‘Kermi—’ Leslie looked around to brush at the dust beside her that they sat on—‘six months ago, you had no idea you’d be working here. No one knew for sure that there was a here here. In the Culhar’, there’s mention of a sickness, and there is clearly something odd about it. But Delany certainly couldn’t have known, when he wrote it, that a real city would turn up with the same name, so to speak—not to mention a similar epidemic—as the one in his stories. He was going by the same things you folks were: a few suggestions in my book on the translation of the Culhar’. And as far as the allegory, well…you have to read the textual shape as just the kind of conservative reification you do, but at the same time opposing it with a vigorous deconstruction of—’
‘Leslie, I don’t understand a word you’re saying. What’s more I don’t believe you do either. And even if the kind of reading you’re talking about did exist, somewhere or other, I don’t think any…text—’ Kermit turned up the paperback and squinted at its cover in the late sunlight blazing copper from under a cord of blue-black cloud—‘that goes out into the world with an initial printing of—what? Seventy-five thousand copies?—can really look forward to it, assuming it is possible.’
‘Certainly not if you skim, Kermi.’ Leslie sighed. ‘You know, sometimes when you make pronouncements like that, you sound like you’re the one who’s appropriated the Master’s Discourse, and in its most authoritarian and conservative mode too—you know: good, old-fashioned, never-to-be-argued-with common sense! That’s the language the Masters speak most of the time, you know. That’s the most effective one for keeping things as they are. Though I suppose maybe that’s the point: that we all close with that masterly discourse, from time to time, in pursuit of our “liberation,” whether we like it or not.’
‘What do you mean, “we,” white man?’
‘Kermit,’ Leslie said, ‘you are the white man. I am a black woman—and your friend for a good many years too. Also I’m a thirty-six-year-old, substantially overweight black woman, with an awful over bite. And you piss me off. I mean, Kermi—’ she turned suddenly on the dusty slope—‘if the masses knew what you were really saying about them when you come out with something like that—’
‘—they’d absorb it, disperse it, and live with it as they do every other piece of real information or horrendous abuse our cultural masters, at whatever level, inflict on them. No doubt that’s the way they—we, if you prefer—survive. I’m not a liberal, Leslie. And you know it.’
Leslie sighed again.
Kermit sighed louder and threw up his hands—though the book did not go flying over the dug up earth. He held it, looking out across it. ‘Of course, it couldn’t have turned out better for him. I mean, really—here we discover an ancient city, which, if it wasn’t the capital port of a land some Mycenean Greek called “Telepote,” it might as well have been. And they had some sort of epidemic that—at least when we apply your translation techniques to the texts we found here at the site—seems to have been sexually linked. Though I gather these things have turned up on and off for some time now. Somewhere in Romans doesn’t it talk about one of these sexually linked diseases?’
‘Also between homosexual men. The Moral Majority quotes it all the time.’
‘Oh Kermit shook his head. ‘Well that’s what comes of spending so much time off the beaten paths. One loses touch with these things. Still, it’s the sexual linkage I think is awful.’
‘Of course Leslie said, ‘I have no way of knowing whether the epidemic here was limited to men or to women—much less if it was limited to homosexual men. We just know it’s associated with a gender particle, but it’s fifty-fifty whether it’s the masculine or feminine one.’
‘That’s what I think is awful.’ Kermit looked over where two or three workers were moving among the excavations. ‘But that’s the game your Delany seems to think he’s playing. Ten years ago, Leslie, in that initial paper (and no matter what I’ve said, I think it was a very good paper, too), you wrote, quite accurately, “We have not found the names of any gods in the Culhar’ Fragment, nor in any of the texts related to it by the most ancient of these fragmentary scripts.” And three pages later, you noted, “There seems to be a high concern with craft among these people.” And what does Delany do with this in his stories? He invents a whole gallery of nameless gods—all craftsmen, to be sure—who’ve replaced a deposed set of named ones! Then he puts them all in the service of a worldview so modern I just assume he’s kidding. Leslie, that’s just not responsible historical fiction. I mean, how can you, who did the original work, countenance that sort of thing? Your translation of the Culhar’ Fragment was quite ingenious, when all was said and done. But your friend—’
‘He’s not my friend, Kermi.’ Across the wide, wide sky the gibbous moon, a mottled ivory disk, had risen, huge at the horizon, over the ruins opposite the sunset spectacle. ‘I’ve never met him. We’ve only corresponded a few times. I just like some of what he writes. But you’ve got to be the first person I’ve ever met to think sword-and-sorcery was supposed to be “responsible historical fiction!” It’s just fun—to sort of play with, in your mind.’
