“All of you in this building, all of you that can hear me, gather around the bed, but wait a little while yet. Patience. All of you . . .” The words of her command fell apart into little fragments, which she told like the beads of a rosary—little brown ovoid wooden beads. “. . . gather round . . . wait a little while yet . . . all of you . . . patience . . . gather round . . .” Her hand stroked the cold water pipes rhythmically, and it seemed that she could hear them—gathering, scuttering up through the walls, coming out of the cupboards, the garbage bags—a host, an army, and she was their absolute queen.
“Now!” she said. “Mount them! Cover them! Devour them!”
There was no doubt that she could hear them now. She heard them quite palpably. Their sound was like grass in the wind, like the first stirrings of gravel dumped from a truck. Then there was the Shchapalov woman’s scream, and curses from the men, such terrible curses that Marcia could hardly bear to listen.
A light went on, and Marcia could see them, the roaches, everywhere. Every surface, the walls, the doors, the shabby sticks of furniture, was mottly thick with Blattelae Germanicae. There was more than a single thickness.
The Shchapalov woman, standing up in her bed, screamed monotonously. Her pink rayon nightgown was speckled with brown-black dots. Her knobby fingers tried to brush bugs out of her hair, off her face. The man in the undershirt who a few minutes before had been stomping his feet to the music stomped now more urgently, one hand still holding onto the lightcord. Soon the floor was slimy with crushed roaches, and he slipped. The light went out. The woman’s scream took on a rather choked quality, as though . . .
But Marcia wouldn’t think of that. “Enough,” she whispered. “No more. Stop.”
She crawled away from the sink, across the room on to her bed, which tried, with a few tawdry cushions, to dissemble itself as a couch for the daytime. Her breathing came hard, and there was a curious constriction in her throat. She was sweating incontinently.
From the Shchapalovs’ room came scuffling sounds, a door banged, running feet, and then a louder, muffled noise, perhaps a body falling downstairs. The lanuiady’s voice: “What the hell do you think you’re—” Other voices overriding hers. Incoherences, and footsteps returning up the stairs. Once more, the landlady: “There ain’t no boogs here, for heaven’s sake. The boogs is in your heads. You’ve got the d.t.’s, that’s what. And it wouldn’t be any wonder, if there were boogs. The place is filthy. Look at that crap on the floor. Filth! I’ve stood just about enough from you. Tomorrow you move out, hear? This used to be a decent building.”
The Shchapalovs did not protest their eviction. Indeed, they did not wait for the morrow to leave. They quitted their apartment with only a suitcase, a laundry bag, and an electric toaster. Marcia watched them go down the steps through her half-open door. Ifs done, she thought. It’s all over.
With a sigh of almost sensual pleasure, she turned on the lamp beside the bed, then the other lamps. The room gleamed immaculately. Deciding to celebrate her victory, she went to the cupboard, where she kept a bottle of crème de menthe.
The cupboard was full of roaches.
She had not told them where to go, where not to go, when they left the Shchapalov apartment. It was her own fault.
The great silent mass of roaches regarded Marcia calmly, and it seemed to the distracted girl that she could read their thoughts, their thought rather, for they had but a single thought. She could read it as clearly as she could read the illuminated billboard for Chock Full O’Nuts outside her window. It was delicate music issuing from a thousand tiny pipes. It was an ancient music box open after centuries of silence: “We love you we love you we love you we love you.”
Something strange happened inside Marcia then, something unprecedented: she responded.
“I love you too,” she replied. “Oh, I love you. Come to me, all of you. Come to me. I love you. Come to me. I love you. Come to me.”
From every corner of Manhattan, from the crumbling walls of Harlem, from restaurants on 56th Street, from warehouses along the river, from sewers and from orange peels moldering in garbage cans, the loving roaches came forth and began to crawl toward their mistress.
