“I’ll look into it. Starting tomorrow I will find some answers.”
“Do you promise?”
“Yes,” I reply, “but only on one condition.”
“And that is?”
“We have a relaxed, happy evening where you don’t look over your shoulder. Just keep those eyes on me.”
“Deal,” smiles Rose. She glances around the room. “People are still staring,” she says.
“They’ll stare at us for the whole time we’re here,” I smile.
“Do you enjoy being the centre of attention?” she asks, lifting her glass and sipping its contents.
“Depends on the context,” I reply. “I do have moments where I yearn for anonymity. But that doesn’t pay the bills.”
“You were anonymous for so much of your life. I imagine being one of the most famous faces on the planet must take some getting used to.”
“Yeah,” I say. “It does.”
There is a small pause. I sense that Rose may be intending to ask about my history. My years of supposed homelessness. She wants to know my secrets. She’s drawn to me. She’s ready to worship me. I take another sip of my wine.
“I’m sorry,” says Rose. “I know you don’t like talking about your past...”
“No, that’s okay,” I say. “It’s not that I don’t like talking about it. There just isn’t much to tell.”
“I can’t believe that’s true,” says Rose.
I just smile. Rose senses that I’m not about to open up about myself. I suddenly feel agitated, because I want to tell her everything. I would love for her to know that I’m not a rock musician. I’m really the youngest ever astronaut to go into space. Or at least I was.
“I’m sorry if this comment makes you feel uncomfortable,” I say, “but you really are impossibly beautiful.”
“Nice change of subject,” says Rose, who suddenly looks embarrassed.
I drink more wine. “I’m used to changing the subject.”
“Right,” she says. “Well I’ll change the subject again.”
“Okay,” I say.
“Why didn’t you call me after our first time together?”
The familiar caress of guilt unfurls in my gut. “I honestly don’t have a satisfactory reason.”
Rose’s eyes rest on the white tablecloth between us. “When I realised that you used me... I felt very empty.”
Despite my verbal prowess, I’m suddenly lost for words. Rose picks up her wine glass and empties it with a gulp. She then takes the bottle and fills it again.
“Rose,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “I am very sorry,” is my verbose response.
She nods slightly, in possible acceptance. “I wanted to see you again because I thought maybe... we had something.”
“I think we do,” I reply. “You have to understand that... at the time I met you... I wasn’t ready to like anyone besides myself. But now... lately...”
“You’re trying to be better.”
“Well, you thought I was the son of God. That’s a lot to live up to.”
“I thought…” she smiles. “I feel pretty stupid about that, but…”
“It made sense to you.”
“It kind of did,” says Rose. “There’s just something about you… I can’t explain it.”
“You have a strong faith.”
“Yes.”
“So we’re all going to Earth when we die?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Why are we here now, then?”
“This is our opportunity to prove ourselves worthy.”
“So this is sort of… our testing phase.”
“We’re confined to mortal flesh until we’re ready to move on to the next realm.”
“Some of us are ready sooner than others?”
“Yes,” smiles Rose.
“How long till I’m ready, do you think?”
Rose smiles. “I don’t know, Jack. It’s not my place to judge.”
“Well, put on your God hat for a moment and make an assessment.”
“Well,” says Rose, delicately. “I think you could be less self-centered.”
“Okay,” I nod. “Note to self.”
“I think you look out for yourself too much.”
“Fair call.”
“But at the same time, I trust my instincts... and I think that you’re a good person.”
“I’m trying to be,” I reply.
“What do you believe in?”
“I’m very open-minded,” I say. “I believe there’s a lot going on in the universe and there’s nothing I can do to control any aspect of it. I’m just drifting on the current.”
“So you’re not in control of anything?”
“No, not really. Nothing that in the grand scheme of things is of any significance. I just don’t know enough.”
“You must know something,” she says. “We all know something of the world.”
I ponder on this point. Indeed, I might have a greater insight into humanity than any other person from Earth. But what does that amount to? “Yeah, maybe,” I say.
Rose studies me for a moment, then asks, “Is it true that your band has a phone number that you treat as a sex line?”
“Yes,” I say.
“So you have a number that you give to girls after you sleep with them?”
I nod, safe in the knowledge that I didn’t give Norman’s number to Rose. I gave her my personal number that night we first met. It may have been a simple, drunken mistake. Which is fortunate.
“Is that the number you gave to me?” she asks.
“No,” I say.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps I wanted to see you again. My subconscious told me to treat you... differently.”
Rose smiles. “You mean with respect?”
I nod. She seems satisfied with my response. “But enough about me, let’s talk about you,” I say, jokingly.
“Changing the subject again, are we?”
“Yes,” I say, emphatically. “Although I completely deserve to be cross-examined like this, it really is excruciating. I’m sure we could find another way for you to torture me.”
“I’m sure we could,” replies Rose, with a twinkle in her eye, “and I’m sure I will.”
