He exhibited no surprise and merely pulled on his gloves, saying, ‘Next Saturday I will bring three men to the temple. Together we will penetrate the mysteries.’
‘Keep your damned mysteries to yourself!’ I shouted.
‘Sunday,’ he repeated, smiling. Then he inclined his head in one of those effete bows I find so irritating and left me, his accursed dog at his heels.
It is in my mind now that I should work spells against him, though by doing so I would in effect be practicing petro of the sort he wishes me to practice. And yet, it would be strictly in the service of the temple, and thus not a violation of my vows, only of my self-esteem. Be that as it may, there is an aura of significant evil about Valcours, such as I have not met with in all my experience, and it is time our association came to an end, one way or another.
Thereafter the diary continued in ordinary fashion, lists of appointments and more sex with Miriam T, until a third of the way through the volume, at which point the entries ceased.
Aime’s account only posed new mysteries, and reading it had knotted Jocundra’s muscles and set her temples to throbbing, as if it had contained the germ of an old disease. She begged off the rest of the morning, telling Danni she wanted to lie down a while, while Danni insisted on coming along and giving her a massage.
‘There ain’t nothin’ like a massage for tension,’ she said; she winked slyly. ‘I learned all about it out in Hollywood.’
She accompanied Jocundra back to the room, had her remove her blouse and unhook her bra and lie flat on her stomach. At first the massage was relaxing. Danni straddled her, humming, rubbing out the tension with expert hands, but then she slipped a hand under to cup Jocundra’s breast, kissed her shoulder and whispered how beautiful she was. Shocked, Jocundra rolled over, inadvertently knocking Danni off the bed.
‘I thought you wanted me,’ sobbed Danni, completely unstrung, her facial muscles working, tears glistening in her eyes. ‘Don’t you like me?’
Jocundra assured her she did, just not that way, but Danni was inconsolable and ran from the room.
Their relationship deteriorated swiftly. Jocundra tried to convince Danni to leave Maravillosa, pointing out that Otille had never given substantial help to any of the ‘friends’, and offered to lend her money; but Danni rejected the offer and told her she didn’t understand. She began to avoid Jocundra, to whisper asides to her companions and giggle whenever Jocundra passed by, and a few days later she made an ineffectual play for Donnell. That, Jocundra realized, had been Danni’s objective all along, and she had been foolish not to anticipate it. The pathos of the ‘friends’, of this talentless child-woman and her imitation of Otille, her Otille-like manipulations, caused Jocundra to wonder if she had not underestimated the evil influence of the place. Donnell was becoming moody and withdrawn again, as he had not been since leaving Shadows, refusing to talk about what transpired during the days; and one night toward the end of the second week, waiting for him to return, staring out of their bedroom window, she had a new appreciation of Maravillosa.
Screams, some of them desperate sounding, arose from the cabins. Torches flared in the dark thickets behind them. The half moon sailed high, sharp-winged shadows skimming across it, and the conical hills and the vine-shrouded trees washed silver-green under the moonlight had the look of a decaying city millennia after a great catastrophe.
Morning sunlight shafted from the second-story windows, the rays separate and distinct, leaving the lower half of the ballroom sunk in a cathedral dimness, but revealing the wallpaper to be peeling and covered with graffiti. Crudely painted red and green veves, including that of Ogoun Badagris, occupied central positions among the limericks and sexual advertisements. Otille held her acting classes in the ballroom, and wooden chairs were scattered throughout, though only five were now taken, those by Otille, Donnell, and the rest of the pets. Except for Otille and Donnell, they sat apart, ringed about Clea, who was hunched over a chewed-up yellow guitar, looking pale and miserable. Without her wig, she lacked even the pretense of vivacity. She wore a slip which showed her breasts to be the size of onions, and passing her in the door, Donnell had caught a faint rancid odor that reminded him of spoiled milk. Around her feet were half a dozen cages filled with parakeets and lovebirds.
‘What are you going to play for us, dear?’ Otille’s voice rang in the emptiness.
‘I ain’t ready yet,’ said Clea, pouting.
Simpkins sat with folded arms; Papa leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees, affecting intense interest; and Downey sprawled in his chair, bored. The birds hopped and twittered.
‘Allrighty,’ said Clea bravely. ‘Here goes nothin’.’
She plucked a chord, humming to get the pitch, and raised a quavering soprano, souring on the high notes.
