Dhalgren

'Huh? Oh, yeah.' He picked up a towel and held it to his temple; which stung. Water rolled down.

He rubbed the blood off his cheek. Picked up another towel (the first now purple to the rim) and wiped his face again.

'Hey,' Jack said. 'I think you're…' with a vague gesture.

'Lord—!' Lanya said. 'I'll get some more towels.'

'Huh? Am I bleeding again?'

Tak took him by the chin and turned his face. 'You sure are,' and pressed another towel against his head.

'Hey!' He reached across for Lanya's arm. 'Look, let me just go to the men's room. I'll fix it up.'

She sat again. 'Are you sure…?'

'Yeah. I'll be back in a little while.' With one hand he held the paper to his face; with the other, he picked up the notebook. ('What happened to him?' Tak was asking Lanya. And Lanya was leaning forward to answer.) He pushed through the people next to them toward where the men's room ought to be.

Behind him, music began, staticy as an old radio; more like somebody's wind-up victrola. He turned in front of the rest room door.

Neon lights had come on in a cage hung up behind the bar. (The redhead's face [forty-five? fifty?] was soap yellow in the glare:

('Muriel! Now, Muriel, be quiet!')

(The fugitive barking stilled and the Purple Sweater sat up once more.) Through the black curtain stepped a boy in a silver lame G-string. He began to dance in the cage, shaking his hips, flicking his hands, kicking. His ash- pale hair was flecked with glitter; glitter had fallen down his wet brow. He grinned hugely, open mouthed, lips shaking with the dance, at customers up and down the bar. His eyebrows were pasted over with silver.

The music, he realized through the static, was a medley of Dylan played by something like the Melachrino Strings. The 'boy' was anywhere between fifteen and an emaciated thirty-five. Around his neck hung glittering strands of mirrors, prisms, lenses.

He pushed into the bathroom as a big man in an army jacket came out fingering his fly.

He locked the door, put his notebook on the cracked porcelain tank (he'd left the paper on the table), looked at the mirror and said, 'Christ…!'

Tap turned full, the cold water only trickled over the tear-shaped stain. He pulled paper towels, rasping, from their container, and let them soak. Minutes later the sink was awash with blood; the battleship linoleum was speckled with it; but his face was clear of gore and leakage.

Sitting on the toilet, pants around his shins, shirt open, he turned up a quarter-sized mirror on his belly and gazed down at a fragment of his face with an eye in it. Water beaded his eyelashes.

He blinked.

His eye opened to see the drop, pink with dilute blood, strike the glass and spread to the gripping callous.

He let go, took the notebook from the toilet tank, turned it back on his thighs, and took out his pen. The coil pressed his skin:

'Murielle'

He doubted the spelling, but wrote on:

'Seen through blood, her clear eyes…' He crossed out 'clear' methodically, till it was a navy bar. He frowned, re-read, rewrote 'clear', and wrote on. He stopped long enough to urinate and re-read again. He shook his head, leaned forward. His penis swung against cold porcelain. So he wiggled back on the seat; rewrote the whole line.

Once he looked up: A candle by the painted-over window was guttering.

'Remembering,' he wrote, 'by candle what I'd seen by moon…' frowned, and substituted a completely different thought.

'Hey!' Pounding at the door made him look up. 'You all right in there, Kid?'

'Tak?'

'You need some help in there? Lanya sent me to see if you'd fallen in. You all right?'

'I'm okay. I'll be out in a minute.'

'Oh. Okay. All right.'

He looked back at the page. Suddenly he scribbled across the bottom: 'They won't let me finish this God- damn' stopped, laughed, closed the book, and put the pen back in his pocket.

He leaned forward on his knees and relaxed: The length and splash surprised him. There wasn't any toilet paper.

So he used a wet towel.

Light glittered on the dancer's hips, his shaking hair, his sweating face. But people had resumed their conversations.

He pushed through, glancing at the cage.

'Well, you certainly look a lot better,' Lanya said.

Jack said, 'Hey, I got you and your girl friend a beer. One for you too, see, because I didn't want you to think… well, you know.'

'Oh,' he said. 'Sure. Thanks.'

'I mean Tak ain't let me buy anything all evening. So I thought I'd get you and your girl friend a beer.'

He nodded and sat. 'Thanks.'

'Yeah, thanks,' Lanya said.

'She's a very nice girl.'

Lanya gave him a small Well-what-can-you-do look across the table and drank.

The music growled to a stop in the middle of a phrase; people applauded.

Jack nodded toward the cage, where the dancer panted. 'I swear, I never been in a place like this. It's really too much, you know? You got a lot of places like this in Bellona?'

'Teddy's here is the one and only,' Tak said. 'No other place like it in the Western World. It used to be a straight bar back before. Improvement's not to be believed.'

'It sure is pretty unbelievable,' Jack repeated. 'I've just never seen anything like it.'

Lanya took another swallow from her bottle. 'You're not going to die after all?' She smiled.

He saluted her with his and emptied it by a third. 'Guess not.'

Tak suddenly twisted in his seat. 'Ain't this a bitch! Hot as it is in this God-damn place;' He shrugged out of his jacket, hung it over the bench back, then leaned one tattooed forearm on the table. 'Now that's a little more comfortable.' He furrowed the meadow of his chest, and looked down. 'Sweating like a pig.' He slid forward, stomach ridged by the plank, and folded his arms. 'Yeah, that's a little better.' He still wore his cap.

'Jesus,' Jack said, looking around. 'They let you do that in here?'

'They'd let me take my pants down and dance on the fucking table,' Tak said, 'if I wanted. Wouldn't they, Lanya-babes? You tell 'em.'

'Tak,' Lanya said, 'I'd like to see that. I really would.' She laughed.

Jack said: 'Wow!'

The dancer was climbing from the cage down to the bar; he made a joke with somebody below; somebody else gave him a hand, and he leaped lightly away.

At the doorway, a group had just come in.

A couple of men in leather had gone up to a tall black with a khaki shirt: Even by candlelight, sweat stained his shirt flanks. Other black men around wore suits and ties. People were putting tables together.

The redhead's laughter carried her across the bar. She took the black's beam-broad, khaki shoulders. He embraced her; she struggled, still laughing. Muriel barked about their knees.

Sepulchral Teddy, like some leather-sheathed plant, set bottles down, held back chairs. The tall black fell into his seat; his fists cracked open like stone on the table. Others sat around him. He reared back, stretched his arms, and caught the woman in coveralls with one and the sparkling dancer with the other. Everyone laughed. The