The Delphi Room

by The Delphi Room (v5. 0) (epub)

  RITA/MOTHER

  BrinkleyBrinkleyBrinkley! I found my record player. Oh my God—the moon, have you seen the moon? It’s beautiful, it’s beautiful, come look, come look, come look!

  BRINKLEY

  (drowsily)

  Mommy. Tired.

  Out on the porch she goes, letting a frigid squall dervish through the front door and around the living room. Brinkley wipes his eyes and sits up, squinting, cuddles the throw to his chest. He drags it behind him when he gets up and goes after his mother.

  INT. VELVET’S HELL—MIRROR—

  EXT. BRINKLEY’S CHILDHOOD HOME—PORCH—CONTINUOUS

  She’s naked in the glow of the porch light: drink in one hand, cigarette in the other, dress at her feet.

  BRINKLEY

  (trying to cover her with blanket)

  Mommy, it’s cold!

  One hand pushes him away, the other raises her glass as though toasting the sky. She blows smoke at the moon.

  RITA/MOTHER

  Oh baby, look at that. It’s so gorgeous, it’s so gorgeous!

  The moon is full, the kind of full that makes it look as though it could split the seam of sky that surrounds it, the kind of full that makes a tunnel of glow into which one might disappear. Rita/Mother takes a drink and wipes her mouth, stands as though before a prophet at whose feet she may lay her life.

  RITA/MOTHER

  See that man! See that man up there! He works for The Committee.

  (yelling at the moon)

  I need to finish my goddamn painting! Tell me what to do!

  Her face is a canvas of wild mania underpainted with the beauty of her face. Brinkley takes her hand.

  BRINKLEY

  Mommy, come inside! You’ll get sick!

  RITA/MOTHER

  (calling)

  Hello! Down here!

  A wave of the arms sends a slosh from the glass onto the porch and Brinkley’s small cold foot.

  RITA/MOTHER

  He doesn’t live in a cheese house. Only stupid people think that. Oh, look! He can see us! Hello!

  (running onto the lawn)

  Hello!

  Brinkley panics and takes off after her down the porch steps, scanning the dark street to see who might be staring at this naked woman and her frilly-dressed little boy. By the time his feet hit the wet grass she’s dancing Fauvishly, homage to Matisse. Her drink-free hand runs itself over her breasts again and again; her hips draw figure eights on the night. The moon is so huge that it does seem, for an instant, that it might see the echoing white lavishness of one of its disciples swirling on a patch of city grass. Brinkley tries to block her from view of the street, spreading his bony, loose-jointed arms wide, stretching them so taut that his elbows bend backward.

  RITA/MOTHER

  (yells)

  You look like a scarecrow!

  The dancing woman spins around the yard, dropping her empty glass and tossing her cigarette as she goes. The little bodyguard running after her slips on the cold dew and falls, starts to cry. He gets back up and launches at Rita/Fauve, grabs her ’round the waist, holds fast.

  BRINKLEY

  (cries)

  Mommy, stop! Come inside!

  The dancer picks up her son, squeezes him hard and laughs.

  RITA/MOTHER

  Inside! Inside! He always wants to go inside! Yes, boss.

  (stumbling onto porch)

  My little love, my little love! You’re bloody heavy!

  The bloody heavy little boy is dropped with a thud on the porch, and his mother twirls into the house. He picks up the white dress that lies near the doormat. Brinkley spots the dropped glass on the lawn as he glances back. Stutter-stepping, he thinks to retrieve it, but his feet tingling with cold carry him into the house and he slams the door.

  INT. VELVET’S HELL—MIRROR—BRINKLEY’S CHILDHOOD HOME—RITA/MOTHER’S BEDROOM—A SHORT TIME LATER

  Rita/Mother and Brinkley are huddled in bed. She is nude; he is clad in underwear. The peach-coloured little dress he wore earlier lies discarded on the floor.

  RITA/MOTHER

  Tell me a story.

  Sleep keeps jerking Brinkley’s eyelids as if they’re Venetian blinds, but his mother won’t stop talking and he’s shaking with cold too much to retreat into dreams.

  RITA/MOTHER

  I’ll tell a story! You’re so boring.

