The 1st Deadly Sin

In the upstairs room the naked bulb burned in the air: a dusty moon. There was a smell of low tide and crawling things. Once he heard a faint shout of laughter, and Daniel Blank wondered if it was Tony laughing, and why he laughed.

They lay unclothed and stared at each other through the dark sunglasses she had provided. He stared-but did she? He could not tell. But blind eyes faced his blind eyes, discs of black against white skin. He felt the shivery bliss again. It was the mystery.

Her mouth opened slowly. Her long tongue slid out, lay flaccid between dry lips. Were her eyes closed? Was she looking at the wall? He peered closer, and behind the dark glass saw a far-off gleam. One of her hands wormed between her thighs, and a tiny bubble of spittle appeared in the corner of her mouth. He heard her breathing.

He pressed to her. She moved away and began to murmur. He understood some of what she said, but much was riddled. “What is it? What is it?” he wanted to cry, but did not because he feared it might be less than he hoped. So he was silent, listened to her murmur, felt her fingertips pluck at his quick skin.

The black covers over her eyes became holes, pits that went through flesh, bone, cot, floor, building, earth, and finally out into the far, dark reaches. He floated down those empty corridors, her naked hands pulling him along.

Her murmur never ceased. She circled and circled, spiraling in, but never named what she wanted. He wondered if there was a word for it, for then he could believe it existed. If it had no name, no word to label it, then it was an absolute reality beyond his apprehension, as infinite as the darkness through which he sped, tugged along by her hungry hands.

“We’ve found out all about her!” Florence Morton laughed.

“Well…not all, but some!” Samuel Morton laughed.

They had appeared at Daniel’s door, late at night, wearing matching costumes of blue suede jeans and fringed jackets. It was difficult to believe them husband and wife; they were sexless twins, with their bony bodies, bird features, helmets of oiled hair.

He invited them in for a drink. The Mortons sat on the couch close together and held hands.

“How did you find out?” he asked curiously.

“We know everything!” Florence said.

“Our spies were everywhere!” Samuel said.

Daniel Blank smiled. It was almost true.

“Lots of money there,” Flo said. “Her grandfather on her mother’s side. Oil and steel. Plenty of loot. But her father had the family. He didn’t inherit much but good looks. They said he was the handsomest man of his generation in America. They called him ‘Beau Montfort’ at Princeton. But he never did graduate. Kicked out for knocking up-someone. Who was it, Samovel?”

“A dean’s wife or a scullery maid-someone like that. Anyway, this was in the late Twenties. Then he married all that oil and steel. He made a big contribution to Roosevelt’s campaign fund and thought he might be ambassador to London, Paris or Rome. But FDR had more sense than that. He named Montfort a ‘roving representative’ and got him away from Washington. That was smart. The Montforts loved it. They drank and fucked up a storm. The talk of Europe. Celia was born in Lausanne. But then things went sour. Her parents got in with the Nazis, and daddy sent home glowing reports about what a splendid, kindly gentleman Hitler was. Naturally, Roosevelt dumped him. Then, from what we can learn, they just bummed around in high style.”

“What about Celia?” Daniel asked. “Is Tony really her brother?”

They looked at him in astonishment.

“You wondered?” Flo asked.

“You guessed?” Sam asked.

“We didn’t get it straight,” she acknowledged. “No one really knows.”

“Everyone guesses,” Sam offered. “But it’s just gossip. No one knows.”

“But Tony could be her son,” Flo nodded.

“The ages are right,” Sam nodded. “But she’s never been married. That anyone knows about.”

“There are rumors.”

“She’s a strange woman.”

“And who is Valenter?”

“What’s his relationship to her?”

“And to Tony?”

“And where does she go when she goes away?”

“And comes back bruised? What is she doing?”

“Why don’t her parents want her in Europe?”

“What’s with her?”

“Who is she?”

“I don’t care,” Daniel Blank whispered. “I love her.”

He worked late in his office on Halloween night. He had a salad and black coffee sent up from the commissary. As he ate, he went over the final draft of the prospectus he was scheduled to present to the Production Board on the following day: his plan to have AMROK II determine the ratio between advertising and editorial pages in every Javis-Bircham magazine.

The prospectus seemed to him temperate, logical, and convincing. But he recognized that it lacked enthusiasm. It was as stirring as an insurance policy, as inspirational as a corporate law brief; he poked it across the table and sat staring at it.

The fault, he knew, was his; he had lost interest. Oh the plan was valid, it made sense, but it no longer seemed to him of much import.

And he knew the reason for his indifference: Celia Montfort. Compared to her, to his relations with her, his job at Javis-Bircham was a game played by a grown boy, no worse and no better than Chinese Checkers or Monopoly. He went through the motions, he followed the rules, but he was not touched.

He sat brooding, wondering where she might lead him. Finally he rose, took his trench coat and hat. He left the prospectus draft on the table, with the garbage of his dinner and the dregs of cold coffee in the plastic cup. On his way to the executive elevator he glanced through the window of the Computer Room. The night shift, white- clad, floated slowly on their crepe soles over the cork floor, drifting through a sterile dream.

The rain came in spits and gusts, driven by a hacking wind. There were no cabs in sight. Blank turned up his coat collar, pulled down the brim of his hat. He dug toward Eighth Avenue. If he didn’t find a cab, he’d take a crosstown bus on 42nd Street to First Avenue, and then change to an uptown bus.

Neon signs glimmered. Porno shops offered rubdowns and body painting. From a record shop, hustling the season, came a novelty recording of a dog barking “Adeste Fidelis.” An acned prostitute, booted and spurred, murmured, “Fun?” as he passed. He knew this scruffy section well and paid no heed. It had nothing to do with him.

As he approached the subway kiosk at 42nd Street, a band of young girls came giggling up, flashing in red yellow green blue party dresses, coats swinging open, long hair ripped back by the wind. Blank stared, wondering why such beauties were on such a horrid street.

He saw then. They were all boys and young men, transvestites, on their way to a Halloween drag. In their satins and laces. In evening slippers and swirling wigs. Carmined lips and shadowed eyes. Shaved legs in nylon pantyhose. Padded chests. Hands flying and throaty laughs.

Soft fingers were on his arm. A mocking voice: “Dan!”

It was Anthony Montfort, looking back to flirt a wave, golden hair gleaming in the rain like flame. And then, following, a few paces back, the tall, skinny Valenter, wrapped in a black raincoat.

Daniel Blank stood and watched that mad procession dwindle up the avenue. He heard shouts, raucous cries. Then they were all gone, and he was staring after.

She went away for a day, two days, a week. Or, if she really didn’t go away, he could not talk to her. He heard only Valenter’s “Mith Montforth rethidenth,” and then the news that she was not at home.

He became aware that these unexplained absences invariably followed their erotic ceremonies in the upstairs