Erotic Lives of the Superheroes

by Marco Mancassola

  “Hey,” Chad protested. “That’s not right. I’ve lost weight. I’m under 260 pounds.” His short-sleeved shirt could scarcely contain his huge belly, but he didn’t hesitate to spread his arms wide, with bold nonchalance, for the world to admire him. Then he waved the book in the air: “I know you don’t like this kind of stuff. It’s vulgar junk, no question, designed to appeal to people with their minds in the gutter. Nobody gives a damn about superheroes any more, and yet everyone wants to know what they get up to in bed. The thing is, this is a sure-fire bestseller. In the next few weeks, the country won’t be talking about anything else,” he declared, showing Mystique the cover emblazoned, in huge letters, with an explicit title:

  THE SEX LIVES OF THE SUPERHEROES

  Mystique stared at it once again. She felt an instinctive aversion for the title, the book, and its topic. The sexuality of the superheroes. She’d already got a pretty good idea of the book’s contents. The umpteenth agglomeration of gossip, morbid suppositions, and bad writing. “I mean, give me a break,” she complained. “I can’t believe that people really want to read this junk.”

  “Je-e-esus!” Horace exclaimed, having dived back into his reading. He shot an astonished look at his colleagues. “Would you believe it?! Poor Reed Richards. Old Rubber Man… It says here that he didn’t know how long his dick was.”

  Mystique went on shaking her head. She shifted her eyes from Horace to Chad and back again. There they were, two grown men, an Afro-American in his mid-thirties and a young Caucasian with weight problems, thumbing through The Sex Lives of the Superheroes with feverish enthusiasm. Ever since Chad had rushed into the office with the copies of the book, proclaiming that the publishing bombshell that had been awaited for weeks had finally come out, she had felt a subtle irritation sweep through her, a kind of irritation that almost seemed to spill over, in spite of herself, into bitter amusement. If Chad was right about this, and it certainly looked like he was, hundreds of thousands of people were going to buy that book. She thought about their foolish curiosity, about their comic excitement as they began reading. The same excitement she was seeing in her two colleagues.

  “I can’t understand,” Susie broke in with a faint voice, even more embarrassed, “how the author found out all these private details.”

  “Maybe he invented some of them,” Horace replied. “Who cares?”

  “Szepanski was the personal physician to many superheroes,” Chad explained. He sat reading through a few more lines before deciding to put the book down. He grabbed a bag of bacon-flavoured crisps from the desk, ripped it noisily open, and started crunching. “Damn, guys. Reading a book will make a guy hungry.”

  “I think I’d be pretty angry if my doctor wrote a book about my intimate secrets,” Susie said. She seemed to think it over and then blushed, overwhelmed at the horror that anything of the sort might happen. “I’d have to agree with Mystique,” she stammered at that point, without explaining exactly what it was she agreed with.

  “The most famous superheroes are mentioned under pseudonyms,” Chad reminded them, chomping away vigorously. The smell of his bacon-flavoured crisps filled the room. “In any case, I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them were happy to be mentioned. We’re all exhibitionists deep down, aren’t we?”

  “Speak for yourself,” Mystique shot back, glancing at the clock on the wall. She wondered if they weren’t wasting time talking about Szepanski. She knew the idea that Chad had in mind, but she wasn’t at all sure that she liked it.

  “By the way,” he said. “How come there’s not a word in the book about you?”

  “I don’t know,” Mystique replied. “Maybe because Szepanski was never my doctor. Maybe because I’m a discreet woman. Maybe because I’m a woman of great personal virtue,” she joked, causing both men to burst into laughter, while Susie stared at her, speechless, unable to figure out if that last line was a joke.

  “I think that after this book, Szepanski will have to give up being a doctor,” Chad resumed, licking the salt from the crisps off his nails. “But I doubt he cares much. This book is going to make him a millionaire.”

