Watson, Ian - Novel 10 (12 page)

 
          
Though
Weinberger was still very gaunt, he looked remarkably perky.

 
          
“I
can’t believe you’ve had so little sleep.’’

 
          
“Oh,
I never took much sleep in the old days. Even as a kid, I was evil to my
parents. I could manage on three hours a night. I’m no cat where sleep’s
concerned.”

 
          
Jim
noted this admission. The cycle of sleep and wakefulness was one of those
balanced, complementary cycles (like day and night) which planted in the
growing child the idea that there was a life beyond death; that death was not
in fact the end. But if Weinberger had only ever taken brief holidays from
wakefulness, how had these fantasies about ‘Death’ ever got planted in him? Ah
... In Nathan’s case the equation did not involve life and death at all. It
consisted of peaceful death — versus violent death. Yes, that was it: violence
versus peace. Weinberger’s mind had known very little peace, because it was
hardly ever switched off. So he couldn’t stomach the idea of dying peacefully.
Somehow he had to avoid a good death.
But how?
By
forcing the House to surprise him into death?
That
mustn’t happen . . .

 
          
At
least Weinberger could not kill
himself
by surprise. That was one consolation, and indeed the watchful camera eye in
his room was utterly irrelevant.

 
          
But
more important than Weinberger’s state of mind, more important than the
lightning remission of his cancer, more important even than the political
consequences, was . . . Death: the moth, the bat, which Jim now knew that he
had seen. Jim’s own dream had confirmed this in a way which he found curiously
convincing. He had been keeping the thought of that creature under mental
wraps ever since Marta’s phone call.

 
          
Now
he twitched those wraps aside, and immediately Weinberger seemed to sense that
he had — as though the man had a nose for the pheromone of death, and Jim had
just released a molecule of it.

 
          
“You’ll
help me catch it, won’t you, Jim?’’

 
          
Jim
nodded.

 
          
“Do
you suppose that two people can fit on to that waterbed of yours?” he asked, by
way of answer.

 
          
“When?’’

 
          
“Tonight.’’

 
          
“Who’ll
monitor us?’’

 
          
“Not
Sally Costello — the last time freaked her out. I don’t really think we want
witnesses now, do we? I can rig up something to switch the Faraday Cage on once
we’re inside. Your gizmo for powering up worked perfectly well on its own.
We’ll ignore the medi-sensors. As for the gilded
key, that
was a bit of indulgence on your part,
wasn’t it?”

 
          
“Who’ll
stimulate us? Who’ll revive us when Death arrives?”

           
“I think we want to play this
differently, the second time round. If we simply trap that thing, it’s going to
hurt us a hell of a lot. We must follow it instead. We have to find out where
it comes from.”

“But we’ll be shut
up in a glass box in
this
world — the
ordinary world.”

 
          
“When
I was in Gracchus,” said Jim, “my friend Mike Mullen — the one who died —
was doing work on out-of-the-body experiences, as well as the death-trance.’’

 
          
“He
was working on the astral plane?” Weinberger laughed. “That plane was grounded
years ago. Unfit to fly. No wings.”

           
“Well, Mike made it fly. Just
towards the end, he said he flew — and he proved it to my satisfaction. Astral
projection takes place in the ordinary world, though. It’s like a sort of dream
that let’s you see what’s happening miles away. Mike really wanted to ‘fly’ in
the death-trance state too.”

 
          
“To Heaven and back?”

 
          
“Whatever Heaven might be!
Look at it this way. If there’s a
‘soul’ that survives death —”

 
          
“Then
it has to survive somewhere.”

 
          
“Right.
Mike recorded a hypno-tape for entering the
out-of-the- body state. But he needed to get acquainted with the death-trance
first — the oceanic unity state. First know your tides, before you raise the
sails.”

 
          
“And
he drowned.”

 
          
“He
drowned.”

 
          
“The
way
you
drowned.”

 
          
“And
no one revived him. I kept that hypno-tape of his.
Because
Mike and I were this close.
Because that was all that
survived of him, for me.
If we use Mike’s tape when we’re heading in to
death- trance, we stand a damn good chance of conducting an out-of-the- body
journey
during that death-mimicry state.
While we’re both playing possum.
If only I’d been more
interested in it at the time! But it was all oceanic unity for me — that’s the
sad thing. I guess I wanted to drown, not swim.”

 
          
“Or
fly.”

 
          
“Like
two flying fish! We’ll do it too — we’ll take off. I owe it to Mike.”

 
          
“How
about owing it to me?”

