High Crime Area

by Joyce Carol Oates

  And so, dramatically, there came to an end X’s European itinerary, the last publicity tour of his career.

  You won’t readily forget X, will you, my girl?

  X smiled to himself as, in his luxurious hotel suite at the top of the Spanish Steps, he prepared somewhat distractedly for bed, and for an early awakening in the morning. Yet he was incensed, still; insulted; his dinner hadn’t agreed with him, nor the several glasses of Chianti; an artery throbbed in his head, and his breath was short as if he’d been running. The indignities he’d had to bear on this European trip, outrageous for one of his stature and age! No doubt there was, in his wake, a flurry of anecdotes, in time to become literary legends; much would be embellished, and exaggerated. But such was unavoidable, for X was after all a famous man; about famous men, all sorts of wild legends accrue; he was an artist, a creator; like Picasso, Beethoven—a man of unpredictable moods; a man of genius, of course; and genius must be indulged, not stifled.

  X had been driven back to the hotel in his host’s limousine, accompanied by the contrite, apologetic man, and though X had of course accepted his publisher’s apologies for the tactless behavior of an employee, X was well aware that the girl-editor herself had retreated from the table in mortified silence, no doubt to a women’s room to repair the damage done to her vanity; but she’d made no effort to follow after X, to explain and to apologize. X wondered if it might be time to instruct his Italian agent to find another publisher for his books, one more congenial to his needs?

  So you will see, X is not to be treated lightly.

  This prospect would ordinarily have placated X, for through his career he’d derived considerable pleasure from making abrupt switches from publisher to publisher, and indeed he’d switched literary agents several times; but, happening to turn on an overhead fluorescent light in his bathroom which he hadn’t turned on previously, he was shocked to see how exhausted, how sallow, how aged he looked. Is that X? I? Dear God! X’s heart thudded as if a cruel prank had been played on him. Like many individuals of a certain age, he had long practiced the technique of what might be called selective scrutiny; rarely did he approach a mirror head-on, but at a discreet angle; he seemed to know by instinct which mirrors would glare out at him, and which would soothe his eyes; in his imagination, it was not a mirror-reflection he saw when picturing himself, but his most frequently reprinted publicity photograph, which showed a handsome white-haired gentleman with sensitive eyes, a wide, thought-creased brow, and a sympathetic expression. But, now, in the bathroom mirror, what did he see but a ghastly frog-face, sunken eyes and quivering jowls and a pug nose with dark, hairy nostrils! Is that X? No, it cannot be. All along others, including women, had gazed openly upon this face, while he himself had been spared; but now he saw his own true face, in the fluorescent glare of a bathroom mirror in Rome, and the sight of it made him sway with dizziness, nausea. He slammed the flat of his hand against the mirror and cried, “I deserve better. I deserve your respect. How dare you insult me!”

  Though X was exhausted, as exhausted as he’d ever been in his life, and though the enormous canopied bed was as comfortable a bed as he’d ever lain in, he had difficulty sleeping; his brain swirled with vivid, hallucinatory images and shrill snatches of voices and laughter; his dinner weighed heavily in his stomach, and the wine he’d drunk, against doctor’s orders, for X took blood-pressure medication, made his temples ache and his heart pound in a wayward, lurching manner. As often at such times when, in a foreign city, amid luxurious surroundings, he was suffused with a sense of regret, melancholy, guilt; for what exactly, he didn’t know; for having quarreled with his wife, perhaps, before leaving on the tour; for having refused to take her with him; even as, in his confused state, he had to acknowledge that he didn’t clearly recall which wife, which woman, this was; on a previous European tour he’d fallen in love with a woman some years younger than he, and he’d divorced his wife to marry this woman, but precisely which woman she was, and whether she preceded, or succeeded, one or two other women who resembled her, he didn’t know; the effort of trying to make sense of it exhausted him, and disgusted him. What do I care for the merely personal life? I am destined for higher things. With a start he recalled that he had children scattered about the world, not only grown but frankly middle-aged children, and there was something repulsive about middle-aged children, something very unnatural; could he be responsible for squabbling offspring, must he be their father forever? Why should he, X, who’d labored so hard to create a reputation, to amass a modest fortune, provide them with the charity they seemed to think they deserved? As if, crouched forever in X’s shadow, deprived of natural sunshine, these hulking, overgrown children possessed no volition of their own, no souls. Leave me alone! I don’t know a single one of you.

