Toxicology Read online

  DELACROIX

  There was a time that a glorified titty magazine like Playboy was actually considered relevant. But of course I said no. I’ve made it a practice to say no to all interviews.

  VR

  Until this one.

  DELACROIX

  Exactly. So please get the fuck on with it. Are we going to talk about Little Deaths all night? It’s not as if it’s the only damn novel I’ve written that matters.

  VR

  No, of course not. But unlike your other novels, which have gone out of print, Little Deaths has endured and become a cult classic. It’s been translated into at least twenty-seven languages and enjoys brisk sales to this day. What accounts for its lasting power?

  DELACROIX

  How should I know? I’ve been living off the proceeds of that book for forty years. It’s not like I wrote any differently after that.

  VR

  Speaking of proceeds, the film rights to Little Deaths have been optioned over the years by a colorful assortment of international directors, producers, and film stars, yet never made. Louis Malle, Liliana Cavani, Jane Campion, Pedro Almodóvar—

  DELACROIX

  Ahh, Pedro. That would’ve been too perfect. Especially if he cast Penélope Cruz as the ex-nun.

  VR

  Aside from money in the bank, nothing has come of all this buzz and hype. Do you have any idea why?

  DELACROIX

  Darlin’, it’s a wonder any movie ever gets made.

  VR

  Since you’re such a connoisseur, does it matter who ultimately ends up making the movie version of your book?

  DELACROIX

  Nope. But I’ve decided to give away the rights to a talented filmmaker who lives across the hall. You’re familiar with the urban horror movie Blood Wedding?

  VR

  You mean your neighbor’s Mimi—

  DELACROIX

  Don’t you think she’s got the right sensibility?

  VR

  What a brilliant idea.

  DELACROIX

  Can we move on?

  VR

  Let’s talk about your memoir, California Melancholy.

  DELACROIX

  Which had the unfortunate distinction of being published the week of September 11, 2001. No one was interested in either reviewing or reading it.

  VR

  We were fortunate enough to have found a used copy at the Strand. (Delacroix laughs.) The memoir deals with growing up in Sacramento, going to Mills, and it ends with your early years in New York, working at a variety of jobs while trying to be a writer.

  DELACROIX

  Yup. Done it all. Proofreader, typist, fact-checker, salesgirl at Macy’s and Woolworth’s, drug dealer, assistant bartender at Cleo’s Den. Either of you ever heard of Cleo’s Den?

  VR

  It’s mentioned in passing in Kirshner’s book.

  DELACROIX

  Cleo’s was one of the original Greenwich Village dyke bars. We had a great jukebox and hosted the occasional drunken poetry reading. But then Cleo’s got raided, and that was that. End of an era.

  VR

  Were you thrown in jail?

  DELACROIX

  Lucky for me, it was my night off. . . . But Cleo and everyone else got hauled away.

  VR

  Can you tell us about being a drug dealer?

  DELACROIX

  Why?

  VR

  Women dealing drugs—that’s unusual.

  DELACROIX

  I didn’t do it for long. People going in and out of my apartment at all hours of the day and night—not my cup of tea! You try to stay under the radar, keep your clientele small and exclusive, but hubris and greed tend to get in the way.

  VR

  What kind of drugs did you—

  DELACROIX

  Wanna hear about this memoir or what?

  VR

  Yes, we do.

  DELACROIX

  My original idea was to write a trilogy. The second book was going to be much longer and less grim than all that family drama. I wanted to explore those years in Mexico. The third would be about life with Yvonne back in New York. But then Moss died.

  VR

  Moss Blake.

  DELACROIX

  That’s right. Moss had arranged for the memoirs to be published by Electra Press in London. I was no longer a sought-after writer, but Electra was a perfectly respectable, independent press. Run by women, so I was pleased. When Part One of the memoir came out after 9/11 and did so poorly . . . well, who can blame anyone? It was bad timing. When Moss died, there was no one left to push the second book forward and then . . . well. And then.

  VR

  Electra Press folded.

  DELACROIX

  Everyone was dying or dead or getting sick around me. I did not feel motivated to write those second and third books. The irony is, those books would’ve been fun. My life hasn’t been just one big tragic soap opera, you know. There were incredible times, filled with incredible, beautiful, smart, and sexy people who were fun. Very entertaining to read about.

  VR

  Starting with the Fox twins?

  DELACROIX

  Absolutely, yes. Lupe had the most amazing art collection. And these hairless Aztec dogs who followed me around the garden. Xoloitzcuintle. Lupe and Jocanda called them “kwink-klez” for short. There was an ugly mama dog and two male pups. Freaky little beasts, they were—black and squat and muscular, with big pointy ears. I used to watch them lounging in the sun. They didn’t look real. More like pre-Columbian statues carved out of stone.

