Stars: The Anthology

by Janis Ian

  I knew that I would be next. They were implacable, these young Bolsheviks. Daniel Cohn had me measured, had me on the list. There was no reason, no argument possible. I was on the list there with Britten, Picasso, and those puerile Insects. "We’re coming for you, Igor," they whispered. I knew their peculiar tilted handwriting, the texture of the note paper which their messengers would deliver to my premises, those clever troops slipping them under my pillow. "You’re the next to be replaced," they advised. "Neo-classicism won’t save you. Your return to Russian Orthodoxy certainly will not save you. Did hiding out in those parties with Goldwyn and Disney and scowling Rachmaninoff give you a day’s extra time? You have outlived your usefulness. You are going to be replaced. We have big and certain plans. We may allow you a motet or two or a Russian Orthodox chant."

  Ah, their dry, mocking precision! But of course that was the stern decree itself.

  For all of this—waiting in the dusk, listening for the footsteps, listening to the gunfire in the streets as piece by piece it was all dismantled—it was a strangely peaceful time, knowing that I was in all senses, beyond salvation, that I would not flee like Britten, that it was better to be snatched from my own place than from some Polish village. Shuffling Vera away, glad to get rid of her at least, packing her away unmoved by her tears and hysterics. Goodbye Vera, goodbye. Craft had, of course, at the first warning of trouble, the first indication that I was on the list, he left unsurprisingly. At least he had the decency to have dragged away Vera by her delicate wrist. Goodbye, Vera, goodbye, go away, yield. Vera, my dry Dumbarton Oaks of a spouse, creature of happenstance and odd chiaroscuro, all form, the only substance in that form. I wrote Persephone to mark her emptiness and no one ever got the joke. That jokester Schoenberg’s entire canon was a rib-tickler but no one believed that. I had other plans, but could not resist a joke now and then.

  But let them come, let them take me away. No Pvgornys for Igor. I know instead that the Church will protect me in any afterlife I am given. Christ upon the throne awaits me; that gracious Czar of eternity. The Theotokos in its Mystery and Transcendence. Gloria in Excelsis Dei. Etc. Amen. Etc etc. The merits of a religious return may be overrated but it has its satisfaction, reduces the question.

  Sitting, waiting. The cries in the distance. The Romanovs must have felt this way in 1917, peering through the windows of the ruined palace. "Aleksandr, something strange is happening outside and the guards seem to have fled. I would have thought them more loyal than this. Ring the bells, ring the bells!! Surely someone will save us!"

  No one to reach the rope, the bells are silent. For the first time it is possible to feel some sympathy for them. Anastasia deep in the basement, hiding under blankets. They came to the Romanovs and they will come to me. Of course I have no plans. Britten had connections worldwide, a passport; the Insects felt that their wealth would protect them. They were wrong. The Romanovs of course knew that their position was unassailable. They were wrong too. The force that took them took fifty years to get to the others, but as that castle is breached, Serge noted, it is always just a moment of time.

  So I give them the patience and serenity which are the only gifts I can give myself. Here I sit most calmly. Let them take me: after that brief explosion, pain, the blood, the slow diminution of light… and then the blessed tunnel, a passage toward that exquisite future. My history recorded on its walls like prehistoric painting: the Russia, the Conservatory, France. Moscow. Hollywood! Switzerland! London and Diaghilev, my life a scroll of sound and unreeling light, birds of fire escorting me in excelsis Deo.

  They can take me but Agnus Dei, they cannot take my soul I pray. My soul inviolate.

