Mirage

by Perry Brass

  In the days of Naram-Sin, son . . . . . of Sargon, from Akkad,

  . . . . . . . . . . . . attacked Ur and destroyed temples. Rode on fields

  seeded with barley, oats, corn. Great men, warriors ... bows,

  arrows, horses trampled fields seeded with barley, oats, corn,

  took prisoners of men, took hostages. . .

  . . . came to Nippur, to temple of Ki (goddess of the earth),

  attacked with warriors, bows, arrows,

  and long knives. In the temple

  (they) find gold, cedar, and oil. They take girls to be slaves and

  attack men-of-the-temple. The men cry:

  "Kill us not, men of Naram-Sin, we . . . the men of three-eggs

  (testicles), offer seed to the goddess, take seed and bring

  corn for the goddess."

  The men of Naram-Sin speak softly to the men-of-three-eggs:

  "Bring out your shatammu (spokesman) from the temple.

  Let him speak for you and we will make peace."

  The men-with-three-eggs speak in the temple. They send out

  Enshag, a mash-man (priest) of Ki, who speaks

  with the men and offers them kindness: barley beer,

  wheat-bread, goat meat, and honey.

  The men drink the beer and . . . slay Enshag. . . . . . . . . .

  "Oh, no," I said. "Then what happens?"

  In the temple, in the temple of Ki, all is shut,

  the great door closed shut. The men-of-three-eggs

  make no words, no ka (voice, sometimes head, as in personhood)

  comes from the temple of Ki. The men of Naram-Sin wait.

  They make noises . . .

  . . . bows, arrows, and sharp knives. The lugal (local king) appears.

  He asks, "Why do you attack the temple of Ki? Only ten

  workers-of-the-goddess are there?" The men answer,

  "The goddess is rich. Our god is Nanna (god of the moon), god of

  our lord En-Naram-Sin. We will kill

  the men-with-three-eggs."

  They charge the temple, and break down the door. In the temple

  they find eight men-with-three-eggs. Four rows. All dead.

  They strip the bodies of gold, silver, and fragrant spices.

  They bring the men-with-three-eggs back to En-Naram-Sin,

  and he is pleased. Naram-Sin goes back to Nippur. . . temple,

  and finds two more bodies . . . hidden in the temple. They are naked

  with no third egg. En-Naram-Sin is angry. He says to his shatammu,

  "Two have escaped."

  "No, lugal-dingir (god-king)," says the spokesman. "They are

  men-with-three-eggs. Dingir Nanna (the Moon-god) has taken

  the (obliterated line). . . . .

  praise to you, lugal-dingir,

  who has given an offering of twelve goats

  and two sheep to Nanna, and who has . . ."

  "Then what happened?" I asked.

  "There's no way of telling. The last tablet ends there. It's rubbed out. You can't read any further. You must remember all of this happened about 2300 B.C. So there's no telling exactly what went on. All of these stories are filled with myths, like the Odyssey and the Iliad. The people in the Homeric tales did exist—there was a Helen, an Agamemnon, an Ulysses. But most likely they didn't talk to and copulate with gods.

  "Perhaps," Wright speculated, "the last two men-with-three balls had escaped, and the other two bodies were those of normal men. But suppose that didn't happen? And somehow back then, these men had developed thought projection on their own and taken their third ball with them back to Ki. Or—" Wright paused, mysteriously, for a moment. I looked at him. "Suppose they had been taught by other men from another planet?"

  "What do you think happened?"

  Wright took off his jeans and got into bed with me. He held me close and whispered into my ear, above my beating heart, "I think they got to Ki. In fact, I'm willing to bet on it."

  "You are? That still doesn't explain how they became us," I said.

  "They were dark, remember; unlike, most probably, the older residents of the small planet. We know the Dark Men say they were there before anything—before the Egg, the Promise, and the nameless Being who became the father of Ki herself. But there is no way of knowing that for certain. In truth, we don't know how the Dark Men came to exist on Ki, different from and surviving with the Off-Sexers. But the ancient Sumerians called themselves The Black-Headed Men, and the three-balled men had a culture of their own, just like we do. It was based upon male love, not upon war—although we can be very fierce. I think the Black-Headed Men eventually became the Dark Men, and not wanting to seem Johnny-come-latelys, they said they'd been there forever.

