The King of Infinite Space

by Lyndsay Faye

  Horatio retreats to his bedroom holding a garment bag, his mind off floating with the weather balloons and low-orbiting satellites. The chamber is as he left it down to the hastily made bed and the yawning suitcase. It’s uncanny, considering the entire world started spinning in the opposite direction an hour or two ago. His teaching idol reposes on the shelf, the image of quietude, but Rishabhanatha’s eyes could fly open in mingled awe and censure and Horatio wouldn’t be surprised.

  “I know.” He releases his breath. “It’s completely scatty, but I love him.”

  Approaching the figurine, Horatio lowers his voice.

  “Didn’t you ever love anyone like that? What else could I possibly do?”

  Rishabhanatha says nothing, but he looks worried—which makes perfect sense. Because so is Horatio.

  “You know, you might’ve at that.” Horatio picks up the statue and rubs a thumb over the coiled snake on which he’s seated so comfortably. “I mean, you had two wives and a hundred and one bloody kids before you renounced everything, after all. Maybe you loved to distraction, but you gave them up, and that’s the idea. Maybe you were horridly in love and still left the palace to wander around without food for a year.”

  Rishabhanatha rests heavy in his hand.

  “The food I could do without, I think. For a while. Possessions, fame, none of that matters. And I want nothing to do with this sodding tuxedo, you realize. Could I give Benjamin up, though? Willingly? For my soul?”

  The teaching god looks doubtful.

  “Right.” Horatio returns Rishabhanatha to his perch. “I suppose that’s why you’re a statue and I’m not, mate.”

  Benjamin’s velvet tuxedo turns out to be ethereal grey-blue like dawn on the coast, sleek along every angle, and Horatio instantly forgives Vincentio every discomfort ever inflicted. It’s paired with a white shirt and pocket square, and a black bow tie, and Benjamin presently looks like a million dollars instead of merely being worth many many millions of dollars.

  “Oh good, you like it.” Benjamin does a shameless eye-rake, lips making a silent whistling shape. “You . . . ha ha. Look exactly like I thought you would. Planning ahead truly is so important. Yep, I was right, the sexing you straight into the mattress till you yelled was necessary.”

  “You need to desist, please.”

  “It’d be even better if you were walking funny, but thankfully you’re a pro—”

  “For god’s—do you want me to wring you by the neck?” Horatio splutters.

  “Wring me by pretty much anything else, but not that. Wanna hear what I think of yours?”

  “Best not, I should say.”

  “Damn it!” Benjamin snaps his fingers, disappearing. When he returns, he looks even more pleased, which is to say as pleased as a tiny tyrant about to throw himself a military parade. He tosses a polished stick to Horatio. Turning it over, he frowns, puzzled. A silver tap and an embellished silver top complete the shining black cane.

  When he does understand, Horatio laughs for all he’s worth. He twists the handle. A blade emerges, edges looking extremely functional.

  “You found me a sword cane. Everything about you is absurd.”

  Benjamin takes the weapon, studies it himself. “It’s a good thing I know people, this cost more than the tux. Kidding! Cut it out, I’m kidding. Maaaaybe I’m kidding. Anyway, the gala wasn’t going to go well unless swords entered into it somewhere, right?”

  Horatio can’t concentrate.

  This situation is so complex, and my needs are so simple.

  Benjamin’s mouth pulls wide with happiness. His eyebrows tilt in concert with his question, and Horatio steps forward, wanting him very badly, and then Benjamin’s hand is on his cheek with a low, “Thought you’d never ask.”

  Loud whoops sound followed by a jolly banging at the door.

  Benjamin’s head falls onto Horatio’s chest. “I forgot, shit, shit. Why did I forget they were coming? Oh, because I was drunk. That tracks.”

  “Benny!” crows Rory or Garrett Marlowe’s voice. “Open up, dude, the Cristal speedy delivery service has arrived!”

