“I’m just here for the music!” I cried, fear and shame rolling down my cheeks.
“The music I gave you,” she sneered. We stepped out of the cab and walked along the boardwalk, beyond an abandoned pier that had collapsed in the river. The Hudson rolled silently past us. On this side of town, the piers were our only beaches. There was no other major place to get sun. Now the normally crowded boardwalk looked deserted. The few lights from the Jersey side twinkled faintly, muted like distant stars. Lilah kicked off her heels and sat on the weathered planks, holding her knees. I couldn’t tell her how I hated the curve of my own back, how I could barely hold my head up now that I had felt the weight of bodies, devoid of life, the ones I carried and tossed in the dumpsters, in the waters that she sat, meditating by. One day the truth of my own crimes would wash back on shore to haunt me.
I thought I could dance with a demon, that the only thing that would burn would be the hot music branded into skin. Now my skin bore the mark of the damned. Old and new pains stained my face. I didn’t have any more music inside me than when I first met her.
A fetid scent of decay and mildew blew across the waters. My foot slipped on moss-covered, rotten timbers.
Delilah rose without looking. I knew what this night meant. Goodbye.
I resolved that whatever rage she contained, whatever music I hid within, she would not steal my soul’s last song.
Human muscle gave way to ancient inhuman bone. Skin stretched and twisted, turned into scaly flesh and shimmering feathers. Eyes steely, I waited for the rip of flesh, the acrid scent of my own blood. But without a sound Delilah leapt into the darkness. She flung herself into the wind and was gone.
Heart pounding, the veins in my neck strained from tension. After that first deadly night with Delilah I’d started grinding my teeth. I trudged toward the street. I almost made it when I heard a ghost-like whipping sound, its source felt more than seen. I looked up. A fedora hat floated down in a spiral and landed on the cracked sidewalk before me. My new friend’s hat, Thierry’s.
I doubled over, sickness filling me. When I opened my eyes again, Delilah was bending down to pick up the hat that was still spinning like a top.
“I feel like dancing,” she said and placed the fedora atop her head. The brim dangled at a rakish angle, covering her eyes.
I grabbed her elbow, forced her to face me. “Where did you get it?” I yelled.
“Want to come and see?”
The thought of seeing Thierry tossed away in some alley as if their life never mattered… I wanted to scream, wanted the sound to be more than hurt rising to the surface. I wanted Delilah to feel some of the pain she only expressed in song. Defeated, I shook my head ‘no.’
“I didn’t think so,” she said. “Aquarians make the worst companions. Come.”
“Where are we going?” I asked, my voice hoarse.
She smiled showing all her teeth. “Infinity.”
* * *
The 600 block of Broadway in Soho was home to a few warehouses where artists could live and work without needing a trust fund. 653 Broadway had an old, vaulted reputation. Originally Pfaff’s Beer Cellar, Walt Whitman and others descended a set of stairs to drink pints. Later it became an envelope factory and then a nightclub. Like Whitman’s unfinished poem, the weekly parties at Infinity were more intimate and never seemed to end. With its black walls and ceilings covered in neon lights, banquet tables of fresh pears and ice-cold water, the atmosphere in the block-long nightclub was for true-blue partiers, those who came strictly to dance and release.
But Delilah wasn’t there to dance or to see the bright eyes of beautiful young men as Whitman had penned. She came to teach me a lesson, something about possession, about what it means when you can’t—or won’t—break free. Engaged in our own battle of wills, neither of us had any idea that hundreds of miles away a mob would gather in a baseball field, intent on breaking every Black record they owned. A bonfire had been set up, a disco demolition, by a twenty-four-year-old disgruntled rock deejay. He was angry that the music we loved, pioneered by mostly Black and Latino gay artists, had taken over the air waves. His airwaves. The music provided a powerful platform for those who were often invisible.
We, the misfits, the invisible would-be superstars, and all those in-between were drawn to its irreverent rhythms and pulsing beats, the hypnotic cymbals and sounds. Disco even changed the way we moved. The dancefloor was no longer restricted to just couples, straight or otherwise. Stemmed by a series of epiphanies and communities, the experience became en masse, a group high where love was the key. It was all about love in the beginning, being in love, spreading love, the very act of creation, breathing new life into something that did not exist.
