Cat's Pajamas by James Morrow Read Free Book Online Page A

Symmetry, Sylph and Selkie, Chocolate Babylon, Holy Fools, Menses of Venus, Onan in Avalon, Beguiling Serpent, Pan and Syrinx, and Fleur de Lis. When their passions were spent, their skins sated, and their reservoirs of postcoital verse exhausted, Bruno and Mina simply got dressed and watched approvingly as the spectators dropped coins and folding money into their gold-hinged mahogany coffer.
    Performance copulators lived by a code, a kind of theatric chivalry, its nuances known only to themselves. None had an agent or manager. They never published their touring schedules or distributed press kits. Souvenir mongering was forbidden. Videotaping by spectators was tolerated but frowned upon. The artists always arrived unexpectedly, without fanfare, like a goshawk swooping down on a rabbit or a fox materializing in a henhouse. Naturally they favored the major venues, appearing frequently in Golden Gate Park, Brussels Arboretum, Kensington Gardens, and Versailles, but sometimes they brought their brilliance to the humblest of small-town greens and commons. Quixotic tutelaries. Daemons of the flesh. Now you saw them, now you didn’t.
    Although I had never before attempted the maneuvers illustrated in the Kaleidoscope video called Deep Water Rescue, my relationship with that particular short was so intimate that, upon entering the Hudson, I spontaneously assumed a backstroke position, placed one hand under the drowning man’s chin, bade him relax, and, kicking for motive power, towed him to New Jersey. The instant I levered him onto the derelict wharf, his teeth started chattering, but he nevertheless managed to explain how his eyeglasses had slipped from his face and how in grabbing for them he’d lost his balance and tumbled over the rail. He chastised himself for never learning to swim. Then came the kiss on the cheek—and then the flash of recognition.
    â€œYou’re Bruno Pearl,” I told him.
    Instead of responding to my assertion, he patted his pants, front and back, soon determining that his wallet and keys had survived the misadventure.
    â€œSuch a wonderfully courageous, a foolishly courageous young woman.” His teeth continued to vibrate, castanets in the hands of a lunatic. “Tell me your name, dear lady.”
    â€œSusan Fiore.”
    â€œCall me John.”
    â€œYou’re Bruno Pearl,” I informed him again. When you’ve just saved a person’s life, a certain impertinence comes naturally. “You’re Bruno Pearl, and the world believes you’re dead.”
    He made no response, but instead rubbed each arm with the opposite hand. “In my experience, lovely Susan,” he said at last, “appearances are deceiving.”
    Whether this was Bruno Pearl or not, my obligation to him clearly had not ended. My beneficiary’s most immediate problem was not his lost eyeglasses—though he said he was functionally blind without them—but the threat of hypothermia. When the gentleman revealed that he lived in north Hoboken, near the corner of Willow Avenue and 14th Street, I proposed that we proceed directly to my apartment, a mere two blocks from the wharf.
    He readily assented, and so I took him by the hand and led him into the nocturnal city.
    By the time we reached my apartment he’d stopped shivering. Supplying him with a dry wardrobe posed no challenge: although my ex-lovers are a heterogeneous bunch, they share a tendency to leave their clothes behind. That night Bruno received Warren’s underwear, Jack’s socks, Craig’s dungarees, and Rich’s red polo shirt. I actually had more difficulty replacing my own soggy attire, but eventually I found a clean blouse and presentable khakis.
    While Bruno got dressed, I spread the contents of his wallet—money, credit cards, an ancient snapshot of Mina—across the kitchen counter to dry. Next I telephoned the ferry terminal: good news—not only had some admirable soul turned