Blind Instinct

by Robert W. Walker

  After showering and dressing in evening wear, Jessica met Luc Sante in the lobby, the priest telling her that he'd already taken the liberty of booking them into the York's exquisite lounge. “My treat this time,” he assured her. Quickly seated, they soon found themselves sipping a fine rose wine, a 1979 vintage, something Luc Sante had selected previous to their having actually been seated. “They know me here,” he whispered in her ear.

  After a few sips of wine, Luc Sante asked pointedly, “Why do you seem so melancholy in this place? We have comfort, wine, music, good company ...”

  She instantly apologized, realizing he must have read the melancholia from her features. “I am sorry, Father. It's... it's just that... Well, it would appear that all my scientific skill has been of little help in actually pinpointing these kill­ers, Father.”

  A waiter stood in a nearby comer, and from time to time he rushed the table, refilled the wineglasses, and disappeared again. Something of a faceless, nameless penguin in his black and white, she thought.

  The elegant restaurant at the hotel filled with music from a piano now being played by a gifted young black woman. She played Chopin, moved to Bach, and then settled on one of Beethoven's lighter moods.

  “1 do not mean to mock or disparage your attempts or what you do for a living, Dr. Coran, but...” He hesitated.

  “But?” she encouraged.

  “But experience has taught me.” Luc Sante's voice, so deep, rich and full, rose above the music. He spoke around sips of his wine. “What is paraded as scientific fact is quite often mere rhetoric.”

  “Rhetoric?”

  “We know what we know. We don't always need a scientist to tell us what we already know.”

  “All right, but we—people—don't always know what we need to know.” She tried to counter his logic with her own.

  “So they need you? They need to be told what is what? They need to follow the precepts of some current belief held by a mere handful of scientists searching for truths beyond the scientists' reach in the first place?”

  “Not unlike our investigation, you mean?”

  He lightly laughed. “I hadn't thought of it in quite the same terms, but yes, you might say so,” Luc Sante added, snatching up the roll of bread between them, offering her first a piece and then taking one for himself. “Perhaps, it is time to aban­don your scientific goggles for a pair of intuitive eyes. Your instincts have saved you in the past, and they will again in the future if you let them,” he attempted reassurance. “If you get out of the way of your own instincts, Jessica Coran.”

  “Maybe it's this place, London. It's dizzying and roman­tic.”

  “Thank God for romance! But Jessica, we both know you are gifted, and you must feed your gift at all times.”

  “But I trust in science, and—”

  “Blindly? To the detriment of answers, solutions, truths? 1 should hope not.”

  She continued to argue, “Well... as for current belief, we scientists—as blind as we may be—“Call it tunnel vision rather than blindness. Comes from staring down too many microscopes, perhaps,” he joked and chewed down his food in barbarian, hedonistic fashion, like a man who'd just stepped from the thirteenth century. He saw her staring at him. His hands and his mouth were full of bread. Choking it down, he laughed like Falstaff in Shakespeare's Henry IV. “My table manners, I should warn you, are atro­cious, but then I have the excuse of being French!” He laughed more. “In France, everyone eats with his hands and his heart. You should try it! Handle your food and it tastes supreme. I have spent my life in service here in England, but I spent my youth in France. I return only for the air nowa­days.”

  She laughed at this. “You really need not apologize to me, Father.”

  “Then let us return to the subject at hand.”

  She nodded, saying, “All right. We scientists do require some sort of current belief to make it—”

  'To make life palatable? To make chaos orderly? To create the next best toothpaste?” He again laughed boyishly at his own words, causing her to smile.

