accrued, year by year, decade by decade, to their collective ecstasy.
âThe skin is wise,â he told me. âOur tissues retain echoes of every kiss and caress, each embrace and climax. Blood is not deceived. Do you understand?â
âNo,â I said. âYes,â I added. âIâm not sure. Yes. Quite so. I understand, Mr. Pearl.â
I did.
Shortly after a particularly stunning concert in Luxembourg Gardens, Bruno and the duplicate Mina drove down to Nîmes, so that the four of them might openly discuss their predicament.
The artists gathered in the farmhouse kitchen, the primal Mina resting in her wheelchair.
âTell me who you are,â the primal Bruno asked the counterfeit.
âWho am I?â the forged Bruno said.
âYes.â
âI ponder that question every day.â
âAre you I?â the primal Bruno asked.
âYes,â the forged Bruno replied. âIn theory, yesâI am you.â
âI was not created to be myself,â the facsimile Mina noted.
âTrue,â the primal Bruno said.
âI was created to be someone else,â the facsimile Mina said.
âYes,â the primal Bruno said.
âIf I am in fact you,â the forged Bruno asked, âwhy do I endure a meaningless and uneventful life while the world lays garlands at your feet?â
âI need to be myself,â the facsimile Mina said.
âI hate you, Bruno,â the forged Bruno said.
The primal Mina took up a red crayon and scrawled a tortured note, SET THEM FREE , she instructed her husband.
âThe right and proper course was obvious,â Bruno told me. âMy twin and I would trade places.â
âOf course,â I said, nodding.
âI told my doppelgänger and the duplicate Mina that if they wished to continue the tour, I would respect and support their decision. But I would never do Sphinx Recumbent or any other act in public again.â
Bruno was not surprised when, an hour before their scheduled departure from Nîmes, the replicas came to him and said that they intended to pursue their careers. What else were they supposed to do? Performance intercourse was in their bones.
For nearly five years, the duplicates thrived on the circuit, giving pleasure to spectators and winning plaudits from critics. But then the unexpected occurred, mysterious to everyone except Mina and Bruno and their doublesâand perhaps Dr. Croom comprehended the disaster as well. The ersatz copulators lost their art. Their talent, their touch, their raison dâêtre âall of it disintegrated, and soon they suffered a precipitous and inevitable decline. Months before the automobile accident, audiences and aestheticians alike had consigned these former gods to history.
âNaturally one is tempted to theorize that the Citroën crash was not an accident,â Bruno said.
âThe despair of the fallen idol,â I said.
âOr, if an accident, then an accident visited upon two individuals who no longer wished to live.â
âI guess weâll never know,â I said.
âBut if they deliberately ran their car into that concrete wall, I suspect that the reason was not their waning reputation. You see, lovely Susan, they didnât know who they were.â
A fat, sallow, October moon shone into my apartment. It was nearly ten oâclock. Bruno gently dislodged Leni from his lap, then rose from my wing chair and requested that I lead him home. Naturally I agreed. He shuffled into the kitchen, reassembled his wallet, and slid it into his back pocket.
Gathering up Brunoâs clothes, still damp, I dumped them into a plastic garbage bag. I told him he was welcome to keep Craigâs dungarees, everything else too. I gave him Ansonâs boiled wool coat as well, then escorted him to the door.
âHow do you feel?â I asked.
âWarm,â he said, slinging the plastic bag over his shoulder. Leni pushed against
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