Black Dahlia White Rose: Stories Read online

  In the next enclosure several hyenas were trotting about excitedly, as if Naxos and Troy had subliminally alerted them to expect a visiting stranger. These were Mei-Mei, Cubbie, Baxter, Kimber, and Condoleezza. Robb summoned the little wizened-faced assistant to feed them—“It’s almost lunchtime. We won’t disturb their schedule by much.” Of the several hyenas, the largest was clearly dominant over the others; this was Condoleezza the alpha female, Rob explained, who ate first while the others kept at a little distance pacing anxiously about and emitting low cries and whimpers. Mariana had to resist an impulse to hide her eyes—the hyena-feed was so brutal, so bizarrely sensuous, it had almost an erotic component; it was not at all pleasant to observe. Under what terrible circumstances, Mariana wondered, might she devour food in such a way?

  She could not imagine. There were no such circumstances. She would rather starve, she thought. There are some acts a human being will not perform.

  The little woman in denim jeans, bulky denim jacket and with a wool cap pulled low on her forehead, seemed to take a special pride in the hyenas, and in the rapacity of hyena appetite, glancing up at Mariana with a touchingly intimate smile. Robb said, “Mariana, this is Dana—she’s been here at the station from the very first. We all go back a long time, Dana, don’t we?”

  Dana laughed a low, thrilled chuckle. Yes, they did!

  Though Mariana had been a serious student of biology she had never worked with “social carnivores” and the feeding-spectacle unnerved her, for the meat Dana had pushed into the enclosure could have been a part of a human carcass, a torso and legs; though it was in fact, as Robb explained, a deer carcass—“There’s a supplier in Oakland that delivers.” The devouring was voracious, nonstop, efficient and terrible to see. Splattered blood, bits of bone, gristle!—the deep guttural warning-growl in the hyena’s throat like a malevolent purr. Mariana would have liked to have made some sort of intelligent observation—Are human beings the only animals for whom food has taste?—but the hyena-meal was too distracting, and the intensity with which Robb Gelder watched, from just outside the chain-link fence, was disturbing. When greedy Condoleezza at last allowed the others to approach the remains of the carcass, each fell upon it panting and ravenous, devouring every bit of the meat—every bit of bone, gristle, blood—only a damp greasy spot remained on the concrete floor which the smallest of the hyenas licked with wistful eagerness.

  Mariana said, faintly, “Why—there’s nothing left at all. They’ve eaten it all.”

  Robb Gelder and Dana laughed, as if proudly.

  “They can eat even if they’re not—totally—‘hungry.’ Eating is life to them.”

  “Eat, sleep, copulate, reproduce—defend their kill against lions—that is life to them.”

  “Well, they also nurse. The females.”

  “And of course they fight. Even the cubs fight.”

  “And cubs play. It’s fascinating to watch them.”

  There was nothing playful about the hyenas now, having finished the last of their meal and still clearly hungry; licking their bloodied muzzles and staring with glassy intensity at the two-legged creatures on the other side of the chain-link fence. The stumpy hind legs were taut with muscle, the lowered tails motionless as if poised with animal cunning.

  To disguise her nervousness Mariana said, with schoolgirl brightness, “Do you think that Homo sapiens is the only species for whom food has actual taste? I mean—more than just . . . devouring.”

  “Well, Mariana—most of the world’s population eats to live. The idea of ‘taste’—of cultivating ‘taste’ in food—is a luxury of the ‘first world,’ overall.” Robb spoke in a kindly professorial manner, yet Mariana knew herself rebuked. “In nature, life is mostly finding food—eating. If the effort ceases, life ceases.”

  Dana nodded, with a grim smile. So small was this middle-aged woman, so gnomish and slight in her denim clothes, she might have been a malnourished child in some desolate Third World setting. Yet her gnome-face was creased with smiles, you would have to conclude that her life was a happy life, in the service of Professor Gelder.

  Squatting just a few inches outside the enclosure, murmuring to the nearest hyenas as if they were adorable puppies, Robb said: “Come say hello to Mariana, guys! Baxter, Cubbie—come!”

