I was often referred to as “Vera’s new man,” although nothing definitively romantic had passed between us. Sometimes I was “Vera’s discovery,” as though my clodhopping, lower-level ways revealed Lady Zinc’s cleverness, or at least her open-mindedness. A few in her social set were openly hostile to me, mostly the kind of young (or young-appearing) males who probably would have liked to be in my place, but that was just another interesting facet of what was a truly rich and complex society. In fact, I was beginning to find myself almost comfortable in Hell, which terrifies me now and should have terrified me then, but a weird kind of contentment had gripped me. There were times, especially as Vera sat on my bed at night stroking my hair and murmuring to me, that I could scarcely remember the earlier part of my journey, let alone my angel life on Earth.
Only thoughts of Caz kept me grounded at all. Every time I found myself relaxing into the comfortable companionship of those I knew must be murderers and thieves of the worst kind, I remembered her pale face and a chill of guilt brought me back to myself, at least for a moment. Eligor was out there—I heard him mentioned occasionally in breathless tones, as if he was a rock star who lived nearby—which meant Caz had to be out there too, somewhere, even though I would probably never meet her by accident in a city this big. But there were other times when I could hardly feel her at all, could hardly feel anything except the warm contentment of being safe and being admired. Things were looking up, after all. My hand was growing back; new finger bones had sprouted, growing out of my wrist stump like early cornstalks. But mostly I just liked being safe. I had been hunted and haunted for a long time now, and not just in Hell.
The night of the opera came. After I got dressed in my Prince Albert finery I waited a long time for Vera who, unsurprisingly, wanted her appearance to be perfect. She settled at last on a sumptuous red velvet dress with a low neckline that showed off her full, almost exuberant figure. After I had complimented her as extravagantly as I knew how (I still wasn’t quite comfortable with what felt to me like intentionally old-fashioned ways of talking and acting) Henri brought the car and we were off to the theater.
Pandaemonium no longer seemed like it had when I first arrived, bleeding and near death. It was still dark and grotesque, but now it seemed more like one of those foreign cities you encounter in spy stories, like Cold War Berlin or Bogart’s Casablanca, full of terrible danger, yes, but also full of excitement and possibility. Did that mean I could overlook the monsters in the streets just because I traveled in safety? Overlook the terrible suffering, worse than you could find in the most desperate third-world capital?
Yes, to an extent. I was already beginning to feel like I’d do anything to avoid the horror of being cast out to wander Hell again without allies or protection, forget my principles if I had to, forget my angelic training, forget almost everything. It sneaks up on you that way. But I still couldn’t forget Caz, no matter what else happened. I’m not exaggerating when I say that she was the only thing that kept me from tumbling into the abyss.
I’d guessed that the Dionysus Theater would be like La Scala or something, one of those fancy opera places, a big classical building with columns, meant to proclaim, “Hey, we got culture!” but I was reckoning without Hell’s sense of humor. The theater was a few blocks off Dis Pater Square, tucked in at the end of a wide street full of strange, misshapen buildings, not the high towers of the wealthy but the hivelike habitations that the rest of Pandaemonium’s residents fought to get into, with their bottom floors given over to small shops and other businesses. But the joke, I realized when I saw the electrical sign with its vertical letters glowing through the permanent dusk, was that the Dionysus was a dark-mirror copy of the Apollo Theater in Harlem, a place I’d actually been once—the closest your friend Bobby Dollar had ever come to a religious pilgrimage.
Cars and carriages and even more bizarre forms of transportation crowded the street as the high and mighty arrived, along with interested spectators and crowds of beggars who were one tossed bone away from turning into a snarling wolfpack. The Dionysus had a large troop of brawny house soldiers armed with what looked like most of the history of warfare, from clubs to steam-driven Gatling guns, and since most of the really well-to-do traveled with their own household guards as well, even the most dangerous and desperate of the onlookers kept a respectful distance. But it was a reminder that, like any place that specialized in the snatch-and-grab style of wealth acquisition, the only real security was what you could buy.
As we waited to go in, I asked Vera again who the “Himself” was who was performing. It wasn’t advertised out front, only the name of the opera, The Coronation of Poppaea. I’d never heard of it. Then again, I’ve never been big on classical music or opera, at least compared to what jazz and blues do for me.
As much as I was getting used to Hell, I still had a gut-clenching moment when I saw that the interior was built in the style of one of those old Parisian catacombs, made literally out of bones and skulls, although here they had been crafted into far more than simple walls and doorways. The arched ceiling was paneled with scenes of nature that incorporated the bones of all manner of animals, frisking sheep and placid cows, and of course the human skeletons that watched over them. It might have been the flickering torchlight that made these skeletons seem to move slightly, as though alive but under a spell. Yeah, it might just have been torchlight, but I don’t think so. The immense candelabra, the balconies, the very pillars that supported the building were also made from human and semi-human skulls and bones, many brightly painted in red or gold or white, giving the theater the look and feel of a truly disturbing circus tent.
Grand President Caym waved to us from his private box above; a little flourish of his long fingers that made him look more than ever like some immense bird shaking out its feathers. Vera was thrilled to be singled out in public by the great fellow himself. I tried to smile.
The curtain rose and the opera began. I couldn’t make a lot of sense of it, but it seemed to be about ancient Rome. The first bit was singing gods and goddesses, but the music was something even older than the kind of opera I was used to hearing on television and radio, something from the Renaissance or even earlier, I guessed. For a moment I found myself wondering if Caz would have regarded it as too modern, since she had told me the Renaissance was after her time. The thought made me sad. It was easier to send it away, like an extra being directed offstage and out of sight behind one of the immense brocade curtains.
Not wanting to think about Caz, and not even certain why, I pulled myself back to the opera and the mystery of the “Himself” that Caym had referred to. None of the performers seemed unusual, all clearly talented, none of them recognizable. As I did my best to listen to the lyrics, I came to realize that the opera was about the Roman Emperor Nero, the very same Nero whose crumbling bridge I had crossed to get into Hell. The irony of it amused me. I wondered how many other people in this charnel house of an opera palace even knew that the Neronian Bridge existed?
Then the singer portraying the emperor made his entrance, and for the first time I sensed something odd going on. It wasn’t anything about the performer, at least, not to look at. He wasn’t particularly handsome, a bit thick-faced, with a sagging, wrinkled neck, and his legs were a bit skinny for the toga he was wearing, but I sure didn’t recognize him. Others did, however, and he was greeted with applause and, to my surprise, a few catcalls and some laughter. Also, unlike the other singers, he did not look particularly comfortable on stage, which made him an odd choice to play the monarch. I supposed he had a fabulous voice to make up for it, because everyone else in the cast seemed world-class. I was mildly startled when he got ready to sing, because his throat swelled like the bulging neck-sac of a bullfrog, though even that didn’t seem unusuaclass="underline" a lot of the other cast members and most of the audience bore some physical sign of what they were. But when he finally began his aria, the emperor’s voice was a distinct disappointment, more than a bit rough and not very strong. Some in the audience actually laughed, which made him falter, and the jeers grew louder as he doggedly pursued the song, his throat sac distending and shrinking like the bellows on an accordion, his face growing more fearful by the moment as the crowd shouted at him.