Passacaglia (musings)

Chapter 42

Allegro agitato

As the bonfire blazes, and the medicines flow, as the moonlight ripples on waves that are the colour of his eyes, and he pulls the blanket tighter around us, he whispers, "Are you happy?" And it's a question only a merry fool like him would ask. Are you happy? What does that even mean? Show me someone in their right mind who is. One can temporarily be distracted, for an hour, for a week perhaps, but after the Liebestod has subsided and the curtain falls, after the seed has been spilt and the cock goes limp, then what? Stare into the abyss and be driven to insanity by the implications of the Great Nothing? No, life is distraction, and hedonism is the order of the day. Seek its beauty, seek its pleasures and its pain, savour the contrasts, both within and around, but do not speak to me of that nauseating American concept of happiness and one's right to it.

"I am. So happy."

"Knew you'd come around," he smiles.

Sick of their synthetic garbage, and with Berlin strings on the brain, I search for The Swan of Tuonela on my phone. It takes all of my mental fortitude to type it in, my focus constantly faltering with all the garish icons. "Hey, Mel, could you put this on?" I ask.

"Oh come on, that's not fair!" Lusine protests.

"Yeah, dude, your songs are like ten minutes!" Melissa adds. Disgusted, I drop the phone and the subject alike.

Fair? Is it fair then that I subject my liver to decay, my lungs to suffocation and my body to all manner of poison only to stomach them? These little people, with their little problems, and such little regard for anything that doesn't tickle their balls. Such mediocrities, with no appreciation for what the world has to offer, and yes, I am bitter, because they will all lead full and happy lives. They will love and be loved, have children, grandchildren, even see their great-grandchildren. They will outgrow this transience, while I on the other hand, cursed with this mind, so filled with nagging doubt and bursting at the seams with unfulfilled potential, waste away. To constantly shrink, to become a nothing, to be worth less than the dust settling on my aging skin, and still be here, to live without a soul. I have perfected that art, and the Abrahamic concept of death, whereby they tell us a soul leaves the flesh, I have refuted, for though the soul has long since departed this flesh, the vessel continues to roam the Earth, filling its days with mindless pursuits, with pointless endeavours which neither advance nor benefit anyone. I do not purport to be an authority on anything, least of all life, but for fuck's sake, there has to be more than this.

"Are you okay, Spaz?" Malcolm presses my shoulder.

"Please, let's go, please, please." I sink into the quilt, as deep as I can, to hide from this place.

"What? You're joking, what about your party?"

"I don't want it, any of it, they can have it all, all of it, tell them to take it all. I don't want it anymore." I feel Lusine watching me and out of the corner of my eye I see her whispering. something to Melissa. Now Melissa's staring at me, and a couple of the nobodies they brought with them too. I can't. I can't take it anymore, I need to escape, or else what I do not know, but I need to go.

Malcolm puts his arm around me and whispers, "Calm down, Spaz, calm down, okay? You're having a bad trip, so we'll ease you-"

"God fucking dammit, Malcolm, I'm going!" I get up out of the quilt and the cold hits me like a wall of ice. I can't move, but I'm shivering violently, so I think of vodka, my oldest and most constant droog. I pick up the duty-free bottle Lusine brought me and chug. Either it's extremely expensive, or I'm beyond gagging right now, but the warmth works its way down my chest and, for a moment, it helps. Malcolm rises and wraps the quilt back around me. He says something, I feel his breath tickle my ear, but I can't think with all the harpies chattering and pointing at us, squawking and laughing.

"What's wrong with him?"

"He's fucked!"

"Serge?"

"Oh he's so out of it."

"What's wrong with him?"

"Off his tits."

"Serge?"

"Birthday boy."

"So rude."

"Higher than a Thanksgiving Parade float."

"What's wrong with him?"

"What's wrong with him?"

"Shut up, shut up, shut up! Will you all please shut the fuck up! All of you, I FUCKING HATE YOU!"

Well, then. No more Acid for this boy scout. Their thrice-damned muzak is the only sound now, and soon someone has the sense to shut that off too. Silence, the sea, the wind. They look at each other, Melissa shakes her head, Lusine nurses a cigarette, someone passes a joint there, and another freshens his cup. Silence, and it's sweeter than Janowitz in the prime of her prime. Malcolm makes the apologies and then escorts me back towards the house. I'm barefoot, but I like the feel of the sand against my soles, it grounds me. I can see the lights inside the house, and I can't wait to be back there, safe and on my own terms.

