Wicked and Weird

by Rich Terfry

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes.”

  Three weeks later, by god, I met Claire at JFK. I’ll never forget the image of her emerging through the sliding doors to the baggage claim area: her hair and her cleavage bouncing in slow motion, sparks flying around her. The jaw of every other man in the place dropped. But I was the one she wrapped her arms around. How the hell did I pull this off? I wondered. If there was ever a moment in my life when I felt I was cock of the walk, this was it.

  For two years we lived at 416 Lafayette Street, near Astor Place, across from the Public Theater. I wrote songs and taught Claire English. She started writing a novel, took up painting and taught me French. We ate penne vodka from Pepe Rosso on Sullivan Street, we played pool at Soho Billiards on Mulberry and watched movies at the Angelika on Houston. We walked, we talked, we slept, we fucked, we studied, we spent money, and man-oh-man did we fight.

  Claire called me her “soulmate,” and I felt the same way about her but never said so only because I hate the word soulmate—or soul-anything. I hate soul. But as close as we had become, something in our chemistry was off. We couldn’t get through a full day without some kind of row. It never lasted long and was completely forgotten an hour later. But every day there was something. Running through Claire’s veins was a quality we jokingly referred to as “Latin fire.” It didn’t take much for her to empty out the cupboards and smash all the dishes against a wall. Things would escalate to a level of such absurdity that the silliness couldn’t be ignored and we’d both burst into laughter; usually, the trigger was a failed attempt to curse in each other’s language. Still laughing, but with tears in our eyes, we’d rip each other’s clothes off and screw our brains out while secretly still hating each other a little bit.

  •

  After a couple of years of going broke in New York, Claire became homesick for the superiority complexes, civil unrest and overwrought music of home, so we made our return to Paris. Back in my old stomping grounds of the sixth arrondissement, we settled into a studio apartment at 11, rue Princesse—a tiny one-way street less than three hundred feet long and ten feet wide. We maintained our daily regimen of writing, fighting and fucking like the world was going to end.

  Shortly after settling in, Claire started a job at Cahiers du Cinéma. Through her work she met kooks of all kinds from the film world. Many of them would visit our apartment on their way to or from the notorious nightclub Chez Castel, which was (and still is) next door. A certain famous actor would routinely stop by, pour his heart out and cry into his beautiful hands. During the wee hours of one summer night, we were invaded by a legendary director who told us all about his tough upbringing and started waving around a knife that he kept in an ankle holster. Once or twice a week another bizarre spectacle would unfold.

  Meanwhile, Claire would devour the great works of French literature while I wrote songs. I would regularly run over to Rue Saint-André-des-Arts for cheap Chinese takeout. Together we’d take walks to the Cimetière du Montparnasse to say hello to Serge Gainsbourg, or to a place called Deyrolle, a cabinet of curiosities on Rue du Bac, to say hello to the dead animals. Two or three times a week we’d venture along Boulevard Saint-Germain to Odéon to watch a movie. Afterwards we’d find a table at Le Danton to discuss, over dessert, what we’d seen.

  Claire, being a genius, was learning English much faster than I was learning French. But sometimes she’d make mistakes that were so adorable I couldn’t bring myself to correct them. One morning as she brushed her hair she became exasperated, announcing, “Ugh! I have too many bows in my hair!” She also confused bothersome and boring. One night we were lying in bed and a mosquito was buzzing around her ear. “This moustique is so boring,” she sighed, half asleep.

  Another time, coming home after a few errands, I gave her the details of my successful run: “I went to the bank and to the post office, I got the stuff you wanted from the grocery store AND I found a copy of Les Bonnes Femmes on DVD for ten euros!”

  “Ah! Boner!” she replied. She meant to say bonus. We laughed for two days.

  She would also say things that either made no sense in English or were accidentally poetic. Sleeping in late one morning she said, “I love so much to lie in ze bed like zis. It is like a secret house against the world.” Perfectly comfortable as I was, I had to get up to find a notepad to write that one down. I decided then and there to use that gem for the title of the album I was just finishing.

