Bogeywoman

“Is good.”

So now we were off the lake and nosing up another skimpier ditch, parting reeds and yellow scum and scraping bottom, and all of a sudden we’re smack in the middle of a big fat smoke ring, tunneling down the tonsils of it, visibility is the hole, that’s all, in this great white doughnut of smoke…

Zuk didn’t seem to notice. “Is not far now,” she murmured. “Hey-” [sniff, sniff] “I don’t just smell fire, I even see it…”

Fazool shrieked again and splashing out of the thick white smoke came a small black cow, with a nose like a wet black charcoal filter, and twisted horns where you looked for antlers. In deerlike arcs the cow launched herself and her freckled udder across the stream, trailing garlands of honeysuckle. “What the hump is this queer place?” I burst out, “I’m no mental peon, I can take it. I can take it if you can take it. We’re almost there, now come on, tell me where we are.”

“You are right, Bogey. We are deep in Great Dismal Swamp. We go to remote hunting lodge of my cousin, Edouard Suleymenian, vice consul for trade in America of Karamul-Karamistan. Edouard will help.”

“Chee-e-e-e-ese, the Dismal Swamp, I always wanted to go there, in a creepy sorta way, try tracking in the ruby-red peat bog, ever since Willis Marie Bundgus, the wood wizardess, told me it was the northern limit of the water moccasin, cheese,” and I began to tremble all over to think I had been wading up to my chin in the snaky soup.

“These little peat fires” [cough, cough] “they are as nothing, they happen every day in low water in August, dark of moon” [cough, cough]. Is very beautiful at night, that red ring of fire in bog, you see? Ranger men come put them out. Now and then, is true, ranger disappears in swamp. Crust falls in, bloomps, like top of meat pie under spoon, yes? and poor fireman falls into burning peat and we never see him no more…”

IN THE HUNGER DESERT

The hunting shack of cousin Edouard, second vice consul (department of sheep exchange) of Caramel- Creamistan to the United States of America, had a warped and wavy tin roof like an old broiler pan, and needed paint. Well, perhaps it didn’t need paint so much as never had any. Paint was a citified notion hardly known in the Dismal, judging by the few dumps we’d passed. The shack was built of silvery planks and stood on not too crooked stilts on the shore of Ditch 19. The sagging front porch screens had a greenish cast, and all around the front door, curious perches for birds seemed to have sprouted-antlers, as it turned out, of every shape, but all kinda pipsqueak, nailed up as they were without the heads they grew on, godzilla be thanked.

All told, an unassuming den of classic fudd, according to your Baedeker. So I wasn’t allowing for much of a spectacle from Cousin Edouard. In fact I was thinking that, after Madame Zuk, a soldierly old fuddy with a firm paunch and grizzled sideburns would be a relief-a modest, dignified sportsman, that was the ticket, given to colorless oaths, politely indifferent to women but a mean hand with a frypan full of fliers-I mean, how many fantasticoes dare we hope, or rather must we dread, from any one family?

Zuk buckled on her silver sandals, I borrowed her shirt, and together we staggered up the dock. The screen door opened and there was Cousin Edouard-I tried not to gape. “My godzilla it’s Yul Brynner in Anastasia,” I whispered in her ear, and she laughed a nervous laugh that caused me to narrow my eyes at her-just what was going on here? I swear I saw it all in one second flat: He was old, maybe thirty, and beautiful, and bald as a mahogany finial, but not as old as Zuk. These cousins knew each other well! I could smell it, they were ancient lovers, and I knew which was which. I figured she had introduced him under the Ottoman Empire to the same black arts she had lately shown me.

In fact he looked like her, the same giant-sized eyes, nose, cheekbones-so beautiful he was grotesque-the same Mongol flash, but with black ficus of body hair at the wrists and throat of his pale green shirt. He was a little shorter than Zuk, and he worried, that was what really made me stare: the bare notion of a worried Zuk. He had her beauty, he was younger and an international playboy to boot, around 16,000 miles out of my league, but his face was nicked here and there with a fretfulness quite unknown to madame-too-beautiful-on-her-horse. Was he scared-scared, possibly, of Zuk? Well, who wasn’t? Maybe her fumy dangers had affected more than his growth. And sumpm else I saw right away: he wasn’t all that glad to see us. He was worried. I saw it before she did, even before he quieted his dogs, two ringletted spaniels, and held out his arms to us and smiled courteously and bowed us in. And said over my head to Zuk: “Very interesting-the blond hair-and soulful, belligerent face, like some orphan boy from a film-some movie of Dickens maybe?-Oliver Twist I think.”

