Where Flap the Tatters of the King: An Anthology on King in Yellow

by Robert W. Chambers

  “—so I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Kathryn finished.

  “You’ll be fine,” Finley nodded, squeezing her hand. “You can handle it.”

  She smiled, squeezing back.

  The line outside Victor’s snaked around the restaurant. Finley maneuvered them through it; thankful he’d had the foresight to make reservations. The maitre d’ approached them, waving.

  “Hello, Ms. Kathryn,” he said, clasping her hand. “I’m delighted you could join us.”

  “Hello, Franklin,” she curtsied, smiling as the older man kissed both her cheeks. “This is my boyfriend, Roger.”

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’ve heard much about you.”

  He winked and Finley grinned, unsure of how to reply.

  “Give them a good view,” Franklin told the hostess, and turned back to them. “Sheila will seat you. Enjoy your meal.”

  “I come here a lot for lunch,” Kathryn explained as they followed Sheila to their table. “I told Franklin we’d be coming in tonight. He’s a nice old guy; a real charmer.”

  “Yes, he does seem nice,” Finley mumbled, distracted. Not for the first time, he found himself surprised by how little he knew about Kathryn’s life outside their relationship. He’d never thought to wonder where she spent her lunches.

  In many ways, they were different. Strangers making up a whole. She was the consummate twenty-first century yuppie—a corporate lioness intent upon her career and nothing else. He was the epitome of the Generation X slacker, running a home-based web-hosting business. They’d been together almost ten years, but at times, it seemed to him as if they were just coasting. The subjects of marriage and children had been broached several times, and usually deflected by both of them. He needed to devote his time to developing his business. She wasn’t where she wanted to be in her career. Despite that, he thought they were happy. So why the disquiet? Maybe Kathryn was right. Maybe they needed to do something fun, something different.

  “—at night, isn’t it?”

  “I’m sorry,” he stammered. “What’d you say hon?”

  “I said the harbor really is beautiful at night.” They were seated in front of a large window, looking out towards the Chesapeake Bay. The lights of the city twinkled in the darkness.

  “Yeah, it sure is.”

  “What were you thinking about, Roger?”

  “Honestly? That you’re right. We should do something fun. How about we take a trip down to the ocean this weekend? Check out the wild horses, maybe do a little beach-combing?”

  “That sounds great,” she sighed. “But I can’t this weekend. I’ve got to come in on Saturday and crunch numbers for the Vermont deal. We close on that next week.”

  “Well then, how about we do something Sunday? Maybe take a drive up to Pennsylvania and visit some of the flea markets, see the Amish, or stop at a produce stand?”

  “That’s a possibility. Let’s play it by ear, okay?”

  They studied their menus, basking in the comfortable silence that only long-time partners share. That was when Roger noticed the woman. She and her companion sat at the next table. The flickering candlelight cast shadows on her sallow face. She was thin, almost to the point of emaciation, and there were dark circles under her eyes. Heroin, he wondered, or maybe Anorexia? She obviously came from money. That much was apparent from her jewelry and shoes. Her companion looked wealthy too. Maybe she was a prostitute? No, they seemed too familiar with each other for that.

  What caught Finley’s attention next was the blood trickling down her leg. Her conversation was animated, and while she gestured excitedly with one hand, the other was beneath the table, clenching her leg. Her fingernails clawed deep into her thigh, hard enough to draw blood. She didn’t seem to care. In fact, judging by the look in her eye, she enjoyed the sensation.

  Kathryn was absorbed with the menu. He turned back to the couple, and focused on what the woman was saying.

  “And then, the King appears. It’s such a powerful moment, you can’t breathe. I’ve been to Vegas, and I’ve seen impersonators, but this guy is the real thing!”

  Her companion’s response was muffled, and Finley strained to hear.

  “I’m serious, Reginald! It’s like he’s channeling Elvis! The King playing the King! The whole cast is like that. There’s a woman who looks and sounds just like Janis Joplin playing the Queen, and a very passable John Lennon as Thale. The best though, next to the King of course, is the guy they cast to play the Pallid Mask. I swear to you Reginald, he’s Kurt Cobain! You can’t tell the difference. It’s all so realistically clever! Actors playing dead rock stars playing roles. A play within a musical within a play.”

  Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, and Finley leaned towards them.

  “The special effects are amazing. When the Queen has the Pallid Mask tortured, you can actually see little pieces of brain in Cobain’s hair. And they have audience participation, too. It’s different every night. We each had to reveal a secret that we’d never told anyone. That’s why Stephanie left Christopher. Apparently, he revealed a tryst he’d had with a dog when he was thirteen. She left him after the performance. Tonight, I hear they’ll be having the audience unmask as well during the masquerade scene!”

  He jumped as Kathryn’s fingertips brushed his hand.

  “Stop eavesdropping,” she whispered. “It’s not polite.”

  “Sorry. Have you decided what you’re going to have?”

  “Mmmm-hmmm,” she purred. “I’m going with the crab cakes. How about you?”

  “I think I’ll have the filet mignon. Rare. And a big baked potato with lots of sour cream and butter.”

  Her eyes widened. “Why Roger, you haven’t had that since your last visit to the doctor. What happened to eating healthy, so you don’t end up like your father?”

  “The hell with my hereditary heart disease and cholesterol!” He closed the menu with a snap. “You said we need to start having more fun. Red meat and starch is a good start!”

  She laughed, and the lights of the bay reflected in her eyes. Underneath the table, she slid her foot against his leg.

  “I love you, Kathryn.”

  “I love you too.”

  The woman at the other table stood up, knocking her chair backward, and began to scream. Silence, then hushed murmurs as the woman tottered back and forth on her heels. Her companion scooted his chair back, cleared his throat in embarrassment, and reached for her. She slapped his hand away with a shriek.

  “Have you seen the Yellow Sign?” she sang. “Have you found the Yellow Sign? Have you seen the Yellow Sign?”

  She continued the chorus, spinning round and round. Her flailing arms sent a wine glass crashing to the floor. Her date lunged for her. She sidestepped, and in one quick movement, snatched her steak knife from the table and plunged it into his side. He sank to the floor, pulling the tablecloth and their meals down with him. The other patrons began screaming as well. Several dashed for the exit, but no one moved to stop her. Finley felt frozen in place, transfixed by what occurred next. Still singing, the woman bent over and plucked up her soup spoon from the mess on the floor, then used it to gouge out her eyes. Red and white pulp dribbled down her face. Voice never wavering, she continued to sing.

  Kathryn cringed against Finley. He grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the exit. Franklin the maitre d’, and several men from the kitchen rushed toward the woman. As he hurried Kathryn out the door, he heard the woman cackling.

  “I found it! I can see it all! Yhtill, under the stars of Aldebaran and the Hyades! And across the Lake of Hali, on the far shore, lies Carcosa!”

  Then they were out the door and into the night. Kathryn sobbed against him, and Finley shuddered. The image of the woman digging into her eye sockets with the soup spoon would not go away.

  ***

  After they’d given their statement to the police, they walked back to Kathryn’s building.

  “How could a person do s
omething like that?”

  “Drugs maybe,” Finley shrugged, “She looked pretty strung out.”

  “This city gets worse every year.”

  They arrived back at her office building, and Finley walked around to the side entrance leading into the parking garage. He’d taken the bus, so that they could drive her car back home. Kathryn didn’t follow, and he turned to find her stopped under a streetlight.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t think I’m going to be able to sleep tonight.”

  “Yeah, me either. Let’s go home and get you a nice, hot bath. Maybe you’ll feel better after that.”

  “I need a drink.”

  “We can stop off at the liquor store—”

  “No,” she cut him off. “I need to be around people, Roger. I need to hear music and laughter and forget about that insane bitch.”

  “You want to hit a club?” He heard the surprised tone in his voice.

  “I don’t know what I want, but I know that I don’t want to go home right now. Let’s walk over to Fell’s Point and see what we can find.”

  Part of Baltimore’s harbor district, the buildings in Fell’s Point had been old when Edgar Allan Poe was new to the city. By day, it was a tourist trap; six blocks of antique shops and bookstores and curio dealers. Urban chic spawned and bred in its coffee shops and cafes. At night, the college crowd descended upon it, flocking to any of the dozens of nightclubs and bars that dotted the area.

