Erotic Lives of the Superheroes

by Marco Mancassola

  Mystique couldn’t restrain a smile: “I doubt that something so trivial would scare you.” She tossed her hair, slightly, uncertain exactly what they were doing right then, in that place, near the bar of an exclusive art opening in Chelsea, as people milled around them: idle chit-chat, exchanges of opinions, provoking each other or who knows what else. “Nathan Quirst looks at everybody that way. Maybe he was considering using you as a model. Maybe Quirst wants to do a portrait of you.”

  De Villa seemed to take her seriously, widening his eyes in alarm. “Oh no. I really doubt that.”

  Mystique gave him a sidelong glance, doing her level best to conceal a curiosity that perhaps was not all that different from the curiosity with which Quirst had stared at him. His hair brushed back. The respiration of his broad chest beneath the shirt, the line of his legs revealed by the light material of his trousers. She knew that body. She knew it in detail, she knew it from within, even though that was not enough to understand the feelings that his body might house. She realised that she’d stared at De Villa for too long. She shook herself and went on in a mildly mocking tone: “Are you here on duty? I’d guess you’re here to protect the superheroes who are attending.”

  “Well,” he smiled. “I told you before… I’m always on duty. As for the superheroes, well, we keep an eye on them. And in any case, you know who we’re most worried about…”

  Mystique felt like asking him to be more specific. Were the police worried about her, or rather was it Dennis De Villa? She held back and swirled the ice in her glass, making it tinkle just as De Villa had done a short while earlier. From where they were standing, they could see at least a couple of old former superheroes. Wolverine was wandering around the room with a bored expression, followed by a pair of bodyguards who looked just as bored, and at the far end of the room was Thor, with his surly face, his long hair with that indeterminate evanescent hue of blond about to turn grey. Old Thor seemed to have downed one or two glasses too many. He was laughing louder than necessary.

  Other familiar faces flashed here and there in the crowd filling the gallery, like silvery fish in the water of a lake. Raymond Minetta, the millionaire owner of the notorious George Hotel, was eating pastries at the buffet. On the subject of wealthy and grotesque individuals, who knows, perhaps even Joseph Szepanski was about to put in an appearance. He just might show up. Why shouldn’t he? And yet Mystique wasn’t sure she wanted to stick around to see.

  She drained her glass and felt a sense of intense, gloomy out-of-placeness. A sound of applause was coming from one of the other rooms of the exhibition. The photographers’ cameras flashed here and there, in silence, suddenly, reminiscent of the explosion of microscopic stars. “I’m sorry?” she said to De Villa, who had asked her a question in the meantime.

  The detective too drained his glass. “That guy,” he repeated. “Why does he make such a fool of himself?”

  He was talking about Raymond Minetta. The man was sampling his pastries with a succession of ambiguous grimaces, apparently winces of pain, indifferent to the looks of amusement around him. That old story. The cilice or whatever other ball-crushing instrument Minetta was wearing under his elegant trousers. People had been whispering about it for years. The millionaire swallowed a pastry and emitted a throttled moan, almost a spasm, as he clamped his legs together. Someone broke into unrestrained laughter. Mystique knew of an alternate hypothesis, which she’d heard from the well-informed Chad, according to which Minetta wasn’t walking around wearing an instrument of penitence under his trousers, but rather one of those pairs of rubber underpants that featured an internal dildo. A dildo up his ass. An instrument of perpetual sexual delight. According to this version, Minetta wasn’t suffering at all, his recurrent moans were ecstatic sighs, and he was enjoying the last laugh on those who believed the opposite.

  Whatever the truth of the matter, it wasn’t the kind of truth she was interested in pursuing. She continued to feel remote. This is why going out bores me. There are so few things in the world any more that are worth pursuing the truth about.

  The scene around her now seemed to waver, as if it were painted on wind-tossed canvas, a scene of scandalous artworks and drunken superheroes and millionaires eating pastries and people doing nothing but applauding or laughing. She and De Villa wound up looking at each other. Something seemed to spark between them, and they stood there squinting, as though this was the first time they were seeing one another, as though they were trying to recognise each other, like a pair of strangers meeting, for some bizarre reason, in somebody else’s dream.

