Imajica

by Clive Barker

  She kept up her trot, resisting the temptation to run even though she heard his feet on the gravel, then another haughty holler as he came in pursuit. She ignored him until she was at the property line and he was within grasping distance of her. Then she turned, with a pretty smile, and said, “Did you call?”

  “This is a private ground,” he replied.

  “I’m sorry, I must have the wrong address. You’re not a gynecologist, are you?” Where this invention sprang from she didn’t know, but it colored his cheeks in two pulses. “I need to see a doctor as soon as possible.”

  He shook his head, covered in confusion. “This isn’t the hospital,” he spluttered. “It’s halfway down the hill.”

  Lord bless the English male, she thought, who could be reduced to near idiocy at the very mention of matters vaginal.

  “Are you sure you’re not a doctor?” she said, enjoying his discomfiture. “Even a student? I don’t mind.”

  He actually took a step back from her at this, as though she was going to pounce on him and demand an examination on the spot.

  “No, I’m—I’m sorry.”

  “So am I,” she said, extending her hand. He was too baffled to refuse, and shook it. “I’m Sister Concupiscentia,” she said.

  “Bloxham,” he replied.

  “You should be a gynecologist,” she said appreciatively. “You’ve got lovely warm hands.” And with that she left him to his blushes.

  II

  There was a message from Chester Klein on the answering machine when she got back, inviting her to a cocktail party at his house that evening, in celebration of what he called the Bastard Boy’s return to the land of the living. She was at first startled that Gentle had decided to make contact with his friends after all his talk of invisibility, then flattered that he’d taken her advice. Perhaps she’d been over-hasty in her rejection of him. Even in the short time she’d spent in Yzordderrex, the city had made her think and behave in ways she’d never have countenanced in the Fifth. How much more so for Gentle, whose catalogue of adventures in the Dominions would have filled a dozen diaries. Now he was back in the Fifth, perhaps he was resisting some of those bizarrer influences, like a man returned to civilization from some lost tribe, sluicing off the war paint and learning to wear shoes again. She called Klein back and accepted the invitation.

  “My dear child, you are a sight for sore eyes,” he said when she appeared on his doorstep that evening. “So stylishly unnourished! Malnutrition à la mode. Perfection.”

  She hadn’t seen him in a long time, but she didn’t remember his ever being so fulsome in his flattery before. He kissed her on both cheeks and led her through the house into the back garden. There was still warmth in the descending sun, and his other guests—two of whom she knew, two of whom were strangers—were sipping cocktails on the lawn. Though small and high-walled, the garden was almost tropically lush. Inevitably, given Klein’s nature, it was entirely given over to flowering species, no bush or plant welcomed if it didn’t bloom with immoderate abandon. He introduced her to the company one by one, starting with Vanessa, whose face—though much changed since they’d last met—was one of the two she knew. She had put on a good deal of weight and even more makeup, as though to cover one excess with another. Her eyes, Jude saw when she said hello, were those of a woman who was only holding back a scream for decorum’s sake.

  “Is Gentle with you?” was Vanessa’s first question.

  “No, he’s not,” Klein said. “Now have another drink and go and dally in the rosebushes.”

  The woman took no offense at his condescension but made straight for the champagne bottle, while Klein introduced Jude to the two strangers in the party. One, a balding young man in sunglasses, he introduced as Duncan Skeet.

  “A painter,” he said. “Or, more precisely, an impressionist. Isn’t that right, Duncan? You do impressions, don’t you? Modigliani, Corot, Gauguin. . . .”

  The joke was lost on its butt, though not on Jude. “Isn’t that illegal?” she said.

  “Only if you don’t talk about it,” Klein replied, which remark brought a guffaw from the fellow in conversation with the faker, a heavily mustached and accented individual called Luis.

  “Who’s not a painter of any persuasion. You’re not anything at all, are you, Luis?”

