The Hypnotist

by Laurence Anholt

  he

  has

  slept

  curled

  like

  a

  vast

  foetus

  on

  my

  bed

  he has been here

  the dreamsnatcher

  38

  How the Silence Fell

  The air was hot and thick as soup.

  Dead leaves danced in crazy whirlwinds in the dry river at the secret valley; the long summer was drawing to an end with a last defiant heatstorm.

  Two days after their return from Washington, Pip and Hannah went to the white bungalow to collect the cookie jar. They were beginning to understand that Jack wouldn’t be there much longer and now it was time to find a safe place for Pip’s money. Jack had told Pip about a new Black-owned bank in town, but Pip didn’t imagine that a fourteen-year-old boy could stroll up to the counter to invest that kind of money without a lot of questions to answer. That was when his father’s little joke had come to him again – ‘The only safe bank is a riverbank’. Well, the closest thing to a riverbank at Dead River was amongst the twisting willow roots where Hannah kept her radio. It seemed a safe enough hiding place to Pip.

  When they tapped at the door, with Amigo at their heels, Jack had come nervously out onto the porch and greeted them with his back to the door. After the friendliness of the trip to Washington, he seemed withdrawn and unwilling to invite them inside. His excuse was that he was unpacking and the place was a mess. Unusually, he was unshaven and wearing sunglasses, and he muttered something about the heat and a headache. He left them waiting while he went to collect the cookie jar, looking about anxiously before handing it to Pip and disappearing inside. The encounter left Pip unsettled and confused.

  Crouching side by side in the valley, Pip and Hannah lifted the flour bag from the jar one more time and marvelled at the weighty bundle of notes. They touched it again and again, hardly believing it could be real. At last they secured the lid and pushed the jar deep inside the hollow. The only living souls who saw that hiding place were Amigo and the wild birds of the valley, who seemed agitated by the oppressive weather.

  Everything felt strange. Everything felt new. These days Hannah did not listen to the radio; instead she strummed endlessly on the guitar, carefully following the diagrams in the book that Pip had bought her called Learn and Sing Along.

  C, C, C, C, play the chord named C . . .

  She had mastered only a few simple tunes, but already her fingers felt easy on the strings, as if there were a natural triangular relationship between guitar and hand and ear, which had little to do with Hannah herself.

  Sometimes, as she played, Hannah hummed and harmonized, and it was as if learning the guitar and learning to use her voice were one and the same. On those sultry days, Hannah talked to Pip in a small, unsteady voice, which dipped and dived in the most unexpected ways. But she never said a word in the farmhouse. Her voice was for him alone. ‘Let ’em think I’m dumb, Pip. That’s fine by me.’

  From time to time Pip asked what had caused her long silence, but Hannah just shook her head and lowered her almond eyes, pretending to be absorbed in the placing of her fingers around the frets.

  And then, at last, with her head resting on Pip’s chest, the girl in the wildflower dress laid aside her guitar and began to unburden herself . . . slowly, secretly, softly . . .

  ‘I was real young when ol’ Zachery brought me to Dead River. I was so scared and unsettled I barely spoke a word. Old Zach fixed me a bed above the tool store with picks an’ shovels for company. I was terrible lonesome without my daddy, but Lil’belle an’ Zachery was kind enough.’

  Pip stroked and twisted her hair – as smooth and black as liquorice.

  ‘Then one day this strange giant boy come along the track and everythin’ changed. Erwin scared me, Pip. He scared everyone. Shoutin’ and yellin’ and cussin’. Some of the kids who worked on the farm upped and ran away. Lil’belle took to her bed. Erwin – he walked about all night, rantin’ an’ cryin’ to hisself. So I learned to disappear. Became invisible. Crept away and never spoke when he was near. Used to walk out on my own, Pip. One time I walked as far as the mauve mountains – kept thinkin’ I could hear my mama callin’, though I knew that she was dead. It was midnight before I returned an’ Zachery was awful mad. Then I found this place – my secret valley. I used to sit an’ listen to the songs on my radio an’ they sounded sweet to me.’

