A woman was coming forward from one of the hidden archways. She was clothed in ceremonial garb and carrying a sacred vessel. As she approached the Buddha everything became transformed. She advanced now with the gait of a dancer, to the sound of weird cacophonous music, sharp staccato sounds made by wood, stone and iron. From every doorway dancers now came forth with terrifying banners, their faces concealed by hideous masks. As they circled about the statue of the Buddha they blew into huge conch shells which gave forth unearthly sounds. Suddenly they fell away and I was alone in the court, facing a huge animal which resembled a bull. The animal was curled up on an iron altar that looked somewhat like a frying pan. I could see now that it was not a bull but the Minotaur. One eye was closed peacefully, the other was staring at me, quite friendily however. Of a sudden this enormous eye began to wink at me, coyly, flirtatiously, like a woman under a street lamp in some low quarter of the city. And as it winked it curled itself up more, as if making ready to be roasted. Then it closed the enormous eye and pretended to be snoozing. Now and then it fluttered the lids of that monstrous orb which had winked so jocosely.
Stealthily, on tip-toes, and with painful slowness, I approached the dread monster. When I got within a few feet of the altar, which was shaped distinctly like a saucepan I now realized, I perceived with horror that little flames were licking it from below. The Minotaur seemed to be stirring in his own juice, pleasurably. Again he was opening and shutting that big eye. The expression was one of sheer drollery.
Approaching more closely I felt the heat given off by those little flames. I could also smell the stench of the animal’s scorched hide. I was hypnotized with terror. I stood where I was, rooted, the perspiration streaming down my face in rivulets.
With one bound the monster suddenly sprang upright, balancing himself on his hind legs. I perceived with a retching horror that he had three heads. All six eyes were wide open and leering at me. Transfixed, I stared glumly as the burnt hide fell away, revealing an underlayer of skin which was pure white and smooth as ivory. Now the heads began to turn white also, except for the three noses and muzzles which were of bright vermilion. Around the eyes were circles of blue, the blue of cobalt. In each forehead there was a black star; they twinkled like real stars.
Still balancing itself on its hind legs the monster now began to sing, rearing its head still higher, tossing its mane, rolling all of its six horrible leering eyes.
Mother of God! I mumbled in Polish, ready to faint momentarily.
The song, which had sounded at first like some Equatorial chant, was becoming more and more recognizable. With a skill which was supernatural, the monster subtly and rapidly changed from one register to another, one key to another, until finally with a clear and unmistakable voice it was hymning the Star Spangled Banner. As the anthem progressed, the beautiful white skin of the Minotaur changed from white to red and then to blue. The black stars in the foreheads became golden; they flashed like semaphores.
My mind, unable to follow these bewildering changes, seemed to go blank. Or perhaps a real blackout had occurred. At any rate, the next thing I knew the Minotaur had disappeared, the altar with it. On the beautiful mauve, flagging, mauve and pale rose really, on which the precious inlaid gems sparkled like fiery stars, a nude woman of voluptuous proportions and with a mouth like a fresh wound was dancing the belly dance. Her navel, enlarged to the size of a silver dollar, was painted a vivid carmine; she wore a tiara and her wrists and ankles were studded with bracelets. I would have recognized her anywhere, nude or swaddled in cotton wool. Her long golden hair, her wild eyes of the nymphomaniac, her super-sensual mouth told me unmistakably that she was none other than Helen Reilly. If she had not been so fiercely possessive she would now be sitting in the White House with Charlie who had deserted her. She would have been The First Lady in the Land.
I had hardly time to reflect, however. She was being bundled into a plane with me, stark naked and reeking of sweat and perfume. We were off again—back to Washington, no doubt. I offered her my kimono but she waved it aside. She felt comfortable just as she was, thank you. There she sat opposite me, her knees drawn up almost to her chin, her legs brazenly parted, puffing a cigarette. I wondered what the President—Charlie, that is—would say when he laid eyes on her. He had always referred to her as a lascivious, no-good bitch. Well, anyway, I had made good. I was bringing her back, that was the all important. No doubt he, Charlie, intended to obtain one of those divorces which only the Pope himself could grant.
Throughout the flight she continued to smoke cigarette after cigarette, maintaining her brazen posture, leering at me, making goo-goo eyes, heaving her big boobies, even playing with herself now and then. It was almost too much for me: I had to close my eyes.
When I opened them we were ascending the steps of the White House, hemmed in by a cordon of guards who screened the naked figure of the President’s wife. I followed behind her, watching in utter fascination the way she joggled her low-slung buttocks. Had I not known who she was I might well have taken her for one of Minsky’s belly dancers … for Cleo herself.
As the door of the White House opened I got the surprise of my life. It was no longer the room I had been received in by the President of our grand republic. It was the interior of George Marshall’s home. A table of staggering proportions took up almost the entire length of the room. At each end stood a massive candelabra. Eleven men were seated round it, each one holding a glass in his hand: they reminded me of the wax figures at Madame Tussaud’s. Needless to say, they were the eleven members of the original Deep-thinkers, as we once called ourselves. The vacant chair was obviously for me.
At one end of the table sat our old President, Charlie Reilly; at the other end sat our real President, George Marshall. At a given signal they all rose solemnly, glasses upraised, and broke into a deafening cheer. Bravo, Hen! Bravo! they shouted. And with this they swooped down on us, gathered Helen by the arms and legs, and tossed her on to the Communion table. Charlie grasped my hand and repeated warmly, Well done, Hen! Well done! I now shook hands with each one in turn, and with each gave the old sign—tickling the palm with the forefinger. They were all exceedingly well preserved—I say preserved because, despite the warmth and the cordiality of their greeting there was something artificial, something wax-like about them. It was good, nevertheless, to see them all. Like old times, I thought to myself.
Becker, with his worn fiddle-case; George Gifford, pinched and shrunk, as always, and talking through his-nose; Steve Hill, big and blustering, trying to make himself look even more important than ever; Woodruff, MacGregor, Al Burger, Grimmy, Otto Kunst, and Frank Carroll. I was so immensely pleased to see Frank Carroll. He had lavender-colored eyes with enormous lashes, like a girl’s. He spoke softly and gently, more with his eyes than his mouth. A cross between a priest and a gigolo.
It was George Marshall who brought us back to reality. He was rapping the table with his gavel. Meeting called to order! He rapped again vigorously and we all filed to our respective places at the table. The circle was complete, the end like the beginning. United in brotherhood, inexorably. How clear it all was! Every one was wearing his button on which was inscribed in letters of gold Fratres Semper. It was all just as it had always been, even to George Marshall’s mother who was trotting back and forth from the kitchen, her arms laden with tempting viands. Unconsciously I stared intently at her broad backside. Had he not said once, George Marshall, that the sun rose and set in her ass?
There was only one disturbing note about this gathering, and that was the presence (in the nude) of Charlie Reilly’s wife. There she stood in the middle of the long table, as brazen and impudent as ever, a cigarette between her lips, waiting for her cue. However, and this was even more strange, more disturbing to me, no one seemed to give her a tumble. I looked in Charlie’s direction to see how he was taking it; he seemed unperturbed, unruffled, comporting himself in much the same way as he had when impersonating the President of these United States.
George Marshall’s voice now made itself heard. Before we go