  Benjamin stalks to the door and the twins pour inside wearing immaculate matching black ensembles, a pair of ravens fresh off the runway. Likewise holding matching bottles of Cristal, they cheer and pop both corks with their thumbs, froth blessing the carpet. The overflow is stemmed by hearty swigs.

  “Hi, guys,” Benjamin deadpans.

  “Let the games begin, right?” Rory offers his bottle to Benjamin at the same time Garrett shoves his at Horatio. “Drink deep, for the night is young.”

  “Do we think this is, like, safe?” Benjamin inquires, frank eyes on Horatio.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Considering yesterday and all. Well, I guess they did just uncork it. And drink it themselves. Should be fine. To a memorable evening!”

  Horatio and Benjamin swallow champagne, returning the bottles to a set of confused Marlowes. They recover quickly, however.

  “Guys, this is gonna be off the chain,” Garrett announces. “Looking slick, Benny, slick as ever.”

  “Whoa, Horatio,” Rory marvels. “We had no idea you cleaned up this nice. Killer tux, man, what is that, Armani?”

  “It’s Tom Ford, you peasant,” Benjamin supplies smoothly. He pulls four mugs down from the cupboard, reaching for the nearest champagne bottle. “And of course he does.”

  The twins hover near Benjamin as Horatio leans on the other side of the counter, resigned to being commented on like a prize steer. Benjamin suspecting the champagne might be drugged or even poisoned mightily disconcerts him. Benjamin has always been a fairly even distribution of his parents’ genetics, and apparently Jackson Dane was the prisoner of his own dark fantasies.

  Paul tried to shoot him yesterday. It’s not paranoia if you were nearly murdered.

  “Shit!” The exclamation is from Rory, who glances at his twin.

  “What’s up?”

  “Dude, Trudy just texted me. Odd, right?”

  “Did she now?” Benjamin questions.

  “Yeah, totally odd,” Garrett agrees.

  “Huh. Does my mom text you, like, a lot?”

  “Of course not.” Rory’s eyes are blank with innocence. “Guess she’s after a quick reply—you aren’t really that great with answering, Benny, no offense.”

  “None whatsoever taken.”

  “Anyway, apparently Paul Brahms should be at the venue, but he isn’t answering his phone.”

  Car horns bleat downstairs. A child is shouting in Spanish. A motorcycle backfires. Horatio doesn’t dare to open his mouth for fear of what will emerge from Benjamin’s. His friend just crosses his ankles, his lower back against the stove door.

  “Not that I really know the guy,” Garrett chimes in, “but isn’t Paul super anal? And it’s the big night and everything. Weird of him to go silent like that.”

  “Weird, right?” echoes Rory.

  “Soooooo so weird,” Benjamin agrees.

  “You two haven’t heard from him, have you?” Garrett asks.

  Benjamin pushes off toward his bedroom.

  When he returns, he carries the Teisco shark, which gleams an impossible mermaid color. He sets one foot on the lower rung of his barstool. Cocking his hip, he flutters his fingers over the shark’s strings, and despite its not being plugged in, Horatio recognizes the famous Guns N’ Roses solo from “Sweet Child O’ Mine.”

  Finished, Benjamin brandishes the shark at Garrett. “Hey, man, why don’t you have a go?”

  The twins blink.

  “Nah, but that sounded dope—you wanna plug in?”

  “No, it’s your turn now.”

  “Come on, Benny, you know I can’t even pull off basic chords. Funny joke, though.”

  “I’m deadly serious,” Benjamin replies silkily
. “Play my guitar.”

  “Look, I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I can’t.” Garrett extends his arm, and now there’s a guitar and a champagne bottle in a bizarre duel. “This’ll cheer you up, though!”

  “Yeah, bro, have a drink,” Rory urges. “And just answer me so I can text Trudy back—have either of you seen Paul Brahms?”

  “What the hell, Ben,” Garrett says when Benjamin proves unmoving. “Take a swig and chill out.”

  “Play me a guitar solo and I’d be happy to.”

  Garrett scowls before he can catch himself. “I can’t; I don’t know how to play the guitar, all right?”