  After the success of the previous album, expectations for the new one were high. I was in demand as a live performer and my tour schedule following the album’s release was hectic. Soon I was crisscrossing the globe, playing dark rooms and sleeping in three-star hotels. One- and two-star hotels vary as greatly in their shittiness as five-star hotels do in their opulence. But the rooms in three-star hotels are all the same, no matter where you are in the world. So a strange thing happens to the full-time, three-star international-touring musician after a few weeks on the road: it’s not at all uncommon to wake up in the morning and have no idea where in the world you are. You see new countries every day. There’s no such thing as weekends. Months blur together. There have been times when I’ve had to consult my passport to determine my own whereabouts. It’s an unsettling sensation, and life on the road can take a toll on one’s health. Maintaining a proper diet and sleep schedule can be a serious challenge. But all in all, the pros outweigh the cons by a wide margin. I was finding adventure everywhere I went. I judged a belly flop contest in Beijing. I played baseball on the street with some kids in Havana. I was knocked unconscious by a kangaroo in Brisbane.

  And in Valencia, Spain, I had the most unforgettable dining experience of my life.

  After my show in that city on the Mediterranean coast, a couple approached me. The man was in his forties and looked like Burt Lancaster, so we’ll call him “Burt.” The woman was in her early thirties and looked like one of Klimt’s water serpents. Let’s call her “Red” for her red hair. Burt and Red were all over each other. There almost seemed to be anger in the way they kissed and groped each other. It was disturbing to behold. With his eyes trained on Red as if she were a dangerous animal, Burt had this to say, in very good English: “This gorgeous creature and I went looking for something to do tonight. We went to another concert, but it was terrible, so we demanded our money back and left …”

  They made out furiously again for ten seconds. Then, out of breath, Burt continued.

  “We heard music coming from this place and decided to take a chance. No offence, but neither of us had heard of you before. Well, we’re both so glad we took the chance, because you were amazing. Your words are so beautiful and your dancing is very sexy indeed …”

  Again with the making out. This time Burt’s hands went up Red’s blouse and both she and he started growling and moaning.

  While Burt marauded Red’s face and body, she said, “We’re taking you home with us, sweetheart. We won’t take no for an answer.” Her accent was heavier than his, and sounded eastern European more than Spanish.

  “I’m going to cook for you,” Burt continued. “I promise you the most amazing meal you’ve eaten in your entire life. I’ll cook fucking food for you and tell you about the film I am going to make! Come with us. Now. Let’s leave this place!” Burt and Red resumed their carnality, ignoring me as I tried to explain that I had to pack my gear and meet with the promoter to get paid. As they mauled, another person from the crowd advanced with a question:

  “What did that guy just say to you?”

  “I don’t know. He said he wanted to make me food.”

  “What? Oh, I would definitely accept his offer if I were you!”

  Then another approached with the same concern.

  “If he is offering to cook for you, you mustn’t refuse!”

  When a third person said the same, I asked, “What’s the deal with that guy?”

  “Don’t you know who that IS?”

  “No. Should I?”


  “Absolutely! He is the most famous chef in Spain! One of the greatest in all of Europe! You are very lucky to have his invitation.”

  Before hearing these endorsements, I had been worried about how I would escape the venue unmolested by those freaks, Burt and Red. But now I realized that passing up what would surely be a once-in-a-lifetime experience would be a mistake. What the hell, I thought; episodes like this were why I had chosen this life for myself in the first place. God knows, it wasn’t about money or fame. High adventure would be my reward! I scrambled to collect my equipment and money, and found Burt and Red wrestling in a dark corner.

  “Oh, there you are! We must leave this place at once. Come home with us. You will eat and I will tell you about my movie,” Burt panted.

  “All right, let’s go!” I said.

  Burt thrust both fists in the air and let loose a mighty Nicolas Cage howl. Then we made our way into the night, the three of us, arm in arm.

