William Vollmann - The Royal Family

It was Saturday evening. The worst of the traffic had already drained from the financial district, rendering John’s driving pleasurable as he descended the hill at Bush and Grant with Celia in the passenger seat, her shoulder belt and lap belt both safely in-clicked, and John felt richer and more luxurious than silk because they were about to try Camponegro’s Grill, whose pesto-lobster gnocchi came highly recommended by both Rapps and both Singers; and to John the expectation of excellent food in a refined atmosphere, no matter to what degree reality might compromise that expectation, always spellbound him into celebratory thoughts and sensations. The next two hours would probably be the pinnacle of his weekend (he couldn’t speak for Celia, of course). Upon them both beamed the yellow sun-star on the blue of the Triton Hotel sign.

Then his heart slammed so nauseatingly that it almost burst. On the corner, in a silver miniskirt, stood Domino, grinning at all the passing cars.

Don’t let her see me, he prayed.

But she saw, and her gaze was like light coming through many upturned silvery shot-glasses.

Hey! she yelled. Hey, John!

The light would not change.

The blonde came striding menacingly toward the car as if she were about to pound on the windshield with her nightmare claws, and Celia sat there gaping. She was almost upon them now, smiling crazy and evil like a monster who would never forgive him for being her prey. Suddenly John realized that he had always known that it would end like this, with his being exposed and humiliated in front of Celia as he sat paralyzed just as in one of his nightmares of Irene’s avenging specter.

The light changed.

John, you fucker! screamed Domino, thumping on the side of the car with her fist as he pulled away.

She knows you, Celia said quietly.

For God’s sake. Just let me—

You’re all pale and sweaty, John. Tell me what this is about.

I — oh, balls.

John. Who is she, John?

She’s…

Is she a hooker, John? She looks like a hooker.

Yes she is.

How did she know your name? Have you been sleeping with hookers?

John gripped the steering wheel very tightly, his face red.

What’s her name, John?

I don’t know her real name. Her street name’s Domino.

Domino. I see. And you’ve been having sex with her.

I did sleep with her, Ceel. But that was before I met you.

How many times?

Knowing that if he pretended he’d had intercourse with Domino only once, the fact that Domino knew his name would strike Celia as very peculiar, to say the least, John thought very rapidly and said: A number of times. Several times. I don’t remember how many.

And you say you did this before you were with me?

Yes, that’s what I said.

When was the last time? Were you already cheating on Irene with this Domino before you started having an affair with me? You never told me anything about Domino before.

I never wanted to think about it.

So when was the last time?

Three years ago, he muttered.

And you started seeing me two and a half years ago, but you never told me about Domino until now. Is there anybody else you’re not telling me about?

Look, can we just—

Is there?

No.

So. You’re now telling me that you had sex several times with this Domino, but it happened three years ago and then you never saw her again. And yet she remembers you by sight. How can you explain that?

I paid her a lot of money, said John, thinking fast.

Now, that’s possible, said Celia in the same cool tone, but he could tell that he had finally said something plausible and that she wished to believe him. — John, did you always use a condom with her?

Always, said John truthfully.

And you’re not seeing her now?

No.

You swear to me?

I swear.

Celia sighed and stroked his hand on the steering wheel. — I believe you. I’m sorry.

John bit his lip. This hurt the worst of all — that he had just betrayed Celia again with his lies, and been believed.

God, her eyes! he muttered.

John?

What?

I want to ask you something.

What?

About Domino.

What about her? he said in an exasperated voice. He foresaw many, many questions, like a line of tweedy smokers’ elbows upon some long walnut bar.

Was she…

Was she what?

Did she do anything I don’t do?

I’ll tell you something, Ceel. My brother Hank doesn’t have very progressive views about women, you know. And one time he said to me: They’re all pink on the inside.

That’s disgusting.

Yeah.

No, I mean it. That’s really disgusting. That offends me.

Well, to be honest with you, I had a feeling as soon as you raised the subject of Domino that you were angling to get offended.

You’re so uncaring sometimes.

I admit it. But be honest, Ceel. Isn’t it convenient sometimes to be with somebody who doesn’t care?

As he said this, of course, he was thinking about Irene. Like most of us, he loved to generalize. He’d been married to a Korean woman, so he believed he understood the Korean character: the utter unthinking self-sacrifice for the family, the stoic attitude which drove them to immense lengths; combined with a secret resentment, even hostility, toward the object of that self-sacrifice; and an indifference bordering on arrogance toward anyone outside the bloodline. Had someone told him that not all Koreans were exactly this way, John would have shrugged. Ultimately, he didn’t care that much if he reified and oversimplified on his own time. The idea of analyzing Irene herself would have caused him such pain as to be out of the question.

Does your brother care? Celia was inquiring in an angry voice. About anything? I mean, to say something like that, it — well, I’d think he must be a very angry person, or…

He’s angry at me, I guess.

Why?

Because I got Irene and he didn’t. Of course, now that I think about it, if I had to say who got her, I mean really got her—

Okay, but is it only about Irene?

I thought we were talking about Domino.

That’s one of your tricks.

What do you mean, my tricks?

I think that you kind of push people away and kind of keep yourself safe through the way you—

Oh, so we’re not talking about Domino or Hank. We’re really talking about me. I’m just going to shut up until I know what we’re really talking about here. Maybe you’ll change the subject on me again…

Does he have something against your life?

Do you?

John!

Oh, fine. Whatever. He thinks I’ve sold out and turned corporate and plastic or something like that. He inherited the artistic temperament from Mom, except he’s not refined like her. He thinks it’s artistic just to sit around spending money you don’t have and pissing your life away.

Is it really selling out if you really start thinking about the world instead of only thinking about yourself? I mean, you’re out there in the business world. You’re providing a service—

Who are you trying to defend me from, little Ceel? he said with an ironic smile. We’re on the same side, for Christ’s friggin’ sake.

John, you know my deepest fear is being abandoned.

Now what the hell does that have to do with anything? Hank’s not here and if I can have my way he’ll never be. Anyway, could we talk about something else?

I think that either he’s afraid or he doesn’t want to hurt your feelings or he knows you want closure or… He’s so wounded, I don’t know.