Yamaguchi: First, there any question?
Reporter: Yes. Doctor. Do you have an alcohol problem?
Yamaguchi: Of course. Every person who drink alcohol have problem. That why alcohol so popular. Make new problem for our entertainment.
The scientist emits a shy chuckle, the reporter looks perplexed, Diamond grins and slaps the sofa with his free hand, the one that isnt fondling you. Got to get this guy to the University of Timbuktu, he says.
Reporter (a different one): Can you tell us about that device of yours? The one that—
Yamaguchi: Ah! Happy you ask. One moment, please.
The doctor lays down the Bic, opens his case, removes a smaller case, opens that one, removes a slender object, about five inches long, an object identical, as far as you can tell, to the one whose temporary disappearance caused all the commotion last night. He holds it aloft.
Reporters (several, in unison): What is it?
Yamaguchi: I believe in English you call nozzle. Nozzle for enema.
A riptide of murmuring cuts through the room. Photographers and cameramen crowd in for tighter angles.
Reporter (cautiously): Is there something special about this enema? Nozzle?
Yamaguchi (shrugging): Oh, little bit special. Is very old, for one thing. Is made of jade, for nother thing. Jade and mineral crystal. You see? (Holds it higher, rotates it in his fingers. It has a faint mint-green glow.)
Reporter (from back of room): Whats the function of this nozzle?
Yamaguchi: Function is to regulate and facilitate flow of solution into bowels.
Reporter (yet another one): Right, we understand, but whats so special about it?
Yamaguchi: For one thing, is very old. (Regards it admiringly.) Was personal enema nozzle for empress of China, two, three hundred year ago. For nother thing, is made of—
Reporter (exasperated): Yeah, but does it do something other ordinary nozzles cant do?
Yamaguchi: Of course. Yes. (Pauses.) It chew the rice.
You turn to Diamond. Did he say it chews the rice? The reporters are looking at one another, asking the same question. The representative from Hutchinson, inadequately trying to conceal his panic and preserve what remains of the ostensibly soteriological nature of the occasion, speaks up. Dr. Yamaguchi, could you please inform our guests… . Could you explain exactly what youre getting at here. To the press, he says, Remember, ladies and gentlemen, English is not Dr. Yamaguchis native tongue.
Gwendolyn, my love, would you say that I have a native tongue?
Naturally, you blush, yet try as you might, you cannot refrain from smiling.
Yamaguchi: Secret of good health is chew. Person have nutritious diet, no matter if not well chewed. Many many persons in industrial nations have secret malnutrition because dont chew food nuff. You want long, healthy life, you chew, chew, chew. Okay? Now. Enema solution I give patients is make of-made of-rice, beta-carotene, one, two more things. Rice-unrefined, what you call brown rice-restore normal condition, good health to MCC gene. MCC start produce good protein. This allow tumor or polyp to go small. To shrink. Is simple, no? Ah, but one thing missing. Where chew? Must have chew for rice solution. Teeth (he retrieves Bic, plays his overbite like a xylophone) are in mouth, not rectum. Is so? No teeth in bowel, so nozzle must do all chewing. (Pauses.) How come nobody chew round here?
Reporter (which one doesnt matter): How does this nozzle of yours chew the rice and beta-carotene solution?
Yamaguchi: As say down in Houston, Texas, Beat the hell out of me.
Reporter: You mean to say you dont have any idea how it works?
Yamaguchi: I have idea. I think refraction of light by jade and crystal allow nozzle to do chewing. Of course, as say down in Houston, we put enema nozzle where sun dont shine, so I am not refer to literal light, I am refer to poetic light, to energy.
Never have you seen a media mob so tongue-tied. Even those whose expressions indicate they believe they have uncovered a monumental quackery, even they are verbally unable to move in for the kill. Diamond seems thoroughly enthralled by the doctors performance, so much so he has momentarily lost interest in making slow, maddening passes at the periphery of your pubis.
Reporter (finally): So, Dr. Yamaguchi, administering brown-rice enemas through a jade and crystalline nozzle is going to enable us to destroy tumors? To conquer cancer?
