The Show That Smells

by Derek

  “But Dracula!” Jimmie says.

  “Mina Harker meant nothing to the Count,” she says. “Nor did Lucy Westenra. Dracula would never drink a woman’s blood. He’d rather eat rats. He loved Jonathan. Gilles de Rais? Gay. What do you think Vlad the Impaler impaled? Vampires are dandies. The lavender dead. They love fashion, fragrance, films. Vampires have private lives like silent movie stars. Hays Code? Ha!”

  “Monsieur Rodgers,” Schiaparelli says. “Mr. McCormack could fuck you while you’re dead. He could fuck you while you’re undead. He could fuck you while you’re alive.

  Whichever way you cut it, you’ll be fucked. What will it be?”

  She turns into vapor. Vanishes.

  “Our Father …” Jimmie says.

  I stand him on the tailor’s stage.

  “Who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name.”

  I slip off his coat. Slip off his shirt. Slip off his undershirt. I lick a nipple. Lick an underarm. It looks like it needs ironing. Creases. Curly hair. I taste bacteria.

  “Thy Kingdom come—thy Kingdom—oh, God, that tickles!”

  I kneel on the stage. Unbuckle his belt. Tug down his trousers. I lick his underpants like it’s cotton I crave.

  Underpants drop. I pull on his penis. It bloats like a corpse. It tastes like pennies. Slit big as a kewpie’s coin slot.

  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 in a Mirror Maze.

  “Darling?” Jimmie says.

  “Darling!” She dashes into his arms.

  “What did that monster do to you?” he says.

  “I’m not sick—my dress is.” The Human Skeleton Dress. Choker of carnival glass. “Jimmie, I thought I’d never hold you again!”

  “I missed you.” He kisses her. “I need you.” He kneels. Draws up her dress. Draws down her drawers. Flicks his tongue into the folds of her cunt. Fingers in fur. Fingers slide into her hole. Pinkie finger. Ring finger. It’s like he’s sizing himself for a ring.

  “God!” she gasps. Grabs his hair. His head slides off in her hands. A mask. It’s not Jimmie—it’s Jimmy Cagney! She screams. Grabs his hair. Jimmy’s head slides off in her hands. It’s not Jimmy Cagney—it’s Gary Cooper! It’s not Gary Cooper—it’s Wallace Beery! Clark Gable! Will Rogers!

  Will’s mask comes off.

  It’s Schiaparelli.

  Jimmie Rodgers.

  Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.

  Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.

  Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.

  Jimmie Rodgers in a Mirror Maze.

  “Darling?” Carrie says.

  “Darling!” He dashes into her arms.

  “What did that monster do to you?” she says.

  “Shocking! saved me—but what price did I pay?” He has his color back. “Carrie, I thought I’d never hold you again!”

  “I missed you.” She kisses him. “I need you.” Unbuckling his belt, she pulls down his pants. His drawers. His cock’s crimson. She licks its length. Thread veins. Varicose veins. Veins like piping up his penis. She licks his balls, the seam on the underside.

  “Carrie!” he says. “What’s gotten into you?”

  “Your ass,” she says, spinning him around. “It’s astonishing.” His ass—a vaseline shot. She slaps his cheeks. Pulls them apart. His hole’s a drawstring drawn up. She licks it. Licks until it smells like spit. Fingers slide inside. Pinkie finger. Ring finger. It’s like she’s sizing herself for a ring.

  “God!” he gasps. Grabs her hair. Her head slides off in his hands. A mask. It’s not Carrie—it’s Hedy Lamarr! He screams. Grabs her hair. Hedy’s head slides off in his hands. It’s not Hedy Lamarr—it’s Carole Lombard! It’s not Carole Lombard—it’s Claudette Colbert! Marlene Dietrich! Norma Shearer!

  Norma’s mask comes off.

  It’s me. Fingers slick with oil, sweat, and shit.

  “Parfum glacé!” I say, smearing it behind my ears.

  Black.

  Black. Black.

  Black. Black. Black.

  Black. Black. Black. Black. Black. Black. Black. Black.

  Black. Black. Black. Black. Black. Black. Black. Black. Black. Black. Black. Black.

  Jimmie Rodgers in a blindfold in a Mirror Maze.

  Jimmie tears off his blindfold.

  “Surprise!” I’m holding a suit.

  “That’s the surprise?” he says. “A suit?” “There are garments that Madame Schiaparelli rarely deigns to design,” I say. “Daywear for women. And menswear.” The suit’s pink. I’m wearing the same suit. I’m as peaked as my lapels. “Put it on.”

