Ruling Rue Royale

Chapter Ten

He could hear Lestat and David scrambling over each other, trying to get to their feet and open the door, but he made it to his room in no time. Upon closing his door, he heard very clearly the disconcerting sound of his own voice, giggling. Laughing was one thing, but this was uncontrolled, high pitched, silly sounding, giggling! He took a deep breath and cleared his throat, putting an end to that.

Louis opened his closet and took out some clothes; Black cotton pants, loose black shirt with lace at the collar and cuffs, black boots. He felt much better once he had dressed. He glanced into the mirror in his room. His hair was tangled and knotted from the wrestling. He found he didn't want to think about the tickle fight, or the shower. It was inelegant and unlike him. He went into his own bathroom, locking the door for the first time. He took up his comb and pulled it through his hair. He concentrated hard on the act of combing and untangling his hair, to keep his mind from straying to other things. He knew what he had done was not wrong. It had pleased Lestat and it had pleased David, and he had enjoyed it as well. So why the discomfort now? It seemed as if it had been someone else engaging in that behavior, and not himself at all. Still no one knew, but Lestat and David, who had done the same thing, so why should it embarrass him?

'That's it,' Louis put down the comb. 'I have nothing to be ashamed of, and I shall not BE ashamed! Nor will I be uncomfortable. I will simply put it out of my mind. It was an interesting and enjoyable experience but there is no reason to dwell upon it.'

Louis took up a black elastic band and caught his hair up in it. He opened his window and took a deep breath of heavy humid air, scented with azaleas and Queen's wreath. This made him unaccountably happy. He jumped to the ground and went to feed.

David had left Lestat's room for his own and took his favorite outfit of light khaki trousers and white button-down shirt out of the closet. He decided to forego the jumper this evening, as he wasn't particularly cold. As he busied himself with dressing he sang to himself an old pub tune, "Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and smile, smile, smile . . ." Of course he always felt euphoric after a good round of cockfighting, but this was far beyond anything he'd ever experienced before. It felt like some sort of narcotic high. He combed his hair and slipped into his loafers. He then left his room and took the stairs two at a time, looking for Lestat.

Lestat was meanwhile still sitting on his unmade bed, towels strewn about on the floor, in shell shock. 'Did this really just happen? I mean, it has been one of my kinkier fantasies for a while, but did I actually just experience this? Did Louis enter me? Louis??? MY Louis??? Together with David?? MY David??? A ménage à trois. It truly happened. And the we showered together. ALL of us. NAKED! My God. And the rolling around on the floor, the wrestling . . .it had to be a dream. Had to be. Or maybe they're drugged? Or insane? Maybe I am? Or . . .could it be . . .it could be some after effect of that Candomble ritual, couldn't it? Are we possessed or something of that sort? I must ask David . . . or rather, I must NOT ask David. If it were possible, David would want to reverse it, or remove it or whatever is done in these situations, and that is precisely what I do not want. No, no, I'll enjoy this as long as it lasts, thank you very much. In fact, I think I am going to start enjoying it right now.' Lestat donned his tightest blue jeans and his smallest white T-shirt. He admired himself in the mirror. He loved that his sun-darkened skin allowed him to dress this way. To appear mortal, and yet be so much more, this was indeed his pleasure and his pride. He turned around to check the view from the back, gave his belt loops a final upward tug and went downstairs.

He found David sitting in the parlour, book in hand, Mojo at his feet.

"MOJO!" Lestat exclaimed ecstatically.

Mojo's head snapped up, seeing Lestat, he launched himself into the air, landing in Lestat's arms.

"Good boy, Mojo! I missed you so much! Did you miss me? Did you? Of course you did! Mon chien." Lestat sat on the floor with the dog in his lap, rubbing him, kissing him, petting him, hugging him. "Mojo, why do you smell like roses?"

"That's the dog wash." David informed him.

"Dog wash?"

"Yes, Louis just bathed him a few nights ago. It lingers. Nice, isn't it?"

"Louis bathed my dog?"

"That's right. I did the claws, what do you think?"

Lestat held Mojo's paw up. "You gave my devil dog a pedicure?"

"Devil dog!" David shook his head, "Really now, Lestat."

Lestat held Mojo up, inspecting him from all sides. "Well he doesn't seem to be too much the worse for wear."

