Robert Silverberg: The Book of Skulls

“In the John,” I told him.

“For crap’s sake.” Timothy went off to fetch him. Emerging a moment later with a sulky Ned, Ned accompanied by a six-foot-six version of Oliver, maybe sixteen years old, a young Apollo with shoulder-length tresses and a lavender headband. A quick worker, Ned. Five seconds to size things up, thirty seconds more to locate the head and scout up a little rough trade. Timothy now cramping his style, ruining dreams of an exquisite beating in some East Village pad. Of course we had no time now to let Ned indulge his whims. Timothy said something curt to Ned’s find and Ned said something sourly to Timothy; the Apollo went hulking off and we four cleared out. Up the block to supposedly more reliable haunts, The Plastic Cave, where Timothy had gone with Oliver several times last year. Futuristic decor, undulating sheets of thick, shimmering gray plastic all over, waiters togged out in garish science-fiction costumes, periodic outbursts of strobe lights, every ten minutes or so a numbing hammering blare of hard rock smashing out of fifty speakers. More of a discotheque than a singles bar, really, but functioning as both. Much favored by Columbia and Barnard swingers, also utilized by girls from Hunter; high-schoolies are made to feel unwanted. To me it was an alien environment. I have no sense of contemporary chic; I’d rather sit around coffeehouses, swill cappuccino, and talk Big Thinks than do the singles/discotheque number. Rilke instead of rock, Plotinus instead of plastic. “Man, you’re straight out of 1957!” Timothy once told me. Timothy with the Republican brush-fuzz haircut.

The main project for tonight was to find a place to sleep, that is, to acquire girls with a flat capable of accommodating four male guests. Timothy would take care of that, and if he found the pickings slim we could always unleash Oliver. This was their kind of world. I would feel less out of place at high mass at St. Patrick’s. This was Zanzibar to me, and I suppose Timbuctoo to Ned, although with his chameleon adaptability he was able to fit right in. Thwarted in his natural desires by Timothy, he now chose to fly the hetero flag, and in his usual perverse fashion he had picked out the ugliest girl in sight, a pasty-faced heavy with sprawling cannonball breasts under a sagging red sweater. He was giving her the high-voltage seduction treatment, most likely coming on like a gay Raskolnikov looking to her to save him from a tormented life of buggery. As he purred in her ear she kept moistening her lips and blushing, and batting her eyes, and fingering the crucifix, yes, the crucifix , that hung between her jumbo bazooms. Some Sally McNally fresh out of Mother Cabrini High and not long parted from her cherry, and what a job that was getting rid of it, and now, praise all the saints, someone was actually trying to make her! Doubtless Ned was going into the spoiled-priest routine, the failed-Jesuit number, donning his aura of decadence and romantic Catholic angst. Would he really follow through? Yes, he would. As a poet in quest of Experience he frequently went slumming in the other sex. seducing always the dogs and creeps, the debris of the gender, a one-armed girl, a girl with half a jawbone, a stork twice his height, etc., etc. Ned’s idea of black humor. In truth he got laid more often than I did, gay as he was, though his conquests were no prizes except booby prizes. He claimed to take no pleasure in the act, only in the cruel game of the chase itself. See, he said, tonight you will not let me have Alcibiades, therefore I choose Xantippe. He mocked the whole straight world with his pursuit of the deformed and the undesired.

I studied his technique awhile. I spend too much time watching things. I should have been out and prowling instead. If intensity and intellectualism were currently fashionable commodities here, why did I not peddle mine for a little tail? Are you above the merely physical, Eli? Come off it; you’re just clumsy with girls. I bought myself a whiskey sour (creeping 1957ism again! Who drinks mixed drinks now?) and turned away from the bar. Clumsy is as clumsy does. I collided with a short, dark-haired girl and spilled half my drink. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” we both said at once. She looked terrified, a frightened fawn. Slender, bird-boned, hardly five feet tall, shining solemn eyes, a prominent nose ( shayneh maideleh ! A member of the tribe!). A turquoise semi-see-through blouse revealing a pink brassiere beneath, indicating some ambivalence about contemporary mores. Our shyness kindled a spark; I felt heat at my crotch, heat in my cheeks, and picked up from her the bright warmth of reciprocal combustion.

Sometimes it hits you so unmistakably that you wonder why everyone around doesn’t start to cheer. We found a minuscle table and mumbled husky introductions. Mickey Bernstein, meet Eli Steinfeld. Eli, Mickey. What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?

She was a Hunter sophomore, government major, family from Kew Gardens; she shared an apartment with four other girls at Third and Seventieth. I thought I had found us our lodgings for the night — imagine, Eli the schmendrick scoring a crash! — but quickly I got the impression that the apartment was really two bedrooms and a kitchenette and wasn’t set up for that much company. She was quick to tell me that she didn’t often go to singles-places, in fact almost never, but her roommate had dragged her out tonight to celebrate the beginning of the Easter recess — indicating the roommate, tall skinny acne-pocked gawk conferring earnestly with a gangling shaggy-bearded type dressed in 1968 floral mod — and so here she was, ill at ease, deafened by the noise, and would I please get her a cherry Coke? Suave man-of-the-world Steinfeld nailed a passing Martian and placed the order. One buck, please. Ouch. Mickey asked me what I was studying. Trapped. All right, pedant, reveal yourself. “Early medieval philology,” I said. “The disintegration of Latin into the Romance languages. I could sing you obscene ballads in Provencal, if I could sing.” She laughed, too loudly. “Oh, I have a terrible voice, too!” she cried. “But you can recite one, if you like.” Shyly taking my hand, since I had been too scholarly to think of taking hers. I said, half shouting the words into the din,

And so forth. Utterly snowed her. “Was that awfully dirty?” she asked at the end.

“Not at all. It’s a tender love song, Bernart de Venta-dorn, twelfth century.”

“You recited it so beautifully.” I translated it and felt the waves of adulation coming at me. Take me, do me, she was telepathing. I calculated that she had had sexual intercourse nine times with two different men and was still nervously searching for her first orgasm, while worrying a good deal about whether she was becoming too promiscuous too soon. I was willing to do my best, blowing in her ear and whispering little treasures from the Provencal. But how could we get out of here? Where could we go? Wildly I looked around. Timothy had his arm around a frighteningly beautiful girl with sweeping cascades of glossy auburn hair. Oliver had snared two birds, brunette and blonde: the old farmboy charm at work. Ned still courted his pudgy paramour. Perhaps one of them would come up with something, a nearby apartment, bedrooms for everybody. I turned back to Mickey and she said, “We’re having a little party Saturday night. A few really groovy musicians are coming over, I mean, classical, and perhaps if you’re free you might—”

“By Saturday night I’ll be in Arizona.”

“Arizona! Is that where you’re from?”

“I’m from Manhattan.”