The House on Black Lake (21 page)

“The song is called
C’est Moi
. It’s about his love of masturbation,” Amanda yells above the roar of the crowd.

He leans into the audience and kisses a succession of girls lined up along the edge of the stage.

“Did you hear what he said to that girl?” Amanda squeals in my ear. “I can’t believe it. Look at all the shit they’re throwing on the stage.”

He turns from the shrieking fans and hulks across the stage to ascend the pulsating staircase. Drawing his shirt up over glistening stomach muscles he teases the fans, then tears the top off and throws it into the crowd. Young women writhe en masse and claw to claim the smelly prize. He rides his hand down oiled flesh to play at the laced opening of his pants.

“Lordy, there’s a couple shaggin’ in the corner, near the big speakers,” I hear Amanda whisper to Gabrielle.

“Mandie, did you see that? He pulled it out...”

“No Gabbie, that was a prosthesis. I’ve seen plenty of them, the real ones I mean, so I should know. They don’t come that big, believe me. Look, he disappeared in the fog.”

“Oh, my God...” Amanda screeches,

Long reed flutes cry out with mournful longing. A spotlight breaks through the bank of fog and on its rays, in flowing white silk, Georgie glides through the air with arms spread wide. He releases a prolonged wail, and swoops through the air like a bedazzled prehistoric bird.

“The song is called
Relinquish Me
. He’s singing about a lost love. Look at the doves flying out of him...”

“Those are pigeons, Amanda.” Gabbie says.

The birds flitter out from under his flapping gown and abandon him to disappear into the dark sky.

“Mr. Sandeley cracked up at this part.” She giggles as we watch Georgie flail his arms madly and free-fall to the stage. “He said he hoped he’d miss the net under the trap door and break his neck. I think Mr. Sandeley is jealous because he’s stuck with his wife...” she hesitates as I send her a sharp look of disapproval. “Married, you know, and Mr. La Pointe beds a different girl every night.”

Resurrected in the mist on the opposite side of the stage, Georgie now wears a ruffled white shirt and tight black pants stuffed into riding boots. He is followed by a group of good looking young men attired in identical costumes.

Inside the orchestra pit, a wild-eyed drummer, dressed in a frayed loincloth with a heavily tattooed chest and a warrior native’s marked face, begins to whirl like a mad dervish. He is surrounded by drums in all sizes and shapes, and leaps from one to the other, pounding the skins with the crazed passion of a tribesman signaling the capture of fresh meat after a long drought.

A lovely brunette in a billowing gown appears at the top of the staircase and descends to a satin covered circular bed that has arisen from the center of the stage.

Georgie sings,
“Un, enlève vos vêtements, deux, venez à mon lit, trois, posez votre corps, quatre, faites-moi l’amour.”
He repeats the verse with growing intensity as he circles the woman.

The men surround the couple, whispering in a foreign tongue, and chanting to the eerie rhythm. Strobes slice through the sky and matter bubbles as the lovers disappear within the circle of men and reappear inside the soaring backdrop. The lurid scenes, played out in silhouette, drive the audience to near madness. The energy magnifies from electric to something more acute and dangerous. The crowd feels ready to snap, at the verge of a stampede or crazed riot.

The sweat-drenched drummer pounds with savage fury on a kettle drum stretched with mottled serpent skin, adding an ominous dredge to the charged amphitheater.

“This part chills my bones,” Amanda yells in my ear.

A woman’s scream reverberates throughout the amphitheater, followed by the sound of shattering glass, and the stage goes black. “That was the best concert I’ve ever seen.” Amanda is barely audible over the wails and shrieks of the audience.

“Mr. Sandeley says the audience is a big glittering mirror for Georgie, and the more he loves his reflection, the more it loves him back,” Gabbie says. She stands and adjusts her glasses.

“He can look into my mirror anytime he wants,” Amanda says, and reaches under the seat to retrieve her purse. “The finale is incredible. You can watch it while we’re on our way out. It’s best we leave now, so we don’t get caught up in the crowds. Security is extremely tight, with all the girls trying to get backstage.”

