“Christ, Felix. Somebody gonna kill you?”
“I don’t think so. It’s just insurance.”
“And what do I get for being a good boy?”
Felicity gave him a frankly obscene look, licking her upper lip suggestively. “I’ll put my tongue stud in for you.”
Martin Dedette, who thought of himself as worldly and unflappable, blushed. Even he knew what the pierced used their tongues for.
“Well, what do you say we visit with the Shades some more, wealthy Saracen?”
“There is no way, darling, I’m going back there. You’re on your own. And by the way, what were you teaching me back there?”
“Innocence, Martin. Have you ever seen a sheep?”
Felicity found it difficult to explain what happened next, or why. Martin made some joke and whispered the punch line into her ear, tickling something in there. A dark funnel that began there wended its way into her chest and made her warm all over. Blame it on her ear; she always had an excessively sensitive drum. Suffice it to say that they found themselves back at her apartment with a bottle of Knob Creek bourbon, sitting on her bed.
Martin did have a long, brown body with dark nipples that Felicity fell on greedily. He undressed her with assurance, peeling off her jeans without a hitch and lifting her blouse as easily as blowing a feather. He didn’t snag himself in her belly-button ring as she half expected him to, but licked it instead, passing his tongue expertly through it. He took long enough with her ring for her bristly pubis to catch fire, and when he passed from the ring to the groove at the top of her cunt, she squeezed her thighs together hard. Her effort was no match for Martin’s nimble tongue. He found her clitoris quickly and pushed it in and out of its hood as if playing with a tiny monk. Felicity surrendered to his ministrations.
The thick bow of Martin’s cock felt silky and delicious when Felicity put it in her mouth. She found the heavy knob with its slit lubricated by a drop of semen indescribably sweet.
It would have been a completely adequate experience if everything had ended here. But Martin was determined to complete the program by the book. He turned her around suddenly and lay on top of her. The heaviness of his body awakened in Felicity a strong urge to escape. She did not like being pinned down and tried to get out. Martin took this for just another twist in their love play and forced her thighs open with his hand. She moved her head from side to side to escape his mouth, which locked forcefully on her lips. Felicity wasn’t sure when he entered her, but she felt suddenly suspended, impaled on the mast of a sinking ship that was her own body. She became vacant, leaving her body behind on the bed like a discarded coat. From that point on, it became only a matter of watching for the end, which came swiftly and seared her with an abundant stickiness.
It hadn’t been Martin’s fault, and Felicity tried to smile while she extricated herself from under his sweaty flesh. Martin looked pretty smug sprawled there, and it took her a good quarter of an hour before she persuaded him to get dressed.
“I have to go now. I really do,” Martin mumbled, as if it had been his own idea.
Poor, poor dandy. After he left, Felicity showered at length and had another drink. Something was happening to her. When she’d been a kid, she sometimes looked quickly sideways and glimpsed some fairy or elf scramble away. She had to be really fast to catch them. Some such thing was going on now. Felicity sensed that the thick, wet air was full of quick, fishtailing presences just waiting for her to see them.
Alas, there was business to tend to. She would forget the whole episode and get on with the real stuff. She thought fondly of the Shades, who were so purposely asexual. It dawned on her that they might be of some help for what lay ahead.
Chapter Fourteen
Wherein Gala Keria, hostess of Gal Gal Hamazal, surprises and shocks all of Israel. The scholars discuss the burning question of the Messiah.
Andrea and the scholars, upon their return from sightseeing, were met at the the convent door by Sister Maria.
“Have you heard the terrible news?” she asked, hurrying to help them out of their coats.
Through each mind flashed a different idea, but the images had one thing in common: death. This was, after all, Israel. War and terrorism had made death a familiar occurrence. In addition to that basic concern, at least three of them thought: Armageddon. This was, after all, Jerusalem. The valley of Megiddo was a stone’s throw away.
More nuns appeared behind Sister Maria, and all started talking at once, making it difficult to understand just what had happened.
“The rabbis have taken her to the chamber of the bad books!” one nun blurted.
