Lovecraft Ezine Mega-Issue 4 Rev1

by Price, Robert M.

  Overhead, the daylight panels are open. Polished concrete reflects brittle light in all directions, piercing bright like Aster's fountain.

  This place, not a living world, but a dead aftermath. All sets struck, shipped away. Lighting rigs packed, cameras returned to rental agencies. A sunblasted vacancy. This tiny booth, a satellite to Sound's studio, bound by nothing but strewn cables, overseen by mad god Aster.

  So exhausted. Nothing left but pain.

  I can't work in solitude, but this is all I have. A desolate factory, no props to help pretend. No fellow players, no scenery. Some actors have real chops, can call forth the perfect emotional note, even in solitary reshoots. Once I watched Malkovich, alone in a soundstage like this one, work himself up to deliver a trembling, sneering, perfectly-pitched retort to a line delivered months earlier. Alone, after everyone else had moved on to subsequent gigs.

  I'm not that actress. To be jealous, I need to look into the eyes of someone and pretend they did me wrong. I need to project a relationship, motivations, shared history. I work off people. They're the only way I can summon real emotions.

  Obsessing on Can't isn't going to help me do this. I have to try. I'm just setting up for failure. Pre-excusing another crack-up.

  It's hard, though. This place is insanely hot, so bright I can't see my monitor. Am I supposed to dub blind, isolated, dripping sweat? What am I even seeing? Some impersonal embrace, supposedly passionate, fumbling toward a sex scene. Who are these people? Which one's me?

  I want to hide. Sweat pours down my back. I'm swooning against the wall. I could die in here.

  Nightmares of unpreparedness are universal. Show up for the final exam, don't know a single answer. All the questions written in code. Today feels like that dream. I'm trying to give what he wants. All morning, Aster has me acting short voice loops, without any visual reference. I'm supposed to speak a short bit based on description alone.

  In response to his come-on, she hums a few notes.

  How the fuck am I supposed to play this?

  Seductive, playful growl. Carnal laughter.

  It's impossible for me, and he doesn't care.

  Disrobing. Spanking. Penetration.

  That's Aster's focus. It's my discomfort he wants. My agony. Keeps opening the door between every line, screaming at me. He knows it's impossible. He's bullying.

  I go silent, stop reacting.

  Finally, Aster just stares. "No bonding company in Hollywood will cover any production you're part of. Same in Britain, Australia." He leans in grinning, breath warm on my face. "You can only work here, with me. A genuine madman."

  I try again. Today, I'll give Aster all I can. Tomorrow, I'll bring a knife from his kitchen. Either I'll wow him, or if that's not enough, it ends here, in this box. He wants degeneracy, total breakdown. I'll let myself shatter and bleed.

  A dying star. A last performance to burn the screen.

  Commotion wakes me. The bedroom, blue-silver dawn.

  Light from the hallway outlines a gold statue, now moving. He enters my room quickly, determined, as if pursuing some urgent plan. The wardrobe, he withdraws something. My clothing.

  I'm out of bed, standing barefoot in my sleep shirt, rubbing my eyes.

  The gold uniformed chauffeur approaches, carrying my white sleeveless silk top and pleated black skirt.

  "Doesn't matter what I wear," I say.

  He throws these on the bed, grabs the bottom of my shirt, and lifts. Without thinking I raise my arms, and it's up, over my head. He hooks thumbs into the waistband of my panties at both sides, pulls down. I step out.

  Before I can object, I'm standing naked before him.

  "Hey," I protest, barely awake. "I can dress myself."

  I have no sense he's looking at me. He avoids eye contact, as in the airport and limousine, averts his face. I barely catch a glimpse as he kneels before me, stands again.

  I want to resist. Instead, I freeze. This conception of myself as an unstoppable force? Maybe it's just that usually, nobody resists me. I'm used to getting what I want. Everything I ask for.

  "Stop," I say.

  The chauffeur bends, holding the skirt, lifts my right foot in, and gently presses sideways against my hip to shift my weight. As I lift my left foot involuntarily to balance, he slips the other side of the skirt under. It shimmies up, past knees and thighs, over hips.

  Briefly he stands before me. So close, his face appears artificial, immobile white, like the mask in Franju's Les Yeux Sans Visage. In an instant he moves, grabs the blouse, shifts behind. He guides my right hand into an armhole, then my left. Silk glides over my shoulders. He fastens the lowest buttons, leaves the rest to me.