The Last Supper
RUSSELL FITZGERALD
Under “menus” the Larousse Gastronomique contains the following entry:
“Here, as a curiosity, is a menu whose originality, it is true, is due to exceptional circumstances. It is that of a meal Marshal the Due de Richelieu offered to all the princes and princesses and the members of their suites taken prisoner by him during the Hanoverian War. President Henault tells us how the menu for this memorable supper was drafted by the Due de Richelieu himself. Its peculiarity lay in the fact that it was made up entirely of one kind of meat, namely beef, because, on that particular day, there was nothing in the Marshal’s larder but a carcass of beef and a few root vegetables.
“ ‘My Lord,’ said Rullières to the Marshal, somewhat anxiously observing that the Due de Richelieu wished to offer supper to a large number of guests, ‘there is nothing in the kitchens except a carcass of beef and a few roots . . .”
“ ‘Very good,’ said the Marshal, that is more than is needed to provide the prettiest supper in the world.’
“ ‘But, my lord, it would be impossible . . . ‘
“ ‘Come, Rullieres, calm yourself, and write out the menu I am about to dictate to you.’
“And the Marshal, seeing Rullières more and more alarmed, took the pen out of his hand and, seated in his secretary’s place, wrote the following menu which, later, was brought into the collection of Monsieur de la Popelinière:
SUPPER MENU
Centerpiece: The large silver-gilt salver with the equestrian figure of the King, the statues of De Guesclin, Dunois, Bayard, Turenne. My silver-gilt plate with the arms embossed and enameled.
First Course: A tureen of garbure gratinde, made of beef consommè.
Four hors d’oeuvre: Palate of beef à la Saint-Mennehould; Little pates of chopped fillet of beef with chives; Kidneys with fried onions; Tripes à la poulette with lemon juice.
To follow the broth: Rump of beef garnished with root vegetables in gravy. (Trim these vegetables into grotesque shapes on account of the Germans.)
Six entrees: Oxtail with chestnut puree! Vivet of tongue à la bourguignonne; Paupiettes of beef à la estoffade with pickled nasturtium buds; Fillet of beef braised with celery; Beef rissoles with hazelnut puree; Beef marrow on toast (ration bread will do).
Second course: Roast sirloin (baste it with melted bone marrow); Endive salad with ox-tongue; Beef k la mode with white jelly mixed with pistachio nuts; Cold beef gateau with blood and Jurangon wine. (Don’t make a mistake!)
Six final dishes: Glazed turnips with gravy of the roast; Beef bone marrow pie with breadcrumbs and candy sugar; Beef stock aspic with lemon rind and praline; Puree of artichoke hearts with gravy (beef) and almond milk; Fritters of beef brain steeped in Seville orange juice; Beef jelly with Alicante wine and Verdun mirabelles.
To follow, all that is left in the way of jams or preserves.
“And as a coda to this majestic menu (which we should like to regard as authentic and of its period, although in some respects it strikes us as somewhat odd!) the Marshal added:
“ ‘If by any unhappy chance, this meal turns out not to be very good, I shall withhold from the wages of Maret and Roquelere (his maitre-d’hotel and master-chef, no doubt) a fine of 100 pistols. Go, and entertain no more doubts!’ ”
(signed:) Richelieu
“This menu, strange as its composition may seem, is perfectly orthodox. Structurally, it obeys all the rules which were in force at this period concerning the organization of important meals.”
Not then, such a curiosity as it at first appears. And structurally regular. These qualities at least, we can hope to attain. Alas, who would dare aspire to that terrifying altitude above called “majestic.” Who today would lie in the teeth of truth and use such pra
ise for the cuisine bourgeoise, gussied up with crushed ice or flaming brandy, which passes nowadays for elegance and is even styled “grand.” Pfui! For our Love Feast we can only offer the modest hope which that uncrowned prince, Curnonsky, defines as good cooking, which is that things, “taste of what they are.”
Preparation of the Beloved—The Living
Marinade
On the day before the third day before the day of your Agape you must arrange to get your beloved dead drunk before dinner, it being important that he does not eat. For this purpose only Brandy Alexanders will do. The true recipe for which is:
Two shots of Crème de Cacao
one of best Brandy
& only one teaspoon of heavy cream;
shake with ice and strain into
a chilled four ounce cocktail glass
This drink has among its many fine properties a definite aphrodisiac quality which may be easily enhanced by the subjects of conversation chosen to accompany it. When he is giddy and no longer brushes your most importune caresses away, he may complain of the richness of the drinks, may even refuse another. Pay no attention, mix another with less cream and more brandy but make sure it reaches his lips streaming with arctic vapors.