  Up she pops and into the middle of the mattress, jumping like mad. Brinkley struggles to sit up, rubbing his eyes. He stares up at his beautiful mother, at the ostentatious flopping of her hair and body.

  RITA/MOTHER

  (yells)

  Brinkley, jump with me!

  The little boy is dragged to his feet, puppeteered from one corner of the bed to another. Rita/Mother laughs and laughs, her mouth an insane half-moon upon her face. Brinkley starts to giggle too, looking up at her wild light-burst eyes. She stops jumping and strikes a pose, leans like the Tower of Pisa and crumples face-first into the pillows, springs back up and takes the floor, arms spread wide. Her son collapses to the bed and pulls his knees to his chest, watching.

  RITA/MOTHER

  Once upon a time, there was a beautiful young woman.

  (pause, fixes hair)

  What was her name? Gilda. That’s a pretty name. Love that movie. I could’ve been an actress. But . . .

  (drifts off)

  What was I saying? Oh, you wanted a story. A young woman . . . This woman was so beautiful that everyone stared when she walked down the street. Then one day, this woman met a handsome young man. And they had a baby—or was it two? And then one day he left. Disappeared.

  (pause)

  Why?

  Arms drop to her sides.

  RITA/MOTHER

  Fuck that. I hate that story. Where’s my happy ending? Where’s my little girl? Do you know what happens to people when they die? I want to know.

  Once again her son is bounced as she leaps onto the bed, grabs him by the shoulders, moves her nose to his.

  RITA/MOTHER

  You’re my little girl now. Brinkley, I want a happy ending.

  There is a sudden stillness in the room, an intake of breath. The boy wiggles his lashes in hers, a butterfly kiss. He stares at cat’s eye glimmer, lash-swept and lucent. Pounce! goes the feline, tickle go Brinkley’s feet. She’s got them in her long white hands.

  RITA/MOTHER

  “This little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed home. This little piggy had roast beef for dinner, this little piggy had none. And this little piggy cried wee wee wee wee all the way home!”

  Brinkley squeals with laughter and his mother squeals too, and they both fall into goose down. Rita/Mother grabs his face and presses her mouth hard on his. Then she curves away, hands pressed to her face, and sobs. Brinkley sits up, touches his mouth. He places his hands on his mother’s back. She leaps to a wall, faces her son with one trembling finger pointed.

  RITA/MOTHER

  Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.

  Slides and curls, a fetal-corpse on the floor. Brinkley curls on the bed. Minutes fall away in the dark vacuum of a bedroom in a house in a city in the middle of the night, and through his tears this small boy watches his mother’s wracked form on the floor. He wipes his face but the tears keep coming, and he makes a slow brave crawl off the bed and across to the heap of fairy-haired, siren-bodied woman. When he gets close enough to touch her, he stops. He doesn’t put out a hand, keeps both over his crying mouth. In a moment she unfurls, streaming eyes blinking as at a new world. She snatches up her boy, presses him to her chest as if trying to absorb the little body through her skin, into her heart.

  RITA/MOTHER

  Don’t go. Don’t go.

  Dear Brinkley,

  There’s a movie in my mirror too! Scenes shown with great clarity out of storms of electro
nic snow. I saw a goddess-type woman, a Rita Hayworth look-alike, and her young son. You and your mother. The little boy had your same sad, clear eyes. The enthusiastic opening of this letter belies the sadness of what I saw. Your mother screamed at the moon. And at her son: you. I’m sorry. Was she always crazy? And did she always dress you up like a girl? Tell me more.

  Yes, it could only have been my mother and me that you saw. I don’t think I want you to see any more. But, then again, maybe I do. I have nothing else to give you. (It’s a sad moment when you realize that all you have to give is a movie of your life, and it’s probably not even a good movie. First-time director, a few arthouse touches, questionable acting—eventually relegated to an existentially dusty corner of a video store. Great wardrobe, though.) Funny, you noticed right away that she looked like Mae West. She liked men. What can I say? She liked food, too. Great taste in one, but not in the other.