  “Okay,” said Mystique, stepping away from the window. The sense of lassitude she’d woken with this morning had vanished, although a trace of tired tension was still there in certain parts of her body. She thought back to the police detective she had turned into that morning, under the sheets, and the visit from that same detective the night before. “Okay,” she said again, doing her best to focus. “Enough chatter. Let’s get to the point. Do you people really think that this Szepanski will be one of the personalities of the year?”

  “With mathematical certainty,” said Chad, who had nothing left to do by now but to wipe off his fingers on the front of his shirt. “This guy is about to experience his moment of glory. He’s going to be in three-quarters of the national press and he’s going to be on three-quarters of the talk shows in existence, including the programme run by our friend with the gills. The entire national gossip industry is going to live for weeks on him and his book.” For no particular reason he broke off, looked over at poor little Susie, and sadistically flashed her a smile caked with masticated potato crisp goo.

  The girl blushed as usual. Horace sniggered. Anyone looking at those scenes from outside would have been amazed to discover that this small team had been putting together a hit television show for years now, and that behind their surreal behaviour there actually lay concealed a formidable body of creative talent. Accustomed to the high jinks of her team, Mystique remained unruffled and picked up the book from the desk.

  On the back cover was a photograph of Szepanski. The notorious Joseph Szepanski. In the picture, the doctor was beaming a perfect smile that had clearly been calibrated, to the last millimetre, to transmit a fake sense of naturalness. The skin was pulled so tight that it looked like it might rip. Mystique kept looking at the picture. She wondered how that man could ever have been a doctor, and how a man who was so focused on the surface of his own body could grasp the depths of other people’s bodies. Even though she continued to feel sceptical, she couldn’t ignore the situation. This man is about to become one of the personalities of the moment. My job is to transform myself into the personalities of the moment.

  “So he’ll be a guest on the Namor show?” she asked.

  “That’s exactly right,” Chad shot back, with the dismissive and at the same time worried tone of voice he always used when he talked about Namor, the man with the gills, the host of their chief rival show. “What do you say?” he insisted.

  Mystique nodded without taking her eyes off the doctor’s face. “There’s something quite comical about him. I could work with this,” she admitted, with the sense of sudden excitement that she usually felt when she selected a new character to turn herself into.

  *

  Mystique got into the car, put her bag on the seat beside her, and slumped back against the headrest. I made it. Another day done. The car started up, moving away from the studio and heading west, as she surrendered to the comforting rhythm of the engine. This was a moment she loved. She thought there were two best moments of each day: one was when she stopped work and let the driver convey her homewards. The other best moment, by the law of contrasts, was in the morning when she started. I guess I love my work. I guess I love the small team of people who create the show with me. I guess I love these things, or at least I’ve adapted to them pretty well. I guess I’ve adapted pretty well.

  Outside, sunset was falling over Queens. The asphalt reflected the lowering light with the bucolic calm of a lake. Along the road, the signs for Greek restaurants promised savoury Mediterranean delights, even though the people loitering on the sidewalk seemed too hot to be thinking about dinner. It was only May but summer was upon the city. Men in shorts strolled lazily alongside girls with sleeveless T-shirts. From inside the car, shielded by the stream of air conditioning, Mystique watched the people on the sidewalk, sensing that old familiar, irrational impulse to tra
nsform herself into each of them.

  She inhaled deeply and got comfortable in the seat. The driver must have noticed her restlessness, because he asked whether she’d like him to lower the air conditioning. “No, that’s all right,” Mystique replied. “Actually, though…” she made up her mind to ask. “There is a question I’d like to ask you. Just something I’m curious about. Today, in the production office, we talked about this book, and I was wondering if you’d ever heard of it. A book by a physician who treated superheroes…”

  “Sure,” the driver replied in his Hispanic accent, giving her a slightly disconcerted glance in the rear-view mirror. Mystique wondered whether that glance had been on account of the stupidity of her question. Of course he’d heard of it. “The Sex Lives of the Superheroes,” Santiago recited, looking away from the mirror with some embarrassment.