  Suddenly the dark of the unfamiliar bedroom was shattered by a gaily ringing phone close beside X’s bed. X fumbled to answer, stunned, groggy, yet relieved, for he’d had enough of his miserable thoughts; this was his last night in Rome, his last night in Europe, and he deserved better; the call was from the hotel room service, a heavily accented Italian voice inquiring if the signore would accept a midnight treat from admirers of his books; X heard himself say, with childlike eagerness, “Yes, good! Send it up, please, at once.” Though the suite was already filled with virtually untouched gifts, bottles of wine, champagne, liqueur, expensive pâté and cheeses, as well as enormous, cloyingly fragrant floral displays of the kind suitable for a funeral home. Quickly X climbed out of bed, struggled into his silk dressing gown, squinted into a mirror and made a swipe at brushing back his disheveled, filmy-pale hair from his flushed forehead. Here was a more flattering mirror, softened by lamplight, providing a more authentic portrait of the elder distinguished writer. Even as X stumbled into the other room he heard a low rapid knocking at the door, for already the room service delivery was there; he heard, too, curious muffled voices and giggles in the corridor. Excitedly he called, “Yes, thank you, I’m here!”

  Opening the door then to see to his surprise that the bellboy was not a male after all, but a female: though wearing the old-fashioned olive-gray livery of the renowned hotel, with rows of buttons and gold brocade, and a visored cap perched rakishly on her head. Why, it was the girl-editor of X’s Italian publishing house whom, only an hour or so ago, X had denounced as a chattering sycophant! Tonia, or Tanya, clearly wanted to make restitution, to apologize; her skin was no longer coarse and displeasing to the eye but glowed with cosmetics and her thick black Italian-looking hair was loose, in tendrils and wisps falling seductively to her shoulders.

  Even as, in exuberant high spirits Tonia, or Tanya, flashed a dazzling smile at the elder writer, crying, “Signore X, may we come in? We have such surprises!” X understood that he would forgive her.

  How dreamlike and confused and deliriously wonderful it was, X’s surprise midnight treat, like nothing else X had ever experienced in more than seventy years of existence: and only a few minutes before, how self-pitying, how morbid he had been! He stood back in awe as the Italian girl-editor and another attractive female in bellboy livery pushed an ornate silver cart of the approximate size of a hospital gurney into the sitting room: the cart was heaped with delicacies—an unusually large bottle of champagne, in a gilt-embossed wrapper not familiar to X’s eye, goose-liver pâté and gourmet cheeses and crusty breads, chocolate-covered truffles, bonbons, cashews and pistachio nuts, and remarkable fruits of all varieties, great glossy apples, blood-oranges, fat black grapes, plums and kiwis, classically proportioned and in colors vivid as a still life by Matisse. X saw to his astonishment that the Italian girl’s companion was the German fraulein with the long shimmering dyed-blond hair who’d interviewed him in Berlin!—the first several buttons of her jacket were unbuttoned to show the alluring tops of her pale, perfect little breasts, and she too flashed a dazzling smile at X, as if she and he were old friends, sharing delicious secrets. At once, his heart swelling with magnanimity, X forgave the brash f
raulein, too. “Yes, of course! Please come in,” he stammered, laughing in delight. It occurred to X that, through his long blessed life, in such instances of surprise and confusion, he’d stood by helplessly as others, nearly always women, took charge.

  And now a third young female in bellboy costume appeared, helping to push the cart, and yet a fourth! The heavy door was shut, and discreetly double-locked, amid giggles high-pitched and silvery as the tinkling of ice cubes in delicate crystal goblets. X tried to behave as if he were not astonished but perhaps halfway accustomed to such episodes of high gleefulness; he clapped robustly, laughing; what did he care that he would be awakened by a call at 6:30 A.M., to be driven to the airport; what did he care for mere sleep, he who had often stayed up through the night working at his books, and sometimes, though less frequently, making vigorous love.

