I am filled with dread. I sense that at any moment the Princess can materialise again.
Again the jangle of a bell. I listen; no, it is not a ringing in my ear as I imagined. It is the front door bell, an ordinary front door bell – and yet I still feel dread seeping through my veins. But the ringing drags me from my chair; I press the buzzer to let the door open, hurry to the window and look down: in the street two silly boys dash away when they realise they have been seen.
Nothing – and yet the dread does not loosen its grip on me.
The front door is open, I remind myself and feel uneasy at the thought that I am open to the world, that any foolish, prying busybody can walk straight into my carefully guarded life and secrets. I am about to go down and shut the door for good when I hear footsteps on the stairs, familiar footsteps, swift, smooth and elastic.
Lipotin appears!
He greets me with an ironic twinkle beneath the heavy drooping eyelids.
We exchange a casual greeting, as if we had last seen each other the previous day. He stands on the threshold of my study, sniffing at the air like a fox who finds strange tracks outside the entrance to his den.
I say nothing; I for my part am examining him.
He seems changed, though it is difficult to say exactly in what way. It is almost as if he were not himself, but his own double: there is something insubstantial, shadowy and strangely monotonous about all his utterances. Are we perhaps both dead? is the odd thought that comes to me. Who knows exactly what the social conventions amongst the dead are!? Round his neck is a red scarf that I have never seen him wearing before.
He turns his head towards me and whispers in a hoarse voice:
“It is approaching. This is almost like John Dee’s kitchen.”
My blood runs cold at this unearthly voice; it has the discordant whistling of someone with cancer articulating laboriously through a tube in his throat. Lipotin repeats with mocking self-satisfaction:
“It is approaching.”
I ignore it. Don’t understand it. I am spellbound by horror and without thinking, without realising what I am saying before I hear my own words outside me, I gasp:
“Lipotin, you are a ghost.”
He looks up sharply; his eyes glitter with a greenish light. He wheezes:
“My dear Sir, as far as I can see, you are the ghost. I still belong to the same level of reality that pertains to my being. What is understood by “ghost” is usually some person – or part of a person! – returning from the dead. Every living person is a being who by the act of birth has returned to the earth, ergo every living person is a ghost. Is that not so? Nothing essential happens through death, only through birth and that is the whole trouble. – But shouldn’t we be speaking of something more important than life and death?”
“Is there something wrong with your throat, Lipotin? Since when have you had it?”
“Oh, that? Er, that means ...” – a terrible coughing intervenes, then he continues, exhausted: “That means nothing, or very little. You will recall my friends in Tibet? Well then, you will remember what I told you about them,” and again he makes the same unmistakable gesture with his hand across his throat as he did outside the cemetery gate.
The red scarf!
“Who cut your throat?” I stutter.
“Who other than the red butcher? A ruthless fellow, he is. Tried to kill me on orders from his paymasters, but in his frenzy his tiny brain forgot that I have never had blood in my veins. He sought recognition for his act, but in vain. He scotched the snake instead of killing it ...” the rest of his speech is veiled by the dry whistling of his breath in the tube. “You must excuse the leaky organ-pipes,” he says, when he has got his breath back, and gives me a polite bow.
