawdust. A second-hand scarecrow. God is my pincushion!
“At my vampire carnival, a sign in the sideshow will say, Baby Rattler. Beneath it, a cage containing a baby and a rattlesnake. Live baby. Live snake. How colorfully that child will cry! How colorfully that child will die!
“At my vampire carnival, you’ll see chimeras in the freak show—bird wings sewn to a live baby’s back. Bird beaks sewn to a live baby’s lips. The pelt of a baby stoat sewn to a live baby’s skin. The babies will be alive for a little while.
“At my vampire carnival, you’ll ride real carousel ponies—rotting carcasses speared on poles, like dress forms! You won’t grab for a brass ring—but for a baby! At my vampire carnival, babies decked out with bullwhips and jodhpurs will star in the live animal show. Three lions and a baby. Three tigers and a baby. Hyenas. Hilarious! Babies will ride on horseback. Till they’re tossed and trampled. I’ll shoot babies from a cannon. Spray the audience with snacks. At my vampire carnival, there’ll be no wooden stakes—tents will be tacked down with dead babies!”
“Beast!” Carrie shrieks. “Babies are beautiful! Why do you—” Grabbing her guts, she stumbles off the tailor’s stage. “I—I—feel sick!”
“Of course you do,” Schiaparelli says. “You’re in a motherly way!” She cackles. “It’s true, Madame! I tasted it in your blood—another being’s blood. A baby boy!”
“I—I’m going to have a son?” Carrie says.
“Yes,” Schiaparelli says. “Then I’ll have him—for supper!”
Mirror.
Mirror. Mirror.
Mirror. Mirror. Mirror.
Mirror. Mirror. Mirror. Mirror. Mirror. Mirror. Mirror.
Mirror. Mirror. Mirror. Mirror. Mirror. Mirror. Mirror.
Mirror.
Elsa Schiaparelli in a Mirror Maze.
Sweat, snot, nosebleed blood. Sputum. Mirrors smeared like lab slides. Carrie steps down the corridor. Shadows under her eyes are eye shadow.
“You look like hell,” Schiaparelli says.
Pale as powder. “I don’t care,” Carrie says. “Jimmie, he’s—”
“Still breathing better? But of course.” Schiaparelli licks Carrie’s reflection. The mirror smells.
Mirrors have edges. Mirrors age. “I must speak to him,”
Carrie says.
“Sssshhh,” Schiaparelli says. “Be calm—you have a boy to bear. I want him to be the picture of health—bouncing, beautiful. Bloody.”
“Jimmie wanted a baby so badly,” Carrie says. “A son to carry on his name. He never dreamed it would happen, not with … not with his health.” She clutches Schiaparelli’s collar. “Please, Mrs. Schiaparelli, let my son live. Let Jimmie have him. I already gave you my body and soul. I don’t know what else I can give.”
“Mrs. Schiaparelli?”
Schiaparelli stands Carrie on the tailor’s stage.
“Mrs. Schiaparelli, what are you doing?”
Schiaparelli slips off Carrie’s coat. Unbuttons her bodice. Unbuttons her brassiere. She licks a nipple. She pinches a nipple.
Carrie gasps. In the mirrors, she’s all alone.
Schiaparelli kneels on the stage. She lifts Carrie’s skirt, hides her head beneath. Licking panties like it’s pink lace she likes. Panties slide down. Schiaparelli claws Carrie’s ass crack. Pink fingernails in pink flesh. Carrie’s cunt wets Schiaparelli’s tongue. Red, red, red—her cunt’s Elizabeth Arden red.
Mirror.
Mirror. Mirror.
Mirror. Mirror. Mirror.
Mirror. Mirror. Mirror. Mirror. Mirror. Mirror. Mirror.
Mirror. Mirror. Mirror. Mirror. Mirror. Mirror. Mirror.
Mirror.
Me in a Mirror Maze.
Sweat, snot, nosebleed blood. Sputum. Mirrors smeared like lab slides. Jimmie steps down the corridor. He’s looking hale and handsome. Matinée idol material. I’ve never seen a matinée.
“You look delicious,” I say.
“Not so fast.”
He tosses sawdust on the floor.
“What’s this?” I say. “A hillbilly jigsaw puzzle?”
“Sawdust,” he says. “I read all about vampires. You have to count every shred. It’s your compulsion.” He tosses beans. “Count these, too.”
Hillbilly bubble bath.
Mirrors have edges. Mirrors age.
“Beans bedamned,” I say, sweeping them aside with my brogue.
“Don’t you dare touch me!” he says. “I came for Carrie. I know what she did. She sold her soul so that I could be made whole.”
“She will never know you were here,” I say. A cracked mirror is atmosphere. The mirror is real. The crack is fake. White wax, cobwebbed. “Too bad, too. Did you know she’s with child? Your son will never meet you. I’m going to eat you.”
“I can give you money.” He holds out a wad. “I can give you gold.” He holds out a watch. “There must be something I have that you want.”
“Yes,” I say. “Your ass.”
“You—you’re a—you’re a queer?” Jimmie says.
“All monsters are queers, Monsieur Rodgers,” Schiaparelli says, sweeping into the scene.
“Who is able to bring the dead back to life?” she says. “God and the Devil. The Devil makes dead men into monsters: immortal, immoral—and queer. Zombies are queer. Frankenstein’s monster was queer. It’s fitting.”
“How’s that?” Jimmie says.
“Monsters must be scary,” she says. “What’s scarier than sodomites? Like the dead, sodomites carry disease. Sodomites, like the dead, dwell underground. Sodomites wear cosmetics like they’re corpses. Sodomites and dead men—they all smell like shit—and love it! Cemeteries full of fairies. Vampires are the fairiest of all.”