  Already the girls had taken over the sitting room, there was the German publicist with the full, shapely perfumy body, there was the French girl-translator he’d misjudged as plain, graceless and without charm, quite transformed now, with rouged cheeks and lips, mischievously shining eyes, and a ripe body that strained at the silk fabric of her costume. With giggles, X was pushed onto a sofa; with the jarring sound of an artery popping, the enormous champagne bottle was uncorked; the ebullient Italian girl splashed champagne into a long-stemmed glass for X, and into glasses for herself and her companions, and she raised her glass in a toast, declaring that this midnight feast was in homage to a great writer, to the last man of letters, whose work had penetrated their souls and changed their lives permanently—“Signore X, thank you!” Breathless, X drank from his glass; the champagne was delicious, though slightly tart, with a queer metallic bouquet; its myriad miniature bubbles flew up his nostrils and into his brain, to burst. More toasts followed, for the girls were insatiable in their praise of X, he begged them, ‘‘Please, please! Enough! You are very kind, but—” and they crowded in to kiss him, wild wet kisses landing anywhere, one of the German girls cried, “Ah, no, Herr X, we are not kind at all, we are only just...” Though X tried to push their hands away, the girls prepared him for the feast like a great baby, tucking a linen napkin beneath his chin; the French girl patted him familiarly up and down his sides, and gave his cheek a caress; another girl bestowed a wet smacking kiss on his right ear, and another girl bestowed a wet smacking kiss on the dome of his head; more champagne was splashed into glasses, and drunk; champagne ran in rivulets down X’s chin, and wetted the linen napkin; X understood that this was a game, perhaps it was a game he’d played in the past, a celebration of his worth: he, the male, was the girls’ captive, their trophy: they were his preening captors, but also his adoring slaves.

  Next, they competed with one another to ply X with delicacies from the silver cart: an apple pared and sliced into bite-sized pieces; pâté lavishly smeared on a piece of crusty bread; a large chocolate-covered truffle. To his surprise, X was hungry after all, ravenously hungry, his angel-girls had aroused his long-dulled appetite, tears glistened in his eyes as he ate, he squirmed on the sofa wracked with delight as with an almost unbearable pain; the girls exchanged excited murmurs in their accepted English, as if X’s greedy appetite pleased them; he could hear their voices distinctly but he could not understand their words. It was then that the midnight feast took an abrupt salacious turn, X tried to protest, his dressing gown was torn open, his naked body was exposed, feebly he tried to hide his genitals but the girls snatched his hands away; shouting with glee, the girls hoisted him to their shoulders, his considerable bulk of nearly two hundred pounds, crying “Heave-ho! Here we go.” And stumbling and staggering like drunken revelers they bore him flailing and kicking into the sumptuous bedroom, with much laughter and little ceremony he was dropped onto the rumpled bed, which he’d feared was the girls’ destination from the first, theirs and his.