  "Everything, I'm sure, must have been puzzling and frightening when they arrived. Quickly, they made a pact with the war-like inhabitants: they would serve their own goddess, Ki, in exchange for being left alone. The third testicle—which must have seemed strange enough not to fool with—kept them apart from the original inhabitants, who easily could have wiped them out. Eventually, Ki's cult took over the whole planet. We formed a pact with the priestesses. We had been working with the priestesses of Inanna and Ki, anyway. Who knows? We might have created the priestesses as a class ourselves, although there's no proving it. I think over the years, the myths of our planet arose from the Sumerian myths. How else could you have been called Enkidu? And I think the third testicle must have developed further—over those four thousand years—into what it is now."

  "You still haven't told me where your Egg is?" I said, stroking his ball-sac.

  "I'll get it back soon. You'll see. We have to rest now." He closed his eyes and held me to him. "We have a lot of work to do tomorrow."

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I could barely sleep that night, although nothing seemed to bother Wright. He held me so close in his dead-weight, sleeping arms that I felt imprisoned by him. But in the morning, just before full light, he rolled over away from me and released me. I got up, showered, dressed, and managed to eat some corn flakes and coffee for breakfast. I thought about the ancient story of the three-balled men and how it might affect us when we got back. If knowledge was power, Wright—due to his knowledge of these ancient languages, had some very powerful knowledge.

  He got up looking so beautiful I couldn't believe it. There was a calm, easy look on his face, as he appeared naked in the kitchen. "Hi," he said, yawning and scratching his crotch. "Sleep well?"

  I told him I hadn't. He told me he was sorry. "All I did was dream about going home," he said. "I can't wait to be back. I'm going in around noon to get Robert."

  "How are you going to do that?" I asked. "He's been hooked up to an IV. They aren't going to let you just take him out of the hospital."

  "I'll tell them I'm his brother," Wright said. He was totally determined. "I'm as blond and WASP looking as he is."

  "I thought we couldn't lie," I said, joking.

  "Greeland couldn't, but Wright can. I will not be stopped. You know how I can be—“ his mouth turned up—"Alan-love."

  He sounded so cold, I couldn't stand it. I could take Greeland's ruthlessness, but not this coldness. A coldness that came from both of them—Greeland's hardness; Wright's insecurities. The two of them were working now together, bonded by their own ambitions, conflicts, and needs. It was a harder bond than even love could forge; it scared me. I had no idea what was happening with Wright. I could only see his beautiful body, that package, that shell. He looked appealing, but he wasn't the man I had loved so much the night before. This wasn't Wright McClelland Smith alone: this was some new being—very different—who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. Even Greeland, cutting the throat of my brother Ert, was not so chilling.

  I told him I couldn't do it. "He's not ready to leave. It may kill him."

  "Fine. If he stays here, he'll die. But I didn't expect you to get him out of the hospital. You'd blow the whole thing." He s
miled at me and shook his head. He pulled me into his arms, and wet my lips with his tongue. Then he said, "You'd never be able to look him straight in the face and lie now; that's your problem. I'll get him out. We'll be back here by one."

  I had to look away from him. How could Wright be such a bastard? Only the constant struggle between Wright and Greeland could do this.

  I never felt that way. The two energies in me seemed to be entwined harmoniously. Why didn't they fight each other, the way Wright and Greeland did? From behind, he put his bare arms around me, and started to kiss my neck. "Enkidu," he said warmly. "There will always be a part of Wright inside me. When we go back, I hope you will love him then, too."

  "Suppose I won't go back with you?" I said.

  He dropped his arms from my chest. His voice became ice cold. "Suit yourself. Then Robert will die. And you will die also. Alone."

  I knew what he said was true. But I knew I couldn't face one more lie to Robert. So many people had lied to him, and not loved him enough. I told Wright that I would meet him back at Holy Resurrection at one o' clock. And that I would take Robert back with me to Ki.