  *

  Outside the gallery, the afternoon had vanished. The street was immersed in the hues of a rust-red sunset. A slow procession of taxis was dropping off people coming to the opening and picking up those who had decided to leave. Mystique and De Villa moved away from that bustle, walking down the street, rediscovering the reassuring details of the outside world: the light of sunset, the outline of the buildings, the zigzagging line of the fire escapes. A couple of teenagers were playing basketball without too much energy, dribbling lazily on a court squeezed between two apartment buildings.

  The breeze was blowing towards them. Mystique figured it was time to leave. Time to catch one of the taxis purring along the street, say a gracious goodnight, and go back to the comfortable solitude of home. She couldn’t see any other possible moves. They went on walking slowly, hesitating. Passersby glanced at them, recognising the famous TV comedian, but no one seemed to be interested in pestering them.

  De Villa cleared his throat and took on the serious and thoughtful tone that, Mystique had learned by now, heralded a question of some kind. “I was wondering how you feel in situations like this one. Situations where there are other ex-superheroes. I know that you don’t think of yourself as an ex-superhero, but I mean…”

  “I understand what you mean,” Mystique broke in. She decided once again that it was time to leave. Their shoes produced a sharp, high-pitched sound, as if they were walking over a pile of broken glass. “Seeing ex-superheroes doesn’t make me feel any special way. Tired, maybe. Annoyed, perhaps…” She shook her head and thought it over again: “No, it really doesn’t make me feel anything at all.”

  “Superheroes,” he went on. “Superpowers. When I was a boy I wondered whether I might have them myself. But it wouldn’t have made sense. I wouldn’t have known what to do with them.”

  “That sounds a little drastic to me,” Mystique pointed out. “Even if I guess you might be right. There are lots of people nowadays who have superpowers, but nobody seems to be putting them to good use.” She stopped to reflect, and then added: “Why did you wonder whether you had superpowers when you were a boy?”

  The detective shrugged without answering. “You guys from the old guard,” he said instead. “You’re the ones I’m curious about. You used your superpowers to fight and to save your lives. You thought you were using your superpowers seriously.”

  Mystique hadn’t expected the conversation to take that twist. “That’s ancient history. If you’re asking me what the old heroes feel when they think back to those days, I couldn’t tell you. Nostalgia. Remorse. A sense of lightness. A sense of oblivion.”

  They’d walked a fair distance from the gallery. Just a few yards further, the sidewalk ended at Twelfth Avenue, and past that there was nothing but the banks of the Hudson.

  “Remorse?” asked De Villa, with an attentive voice.

  “A lot of things didn’t work out the way they were supposed to. A lot of disappointment. A lot of broken promises. That’s obvious.” Mystique stopped short and tried to put an end to the subject: “We’re really talking about a long time ago.”

  De Villa seemed determined to make it to the riverbank. He stopped at the side of the busy avenue and replied: “And yet the ex-superheroes still mean something. They’re all that remains of an important time. They still cast shadows over the world. You have to admit that.”

  “Maybe so,” Mystique concede
d, and guessing what he was driving at, she added: “Otherwise, there wouldn’t be fanatics going to all the trouble of rubbing them out, would there?”

  “Then you admit you’re in danger.”

  “I don’t admit anything. I wasn’t a superhero,” she reiterated, well aware of the weakness of her argument.

  “Oh, cut it out. You know perfectly well that looking back nowadays, years later, that kind of distinction doesn’t matter any more.” They had crossed the avenue and were contemplating the smooth-flowing waters of the river. “It was just a matter of viewpoints. You were all part of the same wave. Both you and the superheroes used your superpowers to pursue your ideas of a world of greater freedom. Too bad no one managed to achieve those ideas. Too bad that those ideas were so fragile.”

