He gave a start and instinctively let go of the door. At the same time he heard a voice. It made him jump once more, but the moment he heard it he recognized whose it was.
“There you are, the plague-bringer! I knew it was you in here, Enemy of Heaven!”
One of the main front doors had been opened and framed in its angle of light was the woman without a name, the first person he and Pascale had met in Heaven. Palmiro swore fiercely to himself and re-opened the door he had just let shut, entering the room. He could hear the woman's voice resounding through the building.
“Don't be angry, Adorno's boy! Yes, I know about you. Adorno was my best, but now you are! I never wanted Heaven anyway, and when you have brought its end I will be content.”
Palmiro put his lamp down on one of the shelves and grabbed a flask, pulling off the big cork in the top. He held out his hand and dribbled a little into his cupped palm. It had a slightly syrupy texture. When he sniffed it and touched it with the tip of his tongue, he recognized at once the sweet pungent taste of the Initiation drug. Even as he tested the liquid he could hear the sound of the woman's feet scuffling on the marble and her continued flood of words.
“Adorno brought me here and I said I never wanted it. He just put me on the plane and I came. But see, now he has given all his secrets to you. You are the new Adorno. And you will fly me home!”
If the baths had given him an uncanny sensation, what the woman was saying sent a chill through him. What did she mean? And if she meant what her words seemed to mean, how could she possibly know these things? Had Adorno talked to her, and, if so, what was she to Adorno? He stepped outside the room and she was right there in front of him. He noticed her hair was gray and unbrushed and she had teeth missing. He was obliged to confront her.
“Who are you? And don't give me that stupid “no name" routine. How do you know Adorno?”
Before he could stop her she had flung her arms around him and was hugging him close. “My dear child, don't you know? Didn't he tell you? I am his mother! And since he has adopted you, you are my son, too! And a better one than he ever was!”
“You are insane, get away from me!” For a moment he was trapped, with the flask in one hand and the lamp in the other. He threw the lamp over the low wall into the pool where it quickly sunk to the bottom and extinguished. He used his free hand to unclamp her arms and twist away. He dodged from her flailing grasp and walked as quickly as he could in the murky light back to the door to the hallway. He passed through and almost ran the length of the hall, down past the sleeping rooms and out to the car. As he did he could hear her voice following him.
“My son, do not worry, do not worry. Your secret is safe with me. You are Heaven's doom. Heaven's doom!”
***
As he drove back along the Appian Way Palmiro's mood was in stark contrast to the one he had set out with that morning. He reasoned that the woman calling herself Adorno's mother was regarded universally as crazy, so there was very little danger anyone would listen to anything she said. At the same time, it was deeply unnerving that she seemed to understand so much about his plans. Even assuming that what she had said about her relationship to Adorno was true, it was inconceivable he would jeopardize everything he so greatly desired by telling her, or indeed anybody, about conversations he and his student may have had. So the question was, how did she get her information?
He was forced to conclude that somehow her mind had leaped from one tenuous detail to another and in a kind of huge lucky guess, she had come up with a picture resembling the truth. He thought with a hint of irony that what she had done was not all that essentially different from the genius of her son coming up with the immortality enzyme. Like mother, like son! Combining random facts in an entirely new formula could indeed produce a miracle of truth. The idea gave him a strange, paradoxical comfort and served to calm him as he continued his journey toward downtown. If this woman's deranged mind could guess the strict truth in a relatively narrow field, would it not be possible for unfettered minds to come up with hitherto unknown truths and on a large scale?
He thought again of Adorno, of his theory about the human mind, computers and the stars. He also thought of Pascale, and her strange words on the clifftop. Perhaps there really was a way of counting in the dark, faster than light, the way that Pascale called “love"? But then if this was the case immortality really should be considered the enemy of love, because it would allow no darkness inside itself. It simply flirted at the edge of darkness, at a great pantomime called Font Eterno. There everyone enjoyed seeing someone go to the edge just for the chance they might not come back. Soon, however, all that would end.
9. VOLUNTEERING
The authorities in charge of the Font Eterno were a group of Sarobindo's disciples with Sarobindo presiding over them. Given the whole thing was his idea, and how triumphantly he always carried it off, it was impossible that anybody else would govern the institution. However, procedures were lax to the point of non-existent. Sarobindo would turn up, enter his personal meditation area and prepare himself. His assistants were already there before him, checking the sound, lighting and projection systems, testing the bridge and powering up the particle accelerator. A couple of them functioned as the regular announcers for the ceremony and one of them would take up position in the commentary box and wait for Sarobindo to show himself. Apart from some other people from the Tech Colony, who provided support for the engineering, that really was it.
When Palmiro crossed over the ceremonial causeway in front of the great globe it was already dark and the crowd was beginning to gather for the second of the three days of Immersions. He pushed his way quickly to the arched tunnel at the front of the building which provided a service entrance and access for officials. Against the shimmering crystal of the sphere he could see Eboni waiting together with three people he didn't know. He walked toward them and Eboni turned and saw him.