  "You will take me, too," Wright said. "You are powerful enough—you can. Woosh will guide you. He will tell you how to do it, and then he will bring us back together."

  He kissed me on my mouth, parting my lips with his tongue. There was no shyness or reserve to him. Even his mouth tasted fresh, like the breath in him was new. He went into the shower. I collapsed at the kitchen table and found myself crying. I knew that I'd have to tell Robert the whole story myself, and the terrible thing was that I was not, in any way, sure of the ending.

  I couldn't face seeing Wright again. I went down to the office and scribbled a note for him. "Wright, I've gone off to the National Gallery. I will be back at one o' clock. Sharp."

  I took the note back upstairs and left it on the kitchen table. Then I walked out the front door. It was a beautiful morning, slightly chilly, but clear. I wore only a light cotton windbreaker. A fresh fall wind snapped against my chest and bit lightly into my face and hands. I decided to walk up Pennsylvania Avenue, and cross over to the Mall and to the Gallery. There was something I had to see there. I had to say goodbye to it. I couldn't leave Washington without one more sight of it.

  The city was very much alive as I walked up the Avenue. The bright kids who worked in the office buildings as aides and secretaries were out in their clean freshly-pressed, cheap cotton clothes. The lawyers, Washington's army of lawyers, briefcases in hand, came out in their wool suits. Restaurants were just opening, airing out their dining rooms, hosing off the sidewalks in front. Soon it would be lunch, and all the offices would spill out and thousands of conversations would spark the air like matches.

  But now it was all movement, and I was happy to be alive, walking briskly with crowds of people. Tourists—coming to Washington to look. To be amazed. Hopefully not to be disappointed. They were filled with the joy of travel: the joy—the hope—that asks not to be disappointed. I arrived at the National Gallery just as it was opening, and I knew exactly where to go, and what I wanted to see.

  The Baptism of Christ. Poussin. From the Kress Collection. Such a small painting—for a big subject—roughly four feet across; three feet high. But now, it dominated this intimate side gallery and my own thoughts. I sat in the middle of the gallery couch, faced it, and watched the men about to be baptized take off their clothes—like it was the most normal thing in the world—for the last time.

  They seemed so casual, so unaware of what a momentous thing a religious conversion or any sort of conversion could be. I wanted the whole painting implanted in my brain. I wanted to take it with me, somehow. I knew that was what people wanted out of art, and couldn't have. It was like trying to take something out of a dance, or a voice that sings. But, finally, all we can really take out of it is our own involvement, an activity that cannot be bought, but is simply itself. A reaction. Like time. Or sex. I was so swallowed up in the painting that I didn't hear this thunderous embarrassing noise that ruptured any quiet within me.

  "Trish!! Miss Thingerino! What are you doing here, and so early in the morning?" I looked over to my left and it was Richard Halpern. Ceil. With Jack Cohen—of all people. Ceil charged on me like a bull elephant, while Jack stayed back, smiling to himself at a distance. I looked up at Ceil; my face must have fallen at the sight of him. Then I remembered I had seen Jack just the day before, and I had blotted it out of my mind completely.

  "Miss Thing-honey. We thought you'd dropped your little fanny off the face of the Earth. What ever happened to you and Hermione?"

  Everything about him seemed too loud for the room and the moment. His clothes were too tight; his skin too tanned; his hair too black. And I couldn't answer him directly for the life of me.

  "Trish, are you alright? You look like you done saw a ghost. It's just me, Ceil? I know, you're up to bigger things, and you forgot your old friends already."

  Jack walked over. "Ceil, maybe he's just not ready for you at this hour. Boy, I'm so glad we got to see you. We're leaving for New York this evening. Richard came with us to Washington. Actually, we rode in his car."

  "I ain't much for this protesting, Trish. Never have been, but the girls needed a lift, so I said, what the hell? What am I doing in White Plains that's so pressing? This Act-Up stuff is important, right? We aren't gonna whip AIDS just by sitting on our tuffets like Miss Muffit, right?"