 
          
“Nathan,
I’m giving you ... my inheritance from Mike, an inheritance I didn’t properly
appreciate till now. I couldn’t do more for anyone. I’m going to loot some
conditioners from the pharmacy. We’ll listen to that tape, as we sink deep
down.”
“Tonight?”

 
          
“Tonight.”

 
          
So,
instead of dinner with buxom Marta Bettijohn followed (perhaps) by equally
delicious love-making, Jim was now committed — quite absurdly and unsexually —
to go to bed with Nathan Weinberger!

 
          
He
stood up.

 
          
“I
intend to catch the Beadway along to your fine Mall now, Nathan. I’m going to
lunch at your well-spoken-of Three Spires. And I shall drink a whole bottle of
wine.
All on my own.”

 
          
It
was a poor guide who spoke of the outside world to a dying man. But Weinberger
was no longer dying — except in the official sense. And Weinberger would soon
be going outside, with Jim — outside of the ordinary world, though the doors of
the House still shut him in.

 
          
“Wine
will make you sleepy.”

 
          
“That’s
the general idea. I’ll get my sleeping done this afternoon. Tonight — who
knows? Maybe our bodies will get some rest while the soul goes hunting butterflies
and chasing after bats, but I’m not counting on it
.
^,,

 
          
“Uh,
shall we electrify the cage tonight?”

 
          
“Yes.
Till we know more, I reckon we should vary our procedure as little as
possible.”

 
          
Weinberger’s
right hand twitched.

 
          
“We
don’t want Death trapped in with us ... Ah — but nor do we want it scooting off
before we’re ready to give chase! Yes, we’ll electrify. We’ll panic Death,
then
let it run for home. We’ll need a time switch to cut
the power automatically, once we’ve baited the beast.”

 
          
“Right.
Though I can’t say I relish the
idea of hurting or scaring anything.”

 
          
“It
was you who mentioned a hunt.
A butterfly hunt
.”
Weinberger stuck his index finger out like a pin and stabbed it into the palm
of his right hand, skewering an imaginary captive.

 
          
“I’ll
be going now.”

 
          
“Run
along,” said Weinberger graciously.
“Zto/i
appetit
.”

 
          
Jim
failed to detect any hint of envy.

 
          
Jim hovered in
the
doorway of The Montresor’, looking for a waiter to show him to a table.
Immediately his eye was caught by a streak of yellow against the mullioned
windows overlooking the Mall: it was Ananda in his mustard robes. Ananda’s
companion was Marta Bettijohn.

 
          
Jim
drew back momentarily, reviewing his decision to try the French restaurant in
the Three Spires complex — a decision which he realized had been induced by
Weinberger’s parting remark. However, Marta waved him over with a cheery smile.

 
          
“You’ll
join us, of course?” The’invitation sounded perfectly genuine. Ananda, for his
part, nodded tolerantly.

 
          
As
Jim hesitated, Marta clapped her hands.

 
          
“Well,
well,
well
— the lone gourmet! And
here was me believing you were going to take the virginity of this place with
me.
And now you are going to, after
all!”

 
          
With
a rueful grin, Jim sat down. He felt somewhat trapped — though happy
enough in his captivity.

 
          
What,
he wondered, was Ananda doing here? He had understood that the slight,
swarthy, shaven-headed man was an ascetic — a self-denier.

 
          
“Do
you often eat here?” he asked him idly.

 
          
“Do
you suppose it’s out of keeping? Ah, Mr Todhunter, shall I tell you my faith,
my creed?” Ananda waited. It was not merely a rhetorical question.

 
          
“Why
not?” invited Jim.

 
          
“I
believe in nothing — in absolute
Nothing
. So it
doesn’t matter if I enjoy a rich meal — so long as I don’t yearn for a repetition
of the same.
Which, indeed, could never be a satisfying
repetition.
This will pass, as will I.”

 
          
“You’ll
still enjoy the meal, though?”

 
          
“Let’s
hope so,” said Marta brightly, looking up from the engraved menu card.

 
          
“Denying
the self does not involve punishing the self, Jim. That is to give the self too
much credit, too much importance.”

 
          
“Sure.”

 
          
“Nor
do I score good karma points by self-denial. In what ledger are they recorded?
In none.”
Ananda leaned closer to Jim. “The fact that I
don’t appear to resent your ‘butting in’ doesn’t imply that this was not a
private
tete-a-tete
, just a little
while ago. Where better than a French venue for a
tete-a-tetel
But that situation has vanished now. It has gone away.
Another situation exists.” Ananda perched in his chair, looking like a
chaperone.

