Angel Eyes (8 page)

Her father was studying the last of the sunlight as it slid down the folds of Diana's stone robe. He had that faraway look on his face he sometimes had during long meetings at the office, as if he were there only in body, not in spirit. It was a sad look, as well, so similar to the one she had caught in the corners of Greg's face now and again when he was sure no one was watching him.

Tori put her head down. Too late she remembered her promise to her mother not to start a fight with her father. What did it matter? she thought. This isn't about me or my father-it never was. It's about Greg. It's always been about Greg, and there's nothing I can say or do that will ever change it. As she let the silence of the encroaching evening steal up on them, she was aware of a great sadness welling up inside her. She recognized that she was angry at her father, but also at herself for letting him get to her again and again.

She said, after a time,''Are you going to tell me the story of the Zen Policeman?''

Ellis Nunn nodded, but whether it was in simple assent or in acceptance of the fragility of their relationship, she could not tell.

"Many centuries ago," he began, "there was a young Buddhist priest who traveled to Tibet in order to further his understanding of religion and philosophy.

"He possessed the proper credentials as well as a letter of introduction from his superior at his temple in central China. When, at length, he came upon the monastery he was searching for, he had climbed so high he felt as if he had breached the very vault of heaven, and it took him some time before he was able to adapt his breathing to this dizzying height.

"In due course he was accepted into the monastery, but it was some days before he was summoned to the presence of the high lama. The old, wizened man looked three hundred years old.

" 'I understand that though you are a priest you do not believe that your spiritual education is complete.'

" 'That is correct, sir,' the young priest said in a somewhat overawed voice.

" 'What is it you seek to learn here?' the old lama asked.

" 'Why, all there is to learn,' the young priest said immediately.

"The old lama looked at him and smiled. 'We shall see,' he said. 'In the meantime, we require you to remain awake and on guard during the night.'

"The young priest looked confused. 'It took me two months to reach here. I know how remote this monastery is. How could you have enemies here?'

" 'The monk who brought you to this chamber will tell you where you must sit tonight,' the lama said.

" 'But I am a priest, not a guard,' the young man protested. 'Besides, I am a Buddhist. I have pledged never to harm a single creature. I cannot even till the earth for fear of killing a worm or an insect.'

" 'You do not yet know who or what you are,' the old lama said. 'That is why you are here.'

"That night, the young priest was shown to the spot in the exact center of the monastery where he must keep watch. A pillow was placed for him to sit. It was a crossing of the four main corridors of the stone structure, and from his vantage point he could see most, if not all, the monks' tiny sleeping cells.

"The hours of the night crept by with agonizing slowness. Nothing happened. The silence became a weight on the young priest's eyelids, so that once or twice he found himself drifting off into a light slumber before starting awake. He yawned and stretched to keep himself alert. He began to wonder why he had come here, or if he had come to the right place at all.

"Then, all at once, he stood up. He looked from corridor to corridor, sure that he had heard a sound. But there was only the heavy awful silence, claustrophobic as the inside of a tomb. Then he became aware that the 'sound' was an ethereal stirring, as if in his own mind, and he whirled around.

"He was not alone. Something was in the west corridor. It came toward him but, in the flickering light of the reed torches, he could not make out what it was.

"Suddenly, it burst out of the corridor, coming upon him like a whirlwind, and he felt a chill race down his spine. It was as translucent as the wings of an insect; he could clearly see the corridor behind it, through it.

"The wraith brushed past him, careening down another corridor. Soon the intersection where the young priest now stood was thick with these wraiths. Sometimes it seemed to him that they had faces, bodies, hands and feet. At other times they were nothing more than pure energy.

"The young priest felt a fright welling up inside of him. What were these forms? Were they the enemies of the Tibetan monks? If so, how was he to combat them, when violence was anathema to him? These questions and ten thousand others crowded his mind in the same way the wraiths crowded the corridors of the monastery. The terrible fear built inside him, until he contemplated abandoning his post, turning tail, and putting this mad place behind him forever. But, as if in a dream, he felt rooted to the spot. He did not know whether to fear for the loss of his mind or his life.

