Teddy Bear Cannibal Massacre

by ed. Tim W. Lieder

Xavier carried on as though he hadn't heard - because of course he hadn't.

  "Love is reduced by them," he motioned to the next table, "to jokes about the meat and two vegetables, the cream horns, the wedding tackle. There is no tenderness. In France, love is an art."

  I should have taken Xavier to task over his stereotyping of English manhood, but instead I busied myself with my soup, pretending I hadn't heard. Catherine, on the other hand, was more than happy to volunteer me.

  "I don't think Leonard's like that. I've never heard him talking crude and I bet he knows how to treat a woman. Flowers and chocolate, stuff like that. Leonard?"

  "Mm, yes, well-" I began.

  Thankfully, Xavier was quicker off the mark. "I was nineteen and was dating my first English girlfriend. My family had just moved here. She was named Maria. She had this beautiful raven-black hair. I used to tell her I could see the stars reflected in it."

  "Tell him, if he doesn't stop waving his fork around he'll have someone's eye out."

  "She was coming up to her eighteenth birthday," Xavier continued, "a magical time in life and I wanted to get her something special."

  She should be so lucky. When I was eighteen, Mum, belatedly acting on Doctor Wilson's advice to get me out socialising and interacting with others, enrolled me in the local youth club. (Dad suggested his model railway club.) Run by the local vicar, this youth club consisted of a PingPong table and a crappy little pool table with no bounce in the cushions. Fat lot of use that was. Few girls and all the lads as screwed up and repressive as me. I went to satisfy my mum's conscience for two months before I made any number of excuses to get out of it. Just as withdrawn and inexperienced with girls, I came away with a good forehand smash.

  "My search for a suitable present for Maria began in the local library. I looked up the foreign language dictionaries. I remembered something about the word Maria from my Latin studies. I found it; Maria in Latin was a plural of mare. This was no help. I knew that my girlfriend loved horses but there was no way my finances could stretch that far."

  "The berk! The Latin mare won't be a female horse like it is in English." Clob stumped across the table and farted in Xavier's salad.

  "Mon dieu! I slapped my head! What was I thinking? Mare will not have the same meaning in Latin as it does in English."

  "Oh, he’s quick, this one. Ho hum."

  "I looked it up quickly and there it was, the answer to my prayers. I began to look through other sections of the library. I now knew what I would buy my beautiful Maria. It would be perfect. Can you guess?"

  "Bog off, we're not interested," said Clob.

  Xavier told us anyway.

  Xavier helped Maria over the stile. "I wish you'd told me we were going bloody hiking, Xav. These shoes will be ruined."

  "Only a little further now, my dove."

  "And it's pitch dark. Where's your torch? My dad's going to kill me if he finds out."

  "Hush. We don't need a torch." A full moon bathed the hills in pools of cool limpid blues. Evening dew was forming on spider webs leaving strings of glistening pearls draped over the heather. It was ideal. He put an arm around Maria's waist and shivered with anticipation.

  They followed the sandy path that wound its way up the hillside through gorse and bracken until it began to level out at the crest. "When am I going to get my surprise, Xav?"

  Xavier looked at the ground around them and then up into the clear starry sky.

  "Here will do."

  "Here? Oh, okay. If you say so. This had better be worth it. If you've dragged me all the way up here for- for something else."

  Xavier looked up at her standing there in her white stockings, pencil skirt and padded bomber jacket. She smiled and her cheeks dimpled. He raised a hand. "Come sit here beside me, Maria. I want to show you something." Maria lowered herself and patted her skirt, tugging at the hem. He guided her hands in the dark. "Here."

  Maria felt at something long and slim placed in her palms. It had the feeling of leatherette and made a hollow rattling sound when she shook it.

  "It's still in its case, the zip is at the top end."

  "What the heck is it, Xav?" she asked, genuinely curious now. Her earlier nervousness was evaporating. The end cap came away and something cold and metal slid out. Light glinted on a glass lens. "A telescope? Lovely! Thanks. That's just what I've always wanted. This will come in useful."

  Xavier laughed. "That isn't your present, Maria. You can keep it, it is for you, but it is not your present."

