Back to Blood: A Novel

by Tom Wolfe

  What bowled Magdalena over was the stir Maurice’s very presence created. Roy Duroy himself immediately rushed up and gave him a big bear hug. His flattery fluttered down on Maurice like rose petals. A big real estate developer named Burt Thornton—even Magdalena had seen him on TV and in the newspapers—rushed over and all but licked Maurice’s alligator-hide moccasins. So many people came rushing over to Maurice, he stood there for an hour without moving six inches from where he first came upon the colorful umbrella-scape. Magdalena had always known that Maurice was a billionaire who had “influence.” Nevertheless, what she had never been able to get out of her mind was Norman’s photograph of Maurice’s crotch rotting with herpes pustules. But now, at Toffs at Twilight, she was looking at a Maurice el Grande.

  Meantime, Norman was sulking a bit. Nobody had recognized him so far. He had even given up his laughterrrahHAHock hock hock strategy for attracting attention. He groused to Magdalena that all Roy Duroy wanted was Maurice’s backing for some out-to-lunch dream of turning The Random into a chain operation, and Burt Thornton just wanted Maurice to intervene to keep North Tryon Street Global from foreclosing on him for an enormous loan for a development that hadn’t panned out.

  The three of them got back into the big black Escalade and headed off to the High Hotel, also in South Beach, where BesJet, which leased private planes to corporations and the mighty rich, was having a cocktail reception… even louder this time, the roaring surf… the big talk, the haw haw haw haws! the shriek shriek shriek shrieks!… Magdalena was stunned. Across the room she spotted two movie stars, Leon Decapito and Kanyu Reade. No question about it! Leon Decapito and Kanyu Reade!—in the flesh! ::::::Leon Decapito and Kanyu Reade… and me… we’re guests at the same cocktail party.::::::… But not even stars like them could have commanded more attention than BesJet gave Maurice. The president of BesJet rushed over to him, flashing every tooth he could squeeze into his grin. When they shook hands, the president clasped his left hand over their mingled fingers, as if sealing a vow. Five times he must have told Maurice that tomorrow the 170th BesJet flight heading specifically to Miami Basel would be landing. He no doubt knew Maurice had his own plane. He just wanted him to have the word, because in Miami, among all the nobs who could afford private flights, Maurice’s seemed to be the word. Norman was growing positively glum. They went from the BesJet party to a swell, expensive restaurant called Casa Tua for a big dinner given by Status, the new magazine that had become very hot by ranking people in every area of life you could imagine.

  No step over a threshold and through a door had ever given Magdalena such a status boost before… and no sooner did she step into the dining room, amid a hundred or more people, than she spotted the celebrated faces of Tara Heccuba Barker!… Luna Thermal!… Rad Packman!… She couldn’t get over it. She was breathing the same air they were! But the Status people couldn’t have made a bigger to-do over any of them than they did over Maurice. In his remarks, the editor in chief of Status mentioned Maurice twice…

  Finally, after dinner, Norman got a break. A big moonfaced woman recognized him and brought over a couple of others, and soon Norman was the star of a big conversation cluster eager to hear the eminent Dr. Lewis go on about pornnnahhHAHAHock hock hock addiction. In no time eight or nine people were gathered around him.

  Magdalena, standing next to Maurice, found herself engulfed, by default, in a conversation cluster consisting of Maurice and three of his courtiers, all middle-aged men. The only one Magdalena recognized was Burt Thornton, who popped up on TV a lot… some real estate fiasco… or something like that… The other two were Somebody Herman and Somebody Kershner. Maurice was holding forth on the pitfalls of “pyramided mortgage payments,” which she gathered was Mr. Thornton’s problem. She had never felt more out of place. She would have been afraid to utter a peep, even if she had known what on earth they were talking about. But she was even more afraid of leaving this cluster and trying her luck in a room full of old people now on their feet and getting ready to depart for one what’s happening après-party party or another. A group of them stopped when they reached the Maurice Fleischmann cluster, and some man stepped up—“Maurice!”—and embraced him in the manly version of women’s air kisses among social equals. They separated, and ::::::¡Dios mío! I’ve never seen such a gorgeous man in my life!:::::: Maurice began some rapid introductions. “Sergei, this is Burt Thornton… Burt, this is Sergei Korolyov.”