"Then he noticed a curious thing. The fear was coming from inside him. When he concentrated his spiritual powers, he realized that the wraiths, whatever or whoever they might be, posed no threat to him or to the people of the monastery. The chaos of their rushing to and fro was, in a way, self-contained.

"And then he set about trying to turn the chaos into order. He found that, with continued concentration, he could move closer to these darting wraiths, could feel where they wanted to go and, eventually, guide them on their way.

"It was at that moment that he recognized one of the wraiths as the monk who had led him to the lama's sanctuary, and to this crossroads. And then the young priest understood everything.

"These wraiths were the spirits of the monks. Unleashed as they slept, freed from the bonds of their daytime work, these spirits were prone to the chaos that lurked within the innermost recesses of even the most disciplined mind. They lacked but a single soul-a kind of Zen policeman-to see them on their proper paths, to keep them from the dangers inherent in chaos.''

Tori and her father had come to the far end of the pergola. He turned around, took one last look at the statue of Diana, cloaked now in the robes of twilight. He said, after a long silence,''Does that answer your question as to how I have survived in Diana's Garden? I learned that I had to change in order to survive the demons peculiar to your mother's genius.''

Tori thought for a long time. It was an amazing story, and even more amazing that it had come from her father. She simply had not thought he had such subtlety in him. The story also explained many things about her parents' relationship. But it also brought into focus some of her own childhood concerns. She said carefully, "I worry sometimes that I... Well, I still sort of lose myself when Mom's around. There's so much of her-her personality, her aura, her wa, as the Japanese would say-that there often seems no space left over for me."

Her father said, "You should try to understand your mother more. If you did, I'm sure you'd find it worth your while."

"I'm not sure you heard what I said.'' Tori was struggling to find a basis for communicating with him, but either he was misunderstanding her or being willful. Still, she pressed on. "I often end up not knowing how I feel about her." She looked at him, at that noble, almost primitive profile. "Do you love Mom?"

Ellis Nunn turned to his daughter. "I understand her. Tori. I think, in your mother's case, that's the same as loving her."

"Is it?"

"Well, you tell me, then," Ellis Nunn said testily. "How else do you love an icon? How do you bring something so monumental, so universally adored, into your reality? The answer is, you don't waste your time. Instead, you enter into its reality as best you can."

"I don't-"

"Look, my marriage survived where the marriages of people like DiMaggio and Arthur Miller did not. I've come to see that as accomplishment enough." He looked away toward the pool, as if he wished he were in there now. "Your mother needs to be what she has become in the same way you and I need air to breathe. Once you understand that, you understand everything."

Tori looked up into his face. There was just enough light left so that the reflections from the pool lit up his face and she was reminded of the photos of Greg, poolside, fresh from some diving triumph, his angel eyes aglow with the victory fever. Greg. It was always Greg. Even death could not stop them all from talking about him, thinking about him, trying to live up to the shining potential of his angel eyes.

"Spoken like a true Zen policeman," she said with all the irony she could muster.

Evening approaches. Tori, hidden away from her mother, behind the massive carved oak doors to the library, is again feeling trapped in Diana's Garden. She remembers a time of adolescence. She is trapped in the big house in L.A., in the sunshine, in her sleek tanned body. She is pinned by her beauty to the imagined future, the foregone conclusion that her father wants for her, that boys her own age imagine is already hers. They are the same, these images, and they dominate her life like a nun's vows.

She has all she wants within Diana's Garden, and increasingly she feels that there is no reason to venture outside its perfect, all-encompassing environs.

Until, one night during a party given by her parents, she discovers how completely she has fooled herself. Just about everyone who matters in Hollywood-except enemies-has descended upon the manor house, and the rooms are full of familiar faces, screen legends, movers and shakers. There are the money men and their exquisite women, as polished as gems, seemingly pulled out of the men's pockets like an expensive watch or a roll of thousand-dollar bills.

