By David Huberman
ANALEPSIS
AMONG THE VAST collection of items displayed in the window of my antique shop, there rested an inexpensive sculpture of a lion with a visible tiny crack. Nothing within my heirloom boutique looked like it could have been of lesser monetary value. But this was one of those sleeper art objects that you had to really examine in detail. Then you would realise it was not one of those kitschy art items, but a real artistic creation. Invisible to the eye, yet revealing to the touch were infinitesimal particles of red mica powder ingrained into the surface of this precious art piece. People would remark that the face of the big cat resembled my own. Whether the similarity of its visage and mine was intentional, I will never know, although I felt it was not.
The local villagers would berate me, asking why I kept such a vile and monstrous reflection of myself in the windows of my store. One day I finally replied, ‘I grow weary of the constant chattering and vicious rumours that go on in this hamlet. Use your brains, you old coots! This is a fine work of art which I am offering below market price. That there is a controversy of possessing such fantastic objects d’art in my Magasin d’Antiquities window almost makes me physically sick. You poor people must be dreaming that I would destroy such a fine carving!’
Shocked as I was, to the sad, small-minded response I had received, always their evil whispers followed me wherever I went. ‘Oh, damn them to hell!’ I screamed out from within my domain.
PRELUDE
My own private ‘Waterloo’ had begun. The hellish creature that masqueraded as a wife to me made her marital appearance. ‘There she goes looking agitated,’ I mulled, though she appeared to have toned down her usual harangue. With her slow, torturous moves, she was always complaining, yakking, and the constant chattering seemed like it would never stop. But this was just the beginning until I learned the true nature of her identity.
She had once exclaimed that I was her best friend. Maybe her best victim, but never her boon companion. I was even wrong when I told a friend of mine that my wife hated me; that was the wrong emotion to convey concerning my so-called spouse. Rather, I was more of an inconvenience; emotions never really took place in something like her.
Looking back, I could almost laugh at myself that the tunnel of love had already ended for me. My passionate affair was, indeed, most deadly. If only I had stayed away from the Amazon River. ‘Spoiled, nerdy, horny asshole,’ I thought, berating myself.
Damn it all; going down that insane swamp, where the heat is like an oven and you are swept away in your own sweat, and, well, when you survive a situation like that with someone and they still look good afterward, why not propose marriage?
‘Stu-pid! Stu-pid! Stu-pid!’ I felt the word ringing in my head like a cuckoo clock, a constant chant reminding me how cheap life can be. Yes, this being, this changeling disguised as a femme fatale, would be my funeral if I didn’t watch out.
We had met on a luxury tour, cruising to South America to explore the rain forest. She was a work of art only a great artist like John Singer Sargent could make—sexual perfection in a woman, uncanny to say the least. Camila was made for sin. She would lay right down on the deck by the pool totally nude, those perfect smooth curves of her buttocks—and her arched and supple feet with flawless toes. That strong chiselled back sweeping to her immaculate neck. And that ivory body collecting day by day a ravishing bronze tan from that fierce tropical sun. Even traditional families would be in awe of her. Never a complaint was made about her nudity.
How her skin never burnt up from those punishing rays was a mystery. Camila would look up at me with her aquiline nose and those luscious cock-sucking lips, her pitch black hair reminding me of a fierce alpha female wolf I had seen at some popular circus. This enchantress had it all. Every man, woman, and child wanted to be with her. Even the other passengers’ pets sniffed at her in ecstasy when she walked by.
But that sublime being of bronze wanted me—only me—right from the start. And I bought into it too. I was so full of myself at the time. ‘A narcissistic fool, that’s what I am.’ I was played like an idiot. But even a moron can wake up.
At the time, the real purpose of my trip down the Maranon Waterway was to inspect and purchase the complete bone structure of a real mermaid. I knew the whole concept of buying a real mermaid skeleton was most likely a scam, but I was intrigued.
I had met this fellow who put me up to this idiotic journey at one of those antiquarian fairs in N.Y.C.—a literary expo uptown, held at the Park Avenue Armoury on 66th Street—a short gentleman with Mediterranean features, I would guess, in his early sixties. His eyes, which appeared to be permanently popping out of their sockets, reminded one of the 1925 silent film version of The Phantom of the Opera, except that he was far more goofy than scary.
He had been scouting about the fair, picking up old tomes on underwater monsters, mythical creatures, and sea dragons—that type of nonsense—when he eyed me suspiciously. ‘Are you following me?’