"I rather think he is much improved from the last time you saw him. Look at how soft and shiny his coat has become. Look at his teeth."

"His teeth? Why?"

"Just look at them."

Lestat tried to get Mojo to open his mouth. Mojo moved his head away. "He doesn't want me to."

"Nonsense. Mojo, come here, boy."

Mojo readily walked to David and sat before him.

David snapped his fingers above Mojo's head and said, "Open."

Mojo looked up, but did not open his mouth.

"Mojo, open," David repeated.

Mojo did not.

David reached for Mojo's jaw. The dog gave a quiet but firm warning growl. David sighed.

"Well, he won't do it for me. He'll do it for Louis. You'll have to take my word for it, they are the whitest dog's teeth I have ever encountered," David patted Mojo on the head.

Mojo jumped into David's lap, knocking the book away, to show there were no hard feelings.

"Do I want to know how he came by this unnatural whiteness?" Lestat asked.

"Louis brushes them," David said, trying to avoid Mojo's enthusiastic kisses.

"BRUSHES them? Brushes a DOG'S teeth?"

"Yes," David laughed. "I thought it was quite bizarre myself at first, but I do think it is good for him. It certainly improved his breath."

Lestat gave David a suspicious look. "Here, Mojo," he called. "Come away from the maniac."

Mojo leapt down and went to Lestat, wagging his tail.

"That's a good boy. Looks like I am just in time to save your from this evil torture, huh?"

"Hmm, well, you'll have to work that out with Louis, I should think," David said, noncommittally.

Lestat laughed. "Well, I am famished. Join me for dinner, David?"

"My pleasure," David smiled.

Louis returned shortly, finding the flat empty. He laid David's London Times, and Lestat's New York Times on the hall table. He then put a Schubert CD in the stereo and took his Times-Picayune to the sofa to read.

David and Lestat returned nearly and hour later. Louis stood as they entered the parlour and they greeted each other with kisses, Louis's and David's chastely on the cheek, Lestat's full on the mouth.

"I brought the papers," Louis said, gesturing toward the hall table.

"Ah, splendid!" David said, going to retrieve the papers. "Have you done your crossword yet?"

"Certainly not!" Louis answered, taking mock umbrage at the accusation.

David laughed.

Lestat realized that he was witnessing something which had become routine for Louis and David, while he had been writing. Still, he was confused. "Louis, you don't like crossword puzzles."

"What do you mean?" David asked, before Louis had a chance to respond. "He loves them, and he's quite good too."

"I've never seen him do one," Lestat insisted, taking his New York Times from David.

"That is because you always did them before I got the chance," Louis laughed, handing him a pen.

They arranged themselves on the sofa and chairs. Louis and David turned to their crosswords immediately. Seeing this, Lestat followed suit.

"What is a seven letter word for light?" David asked, without looking up from his puzzle.

"Light as in not dark, or light as in not heavy?" Louis asked.

"Hmm, good question," David said.

"Brother," Lestat joined in.

"What?" David asked.

"No," Louis said, knowing what Lestat was getting at.

"Yes," Lestat said to Louis. "'He ain't heavy, he's my brother.' Seven letters, see?"

David rolled his eyes, but grinned to himself.

"Try lumiere," Louis said to David.

"Oh, that's good, I will," David nodded, filling in the squares. "Mourning ornament material?"

"Jet," Louis said.

"Blank mange," David said.

"Blanc," Lestat answered him.

"Yes, blank mange, something mange," David looked at Lestat.

"No, David, the word is blanc. Blanc mange. B-L-A-N-C," Lestat clarified.

David laughed at himself. "Oh, yes, of course. Daft that I didn't think of it myself. Nasty dessert, though."

"What is an eight letter word for detective?" Louis asked. "The fourth and eighth letters are Ts."

"Flatfoot," Lestat told him.

"Really?"

"Yes Louis, really" Lestat assured him. "Five letter word for boredom?"

"Ennui," Louis said.

"I tried that, only four letters."

"Two Ns," Louis said.

"What is the abbreviation for Alaska?" Lestat read the clue out, unsure.

"I haven't the vaguest," David said. "A definite Yank question, that."

"AK?" Louis offered.

