After the Blue Hour

by John Rechy

  Paul is walking toward Elizabeth.

  All assumed a kind of choreography about her.

  I stand back to allow Sonya to go ahead.

  The two women face each other—Sonya, boldly beautiful; and Elizabeth, in comparison, almost severe in her commanding presentation—both Paul’s women, Elizabeth perhaps now the woman she had become, not the one she had been.

  “Sonya, I suppose,” Elizabeth greeted her.

  “Elizabeth, I suppose.” Sonya’s tone was cool. The two women mimed a kiss, a touch, cheek to cheek, again on the other side, on Sonya’s part a formality, demanded.

  Stanty walked up, close to Sonya.

  Staring at the tall somber iron statues, which had been returned to the lawn, Elizabeth said to Paul, who had advanced to meet her with a light kiss, returned cursorily: “You acquired those, too; you always wanted them.”

  “Yes,” he answered easily, “and I had them brought out to greet you.”

  “A steely greeting,” she smiled. “Those two who brought me here in the boat—the woman in the village said they—”

  Paul interrupted her. “I assume you’ve—”

  She rejected his interruption: “—where did you find them?”

  Stanty stood in his rigid position, like a sentinel, as if that would shelter him from whatever might unfold.

  Paul, ignoring the pending question, resumed: “I assume you’ve been granted a brief sabbatical from Dr.—what is his name? You told me. Or is he a new one?”

  She raised her hand before her, dismissing the question. “Paul, really,” she said.

  I held back, not wanting to intrude on whatever further conversation they might reserve for each other.

  By the time I did join them, they all stood in the large living room, like chess pieces anticipating a strategic move.

  “This is John Rechy, the writer I wrote to you about,” Paul said to Elizabeth as he went about filling everyone’s glass—but not Stanty’s, not even the usual few drops—with the expensive wine that he preferred. He raised his glass in a vague salute.

  Elizabeth—about Paul’s age, I determined—held out her hand to me, and I took it. I continued to marvel at the woman standing before me, not the mad jagged creature Paul had described.

  She had just read what Paul had sent her by me, she told me. “I admire the intimacy of your work,” she said. Her cultured tone was natural, not strained, easy, inherited from her famous intellectual father and mother.

  “Thank you.” I glanced at Paul, hoping to convey my astonishment at this unexpected presence.

  “Paul sent me a copy of a story you wrote—’The Fabulous—’”

  “‘—Wedding of Miss Destiny,’” I finished for her, to obviate her stumbling over my title.

  She said: “When he told me he had invited you here, I read it, wondering what he had responded to so strongly, perhaps intimately.”

  Just as I still wondered.

  She continued, “I can see how Paul would be smitten by your writing. He is an expert pursuer of—perhaps I should call him a hound in pursuit of talent. I’ve often supposed he believes he can absorb it. Especially,” she added, “from attractive talent.”

  “You make me sound like a vampire,” Paul laughed.

  “You may be,” she said, smiling back. “But you’re also a sensational thief. Have you discovered that to be true, Sonya?”

  “I have nothing to be stolen,” she said.

  “You’re modest,” Elizabeth said. “Beauty is most easily exploited, with cunning.” She accused Paul: “Your description of her didn’t do her justice. She is even more beautiful than I expected. Will Corina be here?”

  “Will she, Father?” Stanty asked.

  “Do you want her to come?” Elizabeth asked him. Nothing in her tone indicated that she had been disturbed by Stanty’s query, or his tentative presence. He was untypically quiet, seeming confused, remaining close to Sonya.

  Paul shrugged. “I believe Corina’s in Salzburg—I’m not sure. She never announces her visits; she comes when she wants.”

  “It’s still her island?” Elizabeth said.

  “Father!” Stanty reacted in anger. “It’s our island!”

  “Of course it is,” Paul assured him. “Remember when we first came here?”

