Mrs. Beast Page 9

  Croesus barks three times.

  "Why didn't he call her out? He was a slacker. Then, on the seventh day, Gothel showed up and yelled, Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair! Johann saw golden hair tumble out the window and old Gothel grunt her way to the top. So the next day at dusk, he stood under the tower window and called, Rapunzel, Rapunzel let down her hair. She tossed it down and Johann climbed up. Rapunzel about threw a clot; she'd never seen a man, and Gothel had told her they were savage, hairy, flesh-rending monsters. But Johann was no Iron John."

  Croesus cocks his head inquisitively.

  "Iron John--the hairy wild man living at the bottom of Black Forest Bog, the inspiration for hordes of naked he-men banging drums in suburban wood lots. Johann was more like Johnny Depp: smoky eyes, sensitive mouth, a rebel without a clue. He said her singing had entered his heart and asked if she'd take him for her husband. Rapunzel had no idea what a husband was, but she put her little hand in his and whammo--high-voltage. Although she had never been kissed, by her parents or by goat-faced Gothel, when Johann pressed his lips to hers, she worked his mouth over until his knees turned to jelly. Then she said, Sure, I'll go with you, sugar lips. Each night when you come here, bring a piece of rope. I'll make a ladder, and when it's long enough, I'll climb down out of the tower, and we'll ride away together.

  Croesus curls his lips and whinnies.

  "Their plan was coasting. The ladder was almost long enough, and Johann's lips were swollen to Mick Jagger magnitude when one day, after Gothel had lumbered up the hair stair, Rapunzel blurted out: Mother Gothel, why is it you climb up here so slowly, and the king's son is with me in a moment?

  "Bricklebrit, I need a plunge." Elora slips off the bench into a Jacuzzi. Croesus spits three gold coins into the tub: plink, plank, plunk.

  "Make a wish, dog-o-my-heart. I know, you wish I'd finish the story. Okay, Rapunzel spilled the beans. The Grimm psychologist claims it was a Freudian slip and that she wanted to be caught. More likely, she'd had it with bracing her arms against the walls while Gothel hauled her big ass up the tower. I swear, Rapunzel had deltoids like Schwarzenegger's."

  Croesus raises his hackles in an imitation flex.

  "You are bad to the bone." Elora laughs and pulls herself onto the bench. "Not as bad as old Gothel. She went crazy, grabbed Rapunzel by the hair and smacked her around for five minutes before taking a pair of scissors to her head. I need another dose of steam," Elora says and prods Croesus with her toe.

  Croesus responds with a disgruntled growl.

  "Watch it, Bud. You can be replaced. There's a new litter of Weimaraners at Wegman's place, and he's a close personal friend.

  Croesus scrambles to the sponge bowl.

  "There's a dear. Now, did snipping off Rapunzel’s hair chill goat-faced Gothel? No. She was so hot, she conjured up a twister that picked up Rapunzel and dropped her smack in the middle of the Sahara."

  Croesus bites the sponge and the rocks hiss on cue.

  "That night, as Gothel was fastening Rapunzel's hair to the window hasp, Johann rode to the tower with swelling heart and misty eyes. He called, Rapunzel, Rapunzel let down your hair. Gothel unwound the braid, and Johann zipped up 'cause he finally had enough rope to rescue Rapunzel. He reached the sill and, whoa! Gothel creaked, Aha! You came for your darling, but the sweet bird sings no more; the cat has got her, and will scratch out your eyes as well!

  Johann totally freaked and jumped from the tower. Didn't kill him. He landed in a bed of thorns Gothel conjured up and his eyes were punctured like pitted olives."

  Croesus tucks his head under his back leg.

  "After a month of pitching deafening fits of rage that dried up all the cows for twenty miles, Gothel was visited by the Grimm psychologist. He told her: There's no greater fury than a woman scorned. If one loves another exclusively, naturally, one does not want some other person to take that love. True, he said, you did gloat over depriving the prince of his love, but you didn't destroy him, you didn't push him off the tower, he jumped of his own free will.

  Croesus paws Elora's foot impatiently.

  "What happened to Johann? He wandered for five years, a blind, bumbling ball of misery. Finally he stumbled into the Sahara and heard Rapunzel's song. He dropped to his knees and cried Rapunzel, like Marlon Brando yelling, Stella! She fell on his neck, her tears touched his eyes, and he regained his sight. Guess what he saw in addition to Rapunzel? Twins--a boy and a girl. The Grimm psychologist claims the twins demonstrate that children can be conceived without sex as a result of love, that they're a symbol of the bond between Rapunzel and Johann during their separation."

