Silken Hell

Sunday, May 4, 2003 -
Ap�sl�min ida corbalanyrtne 'ls�o rohl'daathi�m v� nen�a iroyss�rd.

CALLIPYGIAN
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Yesterday the Fiend and I went to the antiques show. Just to look, not to buy, although I was sorely tested in my resolve by a ukiyo-e print and a Bakelite box. The Fiend brought his camera to take snaps for his scrapbooks, which kinda ruffled some of the sellers when he told them he was an artist and not a buyer. Artist means copyist and copyist means forger to an antiques dealer. We had brought along a small portfolio with pictures of the Fiend's art, which vividly show that the Fiend's work is intensely original and not a copy of anything, except perhaps something out of a dipsomaniac's nightmare. Which reassured most people, and a couple of dealers engaged the Fiend in ardent conversations about furniture-making. But there was one guy who told the Fiend his furniture was "hideous" and "a ruination", to which the Fiend replied, "Aren't you adorable!" and then kissed him. I'm glad the guy had the good sense to laugh after that.

~

I didn't mean to leave you hanging this long without an explanation for this, but the wedding season is descending upon us. Today we delivered our first nuptial cookie platters since January, for two weddings. And not only are we baking for weddings again, I'll be singing again. Yep, wedding singer is another one of my semi-professional vocations, although I haven't done it in a while. Which was painfully evident when I sang with Josie and his band (it's sooo tempting to call them "The Pussycats") on Friday night. Thank god it was just an impromptu jam in the wee hours at a mellow and forgiving venue. The Fiend sez I did fine, so maybe I didn't embarrass myself totally. The wedding gigs are several weeks away, one at the end of May, one in June, so I've got time to get the "croon" back into shape. That's what Josie calls my voice. Jer's gonna work the gigs with us, playing his fiddle. It's gonna be some serious fun, yeah, uh-huh.

But let's put all that aside for the nonce and begin our story:

SILKEN HELL
Part One

In Which 'Zaziel is Introduced to the Valances in Question and The Fiend is Introduced to a Friend of the Family

It was a mistake to let it be known that I can sew.

'Bout two months ago, I got a call from a nice lady named Ginny Vaicaitis*, a stranger to me at that moment, but she knew, professionally, another nice lady named Deborah (you must nevah, evah call her Debbie) Shaddley*, who I knew professionally. Their profession? One of the world's oldest: interior decorating. My profession? Depends on the day, depends on what hat I'm wearing. On that day, talking valances to Missus Ginny Vaicaitis, I put on my oh-so-fey Christopher Lowell hat�and don't bother telling me he doesn't wear a hat, I know a little tonsure is not a hat (okay, he's got more than a little), but it's all metaphorical anyway, so use your imagination.

Deborah had raved to Missus Vaicaitis about the awnings I had made for her. Missus Vaicaitis needed a couple of Kingston valances and was wondering if I could make them within two weeks. Her regular workroom was backed up for at least six weeks and her customer wanted the valances installed for a dinner party. I didn't know what the heck a Kingston valance was (I doffed my Christopher Lowell hat for a moment and felt a manly surge of pride when I told her I didn't know what the heck a Kingston valance was�manly men know fuck all 'bout valances, curtains, swags, jabots, and flouncy things like that) but I was confident there wasn't a valance alive I couldn't whip together in a night's work and still get at least six hours of sleep. I figured two valances, two nights, no prob, and my daytime schedule of cookie baking, lawn mowing, tree servicing, horse wrangling and ghost-writing** need not be interrupted. I assured Missus Vaicaitis that I could make her deadline.

You now suspect where this is going, no? Pride goeth before a fall. Don't count your chickens before they're hatched. Francis Bacon: "If we begin with certainties, we shall end in doubts." Henrik Ibsen: "So far, evolution has been nothing but staggering from one error to another." Ad astra per aspera, with the emphasis on aspera.

To my credit, I did think to ask Missus Vaicaitis the size of the valances. Approximately four feet wide and eighteen inches deep, she said with a cheerful vagueness I should have seen as a portent. She was waiting for the guy who measures things for her to get back to her with the exact dimensions. I requested that when she had the exact dimensions would she please fax them to me, with a picture of a Kingston valance, and then I could give her an estimate. She wasn't worried about the estimate and she would stop by in a couple of days�what time would be convenient for me?�with a picture and the measurements. We made an appointment for two days hence.

