“All except you.”
“All except me, and don’t think she didn’t hate me for that as well as everything else … especially beating her out for Desdemona in Othello.
“Everyone sympathized and patronized her when she lost, of course. They blamed it on the director being so young and so infatuated with me. She even had the audacity to spread rumors that I was sleeping with him and that’s why I beat her out for the part. Sour grapes.”
“Were you?”
“Was I what? Sleeping with him?” He stared. “What if I was? I was still twice the actress she was.”
The detective roared.
“Well, I was. She was too affected, too perfect. She lacked sincerity.”
“Maybe,” he said nodding.
“No maybes about it. Whenever she acted, I could see this almost imperceptible twinkle in her eyes before she did anything. She was thinking, following the book, don’t you see? They were the correct gestures and all, but she was too mechanical. She was insincere.”
“But only you could see it?”
“I’m positive others did too, but they were carried along by the wave of adulation and were afraid to criticize her, even after poor Mark Bini’s death.”
“Oh?” My detective was tightly in orbit around me now, locked in the gravity of my story and drawn to my every word, every breath, every sigh. He held his own breath and waited. When it seemed to him that I wouldn’t go on, he lost patience.
“Who was Mark Bini? How did he die?”
“He was another drama student, barely twenty. He died tragically, brutally. I was very fond of him and he adored me, but he was hypnotized by that … that femme fatale. Mark was diminutive, but adorably so, all his features so fine as if he had been meant to be a toy, a replica of a beautiful young man.
“His hands were smaller than mine,” I said holding mine up before me. “Can you imagine how tiny his fingers were? They looked like the fingers on a doll, with small fingernails—manicured fingernails,” I added. “Mark was fastidious about himself—his hair always trim, his clothes pressed and clean and the colors coordinated.
“He was all of five feet one and about ninety-eight pounds. I think he had a twenty-two-inch waist.”
“That is small.”
“But his facial features were exquisite—a perfectly straight nose over straight, strong lips with a sharp, sculptured jaw. He had childishly innocent-looking deep blue eyes with long eyelashes most women would die to have.
“But despite his being petite, he had a most extraordinary resonant singing voice. I remember our director was almost in physical pain because he wanted Mark’s voice in plays and musicals, but Mark was so diminutive next to any leading lady, it would have presented an undesirable comical picture. So, the poor boy was relegated to the chorus or secondary roles. Occasionally, he soloed at recitals. People in the audience would either stare in disbelief and admiration, or close their eyes and imagine a different person producing those melodic sounds.
“The girls saw him as cute, as something of a mascot. It was as though his smallness made him asexual, a eunuch. They didn’t mind parading about in their bras and panties in front of him. Some even went bare breasted in his presence. They thought he was a bit effeminate because he remained in their company so much and so often.”
“But you knew better?”
“Of course. How blind they all were. He was in sexual torment, his insides tied in knots. I was the one who discovered he wore jock straps to keep his erection caged. Can you imagine the agony he underwent just to be there, to inhale their perfumes and powders, to touch their soft lingerie and bathe in their smiles as they stroked his hair or kissed him in a sisterly or motherly fashion on the cheek?
“Why if one had forgotten her towel, she would call to him, not to another girl, to fetch one and bring it to her in the shower.”
“They must have known what they were doing—toying with him like that.”
“Maybe some did. Ophelia certainly did,” I said, the heat coming to my cheeks as I recalled.
“She went further?”
“Beyond is more like it. She made it a game or … how should I put it … her own personal drama, classical tragedy. Suddenly, he was following her everywhere. No matter where she went, there was Mark Bini standing in her shadow, just behind her or just to her side, waiting for her to toss him a smile, a gesture, collar him with an affectionate word. She had him on a leash made of promises, shortening it or lengthening it on whim.
“He’d stand forever at her side while she talked endlessly to someone else without even introducing or bringing him into the conversation. Whenever she went to the library, he sat beside her or behind her, staring at her hypnotically, his eyes unflinching, his body frozen, but in tune with her every move. Should she get up, he would get up.”
“What did you do, follow both of them around the campus?”
“I didn’t follow them; I observed; I saw. Oh, maybe, sometimes I remained in a room or a hallway just to see what Mark would do or what she would do to him,” I confessed, “but I didn’t have to spend a great deal of time observing to see what was happening.
“One particularly freezing night she got him up and out of bed to come to the dorm to rub her sore shoulders, claiming only Mark’s small hands could do it right. He came rushing over, not even taking the time to dress properly for the cold. He came down with a terrible bronchitis afterward and had to remain in the infirmary, but she didn’t care. She didn’t even visit him. Or send him a card!
“And then there was that time she had him put on her underthings. He was so infatuated with her, the thought of wearing her bra and her panties filled him with sexual pleasure. And then, when she had him dressed like this, she put rouge and eyeliner and makeup on his face. She even sprayed him with her perfume.”
“And he ate it up?”
“He was in ecstasy. She was scantily clad herself all the time she worked on him, dressed only in translucent black panties and wearing one of her uplift bras so her breasts bubbled over at him when she bent over him to paint on the eyeliner.”