  When X opened his mouth to protest, for he was a contentedly married man, and a gentleman, a bold kiss stopped it; the acrobatic French girl with her sinewy, squirmy body pinioned him to the mattress, and one of the German girls clambered beside him; the girls had shed their bellboy costumes, and X himself was naked now; he would have cringed in shame except his aged flaccid body was pronounced beautiful by his captors, his skin admiringly stroked, how handsome X was! how manly! The girls took turns straddling his chest, kissing him with deep, sucking kisses; sucking at his tongue as if to tear it from his mouth; sucking at his breath; X could feel, against his strangely cool, dampish skin, the powerful heat of the girls’ skin; the heat between their naked thighs as they straddled his chest and belly; the crinkly damp of their pubic hair; the pulse and throb of their young bodies. When had they tied him, wrists and ankles, to the four carved-mahogany posts of the immense canopied bed?—tied him with silken cords? His hairy navel, his hollow, sagging belly-button, was smeared with pâté to be licked by rapacious, tickling tongues; he was being forced to lick goat cheese from the navel of the fleshier of the German girls; all the girls shrieked with impudent laughter; if X’s enemies saw him now, what tales they would spread! what legends! The girls were vying with one another to touch, to fondle, to stroke his limp penis, a limp veined old carrot of a penis, and the testicles delicate and cool as quails’ eggs; roughly the girls tickled his pubic hair which was a coarse yellow-white, like wires; the German fraulein had discovered the scar from X’s abdominal surgery of several years ago, an eight-inch scar like a zipper in his sallow flesh, and playfully she ran manicured red talons up and down the scar—“Zipzipzip, Herr X!” Tonia, or Tanya, panting with desire, had smeared her buoyant breasts with whipped cream, and her pert little nipples were maraschino cherries X was obliged to eat, how she screamed when he bit her, screamed and kicked and struck him with her hard fists, so that for an instant he was terribly afraid. But the French girl was squealing in triumph for she’d managed at last to stroke X’s penis into a steely rod, all the girls exclaimed at its length, its elasticity, its healthy burnished-red hue, its throbbing heat; greedily they competed to hold it, to stroke and caress it, to kiss its tip that gleamed with precious juices, the very elixir of life. “Stop. No. Please,” X begged. For the sensation was almost more than he could bear. He was covered in perspiration and panting as if he’d run up the seven flights of stairs to this very room. His heart was banging like an impatient fist against his rib cage. One of the girls had lowered herself over his penis, having stroked it to a red-hot rod, and had fitted her satiny, smooth and muscular vagina over it, thrusting herself down upon him, and gripping him tightly; X heard his groans like strangulation; groans like he was sobbing, and then he was laughing; the lights in the bedroom were in fact candle flames and these flames were now being blown out. X pleaded, “Stop! My dignity! Don’t you know who I am!” and at once the girls cried, “Yes, we know who you are, you are X, the last man of letters!” And a scalding geyser erupted from the very pit of his belly; his eyes flew open, and his heart ceased beating; the astonishment of such a moment, the wonder of it; he was alive after all, alive, and young, and his life lay before him; the shell that was X slipped away, he was free, triumphant. “Thank you!”—X’s words were sobs, a lover’s plea, snatched from his throat even as consciousness was extinguished like a blinding-bright fluorescent light in a white-tiled bathroom.

  And in the morning they found him. After X failed to respond to telephone calls and anxious knockings at his door. His Italian publisher, who’d arrived to escort X personally to the airport, directed the hotel manager to force the double-locked door; and there in the darkened bedroom lay the old man lifeless on the carpet beside his bed; the bedclothes were in a turmoil, tangled in X’s naked limbs; his arms were outflung as if in protest; champagne had been spilled on the carpet, and on X; there was a lurid trace of chocolate on X’s gaping mouth, and what appeared to be a pâté smeared on his torso and belly; his face was deathly pale, and his cheeks sunken; his dentures were in a water glass beside his bed. X’s eyes were starkly open, yet sightless; the left eyeball was turned
up into his head as if peering inside, inquisitively.

  High Crime Area

  Detroit, Michigan. April 1967.

  One of them is following me. I think it must be the same (male, black) figure I’ve seen in the past. But I could be mistaken.

  From the rear entrance of Starret Hall at the edge of the Wayne State University campus, through faculty parking B, along a littered pedestrian walkway that opens onto Cass Avenue—I am aware of this lone figure behind me as you’d be aware of small flames licking at the edge of your vision. Thinking There is no one. And even if there is someone, I will not look.

  Ascending concrete steps, nearly turning an ankle. Walking too quickly. Will not look!

  It’s 6:25 P.M. Not yet dusk. Not yet, the bright arc lights that illuminate certain near-deserted walkways and corners of the sprawling urban campus.

  For days the sky above Detroit has been overcast and wintry. A fine red-ashy haze when shards of sun push through the clouds, from factories in River Rouge. As the sky darkens, the air seems to coarsen. Your eyes and lungs smart, it’s a mistake to walk too quickly—in the desolate streets at this edge of the University, a hurrying figure is an alarming sight.

  Sudden shouts, screams—you don’t want to hear.

  Rapidly my brain works: is the (male, black) figuring following a woman who happens to be me; or is the (male, black) figure following me?

  If it’s just a (white, lone) woman who is being followed, I will be able to elude the (male, black) figure—I think. If it’s me who is being followed, the situation is more serious.

  I am prepared, this time: I am armed.

  In my shoulder bag, a small handgun. Snub-nosed nickel-plated .22-caliber Sterling Arms semiautomatic that weighs more than you’d think, with only a three-inch barrel.