  Without thinking—meaning simply to be friendly, agreeable, despite her revulsion—Mariana came forward stepping over the white stripe painted on the concrete, which was grimy in front of the cage; at once Robb pushed at her legs, pushing her back—“Mariana! No”—just as the tawny eyes of the nearest hyena leapt onto her, and the bloodstained teeth flashed in a maniacal grin. There was a rush inside the cage, excited barks, yips. Mariana felt foolish, as well as faintly sick.

  “I’m sorry! I forgot.”

  “You were in no danger, Mariana! But it’s a good idea to keep back of the white line.”

  Surreptitiously Mariana glanced at her wristwatch. How exhausting the hyena-tour was! She felt as if she’d been staring at hyenas, as hyenas had been staring at her, for a very long time, though it was less than a half hour since she’d arrived at the field station.

  But Robb was eager to show her the rest of the spotted-hyena enclosures which were open-air, on the other side of the cages; there were two of these, each as large as a half-acre, with chain-link fences to a height of about twenty feet. Uneasily Mariana wondered if a hyena might manage to crawl—claw his way—over this fence; she made certain that she was nowhere near it, keeping Robb Gelder between herself and the hyenas as he led her along the walk. In a low, caressing voice Robb called to the hyenas—“Ranger! Blondie! Heath! Cybele! Come say hello to Mariana”—but the hyenas froze in place, staring. Almost, you might think the curious-shaped animals with their distinctive spotted coats were domestic dogs of some sort, wolf-related; except for their short hind legs and their hard alert stare of utter resolution and concentration, a sort of concentration of hunger, of the sort Mariana had never seen in any domestic dog.

  Suddenly, as if a signal had passed among them, the clustered animals broke, began to trot about agitatedly, emitting low yipping cries. It was clear that they were communicating with one another, and not with their smiling master.

  Shivering Mariana thought If they could get free, they would devour us. Even Robb. All of us. Nothing would remain.

  What would Pearce think, if such a hideous thing happened to his wife? How could Pearce Shutt explain to his associates at Extol Pharmaceuticals that something unexpected and extraordinary had happened to his wife—Mariana was killed, devoured by hyenas. She was devoured totally and not a trace remained.

  Mariana wondered: could an insurance investigator demand that the stomach contents of a hyena be examined? But no insurance investigator would have the knowledge to act so quickly, before the contents had passed through the hyena’s stomach. And there could be no autopsy since no trace of the body remained.

  Such morbid speculations! Mariana could not understand where they derived from.

  Seeing her tense face, and that she was smiling strangely, Robb gently laid a hand on her arm. “Don’t worry, Mariana—they can’t get free. And if they did, I would protect you.”

  In Robb Gelder’s office, which was a large, cluttered space with imitation maple wood walls festooned with photographs and drawings of spotted hyenas, Robb showed Mariana a film he’d made with a federal grant on spotted-hyena “social behavior”—female and male hyenas deferring to a swaggering alpha female; six-month cubs meekly deferring to the just slightly larger cubs of the alpha female; lean-shanked brother-hyenas grooming one another; a mother-hyena briskly grooming a daughter; a male hyena mating with a female—awkwardly, since the male’s hind legs were short and the female, larger than the male, appeared exasperated with him, lifting her lip in a jeering sort of snarl as he fumbled to mount her; a pregnant hyena giving birth, over a period of many minutes—so bizarrely, expelling with difficulty what looked like clumps of wet-matted fur through the tendril-li
ke organ that was the pseudopenis-clitoris, quite the most ghastly thing Mariana had ever seen close-up, as the birth was the most excruciating birth she’d ever seen, leaving her sickened, faint. Even the mother-hyena appeared exhausted, confused. To what purpose such a folly of nature? And why am I here, with this man I scarcely know, staring at it? Only footage of tiny blind-looking hyena cubs nursing at their mothers’ teats was pleasant to see though Mariana prepared herself against a sudden eruption of violence among even these tiny creatures resembling a child’s stuffed toys.