Gossip, which is the only approved mode of communication at affairs such as this, centers around who is sleeping with whom, and who is pregnant by whom. Gradually it dawns on Tori that these people who inhabit Hollywood like a race of gorgeous troglodytes run their private lives in sync with their professional careers. Love affairs, marriages, seduction-whatever the current voguish designation-last among these strange, alien life forms only as long as it takes to make a film. These people meet on the set, become immersed in each other in the same manner in which they become immersed in their roles, in order to differentiate reality from fantasy, however, they feel compelled to make tangible their love for one another, if not their commitment. A child follows, as surely as the night the day. But, invariably, with the advent of the baby, the love affair, marriage, seduction loses its luster. A mother is never as exciting as a lover; three takes the edge off the heat generated by two.

Tori understands at last that she hates these people, that she feels their coming as an invasion. That night, whether in the living room, the study, the library, the throngs of people overwhelm her. She feels suffocated. She flees the house, but the grounds, too, are choked with celebrities, and still she cannot breathe. Bent over by the side of the lighted pool, her sanctuary, where she had always felt closest to Greg, she wheezes like an asthmatic.

At last she stumbles to her car, a new Thunderbird, convulsively turns the ignition and, scattering gravel in her wake, speeds away into the night, the neon light of Los Angeles. Not Beverly Hills or Westwood, but beyond, where people who are not rich, pampered, privileged, work and play.

There is a rage inside her she can neither explain nor face. She feels inadequate in the face of it, and at the same time ashamed of it, as if part of her mother has broken off and, like a poisoned arrowhead, has embedded itself in her brain.

She hates the shame most of all, because it keeps her from embracing her rage, owning it and, thus, understanding it. Kept at a distance, it is nothing more than an arcane artifact living at the edge of her emotional horizon, a glyph-covered stele, marking what? She does not know, but tonight she is determined to find out.

Down twisty Mulholland to the freeway, rolling over the edge of the glen, coming upon the wide swath of smeary lights glowing in the Valley. The pollution, trapped by the air inversion between high ground, makes her eyes tear, her skin itch. She depresses the accelerator, bringing the horizon closer.

At a seedy bar she pulls in beside a line of scruffy Harley-Davidson motorcycles. She sits listening to the hot engine of the T-bird ticking over as if it is the beating of her heart. Sadness mixes with her rage, and she wishes that Greg were with her, Greg who is always willing to listen to her, the one person in the world who accepts her as herself and nothing more. But Greg is away at Cal Tech, studying for finals which he takes more seriously than God.

I am alone. Tori thinks, the glyph-covered stele coming nearer.

She goes into the bar and orders drink after drink. She is underage, but she regularly passes for eighteen. In any event, her beauty is something no bartender can resist, and she is never turned down or asked for ID.

A jukebox is blasting "The Loco-Motion," and the dancing is ferocious. There are a number of black leather jackets. She sees tattoos, long, lank hair, thick, studded belts and armbands. One biker wears a miniature skull on a leather thong around his neck. A girt asks him something, and he laughs, fondling it, saying over the music, "It's real, man. Belonged to a rat that thought it could share my kitchen with me. What you think o' that?" The girl giggles giddily and shudders, but she cannot avert her gaze from the grisly talisman.

All the guys-and most of the girls-are staring at Tori. She sticks out here like a tea rose in a cabbage patch. Someone is pointing out the window, at her brand new T-bird, and the whispering begins. The artifact, once at the edge of her horizon, is almost close enough to touch.

The only guy who hasn't noticed her is the one with the rat skull around his neck. He is not handsome, not even attractive to Tori, but that is irrelevant. He is the one she wants. In him burns the fire she knows so well-yet does not understand at all: the rage of the beast caged, bound by the laws of a hypocritical society. He will be the one, her Rosetta stone, from whom she will obtain the secret of deciphering the glyphs of her rage.