There is nothing I can say. On top of it all I can sense the pale face of the Princess listening outside the grimy window and I have to strain my nerves to fight off the icy cold creeping over me from behind. Quickly I invite Lipotin to sit down in the chair where the Princess usually sits in the rather foolish hope that Assja will not enter if she sees her chair occupied. I feel I could not stand the presence of two ghosts at once. My one comfort is the thought that I myself must still be alive, otherwise I would not be so clear in my mind that these two are not. But Lipotin seems to be able to read my mind, for he says:
“Can you not see, Sir, that neither of us is far enough advanced to be sure whether we are dead or not? No-one in our situation can know that. There is nothing to prove it. The fact that everything around us appears the same as before: is that proof? It might be an illusion. How can you be sure that the world you knew previously was not just as much a figment of your imagination? Are you really absolutely sure that we did not die in the accident at Elsbethstein as well and that you just imagined your fiancée’s funeral? That could be the case, could it not? What do we know of the cause of our imaginings? Perhaps imagination is the cause and mankind the effect! No, no, all that about ‘life after death’ is rather different from what we are told by people who know nothing but, when you contradict them, claim they know ‘best’. Lipotin lights another cigarette and I squint over at him to see whether smoke comes out of the red scarf ... Then he goes on in his croaky voice:
“Actually you should be grateful to me. It was in your service, after all, that I got this little scratch. Or did I only imagine that you made use of the drug from the Tibetan monks. As a member of the order I should have stopped that happening. Well, we have both ended up with wounds that heal damned slowly! Yours is not in the throat, but in the nerve centre which controls your sleep: the valve will not close properly, that’s why you don’t know whether you’re dead or not. Don’t worry, it’s not just a physical defect, it’s also an escape route to freedom.”
I have also lit a cigarette; inhaling the smoke helps me control the feverish dread inside ... I hear myself ask:
“Tell me honestly, Lipotin, am I a ghost or not?”
He puts his head to one side; the heavy lids almost close; then he sits up with a sudden jerk and says:
“The only ones who are not ghosts are those who have eternal life. Do you have eternal life? No, what you have is the same as all men: infinite life, and that is something quite different. – But I think it better if you stop asking me about things which you cannot understand until you possess them yourself. You can only understand something that you already have. Asking questions never did anyone any good! What you really want to know is how to deal with phantoms!” As he speaks he gives a quick glance at the window and waves his arm in a circular movement. It creates a draught, and the dust swirls up from the papers on my desk, releasing a musty, ancient odour that sets off images in my mind of crows flapping up from carrion or of great grey owls in ivy-clad towers.
“Yes, it is true, Lipotin,” I admit. “It’s no use trying to hide it from you – I do deal with ghosts ... That is, I see – here, in the chair you’re sitting in – a figure ... it appears every day ... I see the Princess! She comes to me whenever she wants. She haunts me with her eyes, her body, her whole being! She will trap me in her web; – as the thousands of spiders catch the flies here. Help me, Lipotin! Help me, help me not to ...”
Like a dam breaking, the words just burst out of me, unprepared and unexpected; I am so overcome that I slide to my knees beside the chair the old Russian is sitting in and stare at him through a veil of tears as if he were some powerful, mysterious magician.
He slowly raises his left eyebrow and inhales so deeply that I can hear the whistling in the tube again. He wheezes softly as great clouds of smoke mask his features:
“But, my dear Sir, I am entirely at your service; of course,” – an uneasy glance flickers in my direction –“you still have the dagger, don’t you?”
Quickly I take the Tula-ware box from my desk and press the hidden catch.
“Aha, aha!” murmurs Lipotin with a grin, “excellent; I can see you are doing your best to keep Hywel Dda’s legacy safe and sound. But there is on
e piece of advice I would give you: choose a different hiding place for the family jewels. Have you not noticed that this little box has a certain ... let us not say relationship, let us say similarity with the earthly dress of our distinguished Princess? It is not a good idea to combine symbols; the forces that stand behind them can easily start to mingle.”
A storm of half-understood insights rages round my soul. I snatch the dagger from the box, as if that would break the spell that has kept me bound for days, weeks – or years? But Lipotin raises his eyebrows in an expression that drains the courage from me: I cannot bring myself to stab him – or even his phantom.
“Our magic is still in its infancy.” – Lipotin laughs at me, starts whistling again – “We cling to externals, although we also neglect them, like a novice mountaineer with all the latest equipment but forgetting to keep an eye on the weather. And the goal has moved on; it is no longer conquering the peak – that is left to self-tormenting ascetics – but transcending the world and humanity.” I decide to reveal all my secrets and sorrows:
“You will help me, Lipotin, I am sure of that. To put you in the picture: I have called upon Jane with all the power of my soul. But she does not come. The Princess comes instead of her.”