  Maria looked at him, puzzled. All she would see in the darkness were his even white teeth and they weren't giving anything away. "I don't follow you."

  "Lie back, I want to show you something."

  When they were lying side by side he pointed at the moon. "Use your telescope on that. You may have to turn the ring near the eyepiece to fine focus."

  Maria extended the telescope and gave a small gasp as the yellow lunar disc leapt into clearer definition.

  "Wow. I can see everything."

  He laughed. "That is the idea. Are you looking at the grey plains?" He snuggled closer so that his lips were near her ear. "They are called Maria."

  "Maria? But why - I mean, what does it mean?"

  "Early astronomers thought the Laval plains were water and so named them as seas, or maria in Latin. It's the plural of mare (he pronounced it muh-ray). Many have these beautiful romantic names. Do you see the large one on the left? That is Mare Tranquillitatis, or the Sea of Tranquillity. Slightly above is the Sea of Serenity and below is the Sea of Nectar. There are also Seas of Clouds, Showers, Moisture, Vapours . . ." He had to stop there because Maria had covered his mouth with her own. He kissed her back, deeply and slowly before gently pulling away. "All Maria are quite wonderful and unique in their own way," he said softly. "As are you."

  He looked into eyes shiny with reflected moonlight.

  Catherine's eyes were shining. "Oh, Xavier. You gave her the moon!"

  Xavier Capdeville sipped at his coffee and shrugged nonchalantly.

  "It was nothing," he said. His smarmy smile added, for a Frenchman.

  "Huh, big deal. I mean, it isn't like he actually gave her anything, is it? Apart from a cheesy telescope that probably cost a couple of quid from a junk shop." Clob was trying his best but I could tell his little heart wasn't in it. I had to hand it to Xavier, there aren't many teenagers who would think of doing something like that. They tend to be more direct.

  Catherine gazed at the debonair dentist over the rim of her teacup as she sipped at her drink. She put it down with a small frown. "I'd enjoy this more if I'd remembered to put sugar in."

  "I'll go and get you some," I volunteered, half out of my seat.

  "It's all right, Leonard," she said, placing a hand over mine, "I'm going to get myself a pudding while I'm there." She giggled conspiratorially as she rose and left the table. My hand felt warm as though indelibly imprinted by the slight pressure of her fingers.

  I looked at Xavier who acknowledged me with a raised eyebrow. Our glances bounced off each other like marbles. I stared down at my soiled shirt, adjusting the lie of my tie so that it covered most of the soup stains. So much for the tomato soup gambit, I thought miserably. Had you really expected that to work? It took me a second to realise Clob's voice berating me.

  "No," I sub-vocalised. I looked across to where he was sitting on the edge of the table, his chubby legs swinging to and fro. Suddenly he stood up, staring. (And when Clob stares, it's quite an event. His eyes shoot out restrained only by coiled springs that pull them back inside his head with an almighty twang. Too many wasted Saturday mornings watching cartoons, I suppose.)

  "What's up? What are you looking at?" I followed his eyeballs but I could see nothing remarkable.

  Clob waved a fat trotter. "That!" He looked at me, his eyebrows oscillating wildly two inches above his head. "You can't see it?"

  "What?" I was starting to feel unnerved. Clob had never behaved like this before. He had nev
er seen anything or told me anything that I, at some level, didn't already know about. This new development did not bode well.

  "It's - It's his id!"

  "You mean loverboy here? His actual id?"

  Clob nodded, still staring at any empty patch of Formica.

  I had to ask. "So. What's it look like?"

  "It's a camel wearing a silver foil fez."

  "A camel wearing-" That, surprisingly, didn't seem too weird. I've always associated France with Camel cigarettes ever since my Uncle George brought loads of them back from a trip to Calais. They are, I suspect, an American brand, but the association is there and the cigarettes come in soft foil packets with pyramids in the background. All this seemed to flit through my mind in a split second. I felt quite pleased at my analysis and subsequent denial.

  "You are seeing no such thing, Clob."

  "What d'you mean I ain't seeing no such thing? Ah, we're playing that game, are we? Ignore me and I'll go away? You never learn, do you Lenny? You gotta trust your instincts sometimes. Doctor Wilson told you that."