  Pip felt her body on his chest – strong and slender as a guitar.

  ‘Then . . . something bad happened . . . I don’t like to say . . .’

  ‘Hannah, you know you can trust me . . .’

  ‘Early one mornin’ Lil’belle say she wanna treat from town – cheeseburger or somethin’ . . . I set off with Amigo – he was just a puppy then. I walk down the track an’ they was just buildin’ them new houses where Jack live. Anyhow, down near the road I see somethin’ high in the treetops. Can’t figure what it is. When I get close I see it’s them twin boys work for Zachery, only they was way up in the branches. They had their faces to one side, like they was tired an’ restin’ their heads on their shoulders. I couldn’t figure why them boys should be standin’ up there, restin’ in the treetops . . .’

  Pip stroked Hannah’s forehead, and once she had started talking, it was like she couldn’t stop.

  ‘I call up to them – I say, “You boys oughta be on the yard, not restin’ in the trees.” Then I see . . . I see there is death in their eyes, Pip. An’ their mouths is open, tongues hangin’ out, an’ their bodies is long an’ dead an’ swayin’ from ropes . . . Twin boys, Pip. Beautiful twin boys, alike as two pins, swingin’ side by side in the poplar tree.

  ‘An’ I jes’ run to town an’ buy Lil’belle’s burger. When I come back there’s a crowd of White folks standin’ there . . . an’ they lookin’ up an’ laughin’ an’ crackin’ jokes. An’ Erwin is there too, an’ for the first time he looks easy an’ at peace with hisself. I know . . . I know it’s him, Pip. He done it. An’ he’s proud o’ what he done.

  ‘I jes’ walk past, carryin’ the bag with Lil’belle’s food, tryin’ to be invisible, an’ Erwin give me this look – a terrible, terrible look, Pip – an’ I hear him jes’ like he’s talkin’ in my ear. He say, “One night ah’m comin’ fer yer, gal. One night ah’m comin’ up them steps in th’ tool store, an’ there ain’t nothin’ y’ cin do t’ stop me . . .” That’s the words I hear, Pip. That’s what I see. An’ I go back to Dead River Farm, an’ no matter how they wailed an’ yelled an’ cussed . . . I never spoke again.’

  39

  The EZ File

  ‘Ma, I keep telling you, I don’t know what I’ll do back in Dublin. I’ll find something. You need to understand I’m finished over here. Yes . . . Yes, I hear what you say, and I agree with you . . . It’s a shame. The whole thing is a crying shame. But if I told you all the details, you’d have me on the next flight home. This place isn’t safe – it’s as simple as that.’

  It was peculiar to be phoning home from the oak desk in the big office, with the modern art on the walls and the windows overlooking the campus. Cerberus was absent, but so was any feeling of pride or happiness I might have expected. I felt hollowed out and defeated.

  I had my resignation letter all written and signed, and now I placed it by the telephone so he’d see it when he returned from North Carolina. That was when I noticed an envelope addressed to me from the man himself. I sliced it open with his silver letter knife and this is what I found:

  Dear Jack,

  Sorry I didn’t get to see you before I left, but I trust you had a good trip. Thanks for agreeing to sit in while I’m away. Go ahead and make yourself right at home – the girls will fill you in on the admin details, and if necessary I can be reached by telephone at any time.

  Listen, Jack, I heard on the grapevine that you had some visitors while you were on vacation, and I’d like to make it very clear that I had no part
in this tomfoolery. There will always be a few pranksters who enjoy that kind of horseplay, and you can be sure I will deal with it on my return. I guess it was a lighthearted way of making the point that you would do better to choose friends within your own community!

  Hopefully there was no serious damage, and the fact that you are sitting in Mission Control and reading this suggests that you are warming to my invitation to join the Brotherhood! That’s great news, Jack, and it goes without saying that membership includes an insurance policy against any future high jinks! So go right ahead and digest the literature I’ve left for you. Hopefully you’ll realize that the Klan has a real ‘point’ (pun intended!).

  When you are satisfied, kindly complete the attached form (black ink please).