  Croesus snorts.

  "What really happened during their separation? I haven't the time to tell,” Elora says with drawn out glee and slips into the tub. She surfaces and squirts Croesus between the eyes.

  "The prince took the beauty and her children to Kronus Castle where they were supposed to live happily ever after. Bring me my towel."

  Exiting the sauna, Croesus panting at her heels, Elora strides to her three-panel mirror, unwraps the towel and fluff-dries her hair. Croesus sits at her feet, posing.

  "How should I fix my hair? I want an outrageous do for the Walpurgis bash. Funny thing, hair," she muses. "Simply follicle, papilla, cells and glands, yet how it's tangled up in women's identity and image, inseparable from sexual attraction and the aesthetic of beauty."

  Elora snaps her fingers and is instantly covered, head to toe, with coarse black hair. "In prehistoric times, the real babes were the hairiest." Croesus stops posing and jams his nose between her hirsute thighs.

  She swats him loose. "An abundance of hair protected cave women from the elements, gave good camouflage and hand holds for their nippers, and drove cave men lust-crazy. When Minerva caught Neptune and Medusa getting it on in her own temple . . ." Elora snaps her fingers and twenty serpents spring from her head like jack-in-the-boxes. Croesus yelps and freezes still as a statue, ears flat, eyes glazed.

  "Quite the canine comic." Croesus' ribs shimmy with silent laughter. "Did Minerva punish her horny husband? No, she venged out on Medusa by turning her glorious hair into scaly serpents. Maybe a wig?"

  With a snap of her fingers, Elora transforms the snakes to straight black, Cleopatra-style braids. Croesus wags his tail and poses regally at Elora's side.

  "I could change the color. Roman women of patrician birth clipped hair from German slave girls to make wigs. Augustus' daughter Julia had more blonde wigs than Dolly Parton."

  Elora snaps her fingers and is coifed in a platinum blonde swirl. She purses her blackberry lips, leans into the mirror, fluffs her hair and coos, "I like to feel blonde all over."

  Croesus growls, "Grar-rar-rar."

  "Gentlemen and dirty dogs prefer blondes. Hair color is a whole other discussion, but it pisses me off that regardless of color, long loose hair is seen as both a symbol of virginity and a symbol of promiscuity. Perhaps laissez-hair is best." Elora restores her hair to its knee-length, raven-hued, natural state.

  "I've got it!" She snaps her fingers and her hair comes to life, rises and curls into a Bride of Frankenstein hair-do, complete with silver steak. The hall clock strikes 11:30PM, and Elora conjures up a simple, ankle length, black rubber dress.

  * * *

  Beauty jolts from sleep and scans the indoor pavilion for the pint-sized Gargoyle whose ravenous eyes kept her alert and writing in her diary until 2AM. There's not a soul in sight, but one compartment is secluded by lowered netting. A flutter of movement behind the pink curtain prompts Beauty to cough delicately, hoping to draw attention without being obvious.

  "You're awake! Come in."

  Beauty recognizes the voice as Scheherazade's. She draws the curtain aside to discover the girl writing in the red vellum diary. Her mind forms the words, That's mine! She doesn't speak them because fairy tale beauties are extremely polite and because she remembers Snow White's red lips spewing similar words. Scheherazade's a child, and it's not Beauty's
responsibility to scold her. "Where is your mother?" she asks.

  "I don't know," Scheherazade replies and continues writing.

  "May I ask why you're writing in my diary?"

  "Gosh, is this your diary? I didn't read it, cross my heart." She draws an X over her slender chest. "I couldn't find any other paper. I'm writing a note to you from Mother. There, I'm finished." Scheherazade jumps up and hands the book to Beauty.

  Beauty's heart skips. What catastrophe had caused Rapunzel to depart in such haste she couldn't stop to write a note? She scowls at the open page, trying to decipher the flourishes of ink. "I can't read this," she says and notices a stack of paper on the third shelf of Scheherazade's bookcase.

  "Silly me. I always write in Arabic."

  "Are you certain she didn't write a note?" Beauty asks fretfully.

