The Lava in My Bones by Barry Webster Page B

forces were pressing together, creating—what exactly? The Earth’s lithospheric plates move back and forth and are in constant tension; the internal pressure creates substances below the surface, hard, compact, scratch-resistant matter. Franz contained even more contradictions and tensions than the Earth. Something solid was growing below the surface. Sam remembered the elongated square lights in Franz’s paintings. They reminded him of diamonds. Was Franz creating a diamond? Sam yearned to be present when what was forming inside Franz was pushed to the surface.
    Then his lover’s face softened. Something in him shifted, unlocked, and he gushed, “I’m so happy you’ll stay longer,” and Sam felt he was being given the universe.
    Then Franz stepped back. He again clenched his lips, squinted, and barked, “Disco. Tonight we have to go to the disco. There’s no other choice.”

    The room was a sea of half-naked, gyrating bodies, thumping music, multi-coloured flashing lights, and clouds of dry ice. The bass beat was so loud that Sam’s collar vibrated against his neck.The room smelled of stale beer, marijuana, and dry dust.
    Franz marched proudly into the disco. All the disparate parts of himself were rushing together like balls of mercury. He seemed solid, lacquered. He said to Sam, “Don’t start talking to people about geology here. No one will be interested. And I have to confess: when you go on about your greenhouse effect, Scheiss, I listen, but I don’t get a third of what you’re saying.”
    In a quiet alcove, Sam met Franz’s friends. Although their names were different, they seemed to be the same person repeated five times. Each wore a matching belt and trouser set and a tight black T-shirt cut off at the shoulders. Their hairstyles matched: short and wavy, curling around their ears—like Franz’s; they each wore spicy orange cologne. Even their faces resembled each other’s, square-jawed with pronounced cheek bones—had they had plastic surgery? Sam noticed that everyone in the bar, including Franz, had similar bodies—round biceps, thick forearms, and pectorals so developed they came perilously close to resembling women’s breasts.
    The friends’ eyes glittered as they regarded Sam’s narrow face, skinny arms, laced shoes. His white shirt hung on his bony shoulders like lopsided curtains, and his too-short pants revealed that his socks didn’t match. For the first time Franz had refused to lend him some clothes. Franz eyed the creased shirt, trying to fixate on Sam’s flaws.
    Franz made the introductions. The clone-men pursed their lips and shook Sam’s hand.
    â€œYou’re the one who’s stolen our Frankie away.”
    â€œI guess I’m the robber,” Sam admitted.
    â€œWe hope you’ll give him back in one piece.”
    â€œAnd Franz’s piece is too good to be broken.” The five men let out a uniform titter.
    â€œYou mean, you’ve all had sex with him?” Sam assumed that in this milieu, despite the threat of AIDS, everyone screwed everyone. That’s what they said in the newspapers and movies.
    The men choked on their drinks. “That’d be incest,” one man cried. “Like having sex with Aunt Beatrice.”
    Franz said, “Sam is new to the community. He doesn’t know a lot of things.”
    â€œSo that explains it,” replied Darcy. The tip of his thin tongue stuck briefly from his mouth like a pointing finger, then vanished between lips. A lizard’s tongue, thought Sam.
    â€œHey, Franz!” the bartender yelled. “Where’d you get the shirt?”
    Franz hurried over. “C&A. Lycra-cotton blend, for 240 francs.”
    The bartender pretended to applaud hysterically. Franz ordered drinks. A man on a stool patted him on the back and another ran up to say hello. Everyone here knew Franz. This is not the real