Rona Jaffe - Mazes and Monsters

“How much what?”

“How much money?”

“Very little,” Pardieu said sadly.

“I noticed.” She surveyed him carefully. “You’re kind of old for these chicken hawks, but you are cute. Ask him for twenty.”

“Twenty coins?”

“Twenty bucks, Par-doo. And don’t tell him your name is Par-doo. Say you’re Paul.”

“Paul,” Pardieu said. He nodded. “My name is Paul. Do I ask first or does he offer first?”

“Usually he asks.” She laughed. “The small talk is not terrific on this street. Hey, did you ever read Catcher in the Rye? ”

“No,” Pardieu said.

“That was the last book I read before I left home. I loved it. This guy wants to stand in a field full of rye and catch little kids before they fall off a cliff. His only friend is a little girl. At the end he goes crazy and they put him away, but it’s really kind of the world that’s crazy. I don’t know why being with you reminded me of that book just now. Oh, well.”

“That was a fine tale,” Pardieu said politely. “Thank you.”

“Sure.”

They went back to the Street of Messages and waited, several feet apart from each other, as was everyone, and soon her messenger came and she went away with him. As she walked away she tossed Pardieu an encouraging glance. He smiled back at her, filled with fellowship and pure love. He knew tonight was the night he would find his answer.

His messenger was an ordinary-looking, respectably dressed man. Pardieu was relieved to see that the look in his dark eyes was not of fear but only of discomfort and a kind of desperate nervousness. It was not Pardieu the messenger was afraid of.

“How much?” the messenger asked.

“Twenty bucks,” Pardieu said.

The man nodded and began to walk. Pardieu walked along beside him. His heart was pounding with excitement and he longed to ask many questions, but he remembered he was to say nothing. Are we going to The Great Hall, he thought; at last? Are we?

“What’s your name?” the messenger said, finally.

“Paul.”

The messenger nodded again and did not reply. They walked to an old and very unpleasant-looking inn, dimly lit and grimy, where the man led the way up a flight of stairs and unlocked the door to a small room. In this room was a bed, a wooden chest, and a chair. It was lit from the outside by the brightly colored lamps that glittered in the street.

“I like it dark,” the man said.

Pardieu waited.

The man began to disrobe then, removing his respectable clothing, and Pardieu wondered if underneath this disguise there would be armor or perhaps the raiment of some superior being. “Hurry up,” the man said.

“Hurry up what?”

“Take your clothes off.”

Why? Pardieu did not understand why he suddenly felt afraid. Where were they going with no clothing? He would not give up his pouch of magic spells, nor his sword, for without them he was helpless. He stood there, thinking perhaps he should obey, for he had waited so long for this messenger, and yet …

The messenger was almost naked now, and he only looked like a mortal man. In two swift steps he was across the room facing Pardieu, and he took hold of his robe. “Come on!” he said in a rough voice. Then, with no warning, he placed frantic hands on Pardieu’s most private place, and when Pardieu looked at him in panic he saw that the man was fully aroused.

He had been tricked! This was no man, but a succubus, intent on rape. Pardieu knew of such things, and once a succubus entered your body you were in its power. He flung the spell of paralyzation, heart beating wildly now with fear. The spell did not work ! How could this be possible? This was a most powerful demon indeed, but Pardieu had other charms, other spells. He gulped down the remainder of his potion of invisibility. The dragon had not seen him — nor would this succubus now. The succubus was holding him tightly, trying to place its mouth on him, determined to rape what it could feel but could not see. Pardieu was terrified. He twisted to get away from the demon’s grasp, but the strength of his adversary was greater than his own. Fasting and privation had made him weak, and a succubus was a hundred times stronger than even a healthy mortal.

Pardieu unsheathed his sword, and with a last mighty rush of strength he pushed the sword into the monster’s chest.

He was let loose. The succubus’s face distorted with slack-mouthed fear, then pain, and then finally it sank silently to the floor. It was dead. Pardieu turned and ran away, out of that room, out of that vile inn, out to the street, and as far as his shaking legs could carry him.

Robbie found himself on the street — a strange street, in a strange city, at night — and he did not remember how he had gotten there. He caught a glimpse of himself in a store window as he passed, and he gasped. He had a little beard and mustache, his hair was longer than usual, and his face was emaciated. His eyes looked enormous. His jeans and Windbreaker were filthy, and he could see that he had tightened his belt to the tightest hole to keep his jeans up. How long had he been out of it? Weeks? Months? Where was he?

He looked at his watch. It was midnight. This was the underbelly of some city: porno flicks, hookers, junkies, everything garish and dirty. Then he recognized it. He was in. New York. All the taxis had New York license plates. He was on West Forty-second Street, and he had had amnesia, and he was so frightened he could not bear it.

He looked wildly for a phone. There was a pay phone a few blocks on, and he looked through his pockets for change. God, he didn’t even have any money, just a dime and a quarter. There was nothing in his wallet but his identification. He wondered if he had been robbed. There was blood all over his sleeve and the front of his jacket, as if it had spurted there, and it was still wet. Robbie touched himself gingerly, but nothing hurt, and he realized it was not his blood but someone else’s. He had not thought the fear he felt could grow worse, but it did.

His fingers closed on the Boy Scout knife his father had given him years ago, which he always carried out of habit, and he drew it out of his pocket. He opened it. He didn’t even have to open it to know. The handle as well as the blade was covered with blood.

Robbie closed his eyes and leaned against the side of the pay phone, feeling faint. He was starving; his stomach hurt. And he had stabbed somebody. Maybe he had even killed someone — he was out of breath as if he had been running. He knew he was crazy, and he began to cry.

In the booth he called Kate collect at college, unable to stop his convulsive sobs. Crazy, crazy, and maybe a murderer too …

She never answered. He looked up Daniel’s number in his pocket address book and called him collect. He remembered now that Kate and Daniel were living together in Daniel’s room. Why couldn’t he remember what had happened to him since he left Grant? The last thing he remembered was Jay Jay’s party.

“Hello?” Kate said. Her voice was soft with sleep.

“It’s Robbie,” Robbie said, still crying. The sound of her familiar voice wrenched his heart. He held on to the side of the pay phone so he wouldn’t fall. “I’m in New York, and I think I killed somebody.”

“Oh, Robbie!” Kate cried, holding the phone receiver tightly. “Are you all right?” She was completely awake immediately, but the joy of knowing he was alive blotted out — for an instant — the rest of what he had just said.

“Robbie?” Daniel asked excitedly.

She nodded. “Robbie, Robbie, speak to me! How are you? What happened?”

“I don’t know how I am,” Robbie said. “I don’t remember anything. How long was I gone?”