As for the Brunists, they now gave interviews freely to anyone but him, held open house daily, posed for photos, appeared gladly on radio and television. Last night, Ben Wosznik had given a touching account of his conversion, had sung a few songs he had composed, had spoken simply but convincingly of each of his fellow Brunists, and had even managed to turn so grotesque an object as that scabby black hand — still one of their altar relics and getting them a lot of mileage in the East Condon newspapers — into a moving symbol of the persecution that besets the holy. As for Marcella, Miller, staring again at his front-page group photo, hardly recognized her. Ralph Himebaugh and Eleanor Norton were holding her up, and her head lolled foolishly on Himebaugh’s shoulder. Her hair hung down haglike past her ears, past her face, now a dull matte white. Those eyes that had so captivated him now stared vapidly out past the camera, too large for this face, all their bright glitter gone. The others in the photo were pale and solemn, posed stiffly as in old daguerrotypes, heads high, hands folded, chins up … “such a one caught up, even to the third heaven …”
He realized that his own mind had also been, subtly, geared for an end tomorrow: Monday had been and still was an unreality. Projects always did that. They set up something that looked hard and real, something to aim at, but they always concealed then the thick tangle of endless ambiguities that were the one true thing of this world. For Miller, there was nothing worse than the end of a project: cold sweats, nausea, couldn’t eat — like shaking a habit. Even knowing that though, he could never resist launching new ones. The reason was: it was that or nothing, and nothing was not good at all. There was, of course, the alternative of the lifetime project instead of all these short ones, but he feared a greater despair, the midproject collapse. He could only make himself believe in a game a short time, and he preferred to take a lot of short hard falls than one long sickening and endless drop. Did Happy Bottom guess this? Did she see that Monday must come? It didn’t matter; forget it. He tossed the paper in a trash barrel and went home, there to crawl in a white hole with a great white mole, split white thighs and sleep a white sleep.
Marcella wakes from a distant place. An inexplicable chill. She supposes that, kissed by Death, she is dead. Her body is still bare as He left it, the tunic rolled up to her throat. The house is filled with noise. Her wake? Yet, when she rolls her ear into the pillow, she hears the beating of a heart. Can it be hers? Has she returned?
Freshly showered, richly fed, mildly drunk, the phone unplugged, the doors locked, and the blinds pulled, Happy Bottom and the West Condon Tiger lay face to fork, listening to the merry secular twang of Yogi Bear on the bedroom television, each contemplating in his/her own way that peculiar piece of anatomy toward which he/she was so relentlessly drawn, tasting it, toying with it, slowly drifting out of this time and this place, out of particularity toward union with the One. Classical copulation, belly to belly, was of course the true magical experience: the illusion of having solved the Great Mystery, simply because the parts seemed to fit. Antipodally, on the other hand, the parts no longer fit, and analogues had to be improvised. But, thus stripped of magic, it was closer to a pure mystical experience, for contemplation of the mystery was direct, enhanced by the strange fact that one could not imagine the thoughts of one’s partner, since one could not, without repugnance, imagine the partner’s perspective, being able only to feel — literally — the other’s hunger and excitement, the other’s joy. Though each knew, better even than any part of himself/herself, that concavity/convexity that he/she kissed, it nevertheless remained utterly unimaginable to him/her, impossible, always incredibly new. A tasty cornflakes commercial was the ding-dong epithalamium that accompanied their gradual ascent into blessedness. Happy’s thighs twitched, kicked, cuffed his ears, her bottom leapt, her fingers scurried, burrowed, clawed, kneaded, her mouth raged—
“This man, Giovanni Bruno, was born thirty-four years ago next November, the fourth child of five of Antonio Bruno, an immigrant Italian coalminer, and his wife Emilia. Three months ago — or to be precise, fourteen Sundays ago tomorrow — he was rescued from a mine disaster that killed ninety-seven men. Tomorrow, he and a band of devout followers anticipate the end of the world. The astonishing story of the Brunists of West Condon, after this message …”
Miller recognized it. He had written it. He’d forgot it was to be televised tonight. If Happy noticed his sudden distraction, she gave no sign of it. Unless an increased fervency was in fact a sign—
“… Little is known of Giovanni Bruno’s boyhood, but that is not to say that it was uneventful. It was a time of physical and psychological insecurity, a time of anti-union violence and inter-union wars, a time of Ku-Klux Klan persecutions of immigrant Catholics, and particularly of Italians, of whom, by 1920, there were more than twice as many working the American coal beds as any other nationality. It was a time when coalmines were closing and jobs were few. Then came the crash of 1929, and by 1933, West Condon’s largest industry was relief. West Condon then was a town of intense poverty, of hatred and suspicion, of prohibition gangsterism, of corruption and lawlessness. The mines still operating paid fifty cents an hour at the coalface, and life at that face was miserable and precarious. Death came quickly and brutally, and families such as the Brunos lived in its shadow. It came by fire, by falling rock and coal, by powder and methane explosions, by the crushing impact of mine cars and locomotives, by falls down shafts. Knees swelled, spines were broken, arms were crushed, lungs were scarred, eyes lost their vision. Both of Giovanni Bruno’s brothers were killed in the mines, and his father was made a virtual invalid the last ten years of his life …”
Losing it, the ascendant thrust, the flight from the immediate, Miller wondered if he should risk breaking their convulsive circle to go turn the goddamn set off. But, as he pulled his head back, Happy flashed out with her top thigh, rolled him to his back, pinning him, and down fell the mighty hero of the sun, undone by the dragon Ouroboros, primordial and true….
“… Like all his family before him, Giovanni Bruno, too, left school at an early age and entered the mines. Here you see him as he appeared in his high school class photo. He was considered, by the principal, John Bradley, a poor student, withdrawn and friendless.” [John Bradley: “Yes, I remember the boy well. He was never in any trouble, and he seemed intelligent enough, but he was poorly adjusted. When he left school at the legal age of sixteen, he still had not completed what we consider freshman or ninth grade work. He was — how shall I put it? — he was peculiar.”] “About that same time, Giovanni suffered what was apparently a sudden revolt from orthodox Roman Catholicism. Until then unusually devout, spending most of his free time in the Church, serving first as an altar boy, then as lay assistant to the right Reverend Battista Baglione here in West Condon, he suddenly separated himself from the Church and has not been known to have set foot inside it during these subsequent sixteen or seventeen years.” [Father Baglione: “Yes, I t’ink, uh, de ’eresy, yes, is cause, uh, by de, uh, de pride.”]
Those mountains, their valley twice pierced, now pitched, plunged, even as though angry, displaying against the gray-green wall beyond their vibrant silhouette of a rounded M, and in him a dark inscrutable river ran fast and deep …