He Who Shapes (13 page)

Render found a cigarette. After lighting it, he smiled.

"Old father, old artificer," he conceded, "age has not

withered your perceptiveness. I may trick me, but never

you.Yes, as a matter of fact, she is very difficult to keep under

control. She is not satisfied just to see. She wants to Shape

things for herself already. It's quite understandableboth to her

and to mebut conscious apprehension and emotional accep-

tance never do seem to get together on things. She has become

dominant on several occasions, but I've succeeded in resuming

control almost immediately. After all, I am master of the

bank."

"Hm," mused Bartelmetz. "Are you familiar with a Buddhist

text Shankara's Catechism?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Then I lecture you on it now. It positsobviously not for

therapeutic purposesa true ego and a false ego. The true ego is

that part of man which is immortal and shall proceed on to

nirvana: the soul, if you like. Very good. Well, the false ego, on

the other hand, is the normal mind, bound round with the

illusionsthe consciousness of you and I and everyone we have

ever known professionally. Good?Good. Now, the stuff this

false ego is made up of they call skandhas. These include the

feelings, the perceptions, the aptitudes, consciousness itself,

and even the physical form. Very unscientific. Yes. Now they

are not the same thing as neuroses, or one of Mister Ibsen's life-

lies, or an hallucinationno, even though they are all wrong,

being parts of a false thing to begin with. Each of the five

skandhas is a part of the eccentricity that we call identitythen

on top come the neuroses and all the other messes which follow

after and keep us in business. Okay?Okay. I give you this

lecture because I need a dramatic term for what I will say,

because I wish to say something dramatic. View the skandhas

as lying at the bottom of the pond; the neuroses, they are

ripples on the top of the water; the 'true ego', if there is one, is

buried deep beneath the sand at the bottom. So. The ripples fill

up the the zwischenwelt between the object and the subject.

The skandhas are a part of the subject, basic, unique, the stuff

of his being.So far, you are with me?"

"With many reservations."

"Good. Now I have defined my term somewhat, I will use it.

You are fooling around with skandhas, not simple neuroses. You

are attempting to adjust this woman's overall conception of

herself and of the world. You are using the ONT&R to do it. It is

the same thing as fooling with a psychotic, or an ape. All may

seem to go well, butat any moment, it is possible you may do

something, show her some sight, or some way of seeing which

will break in upon her selfhood, break a skandhaand pouf!it

will be like breaking through the bottom of the pond. A

whirlpool will result, pulling youwhere? I do not want you for

a patient, young man, young artificer, so I counsel you not to

proceed with this experiment. The ONT&R should not be used

in such a manner."

Render flipped his cigarette into the fire and counted on his

fingers:

"One," he said, "you are making a mystical mountain out of a

pebble. All I am doing is adjusting her consciousness to accept

an additional area of perception. Much of it is simple trans-

ference work from the other senses.Two, her emotions were

quite intense initially because it did involve a traumabut

we've passed that stage already. Now it is only a novelty to her.

Soon it will be a commonplace.Three, Eileen is a psychiatrist

herself; she is educated in these matters and deeply aware of

the delicate nature of what we are doing.Four, her sense of

identity and her desires, or her skandhas, or whatever you want

to call them, are as firm as the Rock of Gibraltar. Do you realize

the intense application required for a blind person to obtain the

education she has obtained? It took a will of ten-point steel and

the emotional control of an ascetic as well"

"And if something that strong should break, in a timeless

moment of anxiety," smiled Bartelmetz sadly, "may the shades

of Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung walk by your side in the

valley of darkness.

"And if something that strong should break, in a timeless

"Five," he ticked it off on one finger. "Is she-pretty?"

Render looked back into the fire.

"Very clever," sighed Bartelmetz, "I cannot tell whether you

are blushing or not, with the rosy glow of the flames upon your

face. I fear that you are, though, which would mean that you

are aware that you yourself could be the source of- the inciting

stimulus, I shall burn a candle tonight before a portrait of Adier

and pray that he give you the strength to compete successfully

in your duel with your patient."