  He returns to the bureau. It occurs to me I should feel molested, but the coercive element of our dressing game feels playful, like a couple in wordless agreement acting out a violation fantasy. I'm not angry, just a bit stimulated. A sensation, a rushing tingle, sends me back into memory.

  On location, no rules. The boundaries of actors give way to those of characters we portray. Looser, often justifying the indulgence of appetites. We use this game to approach things we're reluctant to admit we desire.

  That's how it began. 1988, a certain co-star. Trading vodka shots, listening to Duran Duran in my trailer. Playful wrestling gives way to pinching. Exaggerated name-calling.

  Bitch.

  Kisses, bitten lips.

  Whore.

  Torn fabric, spanking. Bare skin.

  The chauffeur drops a pair of black strap-heels next to the bed. I step in.

  He takes my arm, drags me after him. Away from Absolut Citron, my "New Religion," and her.

  On the way out, near the fountain in the broad central hall, we pass a gilt statue that wasn't there when I arrived. Hooded, with a great, flowing mantle. It's the same yellow-robed statue I saw two nights ago, headless then. Now it stands watch over the bedroom hall.

  I struggle to button up as the chauffeur pulls me down the stairs, toward the limousine waiting at the driveway curb. My blouse flutters open, reveals my breast in the pale dawn. I laugh at such a scene, an actress half-dressed, half-asleep, rushed by her driver to an idling car. This drama makes more sense when I imagine it onscreen, not something happening to myself. I wonder where the story leads?

  Then I realize, there's no paparazzi, no eager public. We're still within Aster's gates.

  Aster's fingertips trace a line down my sweat-dripping arm to the back of my hand. I feel his frustration. I'm stuck, incapacitated. The heat makes everything worse, despite frequent ice water breaks.

  Finally he removes the silver jacket, down to that absurd yellow rubber shirt. His skin's so dangerously pink I feel sorry for him, despite the way he torments me.

  He closes the door, goes back to berating me through the viewport. Tiny dots of spit spray the glass. My attention divides between my screen, the headphone cues, Aster's lips moving.

  "Soundproof, dummy. I can't hear."

  I know his abuse is just manipulation. Still, it stings.

  The next time Aster throws the door open, Sound's behind him. One leans in, then the other. The booth fills with the odor of their sweat.

  "Sun-wasted hag."

  "Filthy prostitute."

  They alternate taunts.

  "Washed-up junkie."

  "Talentless bitch."

  Hands grope me. Prod, pinch.

  "Frigid."

  "Slut."

  This jolts me. "Stop!" I'm angry, breathing hard.

  "That's what I want," Aster says. "That's the Lily Vaun I paid for."

  I feel myself slide. Can't let myself.

  "I smell it," Aster hisses. "Some real emotion you're hiding."

  I shake my head.

  "What? Tell us!" he roars. "Into the microphone."

  He doesn't understand.

  "Love," I blurt. "True, real love. Pushed it away. It haunts... every dream."

  He laughs, giddy. "Who was it? Who has power over you?"

/>   I cover my face. He thinks he can do this to me?

  "Say the name," he taunts. "You were on top, now you're ruined. Who?"

  "Nobody." I want to say her name. Saffron. "It was me. I should've been stronger."

  "It's Ferdinand Toth, isn't it? That weirdo. You love a gap-toothed man with long hair? Those red pants?"

  "No."

  "Everyone knew about you and Gianni Ross, through all the Amber movies. You ruined his marriage."

  "He ruined his own marriage. I was just toying with him. Never love."

  "Who? Everyone you dated, loved, fucked, they're all famous."

  "Not all," I say. "Not before."

  Everything flows back, 1988 again. Playful flirting in my trailer. Smiles, cherry ice cream. A first hint of what the lust would become.

  Back then, my desires ruled.

  Now, I let Aster take over. I give in, shriek my rage, vent a bitter flood into the microphone.

  Sound rushes back to the booth.

  I growl like an animal, eyes wild, tears streaming hot. Trembling in my chest, acid rumbles in my gut.

  "Yes!" Aster roars. "Sound, you better be getting this."

  If I faint, die, have a stroke, I don't care. So sick of holding it in. I need to be rid of this.

