My wife was hysterical. She still held the glasses fixed on every nuance and vibration of loss and deprivation on the poor idiot's face. Her mouth was spoiled with triumph.
My God! I cried in the uproar. Get off the stage! I yelled within, wishing I could really yell it. At least get out while you have some pride!
The laughter had erupted a volcano in the theater, high and rumbling and dark. The dim grotto seemed lit with unhealthy fever, an incandescence. My twin wanted to break off, like one of Pavlov's dogs, too many bells on too many days: no reward, no food. His eyes were glazed with his insane predicament.
Fall! Jump in the pit! Crawl away! I thought.
The orchestra sawed at destiny with violins and Valkyrian trumpets in full flood.
With one last snatch, one last contemptuous wag of her body, Miss Quick grasped my twin's clean white shirt, and yanked it off.
She threw the shirt in the air. As it fell, so did his pants As his pants fell, unbelted, so did the theater. An avalanche of shock soared to bang the rafters and roll over us in echoes a thundering hilarity.
The curtain fell.
We sat, covered with unseen rubble. Drained of blood, buried in one upheaval after another, degraded and autopsied and, minus eulogy, tossed into a mass grave, we men took a minute to stare at that dropped curtain, behind which hid the pickpocket and her victims, behind which a man quickly hoisted his trousers up his spindly legs.
A burst of applause, a prolonged tide on a dark shore. Miss Quick did not appear to bow. She did not need to. She was standing behind the curtain. I could feel her there, no smile, no expression. Standing, coldly estimating the caliber of the applause, comparing it to the metered remembrances of other nights.
I jumped up in an absolute rage. I had, after all, failed myself. When I should have ducked, I bobbed; when I should have backed off, I ran in. What an ass!
«What a fine show!» said my wife as we milled through the departing audience.
«Fine!» I cried.
«Didn't you like it?»
«All except the pickpocket. Obvious act, overdone, no subtlety,» I said, lighting a cigarette.
«She was a whiz!»
«This way.» I steered my wife toward the stage door.
«Of course,» said my wife blandly, «that man, the one who looks like you, he was a plant. They call them shills, don't they? Paid by the management to pretend to be part of the audience?»
«No man would take money for a spectacle like that,» I said. «No, he was just some boob who didn't know how to be careful.»
«What are we doing back here?»
Blinking around, we found we were backstage.
Perhaps I wished to stride up to my twin, shouting, «Half-baked ox! Insulter of all men! Play a flute: you dance. Tickle your chin: you jump like a puppet! Jerk!»
The truth was, of course, I must see my twin close-up, confront the traitor and see where his true flesh differed from mine. After all, wouldn't I have done better in his place?!
The backstage was lit in blooms and isolated flushes, now bright, now dark, where the other magicians stood chatting. And there, there was Miss Quick!
And there, smiling, was my twin!
«You did fine, Charlie,» said Miss Quick.
My twin's name was Charlie. Stupid name.
Charlie patted Miss Quick's cheek. «You did fine, ma'am!»
God, it was true! A shill, a confederate. Paid what? Five, ten dollars for letting his shirt be torn oft, letting his pants drop with his pride? What a turncoat, traitor!
I stood, glaring.
He glanced up.
Perhaps he saw me.
Perhaps some bit of my rage and impacted sorrow reached him.
He held my gaze for only a moment, his mouth wide, as if he had just seen an old school chum. But, not remembering my name, could not call out, so let the moment pass.
He saw my rage. His face paled. His smile died. He glanced quickly away. He did not look up again, but stood pretending to listen to Miss Quick, who was laughing and talking with the other magicians.
I stared at him and stared again. Sweat oiled his face. My hate melted. My temper cooled. I saw his profile clearly, his chin, eyes, nose, hairline; I memorized it all. Then I heard someone say:
«It was a fine show!»
My wife, moving forward, shook the hand of the pickpocketing beast.
On the street, I said, «Well, I'm satisfied.»
«About what?» asked my wife.
«He doesn't look like me at all. Chin's too sharp. Nose is smaller. Lower lip isn't full enough. Too much eyebrow. Onstage, far oft, had me going. But close up, no, no. It was the crew cut and horn-rims fooled us. Anyone could have horn-rims and a crew cut.»
«Yes,» my wife agreed, «anyone.»
As she climbed into our car, I could not help but admire her long, lovely legs.
Driving off, I thought I glimpsed that familiar face in the passing crowd. The face, however, was watching me. I wasn't sure. Resemblances, I now knew, are superficial.
The face vanished in the crowd.
«I'll never forget,» said my wife, «when his pants-fell!» I drove very fast, then drove very slow, all the way home.
Dorian In Excelsus
1996 year
Good evening. Welcome. I see you have my invitation in your hands. Decided to be brave, did you? Fine. Here we are Grab onto this.»
The tall, handsome stranger with the heavenly eyes and the impossibly blond hair handed me a wineglass.
«Clean your palate,» he said.
I took the glass and read the label on the bottle he held in his left hand. Bordeaux, it read. St. Emilion.
«Go on,» said my host. «It's not poison. May I sit? And might you drink?»
«I might,» I sipped, shut my eyes, and smiled. «You're a connoisseur. This is the best I've had in years. But why this wine and why the invitation? What am I doing here at Gray's Anatomy Bar and Grill?»
My host sat and filled his own glass. «I am doing a favor to myself. This is a great night, perhaps for both of us. Greater than Christmas or Halloween.» His lizard tongue darted into his wine to vanish back into his contentment. «We celebrate my being honored, at last becoming-«
He exhaled it all out:
«Becoming,» he said, «a friend to Dorian! Dorian's friend. Me!»
«Ah.» I laughed. «That explains the name of this place, then? Does Dorian own Gray's Anatomy?»
«More! Inspires and rules over it. And deservedly so.»
«You make it sound as if being a friend to Dorian is the most important thing in the world.»
«No! In life! In all of life.» He rocked back and forth, drunk not from the wine but from some inner joy. «Guess.»
«At what?»
«How old I am!»
«You look to be twenty-nine at the most.»
«Twenty-nine. What a lovely sound. Not thirty, forty, or fifty, but-«
I said, «I hope you're not going to ask what sign I was born under. I usually leave when people ask that. I was born on the cusp, August, 1920.» I pretended to half rise. He pressed a gentle hand to my lapel.
«No, no, dear boy-you don't understand. Look here. And here.» He touched under his eyes and then around his neck. «Look for wrinkles.»
«But you have none,» I said.
«How observant. None. And that is why I have become this very night a fresh, new, stunningly handsome friend to Dorian.»
«I still don't see the connection.»
«Look at the backs of my hands.» He showed his wrists. «No liver spots. I am not turning to rust. I repeat the question, how old am I?»
I swirled the wine in my glass and studied his reflection in the swirl.
«Sixty?» I guessed. «Seventy?»
«Good God!» He fell back in his chair, astonished. «How did you know?»