  Catherine was settling herself down. She had chosen a strawberry cheesecake.

  "Ooh, I love strawberry cheesecake," I told her.

  I could faintly hear Clob protesting in the background.

  "Hmm?" she said. "Oh yes, it is nice, isn't it. So, Xavier. You and Maria. Did you go out with each other for long?"

  "I beg your pardon, Catherine? Oh! No. Only a matter of a few weeks."

  I let my mind wander at that point. I was torn between wanting to excuse myself from the table where I had become a spare part, and staying just to be near Catherine. I chose the latter as it meant doing nothing - something I'm very good at. I watched her from the corner of my eye, her perfect lips parting as she took elegant bites from her dessert with her perfect teeth. Something in her expression made me follow her gaze to Xavier. He looked distracted, the usual easy charm and casual patter missing.

  Catherine asked, "How come you parted so soon after her birthday, Xavier? I'd have thought she was very much in love with you after a gift like that." She scowled. "Some girls are so ungrateful."

  The dentist shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "No Catherine, you misunderstand. It was I that finished with Maria."

  He hung his head, gazing at the tabletop between his outstretched fingers. He made as if to scratch his head, paused, rubbed his eyes instead, and ended up worrying at a thumbnail with his teeth.

  I glanced at Catherine, who looked at me as if she expected me to say something. I looked at Xavier to find that he too was studying me from under his fringe. I felt like an insect under a magnifying glass. I cast my eyes down to see a very smug-looking Clob. "Watch this," he said.

  Xavier cleared his throat. "The point of the exercise, with the telescope and the moon, Catherine . . . " He paused to scratch a sideburn. "The point is - I only did it to get into the bird's knickers." A spasm crossed his face as though he wanted to bite his tongue off and spit it out. He dragged himself to his feet and left the table, giving me a heavy pat on the shoulder as he passed me by. His departure was as abrupt as his sordid admission.

  I looked down at Clob, stunned. "You?"

  He nodded enthusiastically. "Good, eh? I had a word with Humpy. Explained the situation with you and Catherine, and he had a word with the boss there. Not a bad sort for a Frenchie. Go on sunshine, the way's clear now." He tipped me a wink and popped like a soap bubble.

  My eyes swivelled to take in the delectable nurse at my side. It wrung my heart to see her so. She looked like someone who had emerged unscathed from a road accident, but only by the narrowest of margins. My head was full of candyfloss with the implications of Clob and Xavier, or Xavier's id. And I was supposed to come the Casanova with Catherine? My tongue swelled to thrice its normal size and tied itself in a knot for good measure.

  But I did something incredibly brave. I reached over and covered Catherine's hand with mine. She blinked, and for an awful second I thought she might snatch it away. But she didn't. Way to go, Lenny! Only, now what? Panic began to reassert itself. I had this vision of us sitting there all afternoon unable to break the impasse.

  She said, "I really thought he was different, you know?" I gave the hand a gentle squeeze and turned my reassuring smile up a notch. "I know he has something of a reputation but, you'll laugh at me now, I thought he was honourable. I'm sick of boors like Jason Connelly. You go out with somebody like that and they are just after one thing, and after that you're just a trophy. I thought Doctor Capdeville was above that. How wrong can you be?" She indicated her plate where a lonely slice of ham was sweating. "I ordered this yucky ham salad even though I'm a vegetarian, just to have something in common with him. How sad is that?" She gave a brittle laugh and brushed a stray hair off her forehead.

  "Very sad," I agreed. And then told her about the detested tomato soup. I figured it would make her feel better if nothing else.

  "And here's me thinking you like the soup so much you want to take it home with you." She motioned at the stains on my shirt with her dainty chin. "So you only had soup because you thought I'd be having it? You are sweet. God, we're a pair together, aren't we?"

  "Yes, we are. A pair together." The silence stretched. I still had her hand under mine. It was getting hot.

  She checked the watch pinned to her breast pocket. "Oh my goodness." She pulled her hand away and made to leave. "I'm going to be in trouble with Matron if I don't get a move on."

