L'Eau noire (The Black Water)
(Les Cités intérieures -2) (Cities
of the Mind - 2)
(Les Cités intérieures -2) (Cities of the Mind - 2)
Natasha Beaulieu
(Excerpt, p. 7-15)
Penlocke
I've seen all kinds of stuff at the Sensastrip, but nothing like the creature who came in that night. I elbowed Bulldog's flabby arm. He turned to the door as fast as his kilos of fat allowed. I couldn't tell the expression of his eyes then, or ever in fact, because they are eternally hidden under his thick black eyebrows.
"Dressed like that, it won't survive long in this neighbourhood," Bulldog said.
It was Keen, the private eye, who gave Henry his nickname, "Bulldog." And it stuck because Henry really has jowls and a protruding jaw.
Me, I'm Randy. Means I fuck like a rabbit. No one ever thought of giving me another nickname, that one is perfect for me.
The creature was wearing a scarlet pullover that was too short, showing a very white, flat belly. The long slim legs were sheathed with nylon under a black vinyl miniskirt. But what fascinated me the most about this slutty outfit was the hair: long and black, tied on the top of the head in a leather cone pierced by two fluorescent green Chinese chopsticks. It made her look like some kind of depraved genie, and I liked it. As soon as her splendid dark mascaraed eyes met mine, I got a hard-on. Then I watched her go to the back of the Sensastrip, with shoes as high-heeled as those of the dancers.
The night went on as usual. Clients were sipping their drinks; the regulars talked among themselves, and the others were watching the strippers.
I'd hoped the creature would come to the bar, but she'd chosen to sit alone in a dark corner. She lit a first cigarette and stayed there, smoking non-stop and drinking whisky. I felt jealous of Scan who was waiting tables that night.
Long minutes passed by without the creature doing anything but smoke, drink and glance around with no expression whatsoever. She wasn't interested in anyone in particular, not even in the acts that followed one another on the stage. Her vulnerable doll look contrasted with her fierce demeanour. No one had dared to sit at her table.
Much later, as I was filling a glass, I felt Bulldog's elbow poking me good-naturedly in the small of the back.
"You want to wait on the creature?" he said in a whisper.
I turned around. The face before me was so purely white that I was almost blinded. Then I was caught in the creature's gaze, intense and dark, with a gleam that was at once disturbing and exciting. Rather than ask her what she wanted, I poured a whisky. She gratified me with a cynical smile. Then she took a long drag on her cigarette and exhaled, her head tilted back.
I was mesmerized by the fluorescent sticks criss-crossed on the top of her head. On someone else, it would have been ridiculous. On this creature, it was an element essential to the harmony of her costume.
"See you tomorrow, Randy," Bulldog said.
"'Bye," I said, without taking my eyes off the creature.
A few patrons were still in the bar, but the show was over. Scan was clearing the tables. The doll creature took this opportunity to speak:
"I'd like another."
Her voice was deep, sensual. I poured another whisky and put my elbows on the bar in front of her.
"What's your name?"
She flicked at one of the green sticks with a long, red-painted nail.
"Stick."
Stick. I liked that. It could be male or female or a bit of both. No matter. I just wanted to fuck that creature. And the feeling was mutual, because, about twenty minutes later, I said goodbye to Scan, who was sweeping the floor and I left in Stick's company.
The Sensastrip's back door opens onto one of the ugly, macabre alleys of Penlocke. You can barely see because most of the streetlights are burnt out and no one replaces them. And the trash, that's another story. There's a truck, once in a while, but you never know when, and nothing guarantees that the garbage collectors will take everything away.
Surprisingly graceful on her high pointy heels, Stick took my arm. The night breeze was blowing through her hair, its exotic fragrance somehow stronger than the stench of the place.
We ran into Doctor Scotch, then a dancer whose name I'd forgotten, and then Mister Sing Song, the owner of Tumono House, who gave me a strange look I couldn't fathom. Those three were not dangerous. But we could have met Violencers, and if they had fancied playing with the doll, even with me as a companion, she wouldn't have reached the end of the alley alive.
An enormous rat suddenly scurried between Stick's feet, and she lost her balance. Before I could catch hold of her, she was down on the wet pavement, close to a mud puddle. Her skirt was halfway up her thighs, showing garters. I held out my hand to help her up again, but she ignored it. Instead, she began laughing and rolling in the mud. When she stopped, on her belly, her face to the pavement, arms extended, her ass up in the air, I couldn't resist. I unbuckled my belt, I dropped my pants and I lay down on Stick.
And all the time I was fucking him, he laughed.
Afterwards, Stick stayed there, in his hooker get-up, covered in mud.
I went home and took a cold shower. Once I was lying on my grotty mattress, I smoked a cigarette. With my free hand I was playing with one of the fluorescent green chopsticks I had taken from the hair of the doll with balls.*** The Sensastrip was jam-packed. Bulldog, in top intellectual form, was ready to talk.
"So, was the slut worth it?"
"Great fuck," I said, not mentioning that Stick was a man and that he had laughed all the way through it.
"Did you see who is here tonight? In the back, on the left. The table under the window."
In order to see better, I squinted and looked where Bulldog was pointing. I recognized Mister Sing Song.
Ready with his tray full of drinks, Scan leaned towards me.
"Not the kind of man who goes anywhere for nothing. He must have a good reason."