  “How about a Lotos-eater?” Luis said. The scent Jude had taken to be that of the blossoms in the borders was in fact Luis’ aftershave.

  “I’ll drink to that,” Klein said, moving Jude on to the last of the company. Though Jude knew the woman’s face she couldn’t place it, until Klein named her—Simone—and she remembered the conversation she’d had at Clem and Taylor’s, which had ended with this woman heading off in search of seduction. Klein left them to talk while he went inside to break open another bottle of champagne.

  “We met at Christmas,” Simone said. “I don’t know if you remember?”

  “Instantly,” Jude said.

  “I’ve had my hair chopped since then, and I swear half my friends don’t recognize me.”

  “It suits you.”

  “Klein says I should have kept it and had it made into jewelry. Apparently hair brooches were the height of fashion at the turn of the century.”

  “Only as memento mori,” Jude said. Simone looked blank. “The hair was usually from someone who’d died.”

  The woman’s fizz-addled features still took a little time to register what she was being told, but when she grasped the point she let out a groan of disgust.

  “I suppose that’s his idea of a joke,” she said. “He has no sense of fucking decency, that man.” Klein was appearing from the back door, bearing champagne. “Yes, you!” Simone said. “Don’t you take death seriously?”

  “Have I missed something?” Klein said.

  “You are a tasteless old fart sometimes!” Simone went on, striding toward him and throwing the glass down at his feet.

  “What did I do?” Klein said.

  Luis went to his assistance, cooing at Simone to calm her. Jude had no desire to get further embroiled. She retreated down one of the paths, her hand slipping into the deep pocket of her skirt, where the egg of the blue eye was lying. She closed her palm around it and stooped to sniff at one of the perfect roses. It had no scent, not even of life. She thumbed its petals. They were dry. She stood up again, casting her eyes over the spectacle of blossoms. Fake, every last one.

  Simone’s caterwauling had ceased behind her, and now so did Luis’ chatter. Jude looked around, and there at the back door, stepping out of the house into the warm evening light, was Gentle.

  “Save me,” she heard Klein imploring. “Before I’m flayed alive.”

  Gentle smiled his sun-shamer and opened his arms to Klein.

  “No more arguments,” he said, hugging the man.

  “Tell Simone,” Klein replied.

  “Simone. Are you bullying Chester?”

  “He was being a bastard.”

  “No, I’m the bastard. Give me a kiss, and tell me you forgive him.”

  “I forgive him.”

  “Peace on earth, goodwill to Chester.”

  There was laughter from all parties, and Gentle passed through the company with kisses, hugs, and handshakes, reserving the longest, and perhaps the cruelest, embrace for Vanessa.

  “You’re missing somebody,” Klein said, and steered Gentle’s glance towards Jude.

  He didn’t lavish his smile upon her. She was wise to his devices, and he knew it. Instead he offered her an almost apologetic look and raised the glass Klein had already put in his hand in her direction. He’d always been a slick transformer (perhaps it was the Maestro in him, surfacing as a trivial skill), and in the twenty-four hours or so since she’d left him on his doorstep he’d made himself new. The ragged locks were trimmed, the grimy face washed and shaved. Dressed in white, he looked like a cricketer returned from the crease, glowing with vigor and victory. She stared at him, searching for some sign of the haunted man h
e’d been the evening before, but he’d put his anxieties entirely out of sight, for which she could only admire him. More than admire. Tonight he was the lover she’d imagined as she’d lain in Quaisoir’s bed, and she couldn’t help but be stirred by the sight of him. Once before a dream had led her into his arms, and the consequence,of course, had been pain and tears. It was a form of masochism to invite a repeat of that experience, and a distraction from weightier matters.

  And yet; and yet. Was it perhaps inevitable that they found their way back into one another’s arms sooner or later? And if it was, maybe this game of glances was a greater distraction still, and they would serve their ambitions better to dispense with the dalliance and accept that they were indivisible. This time, instead of being dogged by a past neither of them had comprehended, they knew their histories and could build on solid ground. That is, if he had the will to do so.