  “Ees my pleasure, Mr. Zornton.”

  “Oh, it’s my honor!” said Burt Thornton.

  Sergei Korolyov’s European accent—was it Russian?—only made him more gorgeous to Magdalena. He looked young, at least for this crowd—midthirties? He was as tall as a girl could ever hope for, and built. Men didn’t come any handsomer, either. A square jaw, amazing blue eyes—and his hair was a thick light brown with some blond streaks, combed back in long waves. It was romantic. And so charming, the way he smiled and the tone of his voice as he greeted “Mr. Zornton” and made those three words, “Ees my pleasure,” sound as if he actually meant it. Just before Maurice introduced him to Mr. Herman ::::::he glanced at me—and it didn’t just happen, either!:::::: Just as he was introduced to Mr. Kershner ::::::he did it again! Now I know he means it!::::::

  Maurice must have noticed it, too, because he said, “Oh, and Sergei, this is Magdalena Otero.” The gorgeous man turned to Magdalena. He smiled the same politely charming smile. He reached out as if to shake hands—and bowed and lifted her hand and air-kissed the back of it and said, “Miss Otero.” But when he stood up, he had added a slight insinuation to the smile, and he poured his eyes into hers for far too long—then left with his party. ::::::¡Dios mío, mío, mío!::::::

  Magdalena whispered to Maurice, “Who is that?”

  Maurice chuckled. “Someone who’d like to make friends with you, I gather.” Then he filled her in.

  Norman was happy, too. Now at last they realized who he was. What a lift! Such a lift that Norman was ready to roll to an after-party given by something called the Museum of the Instant, in the Design District, where a performance artist named Heidi Schlossel would be performing a piece of art called De-fucked. Everybody at the Status dinner was talking about it. Magdalena had never heard of the Museum of the Instant, the Design District, performance art, or performance artists, let alone one named Heidi Schlossel. Norman was only marginally better informed; he had heard of the Design District, although he didn’t know where it was. Maurice, now a certified big shot at Miami Basel, was dying to go.

  Magdalena took Norman aside. “This performance art thing—it’s called De-fucked. We don’t know what it is. Do you really want to risk taking”—she pointed behind her toward Maurice—“to something like that?”

  “It’s a museum,” said Norman. “How bad could it be?”

  Back into the Escalade… and off to the Design District, which seemed to be in an area of abandoned warehouses and small factories. The Instant Museum was a mess… and too small for all the Miami Basel insiders who flocked there… The only halfway-decent-sized gallery in the place had hundreds of worn-out black tires piled up against one wall. A jacklegged, unpainted wooden stanchion bore a sign:

  NATIVE TRASH OF THE DAY

  —Collection of the Instant Museum

  A recorded rhythm track boomed out over a speaker system, BOOMchilla BOOMchilla BOOMchilla BOOMchilla… From behind a mound of filthy black tires steps a tall figure in black. She has chalky white skin… and long black hair that comes cascading down upon the puffed and pleated shoulders of the academic robe she has on, the kind you graduate in. But this one is voluminous. It sweeps down to the floor. She isn’t smiling.

  She stands there motionless, without a peep, for about thirty seconds. Presumably, this is Heidi Schlossel.

  She brings her hands to her neck and undoes some sort of clasp. The robe falls from her shoulders suddenly, completely, clump. It must have weighed a ton.

  Now she stood stark naked in front of a big
puddle of heavy black cloth… rigid, erect. Her face was a blank… She looked like one of the undead in a horror movie… without a stitch on.

  Magdalena whispered to Norman, “Let’s leave—now!” She nodded toward Maurice. Norman just shook his head… No.