  “Yes, yes!” Stanty said eagerly. “Island! Isl—”

  “Dear Paul,” Elizabeth interrupted him. “Who are you trying to convince, and, more important, why? Have you finally acquired a sense of … oh, no, no, please not. Don’t lose your shamelessness, it’s a major part of your charm. You extorted the island from Corina, just as you did the statues—and what else? The paintings, and—a major feat, considering the wrath of her father. I’ve wondered how you made her your powerful ally throughout your fight for what I believe you call alimony.” She continued as Paul remained silent, “I believe the father wanted you removed from their lives entirely, to make you invisible. He approved anything that would send you away.”

  To whom was this information being delivered, information that both of them knew? It had to be part of her purpose in being here, to inform. Whatever that purpose was, nothing about her indicated apprehension about her intent.

  “Corina gave everything to me, all of it. She encouraged her father to agree,” Paul said calmly.

  “She gave you everything.” Elizabeth smiled, shaking her head. “Including, of course, Stanty.”

  I saw Sonya wince; she drew Stanty closer to her, as if to protect him from the harsh words.

  “The island is mine and my father’s,” Stanty said.

  “Of course it is,” Elizabeth said. Then to Paul: “She gave you everything you have, you charming—” She turned to face me and held up her glass as in a belated toast. “What is the word? Hustler?”

  Directed at Paul, or at me? At both of us?

  “Aren’t we all?” I said.

  “Charming?” Elizabeth turned to me.

  “No, hustlers.”

  Elizabeth laughed easily. “Except for Stanty,” she added. “He’s still waiting to become—what will you become?”

  “I—” Stanty looked at Sonya, he looked at Paul, as if for urgent help. “Father?” he transferred the question to him.

  “A reflection of your father,” Elizabeth answered her own question. “That is what you will become.” She addressed Stanty in the eerily unchanged tone of easy banter.

  Paul said to Stanty: “Nobody will determine who you will be.” The first note of anger, quickly suppressed.

  “Except you, Father?”

  Did he realize he had echoed Elizabeth? He looked at Sonya, he looked at Paul, as if he needed help. I had thought it impossible that I would ever feel sorry for him; the memory of what had occurred on the lake with him was implanted in my mind. For the first time he seemed lost. I rejected any feeling of compassion.

  Sonya held on to Stanty’s hand, as if to claim him. What was she inferring about all this? How much did she know? Elizabeth was not here for a visit; she had arrived with scant luggage. The placid undercurrent that I had often detected was being disturbed, still barely perceptibly.

  Paul had not responded to Elizabeth’s taunting words, flung at him in soft tones—and with cool smiles—as if in guaranteed agreement between them, a keen knowledge of each other’s tolerance for private insults. Yet Paul’s acquiescence in the polite, deadly exchange might be in anticipation of breaking all existing boundaries between them.

  Paul joined Sonya, a slide toward her, away from Elizabeth. I was relieved. That might signal a lowering of the impatience he had begun to show her. He placed his arm about her waist: alliances forming, reinforced? Rigidly silent, Stanty seemed to be waiting.

  All of us gathered here are waiting.

  29

  We went to our rooms to change for dinner from our daily casual fashion—Elizabeth’s manner conveyed an expectation of at least a modicum of formality.

  When we regrouped we were still informally dressed, but
less so, Sonya in a gossamer violet dress that, as she moved, revealed slashes of golden flesh. As if, even in this, we were involved in competition—which annoyed me—both Paul and I wore khakis and white shirts (I rolled the sleeves up). Only Stanty had remained stubbornly as he had been.

  Sonya arranged the table, casually as always, and lit the candles. Paul set the prepared dinner—thin-sliced filet mignon, a leafy salad, cheese, fruit, and, of course, excellent wine.

  During dinner, there was none of the usual light talk among people who have not seen each other for some time. The sense of waiting stretched within the darkened glow of the candles, flickering occasionally when swept by the swirling of the electric fan.

  Dinner was over. There was the usual lull in conversation as we waited for a hint of what would come next, drinking the wine, spearing pieces of fruit, and choosing cheese.

  Stanty stood straight up in his chair, his military style of command recovered.

  “Elizabeth, why are you here?” he asked.

  “I love this wine, Paul,” Elizabeth said, sipping it slowly.

