by Неизвестный
Violence to others was rare. On one occasion a schoolgirl with a collection box for a local church cause, shook the box in her face asking for a contribution. Marianne screamed through her teeth, fell into a paroxysm of weeping, shielding her eyes with her hands and kicking violently at the girl's shins. On the front of the box, she still recalls, there was a crucified figure together with the name of Jesus.
On the other hand, she repelled threatening violence rather easily. In the dusk of one October evening, at the corner of Leroy Street, she was accosted by a mugger. She remembers clearly that he made his first move at her from behind. She turned her face deliberately to him, displaying the full extent of that twisted smile to him: “Yes, my brother?” He stopped as if he had run up against an invisible brick wall and stood staring; he seemed unexpectedly and painfully bruised. Then with a scared glance, he backed away from her and took to his heels.
About May 1965 things were brought to a head. Marianne's brother returned to New York for an extended visit. George was married by now and the father of two children. Visits back home were not easy to arrange. Their mother had kept him informed by letter of the rift between Marianne and her parents. But she had given no idea of the extent to which Marianne had changed.
Now he heard the full story. He talked with Marianne's most recent employers and the few people who came into contact with her-her landlord, the grocer, and a few others. He even went to the local police precinct. The news was bad right through. No one had a good word to say for his sister. George could not bring himself to believe the stories about the little Marianne he had been so close to. Some spoke disparagingly of her in a way that hurt him deeply. Others manifested a great fear and apprehension about her. One police sergeant went very far: “If I didn't know otherwise, son, I would say you're a bloody liar and not the brother of that one. This gal is bad, bad, bad news. And, besides, there's something mucky about her. Doesn't even look like a fine lad like you.”
George finally decided to go and see his sister for himself. Their mother sat him down in the kitchen before he went. George recalls now that she warned him “what ails our baby is something bad, something real bad. It's not the body. And it's not her mind. She's gone away with evil. That's it. Evil.”
George took most of this and much more of the same with a grain of salt: it was his superstitious and beloved mother speaking about her little baby. She gave him a crucifix and told him to leave it hidden in Marianne's room. She said: “You'll see, son. She won't stand for it. You'll see.” To humor her, George took the crucifix, put it in his pocket, promptly forgot about it, and went downtown to see Marianne.
It was the first time George and Marianne had met in about eight years. And he was also the first of her immediate family she had consented to see in about six years. Marianne was visibly delighted to see him in her one-room apartment. But George, sitting and listening to her talking slowly in a soft, staccato voice, knew immediately that something was indeed wrong with his sister, that some very deep change had taken place in her.
She was still recognizable to him as his sister—the mannerisms he had known in their earlier years were visibly there. And she still had the “family face” which he shared with her. But, as George told it, she seemed “to have seen something which constantly filled her mind even while talking to me. She was speaking for the benefit of somebody else's ear, repeating what somebody else was telling her.” He had a funny feeling that made him look foolish to himself: she was not alone, and he knew it. But he could not get the sense of it all. He was not only puzzled by her behavior, but by its effect on him: she frightened him. George normally did not frighten easily. And he never had felt fear with any of his immediate family.
He was slightly reassured when, several times during the conversation, he saw glimmers of the personality he had known in their young years when they were inseparable companions. But at those moments she seemed to be appealing! for help or trying to overcome some obstacle he could not define and she could not tell him of. Then the wave of fear would come on him again. And he remembered his mother's voice as she spoke to him earlier that day: “You'll see. She won't stand for it.” Partly out of curiosity, partly to satisfy his mother's request, he decided to hide the crucifix in the room as his mother had asked him.
When Marianne went to the bathroom, George placed the small crucifix under her mattress. No sooner had Marianne returned and sat on the edge of the bed than she turned white as chalk and fell rigidly to the floor, where she lay jerking her pelvis back and forth as though in great pain. In seconds the expression on her face had changed from dreamy to almost animal; she foamed at the mouth and bared her teeth in a grimace of pain and anger.
