83 THE SONGS OF SALOME
Before a Cock Crows
Parnell Palmer and I, with Bellows by my side in her office, held a computer TV chat because he still has more questions and I had more answers. Screens are hindrances to any sensate morphologist, but I acceded when Palmer agreed that Persephone could soon visit with me. There is a not so minor catch. She is somewhere in Eastern Europe. I tried to wheedle Perse’s exact whereabouts and the time of her expected return. He stonewalled.
Palmer began this cross-examination by asking if I’d heard Alchemy and Laluna arguing about her consorting with Godfrey Barker and Jack Crouse. I hadn’t. Crouse was so bland and inarticulate — worth maybe one fuck.
Through the screen, I recounted to Palmer what transpired on the day when, a few days before their football party, Laluna brought Crouse and Barker to my studio for a second time.
Barker began by apologizing for the collector he thought might want a Baddist Boy collage, who had passed. This was news to me and gave me a taste of his entitlement, since I’d told him I wouldn’t sell it. He suggested I do a commission for their new church in Hollywood. I said thanks but no thanks, which provoked an attack from Godfrey the Enlightened. He said the antipsycho drugs “stulted” my artistic growth and caused me to become even more “unstable.” “Truthfully,” he said, “I offered the commission as a favor to Laluna.” He smiled arrogantly. “You haven’t done anything exceptional in years.”
Laluna blanched.
“Barker, I don’t need favors from her or from you, and I take insults from vulgarians like you as compliments.”
Too self-absorbed to notice Laluna’s discomfort, he lectured me on the benefits of Cosmological Kinetic therapy, which would “purify” my demons and “open” me up to create “monumental” art again.
Crouse chimed in too enthusiastically, “It’s great! Really great! You should try it!”
I paid no attention to him and addressed Barker. “Exorcisms of any kind do not intrigue me. I am my demons.”
“It’s not an exorcism. Purification puts you in touch with those demons and then you’ll embrace and control them. Ask Laluna. You two would become much more simpatico and mutually supportive of each other, and of Alchemy, instead of jousting rivals.”
The only impediment to improving my relations with Laluna was her imposing upon my relations with Perse. If she’d stopped that, we’d have been just groovy.
Palmer had listened through the screen without much comment. I heard his muffled voice speaking to someone off-screen. Then he swung his axe.
“So you didn’t say to Barker that you’d burn his church before you’d ever create art for it?”
“No. Why would I? I might’ve implied that cavemen had superior aesthetics.”
“Salome, no need for me to delve more deeply into your memory lapses and actual past pyrotechnics. I’m more interested in a conversation between you and Laluna that took place the evening before the party. You threatened to use whatever sway you had over Alchemy to tell him that you sniffed that she and Crouse were having an affair, to stop her from surrendering Persephone to Moses Teumer’s care for a month.”
I explained to Palmer that it wasn’t a conversation. I didn’t threaten her. I asked her about Crouse. She didn’t hold her fire. She spit out, “Unlike you, I would never fuck someone behind the back of the man I love.” Explaining myself to her was futile. I tried a new tactic. She’d written a few maudlin songs to accompany some new Petra Sansluv drawings. Initially, I was reluctant to partner with her. Still, I suggested we plan an exhibition/concert together. I begged her to let Persephone stay with me and the nannies when they went on vacation. She just bobbed her head from side to side. That meant “Drop dead.”
84 THE MOSES CHRONICLES (2018)
Hat Trick
Unsettled by the machinations of Winslow and Barker, Moses, vodka in hand, returned to his former seat at the now empty table. He need not be an ace deducer of silences to read trouble in Jay’s herky-jerky walk as she returned to the table holding two glasses of wine. With some difficulty, she managed to sit down. She drank down one of the glasses. “You’ll have to drive. Oh, Moses …” She blew her nose in a napkin. She picked up his icy-cold vodka glass and held it against her forehead as she talked. “Salome is trying to stop you from seeing Persephone. And she went off on Laluna, saying she isn’t fit to raise Perse. They’re at war and I’m not sure who is going to win.”
Moses let out an overly loud, “Fuck that.” He took the vodka glass from her and downed it in three gulps and stood up. Jay, almost relieved, thought Moses meant to speak to Laluna to find out more. Jay could only hope that Laluna would ask Moses about Persephone and save her from confessing her breach.
Moses marched down the path leading to the cottage, composing the first words he’d ever speak to his mother. He heard muffled music. He knocked on the door. Ten seconds later he knocked again. Harder. The music lowered, and she appeared in the doorway as he’d never seen her in photos: in a paint-splattered orange T-shirt — her arms, bony thin — white cotton pants, a pink kerchief around her neck, complexion translucent, skin almost scaly. Her spirit, though, showed no loss of vigor, no signs of surrender to aging or fatigue. “At last, you made the pilgrimage. Sorry, it’s too late, my overture expired.”
“What overture? You did everything in your power to deny me. And you’re trying to deny me Persephone.”
Salome deliberated before taking a step toward him and shutting the door behind her. “I tried to reach you through our DNA. When you didn’t respond, I determined you are not truly my son.”
Undeterred, Moses countered, “I am your son. I’ll never figure out why you hate me because I didn’t die. If my father was that evil … This is not about him. It’s not even about you and me. I’m not foolish enough to doubt you can make me bleed again. I accept, finally, that there will be no happy or even sorrowful sunset moment of reunion. We share only this — an unhealable rift.”
Salome touched Moses’s left cheek with the crinkled skin of her fingers. For the first time since his birth, her flesh met his flesh. It did not burn. Nor did it heal.
“I am sorry and also I am not sorry,” she said. “More often than anyone likes to believe, our choices are made for, not by, us.”
Moses refused to rebut her excuses. “Laluna is Persephone’s mother, not you. You don’t have the power to deprive me of seeing her.”
“Teumer was wrong. You do have balls. Oh, yes, ever beneficent, he sent me a copy of the letter he gave Alchemy for you.”
Moses’s head bowed. Eyes closed. Mouth parched. Tongue thickened. So much of his life remained lost in a miasma of obfuscations and misconceptions. Salome reached out and tilted his chin upward. “For the good of all, for all you believe in, release yourself from Alchemy and let him fulfill his destiny.” Then she clapped her hands at the air between them. “Moses …”—she said his name, her son’s name, not with derision but compassion—“stay.” She disappeared into the studio. She returned holding a tattered red beret. “I only met my mother one time. She gave me this. I bequeath it to you. Now please, please leave us.” She placed it delicately on his head, turned, and retreated, locking the door behind her.