“In magic what comes is what is closest to us. And what is closest is what resides within us. That is why the Princess has come.”
“But I do not want her to come!”
“That makes no difference. She senses the erotic force in you and in your call.”
“But, for God’s sake, I hate her!”
“That is what she feeds on.”
“I curse her; may she rot in the lowest depths of hell where she belongs! I abhor her, I would strangle her, murder her if I could, if I only knew how.”
“Such fire is like a declaration of love to her – and she is not entirely wrong.”
“You think I might love the Princess, Lipotin?”
“You hate her already. That creates a high degree of magnetism or attraction – scientists are agreed on that.”
“Jane!” I cry out.
“A dangerous appeal” warns Lipotin. “The Princess will intercept it. Do you not realise that what you call ‘Jane’ is the vital erotic energy within you? A fine suit of armour you have there! Nothing but gun cotton: it might keep you warm but it’s highly explosive; it might go up in flames at any moment.” The world goes out of focus; I am near to fainting. I grasp Lipotin’s hand.
“Help me, old friend! You must help me!”
Lipotin flashes a glance at the dagger lying on the table between us and grudgingly agrees:
“I think I have no choice.”
There is a gnawing distrust at the back of my mind, and I place my hand firmly on the weapon in front of me. I draw it nearer to me and never let it out of my sight. Lipotin appears not to take any notice at all and lights a fresh cigarette. His wheezing voice comes through a cloud of smoke:
“Do you know anything at all about Tibetan sexual magic?”
“A little.”
“Then you will perhaps have heard of an oriental practice called ‘Vajroli Tantra’ which makes it possible to transform sexual energy into a magic force.”
“Vajroli Tantra!” I murmur the words to myself. I vaguely remember having read in a rather bizarre book about something of the kind. I do not know precisely what it is, but an inner feeling tells me it must be something foully perverse, something contrary to all healthy, normal human sentiments. There must be good reason why it is a secret kept by all who know of it on pain of death.
“Some kind of exorcism rite?” I ask absentmindedly.
Lipotin shakes his head slowly:
“Exorcise sex!? What would that leave of man? Not even the external form of a saint. Elemental forces cannot be destroyed. That is why there is no point in trying to drive out the Princess.”
“Lipotin – sometimes I think it isn’t the Princess at all but ...”
The ghostly antiquarian gives a whinnying laugh:
“You think she is the Thracian goddess Isaïs? Not bad! Not bad, my friend. Not so far off the mark.”
“It is really all the same to me whether she is Isaïs or Bartlett Greene’s Black Mother called up by the blood of his Scottish cats! Once she appeared to one of her victims as Lady Sissy.”
“Whatever guise she appears in, the being that appears to you in this chair, currently occupied by my humble self, is more than a ghost, more than a living woman, more even than a goddess neglected for thousands of years: she is the power of blood in man, and whoever would defeat her must be beyond the power of blood.”
Instinctively I raise my hand to my neck; I can feel the artery hammering feverishly, as if demanding entrance to deliver its message – perhaps from some alien force exulting in its power over me? All the while I stare at Lipotin’s crimson scarf. Lipotin gives me a friendly and understanding nod.
“Are you beyond the power of blood?”
Lipotin seems to deflate; he suddenly becomes grey, old, frail; he croaks feebly:
“Being beyond the power of blood is almost the same as never having been subject to it. You tell me: where is the difference between being beyond life and never having lived? There is none, is there? Is there?”
It sounds like a cry from the depths, like an appeal from a scarcely concealed desperation, like naked fear, whose cold tentacles I could feel stretching out towards me. But before I could relate this unexpected question to his normal behaviour, the glimpse of Lipotin’s bared soul – for want of a better word – was over; he smoothed down his hair, sat up straight and once more smiled his enigmatic smile from above his red scarf. He leant across to me and said, stressing every word:
“Take it from me, young man: the realm of Isaïs and of Assja Shotokalungin is the realm of the blood from which there is no escaping, neither here, nor on the other side, neither for the good Doctor Dee, nor for John Roger, Esquire, nor for you. You have to accept that.”