I was flabbergasted. ‘No,’ I said, ‘Although I find your choices of publications to purchase most interesting. But twists of fate do happen, and sometimes for a reason. Take that book on mermaids you just purchased. I was looking for that same printed work, and you beat me out for it by just a minute.’
The old fellow looked flustered. ‘Well, I need these books for my investigations. I am a biological oceanographer, and mermaids are real!’ He fell quiet, realising what he’d just uttered until I replied, ‘How real?’
With a silly smile on his face and those protruding eyes of his, he could have resembled some bizarre sea creature had he been found underwater. ‘On the Amazon River near the equator there is a man who is selling a complete mermaid skeleton; however, I require a sponsor. Are you in?’
‘Of course,’ I replied. But as events would have it, my new friend suffered from asthma and was unable to embark on the journey. By this time, I had wormed all the bloody details out of him—recounting his life as an aquatic collector and exotic world traveller.
And that, dear readers, is how I ended up on an infernal cruise down the Amazon River,—meeting the venomous succubus—my wife. Of course, I was all in—right from the beginning.
On my first day on the cruise ship, I spotted the woman who would later become my wife. She was walking across the designated pool area, probably en route to the lounge chair that was meant for her—the captain of the Aqua Amazon cruise ship had already fallen under her spell.
When I first spotted her, I actually thought I felt a jolt of electricity go through me. And what shocked me? She gave me that depraved look that sometimes women signal to men when they are hungry to mate. ‘Why me?’ I ask myself. But I really didn’t delve into that question too much at that time, because of what I now realised to be my narcissistic nature. I mean, the captain of the cruise was way better looking than me. He definitely had, what they call mojo, with his six-foot frame and his strong resemblance to Sean Connery—the stately look. Add to that the single multi-millionaires that were on this voyage. Nevertheless, she had picked me because of her sense that I was an easy mark and with my vain nature, I wouldn’t detect what lay beneath this evil creature’s design. What a high-life sensation to have a beautiful, desirable woman want me. What man can fight those urges that the sex drive has wired into us? She cast off the captain pretty fast, to his dismay and my delight. We were glued to each other from that first day—acting like wild animals right until the ship’s unfortunate twist of fate. What a dupe I was!
I never did meet up with that fellow who claimed the so-called mermaid skeleton find. The accident, which I now ponder if it really was, the authorities documented as a ‘freak’ incident. After all the investigators, regional operational units of the Brazilian Navy that dealt with that catastrophe, they never came up with any plausible conclusions about our horrible maritime disaster other than that the diesel engine was old. The last safety report, which was recent, gave an ‘all clear’ account that the ship was in good repair. Of course, the investigators after the fact reported that the engine’s internal combustion explosion killed quite a lot of people and then the wildlife took a toll on what was left of the survivors. Huge black beasts, caimans, came out of the depths and the human smorgasbord began. Guts and organs ripped out of human beings. What a horror show that was! But me and the wife, we survived! Blown right out of our cabin on top of our Pullman bed! Maybe sleeping with a malignant spirit had its advantages.
The next thing I knew, we were floating down the Amazon, surrounded by a pod of pink dolphins. If it weren’t for those benevolent, fairy-like creatures, we would have been like all the other humans who landed in the water—’chopped suey’ in some crocodilian stomach. Never mind being ripped to shreds, those monsters’ tummies are like being thrown into a vat of acid!!
Miraculously, the rosy dolphins surrounded us and chaperoned us until air Med Evac services spotted us from above. The air ambulance came down and took us to our aeromedical evacuation. I suffered burns and cuts all over my body—my hair singed. But she—she had not a scratch on her! Not a burn! The rescuers were shocked at the degree of her apathy—like she was above it all.
After I was stabilised in the regional hospital of Loredo, I was airlifted to Weill Cornell Medical burn centre in New York City. The head of dermatology anesthetized me for almost a week. In the end, I was lucky—normal first-degree burns with a few second-degree burns too. The physiotherapist said that I would be good as new in about a year. But the road would be filled with pain! And wouldn’t you know it, that scheming Medusa came every day to visit little old me. That’s how I got it in my head to marry her. Well, you really can’t blame me. Here I am in the burn centre in N.Y.C., just surviving a horrible disaster on the Rio Amazonas, and this luscious, beautiful woman is there for me, telling me throughout my painful ordeal that she is smitten with me and wants to be my love slave. Of course I was going to marry her! How could I not!