That last night offered its own epiphany. It was already crowded beyond belief when we walked through the club’s infamous black double doors. The last shift was in full swing. Both the front and back bars were packed. Vincent, the bartender flowed back and forth behind the long oak bars as if he was rolling on skates. Blondie’s “Heart of Glass” blared from the sound system, and I had no idea it was Valentine’s Day until I saw all the pink neon and red-clothed dancers crowding the floor.
Delilah took my hand and I flinched. She offered one cutting glance as she led me past the giant white columns that guarded the dance floor, ancient sentinels from a forgotten era. Even Debbie Harry’s icy vocals couldn’t pierce through the deepening sadness I felt. The revelers danced on, oblivious to the threat that threw her head back, lipstick on her teeth as she swayed among them. Non-stop energy pulsed through the music and the lights. The neon illuminated the heart-shaped confetti that suddenly rained down from the ceiling.
“Come on, dance! Frankie, you used to be fun.” She pulled me close but the thought of her kiss, the same mouth that drained my friend and so many nameless others, repulsed me. What I once thought was inner beauty, her incredible energy was just endless hunger, a gaping hole of want. She had all the makings of a god but none of the love, no mercy. Whatever light drew her to our world was snuffed out long ago.
She stroked my face. Her touch felt like hot razors against my skin. We navigated the mass of bodies that danced around us as if they feared no tomorrows. Under the confetti shower, her body poured into mine. Squeezing ever tighter, her fingers made it known she could snap my neck and spine at a moment’s whim. Time passed under the flickering lights. Nothing was the same as it was before. Infinity was the place where I came to know myself, the club where I once felt most free. Lilah took that. She made me a stranger to myself, a witness and accomplice to terrible deeds. What I knew now was loss. Whatever music I once had was drained out of me.
“You … make … me feel …. miii ... ighty real!” Delilah sang as she spun around. As soon as Sylvester’s falsetto pumped through the speakers a roar went up. The crowd came alive, lit beneath the swirling constellations.
“When we get home darlin’ and it’s nice and—"
Delilah froze. Sweating bodies swayed around us. Spinning colors, beautiful fabrics, shimmering lights. Something was different about her. An emotion I hadn’t seen before. Fear.
“Frankie,” she said, her voice low. She turned me slowly so that my back now faced the back bar and her back faced the front doors. “Do you see that one there?”
“Who?” I asked, confused. Who was Delilah hiding from? Infinity was a New York City block long. The club was packed, a throng of fashionable bodies dancing each other under the tables. You could get lost just going to the restroom. Too bad if you were new and got separated from your friends. Might drift in the void for a while. I peered over Lilah’s shoulder, unsure who I was looking for and then I saw her.
A woman so serene, she exuded radiance. She walked with a kind of assured calm and peacefulness amidst the pheromones, chaos, and noise. A being so ethereal she could not be from this world at all, a being so magnetic that it could only be one of Delilah’s infamous sisters.
Dressed as if she had just arrive
d from the equator itself, she danced her way through the crowd.
“Yes, I see them,” I said, matter-of-factly, trying to mask the satisfaction in my voice. Delilah had once said that the only thing she feared was her sisters’ judgment. I didn’t know who Delilah had once been, but I did wonder what this long, lost sister would think of her now.
“Where is she going?” Delilah asked, her voice a whisper. Her nails dug into me. Could she actually be afraid? I had seen Delilah emote before, a persuasive performance to lure her ill-fated lovers, but I never thought fear was within her range. The novelty of the moment got the best of me.
“I think she’s heading this way,” I said. “Third column.”
Delilah’s eyes widened. Sweat beaded on her forehead. “No.” She pulled away. “Follow me!”
She pushed through the crowd without looking back, weaving in and out of the jubilant dancers. I watched the mysterious woman stop at the DJ’s booth. Heads bent, she and DJ Animus, the latest phenom passing through, were deep in conversation as the music swelled. Surrounded by vinyl-filled crates, they held each other with the warmth and intimacy of old friends. She kissed him, her wrap dress hugging her curves. Clearly seduction ran in the family, but there was a genuineness about this other sister. She held her friend with a sense of caring that showed in her slightest movements. There was no malice there.