  Welcome aboard, buddy . . . or as we say in the Invisible Empire, KIGY (Klansman, I greet you)!

  Walter

  P.S. Be sure to find time to practice that golf!

  It was clear that the professor and I were on a different page . . . a whole different library as a matter of fact. Attached with a paperclip to this appalling note was the following questionnaire, which I understood to be a KKK application form:

  QUESTIONS FOR KLANDIDATES

  The Kleagle presents the initiate with the following list of questions:

  NB: the questions marked with stars are used to bar Jews, Catholics, Negroes and other aliens.

  1] What is your age?

  2] What is your occupation?

  3] * Were your parents born in the United States of America?

  4] * Are you a Gentile or Jew?

  5] * Are you White or of a Colored Race?

  6] What educational advantages have you?

  7] Color of eyes? Hair? Height? Weight?

  8] * Do you believe in the principles of Pure Americanism?

  9] * Do you believe in White Supremacy?

  10] What are your politics?

  11] * What is your religious faith?

  12] What secret fraternal orders are you a member of (if any)?

  I most solemnly assert and affirm that each question above is truthfully answered by me and in my own handwriting and that below is my real signature.

  Signed ...........................

  NB: If the Klandidate answers the questions satisfactorily, he must pay his initiation fees, called ‘donation’, and provide money to pay for his mask, robe, etc. With his money affairs settled, he is ready for the initiation, together with whatever other Klandidates there are in the vicinity. The initiation services are held at midnight, with a flaming cross, an American flag, a sword or dagger, and a Bible as the chief outward signs of the order. There is also a bottle of water on the altar.

  My overwhelming instinct was to tear the thing into tiny shreds, but then the phrase ‘know your enemy’ entered my mind. For better or worse, I found myself sitting in the professor’s well-appointed office, so why not take advantage of the situation?

  I’m sorry if this sounds childish, but over the next couple of days I took a little revenge. For example, amongst his morning mail I found an official letter from the Department of Education about the possibility of desegregation in Southern schools and universities. It seemed that the March on Washington and the numerous civil rights protests had made a real difference to government thinking, and now the Kennedy administration was looking for ways to ease race relations. The letter talked about the idea of ‘colour-blind’ education across America. Of course, I wrote back immediately, expressing our university’s wholehearted support for an end to segregation. I enthused about our desire to open our doors to students of every creed and colour, based purely on their academic ability.

  Cerberus had invited me to make use of his library, so I began reading everything I could find about the Klan. Every phrase and argument felt like digesting poison, but as it turned out, I learned a great deal more about the Brotherhood than the professor intended. It was clear that the Klan were deeply concerned about the rise of powerful Black leaders like Martin Luther King and Malcolm X, and they felt especially threatened by civil liberty rallies such as the March on Washington. With growing alarm I realized that the KKK were planning retaliation; some desperate terrorist plot was being hatched and it would be happening soon. The Ku Klux Klan was planning its revenge.

  As I searched through the professor’s shelves for more clues, I stumbled upon a dark green file hidden beneath some history books on a bottom shelf. The file was marked with only two letters: EZ.

  As soon as I opened the file, I realized what it was! Stapled to the inside cover was a black-and-white photograph of a young and confused-looking soldier being escorted into a court martial or tribunal by a pair of military policemen. The prisoner’s hands were cuffed together and raised to hide his face. What gave his identity away was that the burly policemen beside him looked like dwarfs – EZ was Private Erwin Zachery! This was something I had to read, so I slipped the file into my briefcase and carried it home.

  I had fitted a new lock at the bungalow, and spent hours repairing the damage and putting the place back in order. I decided not to tell Pip and Hannah about the break-in – what good would it do? The sooner we all moved on from that terrible place, the better.

  I gave notice to my landlord and booked a one-way flight to Dublin. I suppose I’m a sentimental old fool, but the hardest job of all was burying poor Finnegan in the wasteland behind the back yard. What harm had he done to anyone? Tomfoolery? Horseplay? High jinks? What those people had done was outright intimidation of which the Mafia would be proud. The fact that I was still alive was down to an accident of birth – the fair pigmentation of my skin.

