Cosmocopia Read Free

vision against the surrounding dull silver of the foil, accompanied by a burst of the characteristic scent. The fine-grained powder, compacted for transit, seemed almost epidermal in its composition, the cosmetic-dusted porous skin of some exotic maiden.
    Not cinnabar, nor alizarin nor vermilion, but some shade hitherto unknown.
    Feeling slightly dizzy, Lazorg next did something spontaneously and almost without volition.
    He dug up a few grains of the ruby powder with the tip of the scissors and placed it upon his tongue.
    The taste of the powder derived from the myriad crushed bodies of the vision scarab was both metallic-mineral and citrusy-agave, like biting into a pulpy cactus covered with road dust.
    The aroma-taste of the powder immediately expanded to fill Lazorg’s mouth and nasal passages—and seemingly his skull and lungs—before fading away to a sharp memory. It seemed to have no other immediate perceptual effect.
    Lazorg got off the stool, leaving the package where it sat. Suddenly he was sleepy.
    He made it to his bedroom without trouble. He doffed his outer garments, keeping on just his underwear, and climbed into bed.
    Only on the point of falling asleep, did he realize he had left his cane in the studio.
    His dreams were many, and vivid, and exciting, but unrecoverable upon awakening.
    After dressing his complaining, noncompliant body with the usual difficulty, Lazorg proceeded downstairs (caneless, moving precariously from one piece of furniture to another) to enjoy his bland, approved, oatmeal-and-fruit breakfast.
    Thoughts of the strange powder drifted in an out of the forefront of his consciousness, but he felt no immediate compulsion to rush back to his studio to investigate further the odd gift from his past.
    Instead, he spent the day with his secretary, Roy Isham, answering letters from museum curators, agents, and prospective buyers. Dark-haired, thin, and punctilious, Isham struck Lazorg as being indubitably gay, although the employer had never queried his employee. Lazorg, ever the ladies’ man, had no brief against gays, regarding them in the past as simply less competition for him in the arena of sex.
    Brian Foss interrupted after lunch to inquire about Lazorg’s dinner preferences. Short and stout and bearded, the chef plainly indulged in more decadent fare and in greater quantities than his client was allowed. Restraining himself from ordering some of the desirable forbidden foods Foss could doubtlessly prepare, Lazorg settled on pea soup, spinach salad and poached fish.
    Eventually the dull day passed, and Lazorg found himself alone again in the big empty house that his art had bought for him.
    Suddenly, with nightfall and solitude, the presence of the Central American powder in the house exerted a compulsive pull. Experiencing trepidation and eagerness in equal measures, Lazorg hastened to his studio.
    None of his staff were permitted entrance to this room, and so Lazorg naturally found the brick of powder exactly where he had left it the previous night.
    This time, using his longish pinky fingernail, he deliberately took up a larger quantity of the granular stuff and placed it on his tongue.
    The same burst of flinty odor, aloe taste—and Lazorg felt himself invigorated, his mind preternaturally clear and alert. None of the dimensions of reality appeared to alter, no phantasms manifested, but the world did acquire a luster or charm it had lacked since—since Lazorg was young and whole.
    Lazorg, smiling, moved confidently about his studio, picking up with renewed interest dried crusted brushes, old sketches, various trinkets and curios and souvenirs that had formerly served as inspiration, until finally he approached the unfinished last painting on its easel.
    He put his hand to the cloth covering the work, hesitated, then whisked it off.
    The canvas was intended to be an homage to Courbet’s The Origin of the World . That still-shocking canvas, as prurient as any centerfold,