George ran out and called her parents on a pay phone. They arrived about three-quarters of an hour later, bringing the family doctor with them. That night they took Marianne back to their home in upper Manhattan.
There followed weeks of nightmare for her parents and George. They now had full access to her. She lay in what the doctor loosely described as a coma. She would, however, wake up irregularly, take a little nourishment, fall into paroxysms of growling and spitting, was always incontinent and had to be washed continually, and finally would lapse back into the strange comatose state.
Sometimes they would find her wandering around the room in the middle of the night, stumbling over the furniture in the darkness, her face frozen into a horrible smile. Drugs and alcohol were ruled out as causes of her condition. Hospitalization was considered and rejected. Although she was undernourished, their doctor and a colleague of his could find nothing organically wrong and no trace of disease or injury.
From the beginning, her father insisted that their parish priest come to their home where Marianne now lay, but each visit was catastrophic. It was as if she knew in advance the priest was coming. She had terrifying fits of rage and violence. She would awaken, endeavor to attack the priest, pour out a stream of obscenity, tear her own skin, try to jump out their fifteenth-story window, or start battering her head against the wall.
There were constant disturbances. The door of her room would never stay either open or shut; it was continually banging to and fro. Pictures, statues, tables, windowpanes, crockery were regularly fragmented and crushed. It was, finally, all this, plus the unbearable and constant stench, that sent her mother and brother to Church authorities. No matter how she was washed and deodorized, and the room scoured and cleaned, it always smelled of sodden filth and a putrefaction unknown to them. All this, together with Marianne's extreme violence when a rosary or a crucifix was put to her lips, convinced her family finally that her illness was more than physical or mental.
When Peter arrived in New York in mid-August, he was given a short briefing. He insisted on two preliminary visits and examinations; during these, there was surprisingly no violence. First, he accompanied two doctors, chosen by him, on a visit to Marianne. She cooperated fully with them. On the second visit, he had an experienced psychiatrist with him. This expert prolonged his examinations for two or three weeks, taking copious notes, tape-recording conversations, discussing the case with colleagues, questioning her parents and friends. His conclusion was that he could not help her. He recommended another colleague of his. After a hypnosis session, more lengthy conversations with Marianne, and relying as well on the results of drug therapy, his colleague pronounced Marianne normal within the definition of any psychological test or understanding.
It was the beginning of October before Peter felt he could be morally sure he had a genuine case of possession in Marianne, and that he could safely proceed with the exorcism. He planned to start it early on a Monday morning. Beforehand, he chose his assistants and then spent many hours schooling them as to how they should act, what to do, and what not to do during the ritual of Exorcism. Their chief function was to restrain Marianne physically. Peter had a younger priest as his chief assistant; he had to monitor Peter's actions, warn him if mastery of the situation were slipping from him, cor
rect any mistakes he might make, and—in Peter's words—“poleaxe me and carry on in my place if I make the ultimate mistake.” All the assistants were given one absolute rule: never say anything in direct response to what Marianne might say.
Late on the Sunday evening preceding his Monday morning appointment at Marianne's home, as Peter sat chatting after dinner with some friends, he received a frantic call for help from George. Marianne's condition was worse than ever before. She raged around the apartment, screaming Peter's name. There had been a series of disturbances in the house that still continued unabated. And they were beginning to spread beyond the family's apartment. Not only were the neighbors complaining; his parents had already been the victims of some freak accidents. The situation was getting out of hand.
Peter left immediately, and arrived at the apartment some time past midnight. He set about preparing for immediate start of the exorcism. His assistants had already arrived. He did not approach Marianne's room. Under his directions, they entered, stripped the bedclothes from the bed, placed Marianne on a blanket thrown on the mattress. She made no resistance, but lay on her back, her eyes closed, moaning and growling from time to time. They stripped the carpet from the floor, and removed all but two pieces of furniture. Peter needed a small night table for the candlesticks, the crucifix, and his prayer book. The tape recorder was placed in a chest of drawers. The windows were closed securely and the blinds drawn. It was after 3:30 A.M. before all was ready for the exorcism.