  VR

  Mexico seems to have left a profound impression on you.

  DELACROIX

  The Aztecs were fond of their dogs, you know. They also ate them.

  VR

  You should finish your memoir. People would be so much more receptive now.

  DELACROIX

  That’s a load of crap. And you know it. Change the subject, please.

  VR

  Did you always know you were going to be a writer?

  DELACROIX

  As much as any child knows anything. Or dreams about wanting to be something. I was passionate about books. Always asked for them at Christmas. Luckily, I was indulged. My parents—my father, especially—took pride in the fact that I was so brainy and quiet. I never gave them trouble. Until I announced my taste for women, that is. And then . . . Well, you know it was plays that made me really want to be a writer. I began by writing bad imitations of Tennessee Williams, Ibsen, and—oh, my God yes—Lillian Hellman.

  VR

  What about novels you read while you were growing up?

  DELACROIX

  I had access to only what was acceptable to my father. Which wasn’t too awful for me, since he was an educated man and an avid reader. . . . So was my poor stoned mother, actually. Novels provided her with much-needed escape, until her eyes went from bad to worse and she had to stop reading. My parents had a kooky library. The Bible (of course), some Shakespeare, some Dickens, Pearl Buck, Ayn Rand, Thurber, John O’Hara.

  VR

  No Hemingway?

  DELACROIX

  Absolutely not! My father probably didn’t approve of his politics or carousing. Could’ve been worse. The O’Hara books were placed on the highest shelf, since they were considered racy. Of course I snuck off to read them. At Mills I devoured Virginia Woolf, Gide, Borges—all that highfalutin shit. The surrealists, Simone de Beauvoir, ooh-la-la!

  VR

  Inspiring?

  DELACROIX

  Intimidating, intoxicating. Filled me with insatiable lust.

  VR

  Lust?

  DELACROIX

  Wanderlust. Could not wait to fucking get out of the U. S. and see the world. Thought that’s what writers were supposed to do. Thought I’d end up living my life in Argentina or Paris or Tangier.

  VR

  But here you are. Living your life in New York.

  DELACROIX<
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  The butchers are gone. And I don’t mean to sound nostalgic for the good ol’ days of Paris Is Burning, but soon I will be, too.

  VR

  But you will show up to your reading at Volga, we hope?

  (With great effort Delacroix rises from the sofa. She proceeds to gather our coats and show us to the door.)

  DELACROIX

  Sorry, kids. All this talk has drained the life out of me.

  the INTERVIEW,

  PART TWO

  We returned early the next evening and—to our delight and surprise—were greeted at the door by Delacroix’s neighbor, the filmmaker Mimi Smith. Smith bade farewell to Delacroix by kissing her on both cheeks, then made a hasty exit without bothering to introduce herself. Delacroix was again barefoot and dressed in the mirrored caftan that she had on the night before. Unlike the previous evening, this time Delacroix was not as eager to see us and seemed disoriented and preoccupied.

  —Sasha Collins and Rajiv Gill, 2009

  VR

  Yesterday you referred to writing as “exquisite agony.”

  DELACROIX

  Must’ve been high. Don’t trust anything I say that’s too pretty and poetic.

  VR

  So it’s not agony?

  DELACROIX

  For fuck’s sake, of course it is! What was it that bitch Heming way said—“Writing’s not for sissies” ? Novels inflict the most pain.

  VR

  What made you decide that Little Deaths had to be written as a novel?

  DELACROIX

  Because I’m drawn to pain. Chantrea.

  VR

  Chantrea?

  DELACROIX

  That was our Khmer host and translator’s name. Means “moon.”

  VR

  Oh, yes. Your time in Cambodia.

  DELACROIX

  There’s a photograph of her in my study. Make sure her name’s spelled correctly.

  VR

  We will.

  DELACROIX

  I was up all night, trying to remember her name. You think Chantrea might be dead?

  VR

  You want us to try to find out for you?

  DELACROIX

  I’ve never forgotten her face.

  VR

  Speaking of names and faces, was that Mimi Smith who opened your door?

  DELACROIX

  Smith’s an alias.

  VR

  An alias?

  DELACROIX

  Mimi’s an orphan. From some faraway kingdom where everyone can sing and genius lies in mimicry. Didn’t speak a word of English when she got here. Taught herself by going to the movies. Or so she says.

  VR

  Is she aware you’re giving her the film rights to Little Deaths?

  DELACROIX

  Am I? That’s news to me.

  VR

  Last night you said—

  DELACROIX

  She doesn’t even have a green card.

  VR

  This is starting to feel like one of your novels. Or Alice in Wonderland.

  DELACROIX

  There’s nothing left to eat. Or drink. Everything’s gone. The floors are made of glass.