‘Your privilege.’ Kermit reached up to scratch an ear. ‘At any rate, your—metaphorically speaking—friend here writes a book ostensibly based on your findings…writes three books, actually. Of which this is, I gather—’ he closed the raddled pages—‘the third. And I’ve actually spent an afternoon reading it. Well, he can’t capture the feel of the material lives these people lead in zitz-thousand b.c. (Really, all his medical details are opportunistic infection symptoms with an advanced medical technology busily at work to waylay almost immediate death—the only way you live with AIDS even for six months is because we do have advanced medicine!) But I suppose I can forgive him that. I don’t know all that much about what people’s life here was like either.’ Kermit looked at the book again, then out at the excavation. ‘At this point in our research, nobody does. But why does he insist on calling the place Kolhari? That wasn’t even one of your preferred guesses. That was a real outside shot, if I remember—’
‘I assume that’s because his whole series is an outside shot.’ Leslie moved one heavy hip then the other back on the sandy slope. ‘Kermi, you and Wellman have only been digging here six months—thanks to an appendix in my book; and you’ve been lucky enough actually to find your city, in about the right place, from about the right time. When Delany wrote that last story I showed you, there was no way he could have known that there was a city on this shore, much less that, for a while, it suffered under an epidemic that, at least in some of its aspects, may have resembled AIDS. As far as I can figure out from the dates, you were just leaving to come here back when he was nearing the end of his tale. That’s what makes the whole thing uncanny. That’s why I brought—’
‘Leslie, you’ve come all the way out here to try to win me over to something. And I don’t think I want to be won.’
‘I came because I was less than three hundred miles away and I wanted to say hello, and see what you guys were turning up. And since, however inadvertently, you’ve written an appendix to two of his books now, I thought you might find this third one interesting.’
‘Someone’s paying attention to you, Leslie.’ Kermit lifted the book again. ‘And that’s flattering. Enjoy it. If it was good for you, it’s good for me; I’m happy if it makes you happy. But we’ve been friends for a long time. And you mustn’t ask me for more than that.’
‘We are friends, Kermi. Angry as you make me. So you may call it what it is: power. Ten years ago, I wrote some papers, which eventually became a book. I worked on them—my translations and the mathematics they were sunk in—very hard. And because of it, someone I’ve never met but some of whose writing I kind of like has written some stories of his own, three whole books of them now. Also, because of it, you are now third man down on the totem pole of a hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar excavation that’s actually finding some interesting correspondenc
es between what’s here and what till recently was considered a minor fictive text—not Delany’s, of course. The Culhar.’ No doubt you and Wellman will get a book or two out of it yourselves. Yes, I enjoy knowing my hard work was initially responsible for all of that, for all of this. Oh, and please, don’t you forget it when you write your book. But if I did run into Delany, I’d certainly ask him what he thought of your findings here. I assume he’d answer that they’re interesting, but that since all his stories were written before your excavations began, “interesting” is, finally, about all he could say. Well, that’s pretty much all I’m asking you. What do you think about his work? But I’m just surprised your answer is so different from the one I’d expect from him.’
‘Oh, are you?’ Kermit put the book down on the ground. ‘Well, we might both surprise you. You say you want to know what I think, but I really wonder if you do want to know.’
‘But I do!’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Very.’
‘Well, unlike Wellman, who, when you showed the book to him this morning, went on so about the publicity value for the dig these stories would produce (and didn’t read a word!), I am gay. I’ve never made any particular secret of it, at least from you. What Delany is talking about strikes very close to home…Look, I was in New York that summer, at the height of the media coverage of AIDS. I was in my hotel room, waiting to get on a plane to start on my way here, when I watched a Twenty/Twenty coverage of AIDS where they interviewed a “living skeleton,” who, like Delany’s “Herb” the day after “Sarena’s” visit, died one day after the film was finished. Over a few afternoons, I had to make a couple of trips up to Washington Heights to check on some equipment that was due in; so while I was on the subway, I decided just to drop in on a public John at the Seventy-ninth Street subway stop—a rather active New York sexual congregating spot in those days—just to see how all this was affecting things. Mind you, the Johns are not my usual stomping grounds, you understand. (Three hundred contacts a year? Good Lord, if I’ve had three in the last five years, I’d consider myself drowned in a surfeit of orgiastic pleasure!) But with all the brouhaha, the scientist in me was curious. Well, would you believe that, between the first and the second day I looked into that shabby hole with its peeling walls and asbestos covered pipes, the blue and ivory paint soiled almost to one hue, the filthy incandescent bulbs in their wire cages from another era, and only metal partitions between the stalls, someone came in and filled both the commodes and the urinals with plaster of parts, which hardened and bulged up over the porcelain rims, making the facilities wholly unusable—except for the industrial-sized sink in the corner, which, a day later, was fouled with urine, feces, and soggy paper by the desperate.
‘Irate straights attempting to render inoperable a well-known cruising spot? Social-minded gays trying to put the place out of operation, assuming they were lowering the chances of AIDS contact?
‘No, there’s no way to be sure. But from the men who still stood around in it, it didn’t stop the cruising—nor, from the condition of the floor and the sink, people using it for a toilet.
‘But a few days later, the inoperable bathroom was permanently locked. Don’t tell me about mass murders. That’s what New York felt like back then, to me. And that’s what I want to see in his “carnivalesque” portrait. And also—no, don’t stop me. You’ve got me started, now!