  'To make connections. In seeing the connectedness of things, we learn. We can only learn when we see—own—the relationship between and among things. And one generation guides the one after. And what's wrong with that? Some sin­gular scientist generally leads the way. Remember Galileo? Newton? Leonardo, Michelangelo, Einstein, and—”

  “Newton was a fool!” He did not stop to explain this. “I don't abhor science or scientists as a rule, really, dear. But we mere mortals become too easily impressed, too easily swayed and convinced by the magic and incantations, the smoke and mirrors of it all. We are too easily accustomed to regard scientific knowledge as Truth with a capital T, when in fact what scientific knowledge is, is the best available ap­proximation of the truth in the judgment of the majority of scientists in a specified field.”

  “Touche,” she offered.

  He continued, and she thought about Luc Sante's detractors who said that he loved to hear the sound of his own voice. Then again, so did she. “This is so whether it's paleontology, psychology, or pathology, or any other-ology, you see?”

  “Do you include ideology in this overstuffed basket of ap­proximations of the truth?” she asked.

  “Aha, now we spar and parry. Have you ever fenced, my dear?”

  “Coincidentally, I have recently taken lessons.”

  “Fencing with words can be just as diabolical and can cut just as deeply. As to your question, yes, most ideologies are as insipid and leaky as any sieve.”

  “But hasn't it always been true and necessary that through­out the history of mankind's search for truths, that with each step, we require some railing, some bedpost, some lamppost to hold on to? In order to further the search for understanding, growth, learning? That each science or philosophy must suf­fice us, in order for us to move on, to nurture growth to the next level of being and light and godliness, that place where our young generation today points us toward, absolute un­derstanding and coexistence?”

  “Of course, you are right, my dear, but not to the degree that science be taken as a Holy Grail, child.”

  Calling her child made her smile. Coming from anyone else, it would have been insulting. Coming from Father Luc Sante, it felt comforting.

  “I simply ask that you not allow science to overtake your faith, my dear.” He continued sipping his wine, the waiter continued filling their glasses. “And if you dispute me, my stand is shared by every psychotherapist worth his fee.” He stopped to acknowledge her furrowed brow before going on. “And make no mistake about it, psychotherapists are in fact 'faith healers' in the sense they restore one's faith as much as anything, for their concern is not with science but the soul of a man and the innocence of a faith often lost in childhood.”

  She nodded boisterously. “Most scientists want to prove some truths exist in a world in which the ultimate truths are always going to be elusive. I think that's what you're saying. That while such things as , blind faith are viable, they have no identifiable variables or mathematical equiva­lents or formulas attached, that blind faith is the ultimate in freedom of choice. That's just the way it is. Reality's a bum­mer for the scientists as well as the rest of us.”

  He took her hand in his again, smiling as if she were a student who now fully and finally understood. “Indeed, truth is not something that we are bom with. It is not something we possess, but rather a goal toward which we strive.”

  “Well, I understand that we scientists are little more im­mune to jumping to an unsound conclusion than anyone else, but in the absence of any other physical—”

  He threw up his hands, waving her down. “We are simply too anxious and too content to let our scientists and anyone in authority do our thinking for us, Doctor. We are too easily led, too readily compartmentalized and departmentalized and happy to do it. Happy to live the life of ants scurrying across gingham tablecloths without the slightest notion of the whole. Seeing only that part of the floating opera
of life confined to one's limited, single perspective, a world of colloquials. We accept that the business of God, time, and space are all ques­tions best left to those in charge whose job it is to explore these testy areas. So we can go about doing our mortal ac­counting and following the one precept of God's which pleases us most—bearing children.”

  “Whoa, now hold on. Not everyone on the planet is—”

  “I tell you, there is a profound tendency in the civilized world to make our scientists 'philosopher kings' whom we ask to guide us through every intellectual labyrinth, when in­deed, they are just as lost as we are. The blind king leading the blind cave dweller out of the cave and into a larger cave— the life of a cerebrally unmotivated, uninterested, disinterested peasant....”

  “But Father... Dr. Luc Sante, you're a scientist. How can you say we've not progressed from the cave one step in all these many years on this planet?” pressed Jessica, defending with her own verbal joust. “There've been tremendous strides in psychotherapy alone.”