  Jimmie Rodgers.

  Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.

  Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.

  Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.

  Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.

  Jimmie Rodgers and me in a Mirror Maze.

  Jimmie poses like he’s shooting publicity. Blazer buttoned, blazer unbuttoned—he tries it both ways. Plumps his pink pocket puff. Picks pink lint from lapels.

  “Pink is your color,” I say.

  “Pink is for perverts.” Jimmie tosses his jacket to the floor. The label on the lining: Schiaparelli de Paris. “I won’t wear it.”

  “You will wear what Madame wants you to wear.” I leer like Tillie, the Coney Island mascot. “Madame sewed us these suits as a gift. A wedding gift.”

  “Wedding?” Jimmie says.

  “Oui.” I sniff my boutonnière. It’s black. It’s silk. “Madame Schiaparelli has decided that you and I will be wed in a Satanic ceremony.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” he says.

  “In Hell,” I say, “men marry men, and women wed women. In the eyes of God, you’re married to Mrs. Rodgers. In the eyes of Beelzebub, you’re a bachelor. But not for much longer.” I bat my eyelashes. What do you call a pervert vampire in makeup? Mascary! “I’m about to be your bride.” I hold out my hand. A ring flashes on my finger. The stone’s carnival glass cut like a garnet.

  “Your ass is a diamond,” I say. “A chaton.”

  Jimmie Rodgers.

  Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.

  Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.

  Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.

  Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.

  Jimmie Rodgers and Elsa Schiaparelli and me in a Mirror Maze.

  “La chappelle de Schiaparelli!” Schiaparelli says.

  “A wedding chapel in a Mirror Maze!” she says.

  “A wedding chapel,” she says, “in a wedding chapel in a wedding chapel in a wedding chapel in a wedding chapel in a wedding chapel!”

  “A Mirror Maze has nothing to do with marriage!”

  Jimmie says. “Marriage is a sacred ceremony in a church. It’s about making a commitment before God. It’s about a man and a woman. It’s about children. It’s about love.”

  “I love your ass,” I say.

  “Normals marry normals,” Schiaparelli says. “Freaks marry freaks. When freaks marry normals, the whole world goes wild. General Tom Thumb and Lavinia. Chang and Eng, the Siamese Twins, and their brides, the Yates Sisters. Barnum was brilliant—but I am more brilliant. At my vampire carnival, the undead will wed the living!”

  “I, too, am to be wed, Monsieur Rodgers,” Schiaparelli says, sashaying up to him. “My fiancée is beautiful, bright—and her blood tastes like Burgundy.”

  “Chérie?” Schiaparelli says.

  Here comes the bride, all dressed in white … Calliope music creeps in from the car
nival. Carrie comes down the corridor. Crying.

  “Something old, something new, something borrowed, something pink,” Schiaparelli says. Carrie’s all dressed in pink. A pink dress. A pink mink. Earrings are black elephants, the kind printed on cartons of pink popcorn.

  “Through thick and thin,” Schiaparelli says, “in sickness and health, in good times, as in bad, she was yours. In a few moments, Monsieur Rodgers, she’ll be mine.”

  “Never!” Jimmie charges at Schiaparelli. I trip him. He flies headfirst into a mirror. Splintering it.

  Carrie cries out.

  “Madame Carrie Schiaparelli—a singsong sound, n’est-ce pas?” Schiaparelli bites a bit of broken mirror. How to make a movie mirror: bake sugar into a sheet, glaze it to look like glass. She’s chewing the scenery! “Every mirror has a silver lining, Monsieur Rodgers. I’ve decided to name your baby ‘Jimmie, Jr.’ Sweet, yes? A baby bonbon. I’ll devour him à la mode.”

  “Welcome my wedding party!” Schiaparelli says.

  “Party?” Jimmie says. “That’s Pinny, from the freak show. And Terry, the Tattooed Lady. And Jean, the Half-Man, Half Woman.”

  “Terry is my flower girl,” Schiaparelli says. Terry has roses tattooed up her arms. Sawdust is confetti. Terry tosses it. It’s dyed pink.

  “Pinny is my ring bearer,” Schiaparelli says. Pinny has rings through his ears, nose, lips, cheeks. “Jean is the maid of honor. And the best man.” Pinny tosses pink sawdust. It’s cured, not shaved.