  I started laughing. Suddenly, I became completely Alan again. I was delighted to see Ceil. He was a gas. A treat. A camp. A laugh a second. I got up and we walked out of the Gallery. "Are there any bars around here? Where does a girl get a fortifying libation at this hour in our Capitol environs? Don't you love that word, environs, Trish? It always reminds me of something you want to shove up your ass. Of course with a rubber on it, right, Jack?"

  Jack just nodded. "Richard's becoming very safe-sexy," he said. "I think it's kind of early for a drink myself. But I could use a cup of coffee."

  A few blocks away, towards Union Station, we found a small luncheonette, the type Washington still had plenty of, and sat at a Formica table. It was almost empty, and the black waitress was very nice. "What can I bring you boys?" she asked.

  "You got anything sudsy?" Ceil asked.

  "No, sir. We don't serve beer. But I can get the cook's helper to run across the street to the 7-11 for a few Michelobs for you. Then all you gotta do is tip him."

  Ceil said fine, and I ordered a Coke. I wasn't in the mood for a beer, but Jack relented and decided he would have one, too. The helper came back a few minutes later with two cold, large bottles of beer. He opened them at the table, and brought some glasses. Richard tipped him two dollars. "There's something about this town that just makes you want to drink," Ceil said. He raised his glass to the cook's helper, who must have been about forty-five, and had lost most of his teeth, which didn't keep him from grinning. "Here's to you, friend. I'm sure there's gonna be an extra place in heaven for you."

  "Thank you, sir," the helper said seriously, and went back to the kitchen. I drank my Coke, and looked at Richard and tried to remember as much as I could about him.

  "So, whatcha been up to?" Ceil asked.

  "Just working. Wright and I like it here."

  "You didn't write or call. What a schlamazal. Really, Trish. I worried about you. Even Jack worried about you."

  "I think he can take care of himself," Jack said, and licked some of the Michelob suds off his big, walrusy mustache. "I know Wright can."

  "Where are you living?" Ceil said. "We gotta come visit. We gotta see where you are. Don't give us any of this b.s. about 'Oy, the place is a schmutz-house! Let me tell you!' I don't want to hear none of that."

  I asked them when they were leaving, and Jack said they had planned on going back around eight that evening. "We'll beat all the traffic that way," he explained.

  "Isn't that late?" I asked. "It's about five hours to New York."

  "Not the
way I drive," Richard said. "I invented radar detectors. Come on, why don't we have dinner together? Tell us where you are. We'll pick you up tonight at six. We'll have a quick bite, then Jack and I are gonna split for New York. Those other girls already grabbed the train. They claimed they had jobs like real people."

  "Ceil's staying at my house in Chelsea," Jack volunteered. "No sex, but I have to admit there's something about Ceil that kind of grows on you."

  "Yeah," Ceil said. "Like a taste for strychnine. Okay, so I'm a bad girl with a good heart. I can't help it. Come on, Trish, where you live?"

  There was no stopping him. I couldn't even beg off. But I figured that by six o'clock we'd either still be at the house, or all traces of us would be gone. The best thing to do would be to leave a note: Sorry, Richard. Sorry, Jack. We'll call you next time we're in New York. Then Alan and Wright would call. I knew they would—when this was over, and Alan and Wright somehow went on with their own lives. They would call. Often, I had wondered what it would be like for them, when they woke up, as we had on the beach.

  I borrowed a ballpoint from the waitress and wrote our address and phone down on a paper napkin. I explained to them not to worry about the sign outside. "It seems spookier than it is," I said. Then I realized that I had to get back. It was half-past twelve. I had to hurry.

  I got up, and said I had to leave. "She's probably got a trick waiting," Ceil said.

  I started laughing. A trick was not half the word for it.

  "Well?" Ceil went on. "Be honest. Is he out-of-this-world sex? Is he worth leaving us for? See you later, doll. Remember, we'll be by at six."

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I was late getting back. It was one-ten, and Wright was already there with Robert. Robert wore jeans and a clean white polo shirt that showed off his smooth angular arms—even with a few new KS blotchings on them. Wright must have brought some fresh clothes to him. Robert looked beautiful; tired, pale, almost luminous. "How did you get out of Washington Hospital?" I asked.