 
          
Jim
laughed nervously. “At least we’re being honest.”

 
          
“Because lies are stupid.
Lies always pass away too, into
the truth.”

 
          
For
a moment this sounded to Jim like a veiled warning that his planned intrigue of
the coming night was already known to Ananda.
And to Marta.
And to everyone . . .

 
          
As
Jim watched Marta browsing nonchalantly through the printed cuisine, he
understood all at once that Ananda must sometimes go to bed with Marta — and
that this implied no bonds, no ties, no obligations of any sort, quite unlike
the sticky web of Noel Resnick’s relationship with Alice Huron and Mary-Ann
Sczepanski. Ananda had actually detached himself from life, in the midst of
life. So Marta could never be hurt by him. Whereas Jim would . . . chase her;
he would prick the balloon of her security and contentment, just as he had
tried to do in the dream.

 
          
Jim
visualized Alice Huron, in the chalet, bestriding Mary-Ann who in turn rode
Resnick to climax. He imagined
Alice
using MaryAnn as an inverted dildo, a
sexual servomechanism with which to master the Master, while Alice herself
enjoyed the slighter body of the woman. He saw
Alice
whipping Mary-Ann while she bestrode her, because
Mary-Ann had failed to see through Weinberger to his rebellious heart, and so
he had killed
Alice
’s treasure. Yes, that was
true
,
Jim decided; and he warmed to Ananda and Marta as a couple who co-existed
without such sticky bonds.

 
          
“I
guess I’ll try the
Tournedos bouquetiere
,”
announced Marta as the waiter arrived. She looked as though Ananda had said
nothing out of the ordinary.

 
          
“Moules a la provengale”
ordered Ananda,
without consulting his menu.

 
          
“I’ll
try the
Tournedos
too,” said Jim. To
the wine waiter who hovered nearby, he added, “And a litre of
Rouge Maison
.”

 
          
Marta
glanced at him curiously, but asked nothing. Nor did she look set to say
anything about her earlier telephone call, or the case of Weinberger. She and
Ananda understood etiquette — they practised it perfectly in their own
relationship.

 
          
Outside,
sunshine flooded through the crystalline roof of the Mall upon saguaro cacti
and branching tree euphorbias. A fountain danced, its plashing silenced by the
windows.

 
          
Jim
chewed a last artichoke heart, forked a piece of steak fat neatly to one side,
and wondered what Weinberger would be eating off a tray, locked in his room.
Eating? Just eating? He would probably be
devouring
now that he was cured. The imbalance between their eating circumstances did not
bother Jim particularly. Both would pass, as Ananda would put it. Besides,
Weinberger owed this meal to Jim. He refilled his glass.

 
          
“Have
you much experience with the death-trance?” he asked Ananda.

 
          
“All the time, Jim.
Every minute.”

 
          
“No,
I mean have you ever practised the death-trance state? What I really want to
ask is: have you ever detached yourself — your consciousness — from your body?
Have you experienced . . . that kind of detachment?”

 
          
“Where
would my consciousness go to? It is here, I am here. Here is everywhere — and
nowhere.”

 
          
“Those
are just words.”

 
          
“
Which is precisely what is wrong with them.
They establish a
whole menagerie of ‘somethings’ all over the place, where really there are
none. Even ‘nothing’ is a lying word — as is ‘death’ too. We have a word
‘death’,
therefore it is ‘something’. If we didn’t have the
word ‘death’ ...”

 
          
“Then
we’d all be out of a job,” joked Marta, “and what’s more, we wouldn’t even
notice it.”

 
          
“What
are you really trying to ask me, Jim?”

 
          
Jim
drank some wine. “Oh, I’m not.”

 
          
“Oh,
you are.”

 
          
“Well,
maybe, but . . .” Did he want to ask Ananda to sit in tonight?
And Marta too?
No, he couldn’t bear to think of it. Ananda
and Marta were far across a gulf from him, and it was a far wider gulf than the
one that separated those two from the tangled intercourse of Mary-Ann, Resnick
and upright Alice Huron, whoreswoman with the invisible whip . . .

 
          
“No,”
said Jim.

 
          
“You
must find your own way,” said Ananda, “to the place which is no-place.”

 
          
This
sounded so shockingly perceptive that Jim’s hand jerked against his wine glass,
upsetting it. A bloodstain spread across the tablecloth, soaking in. Ashamed,
Jim hastily gathered his napkin over it.

 
          
“Let’s
get back,” suggested Marta tactfully.