I catch a glimpse of Georgie astride a snow-white Arabian, being elevated inside the domed cage, as we work our way down a side aisle. “The song is called
The Stairway to Heaven.
The stallion he’s riding is about to disappear. It’s Mr. Sandeley’s horse. His mare is pregnant with their baby.” Amanda flashes her security pass through two checkpoints along a corridor leading to the back of the stage.

“Georgie’s expecting you,” says a heavyset woman in biker gear. “He’ll be finished shortly. Help yourself to the food and drinks on the buffet table.”

We work our way through the packed crowd to an opulent display. A hearty cheer soon goes up, followed by Georgie’s resonant voice thanking them for coming. The guests backstage are as vociferous as the audience and it takes a while for him to reach where we stand next to a plate of enormous strawberries.

“Hey there, darling...” Georgie says. He has washed off his heavy makeup and changed into a pair of low-riding black jeans, a leather jacket, and a pale green silk shirt open nearly to the waist. A cross medallion and various lengths of silver and gold barbed chains cover his chest.

“You were fabulous, Georgie,” Amanda says. He deflects her gesture of embrace with an upward thrust of his arm.

“It’s nice to see you again, Mr. La Pointe,” Gabbie says, “How did you disappear and then reappear on the other side of the stage?”

“One of the mysteries of magic, my dear,” he says, looking into my eyes as he answers Gabbie’s question.

“You look lovely tonight, darlin’, survived the tree crash, eh?” he asks, and flashes me a white-washed grin.

“I survived,” I say, “and your concert is the highlight of my trip to Montreal.”

“Let’s blow out of here,” he says and takes my arm.

A throng of fans call his name from behind barricades waiting outside as we depart the building. “Get in quick, darlin’,” he says, as security guards guide us to a waiting limousine.

“God, that show made me horny,” he says, and leans down to kiss me. “You taste like strawberries, can I have another?” and helps himself to another kiss. He takes a champagne bottle and two flutes from the side banquette, hands me a glass, and pours the bubbling fluid until it overflows onto my hand, then licks up the residue.

“I think you have the largest hands I’ve ever seen,” I say, and take a sip from my glass.

“I’ve got something else that’s the largest you’ve ever seen, but you’ll have to wait until later. Blonde on blonde is a beautiful thing,” he says, while drawing my hair back from my face. “What’s wrong? You don’t like me to touch your hair,” he asks, as I shirk from his touch.

“Bottoms up, darlin’,” he throws down the champagne in one swallow. “We’re almost there. Finish your drink.”

The limousine comes to a halt and the door slides open. I follow Georgie out of the limousine onto the main street of Old Montreal.

The historic district has an entirely different atmosphere after dark. The shops have all closed and the restaurants and bars are now lit from within by soft candlelight. The sounds on the street are muffled, hushed, and the evening laughter has a different quality, more tantalizing and playful. Music drifts out from the nightclubs and there is the sound of wheels and horses hooves as carriages pass. Lovers snuggle inside beneath fur pelts. The smells of the night are richer, more complex, sultry, and exotic—the scent of overripe flowers on the verge of decay. The hidden alleyways now lend the promise of unexpected seductions and secret trysts, hot bodies pressed against ancient cold stone.

A woman in the company of friends passes as we move onto the sidewalk. I notice she makes eye contact with Georgie, but does not seem to give him any special regard, although her friends stare and turn back for a second look. She stops for a moment as she catches my eyes and looks at me with intense curiosity. I respond in a similar manner as the resemblance between us is uncanny.

“I love your shawl, the gilded lace is exquisite. Where did you find it?” she asks with a warm smile.

“At
Le Petit Jardin
down the street.”

She thanks me and turns to rejoin her friends, who ascend the stairs and disappear inside an art gallery next to the tavern.

A stunning shift occurs in this moment.

Hundreds of eyes are fixed on me. Someone runs a hand down to my backside and I swing around to swat it off.

“Hands, off, darlin’. Fuck it if they don’t find me wherever I fucking go. They’re fucking animals.” He forces his way through the throng and guides me up to a landing, where a security guard fends off the fans and guides us into the tavern.

“
Surprise!”
is shouted in unison as we enter a dimly lit medieval bar.

“Surprise? Hell, I’ve known about this party for weeks,” Georgie laughs.