"I'm sorry, Spaz," he says to me.

"Why are you sorry?"

"I forced this on you."

"Yeah, you did." I hear that bass again. Bass, bass, bass, more fucking bass.

"I'm sorry."

"You said."

"I can't think of anything else to say."

"What do we say when there's nothing to be said?"

We're back at the deck sooner than I expected. He leads me up, and then gently sits me down on a chair, while he rummages for the keys. Oddly, this part feels like an eternity, but we eventually go inside and I rush into the bedroom. I fling myself into bed, and with Genevieve's countless cushions propping me up, I strip under the sheets.

"Lock the door," I tell him before he's had a chance to close it. "Lock it.

He does, and then he sits by my side and turns a lamp on. "I guess I might as well get your present," he says sheepishly, and I spy a bit of stubble on his chin, it's new, but I like it. "It's not much, but-"

I grab his arm. "No."

"Well, there's another hour of birthday to go, what do you-"

"Strip."

"It's freezing in here, and the heat's not even-"

"Do it."

"Spaz."

"Do it."

"Serge!"

"You ruined my birthday. It's the least you can do. Strip."

"You're going to milk this for all it's worth, eh?" He grins at me. The jacket slowly drops, the scarf he keeps on, and the shirt he throws at me. Acqua di Gio. He sits at my side and eases the skinny jeans off.

"Yeah, commando," he snorts. "Thought we could squeeze in a quickie at the beach, but someone had to go all spazzilicious on me." He throws his jeans at the threadbare recliner, missing it completely, and kisses me. I stop him and he sighs. "You're tripping, Spaz, I realise, but could you make up your bloody mind?"

I push the cushions to the floor and pull the blanket over us. "Hold me."

"What? Really?"

"Just do it." He pulls my back closer and I roll over to face him.

"What're you doing?" he asks, his hand cold against my arm.

I stare into his eyes. "Shut up."

"Aww, Spaz. Ever the romantic, eh?" he snickers.

"Malcolm, I swear to God."

He finally stops talking and I put my arm around his waist. We lie like this for some time, face to face, my eyes fixated on his, though he can't hold my gaze or stay still for more than a few minutes at a time. He laughs, he pouts, he goes hard, but gradually, I think Malcolm gives in to it too, because I haven't seen him focus his energies like this before. Now time unfurls slowly for us both, and the world outside ceases to exist, because ensconced in his arms, and he in mine, everything is at peace. The warmth of his body, a sensation more heady than all the world's wines, washes over me and I behold the power of his eyes, the strength in his shoulders, imbibe the suppleness of his skin and listen to the stout beating of his heart. The sum is indescribable, it is the Adagio from Bruckner 9, a universe unto itself that will never be fully mapped or understood, but must be experienced before death sounds its knell. No earthly entity could possibly be so simultaneously sacred and profane, Hosanna and hellfire, neither can exist without the other. It is moments like these that render all the nihilistic bullshit null and void, that remind me why I have made it this far without falling on my sword, and that it is good.

"Malcolm?"

"Spaz?"

"You are good."

He giggles and then kisses my forehead. "Well, shucks, Spaz, I'd like to think so."

"I want to be..."

"An astronaut? Fireman? Ooh, you would make such a cute fireman!" He pinches my cheek and I don't have the energy to stop him.

"Malcolm, I..." Shit. I've forgotten what I was going to say. Well, not so much forgotten as buried, methinks.

"Flying buttress salesman? Speak, Spaz, I'm only joking," he says, resting his forehead on mine, and I will myself to close my eyes, because I can't possibly reason when I'm drowning in his.

"Look, did you mean what you said the other day?"

"That I love you? Yes, I did. I love you, Serge." It rolls off his tongue like the sweetest nothing, and I want to say something back, as one usually does in these situations, but I need to weigh my options: I could laugh it off, a technique that's been rather efficient thus far, or I could get all misty-eyed and hormonal, but where would that leave my upper hand? I decide to say nothing. Silence, and yes, it's positively Janowitzian in its unassuming sweetness.