Yamaguchi: What you mean, conquer? What you mean, destroy? Western medicine all a time think in terms of destruction. In West, person get virus, he wish kill it. Get tumor, wish fire magic bullet at it. Not a healing but a gunfight. O.K. Corral, ne? (Points nozzle at press corps, fires imaginary shot.) My method not warfare. My method is pacify. Make friend with tumor. Friendship with cancer. Change friends diet, teach friend good manners.
General muttering.
Reporter: Last night, you were very upset when you thought your nozzle had been stolen. Dont you have backup nozzles, or is this the only one in existence?
Yamaguchi: Behind every star in sky is nother star. But they are long way apart.
Reporter: Doctor, you must appreciate that some of us are having trouble taking you seriously.
Yamaguchi (shrugs): As Popeye say, I sweet potato what I sweet potato.
At this point, the visibly shaken spokesman from Hutchinson stands and gestures that the press conference is concluded. Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming. More information will be made available to you after tomorrows presentation. Meanwhile, let me remind you that while communication in these East-West areas can sometimes be problematic, Dr. Yamaguchis successes in arresting colonic malignancies are impressive and verifiable. Thank you once again.
Having returned the nozzle to its case, Yamaguchi rises to leave. Suddenly, Diamond slides forward on the settee and yells at the TV screen, Hey? Can your enemas cure rectal cancers, too?
Poor guy, you think. Underneath his quirky savoir-faire, hes desperate. What he must be going through!
Yamaguchi (looking into camera): Treatment may also work for malignancy of rectum.
He waves.
TEN-TWENTY A.M.
Jesus, Larry! How, how did you do that?
As they say down in Houston, Texas, Beats the hell out of me. I just started imitating some of the stuff I witnessed at Timbuk U. Sometimes it works for me, usually it doesnt.
Well, its scary. Dont you think its scary?
Oh, its no scarier than the Bozos familiarity with Sirius B. Most people are scared of those things that dont sit still and pose for our official portrait of reality-which means they have a hell of a lot to be scared about. I suppose thats why theyre careful not to look very far in any direction.
Speaking of sitting still, Twister has not budged. Yamaguchis press conference, Diamonds outcry, the virtual fingering of you-can you believe it?-a few feet behind his back, all passed unnoticed, as near as you can determine. You squint to attain a clearer view of the valuable drawing-you have simply got to relent and get contact lenses-that holds him so, but it remains a murky little rectangle on a big shaky wall (upstairs in the bowling alley, activity has gradually increased).
As Diamond leads you to the door, you impulsively call out, How much is the Dutchman offering these days? What the heck. After the in flagrante delicto, the two of you should be on somewhat intimate terms.
Twister neither moves nor speaks. Well, okay, its not the first time youve been snubbed. Cant fault a girl for asking.
Following Diamond into the vestibule, you hear a voice behind you, one of those folded-upon-itself tortilla voices that seems to have sifted through centuries of cornmeal and ashes, you hear that voice say, Two million and …
Rumble. Crash.
My goodness. Even before the Brunswick lightning struck, Twister was talking some jumbo juice.
TEN TWENTY-FIVE A.M.
Enemas, says Diamond, as much to himself as to you. Irrigation. Timbuktu is in want of irrigation and apparently so am I. A ritzy little irrigator, that nozzle. Tip translucent, car
ved out of some sort of colorless crystal; stem carved out of green jade. He shivers. I bet its cold, dont you? She mustve been a real dragon lady, that Chinese empress, shoving an icicle like that up her behind. The jade or the crystal or both interact molecularly somehow with Yamaguchis home remedy-you notice the old fox withheld a couple of ingredients-and alter it so that it becomes electrochemically active on a subcellular level. If theres a carcinogenic virus involved, it would make sense, I guess. Viruses thrive on fats and sugars. Stuff like brown rice and broccoli, even when its not been electrochemically mutated, pisses them off. Theyd rather die than eat it. Come to think of it, we humans are a lot like that, ourselves. Remember that, Gwendolyn, the next time you order deep-fried frog legs. If theres a virus in you, itll be egging you on. Come on, lady, go for it! Send me down some fat! And how about chocolate mousse for dessert? Mmm! Of course, theres probably not a virus anywhere in your cute little system. Your little systems too cute for that. He runs his fingers through his long, stringy hair and treats you to one of his Halloween cackles. Well, enough of this, my precious hoptoad. Lets see. Where were we?