“There he is, I told you he'd come.” She sounded relieved, and when he got near she at once introduced to him to Chen Jin, Artemis and Omar. He remembered hearing a little about them from Danny, but he had no wish for small talk. He thanked them for coming and asked them if they had any questions.
Omar said, “So you're really going to risk going under? No one but Sarobindo has done that as long as anyone can remember. What's your game Palmiro? You think you can do this and survive?”
“No game, Omar. I can't stay down as long as Sarobindo, but at least I'll manage a few minutes. That way I will honor him and the Font Eterno.”
Artemis gave him the thumbs up. “Charlize said you were quite the rare bird. I'm always ready for the unexpected, so you have my vote!”
“Well, I thank you for that. So let's just go and find someone and if you're all agreed you can tell them you're sponsoring me.”
Without waiting for further discussion Palmiro headed for the tunnel. The others followed, infected by Palmiro's uncompromising approach. They entered the deep heart of the building, walking the length of a tunnel lit by recessed lighting, with walls covered in glittering mosaics of dragons, centaurs, griffins and other mythical beasts. At the end there was an ornamental stone stairway leading to a grand, four-sided landing like the mezzanine of an opera house. The group mounted the stairs and at the top found a marble screen and set back against it a long dais.
Seated on the dais, framed by lambent candles, were two women dressed in the orange ceremonial color of the Immersion. They were cross-legged and meditating, facing at an angle toward each other, like book ends. They did not open their eyes when Palmiro coughed “Hello”. The sight of them was imposing against the carved frieze and flickering lights and the newcomers remained silent, waiting for the attendants to respond. But they stayed wholly unresponsive, until finally Palmiro lost patience and interrupted the reverie.
“Excuse me, I am here to volunteer for the Immersion.”
The guardians of the threshold opened their eyes in surprise. Their normal job was simply to mark
the holiness of the place, signaling the sacred precincts and deterring people from wandering further toward the preparation rooms. So much time had passed since there had been any other candidate for Immersion that the thought of someone volunteering for the Sea of Chaos was almost totally foreign.
“I am sorry, what are you volunteering for?” It was the woman on the right. She had long auburn hair, high cheekbones and expressive lips.
“My name is Palmiro and I wish to join the Master in the ceremony of Immersion, as homage to him and to honor the tradition he represents. My companions are here to vouch for me.”
“I'm afraid I still don't understand. Are you a disciple of the Master? I have not met you before. People cannot just come here and join the ceremony on a whim, they must be prepared, surely?”
“I am prepared. I have prepared privately. And my companions here will testify that I am capable. I believe I am correct that there is no closed membership to this club?”
The woman's confidence was undermined by Palmiro's direct approach. She turned to her companion, an Asian woman with long black hair and a gentle, composed face.
“This is most irregular. What do you think, Padma?”
“I'm not sure. Normally we refer any request to the Mahatma. Of course in the days surrounding the Immersion he speaks with no one. I suggest you wait for another time?”
“I have prepared intensely and I have come to point where I will never be better prepared. It must be tomorrow or I will lose the power of this moment.”
Padma regarded this strange man with his lean face and fixed eyes. Perhaps he really had arrived at a critical spiritual moment.
“We should hear what his companions have to say. Please tell us who you are and why you think your friend should take part in the Immersion?”
Omar stepped forward without hesitation. He introduced himself and the other two and then declared, “Absolutely. I can say this man is physically and mentally prepared. Exactly as he said, there is no private club here. We are all Immortals and all its rites and rituals belong to us as birthright. There can be no hierarchy in Heaven.”
The others had been nodding their agreement while Omar spoke, and his words made the guardians even more unsure. It was so long since anyone had volunteered they had no recall of guidelines, and they certainly did not want to argue with the equality of Immortals. The auburn-haired guardian sought to recover the high ground.
“In principle I suppose it should be possible. If someone like you, Palmiro, is spiritually ready for the challenge then, after all, that is what the whole ritual is about, and there is no more to be said. What do you feel, Padma?”
“I agree, Alceste. And our Mahatma has kept the Passage of the Sea alive for so long not for his own sake but for the sake of Heaven. I am sure he will be thrilled to find someone else joining him again in the Waters of Chaos.”
Alceste was reconciled. “Well then, it seems to be acceptable. I'm sure you have also taken the risks into account, and really that is all part of it. What a surprise for us! We will have to let the announcer know, and we must also find you a suitable robe. But, really, it cannot be tonight. It has to be tomorrow, the final night of the Immersions. Can you come tomorrow a little earlier than this? We will provide you with a room and show you the approach to the bridge. We will also give you an attendant to cue you. Really, how exciting this all is!”
Omar pumped his fist in the air, “Yes!” Artemis clapped and danced around in a little circle. The guardians were shocked by their response, and Palmiro's reaction did not seem totally right either, although from another point of view. He had blanched and seemed dazed, as if the reality of what he'd entered into was just dawning on him. Eboni reached out to him silently.
