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on her stomach. At first the massage was relaxing. Danni straddled her, humming, rubbing out the tension with expert hands, but then she slipped a hand under to cup Jocundra's breast, kissed her shoulder and whispered how beautiful she was. Shocked, Jocundra rolled over, inadvertently knocking Danni off the bed.

'I thought you wanted me,' sobbed Danni, completely unstrung, her facial muscles working, tears glistening in her eyes. 'Don't you like me?'

Jocundra assured her she did, just not that way, but Danni was inconsolable and ran from the room.

Their relationship deteriorated swiftly. Jocundra tried to convince Danni to leave Maravillosa, pointing out that Otille had never given substantial help to any of the 'friends', and offered to lend her money; but Danni rejected the offer and told her she didn't understand. She began to avoid Jocundra, to whisper asides to her companions and giggle whenever Jocundra passed by, and a few days later she made an ineffectual play for Donnell. That, Jocundra realized, had been Danni's objective all along, and she had been foolish not to anticipate it. The pathos of the 'friends', of this talentless child-woman and her imitation of Otille, her Otille-like manipulations, caused Jocundra to wonder if she had not underestimated the evil influence of the place. Donnell was becoming moody and withdrawn again, as he had not been since leaving Shadows, refusing to talk about what transpired during the days; and one night toward the end of the second week, waiting for him to return, staring out of their bedroom window, she had a new appreciation of Maravillosa.

Screams, some of them desperate sounding, arose from the cabins. Torches flared in the dark thickets behind them. The half moon sailed high, sharp-winged shadows skimming across it, and the conical hills and the vine-shrouded trees washed silver-green under the moonlight had the look of a decaying city millennia after a great catastrophe.

* * * *

Morning sunlight shafted from the second-story windows, the rays separate and distinct, leaving the lower half of the ballroom sunk in a cathedral dimness, but revealing the wallpaper to be peeling and covered with graffiti. Crudely painted red and green veves, including that of Ogoun Badagris, occupied central positions among the limericks and sexual advertisements. Otille held her acting classes in the ballroom, and wooden chairs were scattered throughout, though only five were now taken, those by Otille, Donnell, and the rest of the pets. Except for Otille and Donnell, they sat apart, ringed about Clea, who was hunched over a chewed-up yellow guitar, looking pale and miserable. Without her wig, she lacked even the pretense of vivacity. She wore a slip which showed her breasts to be the size of onions, and passing her in the door, Donnell had caught a faint rancid odor that reminded him of spoiled milk. Around her feet were half a dozen cages filled with parakeets and lovebirds.

'What are you going to play for us, dear?' Otille's voice rang in the emptiness.

'I ain't ready yet,' said Clea, pouting.

Simpkins sat with folded arms; Papa leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees, affecting intense interest; and Downey sprawled in his chair, bored. The birds hopped and twittered.

'Allrighty,' said Clea bravely. 'Here goes nothin'.'

She plucked a chord, humming to get the pitch, and raised a quavering soprano, souring on the high notes.

'Beauty, where have you fled tonight,

In whose avid arms do you conspire...'

'Aw, God!' said Downey, banging his heels on the floor. 'Not that. Sing somebody else's song!' 'I wanta sing this,' said Clea, glowering at him. 'Let her alone, Downey,' said Otille with maternal patience. She put her hand on Donnell's arm. 'Downey wrote the song when he thought he was in love with me, but then he entered his narcissistic period and he's ashamed to have written anything so unabashedly romantic' She turned again to Clea. 'Go ahead, dear.'

'We're behind you, sister,' said Papa. 'Don't be bashful.'

Donnell wondered if anyone could possibly buy Papa's cheerleading act. His face was brimful of bad wishes, and by course of logic alone it was obvious that Clea's failure would improve his lot. She lifted her reedy voice again, and it seemed to Donnell to be the voice of Maravillosa, the sad, common sound of the dead trees and the 'friends' and the ebony faces, of Otille herself, of the sullen and envious relationships between the pets, the whine of a supernatural nervous system which governed them all. Even if no one were there to hear it, he thought, the sound would go