"AS?" Lestat asked him back.

"I'm not sure," Louis confessed.

"Well, isn't Arkansas, AK?" Lestat asked him.

"Arkansas is AR," Louis said.

"Then Alaska would be AL," Lestat said, happy to have figured it out.

"Then what is Alabama?" Louis asked.

Lestat thought for a moment. "I'm skipping this one. Who wrote 'The Valachi Papers'?"

"I have no idea, " David said.

"Nor do I," added Louis.

"Patron saint of mental illness?" David asked.

"I think I used to know that," Lestat commented.

"Dymphna," Louis told them.

"Pardon?" David asked.

"D-Y-M-P-H-N-A."

"Ah ha, so they want petrol for energy source, then," David said to himself.

"A five letter word for dumb?" Louis asked.

"Blond," David told him.

"Very funny, David," Lestat threw his pen cap at his youngest fledgling.

"Actually, I think that fits," Louis said.

"What?!" Lestat demanded.

"Yes, now I just need a six letter word for vain, fourth and sixth letters, T, hmm."

"You're pushing it, Louis." Lestat pointed at him.

Once the puzzles were finished the three of them chatted about the news for a bit. They discussed what movies were playing, art exhibitions announced and various items of interest. Then Lestat opened his Times magazine and found something interesting.

"Who wants to play the quotes game?"

"What is that?" David asked.

Lestat read, "Identify the author of each quote and find the theme."

"That sounds fun," Louis said.

"Alright, this is the first one, 'What the public criticizes in you, cultivate. It is you.'"

"Jean Cocteau, Le Rappel a l'Ordre," Louis answered immediately.

Lestat wrote that name in the blank, then read the next. "Two, 'Critical remarks are only made by people who love you.'"

"Mayor, Frederico Mayor," David answered. "And I think I have already determined the theme."

They all laughed.

"Three, 'For if there is anything to one's praise, it is foolish vanity to be gratified at it, and if it is abuse - why one is always sure to hear it from one damned good-natured friend or another,'" Lestat read.

"I don't know, " Louis said.

"Me either," Lestat answered him. The two looked at David.

"Don't look at me," David said, so they stopped.

Lestat read the next. "Four, 'I find the pain of a little censure, even when it is unfounded, more acute than the pleasure of much praise.'"

"Jefferson," Louis and David said at once.

"Five, 'To criticize is to appreciate, to appropriate, to take intellectual possession, to establish in a fine relation with the criticized thing and make it one's own.'" Lestat looked from one to the other, seeing that they didn't know the answer, provided it himself. "Henry James." He went to the next quote and read, "Six, 'The covers of this book are too far apart.'"

David laughed, "Oscar Wilde?"

Lestat wrote it in the blank. "Seven, 'I demand that my books be judged with utmost severity, by knowledgeable people who know the rules of grammar and logic, and who will seek beneath the footprints of my commas the lice of my thought in the head of my style.'"

"I don't know who wrote it, but it puts me in the mind of the great apes, grooming each other," David said.

Louis made a face of disgust.

"Lovely image, David, thank you," Lestat said. "Eight, 'It is from the womb of art that criticism is born.'"

"Baudelaire," Louis said.

"Nine, 'Most critical writing is drivel and half of it is dishonest . . . it is a shortcut to oblivion anyway. Thinking in terms of ideas destroys the power to think in terms of emotions and sensations.' Raymond Chandler," Lestat said, recognizing the quote. "Ten, 'Praise or blame has but a momentary effect upon the man whose love of beauty in the abstract makes him a severe critic on his own works.'"

"John Keats!" Louis said.

"Eleven, 'Any authentic work of art must start an argument between the artist and his audience.'" Lestat looked up.

David shrugged.

Louis shook his head.

"I don't know it either," Lestat said. "I'll guess . . . Vanilla Ice."

"Is that a person?" Louis asked.

"Louis, you really need to get out more," Lestat told him.

"Was that the last quote?" David asked.

"No, a few more, this is the next one, 'Never trust the artist. Trust the tale. The function of a good critic is to save the tale from the artist who created it.'"

"D. H. Lawrence," David answered.

"I've never read him," Louis commented.

"Don't bother," David said.