But even at the marriage nuptials, I felt an uneasiness. I couldn’t back out. No man could! Even gay men that were one hundred per cent fixated on the male body were in lust with her! ‘How could that be?’ I asked myself.
One day we were celebrating a new commercial artist’s breakthrough in The Big Apple. We went to a fantastic-looking art salon. The party was being held at a gallery on 57th Street and Sixth Avenue. This was a VIP invitation affair—a chic crowd for sure, and the artist was of the gay persuasion. I heard most of the crowd would be LGBTQ. I figured, for the most part, I would be safe with her. Somehow I forgot about women who sought other women—lesbians. But even before I thought about that factor, a very handsome, dignified, middle-aged man was flirting with my wife right in front of his male lover. I said to myself, ‘Maybe he is bisexual and they are old friends.’ But then the lover started flirting with her too. I actually got confused at that point, because both men that I was so sure were homosexual, were now acting very heterosexual. They seemed to be getting jealous of each other. Strong competition was happening! Finally, I introduced myself as her husband. At this point, there was a violent feeling in the air. They were full of resentment and envy towards each other. They desired to be with my wife! What the hell happened to these fine lavender gentlemen? They were acting like heterosexual truck drivers! Nevertheless, I conducted myself with dignified charm that night, trying to show my lady love that I was not a jealous man. But I felt I had to intervene at this time because feelings were getting out of hand, almost leading to fisticuffs, especially between the libertines. I got between the Lotharios, and took the one aside that was ogling my wife the most and said to the gentleman, ‘Sir, you have really disturbed your partner; do you know my wife from the past?’ For a few minutes, nothing was said. There were tears running down this striking man’s face and his beautiful eyes kept on twitching. I said, ‘Stop, please.’ Finally, after what seemed like quite a while, he replied, ‘I have never met your partner before. I really apologise. I have never in my life made such a scene.’ For some reason, I looked around, and I saw my wife was gone. He kept on talking. ‘No, never have I done something like this before. I’m so ashamed.’ He started to stammer. ‘It’s just that your lover is so bloody handsome!’
Shocked, I asked him to repeat what he had just said. ‘Please,’ he pleaded, ‘no violence. Please don’t hit me.’ I just lost it. I grabbed him excitedly. ‘No, no, just repeat what you just said.’ He looked puzzled and scared as shit. I caught myself. ‘No, you don’t understand. I’m not going to give you a hammering. I just want you to repeat what you said.’ He looked confused. I said, ‘Before you said he is so bloody good-looking.’ The majestic gentleman was still in the shock stage. I kept on. ‘Is he really that striking?’ Looking very scared, he said, ‘Of course.’ More baffled than ever, he continued, ‘Is this some weird game you two are playing?’ ‘No, no,’ I said. ‘I just wanted to make sure of something you said. You can go now, your partner is waiting for you. No brute force will come your way from me. In fact, thank you, you have done me a great service.’ He looked at me with great puzzlement. Then he walked away and was crying to his fancy man that this would never happen again. Leaving me to my thoughts, after getting over the distress, I now knew without a doubt that I had married a mythical creature. A shapeshifter!
At first I didn’t say too much to this entity. I wasn’t sure how to go about it. We had moved to this small town—a rural depressed area in New York State. I set up shop, knowing ahead of time that it was a hamlet of illiterate dolts. There were three major reasons why I singled out Besico Village. One reason, the rent was very cheap to open a business there. The second reason? My instinct felt that there was something really wrong with this wife of mine. I didn’t want to be in an environment like a big city to complicate matters even worse.
I continued my business with my antique shop, having the wildest relics that I found over the years. The village idiots fell right under my so-called wife’s spell. I should have seen it coming. They were following her everywhere, like a pack of wild dogs. But in a way, I couldn’t really blame them. Who knows what they were seeing when they saw her?
My third reason why I singled out Besico Village to be the place where I would take a stand is that I knew of a seer, a warlock, in the next town who had locked up his district with his black magic devil’s cult.
Actually, he was an old teenage friend of mine. Nicholas Graven showed up one day at the Bronx High School of Science—black leather jacket, jet black ponytail with a small goatee. He sat next to me at my AP World History Class. First words out of my mouth to him were, ‘you look like a Devil worshiper.’ He just smiled. From there on in, our friendship took off. He was always into that black magic jazz—a narcotic user, for sure. Once I asked him if he was a follower of Aleister Crowley. He told me that fellow was a poser, a chronic heroin addict, a moaner and a groaner. ‘Who needs him?’ he exclaimed. ‘Me—I’m the real deal!’
