Cat's Pajamas by James Morrow Page B

captured the city of Urga, appropriated Wang Khan’s forces, led the expanded Mongol army to victory against the Tartars, and slew Kumlek with a knife—but at no point did Duke’s celluloid self acquire any luminous armor.
    My character, on the other hand, was evidently leading a charmed life. No sooner did Hunlun admonish Temujin for courting his father’s murderer than, by Kieran’s account at least, I once again molded reality to my will, sheathing the crone’s body against gamma rays. When next Hunlun entered the film, lamenting the pointless slaughter Temujin’s lust has caused, she wore the same vibrant attire. Her final moments on screen—treating her son’s wound while criticizing his life-style—likewise found her arrayed in an anti-radiation ensemble.
    â€œDuke, I’m really sorry this hasn’t gone better for you,” I said.
    The late Jamuga, now transformed into Temujin’s spiritual guide, spoke the final narration, the one piece of decent writing in the film. “And the great Khan made such conquests as were undreamed of by mortal men. Tribes of the Gobi flocked to his standard, and the farthest reaches of the desert trembled to the hoofs of his hordes…”
    Saying nothing, Duke set down his whiskey bottle, rose from his recliner, and shuffled toward the Betamax.
    â€œAt the feet of the Tartar woman he laid all the riches of Cathay,” said Jamuga. “For a hundred years, the children of their loins ruled half the world.”
    Duke depressed the Eject lever. The cassette carriage rose from the recorder console and presented The Conqueror to the dying actor.
    â€œMaybe you’ll get your aura next week,” I said. I took a toke, approached Duke, and squeezed his arm. “Never say die, sir. Let’s come back on Monday.”
    â€œWe lost in Vietnam.” Duke pulled the cassette free of the machine. He removed his bandana, mushed it together, and coughed into the folds. “Nixon signed a SALT agreement with the Russians.” Again he coughed. “The Air Force Academy is admitting women. The phone company is hiring flits. Peanut Head”—he gasped—“is bringing the draft dodgers”—and gasped—“home.”
    Duke lurched toward me, tipped his invisible Stetson, and, still gripping the cassette, collapsed on the carpet.
    Inhaler at the ready, Sweeney bounded across the room. Falling to his knees, he wrapped his arms around the supine superstar and told Kieran to apply the plastic mask to Duke’s nose and mouth. It was a familiar tableau—we had just seen it on the screen: Bortai cradling the wounded Temujin as she comes to understand that this particular egomaniacal sociopathic warlord is a real catch. (“He has suffered much,” says Bortai to her servant. And the servant, who knows subtext when she hears it, responds, “Deny not the heart.”) Kieran handled the oxygen rig with supreme competence, and in a matter of seconds the mask was in place and Duke had stopped gasping.
    â€œYou want another shot of whiskey?” I asked, kneeling beside Duke.
    â€œNo thanks.” He pressed the cassette into my hands and forced himself into a sitting position. “I know when I’m licked, Egghead,” he rasped. “It’s not my America any more.”
    â€œYou aren’t licked,” I said.
    â€œYou must have faith,” said Kieran.
    Sweeney proffered an analgesic pill. Duke swallowed it dry. “I’ve got plenty of faith,” he said. “I’ve got faith running out my ears. It’s strength I’m lacking, raw animal strength, so I figured I should hoard it for Egghead.”
    â€œFor me?” I said.
    â€œI projected all my quantum vibrations onto Hunlun,” he said.
    â€œYou mean… you augmented Ms. Rappaport’s shield?” Kieran bent low, joining our pietà.
    â€œAugmented?” said Duke.