Two days hence, Missus Vaicaitis was more than prompt; I found her parked in front of my house when I returned from the cookie run, twenty minutes early for our appointment. She proved to be a slender, diminutive elder with wheaten hair, strongly reminiscent of the mater's cronies. I escorted her into the studio where I introduced her to the Fiend who was working under the influence of an artist named Beksinski on a piece dubbed the Carrion Bone Table. Missus Vaicaitis was thrilled to meet the Fiend; she knew his work and she knew his mother. Small world, huh? (I tell ya, there's no big city in southern California�we're just lots and lots of little hick towns strung together by the freeways.) I let the two of them chat while I looked over the workorder Missus Vaicaitus had brought me, which was not quite a workorder, more like a couple of scraps of paper. One was a xerox of an uninspired but serviceable drawing of a Kingston valance; the other was a bitty page of pink notebook paper, upon which was squiggled a primitive diagram and many numbers and the notation "Master Bedroom". (I wondered, briefly, why a person needed bedroom valances for a dinner party, but I wasn't curious or impertinent enough to ask.) Apparent at first glance, despite the miserly diagram and the superfluous numbers, were four windows, two of which were not four feet wide. One was over ten feet wide, the other was more than sixteen. In answer to my query, Missus Vaicaitis explained that those were a series of windows and a French (boo, hiss) door that would be surmounted by wooden cornices which were no concern of mine. I was cool wi' dat, so we sifted through her figures until I had the ones I needed. I made a brilliantly precise work order on one of my quad pads, complete with a deft sketch, according to a 1/16 ratio, of the valance. Missus Vaicaitis asked me to figure the yardage. I gave her a rough estimate which I promised to refine by the next morning. Everything I did seemed to please her inordinately, but once our business was finished, she showed no inclination to linger. Which was perfect for me, I had a yard full of junipers to prune, and I was already running 'bout a half-hour behind.

That evening, while I was making little pictures on my quad pad, engineering the pattern pieces for the valance, my sister Bert phoned. This is the youngest sister (yet she is 15 years older than me) who had no hemoglobin during the holidays; her name is Albertina but everyone calls her Bert because she looks like a Bert. She's pretty damn butch. She's often mistaken for a lesbian, but she's not. In fact, she made sure she's not. She attempted a sexual relationship with her best friend Esme (the Cambodian girlfriend, who is a lesbian) but after a year they decided to be just friends and housemates. Esme found for herself a now-and-again girlfriend, an actress who works in repertory theatre. Bert returned to a life of celibacy and loving men from afar, which seems to suit her best. She had called me to talk about her health�her hemoglobin came back after two months of rest, iron supplements and a healthy diet�and to moan about her lack of employment. Which is a chronic complaint. She's an artisan in the entertainment biz. She's made hats for Cher and curtains for Streisand and upholstered the Titanic, but like everybody in show biz (except for those who have a hit series) she's a temp. A good job will last six weeks. A great job, a real plum like the opening and closing ceremonies at the Olympics, will last maybe six months. She didn't get even six days out of Titanic, for which she made cushions for a divan.

When I could get a word in edgewise, I mentioned to Bert that I was working on drawings for a Kingston valance.

"Oh," she sez. "I've got a pattern for that. I made one for South Coast Rep."

I shoulda known. If ya evah want a pattern for something like a Kingston valance, or a Mayan emperor's headdress, or a Soul Hunter's collection pouch, ask Bert.

To be continued

~

* Pseudonyms, of course. They're all pseudonyms. Mostly.

** Yep, we're back to work on the RFA's novel after a four months hiatus while the RFA contemplated a complete change of direction�80% of everything written so far had to be tossed. Meanwhile, Blaine submitted the manuscript for the first book of his Seraphim Fall trilogy. Three months went by without a yea or nay from his publisher. Every time Blaine called his editor, she gushed about how everyone loved his book, but she always had a good excuse why a decision was not imminent. Blaine was not worried. This was the RFA's publisher, a major imprint where the prudent wheels of commerce grind slow, and after years of working with them, Blaine was familiar with the standard of their operating procedure. Unfortunately, events proved that he was not as familiar with the standard of their prudence. When his editor finally called and told him his book would be accepted for publication, it was not an unqualified endorsement. Changes were requested. Seraphim Fall's chief protagonist is an unabashedly homosexual male, and the epic love story that's part of the plot involves another unabashedly homosexual male. The Powers That Be believed the story would be immensely improved if the hero's lover could be made into a female. This suggestion was not a homophobic one, Blaine's editor quickly assured him, but an economic one. Surely it was obvious that the book would have a much wider appeal if the love story adhered to a more classic model of romance. And the book would be easier to sell to Hollywood. (Oh, shit. The name of Mammon had been invoked. It's not enough to just publish a book nowadays, everybody's got to be a movie mogul, too.)

Blaine was taken aback by the suggestion. I could have used "surprised" or "appalled" instead of "taken aback", but Blaine is not an innocent. After you've lived gay in America for a certain amount of years, you try not to be surprised or appalled by the small minds of the hoi poloi or the Powers That Be. (This is the land of the free where a Senator can say he has no problem with homosexuals, but homosexual acts creep him out. A bastion of logic the Senate is not.) However, Blaine was depressed by the apparent evidence that people, especially those who were supposed to be savvy about literature, could read his manuscript and come away thinking he would be interested in writing "a classic model of romance". He's wondering if his career as a tame ghost-writer for the RFA has created the wrong impression of his character and his talent. The requested changes would require a complete evisceration of the book he wrote. He refused, as diplomatically as possible, to do so. And that's where the situation rests. Blaine's book is in limbo. The Powers That Be are dithering. Blaine's editor is apologetic, but not hopeful. And Blaine is writing the RFA's next bestseller. It pays the bills, after all.

<~>
Ap�sl�min ida corbalan� 'lse nesgla ugar�-cham sa cru ogrulho bat�oltha al�mv�sde.

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