  Maybe the Ecuadorian driver thought that her name had come up in the book, too. Maybe that’s why he seemed so embarrassed. Mystique smiled to herself and let the subject drop. The test had done one thing, anyway: it had shown that Chad had a point. Everyone knew about that book, everyone knew who Joseph Szepanski was.

  He might be the perfect personality. He could be funny enough. An ageing doctor with multiple facelifts who raved on about sexual topics. The show’s ratings hadn’t budged in weeks, and her producers had been breathing down her neck to introduce a new character into the line-up. Starting tomorrow, she’d begin work on Szepanski. She could feel her body quiver, with a dark and almost lacerating vigour, at the thought of transforming herself into that new character.

  The car came to a halt at a red light. Night was swooping down on Astoria Boulevard. A faint glow started to spread from the doors of the restaurants, while the traffic lights glittered, like gemstones, against the background of settling darkness. “There are things I don’t like,” Santiago confessed in the tone of someone who’d been chewing something over. “I mean, things like that book. I don’t like them. I think they’re wrong.”

  “Don’t worry,” she replied. “I didn’t think you read that kind of book. I just wanted to know if you’d ever heard of it.”

  “Wrong. I think they’re wrong,” the driver repeated as the traffic light changed to green. The car moved off and sped towards the illuminated banks of the East River. “I was told that the book even talks about poor Reed Richards. With all he went through. I think it’s wrong to talk in such a way about a person who isn’t around any more,” he declared in an indignant voice. “I knew Reed Richards. I was his driver more than once.”

  “Oh. I had no idea,” Mystique reacted. She reclined her head again, without commenting further, rapt in an inevitable chain of thoughts. Reed Richards. The visit from that detective. The anonymous notes. According to what the detective said, Reed had received the same farewell notes. He had received them, and in the end his son was killed in an attack targeting Reed, and he had killed himself out of his sense of guilt, as well as over an unhappy love affair with a much younger woman, so some people said.

  It had happened. All those things had happened. They had happened in that same city, not many weeks ago, and Mystique had gone to both funerals. The son’s funeral, then the father’s funeral.

  The car hurtled across the bridge. Night had fallen over the river as well, and it looked dark and almost flat, motionless, like a slab of some mysterious metal. Mystique turned her thoughts away from the memory of those funerals. It was atrocious what had happened to both Richardses. Agreed, there was a network of lunatics out there convinced that the country needed to be rid of the remaining superheroes. Fine. But how could that have anything to do with her?

  For now she decided not to think about it. There was something incomprehensible about all this, and she wasn’t interested in thinking about incomprehensible situations. There were already plenty of incomprehensible situations around her. There was the stunning popularity of Szepanski’s book, there were the rising ratings of the rival show hosted by the horrid man with the gills, and there was the deep mystery of how Chad would ever fit into his costume for the next show. Mystique chuckled inwardly. She didn’t feel in any danger. Not any more than she had been in all her life. She shut her eyes and let the chauffeur’s silky driving lull her gently.

  *

  The following day, after a morning spent on developing scripts for the Szepanski character, she and the rest of the team went to lunch at the studio cafeteria. The place was packed. It was a former television studio where once they had filmed the episodes of a quiz show, an enormous, high-ceilinged white box that was now filled with white wooden tables and chairs. The food counter had been installed in the former director’s booth. On the far side of the room, where the backstage had once been, plate glass windows offered a view of a bare interior courtyard. Dozens of editors, technicians, writers, directors, costumiers, extras, dancers, and more-or-less well-known hosts were milling around in search of the best seating, each of them carrying a tray.

  Sitting at a table in the middle of the room, Mystique and the others were talking about the next episode of the show. Horace was laying out ideas about how to recalibrate the line-up. Mystique and little Susie listened to him, while Chad seemed chiefly focused on gobbling down a huge slice of pizza. When he finally looked up, he emitted a faint belch and opened his eyes wide. “Mystique, I have some news for you.”

  “Don’t tell me,” she laughed, as she had a taste of her salad. “You’re going to go get another slice of pizza.”

