“Celebrities?”
“Celebrity, singular. Plural but singular. The ultimate celebrity.”
“And who’s that?”
“G-d. Janus.”
“They’re pictures of God?”
Harry remained calm, drawing on his vast experience of watching hostage-negotiators in movies & television shows.
“Of Janus, the 2-headed G-d. Man must invoke Him first, as He is the initiator of human life.”
Jerzy propped them against a wall then sat down. Suddenly he looked confounded & grey. Harry thought: this is the part in the movie where I press the button under the desk to activate the silent alarm.
Harry stood & said, “Let’s see what you brought.”
(Be proactive.)
Without glancing at his friend & employer, Jerzy nodded. When he looked like he was going to pass out, Harry transferred him to the floor. Harry’s impulse to call 911 was coldly overruled by a quickly growing curiosity.
He began to undo the string around one of the blankets. Jerzy came to long enough to stop him, ordering which direction the pictures should face for maximum viewing impact.
“Be careful.”
“Careful of what?”
“Be humble. If you’re humble—”
The blankets were off. Because he’d done what Jerzy told him to, only the back of the frames were visible; the images faced the wall.
“OK?” said Harry, seeking permission to continue.
“OK. You can turn them.”
The front of each panel was bare, except for a large boutonniere of thick photographic paper stuck to it, & folded in on itself, origami-like. Jerzy nodded out/mouthbreathed whilst Harry went to work unpacking the papery excrescence. Finally 2 enormous images blossomed from each canvas, lying flat — at least 10 × 10 apiece. There was only room to lean them against opposing walls.
Harry stood back.
Too abstract — he couldn’t make anything out. Except for in the center of each photo was fused a smaller, unadulterated, recognizable photo. Harry took a closer look…
How strange! The images grafted onto the very solar plexus of both blowups seemed to be — no, they were—those of the telltale panty-sliver of a traditional (blue chip) honeyshot! beaver. The clarity & tautness, the drama of silk hose, the moment of automobiliac egress suspended in Time, the delicate, classical composition drawing one’s eyes toward the single Great Eye of all creation — hallmarks of Jerzy’s craft & best work.
But as for the abstractions that surrounded the 2 honeyshots! — ––
“I don’t quite… understand. I can’t see…”
“Can’t you?” said Jerzy.
The unexpected voice, the presence of it, startled him. Jerzy held some glossy heaps (more folded paper) in his hand. He reached out, offering them to Harry. Jerzy’s arm shook: it was scarlet, flecked, bruised by whole brown cities of needlemarks.
Harry took them from him, uncrumpling a printout from Wikipedia, plus two shiny pages torn from a magazine. Some of the wiki passages had been highlighted:
As a god of motion Janus looks after passages, causes the startings of actions, presides on all beginnings and since movement and change are bivalent, he has a double nature, symbolised in his two headed image.[23]
He has under his tutelage the stepping in and out of the door
of homes,[24] Because of his initial nature he was frequently used to symbolize change and transitions such as the progression of past to future, of one condition to another, of one vision to another
, the growing up of young people,
and of one universe to another. He was also known as the figure representing time because he could see into the past with one face and into the future with the other. while Janus is Iunonius Juno is Ianualis as she favours delivery,
women’s physiological cycle and opens doors.[11
3]
Now Harry saw, but still could not apprehend.
(Yet there was great skill&beauty in what Jerzy had done.)
But what could it all mean?
“I can’t—––—”
“Those pictures,” said Jerzy, helping out his friend, “are of G-d, taken as He stepped from his golden carriage. As you can see, there are 2 of Him: His name is Janus & He has 2 faces. We privileged few bore witness as He arrived for His merciful works.”
Jerzy closed his eyes in exhaustion.
Harry dialed 911.
& while the sirens grew louder, the maestro of THE HONEYSHOT! tried to fathom what kind of madness had led his star pupil to see the face of God in a mantis & a hummingbird.
~ ~ ~
CLEAN [Bud]
The Art of Fiction, Part Three
Bud’s
hip surgery didn’t go well. An infection required another procedure. A few weeks later, he got pneumonia. He probably picked it up in the hospital. The doctor said, “It happens. We don’t like it when it does, but it does.”
The narcotics constipated him. He’d never been one to examine his own shit, but fitfully peered into the bowl after each eely expulsion. They were usually curled neatly at the very bottom, guilty dogs avoiding their master’s gaze.
Around the time he started to convalesce, Dolly shed her fear of falling. A week after his surgery, she did something she hadn’t been able to in a number of years — walked down the two short flights of stairs to Bud’s bedroom, unassisted.
Everyone remarked on her high spirits. She began taking outside walks. The caregivers noticed a lilt in her step, a sprightliness. Marta said it was almost as if he took the fall for her, & Dolly’s fears along with it.
. .
As Tolkin had suggested, Bud tried to find comedy in the story of the drowned girl. He played around with the idea of a mermaid but so far nothing gelled. He even netflixed Splash to see if it would give him any ideas. He only watched for a little while — it was more fun to chase Daryl Hannah all over the Internet instead. Bud’s habit had grown; he was up to three percocets an hour. He was supposed to use the nebulizer a half-dozen times a day, but never did. Twice at most.
. .
This year’s Guggenheim grant winners were listed in a full page of The New York Times. He always wondered how they were chosen. The Foundation’s website said there was a “Committee of Selection” that consulted with distinguished scholars and artists for guidance in awarding applicants. Among the committee were Toni Morrison, Patti Smith, Steve Martin, Fran Lebowitz, David Simon, Joyce Carol Oates, & James Franco.
. .
He watched some of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. One of the wives had just moved, and someone asked her where. She said, “Bel-Air.” “Where were you living before?” asked the friend. “Bel-Air,” said the wife.
. .
Michael’s New Zealand movie, Misericord, had a Facebook page. It already had a release date. One of the producers was known as the old guy who liked to blog as a way of reaching out to fans; he loved live-streaming Twitter “orgies.” In the last one he participated in, someone asked about a rumor that the director and star were at each other’s throats during the shoot. The producer said the rumor was “Internet horseshit.”