Edman rambled off onto other matters, talking mainly to himself as he dealt with his files; he admitted to using his sessions with the therapists as a means to order his thoughts, and Jocundra knew her active participation was not required. She wondered how he would wed his latest theory to his previous one: that of cellular wish-fulfilment. He considered Richmond weighty evidence in support of the latter because, unlike the rest of the slow-burners -all of whom had murky backgrounds - the body had a thoroughly documented past. Richmond, born Eliot Vuillemont, had been the heir of a prominent New Orleans family, disinherited for reasons of drug abuse. This young man, Edman argued, who had lived a life of ineffectual rebellion, whose college psychiatric records reflected a history of cowardice and repressed violence, had chosen as his posthumous role the antihero, the apocalyptic lone wolf; the new personality was a triumphant expression of the feebly manifested drives which had led to his death by overdose. Edman posited that the workings of memory chemically changed portions of the RNA - those portions containing the bioform of our most secret and complex wish, ‘the deepest reason we have made for being’ - and intensified their capacity for survival. It was, Jocundra thought, a more viable theory than his latest, but she had no doubt both would soon appear in published form, welded together into a rickety construct studded with bits of glitter: a Rube Goldberg theory of the personality.
‘I believe I’ll bring it up in staff tonight.’ Edman reached inside his lab coat and pulled forth a red memorandum book. “The seventeenth looks free.’
Jocundra looked at him questioningly, realizing she must have missed something. Edman smiled; he slipped the book back into his pocket, and it seemed to her he had reached deep within his body and fed his heart a piece of red candy.
‘I won’t take any more of your time, Ms Verret. I was saying that I thought this fear reaction needed to be examined under group conditions, and I proposed we have a party for our green-eyed friends. Invite the staff from Tulane, arrange for some sort of music, and just see if we can’t get the patients to pass off their fear as another side effect of the process. At the very least it should be a memorable social occasion.’
The main hall was thronged with doctors, technicians, students and administration people wearing sport jackets and summer dresses, most gathered around the groupings of sofas which roughly divided the room into thirds; and scattered throughout the crowd were the five patients -Richmond had not yet arrived. A three piece band played cocktail jazz on the patio, and several couples were dancing. The room was huge. Carved angels flowed from the molding, spreading their wings in the corners of the ceiling, and the space whose sanctity they guaranteed was the size of a country church, filled with the relics of bygone years. Gilt chairs and statuettes and filigreed tables occupied every spare nook, and every flat surface was cluttered with objets d’art, the emphasis being upon ceramic figurines of bewigged lords and ladies. The French doors were flanked by curio cabinets, except for those beside which stood a grand piano, its finish holding a blaze of sunlight. Paintings and prints and photographs hung in rows to the ceiling, presenting scenes of the countryside, historical personages, hunts, groups of shabbily dressed blacks. One print depicted a masque whose participants were costumed as demons, beasts, and fanciful birds. Passing it on the way to the punch bowl, Jocundra decided that this masque had much in common with Edman’s party: though the mix of music and conversation suggested a trivial assemblage, most eyes were fixed on the patients and most talk concerned them, and there was an underlying air of anticipation, as if the partygoers were awaiting a moment of unmasking so they could determine which of them was not masked, which was truly a demon, a beast, or a fanciful bird.
Knots of people were clumped along the refreshment table, and Jocundra eavesdropped as she ladled punch.
‘… the greater their verbal capacity, the more credibly they fabricate a past reality.’ A fruity male voice.
Jocundra moved down the table, examining the sandwich trays, hoping for some less Edmanesque commentary.
‘… and Monroe looked like the devil had asked her to tango!’ Laughter, a babble of voices.
‘Listen to this!’ The click and whirr of a tape recorder, and then the tiny, cornpone-accented voice of Kline French:
‘… Ah’m quite an afficionado of the dance, though of course Ah’ve only been exposed to its regional privations.’
Clarice Monroe had been sketching scenes for a ballet on one of the sofas, and French had been maneuvred into approach by his therapist and had asked to see her sketch.