A little later, when Scan came back to tell me Mister Sing Song wanted to talk to me, it was no surprise. Perhaps because of his insistent look, the night before. I told Bulldog to take care of the bar for a little while and I made my way to the Chinaman's table, where I sat down. Mister Sing Song is small and frail, but he commands respect.
"Where is the man you were with last evening?" He asked with his weird accent, at once sing-song and clipped.
"I don't know."
The Chinaman looked me in the eye.
"You know his name?"
"Stick."
"Find him and come see me at Tumono House."
That night, as I lay on my mattress, with a cigarette hanging out of the corner of my mouth, I thought it would be doubly interesting to find Stick; like many Cityans, I wanted to see what was hiding behind the intriguing facade of Tumono House.***
I'd thought, naively, that it would be easy to spot a transvestite in Penlocke. But the City is a place full of chaotic streets, alleys and dead ends, and I had no clues whatsoever to guide my quest. After spending all my spare time for six weeks in the labyrinth of the City, I finally gave up, disappointed not to know why Mister Sing Song was interested in Stick, and also because I would probably never see the inside of Tumono House.
Life went on as usual. I slept in the daytime, I worked nights, then I fucked whoever wanted it, men or women, almost every night.
That night, I left the Sensastrip alone. A distant rattling of chains, the Violencers' favourite weapon, made me walk faster until another sound, closer, got my attention. I stopped walking. Something was rolling towards me on the pavement. A fluorescent green chopstick stopped against the tip of my shoe. I tried to see where it had come from. Stick was there, leaning against a red brick wall. A few steps, and he was near me. With his long flowing hair, his androgynous face and his body hidden in a long black coat, he was still a sexual enigma for anyone who had not, like me, had the opportunity to check.
Stick picked up the stick and stuck it in the left pocket of his vest. He kissed me lightly on the mouth with his red lips and passed his arm under mine.
Strange. During all those weeks I had been looking for Stick, It had never once occurred to me that he would find me first.*** At a time when the City is asleep, there was a knock on my door. With little enthusiasm I got up and opened it. The stoic look in Mister Sing Song's eyes had the same effect as a cold shower.
Stick had been at my place for a week. I had reduced my working hours at the Sensastrip so I could spend most of my time fucking him. As I had found a lover as insatiable as I was, the idea of telling Mister Sing Song of Stick's return was not first and foremost in my thoughts.
"Where is he?"
"In my bed."
The Chinaman didn't wait for my permission. He came in. His ramrod straight figure was hidden beneath a dark blue robe. He stopped and stood in front of the closed door, then he gestured for me to wake Stick up.
The creature was fast asleep. I shook him a bit, then gave him a little slap, to no avail. I was trying to think of something more efficient than a volley of cuss words, when the Tumono House's owner came to the bed. He pulled the cover and, with a rather mischievous look, he took hold of Stick's balls. Stick sat up suddenly and with a feral quickness he caught the hand that held him. The Chinaman and the creature looked darkly at one another, then both let go. Mister Sing Song stood up with dignity, while the creature sat up on the bed, with dishevelled hair and eye shadow smears around the eyes.
"Get dressed," said the Chinaman imperiously.
Stick picked up the pack of cigarettes lying on the floor next to the bed, leaned against the cracked wall, knees pointing toward the ceiling, and lit up.
"I'll be waiting in the corridor," Mister Sing Song said before leaving the room.
Relieved to no longer have the owner of Tumono House in my bedroom, I sat on the bed beside Stick.
"You could go out through the window," I suggested.
He looked at me, but I was unable to see any expression in his unfathomable eyes.
I had no idea at all what he was thinking. He would rather smoke than talk. I knew nothing about him and as he didn't ask questions he knew nothing about me either.
I lit up too, and I began stroking Stick's thin legs. He kicked me. I tried to catch his ankle, but I was rewarded with another, harder kick. I was suddenly horny, but I didn't insist.
Stick got up off the bed and picked up his vinyl miniskirt and his sweater from the back of a chair. After looking at them for a moment - I got the impression he was wondering if they really belonged to him - he threw them on the floor. Then he went into the tiny bathroom, not closing the door behind him. I had a full view of him as he brushed his long mane, checked his nails and fixed up his face with a corner of a wet towel - a feminine ritual suddenly interrupted by the sound of urine falling in the toilet bowl from a height. The contrast made me smile. I wondered how long it had been since I'd smiled.
Stick came out of the bathroom with eyes still smeared with running eye shadow, and a huge erection. Did he want to fuck too? His refusal was only the practical reason: Mister Sing Song was waiting for him.
"I need clothes."
I didn't ask why he didn't want his own.
"Look behind the curtain."
He pushed aside the piece of khaki fabric that hid my clothes and chose a pin-striped grey suit. He put on the trousers and vest, still naked underneath. The clothes were too big for him, and gave him a relaxed look; he added an old pair of boots, military style. Throwing his long coat over his shoulders, he came over and kissed me on the mouth. I allowed myself a quick, suggestive caress, which he didn't begrudge me.
Stick joined Mister Sing Song in the corridor. Alone again in my bed, I smiled again: during all these weeks when I'd been looking for Stick, it had never occurred to me to think of him dressed as a man...
© 2003 Éditions Alire & Natasha Beaulieu
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