  She paused as if she was about to say something - or waiting for me to say something - changed her mind, stood up and walked away. It happened so quickly; I hadn't screwed up the courage to say my piece. I had been on the verge of asking her out. I had! So close - so bloody close - but now the moment was past and I knew with horrible certainty that I had blown my one and only chance. No! I would go after her. Go on, Leonard.

  My traitor legs remained firmly rooted under the table. My backbone was a wet thread of cotton. Aw, who was I kidding? I slumped over the table, feeling more lonely and dejected than I could ever remember. Clob was going to give me an absolute dressing down and I would deserve every acid-coated barb he flung at me.

  A voice spoke quietly at my shoulder. "My shift ends at five today." Not now, Clob. Lay off you little I sat up sharply and spun round just in time to see Catherine leaving the canteen. The scent of her perfume was a lingering ghost. She popped her head round the doorframe and gave a small wave.

  I think I might have waved back.

  Berries Under Snow by William M. Brock (With thanks to A.C. Swinburne)

  Nothing is better than love - not secret well water, or gemstones in a frozen sea. Although I held her hand, at death's door she cried out another's name. This only proves the pure, cold sweetness of love. God hates me for possessing it. For love, I dedicated all my soul to my Lady.

  Royalty? We did not have royalty in America. We had stars plucked out of the sky. An eternity ago, I put words on the tongues of those stars.

  * * *

  The movie started out as another medieval epic, but the director hated every script the studio tried to pawn off on him.

  "What I want," he said, "is Ivanhoe written by Edgar Allan Poe."

  The producer said, "No problem." He dragged me, and my typewriter, out of a back lot shed where I wrote my page quota in the morning and drank all afternoon. They would later name an award after that efficient little man. A Russian immigrant and former bootblack, he loved hiring- owning- educated people. By his standards, I qualified. I had a graduate degree in History, had written a thesis on a nasty incident from 12th century France. I hammered out dialogue for B horror films.

  The new screenplay allowed me on the set - as writer and historical consultant- to be near her. Seeing her indifference, I felt the hopeless longing that sours to hate in other men. I began a quest to find a place, any place, in her life and heart. Once, I demonstrated the proper way for a Knight to address his Lady. In Hollywoodland- the world of Kay Lynn Carter- writers
are beneath notice, beneath contempt. She had no trouble showing the exact amount of disdain a royal lady would show a lowly warrior. But after the film came the reviews and the Oscar. Celestial Light created a sensation. As suddenly as that, I was a member of her entourage.

  Her Ownership and my Servitude started as a game- a scene we played to amuse her friends. Soon, there was no pretense- not on my part. I found I liked being the humble writer to a rising star.

  Then the stroke, lightning in my brain. Words failed me, half of my face became limp, twisted, and I could no longer be her scribe. I wore a hood to cover my deformity and brought wine and meat to her table. When she walked past, I stood so I could better see her face, the way the hair fell across her forehead. I did not sleep or eat, possessed by a waking dream of touching that hair with my own palsied hand, tasting her lips and silk eyelids with my ruined mouth.

  Some memories of those dark days still bring me joy. I remember the golden hair and perfect mouth of the one she desired. I brought the girl to her arms by a hidden path.

  "For myself," my Lady said, "for love, I could brave any scandal. But Kay Lynn Carter is an industry, an icon- I can't let my little peccadilloes disappoint those who think they know me so well." By the sharing of secrets, I became her confidante, the one who would not, could not betray her, bring shame to the image she protected so fiercely

  She sat edgewise on the bed and told me the deepest longing of her heart - to be in reality the goddess she became on the screen. I held her tiny feet in one of my hands- such small feet - a miracle she could stand. I tried to say, "Look at your reflection in my eyes- you will see that heavenly being."

  She patted my shoulder, to silence my grunting.

  "Sweet Friend," she called me. I swelled with pride to be her pet, her loyal dog. But, to me, her charms were still the stuff of dreams.

  Then foul disease changed her body, her face, destroyed a grandeur that shamed the night sky. A bacteria, the doctors said. They cut away parts of her to stop the wildfire infection, to save her life. It took her arm, it took her nose, and cheekbones, her cheeks (pink like the rose, soft like the rose petal) left her face a raw red chasm.