FRENCH: ‘This appears to be an illumination of an African myth… Am Ah correct?’
MONROE (tremulously): ‘It’s the Anansi, the Ashanti god of lies and deceit.’
FRENCH: ‘And this young lady has fallen into his clutches?’
MONROE: ‘She’s the sorceress Luweji. She’s traveled through the gates of fire…’
FRENCH: ‘Represented by these red curtains, I presume?’
MONROE: ‘Yes.’ (Silence)
FRENCH: ‘Well, it seems quite wonderful. Ah hope Ah’ll have the privilege of attendin’ its triumphant celebration,’
Jocundra spotted French through the press of bodies. He was being wheeled along, nodding his massive head in response to something his therapist was saying. His shoulders were wide as a wrestler’s; his eyes sparked emerald in a heavy-jawed, impassive face, and made Jocundra think of an idol ruling over a deserted temple or - perhaps closer to the truth - one of those James Bond villains whose smile only appears when he hears the crunching of a backbone. The doctors said they had rarely had a patient with such muscle tone, dead or alive, and there had been a rumour at Tulane that his body had been introduced to the project via a government agency. But whatever his origins, he now believed himself to be a financial consultant; the administration followed his market analyses with strict attention.
‘There goes French,’ said someone beside her. ‘I bet he’s chasing Monroe again.’ Giggles.
‘He’s out of luck. I think she had to go potty after the last time.’ Laughter unrestrained.
Balancing the punch, slipping between couples, Jocundra threaded her way toward Donnell. He was sitting across the room from the punch bowl, scowling; he had gotten some tan lately, his hollows were filling in, but his social attitudes had not changed much. He had rejected every advance so far, and no one was bothering to talk to him anymore. Jocundra was beginning to feel like the loser in a garden show, watching the crowd encircle the winners, sitting alone with her dispirited, green-eyed plant.
‘I know, I know,’ she said, handing him the punch. ‘Where have I been?’
‘Where the hell have you been?’ He sipped the punch. ‘God, this is awful! Let’s get out of here.’
‘We have to stay until Edman comes. He should be here soon.’ A lie. Edman was monitoring the video, overseeing the big picture.
Marilyn Ramsburgh’s therapist signalled to Jocundra, and she signalled him back No. Donnell was not ready for Ramsburgh. She was, as far as Jocundra was concerned, the most physically alarming of the patients. Frail, white hair so thin you could see the veined scalp beneath, hunched in her chair, hands enwebbed with yarn, her pupils shrunk to almost nothing. She was due to be ‘discharged’ soon, taken back to Tulane for ‘a few final tests,’ and lately she had been chirping about hugging her grandchildren again, promising to write everyone, and had presented Edman with a beautiful hand-woven coverlet worked into a design of knights battling in a forest illuminated by violet will o’ the wisps: a token of her gratitude.
Squabbling noises on the patio, a woman’s squeal, and Richmond came into view, swinging his cane to clear a path; his therapist, Audrey, trailed behind him. He limped along the refreshment table, picked up a sandwich, had a bite, and tossed the remainder on the floor; he dipped a ladleful of punch, slurped, and spewed it back into the bowl. ‘Fuckin’ fruit juice! Jesus!’ Punch dribbled off his chin onto a torn T-shirt emblazoned with a crudely painted swastika
and letters spelling out Hellhounds MC. Greasy strands of hair fell down over his eyes, and he glared between them at the crowd like a drunken Indian.
The crowd retreated from the refreshment table, from Richmond, but three men and an overweight girl in a yellow sun dress bravely held their positions. Noticing them, Richmond hooked his cane over an arm, limped forward and grabbed the girl’s breast, slipping his free arm around her waist and pulling her close. She shrieked and lifted her hand to slap him.
‘Go ahead, bitch,’ said Richmond, nonchalant. ‘Lessee what you got.’