  Burt’s place was a ten-minute walk away. He owned the building. It was beautiful, centuries old. Once we were inside, he gave me the tour. The ground floor held his restaurant, which was clearly too fancy for my pockets. He lived with Red on the second and third floors, and the fourth served as a television studio (he hosted his own weekly cooking show). His home was decorated with original works of art from around the world, much of it from Japan. His furniture looked like art, too. One room was solely dedicated to one of the most incredible things I have ever seen.

  “Do you recognize it?” Burt asked. “It is not a replica.”

  The object in question was the “love machine” from Alejandro Jodorowsky’s insane 1973 film The Holy Mountain. It was a gigantic robotic device—from Jupiter, in the film—with a mechanical vagina that the user works to bring to climax with a ten-foot electronic rod.

  “Wanna give it a shot?” offered Burt, while Red snaked around him.

  “Maybe later,” I said. “After I eat. I’m starving!”

  “Food! Yes! But first! Music!”

  Burt put on a record by the Master Musicians of Joujouka and played it so loud I couldn’t see straight. Then, shouting, he laid down the law: “Now I will go to the kitchen to prepare for you a very special meal! Do not enter my kitchen under any circumstances! No peeking! Do not ask any questions about my methods! When the food is ready, I will bring it to you! We will sit together at this wonderful table I rescued from Borneo! It once belonged to a sultan! While I cook, my beautiful Red will entertain you! Wouldn’t you agree she is most charming?”

  “Oh yes!” I screamed.

  With that, Burt fled to the kitchen with an erection visible through his pants. Red and I sat on an exotic sofa and she told me a bit about herself. She explained that before she’d met Burt, she had worked in the impalement arts as a target girl. I couldn’t decide if that surprised me or not. At one point as she was speaking, the strap of her top fell off her shoulder, completely revealing one of her breasts. Either she didn’t notice, or was unconcerned. Whatever the case, she remained like that, and I stared at the breast until the food arrived. When Burt finally emerged from the kitchen with a plate in his hand, he looked both proud and as turned on at the sight of Red as I was.

  “Join me at the table, you two!”

  Red straightened herself out and we took our places at the sultan’s table. My plate of food was one of the greatest works of art I’ve ever seen. As Burt described the meal I was about to eat, he sounded as if he was reciting poetry, but even so, he referred to the meat simply as “the meat.” I began destroying his masterpiece with a knife and fork, and Burt held court.

  “Now, picture this! I am a master chef, yes?”

  I nodded as I ate ecstatically, crescendos of incredible flavours overlapping in my mouth.

  “Ah, but it didn’t happen overnight,” he continued. “For many years, I voyaged around the world, apprenticing under culinary geniuses on every continent. Always seeking to challenge myself, I accepted an invitation to go out on a hunt with a master from Russia. I slaughtered a beautiful elk that day. This exercise changed my life in a profound way. It was intoxicating to eat the flesh of a beast killed by my own hand, and just hours before. Now the allure of the wild was as powerful to me as that of the kitchen …”

  Red began rubbing Burt’s thigh (I hoped) under the table. Burt’s eyes rolled back in his head and his fist came down hard on the table. They began speaking breathlessly to each other in a language I didn’t recognize, but I could tell that what they were saying to each other was dirty. Burt started attacking Red with kisses again and all the while she stared at me. Then they resumed speaking in their secret language, both shooting glances in my direction. Burt, drunk on lust and liquor, started laughing demonically before addressing me directly again.

  “By the way, before I continue, my friend, how is the food? Are you chewing it well? Are you swallowing it? Be sure to really chew it! CHEW the meat!”

  “Oh yeah. I’m fuckin’ chewin’, Burt. This is amazing!”

  Burt laughed with his whole body. “Very good! Now, where was I?”

  “The thrill of the hunt!” I reminded him.

  “Ah yes! The thrill of the hunt! Ex-zzzzzactly! So! After a year of travel and killing the most dangerous animals on the face of the earth, I come here to Valencia and open my restaurant. Business is good—life is great. Nice car, beautiful women … But one day it occurs to me that a year has passed and I haven’t killed anything! I am longing for the ‘thrill of the hunt,’ as you call it! Until, one night, my woman and I are up very late, partying with a young backpacker from Ukraine. Things get a little crazy … a little bit out of control … and … well, yes, our young friend dies!”