  To add to my troubles, the weather was unbearably close and I began to suffer from headaches and migraines behind my eyes which have been a symptom of my ocular condition throughout my life. As I mentioned, my poor old da had the same problem and it put an early end to his career.

  Without even poor Finnegan to comfort me, I lay awake late into the night with the constant fear that those thugs might return to finish what they’d started. To distract myself I spread out the contents of the EZ file on my bed. Unless I was very much mistaken, this report on Erwin had been authorized by Walter Cerberus himself. Much of the material was marked as CLASSIFIED, so the professor must have had contacts and informers in senior positions in the military.

  I was not able to copy the information, but I made some notes. The following is a summary of what I learned . . .

  40

  Erwin’s Tale

  The average American knew little of the Vietnam War until 1965, when the first television images of ground offensives and aerial bombardments spewed into their living rooms. Before long, those scenes of what looked like a rock festival from hell would become familiar around the world.

  In fact, the US had been involved in an undeclared war in the region for many years. In 1961, President Kennedy surreptitiously dispatched four hundred Green Beret ‘Special Advisors’ to train South Vietnamese soldiers against the Communist enemy. And this was no conventional enemy – the fearless Viet Cong guerrillas moved like panthers through the jungle, setting tripwires and booby-traps, and digging concealed pits filled with sharpened bamboo spikes.

  For years, American helicopter units had been transporting troops around the country, and the controversial procedure of spraying defoliants from aircraft was well established. These massively toxic chemicals, which included the notorious ‘Agent Orange’, were used to clear areas of jungle where the Viet Cong might be concealed. Unfortunately, the stuff also contaminated soil and water, thereby creating birth abnormalities for generations to come. Vietnam was always a controversial war.

  In April 1961, Private Erwin Zachery – who had barely visited another state, let alone a foreign country, found himself dangling from a parachute, looking down at his huge boots high above the emerald jungle. Unlike the elite Green Berets, Erwin and his raggle-taggle comrades were part of a clandestine unit who had been selected for brute muscle-powe
r and reckless calm under fire, rather than military experience or intelligence.

  The freshly buzz-cut paratroopers, who settled like dandelion seeds on the forest floor, had spent the last ten weeks at a grueling military training camp in the Southern States of America. The method used to prepare them for battle was humiliation: these inexperienced and often under-educated boys were constantly yelled at, referred to as ‘beasts’ and exposed to terrible mental and physical pressures. They were harassed, bullied and beaten into shape by senior officers, many of whom were traumatized war veterans themselves. The only way to survive was to shed all sense of individuality. The young recruits learned unquestioning obedience to orders, and during bayonet training they were taught to shout, ‘HATE, HATE, HATE!’ and ‘KILL, KILL, KILL!’ They were told that soon they would be able to take out their frustration on the enemy, who were referred to as stinking foreigners or ‘gooks’. The psychology was simple – the cadets were taught to de-humanize the enemy, just as they had been de-humanized by their seniors. The young soldiers would imitate their officers’ aggression on the battlefield, in the same way as a violent father raises violent sons.

  Of course, Erwin had not had a violent upbringing; he had grown up in a peaceable farming family, but he had always been a remote and strangely unemotional boy – something of a bully at school and not too gentle with animals on the yard. In the harsh conditions of the training camp, this unfortunate manner hardened into cold-hearted brutality. After several brawls with fellow recruits, for which he refused to acknowledge responsibility, Erwin was quickly marked out as someone with a total absence of conscience. According to the report, he was the kind of soldier who should either be ‘sent to jail, or sent to kill’.

  Without further ado, Erwin was drafted into a maverick regiment, which had earned the alarming nickname, The Psyche Squad. Every last one of them was a petty criminal, a street fighter or an anti-social loner. Their mission in Vietnam was straightforward: they were a covert advance party whose job was to ‘break new ground’ – give the enemy a good scare. And if they were killed in the process, well, no one would make too much fuss . . . It wasn’t like losing college boys or sons of wealthy families.