Another declared, “The American took her to be his slave!”
Finally, the good sisters slowed down sufficiently to make some sense. Gala Keria was missing, possibly kidnapped! The news bulletins broadcast on Israeli television and radio relayed the contents of an E-mail message to Gal Gal’s producer, apparently from Gala: The Fates may use the Wheel, but the Wheel will roll away! This cryptic message stimulated everyone to heights of speculation.
“They say that she was taken by the devil to turn the wheel that will set the date for the End Times,” speculated weary Sister Rodica, her voice touched by hysteria.
“They say that Hamas is holding her!” Sister Maria was both more realistic and politically aware.
Hamas had been increasing its campaign of political terror; there were explosions nearly every day. Only two streets away on Haik Efraim, a terrorist had blown himself up in a movie theater, killing fifty people. But kidnapping was not one of their tactics. Muslim martyrs preferred going up in a blaze, clutching their key to heaven.
Sometimes, after an explosion, only this key remained intact. Sister Maria had seen one pictured in the newspaper: a bronze key with small teeth on which the suicide’s imam had scratched in Arabic the word HEAVEN.
Another sister had just returned from the city, where she had read the headline of a tabloid in a kiosk claiming, American Billionaire Kidnaps Second “Wheel” Hostess.
The first had been Kashmir Birani, hostess of the Indian Wheel of Fortune—Kismet Chakkar—who had vanished in the city of New Orleans five years before. The tabloid claimed that the billionaire responsible was no other than Dr. Edward Teller, the father of the H-bomb and the American Star Wars project. Sister Rodica, for one, believed it. She had been a little doubtful when she read that most members of the United States Senate, the leading figures in the Knesset, and all the pope’s advisers were aliens from the planet Pluto. That was difficult, but this was easy. The man who made the bomb had to be the devil. That he’d kidnapped a woman loved by everyone was not at all surprising. The tabloid went on to say that Dr. Teller may even have kidnapped Vanna White herself and replaced her with an impostor.
The Gal Gal producers announced a reward of 3 million shekels (about $1 million) for Gala Keria’s safe return. But no kidnappers came forward to claim the prize. And there was no follow-up to the cryptic E-mail. In an effort to maintain public awareness of her absence, Gal Gal Hamazal announced that, for the next few days, they would alternate reruns with new shows hosted by different girls. They called on young Israeli women to try for the job if they felt sufficiently qualified.
Andrea thought about going to the television station and offering herself as Gala’s replacement. During the festive Christmas Eve dinner, the guests had attempted to discover the deeper reasons for the world’s fascination with Wheel of Fortune. After Gala’s disappearance, all sorts of statistics had been compiled. It turned out that most people on earth were watching a local version of Wheel of Fortune at least once a week. At the end of the twentieth century, Wheel of Fortune was the most-watched television show on earth.
“A majority of earthlings are absorbed by this game,” began Father Hernio. “But why? All have become players and participants, without ever leaving their living rooms. As we rush toward the end of the millennium, a time that we endow with great significance, we seem to be less and less capable
of any activity other than following the spinning of Fortuna’s wheel. When people do move, it is only to play other games of chance. Gambling is widespread and pernicious. Fortuna, the goddess of luck, rules people with abandon. It is a bad time. False messiahs of every flavor clutter every street corner with cheap boom boxes. You couldn’t hear the voice of the Lord if your ears were made of gold. If I had the power of the Turks I would build a new Golden Gate over Jerusalem to keep out both the messiahs and the broadcast of Gal Gal Hamazal.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to shout.” The priest excused his outburst.
The good father had gotten himself quite worked up and looked in danger of choking on a piece of date cake. Dr. Luna patted his back vigorously, saying calmly: “In the United States, where the show originated, Vanna White has been made into a goddess as important as the Statue of Liberty. Every country on earth has its own Wheel of Fortune now, and many of the foreign hostesses, with the exception of Gala, are even more Vanna-like than the original. It may be true, as the tabloids tell us, that the American Vanna has been replaced by an impostor. There would be a certain logic in this.”