  "Yes. I know this for a fact because Mother can't write. She could learn if she wanted to. Some of her friends have been our teachers: poets, artists, musicians, dancers, and scholars." Scheherazade places a silver-ringed finger on the page and reads aloud: “Beauty, I have gone to exchange the changeling for baby Kurt. Please watch the twins. Thanks. Rapunzel.”

  "Food's here!" Omar shouts, dashing in from outside, arms laden with loaves of bread, links of sausages, and a basket of strawberries.

  Beauty can't move; her legs feel as if they're rooted to the ground. The twins stand at the hearth, stuffing their mouths with berries. Rapunzel said she wanted to be my friend . . . some friend! I should be on my way to Elora's . . . to get my Beast back . . . I've never taken care of children . . . they're teasing, playing a game . . . the mirror . . . She quietly draws the mirror from her satchel and whispers:

  "Magic mirror, I'm all a jitter,

  left here as a baby-sitter,

  in one way or in another,

  please locate these

  children's mother."

  An image appears and Beauty blinks her eyes three times. She can't make sense of the picture she's seeing or the words she's hearing.

  "Che fica!" A masculine voice growls breathlessly from the mirror.

  "Ich komme!" A female voice answers.

  Beauty recognizes the voice as Rapunzel's, and she also knows the meaning of her words she had heard the dwarf children shout many times in response to their mothers: I'm coming! However, the mirror's reflection remains a mystery, a blur of undulating, swarthy flesh tones with a dark, dividing center line, like a huge mottled plum. Beauty scowls:

  "Of this scene,

  I cannot make

  sense.

  Please show me

  Rapunzel's

  countenance."

  As the scope widens, so do Beauty's eyes with the realization that she's been looking at a man's backside bouncing between Rapunzel's thighs. Rapunzel's face contorts and she crows, "Merde, faire pleurer de cyclope!"

  "That's French, says Scheherazade: Shit, make the cyclops cry."

  Beauty whirls about to find Omar and Scheherazade standing beside her. She quickly hides the mirror behind her back.

  "The man in the mirror is Italian. I think he said, What a piece of ass." Omar shakes his hand for emphasis.

  "Sono venuto tre volte!" the man's voice thunders from the mirror.

  "Yep," Scheherazade nods, "that's Italian all right: I came three times!"

  “Mother may not be able to write, but she is multi-lingual," Omar says proudly.

  "Gosh, Beauty, your whole neck is red. Are you angry?" Scheherazade asks incredulously.

  "I'm not angry." Beauty takes a cleansing breath and peeks at the mirror. The couple now lay in a forest glade, glowing on the golden blanket of Rapunzel's hair, no infant in sight.

  "Magic mirror,

  lest I die of

  humiliation,

  quickly remove

  this aberration."

  Now the mirror's surface reflects only Beauty's image, which is, indeed, red as a beet. She places the mirror in the satchel, and her eyes swell with tears.

  "Do you need a hug?" Scheherazade offers sweetly. Beauty throws her arms around the child. Instinct takes precedence over fairy tale beauty protocol, and Beauty sobs into Scheherazade's brunette ringlets.

  "What's eating you,” Omar asks, tosses a strawberry in the air and catches it in his mouth. Scheherazade imitates her twin, but misses the berry. "She's going to have a baby, Stupid."

  "How did you know . . ." Beauty's voice trails off, of course, the girl had read this information in the diary.

  "I didn't read your diary, if that's what you're thinking," Scheherazade mutters and turns to Omar. "Beauty's dress is too tight, you can see a little loaf in her oven, and her boobies are brimming. Besides, she's moody."

  Beauty is taken aback by Scheherazade's directness. She's also annoyed by her assumptions, especially because they're true. Describing her as moody is putting it mildly. She feels as if her skin doesn't fit. She is worried sick that Rapunzel may run away with her Italian lover. However, she won’t reveal a hint of fear to the twins. She believes they will sense it, like the critters of Grimm Forest, and turn on her in anger, or worse, expect something she is not yet capable of giving.

  "Eat something and you'll feel better." Omar hands Beauty a sausage wrapped in bread. "Mother's friends leave food at the door every morning."

  Beauty takes the food and sits on a pillow by the hearth. The twins watch her eat, wary as rabbits in the brush. She rolls her eyes and mumbles, "Mmm, scrumptious. My, how smart you both are, but there is something about me you can't guess."

  Beauty watches for the change from suspicion to curiosity, for softening around the eyes, tilting of the head, shoulders dropping. No one is more adept at engineering this transition than fairy tale beauties. She smiles sideways and says, "I'm on a quest."