  Aster's smiling, pleased with me.

  I lash out with fists, shove him away. Eyes sting. Ashamed I've given in.

  Aster takes me gently by the shoulders. "If you're broken, Lily, use it."

  I grip the microphone, shriek and rage, spew all my poison, ventilate all the buried anger, all the pain. Give in, summon everything. The blackest emotion, the bitterest depressive cloud. Shame, self-hatred. Craving for death. Worst of all, my biggest fear, that all this is bullshit, suicidal ideation no more than a ploy to get back on talk shows. Fuel for a comeback. The thought makes me hate myself.

  Trail off. Try to breathe.

  "Saffron," I gasp. "My secret, twenty-five years. Saffron Page. Before the world knew me. Before I was Amber."

  "Mmm, Saffron," Aster says. "Haven't seen her, not in any movie of yours."

  Tears burn. My eyes sting from the poison. "A small film, artistic. Erotic. Me, with a woman." Starting to breathe again. "Diamond Starshine."

  "Lovely title." Aster grins. "Why haven't we heard of that? Or your Saffron?"

  A heart full of pleasures. Fucking, love-making. Soul-tearing orgasm. Blissful, wet kisses. Things I used to know, forgotten by memory. Remembered only in the gut.

  I start to speak, caught in the momentum of release, of revelation. Try to stop myself. "Saffron didn't get much work after. Once I had power, I tried to help get her a few roles."

  "So you stayed in touch," Aster says. "It's not a case of missed connections. You could've found her."

  I climb out of the booth. "For a while. I lost track. She vanished after her agent, my first agent, cut her loose."

  "Now, I recall a rumor," Aster says. "A lost jewel of sublime artistic perversion, early in Lily Vaun's career. Occult weirdness, explicit lesbian smut. You made your Amber millions, bought all the prints. Ensured it never came out on video."

  I know what I did. Saffron's big chance, starring opposite Lily Vaun, about to become the big star of the ‘90s. What would Diamond Starshine have meant to her career? I should have helped her, not abandoned her.

  "My new agent said I had no choice." I look down, can't meet his eyes.

  Who else knew the story? My second agent, and the first I shared with Saffron. Who else?

  Aster grinning. He knows all this.

  "Saffron," I say. "You know her." My mind leaps, an electric jolt.

  Aster shrugs. "Who do you think recommended you? Whose story do you think you've been dubbing?"

  I look around, frantic. "Where is she?"

  "Soon, my Lily." Aster cups my cheek in his palm, looks at me with utmost gentleness, with perfect understanding. "She's almost here."

  From behind his back, Aster produces a book.

  I've asked for the script I don't know how many times. Aster always laughs. Now I stop asking, and he hands it over. Plain black cover, perhaps a dozen blank pages. Then I come to the title.

  "The King in Yellow." Flip ahead. "Act One."

  "Are you sure you want this?" Aster whispers, watching. "No going back."

  I jump pages at a time, skimming, until I find something familiar. "Song of my soul..." A girl, young, innocent. A cloaked yellow figure follows. Lust in the air, mingled with death. "I remember some of this."

  "Maybe better if I just show you the next clip," Aster says. "Come, time to see what you've been performing."

  He takes my hand, pulls me into the booth and presses up beside me. We're smashed together in a space meant for one, sharing a little wobbling bench. The monitor flickers up.

  Click, hum. Snippet of argument. Then no sound.

  I feel Aster's breathing quicken beside me, shallow and fast. So close, he keeps shifting, moving against me.

  Picture flares to life, high contrast black and white. Abstracted bodies, too close to identify. The extreme closeup is intimate, uncomfortable. Fine details like skin texture shift in and out of focus.

  "I keep dreaming this..." I trail off. "Where it started. Before it went wrong."

  Images familiar, teetering madness. A cinematic nightmare imprinted on the mind. Such craving. Terrible hunger, fit to extinguish sanity.

  The camera pulls back. A woman's hand moves across skin. Another breast. Two women. Reverse angle, hands trace the curve of a hip. Shoulder blade, upper back. Such proximity forces the viewer to take part in the intimacy.

  A yellow sign. Brief flashes, more explicit. Tongue on nipple. Curve of hip blends into shadow, transitions to black. Fingers delve, the figure turns. Illuminated feminine roundness, seen from the side. Darkness of the cleft, absolute.