The girl’s mouth puckered, opened and shut, and she let her hand fall. Richmond cupped her breast at different angles, squeezing it cruelly. ‘Damn, mama!’ he said. ‘I bet you give Grade A.’
‘Let her go, Jack.’ Audrey tried to pull his hand loose, but he shook her off. ‘C’mon back to the room.’
‘Cool. How ‘bout all three of us go and we play a little ring-around-the-rosy?’ He tightened his hold on the girl’s waist and flicked her nipple with his thumb. Her eyelids lowered, her head drooped to one side, as if she were experiencing a sweet wave of passion.
One of the men, a skinny guy in a madras jacket, did a shuffle forward and said, ‘Uh, Mr Richmond…’
‘Hey, little savage!’ said Richmond good-naturedly. ‘Guess you wonder what’s gonna happen to your squeeze.’
The girl spun free. Richmond made no effort to hold her, but as she staggered back, he clawed at the top of her dress. He was too weak to rip the material, but his fingers hooked one of the straps, and in her struggle it came away in Richmond’s hand - a little yellow serpent. Her right breast bounded out, pale and pendulous, the imprint of his fingers already darkening to bruises. Richmond sniffed at the strap. ‘Warthog,’ he said, identifying the odor. The skinny guy covered the girl with his jacket, and she flung her arms around him, sobbing.
Richmond grinned at the crowd, nodded; then he whirled about and brought his cane down on the punch bowl, shattering it. The punch gushed out, floating cookies off the trays, puddling in the paper plates. He swung again and again, snake-killing strokes, his hair flying, red droplets spraying from the tablecloth, until a sugary dust of pulverized glass lay around his feet. No one spoke. Jocundra could hear the punch dripping onto the carpet.
‘Why you citizens just stand there and let me fuck with your women?’ asked Richmond, hobbling away from the table. The crowd parted before him, reforming at the rear. ‘I mean this is the real world, ain’t it?’ He spotted Donnell and headed toward him. ‘Hey, sweets! You lookin’ gorgeous today. How come you think these chickenshits is lettin’ me crow?’
Donnell gripped the arms of his wheelchair, but didn’t freeze up. ‘Keep your mouth off me, asshole,’ he said.
‘Hostility!’ Richmond was delighted. ‘Now I can relate to some hostility.’ He moved closer, tapping the crook of his cane on his palm.
Jocundra set down her punch, preparing to help Audrey restrain him; it was certain no one else would help. The crowd had packed in around them, penning the four of them against the wall, and their faces were the faces of intent observers. Tape recorders whirred, clipboards were in evidence. Jocundra saw that all the patients had pushed into the front rank, and each was exhibiting extreme tension. Magnusson sucked his gums, Ramsburgh plucked feverishly at her knitting”, French’s fingers drummed on his leg, and the pretty dark face of Clarice Monroe peeked over a shoulder, blinking and stunned. It was, thought Jocundra, one of Ramsburgh’s tapestries come to life: a mysterious forest, a myriad faces peering between the branches, the spirits of trees, goblins, ghostly men and women, and a few whose glowing eyes served as the structural focus of the design.
Magnusson rolled a foot forward. ‘They’re observing us, sonny. That’s why they’re letting you foul the air.’
Forgetting about Donnell, Richmond spread his arms in a gesture of false heartiness. ‘Damn if it ain’t Doctor Demento!’
‘And they’ve good reason to observe.’ Magnusson glanced from one patient to another. ‘Feel around inside yourselves! Find anything solid, anything real? We’re not who we were!’
For a moment, silence; then French spoke. ‘Ah don’t believe I see what you’re drivin’ at, Doctor.’ He kneaded his leg with the heel of his palm.
‘Don’t listen to that old maniac,’ creaked Ramsburgh. ‘He was ‘round the other day trying to poison me with his ravings.’ She frowned at Magnusson; his eyes blazed out from the mottled ruin of his face, and they stared at each other like hellish grandparents gloating over an evil thought.