“Where can I find salvation?” I cry, leaping to my feet.
“Vajroli Tantra,” comes the answer from a cloud of smoke. It strikes me that he always conceals his face in that manner when he speaks those words.
“What is Vajroli Tantra?” I ask curtly.
“The gnostics called it ‘making the Jordan flow backwards’. You can easily guess what that refers to. But it not only refers to the physical action, which is pretty obscene. You must discover the mystery behind it yourself; if I were to try to explain it, you would be left with an empty shell. The physical rite without the inner mystery is like dabbling in red magic: it just creates a fire you cannot extinguish. Mankind has little idea of these forces; they ramble on about black magic and white magic. But the inner mystery ...” suddenly, in the middle of the sentence, Lipotin’s explanation becomes a droning sing-song, like the monotonous prayers of a Tibetan monk. It sounds as if it is not Lipotin, but some distant, invisible being speaking from the red scarf:
“What is bound shall be loosed; what is divided shall be joined through love; love shall be overcome through hate; hate through knowledge; knowledge through oblivion: that is the stone of the diamantine void.”
The words swirl past me; I cannot grasp them, cannot hold them. For a brief moment I feel the Baphomet above me, listening. I bow my head and try to listen with him, but my ears remain deaf.
When I look up again – despondent – Lipotin has disappeared from my room.
Was he really ever there?
More “time” has passed, time that I have not measured. I have wound up all my clocks, and I can hear them busily ticking away, but as I did not set them, each one shows a different time – which seems appropriate to my strange state. I sleep whenever sleep overcomes me, in some chair in some room or other, it does not matter which. Light I take for day and dark for night, whether it be the blackness of real night or merely the overcast sky and the grimy windowpanes which awake the countless pale shadows in my rooms to spectral life.
I kno
w that writing down my recent conversation with the phantom by the name of “Lipotin” is no proof that I am alive or, as men put it, have died, but I have done it, and will continue to do so. Perhaps I only imagine the ink and the paper and the letters and in reality I am etching it onto my memory. But where, basically, is the difference?
The idea of “reality” is unfathomable, but more unfathomable still is the “I”. When I try to describe the state “I” was in before Lipotin entered, announced by two cheeky schoolboys ringing my bell, the only word that seems appropriate is: unconscious. And yet there is a voice within me saying that I was not unconscious, but that I was in some other state of being that I can no longer recall. If it had been eternal life, how could I have returned from eternity to the infinity of life? that would have been impossible: eternity is separate from infinity and no-one can fly back and forth across the abyss dividing them. Perhaps Jane partakes of eternal life and that is why she cannot hear my cries for help. My cry goes up into infinity and instead of Jane comes Assja Shotokalungin.
In what state of being did I spend all that “time”? I become more and more certain that someone who has progressed far beyond human life instructed me in an occult science, for which human tongues have no words, in secrets and mysteries which will be made plain to me one day. Oh that I had a trusty adviser, as my ancestor John Dee, whose being and essence I have inherited, had in his assistant Gardner!
Lipotin has not come back, nor do I miss him. What he had to bring, he has brought; a strange messenger of the unknown, faithful and faithless at the same time.
I have spent a long time pondering his advice and I think that I have some inkling of the deeper significance of “Vajroli Tantra”, but how can I put it into practice? I will make every effort to get to the bottom of it, but I keep coming up against Lipotin’s words, that it is impossible to escape from the realm of sexuality.
I will keep a record of my doings from day to day, but will not date them. What point would there be in a dead man insisting on the right date? What do I care about the calendar people submit to in the world outside. I have come to haunt my own house.
The Angel of the West Window Page 38