reality maybe, corruptive and ruinous, a beautiful tunnel blue.
'You have to interpret the mouth like it's satire,' Acey said.
Coke sniffing backstage or in the tunnels and people sitting around a room or sleeping on a plane, that edge- of-time feeling, remarks half uttered, a cigarette in someone's mouth, people not yet ready to stir, and she liked the glancing sound, the way documentary sound, this land of flyby movie, bounces off the tile walls, the cinder- block walls in dressing rooms and stadium tunnels.
Someone saying, Often he will shoot me in an unfavorable way.
And she realized yes, his mouth was completely satirical, it was car-icaturish, a form of talking anus from the countercomics of the sixties, and all the jeers and taunts we'd uttered, all the half sentences we'd mumbled had come out of the same body opening, more or less.
Acey said, 'I saw them in San Francisco, this is the same tour, has to be, two years ago this was.'
Throwing the hotel TV off a balcony.
Interviews mumbled and blotted, the simplest of earnest rehearsed queries lost and pondered and lost again, the tour is a series of unfinished remarks, and a man and woman fucking on the plane, and the mouth chewing food, the paste-on peel-off mouth, Mick strobed and flashed in concert like some multimouth de Kooning female, sucking on the hand mike.
The camera phalanx in the tunnels. People sitting around, two people asleep in a lump or tripped out or they could be unnoticeably dead, the endless noisy boredom of the tour-tunnels and runways.
Acey said, 'I went to the show and there's this bodyguard, maybe I can spot him in one of these shots, a black guy with a T-shirt that says Stones, you know, Security, only something else completely but along those similar lines.'
And Klara loved the tunnel blue light and the nothing-happening parts, everybody's got cameras and they're shooting nothing happening, and the sound that gets lost in the ceiling tiles.
Someone saying, I hate those motherfuckers. Those in-between schmucks.
Saying, What state are we in?
Two mumbling junkies on a bed, a man and woman equally sort of squintingly attentive to the needle that's angled in her arm.
Saying, How come you wanted to film that?
Saying, It hadn't occurred to me to film that.
Oh Indiana.
It just happened.
Mick standing slack-jawed in room. The mouth gargling and spit-ting, licking ice-cream cone. And the concert footage that's gelled red, bodies bioluminescent, what we all love about rock, Klara thought, the backlit nimbus of higher dying.
Excedrin on
'And he's following me,' Acey said, 'down this long tunnel and he's saying, Brown sugar you wait for me because there's something I got here which I definitely want you to look at. Hey brown sugar. And I turned, which was admittedly, you know, completely dumb-ass, and he didn't have it out but he had his hand on it.'
Two white men in room and one white man talking in black voice about, Put the brothers in touch with their cultural heritage. And sec-ond white man threads needle into arm and first white man talking black says, Tomb of the Unknown Junkie, a Hundred and Thirty-seventh Street and Lenox Avenue, made top to bottom, he says, from discarded spikes.
Someone saying, They took my child away from me because I was on acid.
Where's my room key?
Tunnels and runways and washed blue light and then the opening to the stage, the loud white glare and prehistoric roar.
No. Just took a picture with him.
Saying, The state comes along and takes my kid from me.
And nude woman caressing herself on bed in hotel room who rubs hand on pussy then licks it. And Acey interrupting her story to say, 'Mmmm.'
The whole jerk-off monotonic airborne erotikon.
And Klara thought it was interesting that this was the only woman who didn't seem like a girl. It was interesting, she thought, how all the women in the film were girls or became girls. The men and women did all the same things, dope, sex, picture taking, but the men stay men and the women become girls except maybe the woman who rubs her pussy and licks it and says something inaudible because the whole point of sound in a film like this is to lose it in the corners of the room.
I don't care-it's only San Diego.
Acey was telling her story and meanwhile looking for the guy in the story up there on the screen.
'And I wanted to say something to, you know, disabuse him of every wishful thought in his head. Hey brown sugar. But we were alone in this big roaring echoing place, the concert's in full roar somewhere above us and, Brown sugar, he's, Brown sugar, brown sugar.'
'This show we're looking at now?' Klara said.
'I don't know if it's the same night but it's the same show, the same city, the same motherfucking band of emaciated millionaire pricks and their Negro bodyguards.'
It was the rooftop summer and the air was filled with heroes, the dusty sky that burned with stormlight. Oblong gods braced in narrow corners and a pair of seated pharaohs that flank an air conditioner. And she loved the mermaided columns she saw on lower Fifth and all the oddnesses, the enigmatic figures she could not place in particular myth, mainly downtown, atop the older banks, on the parapets and setbacks-robed oracles jutting over the streets or helmeted men of unrevealing aspect, lawgivers or warriors, it was hard to tell.
And it was down there on a roof one Sunday, the streets hot and dead, that the gentleman reappeared, the European she'd talked to once before, gazing into the unfinished grid of the World Trade Center.
Yes, hello, we meet again.
And he told her that the figures she'd been wondering about with their cultic look, faces in shadow under the streamlined headgear, were called the Titans of Finance. And how suitably dour they were, as if measuring the Depression's effects on the streets below-she guessed the building had been erected around that time.
'Some kind of secret fraternal order, sounds like to me.'
'Perhaps,' he said. 'But all banking is secret, I think.'
And she could believe it, with all the granite and limestone massed around them, and the newer towers, curtained sheer, of reflecting glass and anodized aluminum, and every office empty of human trace today, except in basements maybe where paper was spun through microfilm machines, a billion checks a second.
His name was Carlo Strasser. He lived on Park Avenue and collected art with an amateur's clumsy passion, he said-an apartment on Park and an old farmhouse near Aries, where he went to do his thinking.
And of course she said, 'What do you think about?'
And he said, 'Money.'
She laughed.
'I sometimes wonder what money is,' she said.
'Yes, of course, exactly. This is the question. I will tell you what I think. It is becoming very esoteric. All waves and codes. A higher kind of intelligence. Travels at the speed of light.'
He was dressed very well, he was turned out, he had presence and manner and she felt a little shambly, but not uncomfortably so, in her denim and old sandals. The man confirmed her in her partialities and she was marvelously, in fact, at ease, talking to him.
They heard foghorns in the bay and paused to listen and the sound had an element of formal awe, it rolled and caromed down the narrow streets, collided with itself, an organ work that swelled the air and sent pigeons beating out of the tower clocks.
He asked questions about painters and she did something she almost never did-she expounded, she did detailed analysis, a thing she'd tended to avoid even when she used to teach. She heard herself go into explanations so ardent and newly struck that she realized she'd been withholding them from herself.