The four assistants gathered around Marianne's bed in the little room. The only light came from the candles on the night table. Around them wafted the stale stench that marked Marianne's presence; even the little balls of cottonwool dipped in an ammonia solution which they had placed in their nostrils did not kill that smell. Occasionally, the honking of a car or the scream of a police siren sounded in their ears from the streets below. None of them felt at ease. The centerpiece of this scene, Marianne, lay motionless on the bed.
When Peter entered wearing black cassock, white surplice, and purple stole, Marianne tried to turn away from where he stood at the foot of the bed, but two of his assistants held her down flat. There was no violence until he held up the crucifix, sprinkled her with holy water, and said in a quiet voice: “Marianne, creature of God, in the name of God who created you and of Jesus who saved you, I command you to hear my voice as the voice of Jesus' Church and to obey my commands.” Not even he and certainly not his assistants were prepared for the explosion that followed.
Catching them all unawares, Marianne jerked free, and sat bolt upright on the bed. Opening her mouth in a narrow slit, she emitted a long, wailing howl which seemed to go on without pause for breath and in full blast for almost a minute. Everyone was thrown back physically by the force of that cry. It was not piteous, nor was it of hurt or appeal. It was much more like what they imagined a wolf or a tiger would sound like “when caught and disemboweled slowly,” as the ex-policeman described it. It was an embodiment in sound of defiance and infinite pain. It confused and distressed them. Marianne's father burst into tears, biting his lip to stifle his own voice; he wanted to answer her. “One moment it made you afraid,” said Peter's young colleague in recalling the moment. “Another moment it made you cry. Then you were shocked. So it went. It confused.”
By the time she was silent, they had recovered and had her pinned down again. She did not resist. The smile was back on her mouth, twisting her lips into a corkscrew shape. She was very cold to the touch. Her body was still, relaxed. The first words that came from her were calm:
“Who are you? Do you come to disturb me? You do not belong to the Kingdom. Yet, you are protected. Who are you?” Father Peter looked up from the exorcism text. “Funny,” he thought, “I should be sweating.” His palms were dry, and his mouth. He glanced at the girl. Her eyes were closed, but her eyeballs were obviously moving beneath her lids as if she were caught in animated conversation. That smile still lay across her lips like a curled whip. Her head was now turned slightly to one side as if listening.
“Marianne!” He said it in a half-whisper, not finding his voice easily. No answer. Silence for about ten seconds. Then, this time commandingly: “Marianne!”
“Why curse your gentle heart”—Marianne's words were spoken softly—“I am now of the Kingdom. Didn't you know?” A pause. “So, please hump off,” Another pause. “With little Zio.” A little laugh. Then: “Betcha he doesn't know how to hump, fella!” The edge of her teeth appeared like a white curve behind the lips. The crow's-feet melted away from around her eyes. The whole expression hardened. “Unless. . . unless. . . unless you want to play socket to my hammerrrrrrr. . .” Her words had come out all slurred and on one breath but with no noticeable lip movement. Peter could hear the end of that lungful of air as the prolonged “r” died away like an echo into nothingness.
The four assistants stirred and looked at each other. The bank manager, now perspiring freely, felt for the waxen pads in his ears to reassure himself they were still there. James, the younger priest, caught his breath and was about to speak when Marianne spoke again, this time in a husky voice.
“Sorry, Peter.” She sounded just like a lover who had kissed a little too violently, was sorry, but might bite again if disappointed.
“Marianne!” This time insistingly. The name acted like the pull of invisible wires. Her body became rigid. Her head was flat on the bed, face to the ceiling; the eyeballs turned up behind the eyelids were still; the skin, marbleized and utterly smooth, looked ten years younger. For all the world, this was a teenage student listening intently to her professor. Except for the smile.