  VR

  Are you okay? We can reschedule this interview.

  DELACROIX

  I never should’ve agreed to do this.

  VR

  How about tomorrow?

  DELACROIX

  It’s over. The end.

  VR

  But there’s so much more we—

  DELACROIX

  We’re done.

  VR

  One last thing. Please, Ms. Delacroix.

  DELACROIX

  Shoot.

  VR

  Do you write for yourself?

  DELACROIX

  Yes.

  VR

  Readers be damned?

  DELACROIX

  Baby, it’s like sex. If I can please myself. . . then maybe, just maybe, I can please you.

  God & Smoke & Amber

  The fawning pair from the magazine are finally gone, the locks in place, peace at last. Sasha and Rajiv. Such pretty names, such pretty young people. Eleanor lights a cigarette, looks around for something to drink, maybe a side of blow. Maybe not. Enough with the catnaps and nodding out. She needs sleep, real sleep. Her mind a sheet of glass, bulletproof, words cut and paste, flung into a void. She has glass on the mind, cannot shake the trite metaphor, didn’t she allude to glass floors in that asinine interview? Waste of time, why had she agreed to it, no legacy. O vanity. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

  What injustices has she observed, what death, the long-haired kids in the temple ruins, the trembling soldiers who were kids themselves, green eyes, black stools, shroud of Yvonne, pain of the world. Eleanor suddenly cannot stop thinking about her mother. Ana Rosario Vargas. Losing ground, spinning fast, flames. Family = Aunt Elly, Mom, Pop, Petey, Nate, Richard, Jesus, Joseph, Mary. Tomorrow she’ll Google the one remaining Hawthorne sibling, see what comes up. Mary’s still the baby, and she’s still alive.

  Hallelujah. She finds the dusty bottle of mezcal in the back of the liquor cabinet. It’s down to the dregs, but there’s enough left for a buzz and a good dream. Mezcal tastes of God and smoke and amber, she remembers Felix once saying. And he was right. Eleanor sucks it straight from the bottle. When there is no more mezcal, Eleanor goes to her bedroom and lies down. Sounds of clattering heels and laughter from the sidewalk below her window. Followed by abrupt, blessed silence. Eleanor closes her eyes and wonders in what language she will dream.

  Felix Montoya waits for her at the basketball court on Horatio and Hudson. He sits on a bench by the sidelines, a forlorn king wrapped in a ragged cloak of moth-eaten jaguar pelts. His hair is plastered to his skull with blood and chicken feathers. One side of his face is gone, but he is in a jovial, playful mood. Oye, bruja—how dare you keep me waiting? What balls!

  I’m sorry, Felix.

  Can you believe this weather? It feels like spring.

  Eleanor sits on his lap. It’s my fault you’re dead.

  Narcissist.

  I shouldn’t have stayed at Yvonne’s that night.

  You’re lucky you did, or you’d be dead, too.

  I miss you. Eleanor touches what’s left of his face.

  And I miss you, Felix says.

  Felix reaches inside his cloak and pulls out a black-and-white notebook. Surprise! The notebook looks vaguely familiar, streaked with mud and grass and bits of brain matter. Felix hands it to Eleanor. I want you to be the first to read it.

  Eleanor opens to the first page.

  Read it out loud. Please, Eleanor. I love the sound of your voice.

  Eleanor turns to another page.

  Read as loud as you want. We’re all alone.

  But there’s nothing here, Eleanor says, flipping through the endless pages.

  Exactly, Felix says. He points to the side of his face that is missing. I was three lines away from finishing the last poem in my new collection, but love got in the way.

  You mean a hammer, says Eleanor, getting off his lap. She walks to the center of the court and reads from the notebook:A hammer got in the way.

  I shouldn’t have left my tools out on the table.

  The hammer makes everything inevitable,

  Too easy.

  The night air hot and sweet.

  The city asleep,

  Stench of marigolds.

  A thousand invisible birds sing in the trees,

  Calling my name.

  Surprise!

  The hammer comes down with a bang,

  Calling my name.

  It comes down

  Again and again.

  I love you, it sings.

  Surprise ! Surprise!

  What a brilliant performance. Really, bruja. You’ve outdone yourself. Made a so-so poem sound much better. Felix applauds, throws his head back and laughs. His head snaps off and bounces, then rolls across the basketball court a
nd comes to a rest against the wire fence beyond. Eleanor runs to fetch it. She runs fast. She is not herself, she is young and agile, a marathon runner, an Aztec soccer player with short, thick, powerful legs, sprinting toward the head of her friend, Felix Montoya. She reaches his head and kicks it. The court keeps expanding. She kicks it again. Felix’s head sails through the sweet night air. Eleanor wakes with a start. The room is pitch black. It takes a moment for her to realize her legs are still moving.