Render looked at Jill, who was still sleeping. He reached out

and brushed a lock of her hair back into place.

"Still," said Bartelmetz, "if you do proceed and all goes well,

I shall look forward with great interest to the reading of your

work. Did I ever tell you that I have treated several Buddhists

and never found a 'true ego'?"

Both men laughed.

Like me but not like me, that one on a leash, smelling of fear,

small, gray, and unseeing. Rrowl and he'll choke on his collar.

His head is empty as the oven till She pushes the button and it

makes dinner. Make talk and they never understand, but they

are like me. One day I will kill onewhy? . . . Turn here.

"Three steps. Up. Glass doors. Handle to right."

Why? Ahead, drop-shaft. Gardens under, down. Smells nice,

there. Grass, wetdirt, trees, and cleanair. I see. Birds are

recorded though. I see all. 1.

"Drop-shaft. Four steps."

Down. Yes. Want to make loud noises in throat, feel silly.

Clean, smooth, many of trees. God . . . She likes sitting on

bench chewing leaves smelling smooth air. Can't see them like

me. Maybe now, some. . . ? No.

Can't Bad Sigmund me on grass, trees, here. Must hold it.

Pity. Best place . . .

"Watch for steps."

Ahead. To right, to left, to right, to left, trees and grass now.

Sigmund sees. Walking . . . Doctor with machine gives her his

eyes. Rrowl and he will not choke. No fearsmell.

Dig deep hole in ground, bury eyes. God is blind. Sigmund

to see. Her eyes now filled, and he is afraid of teeth. Will make

her to see and take her high up in the sky to see, away. Leave

me here, leave Sigmund with none to see, alone. I will dig a

deep hole in the ground . . .

It was after ten in the morning when Jill awoke. She did not

have to turn her head to know that Render was already gone.

He never slept late. She rubbed her eyes, stretched, turned onto

her side and raised herself on her elbow. She squinted at the

clock on the bedside table, simultaneously reaching for a

cigarette and her lighter.

As she inhaled, she realized there was no ashtray. Doubtless

Render had moved it to the dresser because he did not approve

of smoking in bed. With a sigh that ended in a snort she slid out

of the bed and drew on her wrap before the ash grew too long.

She hated getting up, but once she did she would permit the

day to begin and continue on without lapse through its orderly

progression of events.

"Damn him," she smiled. She had wanted her breakfast in

bed, but it was too late now.

Between thoughts as to what she would wear, she observed

an alien pair of skis standing in the corner. A sheet of paper

was impaled on one. She approached it.

"Join me?" asked the scrawl.

She shook her head in an emphatic negative and felt

somewhat sad. She had been on skis twice in her life and she

was afraid of them. She felt that she should really try again,

after his being a reasonably good sport about the chateaux, but

she could not even bear the memory of the unseemly downward

rushingwhich, on two occasions, had promptly deposited her

in a snowbankwithout wincing and feeling once again the

vertigo that had seized her during the attempts.

So she showered and dressed and went downstairs for

breakfast.

All nine fires were already roaring as she passed the big hall

and looked inside. Some red-faced skiers were holding their

hands up before the blaze of the central hearth. It was not

crowded though. The racks held only a few pairs of dripping

boots, bright caps hung on pegs, moist skis stood upright in

their place beside the door. A few people were seated in the

chairs set further back toward the center of the hall, reading

papers, smoking, or talking quietly. She saw no one she knew,

so she moved on toward the dining room.

As she passed the registration desk the old man who worked

there called out her name. She approached him and smiled.

"Letter," he explained, turning to a rack. "Here it is," he

announced, handing it to her. "Looks important."

It had been forwarded three tiroes, she noted. It was a bulky

brown envelope, and the return address was that of her

attorney.

"Thank you."

She moved off to a seat beside the big window that looked

out upon a snow garden, a skating rink, and a distant winding

trail dotted with figures carrying skis over their shoulders. She

squinted against the brightness as she tore open the envelope.