  "A quest for love?" Scheherazade sings, and Beauty again suspects she's read every word of the diary.

  "Quest, pest, what's on your breast?" Omar chants.

  Beauty tugs self-consciously at her bodice to cover the tattoo. "I'm on a quest to Glass Mountain, home of Elora the Enchantress. I don't know if I can reach my destination before the baby is born, so I need to know when Rapunzel will return."

  "I know where Glass Mountain is," Scheherazade says.

  "East from Stromberg into the Black Forest, turn north and keep going straight to the Kingdom of Dreams," Omar says, drawing an imaginary map in the air. "Cross the Lake Of Longing to Charmed Kingdom, and you can see Glass Mountain from there, a few miles to the east. The west road's a quicker route, but it's dangerous."

  "Following the north road will take sixty days. I'd guess you have twice that long before your baby's due," Scheherazade states with authority.

  Beauty's mood is much improved. I have plenty of time. Rapunzel saved my life; I can certainly tend her twins for a few days.

  * * *

  Ten days later, Elora the Enchantress' curse floats above the Deco Palace.

  "Bricklebrit! Drop the attitude now," Elora snaps in response to Croesus' whining. It's the final evening of her post-Walpurgisnacht fast, and she's irritable. They're lounging on the west wing balcony, drinking Perrier and watching Beauty, Scheherazade, and Omar in the crystal ball. Croesus feebly coughs up three gold coins with the stricken stoicism of Gandhi.

  "Have I ever imposed the fast on you? Once, three hundred years ago. You deserved it then and you deserve it now. Sure, the spirit of Walpurgisnacht is eat, drink, and be nasty, but Croesus, eating Beelzebub's pet rat in front of everyone while I served the cordial was simply poor taste. Don’t give me that look! You know when I said, Help yourself to the ratafia, I meant the booze. You embarrassed me and you must pay."

  Elora raises her wrist and reads her watch. "The fast will be over at midnight. Meanwhile, pay attention to the cozy scene in the ball. You might even learn something.

  * * *

  Rapunzel's house and its netted chambers are settled into quiet duskiness. Only the hearth sheds light, which radiates subdued red onto th
e faces of Beauty, Scheherazade, and Omar. A pan of milk steams above the embers. The twins, fresh from their baths, exude scents of spring herbs. Omar stirs a spoonful of honey into three cups. Scheherazade sits cross-legged, braiding and unbraiding a lock of hair, waiting to begin tonight's installment.

  This is Beauty's favorite time, the only time she has the twins together and all to herself. During her first three days here, she was unhappy and frustrated. In her enthusiasm to practice mothering, she scheduled games and excursions, rest periods, meal and bed times. However, Rapunzel's household was run without rules. Her back yard rivaled F. A. O. Schwartz, filled with gifts from Rapunzel's friends: a merry-go-round of carved dragons; silver and bronze balls that chime with each toss; kites of numerous colors and forms; swings, slides, see-saws, and a stage where Omar performs magic tricks and Scheherazade dances.

  Beauty had quit planning meals because at the appointed hour, she sat alone before three place settings. A week ago, the twins had sauntered inside and found Beauty crying into a tepid quiche. "There's no use in my staying. You children don't need me. I might as well leave," Beauty bawled. "Don't go, please," Scheherazade crooned. "It's nice having you here, and the food looks yummy." The twins scrambled into chairs, took up their forks and ate with gratuitous smiles.

  "You're an excellent listener," Scheherazade had said. "I love telling stories. I can tell you Mother's story tonight."

  "I don't know," Beauty sniffled. "How can I keep order in a house without rules?"

  "We do have rules," Omar huffed. "Don't go outside the gates after dark, don't let anyone hurt you and have fun."

  Beauty hummed skeptically through her nose. "Which one of you made up those rules?"

  "Mother," they had answered in unison.

  Since that night, Beauty has eaten when she's hungry and napped when needed, as the twins do. Though she rarely sees them during the day, they faithfully return to the house before dark. Beauty has accepted the fact that the twins are precocious and becoming precious to her.

  Tonight, Beauty watches with anticipation as Scheherazade sips her milk and clears her throat. Each night of the past week, she has told the tale of Rapunzel, beginning with Louise gazing longingly at Gothel's rampion. Last night, she ended at the point where Gothel had cut Rapunzel’s hair.