  “Oh no. Oh, I guess I should say, yes, I am going to get another slice, but that’s not the news. You appear to have a visitor,” he said, nodding towards the front door of the cafeteria.

  Every eye at the table swivelled in the direction Chad had indicated. Over there, in his light grey suit, Detective Dennis De Villa was looking around with a calm and resolute air. There was no doubt who he was looking for.

  “I can’t believe it,” Mystique groaned. “Now what does he want? I can’t waste any more time on that guy.”

  “Oh come on,” Chad said with a sly smile. As usual, he was in a sarcastic mood. “It could have been worse. At least they sent you a nice hunk.”

  “Don’t move. Maybe he won’t see us.”

  “Too late. He’s coming this way.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “It’s true, though,” Susie broke in. “He’s a good-looking man.”

  “Great,” said Mystique, giving her a withering glare. “Thanks for that invaluable comment.”

  “Here comes the hunk,” Chad said. “There’s nothing else for me to do but go get my slice of pizza,” he declared, getting to his feet and picking up his tray.

  “Don’t you move! Nobody move!”

  “I, on the other hand, plan to finish my lunch at a table that enjoys a little more privacy,” Horace stated, getting up with the same sadistic satisfaction as his colleague.

  “You guys will pay for this!” Mystique exclaimed as the two traitors moved away. “Susie!” she said straight afterwards, as she realised that the girl was also preparing to fly the coop. “Don’t you dare!”

  “But I…”

  “Hello,” rang out Detective De Villa’s voice. “I know it’s not polite to show up unannounced at lunchtime.” He gave the two women one of his small yet captivating smiles. To see him standing by the table, in the light of the cafeteria, he seemed taller than during his previous visit.

  “In fact,” Mystique said, ignoring the smile, “I’m afraid this isn’t a convenient time. I was just talking business with my colleague,” she said, pointing to Susie, who blushed, despairing, under the weight of such responsibility.

  “Oh,” De Villa whispered. “I assure you, I won’t take a minute. I hope your colleague will excuse us,” he said in a courteous voice, dishing out a new and carefully tailored smile to little Susie.

  The girl swayed, looking like someone on the verge of an epileptic fit, then got up and moved off, avoiding Mystique’s furious glare.

  “Se
riously, I’m sorry to bother you,” said the detective as he sat down across from her. He furrowed his brow and added: “I have the impression that the last time we were unable to communicate very well. Please forgive me if I was a little intrusive, and let me assure you that I am only concerned about your safety.”

  Mystique studied him with incredulity. She picked up her fork, determined to go on with her meal and ignore the detective, then set it on the table and looked at him again. What unmitigated nerve. She knew policemen well enough. There wasn’t a policeman on earth who was worried about bothering someone, much less about being intrusive.

  “I don’t think you’re taking the matter I mentioned to you seriously enough,” De Villa insisted. He seemed to wait for a reply. He glanced at her plate and caught her off guard when he commented: “Is that all you’re having for lunch? No wonder you’re in such great shape.”

  Mystique looked down at her salad. “To make the best use of my power, I need to be on a constant diet. Lots of fibre and vitamins. I also take protein supplements, if you care to know, and collagen capsules. Is that what you’ve come to find out?”

  De Villa shook his head and looked away in a chagrin that seemed sincere. “I’ve done it again. I’ve been intrusive. I hope you can forgive me.”

  Mystique was perplexed. She didn’t know what to think about the man across from her. The detective sat with his arms on the table, with a blend of confidence and slight awkwardness. His eyes were still red. In the light of day, the capillaries in his eyes were reminiscent of the striations in a slab of marble. Otherwise, she had to admit that he wasn’t half bad. He had dark hair, fairly short and brushed back. His ears were small, the ears of a child, and they looked as delicate as a couple of flower blossoms, while his neck was powerful and carefully razored. He wore a light-blue shirt, the open collar revealing a triangle of tanned skin and a trace of chest hair. Behind the manners of a plain-clothes policeman, manners that Mystique inevitably considered slimy, it was possible to sense something interesting. Something even sexy.