  But I am wrong. I have learned better. I am learning as did the Romanovs at the end: they can take everything.

  ~~~~~

  So this is what I came to understand. I had seen these faces, this implacability, many times. I had first seen them at the premiere in 1913, sitting amidst the careening, screaming thong, terrified by the waves of noise streaming from the boxes. The terrified dancers leaping nonetheless, colliding. The Consecration of the Earth.

  Objects hurled from the balconies. Cursing, screaming. Close the curtain! Stop the madness! There must have been some way that I could have made clear to them that Sacre was not the enemy, that they and I sought the same outcome: impalement. The burning spear.

  Vera, beside me, replacing Serge if such were possible, muttered disapproval, not only of the rioters but of me.

  Well, she disapproved of everything. I do not think I truly realized until this moment in memory, the depth of that disapproval, the certainty of her disregard. How profoundly she felt, no less than the Bolsheviks, that this was the truest evocation of evil and that it must be contained.

  And there it is, then, the virgin swept high and carried offstage, gutted, lifted high above them and set on fire, no screams, the silence of the dance and then the simple, terrible conclusion. The violation of the Earth. Boos, missiles. "Do you see what you have done? If the Czar only knew!"

  The auditorium dwindles, becomes a cubicle, becomes a stall which grips me, snatches, takes me away and Diaghilev’s fierce whisper. "Don’t you understand? The reason they rioted is because you have shown them exactly what they want and they cannot bear it, cannot live with this: revolution, rape, apostasy."

  Ah, we seem to have returned to Paris. A decade is obliterated, now we draw the attention of boulevardiers in that café. "You," I say then. "You created this madness! You made of my pastoral scene, my ceremony of fertility, a rape!" Perception seizes me and I grab him by the shoulders, yank him toward me. "You let this loose upon the world. My ceremony of innocence was drowned!" I do not know if I accept this fanciful outburst but it has a certain logic and Diaghilev falls away, gasping, stunned by my certainty.

  And certainty it is. What purity! What understanding! Surely I have gripped the attention of everyone on the Champs Elysees; the café has become a riot of attention, fixation really; I am enveloped by stares. "It was you with the Czar also!" I say. "The Sacre, the Czar, the assassins!" I am trembling with rage, or perhaps it is merely the epiphany which has made me tremble. "Repent!" I say, recalling certain words, chants from the Russian Orthodox service. "It is not too late!"

  Madness! Now I have gone mad. It is almost fifty years past the café, Diaghilev is long dead, having savaged my career to his satisfaction, and I must be crazy. Stravinsky himself has gone mad, neoclassicism will not save him from these Furies. There is no need to recount the appearance of the gendarmerie, the way in which they seize Diaghilev and rescue him from my distraught self, the shouting and disorder as they seize and carry me from the café. Head wobbling, brains aflame, eyes wobbling in their sockets, I am overwhelmed by what Sacre should have led me to understand ten years ago—this is what they wanted, to clean out the world: to give us a world in which Britten was in Poland, Picasso’s studio was plundered, even the Beatles murdered. The Beatles! I had once taken them for Bolsheviks but here was the surprise: they had been caught in the general melee. George, Paul, John and Richard Starkey in the ground. What true reparation!

  In this discovered world they murder. They are not creatures of gesture. Britten in exile, Paris in flames, DeGaulle’s Fourth Republic under siege fifty-one years after the tumult in the Palace. Is Paris burning?

  I am a very old man, older than Ralph Vaughn-Williams when he died. But I am strong enough to absorb the truth. Tell me that truth, then, and help me avoid the stern decree.

  No. No, there is not time for that, for here come the barbarians, roaring through the Place de la Concorde, pushing one another in their eagerness to appropriate. There they are, commandeering planes at Orly, whisking overseas as combatants, overtaking the world. Here they come, here and here they go: they have plans. They have been made enormous by their plans; they inflate like the Hindenburg, bump one another, stride in air. Plans for the vanishing Fourth Republic, plans for Britten, plans for Stravinsky.

  Stravinsk
y! That is me! Do not forget this. I returned to the Church. I renounced, no denounced, that reprobate who was my younger self. In the stillness of the Church surrounded by the clamor of bells I pledged my renunciation. But too late, too late for all of that. The forces I released stormed first the theater, then the Palace and now the world. "You have always been a fool," my beloved Vera pointed out a long time ago. "You thought only of yourself. You would sacrifice the world to your lazy ambition, your stupid notes and theories of neo-classicism."

  Is this possible? In Moscow, in the provinces, in Hollywood or Paris, in all of the spaces of exile I held to the pure contest of flame, believed this. But now Paris evanesces; it is no longer Paris in which I huddle but the outskirts of Watts, awaiting their enormous captivity, that most definitive calamity. The impaled virgin. The garroted lover. This sewer of a century.

  This disgusting sewer of a century.

  (Back to TOC)

  Society's Goy

  Mike Resnick

  I could understand the tears and the shame

  She called you "Boy" instead of your name

  When she wouldn't let you inside

  When she turned and said

  "But honey, he's not our kind"

  ~ from Society's Child by Janis Ian

  Octember 47, 4227 G.E

  He's GORGEOUS!

  I mean, it's as if Morvich and Casabella and that old guy, Michael something, you know, the one who painted some big ceiling, as if they all got together and said, what's the most beautiful thing we can paint, the most beautiful thing in all the galaxy? I have to stop, Dear Diary. He's got me so...so I don't know...that I just can't dictate any more.