  “I got it in anticipation of your visit, Elizabeth.”

  “It’s much like the Sancerre we drank one night in Constantinople,” she said. Then: “Stanty, what did you ask me?”

  I had seen Stanty wince at the mention of Constantinople. With a smile, Paul fixed his gaze on him, granting permission. His stance regained, Stanty repeated, “I asked you, Elizabeth: Why? Are? You? Here?”

  “To see what kind of life you’ve been living on this isolated island,” she said.

  In silence, disoriented by her ambiguous declaration, everyone stared at her as if, even without further clarification or direction from her, no more words were needed.

  She sipped more wine. Another pause. She sipped again, delighting in its taste, commenting on it. She was withholding whatever she was about to say, keeping it in abeyance, feeding the attention she was demanding while asserting her composure. Taking another sip, holding the glass out, all in smooth motions. She said: “Please, Paul, a toast. We haven’t had one, a toast to this memorable evening.”

  Equally assured—two generals who have measured each other’s strengths and weaknesses and are preparing to kill—Paul raised his glass: “To this fucken memorable evening, whatever it is.”

  Out of context, or expectation, the bold word, pronounced in mockery of Elizabeth’s suggestion, did not jar her; she showed not even the slightest frown of displeasure: “Why is it, Paul, that you force yourself to become vulgar; usually that’s only in reference to sex. Why?”

  “Sex?” he said. “Elizabeth, sex is vulgar, it has to have its own language. Without vulgarity—crassness, yes—sex is only tedious; you should know that, the tedium of exhausted desire. Some resort to dangerous games.”

  “Like you, Paul; just like you.”

  “Like us,” he corrected her. “Just like us.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “We played together.”

  A time when, Paul had claimed, she had colluded in being cut with a knife, allowing blood to trickle onto her breasts, to be licked off by him—that recalled vision too was in total conflict with the woman before us.

  She was looking at me, addressing me: “Has he enlisted you in one of his games? Perhaps not played yet? He plots them carefully, you do know?” It was clear she expected no answer as she held her glass out to be refilled by Paul, who did so.

  What game, for me? I wouldn’t be a part of Paul’s maneuvers; I was never less than his equal, even more. I dismissed my brief displeasure—Elizabeth was moving only to separate possible allegiances with Paul.

  She rose from the table and walked over to Stanty and touched his shoulder. He shook his head, rejecting her gesture.

  “Stop that, I’m too old for that,” he protested angrily.

  “But you’re not,” she said. To Paul: “Have you given any thought to his future? I don’t mean the scheming manipulation you’ve exposed him to; I mean a future without you.” It was as if words of anger, of accusation, had been borrowed to be spoken in a light drama, out of place. There would be more, I felt sure, much more about Stanty, more that was painful, cruel, beyond strange. That was why she was here.

  “What will happen to him?” Paul responded easily. “At the end of summer he’ll go back to school, then he’ll return to me, always.”

  What will happen to Stanty? After a series of expensive schools, what? I wondered. On this island, the two together, father and son, masters of their world, invaded only by invitation. Father and son.

  “I stopped at the realtor’s office yesterday in the village,” Elizabeth said, moving to the open glass doors as if to sample the night. “I asked about the vacant island.”

  Stanty tilted his head, to listen.

  “You intend to buy it?” Paul said sarcastically.

  “No one will,” Elizabeth said flatly, turning to face us. “In the village there’s renewed talk about what happened there.”

  “You listened to those people?” Paul asked in mock indignation, or to stop her from going on.

  “I know their malice,” Elizabeth said. “They never liked us; we’re not their sort, too rich, too educated—and strange, they said”—she smiled—“remember, Paul?”

  “You never cared,” Paul reminded her.

  “I still don’t,” Elizabeth said. “But, now, there’s more. The rumors involve Stanty, and seriously.”

  Stanty stood up abruptly. “What rumors?”

  Elizabeth proceeded slowly, softly, unaroused. “That you claim you know everything about that island, that you insist there’s someone there now, and that you’ve seen him. There are wild suppositions, about a fire, about a possible drowning—and more, much more; you bragged about that in the village when Paul went to talk to the lawyer and left you in the restaurant.”