“You must have been watching to know that.”
“A few girls called me. There was a small crowd outside her room, peeping in the doorway. I was sure she deliberately left the door a little open so they could see. And when she had finished, she called us in and called to all the others on the floor to expose him to their ridicule and laughter.”
“Didn’t you say anything?”
“Whenever I did, the others thought I was being a party pooper. I didn’t want them to think I was jealous of her, of course.”
“Of course. Well, this episode must have turned him off her. Right?”
“It did for a while, but she kept reaching for something more, something terribly dramatic, you see,” I added in an affected tone of voice.
“So suddenly, she pretended she really liked him and he was no longer standing behind her in her shadow. She brought him forward and held his hand. She kissed him passionately on the lips. Once like a satellite circling her, he now became a comet crashing to her surface, pulled down and drawn closer with every touch, every kiss, every whispered word.”
“Didn’t the other girls think it was funny—this dramatic change on her part?”
“Yes and no. You see, she had decided on a role to play and for an actress to be successful, she has to be convincing.”
“So she got the others to believe she really cared for him?” my detective said incredulously.
“Yes. They were so gullible. Anyway, it drove home any lingering doubts poor Mark Bini had.
“But of course,” I said, sadly this time, “men are blind when it comes to women. Their fantasies are so bright they wash out reality and they no longer see anything but their own dreams.”
“Not true for women as well?”
“I suppose. Men are just more … obvious about it and more easily made victims.”
“Maybe. Where did this business wit
h Mark Bini go?”
“To the final act, of course; but there was no curtain call this time. She had this poor boy believing that she would sleep with him if only … only he could demonstrate how utterly loyal and devoted to her he was. She wanted all her friends, her ridiculing friends, she told him, to see that what was between her and him was serious, meaningful, sublime.
“How? he wondered. What could he do? She need only name it.
“Something desperate, she told him. Something few men would do for the women they loved. And then she said, ‘Or are you like Hamlet, a coward?’
“She had the audacity to recite ‘To be or not to be…’ The implication was clear. Was Mark brave enough to sacrifice his life, if need be, or to find some way to demonstrate that he would?
“After all, she had come to believe what her parents had been drumming into her stupid head all her life—she was Hamlet’s Ophelia.
“Do you know?” I said turning to my detective, “that afterward, she had the nerve, the insane nerve to stroll about the dorm with flowers in her hair singing mad songs as does Ophelia in Hamlet?”
“You said afterward. After what?” he asked barely breathing.
“Mark Bini cut his wrists in front of the other girls. They thought he was playing some game, joking as he usually did, but the blood that flowed was real. Then he went into one of the bathrooms and locked the door, claiming he would remain there bleeding until Ophelia came to him.
“So why didn’t they bring her to him and end it?”
“She knew he was going to do it. They had planned and rehearsed the entire scene the night before. He expected her to come, of course, but she wanted to see just how far he would go if she didn’t come.”
“You’re kidding?”
“She was writing the script as she went along, playing this role. In her mind she probably saw the faces on people in the audience—concerned, horrified, their eyes pleading.
“I knew exactly how she was thinking. She was the femme fatale. It was a hard role to play, but the audience must not like her at the end. All actresses have to play distasteful parts at one time or another, you see. Really good actresses, that is.
“This is what she believed or pretended to believe. She was on and off the stage so often, one never knew when she was acting and when she wasn’t.”
“Didn’t the girls call for help once they realized she might not come in time?”
“First they found Ophelia. They thought that would solve it. But she delayed her arrival, putting on makeup, brushing her hair, choosing what to wear. In her mad mind she was preparing for her stage entrance, you see. Finally, when she did appear at the door…”
“Yes?”
“She really was on stage. All of us stood back in disbelief. She turned to us as though we were the audience and postured. ‘Mark,’ she cried, ‘I know you love me beyond your own life, but love that is true cannot be bought at any price. You might as well come out.’
“Then she looked at the other girls and walked away.”
“What happened?”
“It wasn’t the way they had rehearsed it. She was supposed to cry and plead, and he was supposed to come out and into her arms. He was waiting for that.
“He was like a magician, a Houdini, locked in an airtight compartment, expecting everything to work as usual. Only it didn’t. He lingered too long. Finally, everyone panicked and we sent for help. Maintenance men broke down the door and there he was, sprawled on the floor, his blood in a pool at each wrist, his tiny body now looking like the body of a baby bird that had toppled from its nest.”
“How horrible. The other girls must have hated Ophelia for what she had done,” my detective concluded.
“They wanted to, but she confused them with that mad act I described. Most actually felt sorry for her. How she suffered. There were some great scenes of waking in the middle of the night and crying, ‘MARK! MARK!’ The girls would gather around her as she bawled uncontrollably into the pillow, everyone comforting her.
“‘It wasn’t your fault.’
“‘He went too far.’
“‘How could you know? And after all, you loved him.’
“‘We all loved him.’