  ~~~~~

  Octember 49

  I saw him in the library today—so he's not just beautiful, he's bright, too. I brushed past him, but he didn't notice. Except for sneezing. It must be the cologne. Maybe three ounces was too much. Tomorrow I'll use less. And I'll change from "Ecstasy" to "Ravage Me".

  I wonder what his name is.

  ~~~~~

  Octember 50

  He was at the library again today. Maybe he's a student. Whatever he is, he just stands out. I've got to find a way to meet him!

  ~~~~~

  Octember 51

  He wasn't there today. I came home and cried and counted 51 ways to kill myself, but then I cracked a nail and had to go to the beautician to get the acrylic fixed.

  ~~~~~

  Octember 52

  Rabighan! That's his name—or as near as I can come to spelling it. These foreign names are murder. I heard the lib-mech report to him that a disk he wanted had been damaged and he'd have to wait until tomorrow.

  Rabighan. Rabighan. Rabighan.

  It's gorgeous.

  ~~~~~

  Octember 53

  He noticed me!!!!!

  He dropped something—I'm not sure exactly what it was; kind of like a little flower he wears on his chest—and I picked it up, and he said "Thank you."

  Plain as day. He just looked at me, and I think he smiled a bit, and he said "Thank you"!

  What a beautiful voice he has!

  ~~~~~

  Octember 54

  I was walking past him today, and I just blurted "Hi, Rabighan,” and he said "Hi" right back at me.

  Isn't life wonderful!!!!!

  ~~~~~

  Naugustus 1

  I saw him in the cafeteria today, and I sat right down next to him and said "Hi".

  "Are you sure you're supposed to be here?" he said, like only grad students were allowed.

  "I don't mind if you don't," I said. Sometimes I can't believe how bold I can be!

  "You're a very unusual young lady," he said.

  I was about to say he was very unusual too, but instead I blurted out that he was very beautiful. Well!!! I could have sunk right through the floor, except that he seemed flattered.

  "We haven't been introduced," he said. "My name is Rabighan."

  I'd thought about this moment for days. "And mine is Valpariso," I said.

  "Valpariso?" he repeated. "Isn't that a city back on old Earth?"

  "Valencia!" I said quickly. "I meant Valencia!"

  He stared at me for a minute. It was like he was seeing right through all my clothes. I liked it!!!

  "I'm pleased to meet you, Valencia," he said. "I've met very few young women since I came to Society III. Perhaps, when you have time, we could talk together. There's so much I'd like to learn about your world."

  I screwed up my courage. "How about this afternoon?" I asked him. "I can tell you everything you ever wanted to know about Society."

  "This afternoon would be fine."

  And so we walked all over the campus, talking about this and that, and thank goodness he didn't ask me who was Governor because I never remember stuff like that. He told me he'd never met anyone who was majoring in aerobics before, and he seemed fascinated by it, so I invited him to come to the game tomorrow night and watch me cheerlead, and he agreed.

  I think I'm in love!!!!!!!!

  ~~~~~

  Naugustus 2

  He came, and he watched, and he was so polite he never once mentioned how I fell into the crowd when I was doing my backflip or how I was so busy watching him watching me that I forgot to catch Darlene when she jumped down from the top of the Human Pyramid. (They say she'll be out of the hospital in less than a week.)

  He waited while I showered and changed, and then we talked some more. I'm afraid to ask him how long he'll be staying on Society III.