When he has fallen into a corpse-like slumber, broken perhaps with snores which you alone have trained yourself to find endearing, remove his clothes and arrange him upon your bed. Arrange your lights, mirrors, music. Arrange yourself. Proceed to enjoy him, his every nook and cranny with your tongue alone. Soon you will see that though the drink has rendered him helpless it has not diminished his usefulness by an inch. Indulge yourself with all the abandon attached to last things. Imagine that he will remember all this with contempt, that even in his absence you will feel only his scorn, remember only his sneering face. Imagine that tomorrow he will disappear. Exhaust yourself and him with this your:
Rites of Eternal Farewell
When your window first whitens with the mystical significance of dawn, rise and adore him. Study the colors at which the wan light hints in the moisture of his chest or the oils at the turn of his nose. Admire the virility which the hour brings to men of such fine health and sweet youth. Watch it loll across his thigh but do not touch it. No, for that season has passed and you must content yourself with the sight alone of that jewel of light, pendent at the tip within the bezel of his foreskin, glittering with that promise which three days of labor and devotion will soon bring to you more intimately than ever before.
Wake him. While he is still groggy lead him to the gilded chaise perce (for which you have perhaps ransacked the entire length of Second Ave.). The bonds will have been made ready the night before, when you will also have replaced the enamelled tin bucket between its legs with a more suitable silver tureen. Tie his wrists behind the caned back and his ankles, separately, to the back legs of this chair. Joke with him about fetishes or photography or whatever is necessary to produce his docile acceptance of your extraordinary conduct; then offer him a glass of chilled champagne. He will welcome it. His palate will be cleansed of deadmouse, his eyes and uncomfortably his brain will also clear. He will begin to complain, perhaps to shout. If your residence is not lonely and safe from the curious you will have to impose the first necessary cruelty: a tight gag.
Next, a small hypodermic needle becomes necessary. If that is impossible, visit a doctor on some pretense and, while his back is turned, steal a packet of disposable needles. One of these points with a common eyedropper will make an excellent substitute. If the larger rubber nipple from a child’s pacifier is substituted for the dropper’s meager bulb, so much the better. (Should a leakage be noticed between the dropper and the needle, this is easily remedied with a tiny strip of paper torn from a paper match booklet, or, preferably, the end of a dollar bill.) This instrument is to be filled with brandy.
Make as many injections as you like, wherever it pleases you.
This finished, offer him more champagne and a tempting slice of authentic pound cake, provided he promises not to yell. A great deal of this pound cake will be necessary since it is, as it were, the pre-stuffing and indeed it may require so much that you would be wise to bake it yourself, as large purchases of such a luxury may not only arouse suspicions but prove too expensive. Hence the following recipe for Authentic Pound Cake:
Beat a dozen egg whites until they stand in stiff peaks. In another bowl stir the dozen yolks and a pound of melted butter into a pound of sifted flour. Stir in a pound of sugar and the egg whites. Pour into a large loaf pan, well-buttered and floured. Bake in a moderate oven until a knife blade inserted in the center comes out clean.
Cool in the pan.
Certain resemblances to the infamous ceremonies of St. John may by now have crossed your mind. Uncross it. No such horrors as that twisting-off of the living youth’s head after he has been softened in a vat of honey and a diet of figs and oil, no such insults to the body of the beloved will be encountered here. And no such divinatory superstitions will insult his head. It is, let us be quite clear, the Ultimate Reality of Love with which we are concerned.
So this drink and this food will be his only nourishment during the triduum of marination. Nor may his body be washed, nor his bonds loosened, nor his brow dried, nor his tears heeded. His excretions, which will collect in the silver tureen, will be regularly disposed of, but its gilt interior must only be rinsed out with champagne.
