The yellow parrot --- Green Eyes III --- Bright, viridescent eyes shine into the room --- teaser

What happens with your new book, people are asking. Well, we're progressing slowly, slowly, but here's at least the second part of the first chapter.

Context: John has been asked by Alice Sandeman to replenish her shrinking stock of Eleanor Beasley paintings---Eleanor Wagner-Beasley, Godehart Wagner's spouse of convenience, now deceased. If your read the first part of the saga, you may remember that Eleanor specialized in canvasses of white dots painted on white backgrounds. So that's what John's has been doing in Alex's old pad, when he's caught red-handed (or paint-smuded) by the notorious art critic Souren Souleikan. Minds meet, and there's something transactional in the air:


Under more auspicious circumstances I would feel my dick now. But I don’t. We will need some lubrication. And we need some assurances as to the transactional character of this since said lubrication could get into the way: Souleikan gets drunk, then he gets laid; then he doesn’t remember the deal (and I’m fucked).
“I need a drink,” I say. And Souren needs a drink too, except that there won’t be any tipple left in this desolate attic, what with Alex’s tipsy attitudes.
((Hold on.))
This is where the old Alex lived with the constrained, self-denying personality of his previous life; he didn’t drink then. There may be some hold-over bottle of booze he kept for his friends, or the friends he didn’t have. I get up.
 “Mind, you,” Souren says. “No Chateau Margaux. Claret should flow at the table in the company of kindred food and kindred company, but nowhere else.”
“I’ll be back,” I say, touching his shoulder. He nods.

I am back from the kitchen where I found and untouched bottle of Bourbon in the left cabinet below the counter. I hold in my left hand now, the other hand, digits spread, clinging to two low-profile tumblers. I set this all down, uncork the bottle, pour stiff drinks. We’re past the point of return, we’ll be getting laid straight away. Souren downs his shot wholesale. Another shot, and another. Gulp. Terrible, the mechanics of substances. We swim, we float, we undress, we-—we don’t go into details.

*°*

Hold on. This is not what happened. We’ve barely finished the first drink and there’s some rickety commotion down the stairs, followed by ascending footfalls. Bright, viridescent eyes rise above the landing and shine into the room. Alex.

We get up hastily, which gives us away. Alex musters Souleikan, up and down. Souleikan reciprocates: “Deep green eyes,” the critic says, “deceivingly sensual lips, an athletic built of six feet three, and a complexion that corresponds to his name; you must be Alexander Iglesias.”

(If I may interrupt: A few weeks ago, Alex woke from his overdose with serious amnesia and a fortunate change in personality-—fortunate in the sense that his depression was gone. He’s still discovering-—testing-—his new personality, and there’s a new trick to him every day. There are other issues as well, you’ll see.)

His trick today seems to be, well, silence. Readers new to this soap might surmise that Alex is somehow quieted by the flagrante-content of this ‘situation,’ but we’ve been through flagrantes before. His attitude to sex is utilitarian, and jealousy is not his thing, not on the surface at least. If I’d explain the transactional stakes to him-—if he hasn’t grasped them already—he’d possibly chuck his pants, show off his dick, and fuck Souleikan into oblivion. The new Alex has an exhibitionistic streak and no respect for age gaps. He-—this is off the record, he told me this last night-—he said: “I’d fuck the president on FOX TV, if it serves a purpose.”

___________________________

"I'd fuck the president on FOX TV, if it serves a purpose

___________________________

Problem is, your narrator is unjustifiably, irreciprocably jealous of Alex. I totally don’t want him to chuck his pants-—not here, not now, and not in the presence of Donald Trump. I’d rather cancel the deal with Souleikan and go to prison for art fraud. Maybe I get mitigating circumstances. ‘Your Honor,’ I could plead at the trial ‘may I appeal to your clemency in view of the utter lack of contrast between the white dots and the background?’ ‘Huh?’ the judge would answer…

“He knew your last name and address,” I say to Alex, pointing at the portly man next to me. “He had been to Godehart’s place. It’s Souren Souleikan, the art critic.”

Alex raises his perfect brows, then falls silent again.

“Be careful with him,” I continue, lowering my voice, but only a bit. “He...he has a hang-up about your name. Alex. Alex.”

“What is it about the ‘Alex’ name?” I ask the critic. “A beloved one that passed away?”
Souleikan slouches down on the couch. Is he preparing for another breakdown? “ALEX,” I repeat, cruelly.

Alex snorts. “This Alexing,” he breaks the silence, “why are you doing this?”

That does it. Souleikan’s in tears again. He looks up to Alex, a glimmer of hope on his moist cheeks, a bit like people look up to an icon. “It’s all so fresh,” Souleikan says.
“Someone with my name done you wrong?” Alex asks.
“He left me,” Souleikan answers.
“A pet?”
“How do you know?” Souleikan sobs.

___________________________

"Are you Sherlock Holmes?"

___________________________

Alex approaches the slunken Souleikan, put a hand on his silk-linen shoulder, and rubs it lightly with his half-open palm. “A parrot?” he asks.
“How do you know?” 
“He used to perch on your shoulder, your Alex. I can feel the marks of his claws.”
“Yes,” Souleikan sobs.
“You loved him?”
“Yes.”
“He loved you?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?” (Alex, typical Alex, especially when he’s in a better mood. He’s possibly fucked Godehart’s cleaning lady before coming here (Alex can come five, six times per day).
“He told me every day,”-—Souren’s voice quaking-—“I luv you, I luv you. Croaax. He was so beautiful. And sweet. And insightful. And obnoxious.”
“Perhaps he got stolen,” Alex says.
“Why would anybody steal a parrot?” Souren asks.
“Why would anybody steal your parrot?” Alex replies.
“Mmh.” Souren has stopped sobbing.
“If we know why your parrot got stolen, we might be able to find him,” Alex adds.
“We?” Souren asks.
“We, yes, we.”
“Are you Sherlock Holmes?”
Alex points at me: “Ask Dr. Watson here.”

Are you still there? 
Then you may like the last book of the series, available now:



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