Adrenaline with the ever-present sadness filled me as I turned to shadow Lilah through the nightclub. A few of her fans greeted her, but she waved them off.
She ran all the way to the back, stilettos stomping past the couples hidden in darkness. Concealment was key in places of nocturnal revelry. The ends of cigarettes burned in the shadows, unblinking red eyes. When she reached the off-limits area, a bouncer moved to stop her. She fingered the canister on the gold chain around her neck. With one hand on her high-slitted dress, she smiled at him. I knew that smile.
“Oh,” he said, recognizing her. “Miss Divine, go ‘head.” She didn’t have to whisper a code name like the patrons from the past. He frowned at me but waved me through. She didn’t wait for me as she strode down the dark narrow hall. We descended a rickety flight of stairs, down a ramp. Here, the four-on-the-floor, constant quarter note bass beat was muted. I had never been in the club’s labyrinth. I half-expected a minotaur to emerge from the shadows, but the only real monster there was Delilah.
We walked past several old dusty oak barrels. The hoops were rusted, the lettering on the heads faded. She sidestepped the barrels outside a wide, heavy door and ducked into a vault-like room.
“What is this?” I asked. She shrugged, tossing Thierry’s fedora and taking a seat on a velvet couch. “Back room deals need back rooms, no? This used to be a speakeasy.” She adjusted the strap on her dress. I moved to sit with her. “No,” she said. “I need you to go back up. Come back when she’s gone.” For the first time her voice was shaky. None of the dazzling diva confidence that fueled her flight. She looked pensive. The room’s primeval green walls cast murky dark shadows over bronze skin. She looked almost ill. “Light?” She held a skinny joint up.
I pulled a lighter out and lit it, eager to leave. Fragrant smoke floated in the air, a halo around her face. She closed her eyes, not offering me a hit. She sighed and tossed the roach on the floor. I watched as she opened her cannister. Whatever family reunion lay ahead, Delilah wasn’t ready.
“And Frankie?” she said.
“Yes?”
“Bring some ice.”
I left her fingering her necklace, the canister empty now as I wondered what awaited me outside. No sooner than I reached the top stair than the stench hit me.
A scream rose from black clouds as I stepped out. “Fire!” The guard that waved us into the labyrinth was gone. Panic-stricken dancers reached for each other, knocking over the swivel-back chairs and stools.
“What happened?” I screamed at a passing couple. They shook their heads. I couldn’t see the flames at first, but I could feel the heat. On a good night the club was smoldering. This was hellish.
As the giant neon lights that spun around the columns began to flicker, the overhead lights dimmed. Instinctively I ran back through the hall, down the stairs. When I made it to the vault, the image of Thierry’s fedora hat haunted me. Delilah had taken a life she didn’t need. She did so to punish me.
I had been a loyal, faithful friend, never revealing her dark secrets, even when loyalty and faith were the last things Delilah deserved. Going back down into the maze beneath the club could cost me my life. Did I still believe being with Delilah was worth it?
I stood outside the heavy door, silent, thoughts lost in the corners of the past. Labyrinths were designed to generate chaos and confusion. Like magic, this labyrinth manifested clarity.
“Frankie?” Delilah’s voice on the other side of the door was a tentative question. I held a barrel by its spigot and awkwardly rolled and wobbled it over, propping it under the door’s handle. “Hello?” I kicked the other oak barrel on its side and rolled it to the door. The handle shook slightly but did not move.
“Whose there? Open this door!” she cried. She pounded but the door held.
I backed away. My feet felt heavy as iron, as if I was bolted to the ground.
“Hello? Is anyone there? I’m stuck. The door is stuck. Let me out!” she screamed.
Panic set in but also resignation, and now the screams reached a fever pitch.
I could run or I could unroll the stone sealing the tomb, but I knew this was no messiah coming back.
I ran, running into one of the other barrels that lined the hall. “Damn,” I cried out, my knee throbbing.