The brandy injections must be repeated at least thrice daily, and you must press upon him as much of the cake and the wine as he can bear. Intoxication alone must keep him from injuring himself with any attempts at escape.
On the evening of the third day he will be weak. Therefore the cake may have to be intinctured with wine and spooned into his mouth. At midnight examine the tur ;n. If there is nothing, wake him and spoon more cake and wine into him until he delivers. Then, promise that you will untie him if he will grant you one last wish; that he will drink another quart of Brandy Alexanders you have prepared for him. Have ready another quart container to catch the mixture when he regurgitates it back to you, changed into the perfect cocktail for your feast. Masturbate him into this container. Do not untie him. Gag him again, chill the cocktail, and go quickly to sleep thinking of the salt taste of his tears, for tomorrow you must face:
Some Unpleasantries Dressing and Trussing
If you love him you will lavish great care on the sharpening of the knife. A twelve-inch French chopping knife is best. When it will shave the back of your arm without the slightest pressure it is ready. But before you use it you will finish the preparation of the soup.
Remove the tureen to your work table and mix its liquid with its solid contents by means of a wire whisk. When you are sure it is as smooth as possible, thin it by whisking in as much champagne as is necessary to produce a consistency like that of heavy cream. In the center of t s golden liquid float several sprigs of fresh mint. Place the lid upon the tureen and dispose it proudly upon your serving table. No further attention is required, this is always served at room temperature, only do not lift the lid before serving.
Now the knife. Place the enamelled tin bucket beneath the chair. Kneeling behind him manipulate (for the last time!) the pendulous extremity of the beloved until it can only be pulled vertical with difficulty. With a rapid stroke of the blade cut through the pubic arch in the front and the anus in the back. It may be necessary to wait until a sufficient amount of bleeding has taken place so that weakened, he will not be able to wriggle enough to prevent your second cut from being as neat as the first. If so, hold the organs so that no tearing of the skin takes place at the incision. Have ready a basin to replace the bucket should it overflow while this tedious yet touching double genuflection of your devotion continues.
This most precious ornament (which in a turkey would be stood-in-for by a nubby tail sometimes called: The Pope’s Nose) must be placed instantly in a small bath of cold milk. Do not let its sudden shrinkage dismay you. Gastronomic miracles will enable you to present
it to yourself in all its pathetic arrogance.
When his fluids begin to run clear, transfer the meat to the bathtub. Secure the drain plug. With a silver table knife scrape the perspiration from all parts of the skin. (Death’s Dew.) Using a bulb baster, draw up some of the sweat and any other fluids that collect at the drain stopper and, mixed with a teaspoon of brandy, reserve this in the refrigerator.
Contrary to the usual procedure it is now necessary to truss the body before it is dressed. Rigor mortis being, in this case, the enemy of art.
With the knife cut the tendons on the back and at either side of the knees, then that front skein just below the patella itself. This will make it possible to secure the knees up under the armpits while the ankle bonds are tied to the knots at the wrists. Next, cut off the toes of one foot and the fingers of one hand. Reserve these in a saucepan of water.
It is convenient now to remove any clothing you may be wearing. But all temptation to abuse the newly effeminated source of all your anguish must be resisted. From now on, from a culinary standpoint, the body must remain inviolate.
No sooner have I said that than I must make an immediate exception. Without delay rinse your hypodermic needle or its improvised substitute in champagne and force a full dropper of brandy into the center of each eye. The deterioration of these is so rapid and their inclusion in the final garnish so expressive, failure must not be risked.
Now then, you have equipped yourself with one of those small surgical spoons used in curettement or one of the small garden rakes which look like a giant’s fork crushed in some giant’s petty rage, or both, and a flashlight (which may be useful near the end).
If your bathroom is well ventilated and your tools sharp it should be possible to finish this task by noon. Remove the heart, lungs, kidneys and liver to a pail. See that these organs are unmarred. Refrigerate them. Wrap the discarded entrails in foil and pack into the freezing compartment.
Wash yourself off and take a light lunch of any of the cake which may be left and the last of the champagne. Nap or read for an hour, then dress for your shopping trip.
Strangeness Page 24