  Next, Robb showed Mariana photographs taken in the African savannah, of himself as a younger man, alone and with others, and with spotted-hyena cubs; in several photographs there was a frowning young woman, and Mariana wondered if this was the ex–Mrs. Gelder, but could not quite bring herself to ask. On Robb’s desk and shelves were framed photographs of children, obviously his children for all resembled him about the eyes and nose; but no photographs of the mother. This suggested to Mariana that Robb and his wife had not parted amicably and was this a good thing, from her perspective—or not-so-good? (A man’s feeling for the next woman in his life was likely to mimic his feeling for the most recent woman in his life, she had been given to know.) Most of the wall space in the office was covered with hyena photos and drawings, some of them cleverly executed like cartoons, with captions beneath—two spotted hyenas with laptops, one saying to the other THIS IS THE GREAT THING ABOUT THE INTERNET, NO ONE KNOWS YOU’RE A SPOTTED HYENA. Everywhere Mariana looked were more hyenas, a genealogical chart of hyenas of biblical proportions—names, dates, numerals. Perky little Dana had made coffee, and had brought sandwiches which Mariana and Robb ate together, seated at a table overlooking the rear of one of the open-air hyena enclosures; Mariana had not eaten breakfast that morning, in excited anticipation of visiting Robb Gelder, and should now have been very hungry, but found that she had little appetite—her first mouthful of a ham and cheese sandwich made her vaguely nauseated as if with the memory of something best forgotten.

  Dana had brought spring water in transparent blue plastic bottles—this, Mariana drank thirstily. How parched her throat was, and her lips! As if she’d been in some wild, dry place for days.

  Like the hyenas in the enclosures, that had seemed to communicate with one another subliminally, Robb Gelder’s assistants must have known of Mariana’s presence for they dropped by his office as if casually; casually too, Robb introduced her—“This is Mariana. We were in graduate school together at Penn.”

  Mariana was touched that Robb should think of her in this way, or that he should speak of her in this way, for it would have been more accurate to say that Mariana had been a student of his; it was kind of him to suggest that Mariana might still be a scientist of some kind and not rather the wife of a pharmaceutical lawyer in rural-suburban New Jersey.

  With each introduction Robb Gelder seemed to speak more tenderly of Mariana, and more familiarly; he’d finished both his sandwiches and hers, and was gazing at her with warmly moist eyes. Again Mariana saw tiny nicks, scars, and indentations in her friend’s skin—there was a sizable scar, comma-shaped, near his hairline, and his sandy-silvery-wavy hair was in need of washing. Yet his boyish expression and a sort of youthful glow to his skin made him appear attractive, even handsome. Oh—was she falling in love with this man whom she hadn’t seen in more than twenty years . . . She’d begun to feel acutely self-conscious, anxious. Where Robb Gelder and his crew of assistants were very casually dressed in stained denims and khakis and muddied boots, Mariana was wearing sharply creased black woolen slacks and a tiny, tight-fitting embroidered beige cashmere jacket over a turtleneck sweater; her ankle-length coat was pale lavender suede and her boots were Italian black-leather. In Manhattan, both she and Pearce shopped at Berdorf Goodman—but only when the beautiful designer clothing was on sale. Seeing gnomish Dana with her pixie-face creased from smiles, so very eager to please her master, Mariana felt something like panic. This was not the place for her!

  It was thrilling to Mariana, to know that Robb Gelder was attracted to her; that he remembered her so clearly, after more than two decades; yet it was a different matter, to have stirred the sexuality of an adult male, and this Mariana didn’t want, not right now. Nor did she think that she would want it, later. Her marriage with her husband had long become sexless, as it was emotionless; a cordial sort of relationship, forged in mutual responsibility; this was an ideal sort of marriage for a woman like herself, as it appeared to be an ideal sort of marriage for her husband; and if Pearce was unfaithful to her, on one or another of his business trips, what was the harm to her?—how he spent his evenings away from home did not truly engage her any more than the choice of meals he had on those occasions, or if he had a late-night cognac from the minibar in his hotel room. But if she stayed longer here, Robb Gelder might misunderstand.

  Mariana was on her feet, reaching for her coat—without waiting for Robb to help her with the coat. She thanked him for the tour, she shook his maimed hand and released it quickly. “This is a remarkable place, Robb—I’m very grateful to have been taken on a tour.”

  “But—Mariana—you’re leaving so soon? Didn’t you say you were staying overnight in Bangor? At least, for dinner?” Robb appeared stunned with disappointment.

  In a bright quick voice Mariana said, “My cousin Valerie—in a suburb of Bangor—that’s why I came—I’ll be staying with her. Maybe I didn’t explain in my e-mail, the poor woman is just my age and she has had breast cancer surgery.”