  The stark naked woman appeared to be fifteen years too old and fifteen pounds too heavy to play this role, whatever it was. She began speaking in the dead voice of the undead. “Men have fucked me… they have fucked me, fucked me, fucked me over, over-fucked me—”… on and on with this I Was a Fucking Zombie poem—until all at once she inserted a thumb and two fingers into her vagina and pulled out a length of sausage and came alive, as it were, and cried out, “De-fucked!”—and out came another sausage linked to the first—“De-fucked!”—and another and another—“De-fucked!” and “De-fucked!” and “De-fucked!” and “De-fucked!” Magdalena couldn’t believe how many link sausages the woman had managed to stuff inside her vaginal cavity!

  Maurice had his hand clasped over his crotch. But instead of stroking it with his hand, he was rocking his body back and forth beneath his hand… so as not to be detected.

  Magdalena nudged Norman and whispered on the loud side, “Maurice!” Norman ignored her. His eyes were fixed on Ms. Schlossel. So this time Magdalena didn’t bother hiding it behind a whisper. “Norman! Look at Maurice!”

  Norman glowered at her… but did look at Maurice. He just stared at first… calculating… calculating… then he let out a deep, self-denying sigh and put his arm around Maurice’s shoulders… tenderly… and leaned close to him and said… in a voice you would use on a child… “We have to go now, Maurice.”

  Like an obedient child who knows he has disappointed his parents, Maurice let himself be led out of the Museum of the Instant.

  Maurice was silent… and penitent… but Norman acted cross. He kept shaking his head from side to side, without looking at either one of them.

  “What’s wrong, Norman?” said Magdalena.

  “There’s supposed to be a great after-party at some gallery near here, the Linger, in Wynwood, wherever that is.” He kept shaking his head. “But I guess that’s out.”

  Later on, Magdalena asked around and was told that the Linger, a large gallery, wanted to show its “private collection” of photorealistic pornographic paintings, whatever photorealistic meant, and sculptures of homosexual orgies.

  Why was there so much pornography in this so-called cutting-edge art? Magdalena wondered. For what earthly reason? How in God’s name did they justify it?… And just who was more upset about not being able to see it all, the patient… or the doctor?

  But by last night it was as if nothing had happened. Here were the three of them, Maurice, Norman, and herself, plunging into another round of parties and receptions before dinner… and dinner was really something last night. Michael du Glasse and his wife, Caroline Peyton-Soames, were the hosts. Michael du Glasse and Caroline Peyton-Soames!… the most glamorous couple in Hollywood, if you asked Magdalena… a dinner for a hundred people at the Ritz-Carlton… and Magdalena Otero, lately of Hialeah, was their guest… and for one sublime and unforgettable moment she had touched their right hands with hers.

  In five minutes, presumably, a pair of doors in the glass wall would open, and these old men, these old maggots, would have first crack at the treasures that lay on the other side… Miami Basel!… For two hours these maggots, and these alone, would have the exclusive run of the whole place… whatever in the name of God “the whole place” was…

  “—fuck off? You fuck off, you fat—”

  “AhhggghHAHAHHHHock hock hock hockdjou see that big ox trying to slip between those two people? Got stuck between themmmmaaagghHAHHHHock hock hock hock! Couldn’t get his belly throughahhHock hock hock!”

  Maurice Fleischmann looked at Norman blankly. Then he looked around among his fellow squirming maggots to figure out what had made Norman eruptttock hock hock like that. He couldn’t. He was nonplussed. But Magdalena now understood. Norman cackled when he felt insecure, especially in the presence of people who made him feel defensive or inferior—Fleischmann, for one. It was a way of taking over from them in conversation. Anybody, even a real swell like Fleischmann, had to have a heart of stone not to manufacture a smile and a few chuckles and play along with a bighearted guy who’s being swept away, convulsed, paralyzed by laughter over… God knows what. Why even bother with Fleischmann’s conversation—when he already controlled Fleischmann’s poor porn-mad mind? Why?—it all dawned on Magdalena. It was very important to Norman to keep his boat at a place like the Fisher Island Marina—but he didn’t own any property there. Maurice Fleischmann made it happen. Or Norman’s presence amidst the most important VIPs of all the VIPs of Miami Basel, the richest of the rich, the likeliest of the likely big spenders, the deepest of the plungers—all of them slithering over and underneath one another to get first crack at the wonders of ninety thousand square feet of art for sale. What was Norman doing here? Maurice Fleischmann made it happen.