Mother Superior, seated ceremonially at the head of the table, had kept her peace as long as she could. “What logic, dear friend? I have listened to this nonsense for far too long. This is a day we should rejoice in the Lord, and what do we speak of? Television!” She said this word with as much contempt as she could muster. “Does television have a heart? Is it made of flesh, blood, and spirit? Is it an altar for faith?” She put down her fork, on which a piece of roast duck was still impaled, and answered her own question. “No, it is not. It is only a foolish glass eye, like a vain young woman’s mirror! All we see in it is a picture of our faithless souls. Forgive them, Mother of God, for their viewing habit!”
“But Mother,” Father Hernio said, trying to hide his amusement, “there is even a saint of television, officially blessed by the pope—Saint Cecily of television and multimedia.”
“The pope,” Mother Superior said curtly, “is a politician. Christ our Lord is not. When he returns he will throw away much of the pope’s wardrobe.”
“Where do you suppose he will return?” asked Father Hernio.
“Where? To Jerusalem, of course.”
Mother Superior was sure of this; it was why the sisters of the order lived here.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Father Hernio gravely.
“And where do you think that Christ will go when he returns to this vale of tears?” Mother Superior spoke sharply.
“CNN headquarters in Atlanta,” replied the father.
Amid the laughter that followed, Andrea noticed that Sister Rodica was crying. Two tears, one on each cheek, were making their way to the corners of her mouth. Andrea reached under the table and found the nun’s hands folded tightly in her lap. She pried a hand loose and held it clumsily, squeezing her fingers. But Sister Rodica tore her hand away and bolted from the table, making some excuse of checking on the coffee. No one seemed to notice, but Sister Maria looked quizzically at Andrea and shrugged.
Quite oblivious to Mother Superior’s injunction to change the subject, Mr. Rabindranath said that he had seen an interesting interview with a good friend of poor Gala.
This young woman claimed that she and Gala had discussed many times the disappearance of Kashmir Birani, the Indian hostess of Kismet Chakkar. Gala had feared that a similar fate might befall her. She’d even had a premonition. The interviewer asked the woman what Gala’s reaction had been to the rumor that Vanna White herself had been abducted by aliens and replaced by an alien-controlled clone. Gala had laughed at this, the friend reported, and lectured her at length about the propensity of people to endow their manufactured gods with miraculous powers. Gala was some kind of Marxist, the woman had explained.
“Mr. Rabindranath,” Mother Superior said severely, “what are you waiting for? I mean, what are the Hindus waiting for?”
“An avatar.”
“Is he very much like our returning Christ?”
“I believe so,” Mr. Rabindranath said, not quite sure.
“I would like to ask this question of everyone here. I believe that it matters very much. Who are you—or more precisely, your tradition—waiting for?”
The question startled no one, but it was serious. The table fell silent.
“Since I have the dubious benefit of having been born within one faith and ended up dedicated to another, let me begin,” said Lama Cohen. “As a Buddhist I believe in the cessation of the cycle of incarnation and reincarnation. I believe in the return of the world to the source of light, not in the return of a light-being to the source of pain.”
“In other words,” Mother Superior said shrewdly, “you believe in the End of the World but not in its redemption.”
“The End is the redemption,” the Lama said flatly. “Why increase suffering, even if it’s the suffering of the Messiah?”
Father Zahan said that the Yuin also believed in the arrival at the End of Time of an avatar. His name, even his shape, was unknown, as was the date of his return.
“I must admit, however, that I am here in Jerusalem as a result of signs pointing to the return of our avatar.”
Pressed to explain, he would say only that a dream had guided him.
Magh Tuiredh, who was as taciturn as his name was hard to pronounce, nodded in agreement.
“I am also here as the result of a dream. I was told by Lugh, the Celt god, to come to Jerusalem. He showed me a scroll I couldn’t read. The End Times are near.”
The pronouncement of the gloomy Celt dampened the party’s spirits. A gust of wind tore at the convent’s roof. The nearness of the End Times was a feeling that everyone shared.