Zuk pushed me firmly forward. I hadn’t realized I’d stopped. As I stumbled by he caught my hand and pressed it to his lips-not some sleazy fakeroo but a real kiss that left a wet spot. His lips were big beautifully molded Levantine numbers, with that sorta blue tattoo of a banished mustache gleaming faintly above them. I noticed he held my hand a little longer than was strictly necessary-could be he was scoping my scars, all bazillion threads of them that looked like carded plastic fishing line in that light. But of course an international playboy doesn’t say a wrong word at a moment like that. “Come in, ladies, sit down…” And then, like Zuk back at her place, he was off and clanking around in the icebox-brought in three little glasses and the vwodka. I choked mine down.

Coupla paragraphs to be filled in later about his guns and knives, a whole wall of em. Bear rugs, raccoon lampshades, ocelot headrests-you get the picture. Ruffs of brown feathers tacked up on the bias-just the wingspreads, no stuffed voodoo turkeys with empty glass eyes. Cousin Edouard ate the meat and didn’t pay the taxidermist, I guess. But there was a sweet smell of violence and rot about the place, as though carcasses were hanging in the guestroom. He did know his way around a frypan full of dead fish: they came out to the front porch headless, cockle-shaped and gritty with golden meal. I ate six or seven. And then, sitting in the rusty lawnchairs, we got down to business.

“Edouard, is good to see you. I need little help from you.” “Tell me, have you two women really sailed all night in that clumsy oyster boat? What nerve you have, Gulaim.” “Why, what is to fear?” He shook his head. “Is very good thing, Edouard, your boat is in Baltimore for paint-sorry to commandeer, but we must stay in front of police.” “Good god, Gulaim…” His hand rose vaguely to his forehead. “Don’t you wish sometimes to live a quiet life? And my god what a genius must be that kokpar player Fazool who until one year ago never saw the sea. It’s a miracle you have not got lost or run aground, Gulaim. Or been stopped by police, or the Coast Guard.” “Actually Fazool must get out and push Jenghiz Khan for one mile of low water at Currigunk Landing-extremely tiresome but then Bogey has beautiful idea we will jump in snake-filled canal and push with him.” Zuk leaned back contentedly, smoking one of Edouard’s cigarettes, wagging a crossed foot in its silver sandal, looking sultry and piratical in sopping rolled-up pinstripe trousers and nothing but the wet pinstripe vest over her momps, with one button buttoned.

“How original… I am glad at last to see Miss Koderer with my own eyes-the famous Bogeywoman, yes?” I couldn’t help smiling at this proof of far report. Zuk smiled too. “And what you think-she is not what I have said?-a charming monster? You have noticed her latissimus dorsi and her strange quick foot like goat foot?”

“Miss Koderer,” Edouard bent towards me, “may I ask to what is owing the prodigious leather of your fingertips?” I opened my mouth to talk but Zuk beat me to it: “She plays every day kidney-shaped hospital utility basin with orthopedic brace for neck, and strings of catgut sutures-she can play as beautiful as the moon. You would like to hear?” “She has pleased the moon,” Edouard said smoothly, “she is under no obligation to the stars.” “Anyhow I didn’t bring my pukelele,” I reminded them.

“Ah! quel dommage! In any event I hope you ladies will be at home in the Dismal. You may want to canoe the ditches-I have a good Wild Duck, consider it at your service. Do take care not to fall through the turf into burning peatholes.” “Fire is bad this year?” “No more than usual,” he shrugged, “only usual is bad enough. Canebrake rattlers are pouring into the ditch all night-do keep your eyes open. You may have the blue room, as soon as Fazool fetches the, ah, hanging game out to the lean-to. Dinner is at nine…

“But perhaps you two will wish to ‘haunt the moonlit bog’, as the poet says, like those tragic lovers of old who met ‘by firefly lamp’ and paddled off ‘through many a fen, where the serpent feeds’-or was that the runaway slave? Saprelotte, I can never keep those two straight-pardon, I’m only a lowly diplomat, not an artiste like you two ladies. Surely one of you knows?”