  Burt and Red looked at each other the way musicians do when they’re improvising.

  “The thrill is back,” Burt whispered. “I cook by day and my woman and I become hunters by night. I begin serving meat from my kills in the restaurant, which becomes even more popular than it was before. People come from around the world! The reviews are excellent. But. What nobody knows. Is that”—and here Burt gestured to my now-empty plate—“it’s human flesh!”

  Red punctuated Burt’s soliloquy with a deep moan, throwing her head back. Burt lunged at her neck with his mouth. They began tearing each other’s clothes off, and then Burt hoisted Red onto the antique table. They made animal noises as I backed away slowly.

  “You’re talking about your movie, right? Burt?”

  Burt didn’t answer my question. I edged to the door, making as much noise as possible, giving Burt every chance to let me off the hook. But I no longer existed. Burt was lost inside Red. I hesitated at the top of the stairs, unsure if I should ask the question again or run for my life. Then I simply walked out.

  The pink light of dawn was beginning to crawl over the wet streets of Valencia. Halfway down the block, I looked back over my shoulder to the corner where Burt’s building stood. The sign over the door of the restaurant read The Hand That Feeds.

  •

  Sometimes Claire travelled with me. We hated having to be apart for weeks or months at a time. But Claire hated being away from Paris even more. The city nourished her. Without its providence she weakened, and anxieties would flare in her. So more often than not, she’d stay home when I went on tour. We’d check in with each other once in a while, but Claire was never one to spend much time on the phone or computer. She needs blood.

  Paris never welcomed me upon my return. Claire and I would be strangers for the first day or two and I felt as if a hundred years had passed since I had left. Paris was where I lived, but it wasn’t my home. Paris didn’t care if I stayed or left. Sometimes I wondered if Claire felt the same deep down. We understood each other in ways no one else ever could. We inspired each other. But looking back, I can see that we were alone together. We were stuck in the same universe together, each of us knowing we belonged in different, parallel ones.

  I was lost; happy to be lost, but lost nonetheless. I didn’t know if
I was searching or hiding. And until I could figure it out, I just kept going.

  Half a year later, I was in Moscow for the first time. Before I left Paris, several people had warned me to “be careful.” No one explained what the dangers might be, but I promised everyone, including myself, that I’d use an extra measure of common sense while there. Upon my arrival, I made an effort to learn a few words in Russian. I managed “привет” (hello) and “спасибо” (thank you), but that’s as far as I got.

  When I arrived at the venue where I was scheduled to play, three of the scariest-looking people I had ever seen—two men and a woman—met me. They were all tall and had square heads.

  “привет,” I said, smiling nervously.

  “You are the Book Six Five?” the meanest one asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Come with us.”

  What could I say? These huge and terrifying strangers led me down the street. They didn’t speak a word until we rounded a corner onto a quiet side street. There they stopped, looked over their shoulders and, when the coast was clear, opened their jackets and showed me police badges. Again, the scariest one spoke:

  “We are police. We must ask you questions, but not here. We take you by car to station.”

  My heart was beating so hard it hurt. I had always been afraid of people, even in normal and familiar circumstances. And the efforts I had made in childhood to never be the cause of distress for my mercurial mother had evolved in adulthood into a general rule of careful behaviour. Now I was in big trouble for some unknown reason and I was very far away from home. The police spoke among themselves during the drive to the station, and of course I didn’t understand a word. I hoped they’d claim there was a problem with my visa and look for a bribe, but deep down I knew that somehow my situation was much more serious.

  When we arrived at the station, I was immediately led into a grey, windowless room, where I was left under the supervision of a slightly less huge, less terrifying man. He was soft-spoken and his English was quite good. He saw that I was frightened and was vaguely apologetic when he advised me that I would have to surrender my belongings and submit to a strip search. I’d always been the person too shy to take my shirt off at the beach, and it was now obvious my detention wasn’t about visa issues. So with this instruction, I shattered. I broke down and sobbed. The officer offered no consolation; he simply waited for me to recover.