Black Light

“Describe him,” Ralph broke in. The scent of jasmine flooded me as he trailed a finger across my upper lip. “Tell me.”

I shook my head, puzzled.

“Describe him.” Ralph’s voice rose slightly. He moved his hand so that his fingers knotted in my hair, then pulled my head back. Not forcefully but irresistibly, so that my neck was exposed to him. He ran a finger down the ridge of my windpipe and probed at the hollow of my throat; then traced the skin above my breasts. “Lit. You have to tell me. What did he look like?”

“He—he was small.” I wasn’t sure if I should be frightened; if so, what precisely I should be frightened of. “About as tall as me, and he had sort of gray hair. Black hair, but turning gray. And blue eyes. I think.”

“Balthazar.” Abruptly Ralph let go of me. He smiled, those intense eyes glowing with reflected light. With deliberate slowness he slid his hand beneath the front of my dress, until it caressed my breast. I felt my nipple harden as he circled it with one finger. But he drew no closer, made no move to kiss me; only tipped his head to regard me measuringly.

“Well,” he murmured. “Aren’t you the lucky girl.” His palm covered my breast and for a long moment he held it there, so that its warmth seeped into my skin. A sharper scent cut through the smell of jasmine. Unexpectedly he slipped his hand free, and raised it to brush a strand of hair from my face.

“‘Meet the new boss,’” said Ralph Casson lightly. He stood and stretched, his back to me, and stared at Bolerium’s glowing violet windows, the patio empty now save for a cigarette smoldering on the flagstones. “‘Same as the old boss.’”

I shook my head, trying to hide confusion and arousal, and anger that he’d drawn away from me so suddenly. “Who—who was it? Do you know him?”

“Know him? Sure.” He didn’t bother to glance at me. “Balthazar Warnick. I studied under him at the Divine. Cultural anthropology. Comparative religion. We had a falling out, over—well, call it structuralism.”

I looked at him blankly. “What’s that?”

“The way the world is arranged. I thought he was wrong, but I’ve come to see the error of my ways. Now I can find him and tell him he was right all along,” he added.

“But I don’t get it—what was he doing up there?” I jabbed a finger toward where the standing stone had been. “Nothing’s there now! It was—is it witches?”

“Witches?” Ralph Casson began to laugh. “Oh, you poor benighted child! No, it’s not witches. Don’t you know what this place is? This little bedroom community Shangri-la you have here? This incredibly groovy little place conveniently located just seventy-two minutes north of Manhattan?”

I glared at him. “No.”

“Why, it’s the sacred fucking grove!” he exclaimed bitterly. He pointed to a neighboring hillside that blotted out the sky to the east, then to the service road winding down from the far side of Bolerium to the village. “I mean, right there you’ve got Sugar Mountain, and Muscanth here’s your fairy mound, and down there’s the river where boys drown trying to fuck Undine, and here at Bolerium—”

“Charlotte! Where have you been?”

I turned to see Duncan Forrester weaving across the patio. He was wearing his sister’s fuchsia tank top over ragged blue jeans, blue eye makeup and Ali’s black cherry Biba lipgloss. The blouse was too small for him: the seams had split across the front, so that you could see glitter sparkling in his chest hair. He stopped and stared at me, grinning with totally blitzed good humor; then leaned forward to frown at the top of my head.

“Tell me, Charlotte—is it my eyes, or has your hair turned quite gold with grief?”

“It’s henna. Ali did it,” I said dully. Because Duncan’s appearance had the opposite effect of reassuring me. As clearly as though it had been spelled out on a banner overhead, I knew that everything had changed. Whatever happened next, neither Duncan nor any of my other friends were going to be able to stop it.

“Ah: another mystery solved!” Duncan raised his eyebrows, shedding tiny flakes of silver. “Miss Fox in the bedroom with the curling iron. Tres rouge, Charlotte, tres tres rouge.” He turned to Ralph. “Hi. I’m Duncan Forrester.”

Ralph stared at him in distaste. “Ralph Casson,” he finally said.

“Charmed, charmed…” Duncan wandered off a few steps and gazed at the sky. “Is there a full moon tonight? Is there a moon at all?”

“I think I’ll leave you to your little friend,” said Ralph, and walked away. As he passed Duncan he made an elaborate show of giving him a thumbs-up. “Groovy threads, man.”

“Who the hell is that?” asked Duncan, throwing an arm over my shoulder. He held up a fifth of Tanqueray, already half-empty, eyed it wistfully before taking a swig.

“He told you…Ralph Casson.” I watched until he disappeared around a corner, turned back to Duncan. “He’s doing sets or something for Axel. His son is that new guy Jamie—”

“Oooh, yes.” Duncan lowered the bottle. He flicked a drop from one corner of his mouth, then smoothed out his lipgloss. “I met him. Jamie Casson. The new guy. He has a sort of—spiritual quality, don’t you think?”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I think he’s a junkie.” Duncan pursed his lips. He looked less like Marc Bolan than Don Knotts in drag. “Hillary is inside having a fit looking for you. Tres formidable. And you know who’s here? Precious Bane! And Hillary said there’s supposed to be a band later, or a movie, or something…Tell me, Charlotte, do you like what I’m wearing?”

He spread his arms to model the tank top. I heard another seam rip. “Damn.” Duncan sighed. “Do you know, I spent an hour picking something out, this beautiful old peach organdy Balenciaga gown of my mother’s— and then I got here and walked inside and there was some guy and you know what? He was wearing the same dress.”

He made a tragic face. More mascara and glitter rained onto his cheeks. He took another mouthful of gin and started for the patio.

“You’re not going to get sick, are you?” I asked.

“Never mix, never worry.” He handed me the bottle. I sniffed it and took a sip. “Don’t look like that, Charlotte, Tanqueray is mother’s milk to me. My mother puts it on her muesli. Come on, you’re missing everything. It’s like the Tomb of the Unknown Hairdresser in there. Give me that—”

I handed him the bottle. “Wait till you see inside,” he announced when we reached the patio. The music had momentarily died away, though the rumble of conversation was loud enough that Duncan had to yell for me to hear him. Beside the doors, windblown asters and chrysanthemums erupted from terra-cotta vases shaped like amphorae. In the ultraviolet light the swollen flower heads looked dark as blood, but everything else had an edgy dark-night-of-the-soul glare. A jackknifed cigarette stained with lipstick lay on the ground, still smoldering. Without pausing Duncan swooped down to nab it. He toked it as though it were a joint, tossed it into the bushes, and propelled me through a doorway.

“Don’t bother thinking. Just go—!” he shouted.

It was like diving underwater; like being pushed into one of those huge, extravagantly lit aquariums you see at louche nightclubs or fabulous Malaysian restaurants, where nightmarishly beautiful fish dart in and out of coral ziggurats, skeletons and organs visible through their skin; then devour each other before your eyes. From outside, it seemed that the UV lights were trained on the entire main hall, but they were not. They were fixed in upright columns all along the outer perimeter of the room, so that I walked through a glowing cobalt corridor; then almost immediately was in darkness so profound I thought the power must have blown.

“Dunc?” I called nervously. “Dunc!”

But he had already disappeared. I stood and tried to get my bearings, after a minute figured that the lights actually had not gone out. I was in the broad inner hallway that ran along the back of the mansion like an extension of the patio. But once past the rows of black lights, there were only candelabrums for illumination. These hung by long chains from the vaulted ceiling: great clusters of horns and antlers like knotted fingers with candles thrust between. The soles of my boots grew slick with wax; directly under some of the larger candelabrums fragrant stalagmites thrust up from the slate floor.