“Even artists can do terrible, monstrous things,” Gandhi said. He was hunched over, his narrow shoulders quivering. He always seemed nervous, or cold, a fleshless twig of a figure. “They’re, well they’re not like the rest of us, are they? They live very different lives. But still, he seems out of place in that list. What did he do, or rather, what did he do in your scenario?”
“Walter, he had all these mistresses…”
“Ha, he loved women,” Falstaff said. “Perhaps just too much?”
“Did he love them?” Bogart said. “I know he thought he did, and other people thought he did. That’s the leg—gend, isn’t it? How much he loved, how much he ob—obsessed over women? He could be quite… pass—ssionate. Dora, one of the mistresses, she’d been young when he met her. He liked to do that, he’d groo—, he’d meet them young. But he beat her; he’d leave her unconscious on the floor. I’m not saying he was any Hitler, or Mussolini, I’m not saying he was anywhere n—near their league, but he still d—did terrible things to them, s—small things on the s—scale of world h—history, but h—huge things on the s—scale of their l—lives. Little evils. I just don’t know why the roaches chose me for this one!”
“Try to stay calm,” Daniel said. “You’re not responsible, remember? Just keep going—what happened?”
“Well, and then there w—was Francoise, the one who foll—replaced Dora, he burned her face with—he put a lit cigarette, out, on her face. They either had to be goddesses or doormats to him. There seemed, there was no in between.”
“Times were different, things were looked at differently,” Lenin said. “But the art! You cannot deny he was a wonderful artist!”
A raw-throated howl ripped through the room from somewhere below. It was a telling measure of how accustomed they’d all become to the werewolf’s loud protests that Bogart paused only a breath or two, and no one looked around.
Bogart clutched Falstaff’s arm, quaking. “You said that the roles they—they have us live here, that they have nothing to do with who we are, who we were back in our old li—ives. Just because we play m—monsters, doesn’t mean we are monsters. You meant that.”
Daniel, suddenly full of suspicion, watched Falstaff’s face. He listened intently to his response.
“The latter part, certainly, is true. Simply because you play one of these roles doesn’t mean you are them, that you are responsible for what they do. But I won’t pretend to know how these roles are selected, or why any one of us was chosen to be here in the first place. What’s bothering you, Alan? Are you married, in your other life?”
“I was. I am.”
“Is it a good marriage?”
Bogart slowly began rubbing his face up and down, wiggling his fingers slightly, massaging, as if trying to wake himself up, or to cleanse himself of a profound fatigue.
“I used to wonder,” he began, “what happiness would look like. I should have been—been happy. I was, am, married to a woman I pursued for years. I knew April from hu—high school, although I was never able to work up the co—courage to speak to her then, and I mus—I admit I used to get furious with her sim—simply because I was too afraid to talk to her.
“I signed up for this biology class in co—college, walked in the first day and there she was. We weren’t lab partners, but we were in the same ai—ai—row, and now and—and then I was able to strike up a conversation. I eventually asked her out, and of—of course she said no, she was dating someone. But I made sure to be where I thought she would be. I figured out her cla—class schedule and I made sure I was there, somewhere along the pa—path, when she got out, even if it meant missing some classes of my own, just so I could run into her. I really wasn’t stalking her—I was ju—just making myself available.
“Then one day she was pretty upset, and it turns out they’d broken up the night before and well, there was my ch—chance. It still took a while, but even—even—fi—finally she agreed to go out with me. It wasn’t love at first sight for her then—I had to work for it—but maybe that’s best. I mean, that’s always the best, isn’t it?
“I told her she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. And it embarrassed her that I said it. ‘It’s just too much,’ she would say. ‘You always go too far.’ But I still think she liked hearing it just the same. I told her I—I loved her on the sec—second or third date. Some would argue tha—that’s too soon, but I don’t agree.
“She became pregnant, although I think we were pret—pretty careful. So it just seemed a fore—foregone conclusion we’d get married. She didn’t seem exactly enthusiastic about it. She seemed, well, she was tired most of the time, so I understood. Now we have two wonderful, two beautiful daughters. I dote on them. She says I spoil them. But they’re incredible, the best thing about my life. A father has a special opportunity with—with daughters, I think. Your love for them, it can be like the p—purest statement of affection between a male and a female. B—because there isn’t the question of sex, or pride, or competition, to trouble you. There’s just this full—fullness of love, and generosity, because you can look at them without all the annoying d—distractions that happen between men and women. You just want them to be e—everything they can be—my g—girls are so smart, so capable—and I can’t stand the idea that they m—might miss out on opportunities because of their g—ender, or m—ale expectations. I’m a great fem—feminist in that way, I suppose, even more than my wife and daughters.
“I think per—per—m—maybe April had fallen out of love with me by the day of the wedding. Why do—do they do that, go through with something they don’t even f—feel anymore? Is it a p—power thing? Do you know what it’s like to f—feel that lack of affection, to know that her at—attitude has changed, but she still won’t tell you, she still won’t a—admit it? It’s dev—devastating. It was clear she didn’t want to have s—sex with me anymore, although she still a—agreed to it. At least at first.
“Do you know how to tell a woman’s feelings for you have changed? Every little thing you do a—annoys her, everything you say. It’s like she can—can’t stand you anym—m—more, and you have no clue what you’ve d—done. She acts like you think you m—must know everything, but that you’re stupid and just h—haven’t figured it out y—yet. You’re the dumbest, most pa—pathetic human being p—possible, incapable of the most n—normal things. You’re like this new b—breed of subhuman. You thought you were e—evolved, that you were fully hu-human, but everyone else knew you weren’t, so they either l—laughed at you or they p—pitied you, and you were too d—dumb to recognize any of it.
“So this isn’t the ma—marriage I was p—promised. Not that she actually promised how it w—would be, but you a—assume, be—because of custom and cu—culture that you’re g—going to be p-partners, that she’s going to l—love you and be physically attracted to you and just that there’s this unbr—breakable b—bond.
“But it hasn’t been like that for us at all, except aro—around the girls. Around the g—girls she could pre—pretend we were this ideal c—couple. She’s never said a b—bad thing about me in front of the g—girls—I’ll have to g—give her that.
“She stopped having sex with m—me. Oh, for a while she m—made the usual la—lame excuses, she had a headache, she was t—tired, she had to get up early in the m—morning. But the last couple of years she’s just said ‘I don’t w—want to.’ Just like that. No w—wiggle room at all. Doesn’t she re—realize that m—marriage is a contract? And like with any co—contract there are ex—expectations and o—obligations?