  ~~~~~

  Naugustus 4

  Rabighan saw me crying today. I tried to hide it, but I couldn't.

  "What's wrong, Valencia?" he asked.

  "I'm in love with you and you're going to be leaving soon!" I sobbed.

  "I have no intention of leaving Society for years," he said. "I like it here." He watched me for a moment, and then added: "You are still crying."

  "You've never once said you liked me," I said.

  "I like you."

  "Very much?" I asked, blowing my nose.

  He shrugged. "Very much."

  "Then how come you never walk me home, or ask to meet my parents?"

  "I grew up on a different world," he said. "I am not aware of your social traditions. Is that what is expected of me—that I should meet your parents?"

  I was still crying too hard to speak, so I just nodded.

  "Then I shall."

  "They're playing bingo tonight," I said. "But you could come for dinner tomorrow."

  "If that is what you wish."

  I wonder if a grad student can afford a real starstone, or if my engagement ring will have to be something dull and ordinary, like a blue diamond?

  ~~~~~

  Naugustus 5

  All day I was too nervous to eat. I put on my half-inch eyelashes and the rouge and the phosphorescent purple lipstick so I'd look more mature, and then I waited in my room for Rabighan to come.

  I must have fallen asleep, because then next thing I knew the Spy-Eye was saying that we had a visitor, and even though I ran as fast as I could, Mama beat me to the front door by a good five steps. She opened it, and there he was in all his splendor.

  "Yes?" she said, staring at him.

  "Rabighan," he replied.

  "You've made a mistake," said Mama. "I think the Rabighans live over on the next block."

  "I am Rabighan."

  For a moment Mama looked confused. Then suddenly she nodded. "Ah, you must be here to fix the trash atomizer. It's around the back."

  "I am here at Valencia's request," he said.

  "We don't have any Valencia here."

  It was his turn to look confused. "Valpariso, perhaps?"

  "No," said Mama, getting annoyed.

  "Do you have a daughter?"

  "Yes."

  "And her name is not Valencia or Valpariso?"

  "Her name is Gertrude."

  I wanted to shrink down to insect size, but I knew if I did Mama would slam the doo
r in his face before I could explain, so I walked up and stood where she couldn't shut it without smashing my head.

  "Why, Rabighan!" I said. "What a surprise!"

  "You know this Rabighan?" said Mama.

  "He's an old friend."

  "You don't have any old friends," she said. "We just moved here from New Brooklyn two months ago."

  "Well, we're so close that he feels like an old friend," I said.

  "How close?" demanded Mama, cocking an eyebrow and giving me The Look.

  "What a thing to ask!" I said, trying to look offended.

  I'm not half as good at looking offended as Mama is. She turned toward the living room and called for Daddy.

  "Milton!" she hollered. "Come quick!"

  Daddy plodded in a minute later, looking like she'd just woke him up.

  "What is it and why is the door open and who is standing in it?" he said.

  "This is Rabighan," I said.

  Daddy stared at Rabighan, who smiled at him. Daddy ignored it.

  "Rabighan is the Moslems' holy month," he said at last. "Who is this?"

  "His name is Rabighan," I repeated. "He's my friend."

  "Her close friend," added Mama.

  "We're in love!" I blurted out.

  Daddy blinked his eyes. "How can you be in love?" he said. "He's a vegetable!"

  "But he's the most gorgeous, intelligent vegetable I've ever met!"

  "You don't meet vegetables," said Daddy. "You buy them at the market and then you eat them with salad dressing."

  "I resent that!" said Rabighan.

  "You keep out of this!" snapped Daddy. He glared at Rabighan. "And while I'm thinking of it, where's your yarmulke?"

  "My what?" asked Rabighan.

  "Hah!" said Daddy. "I knew it! You're outta here!"

  "You can't talk to him like that!" I said fiercely. "I'm going to marry him!"

  I thought Mama was going to faint, but Daddy just looked stern.

  "The hell you are!" he said.

  "You're just biased against vegetables!" I cried.