  Mystique shivered. It could have been the result of the detective’s unexpected words, or the breeze that was blowing off the river. The taste of the iced wine she had drunk at the gallery persisted on her tongue. On the far side of the river, the sun was plunging down behind the tall buildings of New Jersey, majestic and dramatic as a defeated monarch, scattering its reflections over the scenery of the river, details glittering in the dying light: the surface of the water, the infinite interplay of the waves against the shore, the ferry boats scuttling back and forth in the distance, with their cargoes of tourists or commuters or seamen. Everything shone with such intensity. Everything in the last few minutes of the day.

  Mystique hugged herself, fingers gripping her arms, and smiled, pointlessly, as she felt the wind rush through her hair. Me and him on the riverbank. If only we weren’t what we are. If only I were younger or less tired. If only those notes didn’t exist. If only he weren’t a cop with some obsession with superheroes. If only there had never been superheroes, if none of this had ever happened. If only it were just him and me, alone in the world, looking out over the flowing peace of the river. “I’m going home,” she said. “I’m going to get a taxi.”

  The detective turned gloomy. “I was kidding myself I could invite you to dinner,” he confessed. “I know a place I’d like to take you. Authentic soul food. I can assure you you wouldn’t regret it, it’s a place worth trying.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” She tried to find words to explain how she felt, then she gave up and just said: “I don’t think it would be a good idea.”

  “What are you afraid of? Don’t worry, I won’t try to talk you into accepting police protection,” he smiled. “At least I won’t tonight.”

  There was a sound of footsteps behind them. Someone was running straight at them. They both stiffened and turned around, wary and apprehensive. It was one of those suspended, extended moments, capable of containing hundreds of perceptions. The movement with which they both turned. The tension of their bodies. The noise of the traffic, the impassive silence of the river. Actually, though, the person who caught up with them had a peaceful expression on his face. When he realised that he’d alarmed them, he raised both hands reassuringly and smiled: “Sorry to scare you. I had to cross the street at a dead run.”

  The man was slightly older than De Villa. He had a full head of fine hair just like the detective, a little shorter and already greying. His physique was less athletic than Dennis’, but he was the same height, and on the whole, there was an undeniable resemblance between the two men. “I saw you at the exhibition,” the man said to the detective. “I just followed you to say hello.”

  “Bruce,” said the detective in astonishment. “You almost gave us a heart attack.”

  “Sorry I scared you,” the other man apologised. There was a pregnant pause. The new arrival seemed to be waiting to be introduced, then he spoke directly to Mystique: “Pleasure to meet you,” he said. “My name is Bruce De Villa.”

  *

  It was a short meeting. When Bruce De Villa smiled, his resemblance to the detective was even more marked. The same small and mournful smile. Even the same delicate ears. Only his eyes were different from the detective’s. Bruce De Villa’s eyes were large, with dark irises in which she realised she could see her reflection, for a few instants, a tiny image of herself in each of them. Two tiny Mystiques shone, over there, as if on the floor of distant oceans.

  The improvised trio exchanged standard courtesies.

  The two men, who as far as Mystique could tell must be brothers, seemed not to have seen each other in a long time, and neither of them appeared to be at his ease. “Bruce…” began the detective in a flat tone of voice, then he stopped and left his sentence incomplete. He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked off into the distance. “I didn’t expect to run into you here.”

  “In fact,” said the other man, with a tone of shared amazement. He scratched his head for a second. “I wondered what had become of you. I haven’t seen you in court at the hearings of the Batman trial in a while.” Since the detective didn’t answer, Bruce De Villa turned to Mystique. “I’m a reporter,” he informed her, perhaps to explain the reference to the trial.

  Mystique nodded. Under normal circumstances, that information would have annoyed her. After the police, journalists were the category she liked least. She thought that journalists were insatiable creatures, always on the hunt like ravenous ants, always demanding interviews, statements, news, details, exclusives, confessions, and gossip. Especially gossip. But Bruce De Villa’s eyes seemed too deep and knowing for all that. The man must certainly know that she was famous, and yet he looked at her quietly, without any form of excited curiosity, if anything with a trace of sadness in his gaze. A strange gaze. The kind of gaze you would get from someone who knows something about you, maybe something that even you don’t know about yourself.