  “Then what the fuck do you take me for, Garrett?”

  The twins’ eyes widen in tandem.

  “You’re trying to play me, that much is stupidly clear.” Benjamin spits chemical fire; Horatio can smell the exhaust. “Mom wants to know where Paul is and she texts you? I’m not supposed to, you know, realize you’re in her pocket? So you can’t play guitar, which doesn’t surprise me, because you two are smart but you’re also the least sophisticated pieces of shit I’ve ever seen, sorry, went kinda off track there, but you think I’m not more complicated than a guitar?”

  When the twins remain as still as a razed building, Benjamin swings the shark back under his arm and plays an obscenely embellished version of “Wonderwall,” pelvis swinging with abandon. His smile returns, the smile that means there’s blood in the water and he’s scented it, and Horatio is too stupidly turned on to question whether that’s a sane response or not.

  “Hear this? This is your exit music, chosen thematically and written by another pair of douchebag brothers. Get the fuck out of our apartment before I blacklist you from every bottle service club in the city and the only place you’ll be getting blown together is behind Port Authority bus terminal.” Benjamin sets the shark on the coffee table. “Leave the Cristal, Horatio and I like champagne.”

  “Benny,” Rory protests, aghast.

  “Ben, there’s been some crazy misunder—”

  “Hold on, are you working for Paul or for my mom directly? Hmm? That’s all right, I guess it doesn’t really matter either way. And if you talk to me at the gala tonight, you’re going to be lucky to get a reservation at the Times Square Olive Garden. Go. Like, shoo, shoo. Not with the Cristal, idiots, that stays!”

  The Marlowes depart. Benjamin locks the door, ricochets, rounds the countertop, steps between Horatio’s legs, and kisses him. Bloodsickness must cause fevers, because Horatio’s circulatory system instantly simmers, a hot spring flowing through too-narrow fissures. By the time his friend pulls away, Horatio’s skeletal structure has melted and every synapse is firing him, him, him, only him.

  “That was pretty satisfying.” Benjamin glances at his phone screen.

  “Doubtless I can do better,” Horatio breathes.

  “Jesus no, comprehensively owning the Marlowe brothers was pretty satisfying—the kiss just now was legendary, but you’re right, we should keep practicing. The limo’s downstairs.” His friend pockets his mobile. “C’mon, and bring the bottles. We have a murderer to catch.”

  BENJAMIN

  The soul is always beautiful,

  The universe is duly in order, every thing is in its place,

  What has arrived is in its place and what waits shall be in its place,

  The twisted skull waits, the watery or rotten blood waits . . .

  —Walt Whitman, “The Sleepers”

  It’s six o’clock and they only just left the apartment and already things aren’t going to plan.

  The cadaverous waiter is beginning his shift at City Diner. Outside, the limousine figure-eights under the spreading trees with two partial bottles of Cristal on ice. Ben supposes that the driver is confused. Horatio is beyond baffled, sitting across from him while Ben watches the waiter wrap an apron around his gaunt torso. Eyes full of the quiet sort of nothing, pad and pen in his front pocket. He doesn’t seem to sense anything amiss.

  But Ben does, ever since he threw the Marlowes out and kissed Horatio like he’s the answer to the Poincaré conjecture. Because he is, sort of. Horatio can chart three-dimensional balls onto four-dimensional spheres.

  Horatio

  can map these

  shapes that look

  completely abstract and yet

  still make sense of them

  somehow

  Something is changing too rapidly to stop or even to slow it down. They don’t have much time. But what does that mean? And when did they run so low on it? The waiter opens the till behind the bar, deftly counts his starting cash.

  “Benjamin, I can’t honestly fathom what we’re doing here.”

  “Have you heard of Muriel Rukeyser?” Ben asks.

  Horatio’s gaze narrows. His coffee-dark eyes have been doing that forever, but it’s different now that Ben and Horatio combined themselves so messily and gorgeously, now that they’re a them. Less Mozart. More Chopin.

  “Um, should I have done?”