  Freaks file in. From the cast of Freaks. A midgetess. A giantess. Fatty the Fat Lady has an all-day lollipop. She eats three a day. The Bearded Lady braided her beard. To be pretty. The Fire Breather breathes fire. His blazer is asbestos. A Chicken Lady carries in the Human Worm. The Worm was born without arms, without legs. He’s wrapped in burlap. He resembles the stogie he’s sucking.

  “Freaks!” Jimmie says.

  “God made you hideously ugly, but He loves you!” he says.

  “Why are you helping these vampires?” he says. “They’re vile! They’re vermin! You’re better than this! We can beat them!”

  “Freaks are sick,” Schiaparelli says. “Sick of you normals. Sick of listening to you, sick of looking at you, sick of lusting after you. Mostly, freaks are sick of looking at themselves—at their own monstrousness. I have made the freaks a vow—to transform them into fashion plates. And more—to transform them into vampires. To make them immune to their ultimate enemy—the mirror!”

  “No more mirrors!” freaks chant. Freaks clap hands. Paws. Claws. Flippers. Fins. Stumps. “No more mirrors! No more mirrors!”

  “The unreflected life is worth living!” Schiaparelli says.

  Gypsy scarves, gypsy skirt, gypsy coins—a gypsy, played by character actress Mario Ouspenskaya, comes down the corridor.

  “Mandala!” Schiaparelli says.

  “At your command,” Mandala says in her Romanian or Hungarian accent.

  “Mandala, meet Carrie Rodgers,” Schiaparelli says.

  “Carrie, Mandala. Carrie is my bride to be. Mandala is a fortune teller on the midway. She’s also Satan’s priestess. Who says divination isn’t a sin?”

  “Dearly deformed,” Mandala says, standing on the tailor’s stage, “we are gathered here tonight to unite this demon and this damsel in the bonds of macabre matrimony.” She laughs. A silver tooth is a laughing mirror. “Should any man or oddity have any reason why Madame Schiaparelli and Madame Rodgers should not be married, speak now or forever hold your peace!”

  I have my hand over Jimmie’s mouth.

  “Where’s Chanel when you need her?” Schiaparelli says to Carrie.

  Freaks.

  Carrie Rodgers. Freaks.

  Jimmie Rodgers. Freaks. Carrie Rodgers.

  Freaks. Jimmie Rodgers. Freaks. Carrie Rodgers. Freaks.

  Jimmie Rodgers. Freaks. Carrie Rodgers. Freaks. Jimmie Rodgers. Freaks. Carrie Rodgers. Freaks.

  Jimmie Rodgers and Carrie Rodgers and Elsa Schiaparelli and freaks and me in a Mirror Maze.

  Freaks.

  Carrie Rodgers. Freaks.

  Jimmie Rodgers. Freaks. Carrie Rodgers.

  Freaks. Jimmie Rodgers. Freaks. Carrie Rodgers. Freaks.

  Jimmie Rodgers. Freaks. Carrie Rodgers. Freaks. Jimmie Rodgers. Freaks. Carrie Rodgers. Freaks.

  Jimmie Rodgers and Carrie Rodgers and Coco Chanel and the Carter Family and Elsa Schiaparelli and freaks and me in a Mirror Maze.

  “Satan!” Mandala says.

  “Lord of Vermin!” she says. “Monarch of Hell!

  “Beelzebub, bring us evil!” she says. “Bring us bile! Bestow your black blessings upon this ceremony!”

  A crystal ball. She holds it above her head. Summoning something. A speck. A black speck. Like a fly in a fake ice cube.

  A bat beats its wings. Grows bigger and bigger, blacker and blacker—and burning? The bat bursts into flames. It squeals. Careens uncontrollably around the crystal ball. Satan is flappable.

  “Satan!” Mandala drops the ball. It cracks. A million crystal crumbs. “Something stopped him!” She gasps. “God is in the Maze!”

  Crystal balls—rhinestones waiting to happen.

  “I am Elsa Schiaparelli!” Schiaparelli says.

  “God does not daunt me!” she says. “Good does not daunt me!

  “I will wed this woman!” she says. “The honeymoon will be hair-raising!”

  “Madame Schiaparelli.” Mandala takes her hand. “Do you take this woman, Carrie Rodgers, to be your wife, until you murder her or become bored of her?”

  “I …” Schiaparelli doesn’t say “do.” She shrieks, staggers across the sound stage. Face hidden in hands. Scarlet sequins bleed from between fingers.