  Then silence fell. The river absorbed the last rays of light. A boat chugged down the river, heading south, leaving a long soft wave behind it. The wave reached a flock of seagulls and they all rose in flight, all together in the reddening sky. Both men now stared at Mystique. Were they hoping that she’d help contribute to the conversation? It really did seem that those two had little to say to each other.

  The boat’s wave was splashing against the shore, weakly, almost subsiding, causing a faint lapping sound.

  By studying the faces and discomfort of the two brothers, it was possible to intuit fragments of their past. A man on his own was an isolated fact, two brothers already told a story. As far as Mystique could tell, the distance between them wasn’t the kind that exists between two people divided by quarrels or who knows what unpleasantness, but rather a curtain of dull, age-old pain. Perhaps they shared some grim memory from their past. A family break-up or something of the sort? She wouldn’t have sworn that this was the right guess, but for that matter she wasn’t too interested in probing into the details. It was none of her business.

  To tell the truth, she would have settled for reaching out and running her fingers over the detective’s face. She went back to focusing on Dennis De Villa. She realised she was seeing him with new eyes. That man was no little boy, he certainly had no need of consolation, and yet that’s what she yearned to do: brush her fingers across his face, caress him with languid gentleness, right then, right there on the riverbank.

  It was a revelation. She really wanted to reach out and do it, and that impulse forced her to come to terms with the fact that the man was becoming minute by minute more alive, more real before her eyes.

  *

  The restaurant was on a cross street with Lenox Avenue, in Harlem, and consisted of a tiny room with a couple of fans, small red plastic tables and a sumptuous counter behind which an elderly cook worked away, with the calm of a samurai, never lifting her eyes.

  A younger woman who, to judge by appearances, must have been the cook’s daughter, placed a handwritten menu before them.

  “I just love this place,” said Dennis De Villa. “The honey-fried chicken is the best. The fried chicken salad isn’t bad either. Yes, I guess you might go for the salad. Save room for dessert.”

  It was a nice restaurant. The aromas
coming from the galley kitchen behind the counter seemed wholesome and appetising. A small stereo played instrumental ballads. On the wall, an array of photographs depicted the two women who owned the place posing with a variety of guests, presumably customers of a certain stature, or maybe just very loyal ones. The clientele seated at the tables appeared to be locals, and the family atmosphere was without doubt more relaxed than the feeling at the gallery opening. All the same, Mystique wondered if she’d been right to come. To let herself be dragged here. On a Saturday night. Out for dinner with an attractive man with a pleasant way about him, even though he had the shortcoming of being a cop. It had been a long time since anything of the sort had happened to her.

  “What were you thinking about?” he questioned her.

  “Nothing.” Mystique sat up straight in her chair and put on a confident attitude. “I was thinking about the menu. About what to order. About your brother…” She waited a beat and then confessed: “A little while ago, on the riverbank… It was a strange sensation to see the two of you side by side.”

  “It was? Were we such an odd spectacle?” he asked with aplomb.

  “Of course not. That’s not what I meant.” Mystique decided she’d better not push it, better not ask questions, well aware that any effort she might make to get to know the man sitting across from her any better was likely to have the effect of an equal effort on his part. “What I’m trying to say…” she let slip. “Until now I’d never thought much about your life. Family, childhood, that kind of thing.”

  “Oh,” he murmured. He gave her a sly smile and observed: “So you’re saying you want to know about me.”

  Mystique went back to studying the menu. The stream of air from the standing fans hit her at regular intervals. The music from the stereo seemed to have been composed so that someone could get to their feet, at that very moment, and burst into song like in the middle of a musical. “Maybe so,” she admitted. “You know, lots of times people accuse me of being too reserved. But I’m getting the impression that you’re even more reserved than I am.”