Read Online Cat's Pajamas by James Morrow - Free Book Online

accrued, year by year, decade by decade, to their collective ecstasy.
    â€œThe skin is wise,” he told me. “Our tissues retain echoes of every kiss and caress, each embrace and climax. Blood is not deceived. Do you understand?”
    â€œNo,” I said. “Yes,” I added. “I’m not sure. Yes. Quite so. I understand, Mr. Pearl.”
    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.
    â€œTell me who you are,” the primal Bruno asked the counterfeit.
    â€œWho am I?” the forged Bruno said.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI ponder that question every day.”
    â€œAre you I?” the primal Bruno asked.
    â€œYes,” the forged Bruno replied. “In theory, yes—I am you.”
    â€œI was not created to be myself,” the facsimile Mina noted.
    â€œTrue,” the primal Bruno said.
    â€œI was created to be someone else,” the facsimile Mina said.
    â€œYes,” the primal Bruno said.
    â€œIf I am in fact you,” the forged Bruno asked, “why do I endure a meaningless and uneventful life while the world lays garlands at your feet?”
    â€œI need to be myself,” the facsimile Mina said.
    â€œI hate you, Bruno,” the forged Bruno said.
    The primal Mina took up a red crayon and scrawled a tortured note, SET THEM FREE , she instructed her husband.
    â€œThe right and proper course was obvious,” Bruno told me. “My twin and I would trade places.”
    â€œOf course,” I said, nodding.
    â€œI 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.”
    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 doubles—and perhaps Dr. Croom comprehended the disaster as well. The ersatz copulators lost their art. Their talent, their touch, their raison d’être —all 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.
    â€œNaturally one is tempted to theorize that the Citroën crash was not an accident,” Bruno said.
    â€œThe despair of the fallen idol,” I said.
    â€œOr, if an accident, then an accident visited upon two individuals who no longer wished to live.”
    â€œI guess we’ll never know,” I said.
    â€œBut 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 didn’t know who they were.”
    A fat, sallow, October moon shone into my apartment. It was nearly ten o’clock. 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 Bruno’s clothes, still damp, I dumped them into a plastic garbage bag. I told him he was welcome to keep Craig’s dungarees, everything else too. I gave him Anson’s boiled wool coat as well, then escorted him to the door.
    â€œHow do you feel?” I asked.
    â€œWarm,” he said, slinging the plastic bag over his shoulder. Leni pushed against