  Luc Sante cut himself a thick slice of cheese that had been brought to the table. He chewed and spoke all at once. “Oh, we in the brain factory have indeed progressed, so true, now that we're through bandying about Freudian terms and have at very least begun to convince people to acknowledge the existence of the sun-conscious—sorry, sub—subconscious mind and its power.”

  “I agree, but—”

  “God smile upon us,” he interrupted her again, “we've even got people taking responsibility for their unconscious minds these days!”

  Jessica laughed at his runaway enthusiasm, so rare in the aged, even more rare in the young these days, she thought.

  “You laugh, but this taking of responsibility for our dual nature, it may well be the portal to the way of true salvation for this race of ours, Doctor. Listen to Beethoven.” He stopped to let the music waft over them. “There lived a man who instinctively knew. Perhaps due to his own personal du­alism, his deafness, and his obsession with harmony, sound, reverberation.”

  'Taking responsibility for our dual nature? Really? Through educating the masses about their own unconscious minds, you mean?”

  “Think of it, a return to intellectual responsibility—all this time, the seed to our salvation turns out to be our own damned subconscious minds.” He giggled at his own summation of the origin and end of the problems of the world.

  “The blossoming interest in the subconscious will lead us back to God? Is that what I'm hearing?” she asked. “Absolutely.”

  “Why didn't this revelation play a part in your book?”

  “It will, in the sequel, you see. My thinking is ever evolv­ing, never static; besides it's not The God but the godliness within us.”

  “You've only recendy come to this conclusion?”

  He shrugged. “It has been as elusive as the smallest of butterflies, yet there before my eyes the entire way. Think of it. Dreams are gifts of God, our subconscious is the voice of God working through us. We don't always recognize the voice or understand the symbols, but there you have it.”

  “Interesting notion.”

  “Nothing new, really. Nothing new under the sun, really. The fact of it will, however, form the core of the sequel to Twisted Faiths.”

  Again she smiled at his enthusiasm.

  “I already have it titled: God's Signature, the book I'm currently writing. Of course no publisher will touch it, so I will have to self-publish as with the previous title, but my practice allows me to indulge this passion. I wrote Twisted Faiths well before I formulated my conclusion on the true nature of man's subconscious mind. I tell you, man's own inner workings, his mind, if created in the image of God, imagine the complexities handed us, yet the instrument re­mains directly wired as a telegraph to the Almighty to—”

  “Really, Dr. Luc Sante? I've never looked at it quite that way.”

  “It's just that some of us—most of us—have cut the wires, and often the optic fibers.”

  “So, when can I see your new work?”

  “Soon. The wheels are always turning, you see.” He winked and pointed conspiratorially at his forehead.

  “Interesting premise.”

  He nodded. “Yes, indeed. You see, the interest and accep­tance of the source of our darkest selves, our prejudices, hid­den hostilities, irrational fears—”

  “Perceptual blind spots,” she added, “mental ruts ...”

  “Mental rats” he exploded, “Scourging and scouring our psyche for morsels of meanness. The Devil at play on the switchboard, all that. Add to the predatory nature of our ear­liest ancestors, the primitive 'fight or flight' mechanism of the primordial brain which, by the way, still resides within our thick-skulled heads and—”

  “And the ever-present resistance to growth.”

  “Exacdy!” he shouted, arms waving. “The fear of change and evolution and awareness itself—well, I tell you, it's that first step on the joumey of a thousand miles that Buddha spoke of.”

  Jessica considered his words with care and muttered, “The start of an evolutionary leap.”