After that conversation, I never knew what to make of him. One day he showed up at my place. At that time I was living on the Lower East Side. ‘Charles,’ he said, ‘stake me a thousand dollars. I have a business opportunity.’ For a few years I had not seen him and here he was asking for money in the first 10 minutes of our reunion, but he knew that I came from a rich family. I was getting nice monthly cheques from my affluent parents, so stupidly I went for it. I didn’t hear from him for a few years after that. Then I started getting small amounts of money from him in the mail—postal money orders. The town that the envelopes were coming from were marked Austin, New York. Is it a coincidence that I moved next to him in the next township? Life is strange, to say the least.
I drove over to Austin’s colony. In twenty minutes, I was there. Another dismal area with too many liquor stores and rundown churches, the people scattered around like a bunch of bed bugs. This ruinous, rundown Greek monastery is where I walked into the Church of Baphomet! I thought I had strolled into the film set of that great classic fright film, Horror Hotel. All of a sudden I looked outside and, covering what looked like a small graveyard, the fog moved in. Inside, the lights were dim. I slowly went down the medieval spiral staircase. No sounds, except the rustling of papers. Finally, I got downstairs into what looked like an abandoned hallway. Then a light went on somewhere in the entranceway and I could see a tall man wearing a black frock. Graven, the occult con man, still looked youthful with that charlatan smile of his and slicked back, black curly hair. He must dye it, I thought.
‘I heard what happened to you on the Aqua Amazon cruise. A miracle it was!’ He then gave me a hearty laugh. I got closer. He was sitting down now behind a huge mahogany desk. ‘Where are the brethren?’ I continued. ‘And isn’t the name of your church too much of an advertisement for the real Christians in this community?’ He broke out in more laughter. ‘Well now,’ he said, ‘there are no real practitioners of Jesus Christ in this part of town. These townies are making real money for the first time in their lives, praying to Satan! I got my following to invest in some devilish cryptocurrencies. They’re doing all right. Why did you come to me, old friend?’ I looked him up and down and said, ‘I know you’re a great con artist, but just maybe you have a line to the Devil. You’re the smartest person I know; and, well, you owe me.’ Without missing a beat, he said, ‘Okay, fair enough. What’s the problem? You’re going to get a fortune from the class action lawsuit accident on the Rio Amazonas cesspool. You’re in one piece from what I can see, and you married the hottest bitch in town. So what’s the problem?’
I looked at him hard, thinking to myself, can this criminal genius really help me? ‘I don’t know if you will even believe me, but the luscious, divine woman I married is not a woman.’ Graven chuckled just for a few seconds, then said, ‘You mean you married the world’s most beautiful transsexual?’ ‘No,’ I quickly asserted. ‘The abomination is neither a man nor woman; rather, the damned creature can be whatever the person believes, sees, or wants it to be.’ My friend looked puzzled. ‘Shapeshifter!’ I screamed. ‘You must have heard of these living entities in your mumbo jumbo black magic.’ Nicholas stood up beside his desk and said quietly, ‘Only you could be in this situation—World-class traveller, adventurer, collector of ancient antiquities, and now married to an ungodly creature that even Lucifer himself wouldn’t want to tangle with. Wow!’
‘What should I do?’ I answered nervously. ‘Well, you could try shooting her with a silver bullet. But that would be untidy. No, I have some special people that I’m in touch with. You’re lucky you came to the right person. I’ll need at least a week; by then I believe I will be able to help you. If we are successful, my friend, then my debt to you will be paid. Come back to me in a week.’
Seven long days living with a skin walker felt like years had passed. All the creature did was complain about life’s little inconveniences. I didn’t say much, mostly giving severe looks, but I wouldn’t give the game away. The shapeshifter had it down pat, acting like a woman who was a shrew. I drank a lot of brandy that week to get myself through it all.
I finally got the call from Graven. ‘Come by. I have a gift for you. Make it at five,’ the maestro, mischievous man of a few words said. I watched the clock and once the time came, I tore down the interstate to his twisted little village. I went to the back of his devilish church. He was found in what he called his ‘dead garden.’ Standing tall in his black cloak with a rake in hand, he said, ‘Welcome to my garden of death. As much as I try, nothing grows here. Must be the work of that righteous God of yours. Typical revenge. Well, the Lord can have this dead soil. I’ll take riches any day.’ And then he laughed at his own joke. He pointed to a huge black garbage bag. ‘In there! Go ahead, take it out of the bag.’ I opened it and out came a statuette model of the King of the Jungle.