‘Also: Why hasn’t he talked about the attempts to close the gay bathhouses and the harassment of gay-owned businesses, not to mention straight-owned gay bars? How many clients did this dead therapist or gay accountant have during the six months or six weeks or six days in which he could still work before he died, but after it was known that he had AIDS? Not to mention Pheron’s customers. That’s what I want to know. That’s the political question. Certainly that little homily on the Bridge of Lost Desire—what was it? “…I have a lover…”—wasn’t supposed to cover that, now, was it? Well, I’m sorry. I have a lover, won’t do! Not while I, and seven out of eight of the gay men I know, don’t have one. I mean do you realize what was involved in the policing of the baths in San Francisco, or the raiding of the Mine Shaft in New York? There were all things in the gay press the same weeks I was there. It was a complex political situation, with feelings running high among thousands on thousands, if not millions, of gay men—not to mention nongays—in both directions, with people writing articles and letters debating both sides passionately, with most of the gay papers—including some writers with lovers with AIDS—vehemently against closing the baths, with the official institutions using the confusion once again to step in and tell gay men how we should and shouldn’t live. “Allegoresis,” my ass! If he wanted to allegorize what was actually going on, he should have had a platoon of Imperial storm troopers arrive at the bridge and just start tearing it down because of course it was the source of the epidemic. Then watch the reactions of everyone else, from the market vendors and shoppers with no way to get to their precious Old Market, to the people who, yes, indeed wanted to be free to choose whatever sexual style they—’
‘Kermi,’ Leslie said, ‘maybe he wasn’t trying to allegorize a political situation. Maybe he was trying to allegorize a feeling, a feeling probably everybody has had about it at one time or another, no matter what side they finally chose—politically, that is.’
Kermit shook his head. ‘And I’m still sorry, Leslie. I don’t know about this SF or this “sword-and-sorcery” of yours; but I do know a little about art, literature, and history. Flaubert said it: “All I require from an artist is that he have the proper sensation.” Well, that goes particularly for political art. And in this case, the proper sensation means having some intuition for what needs to be written about. I don’t really care what he has to say about it. Or, at any rate, I don’t care a lot. But if he’s going to present this “tale” of his as some sort of political meditation and he doesn’t talk about the proper things, then it doesn’t cut the mustard!’
Behind them were dark mountains.
‘Well, perhaps—’ Leslie shrugged—‘he doesn’t go to the baths.’
Before them was the sea.
‘Well, at least one of my most wonderful encounters, for winter—1979, it was—was at the baths; in Cincinnati. (Three hundred? Oh, I hate him! I hate him!) And believe me—’ Kermit sighed—‘I wouldn’t give that up for anything! But it’s true. I don’t go to Johns. Or movie houses. And there, I suppose, you have it.’
Between, on the scarred and interrupted land, lay a kind of partial map of what had once been a city.
11.1 A single lamp burned in the tavern. The celebrants came quietly from the doorway, a glow on their shoulders as they stepped into the street. With Zadyuk’s arm around her, Nari pushed aside the hanging. (Where his arm wasn’t seemed so very chill.) Just then, from around the corner, half a dozen youngsters ran, torches held high among them. As light swept the tavern wall, Zadyuk looked aside to see the little girl who’d taken part in the Calling, leaning there, quite like an adult, talking to an older, broad-hipped woman. The girl still wore Pheron’s black and orange remnant around her shoulders, although, as he turned to look at the passing children, he also saw that the mask makeup had been washed from her small, round face.
Nari glanced up to see Zadyuk looking and looked too. The torches swept by, dragging the light away and pulling darkness behind it.
11.2 The artist’s performance is always more or less aleatory.
This image of Joey:
He wore dark-blue dress slacks, in which he’d slept for a week in the park. From his bare chest, minutes before, he’d shrugged a beige T-shirt with ballooning, metallic letters across it proclaiming, “How can you be Humble when you’re as Great as I am?” It hung over the back of the kitchen chair he sat in. Toes reddened from a summer of ill-fitting shoes given him by another derelict, instep and ankles peppered with needle marks, his bare feet were a good yard apart on the linoleum. Earlier that day, waking sick on some park bench, h
e’d shit himself, but as the pants were all he owned, he still wore them, ten hours later. Rolling up one leg to the thigh, he bent way over. Brass-colored hair fell forward in matted hanks. I watched him stick what looked like a toy hypodermic from a Let’s-Play-Doctor kit again and again into his kneecap, his shin, his thigh, trying for a hit, where, at a functioning vein, the black-red blood would blip into the already pale-pink solute at the hypodermic’s bottom. Blood drooled his arms and hands from two-odd-dozen failed attempts in the minutes before, now in his forearm, now between his knuckles, now on the inside of his biceps, now on his wrist, three or four obliquely angled stabs at each location, each time joggling the needle to try and break into his body’s more and more well-guarded circulatory system. A dribble over his elbow was thick and long as an earthworm; others looked like red yarn down his arms, over his wrists, stringing his infection-swollen hand.
Among the bottle caps and folded bits of wax paper on the kitchen table were two blood-blotched paper towels from where he’d twice wiped away the scarlet drool from his impalings.
Drops of blood trickled his leg. He went on prodding a white, inner thigh with his thick thumb, sliding the inch-long needle to its hilt, out, and in again, lifting thin, inch-high tents of flesh…