  Sonya said, “That isn’t so, I was with both of them all that time.”

  We were all standing now; the arena was changing.

  “No, my lovely, you went with Paul.” Elizabeth tossed the words at her. “Stanty went to the restaurant.”

  “I know that woman who talked about me,” Stanty said, and then to Paul: “Father, she’s that ugly waitress. She asked all kinds of dirty questions about what goes on on our island, and I said stuff to shut her up. She tried to kiss me, and I pushed her away—she stank awful—”

  A drowning. My memory of the day on the rowboat—I turned away from Stanty in a rush of rage. A drowning—and more, much more.

  “Why are you here, Elizabeth? We’ve been asking,” Paul said, with an edge of impatience, a signal of anger.

  Elizabeth said: “I’m here to take my son away from you.”

  Paul laughed, mirthless laughter.

  Stanty turned swiftly to face Elizabeth: “I’m not going anywhere with you. You’re not my mother.”

  “I am your mother.” Elizabeth moved closer to him; he jerked away. Elizabeth faced Paul: “With reliable and expensive advice, I have arrived at the decision that it is essential to tell Stanty the tawdry story before I take him away from you.”

  “Father!” Stanty said in panic, swinging about to face Elizabeth. “You aren’t my mother…. Father!”

  “I am your mother,” Elizabeth continued. “Paul tried to convince you that I’m not, I let him, I encouraged it, I didn’t want you, I detested you because you were his.”

  I wondered: When will this woman’s iron composure crack? Can she sustain this icy calm throughout these damning declarations?

  Smoothing her hair back carefully, she resumed addressing Stanty, who had moved close to Sonya, who hugged him. “I tried to keep you from being born. But you—and Paul—were determined. You clawed your way out of me, pulling yourself out with my blood.” She paused to assert her violent litany, the horror in benign words. She will stop; she can’t go on.

  She went on, as if fascinated by the words she was flinging into the hot silence. “I wished you had drowned in the blood you drained from
me.”

  And then: another lethal pause, as if time must stop to allow more fatal words, which she aimed at Stanty. “Corina didn’t want you, either, but she took you because Paul convinced her that it would ensure her connection with him, make it permanent, bind them to each other,” she said in a sarcastic tone. “Of course he was lying. His goal was to ensure his fortune—and to keep you to himself, to own you. Only his—no despised women allowed. I’m sorry, my lovely”—she addressed Sonya—“but you do know he detests women, all women.”

  Sonya flinched, as if physically wounded. Quickly recovering, she aimed her words at Paul: “How can you allow this woman to continue? Those dreadful lies.” She held Stanty closer to her.

  “Because,” Paul said, “what she’s saying is true.”

  “Father—” Stanty began, again beseeching, again frantic.

  Of all the terrible things I had learned about on this island, what I was hearing was the most frightening. I longed to believe that this, like all the other damning scenes, would be gone by morning, forgotten. But as I look at the players in this drama, I know that this time it will not happen.

  Elizabeth delivered her case like an expert prosecutor, convinced of her victory. “It may be difficult to believe,” she addressed us all, “that Paul is a man of strict morality, his own; he is capable, as few people are, of seeing himself, judging himself, the way he sees and judges others. You have surely heard him rant about the vileness of mankind”—all delivered with sarcasm—“the evil he sees everywhere, the greed, anger, yes, all that. But whenever he lists the horrors he sees in the world, he adds— Paul, please, your words; I couldn’t do justice to your refined audacity.”

  Paul answered: “Rot and decay to which—”

  “Yes. That’s it,” Elizabeth interjected with a tinge of excitement, “everyone, listen: to which—”

  Paul finished: “—to which I have added more than my share.”

  “How moral, how perfectly moral, and how proud he is: to decry the forces that you join, to judge them and confess your allegiance to them. Paul, how brave!”

  As if the anger had achieved a physical force, bombarding them, Sonya’s arms about Stanty seemed to want to shelter him.