Incubi

Thoughts of Khoronos swam in her head all night; she’d scarcely slept. Late next morning, the phone roused her.

“Hi, Veronica. Long time, no hear.”

It was her friend Ginny. “How are things in the novel gig?”

“Not bad. You’ll love this, though. My publisher actually had the balls to tell me to make my books shorter because the price of raw paper went up. That’s like telling you to use less paint.”

“The things we do for art. What’re you going to do?”

“Write shorter books. Fuck art. You should see my mortgage.”

Ginny wrote grim, deceitful novels which critics condemned as “pornographic vignettes of bleakness which trumpet the utter destruction of the institution of marriage in particular and morality in general.” Ginny swore these reviews increased her sales, while the fringe critics hailed her as a genius of the neo-feminist movement. Her themes were all the same: men were good for nothing but sex and could never be trusted. Her last one, Love Labyrinthine, had sold a million copies.

“I met the most wonderful man the other day,” Ginny said.

“I thought you hated men.”

“Except for bed warmers, I do. But this one was different.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“Would you listen! I was doing a book signing at Glen Burnie Mall last week. At signings, most people fawn over you. But this guy spent the whole time talking about the function of prose mechanics, syntactical projection of imagery, creative dynamics, stuff like that. And it was really funny because there wasn’t a shred of falseness in him. When was the last time you met a man without a shred of false—”

“Never,” Veronica said.

“He was so enthused, you know? About literature, about art. When was the last time you met a man who was enthused about—”

“Never,” Veronica repeated. “There aren’t any.” But then her brow rumpled. This man sounded a bit like—

“What did he look like?” she asked.

“Oh, God, Vern. A panty-melter. Tall, slim, great clothes, and a face like Costner or somebody. He was older, though, and really refined, and he’s got the most beautiful long gray and blond hair. An accent too, German maybe, or Slavic.”

Veronica smirked hard. It sounded just like Khoronos.

“His name is Khoronos,” Ginny dreamily added.

The pause which followed seemed endless.

“Vern? You still there?”

“Uh—” This was too much of a coincidence. “I met him last night during my show at the Sarnath. He paid twenty-five grand for one of my canvases, and you’re right, he is sexy.”

“This is outrageous!” Ginny wailed. “Then he must’ve invited you to the retreat too, right?”

“What retreat?”

Ginny impassed. “It’s a get-together he has every year at his estate, an art-group kind of thing. He called it his ‘indulgence,’ his chance to be an artistic ‘voyeur.’”

Veronica’s frown deepened.

“He said he likes to be in proximity to artists, to talk, party, get to know each other. Something like that.”

Veronica simmered. Her face felt hot.

“So I told him I’d go. There’ll be other people there too. Two guys, a poet and sculptor I’ve never heard of. Oh, yeah, and Amy Vandersteen’s going to be there too.”

“You’re kidding!” Veronica almost yelled. Amy Vandersteen was one of the biggest feminist directors in Hollywood. All at once, Veronica felt jilted. Why hadn’t she been invited?

“Well, I hope you have a good time,” she said.

Ginny could tell by the tone of her voice. “You’re mad, aren’t you? You’re mad I got invited and you didn’t.”

“I’m not mad,” Veronica scoffed. She was mad, all right. It made no sense, she realized, but she was madder than hell.

“I didn’t mean to gloat, Vern. I won’t go if you’re mad.”

“That’s silly. Go. Have fun. Tell Khoronos I said hi.”

“I will, Vern. ’Bye.”

Veronica slammed the phone down. But why should she be so riled? It was stupid. Or—

It wasn’t just the idea of missing out. It was Khoronos. She wanted his attention, his presence, his shared interest. It was a cryptogram that implied she was less worthy than the other people. Not good enough. Fuck! she thought.

Depression assailed her.

She went through the day’s mail, to get her mind away. Bills and junk mostly. A renewal for ARTnews. But the last letter looked like a wedding invitation, gold letters on fine paper. There was no return address. She opened it and read:

Dear Ms. Polk:

It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance. In the few moments we spoke, I came away feeling edified; we share many commonalties. I’d like to invite you to my estate for what I think of as an esoteric retreat. Several other area artists will attend. It’s something I’ve been doing for a long time — call it an indulgence. It’s a creative get-together where we can look into ourselves and our work. If you’d care to join us, please contact my service number below for directions.

Sincerely,

Erim Khoronos

Veronica squealed in joy.

* * *

When she looked up at the lilacs again, Jack was gone. Ice melted in his empty glass, and he’d left the keys to her apartment on the bartop. How long had she been recounting the events which had led to her invitation? Her eyes were wet; she knew how Jack would take this, but what could she do? She had to be honest.

Craig, the barkeep, brought her another drink. His long look told her he knew exactly what had happened.

“Jack’s a great guy,” he said.

“I know.”

“So you two are finished?”

Experience, she thought, or was she really thinking of Khoronos? “I haven’t experienced enough in life,” was the only answer she could summon.

“What kind of experience? There are all types,” Craig said.

“That’s just it. I don’t really know.”

Craig poured earthquake shooters for some rowdies at the bar, then drifted back, twirling a shaker glass. Craig and Jack were good friends. This was hard.

“You think I’m a bitch,” she suggested. “You think I’m stupid and selfish for dumping Jack.”

“No, Veronica, if you don’t love him anymore, then you have to move on, and let him move on. It’s the only honest way.”

Do I still love him? she asked herself. The question was turmoil. She didn’t know. She didn’t even know if she wanted to know. “Maybe I just need some time away. Maybe things could work out for us later.”

“Do you think you really want them to?”