An avant-garde and eclectic mix of guests are scattered throughout the old tavern. Some lounge on overstuffed couches facing a fireplace set into an alcove with shelves lined with old books and magazines. Others sit at tables teaming with carafes of red wine, golden liqueurs, and heaping platters of delicacies. Tight-knit groups crowd around the tables, smoking and sipping on brandy snifters. A chanteuse sings an eerie love ballad in the far corner. The invited all speak French, and most imply ignorance of English when I introduce myself. An air of self-important bored insouciance permeates the stale dark room, and it feels like the oxygen is being sucked from my lungs.

“Georgie, I have to use the restroom,” I say, and turn to walk to the rear of the room.

“Sure, darlin’, wait there for me, will you?” he says, while bending down to plant an ear near the lips of a soft-spoken young woman with wild cats tattooed on her forearms.

“I’ll wait,” I say, excusing my way through the throng to a bar at the back of the restaurant.

“What can I get for you?” asks a diminutive bartender with a ponytail to his waist and a cigarette dangling from pouty lips. “You Georgie La Pointe’s girlfriend?” He looks at me with eager brown eyes, like a puppy who has found a new friend.

“No. A glass of absinthe, please.”

“What’s it like to date a guy that famous?”

“He’s unknown where I come from.”

“The tavern is filled with celebrities,” he says, while handing me the drink.

“Fame is an interesting thing,” I say, and take a sip of the potent liquer.

Georgie walks up behind me and barks in my ear, “I thought I told you to wait for me by the ladies room.”

“I took a detour.”

He grabs my arm, leads me to the men’s restroom, and locks the door behind him.

“What on earth are you doing, Georgie?”

He unzips his jeans and drops them to his feet.

“For God’s sake...”

He hands me a red tablet he has taken from his jean pocket. “Push this up my ass, will you?” he asks, and turns to face the door while dropping his skimpy briefs.

I stand there, silent, gazing at his tanned ass.

“It’s a cherry rocket. Ever had one?”

“You’ve outdone yourself tonight, Georgie.”

“It gives an instant blast and lasts all night.”

“No thanks.”

“All right, I’ll do it myself.” He shoves the capsule into his backside, pulls up his pants and turns around to face me.

“Ramey warned me that you’re kind of uptight.”

“Let me out, please.”

“Suit yourself,” he says, and throws open the door.

I charge past him and make my way back through the crowded tavern. Fans still linger outside, lining the stairwell and spilling out onto the sidewalk. I walk to the edge of the railing and take in a deep breath of the fresh night air.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Georgie bursts out the door, roughly takes me by the arm, and pulls me down the stairs behind him.

“It’s La Pointe, man. Can we have your autograph?”

A group of second-rate clones surround us, wearing the trademark gear of their rock god, eagerly thrusting out pasty hands holding programs and pens. Their faces are turned up in rapture, hoping for the ink stain of their idol.

“Fuck off,” Georgie spouts, and then shoves me ahead of him. “Little dead-end shooters—Mother Nature’s fucking little mistakes,” he mutters under his breath. “I’m finished with this party; it’s a bore. I have another affair to take you to, and I need to teach you a little lesson about staying in place and doing what you’re told,” he says, while tapping on the window of the limousine. The automatic door opens on command and I step inside, sliding to the far end of the seat.

He withdraws a small silver case and a lighter from his pocket, opens the case, removes a tightly woven joint, lights it, takes a deep drag and hands it to me.

“Here... take a hit.”

“No thanks.”

“Take a hit,” he says, sliding across the seat to stick the joint between my lips. “I’ll hold it here until you breathe. That’s it, breathe deep... now take another.” He sucks in a last drag and extinguishes it in an ashtray inside the corner banquette. While blowing out the smoke, he grabs me by the neck and plants a fierce kiss. His sharp canines cut into my lower lip as he forces my mouth open and stuffs his tongue deep inside, thrusting there until I gag.

“Ummmm, yummy, I love the taste of blood.”

“It’s getting late. Take me back to the Sandeley’s house. The girls are waiting for me,” I say, and wipe away the blood and saliva with the back of my hand.

“The night has just begun. I’ll have my bodyguards take you back in the morning. They follow me wherever I go, so don’t get any ideas about making an early departure.”

He hesitates for a moment, looks deep into my eyes, and uses the mirrored reflection to groom his hair.

The limousine comes to a stop and the automatic door opens.