“With real tears streaming down her cheeks, she would turn and thank them for their condolences and sympathy. It was going to be so hard going on with this on her conscience, but thanks to good friends and their support, she would manage.
“Soon, she was her old self again. Or should I say, ‘selves.’”
My detective was silent for a few moments.
“How did you find all this out? I mean, the business between Ophelia and Mark?”
“She was proud of it.”
“But she didn’t express that to the other girls and from what you say went on between you and her, she wouldn’t have told you. Right?”
“She didn’t tell me. She told Richard and then he told me in his letters and diary,” I said and smiled.
“You mean, you brought Richard out, turned him on her in a sense?”
“I thought it was time she had the acting challenge of her life,” I replied.
“What happened?”
“It would be better for you to hear it in Richard’s words,” I said and got up to get his diary.
SEVEN
I RETURNED WITH the diary and, still completely nude, sat in the lotus position on the bed. My detective was sprawled out on his side, facing me with his hand propping up his head. He, too, remained completely naked. A more captured audience, I couldn’t command. His eyes were fixed on me; he looked as though he were holding his breath. Then, he smiled.
“You look like you’re settling in to read me a fairy tale. You remind me of my mother reading me to sleep.”
“Did she always read to you completely naked?” He laughed.
“Not always.”
“I assure you,” I said, “this isn’t a fairy tale.” He nodded, closed his eyes and opened them in anticipation.
“For the Androgyne,” I began, reading from the middle section of Richard’s diary, “arrogant women are a delicacy. Their arrogance adds a delectable spice. After all, it was exactly this vanity that destroyed Adam and Eve and drove them from Paradise. All Eve had to hear was that God was preventing her from eating from the Tree of Knowledge because he didn’t want her to know she was as beautiful as he, and she rushed away to disobey the commandment.
“Ironically, the arrogance that should make a woman less accessible makes her vulnerable. The more pompous a woman is the more susceptible she is to flattery, and flattery is the poison with which assassins weaken their victims and get them to become careless and unprotected.
“Late one night after I had metamorphosed, I discovered a letter Clea had left for me on her desk. I read about Ophelia Dell and Mark Bini and Clea’s outrage over what had happened.
“Before we had arrived at the college, Janice had made it clear that I must never hunt on or near the campus. She didn’t want me to do anything that might bring attention to Clea. Whenever I did emerge, therefore, I went miles and miles away to prowl in some singles bar.
“But after I read Clea’s letter, I realized how angry she was about what had happened and how much she wanted me to render the proper punishment. She didn’t ask me specifically to do anything, but I read between the lines and understood why she had called me forth. After all, we had in a very true sense been created for just this purpose.”
“Now I know what you people think you are,” my detective quipped, “love vigilantes.”
“Perhaps we are,” I said without looking up. I read on. “That evening I pretended to arrive at the dorms looking for Clea. Naturally, I drew a great deal of interest, especially after I entered the lounge and introduced myself as Clea’s boyfriend. I knew it would be better to say that than to say I was her brother. A brother the police could trace; a vagabond boyfriend was another story.
“It was a rather big, luxurious lobby for a college dormitory—nic
ely carpeted, walls paneled, well lit with soft-looking couches and chairs, rich-looking maple and pine tables, one section set aside solely for television viewing. There were a half dozen or so girls watching television and a few sitting on sofas talking with boys. Ophelia was holding court on the right: Her disciples gathered around her and at her feet, listening to her describe a date she had had with a graduate student the night before. I had deliberately approached one of the girls on the periphery of that circle, introduced myself and asked for Clea.
“‘We didn’t know she had a boyfriend,’ Ophelia Dell said after she heard me introduce myself. She laughed and looked at the others. ‘We were all beginning to wonder if she wasn’t gay.’
“‘Hardly,’ I said and laughed along with everyone else, raising my eyebrows with insinuation, which caused Ophelia to look at me with sharper interest. She was a rather attractive young woman, and were I an ordinary young man, I most likely would have been captured by her beauty. But I sensed something dangerous about her: There was a fiery glint in her dark eyes, like a tiny diamond set in black onyx. I knew Clea thought Ophelia played with people’s emotions, amused herself by tapping the keys that produced elation and then, without warning, began to tap those that produced depression. Clea believed that Ophelia was always performing. In her letter to me she wrote, ‘Wherever there were two gathered in her name, there build a theater.’ Something like that.
“Anyway, of course I saw beneath the facade. Ophelia Dell wasn’t performing in the sense that she was consciously aware of what she was doing, how she was manipulating an audience. Oh no, she believed in her various personalities and unlike an actor, became these people. It’s the difference between acting and schizophrenia. Ophelia could flit from one personality to another with the grace and ease of a trapeze artist flying from one swing to another.
“Clea, being a woman, missed this. She was blinded by a woman’s natural jealousy of another attractive female.”
“Now wait a minute,” my detective interrupted. “You’re not going to let him get away with that, are you? I mean, it’s not true, is it … that business about a woman’s natural jealousy?”
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