“Lechah venichretha verith.” The Hebrew words came off her lips quite intelligibly to Peter. “A deal,” she continued, “just you, Peter, and me. Peter the Eater.”
A window opened in Peter's memory releasing a small sharp panic in him. It was like a bat zigzagging at him out of the night of memory. And like a grain of grit thrown in his eye and stinging him to tears. “Don't worry. No one will know it. Only me.” Mae's face and voice were back with him for an instant from that distant summer evening. They were so dear in his memory. But Marianne's voice seaped the memory to ashes.
“A deal, Peter! Let's talk of the Un in the All-Holy. Aleph. Beth. Gimel. Daleth. Shin. Forget your Hebrew in all that hair and skin?” The tone was level, throaty, neither male nor female, grittily mocking. The grain of panic in Peter now became a boulder pushing him against the bars of his mind, as he sought refuge. He remembered the neat trap, and the words of old Conor: “Nivir discuss, me bhoy. Nick's a 'Comet Let's make a deal.' pahst mahsther at it. He'll have yeh bet in wan tick uv a lamb's tail.”
Peter made a new effort at mental control. His panic receded. “Marianne!”
But the Pretense continued. “Tschah! Peter! What's a little Hebrew between you and me?” The voice was less throaty now, appealing, even.
“In the name of Jesus, I command you, Marianne, to answer.”
“Why can't we forget the past? You forget it. I forget it. So everybody's happy, Peter.”
“Marianne, you belong to the Most High. . .”
“Forget it, Peter!” The hard note again. “Don't be a bore. This is, is, is Marianne. The real Marianne. . .”
“Marianne, we love you, and we know you. Jesus knows you. God knows you. Answer me in the name of Jesus who saved you.”
“If you're thinking of that little pimply girl with no breasts and heavy glasses and her silver cross and her calloused knees. . .”
“Only love can save and heal, Marianne.” Peter knew that confrontation was being avoided, and the voice of Pretense went on.
“. . . and her no-mother-yes-mother-no-father-yes-father-bless-me-father-for-I-have-sinned. Forget it, Peter.” The throaty tone had returned; but there was a silky snarl laced with contempt and, Peter felt, some tiny threat.
A sound caught Peter's ear. Marianne's father was shaking and looking at the chest of drawers. For the last 17 hours, that c
hest of drawers had never stayed in exactly the same place. This had not been too disturbing. But now it rocked back and forth at irregular intervals; the brass handles rattled.
“Throw some holy water on that thing,” Peter whispered to his colleague. He heard some short hissing sounds like drops of water falling on a red-hot stove.
But—even as quickly as that—the initiative had been taken out of Peter's hands. He had been distracted by her father's reactions and his own whispered order.
“Peter? You okay?” She had a mocking solicitude in her tones. The rattling had ceased. “About that Un. What's the difference?”
Peter clenched his teeth and decided to be assertive. “The All-Holy,” he said flatly, “is one.”
“Ah! But to be complete, the All-Unholy goes with it.” “Dirt does not go with cleanliness.” “Without darkness, no light, Peter. No light.”
“The All-Holy cannot go with the All-Unholy.”
“Wrong, Peter pet, pet Peter.”
Peter's mental grip weakened for an instant, as he felt the claws of argument closing around his mind. Fatally his logic rose. Conor's warning faded in a kind of cry to intellectual battle, and he blurted out: “Impossible—”
“Now, we're on the ball.” Her voice rose, cut in triumphantly. “I know your fuddy-duddy medieval Principle of Contradiction. Esse et non-esse non possunt identificari.” Even know the Latin! But that's for now, Peter. See? Only for now. It can be different.“
Peter forced himself away from argument.
“Marianne!”
“No, Peter. . .”
“In the name. . .”
“Of the All-Unholy and, if you wish, the All-Holy. No objection.” Then that terrible little laugh. “Some day soon, your esse and your non-esse will go together like. . .”