  “Lia’s favorite poet, a Jewish feminist and political dissident. She must’ve gotten wasted and talked about her at some point.”

  “Yeah, possibly. Are you going to order something?”

  “Focus, Horatio—Muriel Rukeyser, born nineteen thirteen, Guggenheim Fellowship recipient.”

  “What about her?”

  “She said that the universe is made of stories, not of atoms.”

  Horatio is trying fiercely to read him. But Ben is written in wingdings right now, and the comfort of the dream he shared with Lia has fast faded. He wants that sense of

  destiny

  back, where now he only feels

  last call please it’s time

  “Stories-not-atoms is something I don’t quite believe,” Ben attempts. “Something I want to believe. I want to, like, try it out. It reminds me of you.”

  “Does it? Benjamin, what are we doing here?”

  “Ending a narrative.”

  There’s only ice water in front of them. This isn’t padding the belly before a night getting shitfaced, this is a necessary stop on the road to completion. Ben needs to have this conversation before he and Horatio can possibly solidify whatever they are. Apart from I don’t think I can live without you anymore, of course. The terribly thin old man leaves his computer station and Ben flags him down with a wave.

  “How can I help you?” A lone strand or two pushes through his hairnet like seedlings.

  “Hey, yeah, super-odd question.” Ben tries a smile, finds it doesn’t fit, trashes it. “I used to come in here with my girlfriend. Well, then fiancée, after, the beautiful one with the crazy hair, but anyway, we were here all the time during the wee small hours?”

  His eyes narrow with recognition. “Yes, you had been out, I think, most of those times. Parties.”

  “Yep, right, yep, that was us, and my girlfriend, Lia, she always liked you. Seeing you.”

  The waiter purses his lips, listening.

  “You were important to us—someone comforting when we needed you. A constant.”

  “Her I have not seen in a long time, I think?”

  “No, she. She’s not around anymore, but I just heard from her and she wanted me to thank you for being here and, like, for always being so patient. She’s not . . . she was never an empty person. She appreciated you. Lia never drank to fill a hole,” Ben insists. To the waiter. To the diner. To the world. “She drank to cover up a locked box.”

  The old man smooths gnarled hands over his shirt. “Better to stop trying, then.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “The memories of my home, my family, my life before America—they cannot be buried, either.”

  “And how do you live with it?”

  The glasses clink. The diners chew. Somewhere, the c
ar drives around and around.

  “I learned to put them at the edges of my sight,” he says.

  Horatio’s voice breaks in, gentle and frightened. “Benjamin, this isn’t . . . we should head downtown. Please.”

  “Just a quick sec.”

  “Let the poor bloke alone, for pity’s sake.”

  Ignoring him, Ben asks with tears burning his eyes, “Where did you come from, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  Shaking his head, the waiter—he ought to have asked his name by now, Ben ought to have asked it years ago—returns his notepad to his pocket.

  “It doesn’t exist anymore,” he says, and walks away.

  Early bird patrons chat over tuna melts and spinach salad. They can’t feel it, either. Horatio can’t feel it, sitting there increasingly frantic, he doesn’t understand why in order for something to officially begin, something else has to officially

  FINISH

  It’s important.

  There will be more changes, drastic and permanent ones, and Paul’s death was the first of them. Making love to Horatio again was the second. Sending Rory and Garrett off was the third. This is the fourth. You can’t feel motion no matter how fast it’s going, supposing it’s constant.

  The rotational speed of the Earth is around a thousand miles per hour,

  and the only reason we feel nothing is because there’s no discernible change.

  We aren’t slowing or speeding. We’re constant.

  We’re hurtling through space and can’t even feel it.

  Well, fuck constancy.

  We’ve earned acceleration.

  “In my dream,” Ben says, “Lia reminded me that we always wanted to know this guy’s origins. She said to pay attention to his answer.”

  “And?”

  “It doesn’t exist anymore. I guess that’s the ending.”

  Standing, Ben takes a last look around. He doesn’t need to return here.

  “Are you disappointed?”