  On one set of hands, nails long, painted black. The other has thin, white fingers, nails short and natural.

  Closeup on bodies of two women, lovers. The imagery is explicit, shockingly transgressive for a director like Aster. His work has always found a mainstream audience. For something like this, that's impossible.

  It arouses, stirs me deep, in a place pornography can't reach. Thoughtless, instinctive, the hot and turbulent provocation of lusty dreams. I feel confused, watching headless bodies writhe and stroke. Despite this stirring, I'm trying to decode, to gain all the information I can.

  Then I see the paisley-shaped birthmark under her small, pale breast.

  I gasp, speak her name. "Saffron."

  "No," Aster says. "Saffron was her screen name. That person faded away."

  Her face fills the monitor. No older. No less beautiful.

  Movement in the control room catches my eye. I look up, expecting to see Sound.

  There in the yellow neon flicker, the chauffeur holds up a clear glass bottle of the gold wine I saw in Aster's refrigerator.

  I realize I'm still acting for the microphone. Emotion without thought, words and tears in perfect sync with scene.

  No need for script. Now I understand.

  The chauffeur unbuttons his jacket, pulls it open. Beneath, no shirt, his skin startlingly pale. Perfect ivory white, like the mask he wears. Is it a mask? He shakes the bottle once, thumbs the cork loose, and amber wine erupts into white effervescent froth. It rises, overflows.

  The jacket falls from shoulders, drops away. Narrow waist, small pale breasts. The birthmark. I'm stunned at the shape, the body of a woman. Somehow I failed to see.

  The seething layer of milk-white foam settles away, leaves behind splendid radiant hues, veins the color of opal, skin like diamond.

  I gaze on her face, finally able to study it. Why did I think this was a mask? Too smooth, too pale?

  I wasn't looking at her face. Now I see.

  She pulls back the hat, reveals a boyish platinum-blonde flip.

  Still I'm acting, voicing guttural cries and carnal moans as I watch her move in a slow-shifting dance, as if s
he perceives music I can't hear. Both of us perform our separate pieces, eyes locked.

  The image of her dancing repeats on my monitor.

  I have to break through, see her in the flesh. I open the booth door, rush to the control room.

  There is no mask. Long black eyelashes, blood red lips. Eyes, familiar, so clear. Her face, straight out of dreams.

  "My Lily," she says, eyes intent. "You haven't changed at all."

  "I don't feel... " I breathe. "I don't recognize myself."

  Saffron, lost to the long winter of my insanity. Poisoned by my betrayal.

  "You never knew my name." She leans close, extends her hand. "I'm Camilla."

  I take her hand. It's like a first meeting. A new beginning. "I'm Lily Vaun." Am I, though? Still?

  Movement in the doorway behind. Aster, now changed, cool and impervious. "You completed my great work." His voice is gentle, his gaze far away, as if he sees through us, to another place. "A gesture across worlds. Voice of Lily, image of Camilla."

  "How do we--" I begin.

  Aster raises two fingers of his right hand. Above the fingertips appears a pinpoint star of pure yellow light, more brilliant and penetrating than the light of his fountain. The light burns bright and cold, shining over a face I thought I would never find.

  "How do you beat time?" he asks. "Let me show you."

  My tears again. This time they don't burn. These tears wash the charred pathways of all that have fallen before.

  My love leans closer, so near I smell her skin. "It will be far," she whispers.

  Life comes undone. All my worn threads unwind.

  "Carcosa," Camilla says.

  Already I see, and recognize. All else gone. All but Camilla, who remains.

  Michael Griffin’s short fiction has appeared in the Thomas Ligotti tribute anthology The Grimscribe’s Puppets, the Current 93 tribute Mighty in Sorrow, and many periodicals including Apex Magazine, Black Static and Lovecraft eZine. His work is upcoming the Laird Barron tribute Children of Old Leech, and his standalone novella "Far From Streets" will be published by Dunhams Manor Press in the summer of 2014.

  Michael blogs about books and writing at griffinwords.com and his Twitter feeds are @MGSoundVisions and @griffinwords. He’s also an electronic ambient musician (as M. Griffin, and half of Viridian Sun) and founder of Hypnos Recordings (www.hypnos.com), an ambient music record label he operates with his wife in Portland, Oregon.