Padma looked at him, tilting her head to one side. “Are you sure you want to do this, sir? There is no urgency. Perhaps you should wait to consult with the Mahatma first.”
Palmiro stared at her, then he shook his head like a man shaking loose something inside his skull. “Oh, no, no, Padma, no need for that. I have reflected on this long and deeply. It is time.”
***
Jonas was walking round in his bedroom, the one with the big veranda, holding on to furniture as he went from side to side. If he was no longer trembling externally he was shaking inside himself. As an historian he knew the die was cast. An Immortal had been killed in what could only be construed as an act of rebellion. Whether they initially intended to, there was no doubt that both Palmiro and Danny had now made a choice against the established order in Heaven. They were not giving themselves up, they were not begging for mercy, and there would be no mercy shown them. Palmiro even seemed to be pushing things toward some kind of showdown. He dreaded what this would be, both for its own sake and because of what it would mean for Pascale. She was already deeply implicated and would be seen as a co-conspirator. Any hope that she might be pardoned on the basis that it was all a mistake, that was over.
He blamed himself for his earlier passivity, dreaming away his time and allowing Palmiro and Danny to search for Pascale when it should have been him. He went over and over this in his mind. He sensed that his whole attitude was mistaken, a desperate clarity dawning on him. He had spent his time in a fantasy, drinking from the well of memories, content that somewhere she was still alive and dreaming ultimately they would be reunited. Instead, matters had taken their own course. Oh yes, he should have done something. If he really loved Pascale he should have acted. He sank to his knees, clenching his fists and banging them up against his temples. How pathetic he was! Now it was too late to do anything.
He remained there on the floor, curled over on his knees, going round and round the same track in his head. But could that really be the case? Was there really nothing that could be done? Perhaps he should try and follow Palmiro, to find out what he was doing and possibly stop him. But he had no idea where he had gone, so he couldn't follow him. Anyway, if what Palmiro was going to do, no matter how dire, could help Pascale, well, he didn't want to stop him. Even as the thought crossed his mind, he was shocked at himself. Had it gone this far that he'd become what they falsely accused Pascale of? Had he in fact become a subversive, an anti-social?
The question echoed inside his head like a big clamorous bell, yet even as it continued to clang inside him, it did not seem quite so impressive or imposing. It even felt tinny and false, while another part of his mind felt at peace. He thought to himself he was changing, and possibly had been for some time. It was becoming clear right there as he knelt on the floor, and in a way he'd never dreamed possible. He was caring less and less about the whole set-up in Heaven and shifting willingly to something new. What that new thing actually was he could hardly say. It didn't seem concrete and clear, like Heaven, but he definitely felt it inside himself.
It made him want to stand up and take action although, once again, he didn't know what to do. He stood up anyway, and he threw off his robe. He walked naked downstairs to the central wing of the house and the big marble inlaid bathroom shared by the community. He entered the shower room and turned on all the jets, full. After he had buffeted his body, and his skin was blotchy and throbbing, he pulled a towel from the rack and wrapped it around his waist. He walked back down the long corridor to the stairwell leading back to his floor. He started to climb the stairs and then a door he had passed swung open. Cyrus stood in the entrance. His arm was still in a sling.
“Jonas, what are you doing? I saw that man with you earlier, the troublemaker friend of your anti-social lover. Your body looks roasted. Why were you were in the shower all that time? What's going on?”
“Pascale is not anti-social, and it's no business of yours to whom I speak or how I take my showers.”
Cyrus sputtered and called out, “How dare you talk to me like that! Masharu, Vanzetti, Bernice, come out and observe the behavior of this man!”
Various members of the History Colony emerged from their rooms or the house library, drawn by Cyrus' complaint. They looked to
ward the stairs where he was pointing. Jonas didn't wait but continued steadily upstairs and back to his suite. He entered his bedroom, crossed to his closet and flung open the door. He ransacked the drawers and rails, throwing down robes and hauling things out he had never used and flinging them on the floor. Eventually he found some leggings for horse-riding and a short tunic of tougher cloth that pleased him. He had decided to do what Palmiro had said. It was the only thing that made sense. There were no horses at the History Colony, so he would go directly to Eboni's place and get a horse there. He left the room without shutting the door and walked back down the stairs and along the hallway to the front entrance. Then he doubled round the side of the house to the compound, hoping to avoid people. However, Masharu was there by the back door, leaning on the wall.
“Cyrus thinks you're bewitched. Where are you going?”
“I'm not sure where I'm going, Masharu. As for Cyrus, I believe he's obsessive. He provoked the arrest of Pascale unnecessarily.”
“Cyrus spends a lot of time obsessing, over paintings especially.”
“You’re right, one in particular. He was always talking about it, a kind of medieval Doblepoble he said.”
“I know the one, it's weird, with fruit and people and animals all mixed up in what looks like sexual positions. It's by Hieronymus Bosch.”
“I don't know it.”
Pascale's Wager: Homelands of Heaven Page 42