  Klein was beckoning her, but she stayed in her bower of fake blossoms, seeing how eager he was to watch the drama he’d engineered unfold. He, Luis, and Duncan were merely spectators. The scene they’d come to watch was the Judgment of Paris, with Vanessa, Simone, and herself cast as the Goddesses, and Gentle as the hero obliged to choose between them. It was grotesque, and she was determined to keep herself from the tableau, instead wandering up to the far end of the garden while the banter continued on the lawn. Close to the wall she came upon a strange sight. A clearing had been made in the artificial jungle, and a small rosebush—real, but far less sumptuous than the fakery surrounding it—had been planted there. As she was puzzling over this, Luis appeared at her side with a glass of champagne.

  “One of his cats,” Luis said. “Gloriana. She was killed by a car in March. He was devastated. Couldn’t sleep. Wouldn’t even talk to anybody. I thought he was going to kill himself.”

  “He’s a strange one,” Jude said, casting a glance back at Klein, who had his arm around Gentle’s shoulder and was laughing uproariously. “He pretends everything’s a game—”

  “That’s because he feels everything too much,” Luis replied.

  “I doubt that,” she said.

  “I’ve been in business with him twenty-one, twenty-two years. We have fights. We make up. We have fights again. He’s a good man, believe me. But so afraid of feeling, he must make it all a joke. You’re not English, huh?”

  “No, I’m English.”

  “Then you understand this,” he said. “You also have the little graves, hidden away.” He laughed.

  “Thousands,” she said, watching Gentle step back into the house. “Would you excuse me a moment?” she said, and headed back down the garden with Luis in pursuit.

  Klein made a move to intercept her, but she simply handed him her empty glass and went inside. Gentle was in the kitchen, rooting through the refrigerator, peeling the lids off bowls and peering into them.

  “So much for invisibility,” Jude said.

  “Would you have preferred it if I hadn’t come?”

  “Meaning that if I’d asked you’d have stayed away?”

  He grinned as he found something that suited his palate. “Meaning,” he said, “that the rest of them don’t have a prayer. I came because I knew you’d be here.”

  He plunged his first and middle fingers into the ramekin he’d brought out and laid a dollop of chocolate mousse on his tongue.

  “Want some?” he said.

  She hadn’t, until she saw the abandon with which he was devouring the stuff. His appetite was contagious. She scooped a fingerful herself. It was sweet and creamy.

  “Good?” he said.

  “Sinful,” she replied. “What made you change your mind?”

  “About what?”

  “About hiding yourself away.”

  “Life’s too short,” he said, taking his laden fingers to his mouth again. “Besides, I just said: I knew you’d be here.”

  “You’re a mind reader now?”

  “I’m flourishing,” he said, his grin more chocolate than teeth. The sophisticate she’d seen step out into the garden minutes before was here a guzzling boy.

  “You’ve got chocolate all around your mouth,” she said.

  “Do you want to kiss it off?” he replied.

  “Yes,” she said, seeing no purpose misrepresenting her feeling. Secrets had done them too much harm in the past.

  “Then why are we still here?” he said.

  “Klein’ll never forgive us if we leave. The party’s in your honor.”

  “They can talk about us when we’ve gone,” he said, setting down the ramekin and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “In fact, they’d probably prefer that. I say we go now, before we’re spotted. We’re wasting time making conversation—”

  “—when we could be making love.”

  “I thought I was the mind reader,” he said.

  As they opened the front door they heard Klein calling them from the back, and Jude felt a pang of guilt, until she remembered the proprietorial look she’d caught on Klein’s face when Gentle had first appeared and he’d known that he had the cast gathered for a fine farce. Guilt turned to irritation, and she slammed the front door hard to make sure he heard.

