They studied their menus, basking in the comfortable silence that only long-time partners share. That was when Roger noticed the woman. She and her companion sat at the next table. The flickering candlelight cast shadows on her sallow face. She was thin, almost to the point of emaciation, and there were dark circles under her eyes. Heroin, he wondered, or maybe Anorexia? She obviously came from money. That much was apparent from her jewelry and shoes. Her companion looked wealthy too. Maybe she was a prostitute? No, they seemed too familiar with each other for that.
What caught Finley’s attention next was the blood trickling down her leg. Her conversation was animated, and while she gestured excitedly with one hand, the other was beneath the table, clenching her leg. Her fingernails clawed deep into her thigh, hard enough to draw blood. She didn’t seem to care. In fact, judging by the look in her eye, she enjoyed the sensation.
Kathryn was absorbed with the menu. He turned back to the couple, and focused on what the woman was saying.
“And then, the King appears. It’s such a powerful moment, you can’t breathe. I’ve been to Vegas, and I’ve seen impersonators, but this guy is the real thing!”
Her companion’s response was muffled, and Finley strained to hear.
“I’m serious, Reginald! It’s like he’s channeling Elvis! The King playing the King! The whole cast is like that. There’s a woman who looks and sounds just like Janis Joplin playing the Queen, and a very passable John Lennon as Thale. The best though, next to the King of course, is the guy they cast to play the Pallid Mask. I swear to you Reginald, he’s Kurt Cobain! You can’t tell the difference. It’s all so realistically clever! Actors playing dead rock stars playing roles. A play within a musical within a play.”
Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, and Finley leaned towards them.
“The special effects are amazing. When the Queen has the Pallid Mask tortured, you can actually see little pieces of brain in Cobain’s hair. And they have audience participation, too. It’s different every night. We each had to reveal a secret that we’d never told anyone. That’s why Stephanie left Christopher. Apparently, he revealed a tryst he’d had with a dog when he was thirteen. She left him after the performance. Tonight, I hear they’ll be having the audience unmask as well during the masquerade scene!”
He jumped as Kathryn’s fingertips brushed his hand.
“Stop eavesdropping,” she whispered. “It’s not polite.”
“Sorry. Have you decided what you’re going to have?”
“Mmmm-hmmm,” she purred. “I’m going with the crab cakes. How about you?”
“I think I’ll have the filet mignon. Rare. And a big baked potato with lots of sour cream and butter.”
Her eyes widened. “Why Roger, you haven’t had that since your last visit to the doctor. What happened to eating healthy, so you don’t end up like your father?”
“The hell with my hereditary heart disease and cholesterol!” He closed the menu with a snap. “You said we need to start having more fun. Red meat and starch is a good start!”
She laughed, and the lights of the bay reflected in her eyes. Underneath the table, she slid her foot against his leg.
“I love you, Kathryn.”
“I love you too.”
The woman at the other table stood up, knocking her chair backward, and began to scream. Silence, then hushed murmurs as the woman tottered back and forth on her heels. Her companion scooted his chair back, cleared his throat in embarrassment, and reached for her. She slapped his hand away with a shriek.
“Have you seen the Yellow Sign?” she sang. “Have you found the Yellow Sign? Have you seen the Yellow Sign?”
She continued the chorus, spinning round and round. Her flailing arms sent a wine glass crashing to the floor. Her date lunged for her. She sidestepped, and in one quick movement, snatched her steak knife from the table and plunged it into his side. He sank to the floor, pulling the tablecloth and their meals down with him. The other patrons began screaming as well. Several dashed for the exit, but no one moved to stop her. Finley felt frozen in place, transfixed by what occurred next. Still singing, the woman bent over and plucked up her soup spoon from the mess on the floor, then used it to gouge out her eyes. Red and white pulp dribbled down her face. Voice never wavering, she continued to sing.
Kathryn cringed against Finley. He grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the exit. Franklin the maitre d’, and several men from the kitchen rushed toward the woman. As he hurried Kathryn out the door, he heard the woman cackling.
Then they were out the door and into the night. Kathryn sobbed against him, and Finley shuddered. The image of the woman digging into her eye sockets with the soup spoon would not go away.
***
After they’d given their statement to the police, they walked back to Kathryn’s building.
“How could a person do something like that?”
“Drugs maybe,” Finley shrugged, “She looked pretty strung out.”
“This city gets worse every year.”
They arrived back at her office building, and Finley walked around to the side entrance leading into the parking garage. He’d taken the bus, so that they could drive her car back home. Kathryn didn’t follow, and he turned to find her stopped under a streetlight.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t think I’m going to be able to sleep tonight.”
“Yeah, me either. Let’s go home and get you a nice, hot bath. Maybe you’ll feel better after that.”
“I need a drink.”
“We can stop off at the liquor store—”
“No,” she cut him off. “I need to be around people, Roger. I need to hear music and laughter and forget about that insane bitch.”
“You want to hit a club?” He heard the surprised tone in his voice.
“I don’t know what I want, but I know that I don’t want to go home right now. Let’s walk over to Fell’s Point and see what we can find.”
Part of Baltimore’s harbor district, the buildings in Fell’s Point had been old when Edgar Allan Poe was new to the city. By day, it was a tourist trap; six blocks of antique shops and bookstores and curio dealers. Urban chic spawned and bred in its coffee shops and cafes. At night, the college crowd descended upon it, flocking to any of the dozens of nightclubs and bars that dotted the area.
They strolled down Pratt Street, arms linked around each other’s waist, and Finley smiled.
A figure lurched out of the shadows. “Have ya’ll seen Yellow?”
Finley groaned. He’d forgotten about the homeless man—the Human Scab. He thrust his hand into his pants pocket and pulled out a rumpled five.
“Here,” he said, offering it to the rotting man. “I promised you I’d get you on the way back. Now if you don’t mind, my girlfriend and I have had a rough evening.”
“Thanks yo. Sorry t’ hear ‘bout yo night. I’m tellin’ ya’, take yer girl ta’ see Yellow. Dat’ll fix ya right up.” With one dirty, ragged finger, he pointed at a poster hanging from a light pole. “Ya’ll have a good ‘un.”
The bum shuffled off into the darkness, humming a snatch of melody. Finley recognized the tune as “Are You Lonesome Tonight.” He shuddered, reminded of the crazy woman at the restaurant, raving about the Elvis impersonator that she’d seen. He tried to remember what it was she had been singing, but all that came to mind was the image of her gored face.
The eight by ten poster had been made to look like it was printed on a snake’s skin. Over the scales, pale lettering read:
Hastur Productions Proudly Presents:
YELLOW
Banned in Paris, Munich, London, and Rome, we are proud to bring this classic 19th century play to Baltimore, in its only U.S. appearance! Filled with music, emotion and dark wonder, YELLOW is an unforgettable and mystifying