  Some sort of dustup at the very head of the line… the big ox yakking away, angrily, by the looks of him… a stack of tires—of fat—forming on the back of his neck every time his chin bobs up. ::::::Look at what he’s wearing!… an ordinary white T-shirt, the kind that’s meant to be underwear. Just look at him!… it’s stretched over his swollen belly… making him look like one of those big plastic gym balls… it’s hanging outside his jeans, a really gross pair of Big Boy BodiBilt jeans.::::::

  Magdalena tapped Norman on the arm. “Norman—”

  “Yeah, that’s him,” said Norman. “But wait a minute… This guy is too muuuuchHahhhHAHAHock hock hock!”

  By the time he got to his cackle, Magdalena couldn’t help but notice, he was no longer aiming his little performance in her direction, but Fleischmann’s.

  “A second ago the guy was trying to crash the line four or five places from the front… and nowwwahHHHHock hock hock he is the front!”…

  Fleischmann looks put out. He doesn’t even feign a smile over Norman’s cackle. He’s worried. He sidles over and takes a look.

  “Hey, A.A.,” says Fleischmann, “come over here. Isn’t that Flebetnikov?”

  “Oh, yes,” she says, “the very one.” Fleischmann leaned close to A.A. and lowered his voice: “That bloated bastard. He knows I’m interested in the Doggses—and look at him. He’s literally shoved people aside with his big sumo gut, and now he’s right up against the door.”

  A.A. lowered her voice: “And therefore he’s going after the Doggses himself? Don’t you think—”

  “He’s got billions of dollars, and he’s a Putin thug, and ��Therefore, I’m gonna grab anything you want, just to show you you don’t have a chance against me.’ ”

  “Who is he?” said Norman.

  Fleischmann clearly resented Norman’s interrupting a confidential conversation. “Perhaps you’ve heard of Russian oligarchs.” Then he turned back to A.A. and was saying, “Now, the only thing—”

  It was the “perhaps” that got Norman. Was Fleischmann by any chance adopting the patient peevish tone one uses with dimwits? Norman wasn’t going to put up with that for a moment.

  “Heard of them?” he said. “Try heard from them ahaaahhhHAHAHAHock hock hock! Three different psychiatrists have brought me in as consultant with these characters. Have I heard of themmmeeaaahHAAAHock hock hock!”

  Magdalena knew that was a lie.

  “Well, I seriously doubt you ever consulted for one that obnoxious,” Fleischmann said curtly, probably wondering how he had lost control of the conversation.

  Without another word, Fleischmann walked away from Norman, over to a wall of the entryway, and took a cell phone out of an inside pocket of his jacket. He looked back to make sure that nobody could overhear him. He spoke to somebody for four or five minutes. When he returned to the group, he was in a better mood.

  “Who’d you call, Maurice?” said Magdalena.

  Fleischmann gave her a coy boy
’s flirtatious smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know!”

  At that moment the entire mob of maggots grew quiet. From out of nowhere a woman had appeared on the other side of the glass wall, a blond, bony, gristly americana trying to look young in a pair of Art World Black stovepipe pants and an Art World Black T-shirt with a deep V-neck. Thank God a Miami Basel STAFF ID was hanging from her neck. Mercifully, it covered part of the sternum bonescape where her cleavage was supposed to be. She unlocked the glass doors, put on a brittle smile, and gestured down the hall. The maggots remained silent, eerily so, as they began the big push through the doorway.

  Flebetnikov popped through like an immense cork. He lost his footing for a moment in the hallway beyond and had to do a little hop to regain his balance. His great T-shirt-swathed belly pitched and yawed. He led the pack… with both elbows jutting out, as if to make sure no one passed him. Magdalena noticed for the first time that he was wearing what looked like basketball shoes. She looked down at Fleischmann’s feet. He had on sneakers, too!… tan sneakers practically the same color as his poplin pants… not so obtrusive as the Russian’s, but sneakers nonetheless… On! Into the Art World! Faster!