  They strolled down Pratt Street, arms linked around each other’s waist, and Finley smiled.

  A figure lurched out of the shadows. “Have ya’ll seen Yellow?”

  Finley groaned. He’d forgotten about the homeless man—the Human Scab. He thrust his hand into his pants pocket and pulled out a rumpled five.

  “Here,” he said, offering it to the rotting man. “I promised you I’d get you on the way back. Now if you don’t mind, my girlfriend and I have had a rough evening.”

  “Thanks yo. Sorry t’ hear ‘bout yo night. I’m tellin’ ya’, take yer girl ta’ see Yellow. Dat’ll fix ya right up.” With one dirty, ragged finger, he pointed at a poster hanging from a light pole. “Ya’ll have a good ‘un.”

  The bum shuffled off into the darkness, humming a snatch of melody. Finley recognized the tune as “Are You Lonesome Tonight.” He shuddered, reminded of the crazy woman at the restaurant, raving about the Elvis impersonator that she’d seen. He tried to remember what it was she had been singing, but all that came to mind was the image of her gored face.

  The eight by ten poster had been made to look like it was printed on a snake’s skin. Over the scales, pale lettering read:

  Hastur Productions Proudly Presents:

  YELLOW

  (The Awful Tragedy of Young Castaigne)

  Banned in Paris, Munich, London, and Rome, we are proud to bring this classic 19th century play to Baltimore, in its only U.S. appearance! Filled with music, emotion and dark wonder, YELLOW is an unforgettable and mystifying tale!

  Not to be missed!

  Starring:

  Sid Vicious as Uoht

  John Lennon as Thale

  Mama Cass as Cassilda

  Janis Joplin as The Queen

  Karen Carpenter as Camilla

  James Marshall Hendrix as Alar

  Jim Morrison as Aldones, the Lizard King

  Kurt Cobain as The Pallid Mask, or, Phantom of Truth

  and

  Elvis Presley as The King

  Also featuring: Robert Johnson, Bon Scott, Roy Orbison, Freddy Mercury, Cliff Burton, Dimebag Darrell, Johnny Cash and more.

  One Week Only! Nightly Performances Begin Promptly at Midnight

  The R.W. Chambers Theatre

  Fells Point, corner of Fedogan St. & Bremer Ave.

  Baltimore, MD

  The breeze coming off the harbor chilled him. This was what the crazy woman had been talking about—actors depicting dead musicians depicting characters in a play. This play. The same play the bum had recommended. The coincidence was unsettling.

  “Sounds like fun, doesn’t it?” Kathryn asked. “You should have tipped him more money.”

  “Only in Baltimore can the homeless get jobs as ushers. Come on, let’s find a pub.”

  “No, let’s go see this! Look, they’ve got actors pretending to be dead musicians playing actors. How cool is that?” She giggled, and looked at him pleadingly.

  He told her what he’d overheard the woman say.

  “Then that’s all the more reason,” she insisted. “Once people read about the connection in tomorrow’s Baltimore Sun, we won’t be able to get tickets because of the demand. People love morbid stuff like that!”

  “Don’t you think it’s odd that this all happened in the same night? You said you wanted to forget about what happened. Don’t you think that attending a play that this same woman went to will just make it that more vivid?”

  “Roger, you said that you agreed with me; that we never do anything fun anymore, that we’re not spontaneous. Here’s our chance! How much more spur-of-the-moment can we get?”

  “Kathryn, it’s almost eleven-thirty! It’s late.”

  “The poster says it doesn’t start until midnight.”

  Finley sighed in reluctance. “Alright, we’ll go to the play. You’re right, it might be fun.”

  He allowed her to lead him down the street and into Fells Point.

  ***

  The R. W. Chambers Theatre wasn’t just off the beaten path—it was far, far beyond it. They picked their way through a maze of winding, twisting streets and alleyways, each more narrow than the previous. The throng of drunken college kids and office interns vanished, replaced by the occasional rat or pigeon. Kathryn’s heels clicked on the cobblestones, each step sounding like a rifle shot.