The bust didn’t look like much at first. There seemed to be a cheapness about the object—just a step above one of those mass production numbers in bargain basement New York dollar stores. ‘What is this, some type of joke?’ I was flabbergasted. Was this the con? I knew Nicolas was a confidence man, but this was beyond what I thought he was capable of pulling off. ‘Now wait a minute, old friend. It’s not one of my scams. There is no profit margin in this for me. Hear me out!’ I just stood there, nodding my head as disappointment spread over my face. He continued his discourse. ‘Look, there’s no money in your situation to swindle you. I spoke to a very real African voodoo priest. This lion statuette has qualities that any body-thief would find repulsive. Blessed by the head houngan of Haiti—this magical talisman will do the job!’ Angrily, I gave Graven a sceptical look. ‘So you’re telling me this King of the Jungle rubbish will deter a shapeshifter?’ He was exhausted with me, it was obvious. For a quiet moment, he didn’t say anything. Then, in a low voice, ‘Yes, I do. Now take it and leave.’
I was back in my village at my antique emporium. I started to examine the lion sculpture and slowly, as I touched the face of the beast, I could feel and see up close that I had been wrong, even with my expertise. The sculpture was far from being a piece of junk. But will this do the trick? I thought. Actually, the lion’s mane was growing on me. It was beginning to look majestic. I decided to display the bust in my store window. My wife—the shapeshifter—should take the bait quickly enough. And she did, saying to me that same day, ‘That lion figurine looks like a piece of trash. What a shitty carving. It should be in a second-hand store, not in our antique shop.’ I looked at her up and down. There was no fear within my so-called wife. Nothing, not a cell, had changed on her person.
Then I thought, what if I got this changeling to touch it? Maybe that would do the trick. ‘Well, I thought so too, at first, but if you feel the consistency of the surface of the sculpture, especially the lion’s mane, you might warm up to it. Allow me to show you the possibilities of this quality, fine art piece.’ She thought I was being facetious. I was acting fast; my mind was racing. Maybe my desperation was showing—my poker face was slipping away. And as for her, maybe she would touch the lion’s mane and some power would emit from within it. Either I would get a reaction or I got taken by that swindler. I got the lion’s head out of the display window and brought it over to the chameleon. ‘Here, touch it. You can feel the contours of this fine art piece. This is not made of cheap materials.’ I could feel the beads of sweat on my brow now. The creature went for it—touching and feeling the carving. ‘That’s strange,’ she said. ‘I felt some tingling touching the lion’s mane.’
Then an unearthly howl came out of her for just a few seconds. Grey fog surrounded us and a sound like a small balloon bursting was heard. A smell that reminded me of Graven’s dead garden then followed. Accompanying the popping noise was a small crack in the mane which appeared when the succubus had dropped it. The whiff of the stench was horrible. And then, just like that, the pungent odours and grey haze disappeared. Only some orange-brown powder remained on the floor. No more Camila, no more wife, no more body thief. The shapeshifter was gone!
EPILOGUE
Two weeks passed. My friend was sitting with me in my little alcove having a cup of tea. ‘So, how did you handle the local authorities, Charles?’ I didn’t look at him at first. My tea was bitter and my feelings raw, as it was too soon. I actually missed that nagging changeling. In a strange way, I hoped she was a real woman, but alas, she was a deceptive monster. I came back to reality.
‘Those horrible neighbours, Nicolas—they called the authorities when she vanished—being such frantic fans of hers. If only they knew the truth. But with no body, no blood splatter, and her dear collection of forty passports, with different men’s and women’s names on them, left the investigators with more questions than answers. What it all comes down to is don’t leave town anytime soon!’ The black magic maestro just smirked knowingly. Then I said, ‘I have the changeling’s orange powder collected in a vial for you. I suppose you’ll use the particles in one of your black magic rituals?’ ‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘But I see you put the lion’s head back in your window display case with a very cheap price on it. Why is that?’
I took another sip of tea and said, ‘I want to forget her or whatever that creature was—even though in a weird kind of way I will miss her. And these townies are cheap mothers. Also, now there’s a small crack on it from when the spell took over and my so-called wife dropped it, before she did her rickety rack abracadabra act.’ Nicolas just smiled and said, ‘You know, I’m sure I’m not the only one who has told you this, but there is a resemblance to you looking like the lion’s head.’ |