"Thirteen, 'Criticism is often not a science, it is a craft; requiring more good health than wit, more hard work than talent, more habit than native genius. In the hands of a man who has read widely but lacks judgment, applied to certain subjects it can corrupt both its readers and the writer himself.'"

"It was a French writer . . ."Louis said.

"I haven't come across it before," David admitted.

"I'll go on, then. Fourteen, 'It is the nature of the artist to mind excessively what is said about him. Literature is strewn with the wreckage of men who have minded beyond reason the opinions of others.'"

"Virginia Woolf," David said.

"'A Room of One's Own'," Louis agreed.

"Fifteen, 'In criticism I shall be bold, and as sternly absolutely just with friend and foe. From this purpose nothing shall turn me.' Edgar Allen Poe," Lestat said, as he wrote it in the blank. "Sixteen, 'The artist doesn't have time to listen to the critics. Those who want to be writers read reviews. Those who write don't have time to read reviews.'"

"Faulkner," Louis said, simultaneously with Lestat.

"Seventeen, 'Unless a reviewer has the courage to give you unqualified praise, I say ignore the bastard.'"

"John Steinbeck to John Kenneth Galbraith," David answered, "in an airport somewhere, if I am not mistaken."

"Eighteen, 'God knows people who are paid to have attitudes toward things, professional critics, make me sick; camp following eunuchs of literature. They won't even whore. They're all virtuous and sterile. And how well meaning and high minded. But they're all camp followers.'"

"Ernest Hemingway," David said.

Lestat nodded. "Nineteen, 'Since we cannot attain unto it, let us revenge ourselves with railing against it.'"

"Michel de Montaigne," David said.

"Twenty, 'Take heed of critics even when they are not fair, resist them even when they are.'"

"Jean Rostand, the biologist," David said.

"Now," Lestat said, turning to the answers. "How many did our vast and collected intelligence get correct? One, Jean Cocteau. Very good, Louis. Two, Frederico Mayor. David, who IS Frederico Mayor?"

"The president of UNESCO, Lestat."

"Oh." Lestat decided not to ask what UNESCO was, probably some group of psychics, or witches or charlatans. "Three, Richard Brinsley Sheridan."

This brought blank stares from all.

"Four, Thomas Jefferson, five, Henry James, six, Ambrose Bierce, David."

"Ah, well." David shrugged it off.

"It sounded like Wilde, though," Louis said.

"Seven, Louis Aragon. Any one have the slightest clue of who he is?"

"Oh, yes," Louis said. "He is a poet of some sort. Stan says he's not worth the paper he's printed on most of the time."

"Well, apparently he'd like very much if Stan would tell him so," Lestat observed. "Eight, Charles Baudelaire, nine, Raymond Chandler, ten, John Keats, eleven, Rebecca West."

"I still do not know her," Louis said.

"No idea," Lestat agreed.

"Perhaps they haven't been very well published arguments," David said.

"Twelve, D. H. Lawrence, thirteen, Jean de La Bruyere, fourteen, Virginia Woolf, fifteen, Edgar Allen Poe, I wonder how many friends he had?" Lestat mused. "Sixteen, William Faulkner, seventeen, John Steinbeck, eighteen, Ernest Hemingway, nineteen, Michel de Montaigne, twenty, Jean Rostand. Four wrong out of twenty, that is a score of 80. Not too bad."

"Rather pathetic considering our collective age though. There are probably twenty-year-old mortals who could have gotten 100 percent," Louis said.

"Yes, Beautiful One, but can they load and shoot a flintlock pistol in less than a minute?"

"Can you do that, Louis?" David asked.

"Well, yes, at least I could," Louis said modestly.

"Then, you still can," Lestat assured him. "And the theme was artistic criticism. We knew that, so add five points. And it says, '80 to 85, you are well-read.'"

"That's somewhat faint praise," David chuckled.

"But accurate," Louis said.

They continued to peruse their newspapers, reading out the horoscopes, discussing the weather in various places. It was an easy, comfortable atmosphere, and each thrived in it. They relaxed, smiling often and enjoying each other's company. Louis became so relaxed in fact that he stayed downstairs until the sun began to rise and fell asleep there. Lestat allowed David to carry Louis upstairs, while he put out the lights and settled Mojo for the day.

Ruling Rue Royale - Chapter Eleven

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