  III

  As soon as they got back to the flat Jude threw open the windows to let the breeze, which was still balmy though the night had long since fallen, come and go. News from the streets outside came with it, of course, but nothing momentous: the inevitable sirens; chatter from the pavement; jazz from the club down the block. With the windows wide, she sat down on the bed beside Gentle. It was time for them to speak without any other agenda but the truth.

  “I didn’t think we’d end up this way,” she said. “Here. Together.”

  “Are you glad we have?”

  “Yes, I’m glad,” she said, after a pause. “It feels right.”

  “Good,” he replied. “It feels perfectly natural to me too.”

  He slid around the back of her and, threading his hands through her hair, began to work his fingers against her scalp. She sighed.

  “You like that?” he asked.

  “I like that.”

  “Do you want to tell me how you feel?”

  “About what?”

  “About me. About us.”

  “I told you, it feels right.”

  “That’s all?”

  “No.”

  “What else?”

  She closed her eyes, the persuasive fingers almost easing the words out of her. “I’m glad you’re here because I think we can learn from one another. Maybe even love each other again. How does that sound?”

  “Fine by me,” he said softly.

  “And what about you? What’s in your head?”

  “That I’d forgotten how strange this Dominion is. That I need your help to make me strong. That I’m afraid I may act strangely sometimes, make mistakes, and I want you to love me enough to forgive me if I do. Will you?”

  “You know I will,” she said.

  “I want you to share my visions, Judith. I want you to see what’s shining in me and not be afraid of it.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “That’s good to hear,” he said. “That’s so very good.” He leaned towards her, putting his mouth close to her ear. “We make the rules from now on,” he whispered. “And the world follows. Yes? There’s no law but us. What we want. What we feel. We’ll let that consume us, and the fire’ll spread. You’ll see.”

  He kissed the ear into which he’d poured these seductions, then her cheek, and finally her mouth. She started to kiss him back, fervently, putting her hands around his head as he had hers, kneading the flesh from which his hair sprang and feeling its motion against his skull. He had his hands on the neck of her blouse, but he didn’t bother to unbutton it. Instead he tore it open, not in a frenzy but rhythmically, rent after rent, like a ritual of uncovering. As soon as her breasts were bare his mouth was on them. Her skin was hot, but his tongue was hotter, painting her with spiral tracks of spittle, then closing
his mouth around her nipples until they were harder than the tongue that teased them. His hands were reducing her skirt to tatters in the same efficient way he’d torn open her blouse. She let herself drop back onto the bed, with the rags of blouse and skirt beneath her. He looked down at her, laying his palm at her crotch, which was still protected from his touch by the thin fabric ofher underwear.

  “How many men have had this?” he asked her, the question murmured without inflection. His head was silhouetted against the pale billows at the window, and she could not read his expression. “How many?” he said, moving the ball of his hand in a circular motion. From any other source but this the question would have offended or even enraged her. But she liked his curiosity.

  “A few.”

  He ran his fingers down into the space between her legs and worked his middle fingers under the fabric to touch her other hole. “And this?” he said, pushing at the place.

  She was less comfortable with this inquiry, verbal or digital, but he insisted. “Tell me,” he said. “Who’s been in here?”

  “Just one,” she said.

  “Godolphin?” he replied.

  “Yes.”

  He removed his finger and rose from the bed. “A family enthusiasm,” he remarked.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Just closing the curtains,” he said. “The dark’s better for what we’re going to do.” He drew the drapes without closing the window. “Are you wearing any jewelry?” he asked her.

  “Just my earrings.”

  “Take them off,” he said.

  “Can’t we have a little light?”

  “It’s too bright as it is,” he replied, though she could barely see him. He was watching her as he undressed, that much she knew. He saw her slide her earrings from the holes in her lobes and then take off her underwear. By the time she was completely naked so was he.

  “I don’t want a little part of you,” he said, approaching the bottom of the bed. “I want all of you, every last piece. And I want you to want all of me.”

  “I do,” she said.