Rose tells me about herself. She has had a conservative upbringing, which might explain some of the rebellious flourishes I’ve observed in her behaviour. She likes to dip her toe in the water. Very religious parents. Private, girls-only high school where she lived with her classmates on campus. That might explain a few things too. She graduated four years ago. She wants to be an artist and a gallery director. Dabbles in music, guitar and piano. Was in a number of TV commercials as a child and young teenager, but gave up modelling to focus on her studies. Rose has almost completed her course at university and is paying her way with the job waiting tables.
“I’ve had worse jobs,” says Rose. “The people that work there are friendly and my boss treats me well.”
“I’m sure he does,” I say.
“I hope you’re not implying anything.”
“I’d never dream of it... so tell me about your art.”
Rose grins, sipping more wine. “I’m not sure what to tell you. I paint and do some sculpting. I really like abstract stuff. Anything that feels very immediate or primal. I see art as an opportunity to lay our soul bare... to make it tangible.”
“I see. So what would I learn about you from looking at your art?”
“Probably all kinds of things,” replies Rose, with a hint of mischief. Then she asks, “Do you like art?”
“Yes,” I say.
If we were on Earth, I could tell Rose about my love of the first impressionist, Camille Pissarro, or the heavy emotion of visiting a Van Gogh exhibition as a young boy and my mother explaining that he had cut off part of his own ear. As a teenager I remember gazing upon Rodin’s The Gates Of Hell, and feeling as though they might open and swallow me into the inferno beyond.
“I don’t know a lot about art,” I say, “but it interests me.”
Rose nods. “I suppose you spend a lot of time creating art of your own.”
“Maybe,” I say. “If you could call my music art.”
“I think you definitely could,” smiles Rose.
“Have you been to any good exhibitions lately?”
Rose shakes her head. “I miss every good exhibition. I’m either working or studying. Have you seen the price of gallery admission these days? It’s nearly half of what I earn in a week. It’s disgusting. We need our governments to own the galleries and make them public. There shouldn’t be a price on culture.”
“Absolutely,” I say. “Isn’t there a controversial exhibition on at the moment? I think I was sent an invitation to it.”
“Yes,” says Rose. “The Marioneta de Carne. I would love to see it, but I just don’t know when I’ll get the chance. Or how I would afford it.”
“You wouldn’t be disturbed by it? It’s meant to be pretty... gruesome.”
“I’ve never been disturbed by that kind of thing. I can’t see the point. We’re all flesh and blood. I think if those people died for their art, then it would be a travesty to not go,” says Rose, solemnly.
Our entrees arrive. Small, meticulously balanced stacks. Not exactly comfort food. There’s a point where the lines between food and sculpture are blurred. It’s not something I’ve ever fully understood, on this planet or the last. Rose and I eat our first course, making casual chitchat.
Once finished, Rose politely excuses herself to go to the bathroom. While she’s gone, I pull my mobile phone from my pocket and call Amelia. She seems busy with something, but I politely demand a favour from her. She reluctantly agrees to help.
Rose returns, my phone back in my pocket. Throughout the rest of our dinner, she asks about my music. My apparent songwriting ability. When did I start? I can truthfully tell her that I’ve learned and played music most of my life. Unfortunately I can’t reveal that gave it up to focus on a double degree in engineering and science and notch up over two thousand hours in an F-38 Lightning III single-seat stealth fighter. I also omit the time spent in anti gravity training.
We finish our dinner and I pay the obscenely expensive bill. Small change, I suppose, and certainly worth it to share Rose’s company. We stand on the footpath outside the restaurant, photographers buzzing closely on either side of us. Rose is taken aback by the intensity of the paparazzi, but I hold her hand and smile reassuringly.
“Is it always like this?” she asks, quietly.
“Only when I’m in public.”
Rose raises her eyebrows. “You think they’d have something better to do.”
“It’s how they make a living. I guess you have to be realistic about it. But the more I’m photographed, the less money they get.”
“Fair enough,” says Rose. “So what should we do now?”
“Well,” I say, “I’ve actually got a surprise for you.”
“Oh, is that right?” says Rose, suspiciously.
“I don’t joke about these things.” I walk over to a waiting luxury car and open the back door, motioning for Rose to enter. “You trust me?” I ask her.
The loitering photographers flash more photos of Rose and she hurriedly enters the vehicle. I join her in the backseat.
“We’re going to the Walkley Gallery,” I say.
The driver nods quietly. Rose is looking at me. “What are you up to?” she asks.
I allow a smug smile and don’t reply.
“The gallery will be shut,” says Rose. “It shuts at eight.”
“I guess we’ll have to open it,” I say.
We arrive in front of the grand set of stairs that ascend to the Walkley Gallery. It’s a mammoth, ancient building. Towering pillars and gargantuan expanses of intricate stone masonry. It plays host to numerous gala events, many of which I’m invited to but try to avoid, and keeps safe an extensive collection of art. The red carpet that normally pours down its entrance has been packed away. By the giant doors I can see two well dressed, after hours security guards.