“We Hopi believe that there are nine worlds,” Earl Smith explained. “Three have already been destroyed. We live in the fourth world, which will be destroyed by fire in a war started by China or Israel. That time is soon. It will come when Saquasohuh, the Blue Star kachina, will dance in the plaza and take off his mask. He represents a blue star, far off, which will appear soon. The time is foretold by a song sung during a ceremony that was performed three times in this century: in 1914, before World War One; in 1940, before World War Two; and two weeks ago, in Oraibi, on the Second Mesa.” Earl Smith paused and passed a calloused farmer’s hand over his deeply lined forehead. There were blue lights in his deeply black eyes.
“Then why are you in Jerusalem and not in Oraibi with your people, Mr. Smith?” Mother Superior asked—more respectfully, Andrea noticed, than when she had questioned Mr. Rabindranath.
“I was sent by my people to guide the Blue Star back to the Second Mesa. I am to welcome him,” concluded Mr. Smith.
Dr. Luna hurried to begin his turn. “The Mayan cycle is at an end also. Kukulkan, the Plumed Serpent, the one the Aztecs call Quetzalcoatl, is going to return. I am here on a scholarly mission, however. I have heard that an unknown Mayan codex may be languishing in the library of a monastery here in Jerusalem. I hope to find it before the return of Kukulkan.”
Dr. Luna impaled a roasted chestnut as if it were a stubborn obstacle to his quest. He had been frustrated in his scholarly work by bureaucrats who did not understand the urgency. The codex contained the protocol that his people had forgotten but now needed to follow if the world was going to survive.
“We wish you all the best luck, Dr. Luna,” said Mother Superior. “And how about you, Professor Li?”
During the explanations proffered by his colleagues, Dr. Li had folded quietly within himself. To Lama Cohen, who was familiar with meditation poses, he resembled a closed lotus blossom. The others noticed only his deep quiet. Addressed directly, he replied slowly, barely above a whisper.
“I confess that I am at a disadvantage here, my friends. The only return that the Chinese might fear is the return of Chairman Mao. So far we have been fortunate in that the great man has confined his return to postcards, pins, and collectors’ editions of his books. My waiting here i
n Jerusalem has to do with the practical whims of Rabbi Golden, the great translator from the Chinese, who has promised to let me study a lost Confucian manuscript. Dr. Luna and I are engaged, I believe, in a similar quest.”
“That’s only fitting,” said Lama Cohen, “in the City of the Book.”
Mention of books led naturally to consideration of language and letters, and the discussion returned, quite unexpectedly, to Gala Keria. To tell the truth, Andrea had been rather bored by the clerics’ and scholars’ religious discussion. She much prefered the living mystery of Gala.
“I also heard an interesting comment about Vanna White on the radio. It was an American radio program,” said Father Hernio. “The commentator claimed, not at all jokingly, that Vanna White represents the world’s last hope for meaning, and that she soothes the anxieties of millions by showing them that behind the jumble of senseless letters there is in fact meaning: phrases, things, foreign expressions, places.” Hernio waved his arms, indicating everything. “By simply calling out a single letter, one can then fill out the terrifying spaces between letters and return meaning—like light—to the world. In the opinion of the commentator, Vanna is the giver of light, as her name—White—implies. She is the very opposite, he claimed, of those Dada artists, at the beginning of the twentieth century, who saw no meaning, no hope, no salvation behind the jumble of letters they had maliciously torn out of perfectly reasonable words. Vanna, it seems, has restored to humanity what these Dadaists stole from it, namely, sense and reason. If the Dadaists were already anxious at the beginning of the century, before the two world wars, genocides, and atomic bombs, you can imagine how anxious people are now, at the end of it! Ergo, all they have is Vanna! A devilish argument, I must admit!”
“What this man is saying is that Vanna White is the Western Messiah,” Professor Li concluded logically.
This proposition shocked everyone except Lama Cohen and Mother Superior. The lama was not surprised because in the Buddhist view only the unexpected made sense. Mother Superior was not surprised because her faith in Christ did not allow her even to consider such an absurdity. She said so.
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