  This is the old part of the city, Finley thought. The oldest. The dark heart.

  The very atmosphere seemed to echo his discomfort, accentuating it as they went farther. There were no streetlights in this section, and no lights shining in the windows of the houses. The buildings crowded together; crumbling statues of crumbling nineteenth century architecture. The street smelled faintly of garbage and stale urine, and the only sound was that of dripping water, and of something small scuttling in the darkness. Kathryn gripped his hand tightly, and then—

  —they emerged onto the corner, and the lights and noise flooded back again. A crowd milled about in front of the theatre. Finley’s apprehension dissipated, and he chided himself for being silly. At the same time, Kathryn’s grip loosened.

  “Look at this crowd!” Kathryn exclaimed. “It’s more popular than we thought.”

  “Word of mouth must have spread fast.”

  “Maybe your homeless friend has been pimping it.”

  Finley grinned. “Maybe.”

  They took their place at the end of the line, behind a young Goth couple. The theatre had seen better days. The water-stained brickwork looked tired and faded. Several windows on the second floor had been boarded over, and the others were dark. Some of the light bulbs in the marquee had burned out, but HASTUR PRODUCTIONS’ YELLOW and the show time and ticket prices were prominently visible. One side of the building was plastered with paper billboards promoting the play. Others advertised bands with names like Your Kid’s On Fire, Suicide Run, and I, Chaos.

  The line snaked forward, and finally it was their turn. Finley stared at the man behind the glass window of the ticket booth. His skin was pale, almost opaque, and tiny blue veins spider-webbed his face and hands. Gray lips flopped like two pieces of raw liver as he spoke.

  “Enjoy the performance.”

  Finley nodded. Placing his arm around Kathryn’s waist, he guided them into the building. The usher in the lobby had the same alabaster complexion, and was slightly more laconic than his sullen ticket booth counterpart. Without a word, he took their tickets, handed back the stubs and two programs, then silently parted a pair of black curtains and gestured for them to enter.

>   The theatre filled quickly. They found a spot midway down the center aisle. The red velvet-covered chairs squeaked as they sat down.

  “I can’t get over it,” Kathryn whispered. “Look at all these people!”

  Finley studied the program booklet. Like the posters, it was designed to appear as if it had been bound in serpent skin. He struggled to read the pale lettering.

  “YELLOW was written in the late 19th century by a young playwright named Castaigne. Tragically, Castaigne took his own life immediately upon completing the work. When YELLOW was first published and performed, the city of Paris banned the play, followed by Munich and London, and eventually most of the world’s governments and churches. It was translated in 1930 by the scholar Daniel Mason Winfield-Harms; who, in a strange twist of fate echoing that of the original author, was found dead in Buffalo, New York after finishing the adaptation. YELLOW takes place, not on Earth, but on another world, in the city of Yhtill, on the shore of the Lake of Hali, under the stars of Aldebaran and Hyades.”

  Kathryn stirred next to him. “You know what this reminds me of?”

  “What?”

  “When I was in high school. At midnight on Saturdays, we’d go to see The Rocky Horror Picture Show. It has that feel to it.”

  “Maybe they’ll sing ‘The Time Warp.’ ”

  She reached over and squeezed his hand, and Finley felt good. Happy.

  The lights dimmed, plunging them into darkness. The crowd grew silent as a burst of static coughed from the overhead speakers. Then, an eerie, unfamiliar style of music began. A light appeared at the back of the theatre. The performers entered from the rear, each of them carrying a single candle. The troupe walked slowly down the center aisle, singing as they approached the stage.

  “Have you seen the Yellow Sign? Have you found the Yellow Sign?”

  As they passed by, Finley forcibly resisting the urge to reach out and touch them. The resemblance to their dead alter egos was uncanny. The actress playing Janis Joplin (playing the Queen) was a perfect duplicate, down to the blue-tinged skin that must have adorned her face in death. Following her were Jim Morrison (a bloated Aldones) and John Lennon (a Thale with fresh bloodstains on his clothing). Mama Cass, Jimi Hendrix, Sid Vicious—the procession continued, until two-dozen actors had taken the stage.