Christopher WunderLee - Moore's Mythopoeia

“Thank you for coming,” she said mechanically, still paying him no mind, as if she was being forced to greet a servant.

“Thank you for having me,” he returned, Margaret nodding encouragingly.

“So tell me young man: is that little tart…”

“MOTHER,” feigning shock.

“…is that little tart settling down or are you just another writer she’s giving charity to in exchange for… for a little tumble?”

“Mother, Vincent’s an engineer,” she offered, turning to him: “isn’t that right? An engineer?”

“Yes.”

“So she’s moved from the arts to the sciences,” she commented still passive, unbothered.

“I had to,” Elisa’s voice from behind, “the scientists pay better.”

“What a charming girl.”

“I see you’ve met my new pimp.” Vincent embarrassingly watched, Elisa giving her stepmother a soft kiss on the cheek as she replies.

“Really? Elisa,” she finally, actually looked at him, quickly ascertaining his features and turned back away.

“Yes, he’s good to me, mom, only takes twenty-percent, and those scientists, nothing kinky, just plain intercourse,” Elisa continued despite herself, even Margaret a little shocked, Vincent turned slightly, as if to pretend he’s not witnessing it.

“ELISA,” Margaret finally interjected, “stop it,” pleading tone, contortion of her face and a quick nod towards the seated older woman.

“Don’t bother,” the mother waved away, “she’s responding to something I said. I shouldn’t have said it. We’re glad to have you here with us,” turning actually to Vincent, flicker of smile, turning away again. Margaret said nothing, just tugged slightly on Vincent’s arm and led him towards a small crowd. Elisa remained, the last words he heard: “…the apartment in the city…”

Another writer, some truth to that, another writer, as though there have been many, perhaps not, a figure of speech, long term, unofficial with Arthur Dodger — had she met him? Couldn’t imagine that, he’d be worse than her… strange of her to say it though, fed info from siblings, probably, Graham or Margaret… another writer, implies more than one, but could be social prejudice…

They entered the gentlemen’s room together, Margaret’s hand still holding his arm, no words, as if they were both thinking about the exchange they’d just witnessed, probably for different reasons. She’s thinking about Elisa too, doesn’t blame her, just wishes things could go smoothly, no verbicide. They’re met by the cologne of cigars, as she led him towards the back of a man. He turned just as they approached, tall, angular, somewhat Elisa-like, but not really, just a few features mirrored, less specifically, her natural mother must have been something, he is an elegant middle-aged man who looks like he will age well.

“Graham,” Margaret offered salutations, “this is Vincent, Elisa’s Vincent.” The newly appointed Director (bureaucratically his boss), smiled politely, and offered his hand. “Vincent, my brother — Graham.”

They exchanged amiable ‘how-do-you-dos’ and Vincent tried: “Congratulations, Elisa’s very proud, I was looking forward to meeting you.”

“An honest lie, I like that,” the director replied, “it’s very nice to meet you too.”

“Vincent’s an engineer,” Margaret added.

“No, I think Vincent’s an ambassador of some kind, from what I can tell,” Graham smiled, presented the captain a cigar, which was accepted, a glass, also accepted. “Anybody who could turn whatever it was my sister said about my appointment and attending this little celebration into ‘very proud’ has to be an emissary,” he poured Vincent something clear and grinned to make sure he understood, while several men surrounding them chuckled out of respect (not because it was actually very funny).

“Graham, you be nice, I swear the whole family’s in a queer mood,” Margaret interjected, playfully swatting at her brother, who pretended to cringe… strange relationship, any wrestling between them? Would have been better if it was older sister teaching younger, imagine the memories… he matured long ago, still thinks about it, sometimes, no true remorse… she doesn’t know it ever happened… too bad, interesting memory… she’s too close in age… “Well then, I’ll leave you boys to talk,” Margaret uncurled her hand from his arm, gives him a nice pat on the shoulder, smiles and walks out of the room.

“Where is that sister of mine?” Graham asked, taking a seat in a large, leather chair.

“I don’t know,” looking for a seat and taking a stool nearby.

“Ohhhh,” first one man then joined by a few others, first man: “you better keep an eye on her,” he warned, Vincent unsure if in jest or not. “No telling what she’ll do…”

“She’s tricky,” another inserted, accentuating the last word — does everyone get the pun?

“Not me,” a third, “I wouldn’t leave that alone, not with…”

“Let me ask you?” another began, silencing the others, “does she dress like that on purpose?”

“Like what?” he honestly asked.

“All right, all right,” Graham interpolated, even partially standing and raising his arms as if to separate them from Vincent, “this is Vincent’s first time here. Go easy on him.” Then giving the captain an understanding look. “A lot of these boys grew up around here, they know my sister, her eccentricities…” he explained, “I assure you though, not a damn one of them knows what they’re talking about,” he finished loudly, unveiled provocation met with a chorus of jeers…

“I see.”

“They’ve all, every single one of them, tried,” Graham continued “all in the same way” wondering if he talks in such a way because he’s been there, “they tell her she’s exquisite and they buy her expensive presents and they tell me how she’s special, like no one else in the world and that they think they’re in love” some truth to it, “but not a one of them, not a one, has succeeded… so don’t worry about them.”

No one challenged him, a few grumbles, but no retaliations or comments whatsoever. He takes a few moments to light a new cigar, then offered to hold an old coconut shaped canister for Vincent to light his own, which is accepted.

“So finish your story,” a faceless man finally asked from behind Vincent’s shoulder, obviously to Graham.

“Right…” he feigned as though he’d forgotten he was telling one, “where was I? Right. I was telling these guys about an odd occurrence recently, since I received my appointment,” he mentioned to Vincent.

“Yes, congratulations.”

“Thanks,” said a thousand times, no longer means anything. “I was leaving the Vallard Hotel after a banquet, and I see this young woman standing there. She’s attractive and well dressed. It looks like she’s waiting for someone. I head towards my car and she comes towards me. She says: ‘a hundred for sex’, I remain polite and let her know that I’m married and even if I weren’t, I wouldn’t pay for sex. She says: ‘no, I’ll give you a hundred’…” followed by a general peal and a few off-handed comments. Vincent smiled ritualistically, takes a drag off his cigar, just as Graham’s eyes widen.

“It seems I’ve been underselling myself,” Elisa’s voice, arriving through the door, the sound of clothing as the room turned toward her, all except Vincent, “I can only get twenty.” Her hand landed on his shoulder, he glanced aside, men eyeing her, Graham already rising.

“Well there she is,” his arms opened to embrace her, she leaned in, as though they were strangers contacting out of convention. He pecked her cheek, she wiped it away immediately, unaware of her response. He kept one arm around her and turned her body to face Vincent. “You remember everybody?”