“Frankie?” she screamed, incredulous.
I ran but two partiers emerged from the narrow hallway, startling me.
“We’ve got to get out,” I said, breathless. “There’s a fire.”
“What?” Confusion flashed across their faces, then panic. We fled as fast as we could, up the ramp and the rickety stairs. When we re-entered the main floor, the room was plunged in total chaos. Black clouds of smoke filled the air. I tripped over a high heel shoe, coughing up half a lung. Even in the panic, the tears and fear, my ears strained. I could hear Delilah over the din. That voice, that incredible voice, the throat that sounded like ten. The sound was a keening, weeping. I paused in the darkness, shame and guilt knotted in my chest.
I was the monster now.
Then I heard it, not weeping but laughter. Her voice, that remarkable otherworldly voice rising above the echoes of terror and dismay. Faced with being burned alive, Delilah Divine laughed.
A chemical, plastic scent began to fill the air. Smokey fingers reached for me. I bolted, banging into a cocktail table, tumbling over an upturned chair. Whatever grace I once had was gone, too. Vinny from the bar waved me on.
“What are you waiting for, get out! Drag anyone else you see. Infinity’s going to blow!” He pulled up a man who had fallen down, his ankle twisted. They hobbled away.
As I ran, slipping over the slick, drink-stained floorboards, the piles of pink confetti, I couldn’t tell if the pounding I heard was the pounding of my heart or the pounding of the music’s beat. No one stopped the music. The deejay booth was empty. Crates of vinyl sprawled across the dance floor. If Delilah’s sister had come looking for her, she was gone now.
I reached a bottle neck near the fourth column. Neon pulsed and flickered above our heads. An explosion from the left then a screech somewhere behind us sent us scrambling.
“¡Ay bendito!” someone cried. “What is that?” People shouted, pointed.
Just like Orfeu, I knew I shouldn’t look back, but I had already stared into the abyss. Only a narrow strip of sky separated us, so I turned to see.
Golden scales, impossible wings. One, no, two serpent’s tails bursting through the flames. A song so loud and wretched, it sounded as if the whole sky’s throat opened to sing.
For some, cautionary truths, though known, must be lived. Others can see t
he signs before the symbols emerge and still they fall head in. I was the latter. I saw but didn’t want to see. I wanted the dream. When we look in the sky to watch the stars, we are seeing them as they once were. But bright suns give the most light when they are leaving you.
Transfixed we watched as the creature circled the high, vaulted ceilings of Infinity. Brilliant flames, great flickering tongues of fire and heat, rushed through the nightclub engulfing the black walls. The crowd moved, eyes wide, coughing, wailing, mouths flung open, but it was as if all the sound was turned off. It felt like I was running against a great, hot wind.
“This way!” The guard from earlier guided people out of a side door that led to an alley. Relieved, we bumrushed the door, one person getting jammed before the screaming crowd pushed us all through.
“El fiesta se fue al garete!” a woman in a glittering emerald gown yelled. “The party went to hell!”
Standing outside shivering in zero-degree weather as firetrucks descended, I had to agree.
The night Infinity burned was the night Disco nearly died in me. But even though the nightclub burned, the fire couldn’t burn my memories. I had gone to the discos in search of strangers, anonymous partiers who on the dance floor became my friends. Instead of love and solidarity, I left with unclean hands, a stained shirt, and enough disparate memories to haunt me for years.
I could hear the last notes of Delilah’s song, a scream as if every star in the night was afire. The notes scatter like broken teeth across the smoke-filled air. What was tender in the notes, the soft, the thrumming, came from a thousand other heartbroken souls like me. That night I stood in the crowd with those who were still in shock. We watched as the firemen worked to control the six-alarm fire, grieved for the loss of our shared home. I blink back tears, covered in ashes, but when the day rises and the sky clears, there is only the burned-out building, its gaping windows, and the outline of the sun. I walk away but only make it a few steps when something falls from the sky and drops in front of me. A melted canister. I pick it up. Misshapen, it’s still hot to the touch. Like her love, a smoldering wild thing.
The Year's Best African Speculative Fiction (2021) Page 36