Diamond means to resume something, although whether it is the slide show or the sex you cannot be sure. You are sitting meekly on the leather sofa while he paces back and forth between you and the projected image of the T.U. faculty, your ripped panties hanging out of his back pocket like a referees penalty flag, waiting to be thrown. The truth is, you do not really have a lot of time for either slides or sex. After all, Belford is due home at ten this evening, the London exchange opens a few hours later, and at six tomorrow morning, O God, you will be back at the disco to face Posner, your clients, whats left of the market, and the fates who have mocked you throughout your whole damn career. Meanwhile, there is a deal to set in motion, a monkey to be outwitted-and Q-Jo. Poor Q-Jo. You should try calling her again right now.
You stand up and are looking about for a phone when Diamond slips an arm around your waist and draws you into an embrace. Oh, well, its doubtful if you would be able to concentrate on the tasks ahead anyway until you get this out of the way. If Larryll just take me to bed and make love to me-okay: fuck me-for twenty minutes-okay: an hour-Im certain Ill be able to think a lot more clearly. And so will he. Poor fellow.
You snuggle up against the lump in his groin. When you kiss, you stick your tongue in his mouth. Its kind of exciting in there. Of course, you are disgusted with yourself. Never have you felt like such a mare. Sure, you have been aroused before. For better or for worse, arousal is a feature of the human condition, and even nuns, even female CEOs, so you are told, do not wholly transcend it. It is the curse of the meat, and a woman must learn to live with it. No, a woman must learn to leverage it, to hedge it, to manage it, to make it work for her; to politely sample its undeniable if shoddy pleasures when it announces itself and to refrain from either stressful fasts or mindless binges. She must familiarize herself with it, exploit it when it is exploitable, but never ever get careless around it. Otherwise, it will turn on her like the lean and famished wolf that the maiden, in her innocence, invites to sleep on the hearth, and she will become its supper or its slave or, worse, its rival: a famished she-wolf who eats herself out of emotional house and independent home. She will fuck her dreams away and settle for lesser goals.
No, the wolf is no stranger to you, but you cannot recall a time when its howl was so melodious, its pelt so downy, its carnivores breath so sweet. For once, you do not mind that sex is gooey or smells like Cupids socks. You find yourself wanting Diamond to do dirty, nasty, unspeakable things to you, although you have scant notion what those things might be. They are beyond your powers of imagination. For all you know, they might be painful or overly strenuous. And certainly they would be time-consuming; they would cut into your day.
I sure picked a fine time to get horny, you think. You make a face, inasmuch as one can make a face while kissing. Horny is a proletarian expression. A cartoonish word. A word for clowns, galoots, and adolescents. My desires may be crude, but they arent frivolous. It would take a far more complicated and heartfelt word than horny to measure the dimensions of my wet itch.
You reach behind you and undo buttons. The sound your skirt makes when it cascades to the floor, a sound so muted and brief, yet so emphatic, bold and rife with liberation-the fru-fru-froomph of a sail unfurling on a blockade-runners sloop-that sound sends a delicious tingle up your spine.
Diamond reacts by slowly twisting free of your tongue. Giving your bare bottom a baby pinch, he says, Gwendolyn, Im hesitant to suggest such a thing, but I wonder if you would object to …
Yes? Yes? What is it, Larry? What dirty, nasty, unspeakable thing does he want to do to you? Or want you (gasp!) to do to him? What filth and degradation has he in mind? (You are palpitating like a gospel singer in a church fire.) What kinky slinky licky sticky sucky … what revolting and forbidden practices will be forced upon you, what accoutrements might be required, and how many of your major orifices will they involve? Yes, Larry? Yes?
… I wonder if you would object to accompanying me to a lecture on frogs?
TEN FORTY-SEVEN A.M.
Thus it is that you find yourself-frustrated, demeaned, yet oddly buoyant-on the back of Diamonds scooter (he grinned at you knowingly in his most irritating fashion when you explained that you had arrived by taxi), backfiring across the Ballard Bridge, leaving Thunder House, its faux tempest, its Timbuktuan poetics, its dark and dinky Van Gogh drawing (worth two million and change in Amsterdam), its draconic shadows and love-stained kilim behind; headed, by way of Queen Anne Hill, to the Pacific Science Center, where, as part of the final days activities at the Reptile&Amphibian Fair, there is scheduled at eleven-thirty a lecture entitled, A Silence in the Swamps.