  “Surprise!” Silver snood, silver slippers, silver gloves—Chanel materializes in the middle of the Maze. Ensemble slathered with silver sequins. She bleeds into mirrors. Vice versa. She carries a full flaçon: Chanel N°5. “It’s called camouflage,” she says. “In order to steal into a Mirror Maze, I dressed as a Mirror Maze.”

  She sprays Schiaparelli. Schiaparelli’s skin and flesh burns to bone. Sequins gush from sockets where eyes were.

  Mirrors! The Carter Family clatters down the corridor, mirrors tied to suits. Tied, taped, and safety-pinned. Compact mirrors, pocket mirrors, purse mirrors. Squares of silver foil. Mirror-colored.

  “Did you get her?” Mother Maybelle says.

  “Is she dead?” Sara says.

  “Is it safe?” A.P. says.

  “Almost.” Chanel stands over a cowering Schiaparelli. “Sequins betrayed you, Elsa,” she says. “Sequins are mirrors.

  Mirrors with holes.” She sprays. Schiaparelli’s a skull. The Masque of the Pink Death!

  “I should have been able to smell you!” Schiaparelli’s skull says.

  “Chanel N°5?” Chanel says.

  “I didn’t dare wear it,” she says. “I wore a new scent.

  “The top note—sugar,” she says. “Smells pink. Pink popcorn, pink cotton candy. Midway pinks mingling in a Mirror Maze. Sounds nice, non?

  “The middle note is glass. Blended with the tinctures of silver, steel, and lead crystal. I put in sweat, snot, nosebleed blood. A sample of sputum. I secretly swabbed it during your fashion show. Your defiled défifififilé. I added a drop of vinegar. Carnies clean Mirror Mazes with it, Elsa. Did you know?

  “The base note is woodsy. The wood of these floorboards. I decocted the odor, down to the dust, the spilled soda, the bubble gum grafted like skin to pine. Shoe leather from Sears. A soupçon of sawdust. A splash of pine oil. Did you know you must never wax the floor of a Mirror Maze, Elsa? It’s dangerous.

  “Do you see what I did, Elsa? I extracted the essence of Mirror Maze. I am the Maze. The Maze is mine.”

  “I am perfume!” Schiaparelli’s skull says. “Parfum du parfum! The Mirror Maze is my flaçon! My Baccarat bottle! You are the flaw! Humans are flaws!”

  Chanel sprays her.

  Schiaparelli disappears. A swi
rl of pink smoke.

  “You murdered Madame.” I’m lit in the creepiest colors, yellow and red. “You have not killed her style. I will carry on her work. I will lay down my pen and pick up the needle. I will sew clothes for stars like you, Mr. Rodgers. I will dress country stars in freak couture—fine fabrics in carnival colors, festooned with rhinestones, crystals, and beads. I will marry haute couture to hillbilly music—and I will spread the disease of sodomy! For I have found that nothing in this world tastes better than the asses of Country-and-Western stars—nothing!” Poof!—I disappear.

  “He disappeared!” Maybelle says.

  “Disappeared in a poof!” Sara says.

  “That seems appropriate,” Chanel says.

  Chanel and Maybelle and Sara laugh a lot.

  “I don’t get it,” A.P. says. “What’s the big joke?”

  COME MORNING …

  Jimmie Rodgers.

  Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.

  Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers.

  Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers.

  Jimmie Rodgers and Carrie Rodgers in a Mirror Maze.

  Sunlight streams into the Maze.

  “I love you,” Jimmie says.

  “I love you,” Carrie says, resting her head on his shoulder pad.

  “Let’s go,” he says. “Let’s eat candy apples. Let’s play the Red Wheel. Let’s ride the rides—I hear the Tunnel of Love is romantic.” He kisses her. “We’re alive. Alive at a carnival! I can sing again!”

  “Are you sure you’re ready?” she says, touching the swell in her stomach.

  “Ready as—” He coughs. “Ready as I’ll ever—” Coughs.

  Coughs. Coughs. A stitch in his stomach. He can’t stand up straight. “It’s nothing,” he says, doubling over against glass. “A tickle. A little tickle.”

  “TB,” Carrie says.

  “I’m fine.” He’s lying at her feet.

  “It’s back.” She sinks down beside him. His sleeve’s sopping. Sputum. It will dry stiff er than starch. “Without Schiaparelli’s Satanic perfume, the carnival will kill you,” she says. “You have to leave. You have to return to the Sanitarium.”