  A little confused about the fact that you’re not gay, or a drag queen. I guess this would be confirmed, as far as it is able to be confirmed in this place, by your Freudian slip about letter sex. (You’re right—someone should’ve boxed Freud’s ears, strapped him to his couch and left him there.) I mean, I completely—more than anyone else in Hell—understand the appeal of bias-cut dresses and peach angora. But I find it a little weird for a straight guy to have owned those things. I mean, I get it from an Ed Wood perspective, like I said, but I’ve just never actually met any angora-wearing men who aren’t gay, or actors. Then again, if your mother had a fondness for dressing you up in frilly things, maybe your fondness for feminine couture makes a little more sense. In a weird way. But I’m not much of a psychologist. I would’ve thought you’d want to get as far away from angora and satin as possible, given what I saw in my mirror. I’ve heard Hemingway was raised as a girl, part of the time, anyway. Hmmm . . . Maybe I’ve got that wrong. Didn’t seem to hurt his brilliance, if it’s true. Of course, he decided to make the ultimate masculine statement with a shotgun, but who am I to judge? Perhaps he was just following orders.

  Did you ever learn any more about your sister?

  I’m not angry that you lied about being a banker. I know firsthand that old instincts live on in this place, in defiance of logic. The truth, to my mind, is a blank canvas to which we continually add colour. (I really liked your mother’s painting, by the way. She’s very talented.) I don’t care whether you were a banker, a file clerk or a circus clown. What does it matter now? I’m grateful you’re here. (If a score is being kept, then my gratitude will probably be held against me. I should desire only that you be set free—I am too human.) I have to say it: I wish more than anything that we could meet, in the flesh, not just through a mirror. I know we both wish it. Retarded, I suppose, to be sitting in Hell dreaming of anything in the flesh. I hung up that hat, all right! Sorry, bad pun. Shut up, Velvet. Since the dream of seeing you will come to nothing, I won’t bring it up again.

  Your home sounds so cozy! Yellow is such a warming colour. I didn’t have yellow walls at my place (I had red), but I once tried to capture what I imagine to be the mood-enhancing effect of yellow walls using a sun lamp. Obviously, it didn’t work.

  I’m so impressed by your taste in art. “Bouquet with Flying Lovers” is one of my very favourite Chagalls. I had a de Lempicka—“The Two Friends”—in my living room. Captures the flavor of Art Deco and yet transcends it, don’t you think? I really was a bit of an art junkie—I love colour, and bare walls make me feel lonely. They remind me of hospitals. Plus, you can always pretend to yourself that your posters are originals, and feel rich. My hovel was crammed with art: Van Dongen’s “Portrait of Lili Damita, the Actress,” de Chirico’s “Song of Love,” Kahlo’s “Self-portrait with Cropped Hair” and Man Ray’s “Le Violon d’Ingres.” In a corner of my kitchen were stacked another de Lempicka and Van Gogh’s “Starry Night” and “Café at Night,” waiting to be hung. I suppose you’re wondering where Edvard Munch’s “The Scream” was? In the bedroom, of course! Perhaps waking up to that every morning was what finally drove me over. I just love Munch so much. “The Dance of Life” is another terrifying and beautiful favourite—I used to look it up in my art book and stare at the woman in black, the one who understands the fatality of love, for hours.

  I must confess I’ve never cared for Degas, although I love the ballet. Too fussy. Isn’t that an odd thing, considering I collected marabou feather boas?

  Aside from “The Scream,” there wasn’t any art in my bedroom, just movie posters for Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Casablanca and A Clockwork Orange. I would have to say that I’m more in love with silent movie stars than with their actual movies. Given the choice, I would rather hear people talk while making faces, rather than just make faces. I’ve always been in love with their looks, though. When I was ten, I dressed as Greta Garbo for Halloween. Nobody got it. Maybe I should’ve gone as a bag lady instead. (Considering Greta looked like a bag lady in her mature years, I could’ve still pretended to be her in my mind, but everyone else would have interpreted the costume literally.) Dressing up was a great passion of mine. I haunted thrift stores most Saturdays, looking for treasures. Believe me, I can find a sartorial diamond in the ruff (ha ha), so to speak! This skill ended up coming in very handy when Davie got me involved with the theatre company he started. He’s the guy you saw in the mirror. And no, he wasn’t my paramour, as you put it. More like . . . I don’t know. Our relationship was a bit of a Rubik’s Cube. I always sucked at Rubik’s Cube. Maybe we would’ve been lovers if things had been different. If he had been different. Or if I had been different. If he hadn’t liked boys so much. But then there were girls, too. Basically, he screwed everyone but me, except for the time . . . I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I loved him. Which was stupid, I guess. He always was a bit of an asshole. But he understood me. So I loved him. And loving someone is like having a meat grinder installed in your chest. Hamburger Helper, anyone?