You had insisted on going by way of Queen Anne in order that you might stop off at your building. To check for news of Q-Jo, you told Diamond, although news of AndrE is just as eagerly sought, and to that end, you will direct Diamond to stop off first at Belfords place and then, if warranted by events, at a grocery store.
The burial cloths and egg whites through which the rising sun had surfaced are still present in much of the sky. The air is mild enough when one is afoot in it, but as it breaks about the scooter, it takes on a bit of a chill. You cling to Diamond for protection, protection from wind, protection from detection. It is unlikely, but what if someone with whom you do business should spot you aboard this ridiculous machine with this unkempt companion upon an Easter morn? They wouldnt even have to know that your bottom is bare-and sticky and cold-against the ratty leather seat.
Diamond reeks: of deteriorating leather, of sugary foliage, of you; a contradictory combination that provokes in you a certain tenderness. You slip your arms around his waist and bury your face in his back. Then, your downcast eyes spot your ravaged undies blooming like a magicians handkerchief in his back pocket. You yank them out, resist the temptation to swing them above your head for the benefit of passing motorists, and as the scooter pulls off Elliott Avenue to begin its laborious ascent of the hill, you sling them over a hedge bordering a modest lawn. Fly away! Be free! you sing, then instantly admonish yourself for your light-minded behavior. Someone will probably discover those panties and turn them over to the police. A memento from the Safe Sex Rapist, they might suspect, or a souvenir of a rich-boy prank, although few if any women whom the rich boys disrobe have ever stepped into knickers as stylish as these.
ELEVEN TWENTY-THREE A.M.
Got him!
You got him! Let economies lose their wheels and minds their reason, let hormones go ballistic and prayers go unanswered, let daddies box bongos and employers box ears, let hairs turn gray and inks crimson; let the fates break off in mid-chortle, for sooner or later, Gwendolyn Maria Mati was bound to outwit them. You got AndrE! You got the mad monk.
Only a cursory survey of Belfords apartment (you are feeling pretty guilty about Belford, but you mustnt think of that now) was required to determine that AndrE had feasted there
on the sweet baits of the morning. The freezer door again hung open, and naked Popsicle sticks were strewn about like yarrow stalks after an I Ching typhoon. One neednt be a primatologist or an Interpol sleuth to predict that the macaque would move on to your place, Belfords former residence, looking for more treats once these were digested. You had had Diamond swing by Thriftway-he putted right up to the entrance, practically driving the scooter inside the store, embarrassing you painfully-where you purchased another carton of banana ice and avoided the cashiers stare. To Diamonds credit-nothing seems to surprise him-he did not question your errand, but drove you and your plastic bag to your building, where he was content, again, to wait in the parking lot. A kiss, with a flicker of tongue, assured him you would not be long.
Your freezer door was also open, and a package of baby bok choy lay defrosting in the middle of the living room floor, next to your mothers poems. People do sometimes conceal jewelry inside hollowed-out books, but if he supposes anybody would hide a Popsicle in a volume of verse, this monkey is not as smart as he is cracked up to be. Anyway, you had missed him, but odds were highly favorable that he would return, so you left a Popsicle on each of several different windowsills and put the rest in the freezer. I hope this stupid lecturer doesnt peep and croak all day, you thought, as you wriggled into a fresh pair of underpants. You listened to your phone messages, all from Belford and mostly pitiful, and left without locking up, although locks had seldom been challenging to AndrE in the years before he accepted the Lord as his Savior.
There was no response to your hopeful depression of Q-Jos buzzer, and you were about to hurry on down the hall when your nostrils contracted, and your incongruously narrow proboscis began to behave as if it were packed with jumping beans and gunpowder. The aroma that drifted through the seams around the door was that of Q-Jos tobacco! There was no mistaking that smell. Q-Jos was the tobacco Satan would smoke, if smoking in Hell was not redundant, and only your fathers marijuana was more familiar and more offensive to your nose.