The Walkley is currently holding a controversial exhibition that has been travelling around the world. From what I have been told, the Marioneta de Carne is a showcase of human sculptures. Made by humans from humans. An underground cult that existed thousands of years ago. A demonic group of bohemians who called themselves Niños de Macarbe, created artworks from body parts. The followers of the artists, who perceived artistic expression as the highest spiritual pursuit, would allow themselves to be killed and immortalised. Snuff sculpture.
I pay the driver and exit, stepping around the vehicle to open Rose’s door for her. We stand on the sidewalk, looking up at the gallery.
“It looks closed to me,” says Rose.
“Does it?”
“Yes,” she says. “So what am I missing?”
“Boundaries are a state of mind,” I say.
Rose looks at me as if I’m a naughty infant. “Some boundaries might be, but others are undeniable.”
“Whatever you say.”
I begin the climb up the stone steps and Rose follows. At the top we cross a large curved driveway to the main entrance where the two security guards stand. Rose remains at my side.
“Good evening, Jack,” says one the guards.
“Gentlemen,” I reply.
I give Rose a sly grin as the other guard pulls a swipe card from his pocket and opens one half of the main doors, which emits a deep creak.
“Enjoy your visit,” he says.
“We shall,” I say. “Thank you very much.”
I take Rose’s hand and lead her into the Walkley. We cross the foyer, our feet echoing on the polished marble floor. A map of the building indicates where we’ll find the Marioneta de Carne exhibition.
“Ready to see some dead bodies?” I ask.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” replies Rose.
Not all of the gallery’s interior lighting has been turned on, just a series of sporadically spaced downlights in the roof that provide enough glow for us to find our way around. The long rooms, each full of dark shapes and shadows, give our surroundings a haunted atmosphere. Every so often a distant noise will break the otherwise deathly silence. Echoes that sound like doors closing or footsteps.
“It’s a little creepy in here, isn’t it,” observes Rose, who presses against me as we walk. A distant creaking sound cuts through the long heavy rooms and builds to a shrill peak, as if emitted by an animal.
“It’s a big, old building,” I say, nonchalantly. “I’d be more worried if it didn’t make noises.”
We step through a high archway into a massive room, still following the downlights. Massive paintings hang on either side of us, draped in shadow. Our shoes continue a steady rhythm as we walk towards the entrance of the Marioneta de Carne.
A temporary wall blocks off one end of the room, its entrance guarded by a simple black curtain. A small sign reads, ‘Warning! Some visitors may be disturbed by this exhibition, as it contains actual human remains in a series of confronting artworks. It is recommended that no one under sixteen years enters this exhibition.’
“You’re older than sixteen, yeah?” I ask Rose.
“Would it make any difference to you?”
I just smile and draw back the curtain. “After you.”
The full lighting system of the exhibition has been turned on. No foreboding shadows or opportunity to misconstrue what it is that’s in front of us. The Marioneta de Carne is spread throughout a series of rooms, each artwork kept inside a glass case. As Rose and I step beyond the curtain, confronted by the macabre creations, we spare each other a glance. For all of our brazen excitement, we suddenly realise that this is, in fact, a room of mutilated dead bodies. Despite the exhibition’s varying degrees of artistic merit, a mental adjustment is necessary.
“Wow,” says Rose, before stepping forward to the first case. “This is intense.”
>
“Yes.”
I’m suddenly taken back to a high school biology excursion. We travelled to a major university to see their collection of human specimens. Severed feet with gangrene. Cancerous lungs. There was even the lower groin of a hermaphrodite. All sitting in glass boxes, floating in embalming chemicals. Mixtures of formaldehyde, methanol and ethanol. But the works of the Marioneta de Carne don’t float in liquid. These artistic specimens don’t float in anything. They are coated in a translucent resin or lacquer. Small, almost invisible rods hold them up so they can be viewed from below. The incredibly bright light bounces off the trapped sinews and ageless flesh. They’re preserved from degradation.
The first case contains a male torso, void of limbs, genitals and head, which has been extensively tattooed. At first it looks like a congested mess of patterns and shapes, but closer inspection of the skin starts to reveal demonic images. Horned and winged creatures drag wide-eyed souls through flames and into the ground. Others depict demons tangled on top of women and men, seemingly in an act of rape. Another tattoo is a man with a beard and long hair, playing a sort of lute. There are rays of light emanating from his head. The lute looks like it might be made of bone and flesh.
“This is all very wholesome,” I say, my nose near the surface of the glass.
Rose smiles at me from the other side of the case, as she circles the torso. “They’re incubi and succubi. Some people believe that humans evolved from them. That we’re their children.”
“Really? I’d never heard that,” I reply, aware that I haven’t heard as many things on this planet as I should have by now.
“They were an underground cult,” says Rose. “A bunch of insane people.”
“They invented incubi and succubi then?”
Rose gives me a funny look. “No... they got the idea from those bones they found.”
“Right,” I reply. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to humour me… I don’t really read the papers.”
Rose gives me another funny look. “So you don’t know about the human bones they found? I suppose you didn’t go to school. It was hundreds of years ago.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Human bones with the remains of wings sprouting out of their backs. It’s possibly the biggest archaeological anomaly ever. You’ve never heard of the Carver bones?”
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