  So sorry you saw the scene in Davie’s bathroom. What else can I offer you, but an existential shrug of the shoulders and a rueful smile? It was an accident, sort of. I didn’t want to . . . There was (is) a man that stalked me. I call him the Shadowman. My torturer. He was out to get me. He didn’t seem to bother other people. Sometimes he would tell me to do things, and I would end up in the hospital. The doctors gave me meds and sometimes he would stay away for a while. But the meds made me feel sick and tired, and the Shadowman always came back. I hope you don’t see any more of that kind of thing. No life is PG-13.

  Anyway, Davie asked me to be his costume designer. A few months before I killed myself, we staged a production at Havana on Commercial Drive, which is a restaurant-cum-theatre space with a gritty, textured kind of charm. In fact, it’s a happy place, a little haven, and I knew it belonged to me the day Davie took me there for lunch to discuss costumes. In the middle of the conversation, I glanced up from my spinach and artichoke salad and over to the wall, and plain to see, like a sign from the seat of the cosmos, were the words “Retro Velvet.” My name was on the wall! In the midst of swirls of graffiti, proclamations of love, etc, there I was! Retro Velvet!

  I had to dress all eight people in the cast on no budget, which I must say was a pleasing challenge. But Value Village came through for me in spectacular form and everyone looked fabulous. One of my greatest finds was a white satin Jean Harlow-style gown that was worn by the villainess. (The play was a detective story set in the 1920s.) Actually, come to think of it, the dress looked a lot like the one your mother was wearing. Davie played the hero’s sidekick. He’s such a good actor, and his impressions are legendary. You should see his Groucho Marx.

  There was something so beautiful about sitting in the back of the theatre and watching lives—outfitted by me—being lived on a grand scale. I like feeling myself breathe in the dark, feeling the hush in the theatre like a blanket and seeing dust motes stream in the spotlights while people glitter. There’s not enough glittering in the world at all.
All we want is magic, right?

  I believe now that play prolonged my life. Whether that was a good thing or a bad thing I suppose could be the subject of endless debate. The inevitable happened—does it matter if it came earlier or later? But I’ll say that there was something about doing it, about existing in that rarified bubble, that temporarily gave me peace. (The Shadowman loved the play, and he gave me lots of great costume ideas. He actually complimented some of my work—his good mood was so refreshing.) Like when we watch movies, and for the time that it plays the lives onscreen supersede our own. This was like that only more so, because I helped make it—I was inside the world. Art grants temporary amnesia. I sat at the back of the theatre and saw only other people’s tears and tantrums, joys and heartbreaks, faces and costumes. Did you ever feel as though you were outside of yourself, watching? I felt like that always, except for those nights in the last row. Even when the Shadowman came to visit, a part of me was standing back, watching it happen. But in the back row of the theatre I wasn’t watching myself, I was only conscious of this other world before me.

  Except for that time, I’ve never been able to shake the sensation of floating, as though I’ve come untethered and I’m drifting somewhere up above my head, always looking down, scrutinizing, watching my every move. Were there ever moments, looking at yourself in the mirror (I know you don’t like mirrors, but I also know there were times you looked) when you didn’t recognize what you saw? I sometimes stood in front of a mirror for hours, searching for something—I’m not sure what. Pulling on my hair to watch my face change, testing to see if I was real. Touching my fingers to the glass and expecting them to pass right through, as if into water, because everything seemed like an illusion. The woman in the mirror was always a stranger. I have been accused of being vain (by Davie and my mother), a person who catches glimpses of herself in store windows, hand to her hair, pursing her lips, but I was only testing to see where the edges of me were, where I began and ended, whether or not my ball-and-chain body was still around.