  Breast cancer surgery did not so clearly repel Robb Gelder, as it had Pearce Shutt. But in the face of these words, Robb could think of no adequate reply.

  Reluctantly Robb walked Mariana to her car. His limp was more pronounced now, almost the man seemed to move with a sideways scuttle, as if one of his legs were shorter than the other; he must have been deeply hurt and confused, he could only repeat that he’d thought she would be staying longer and that they might be having dinner that night in Bangor. At Mariana’s car there was a tense moment when Robb seemed about to take hold of her shoulders, and kiss her; but Mariana shrank away, with what might have been a look of apology, and regret; and so Robb thought better of touching her, only just staring at her morosely as she backed her car around and drove away. In the rearview mirror she saw the man’s diminishing figure, his hand lifted in farewell, a fond, faint, wistful smile on his face fading as she pressed on the gas pedal.

  Driving back to New Jersey, Mariana lapsed into a kind of trance. Her heart beat slowly, calmly. Whatever danger there had been—she’d eluded the danger. The cold-glassy predator-eyes fixed upon her, the panting tongues dripping saliva, the bloodstained teeth—Robb Gelder’s maimed hand closing about her upper arm, and his kindly, warm gaze fixed on her face: she’d eluded it, she’d escaped.

  Another time she stayed in a motel in Massachusetts, and slept a dreamless sleep. In the morning she remembered she’d forgotten to call Pearce—for the second time.

  “Now, it’s too late. I’ll be seeing him tonight.”

  *

  . . . unbearable exquisite sensation in her jaws, her throat and torso and running down her body into her bowels, into her groin and legs, hard-muscled thighs and calves and what joy in running, what joy in running at a fast panting trot beside her companion, a romp by moonlight, there is no emotion more exquisite than this joy of the body in its running, the sensation in the jaws which are hard-muscled as the legs, hard-muscled the scalp at the very top of the skull that allows the jaws to snap open, the sharp teeth to sink into the soft sweet panicked flesh of the prey, side by side pursuing the prey, side by side romping in the snow-stubbled field behind the darkened house through skeins of tilting trees, the edge of a thinned-out suburban woods of deciduous and evergreen trees and underfoot sharp serrated broken things, the scent of something hot-blooded and panicked is a torment to them unless they can seize it, sink their sharp teeth in it and tear, tear and chew and grind and swallow, the smell of panic is
the smell of blood, her companion is laughing, barking-laughing in a way to torment her, ripples of unbearable exquisite sensations are coursing through her supple body, she is close behind her companion, she is impatient and yearning and in an instant they are on the terrified creature, seizing the squealing thrashing furry creature in their jaws, tugging/tearing, the rabbit’s shriek pierces the moonlit silence, they have torn the living rabbit into pieces and within seconds they have devoured the still-pulsing flesh, their powerful incisors have torn, their powerful back teeth have made of the flesh a liquidy sinewy substance to be swallowed in great panting ravenous gulps, the spine of the rabbit has been shredded, and devoured, and the small knobby skull shattered like clay, the spongy rabbit-brains sucked and swallowed and each hair of the rabbit’s soft dark hide, each drop of the rabbit’s meek blood, of the creature piteous and desperate to live but a few seconds previously not a trace remains—not a trace in the snow-stubbled field behind the darkened house that is one of a constellation of darkened houses in which human inhabitants sleep in ignorance of the terror of torn-apart flesh as of the joy of the predators’ bodies and now truly they are ravenous—the predators tawny-eyed panting and slathering saliva trotting by moonlight, softly laughing together, long low whoops of animal laughter deep in the throat and in play the male nips at the female’s heels, in play the female feigns tearing at the male’s throat, her sharp incisors draw blood from one of his ears and now truly the female is ravenous, both female and male primed to hunt for once the bloodlust has been quickened it will not readily abate and now—where?

  Mariana. This is good news, I would have thought.”

  Pearce was staring at her. His dark-blooded fleshy face loomed above her disapprovingly. He knows she thought, panicked. Then But what can he know?

  “Were you even listening?”

  “Yes! Yes, I was listening of course. The corporate ‘retreat’—”