  “English history, nay, world history, provides us with un­told examples of hideous behavior and hedonism, murder and cruelty on a grand scale. Perhaps one day mankind will reach a level of mind in which one can perform the business of existence without hatred, fear, prejudice, mayhem, mass mur­der, but at the moment mankind slaughters mankind on the basis of a religious principle that says, 'You must obey the One God, and that is my God, whatever or whomever that god may be. Oh, and by the way, thou shalt not kill.' Are we getting mixed signals from God, or the lesser gods of our limited minds? And if so, how do we sift out the voice of God from the voice of selfishness and indulgence always at work in the human psyche, and if God created the human psyche, isn't He partially responsible for our nature? Or are we responsible for our nature and the outcomes we create, and does the answer necessarily come from another source, say as from Christ?”

  “Christ? I had thought your diatribe would end with the Antichrist. I'll never live to see the day, but in a sense, it's what every caring human being is striving toward, to evolve into a Chrisdike figure.”

  “And who do we know who is striving hardest to attain that goal?”

  It dawned on her that his entire discussion led her about in a full circle to one rhetorical truth. Her eyes widened and she bit down hard on her lower lip, waiting for his reply, which was slow in coming.

  “Isn't that what our killer, the Crucifier, wants?”

  Jessica realized that she had been had by the old man, whose exercise in logic and syllogistic wisdom came clear: Socratic method, pretending ignorance on the subject, asking questions of her, so she might arrive at the conclusion on her own, once again the shaman of psychotherapy and religion opened her eyes. After a most pleasant dinner, he insisted she return with him to the church. “Strand is there late tonight with his al­coholism group. We won't be alone altogether, so you needn't worry about an old priest making any improper advances.” He laughed fully and with glee at the thought of it. “You must know how very striking you are, my dear Dr. Coran.”

  “Thank you, Father. I'll take that as a compliment coming from you, but I am rather tired and would—”

  “But there are some things back at St. Albans I must show you, relating to the case. I would not urge it upon you if it were not pressing, you must believe.”

  She wondered if anyone had ever said no to this man. She smiled. Standing in her full-length white gown, which she'd facetiously told the mirror looked virginal when she put it on for dinner, thinking it appropriate for her night with the an­cient minister, she now nodded and said, “All right, but I must be home before the carriage turns into a pumpkin.”

  “Absolutely,” he agreed, his smile radiating love, tender­ness, and caring, even as the candlelight flickered across his countenance, cutting deep lines. “We both know one truth in this world undeniably.”

  “And what is that?”

  “It's
a procreating world we live in.” He smiled, the wine allowing him license to go on. “Think of it. The sun procre­ates with the Earth by day, the moon takes her turn at night, the stars and the faraway planets, too, procreate with Earth, and she in turn procreates with all the known universe. In­deed, it is what you cops call an effing world.”

  She took only a moment to realize he was making fun of her, the known universe, perhaps even God. She laughed up­roariously at his conclusion, garnering stares from other ta­bles, and realized only now that they'd been getting stares all along, all night long.

  “Shall we return me to my quarters at St. Albans?”

  “Do you sleep at St. Albans as well?”

  “Expect to be buried in the nearby cemetery, my dear. No, not often do I sleep over, but it's some distance to Hampton where I maintain a flat. So when I am late in the City, I stay at my room at St. Albans.”

  They stood, and many people in the room obviously rec­ognizing Father Luc Sante, giving Jessica further explanation for all the stares. Luc Sante appeared to be a local legend.

  -SIXTEEN -

  No man can concentrate his attentions upon evil, or even upon the idea of evil, and remain un­affected To be more against the Devil than to be for God is exceedingly dangerous. Every cru­sader is apt to go mad. He is haunted by the wickedness which he attributes to his enemies; it becomes in some sort a part of him.

  —Aldous Huxley

  Martin Strand arrived with tea for Father Luc Sante and his guest, explaining that he had seen them arrive from an upper window where his group had just said their good-nights. Luc Sante, pleased with the warm, rich ginseng tea, laughingly replied in Jessica's direction, saying, “Ah, Martin, my first convert! And the bonus is, he knows my every whim.”

  She shook her head. “I rather doubt that's true. 1 mean that he is your first convert!”