‘Your mind’s poisoned, Hilmer!’ Ramsburgh’s hands danced among her needles and yarn. ‘Your arteries are hard, and your brain’s a dried-out sponge! Time you came to grips with the fact and left the rest of us in peace.’
‘Old woman,’ said Magnusson gravely. ‘Don’t you feel the winnowing of your days?’
Edman eased through the crowd and seized the handles of his wheelchair. ‘I think you’ve had too much excitement, Doctor,’ he said with professional cheer. He started to wheel him away, but the old man locked his hands onto the wheels and the chair wouldn’t budge.
‘Don’t you see it’s a hoax?’ Again he glanced at the other patients. ‘By God, you’ll see!’ he said to Donnell. ‘You’ll have a glimpse over the edge before you fall.’
Laura knelt beside him, prying at his fingers. ‘Stop this, Hilmer!’ she said. ‘Stop this right now.’
Gasping, reddening with the effort, Edman wrangled the chair sideways, and for a split second Jocundra found herself looking into Magnusson’s eyes, except it was not merely looking: it was falling down luminous green tunnels so bright they seemed to be spinning, whirlpools sucking her under, and the pattern of gristle and discoloration surrounding them made no sense at all.
‘It’s so clear.’ Magnusson shook his head in wonder, then he gazed sternly at Jocundra. ‘No sorrow is too great to bear,’ he said, ‘and this one cannot be averted.’
Jocundra thought she understood him, but her understanding fled the instant he turned away and she felt disoriented.
Edman gave way to two black orderlies, who lifted Magnusson’s wheelchair, bearing him aloft like a king on a palanquin.
‘Hey, niggers!’ shouted Richmond, and swung his cane at the nearest orderly; but Audrey wrapped her arms around him from behind and his swing went awry. They swayed together, struggling.
‘No hope for you, sonny.’ Magnusson beamed at Richmond from on high. ‘You’re a dead man.’
‘Out!’ bawled Edman; he waved his fist, abandoning control. ‘Everybody out! Staff in my office!’
As the orderlies carried Magnusson off, he called back. ‘Two years, Edman! Three at the most! They’ll probe your every hollow, but they’ll never find it!’
A babble arose, cries of alarm, milling, and Jocundra was later to reflect that when psychiatrists lost their cool they did not stoop to half measures. She had intended to wait until the crowd thinned, but Dr Brauer rushed up, poked his face into Donnell’s, bleated ‘Harrison!’ then shouted at Jocundra to move it. There were more shouts of ‘Move it!’ and ‘Let her through!’ A hefty red-haired woman tried to get out of her path, snapped a high heel and tumbled head first over the arm of a sofa; her skirt slid down around her hips, exposing thighs dimpled by cellulite. A doctor and an orderly tugged at Clarice Monroe, contending for the right to escort her; French’s wheelchair sideswiped Ramsburgh’s, and she jabbed at his therapist with a plastic needle. Dodging, swerving, Jocundra pushed Donnell along a tunnel of consternated faces and into the hall. Three doctors had backed the girl whom Richmond had assaulted against the wall; she was straddling a fern, holding the madras jacket together. Tears streaked her face. She nodded in response to a question, but the nod may have had no significance because she continued to bob her head while they scribbled on their clipboards.
Donnell’s room was sunny, a breeze shifted the curtains, leaf shadow jittered on the carpet. Jocundra could not think what t
o say, what lie would soothe him, so she left him at the writing desk and collected the laundry, watching him out of the corner of her eye. He straightened a stack of paper, picked up a pen, doodled, laid it down.
‘He’s really…’ He picked up the pen again.
‘Pardon?’ She tossed his bathrobe into the hamper.
‘What’s the matter with him? Is he just naturally crazy or is it something to do with the process?’ He kept fidgeting, his hands moving aimlessly from pen to paper to notebook.
‘He’s very, very old.’ Jocundra knelt beside him, happy for the opportunity to comfort him. ‘He was probably senile before the process was applied, and it wasn’t able to restore him fully.’ She rubbed the bunched muscles in his shoulder.
He bent his head, allowing her easier access to his neck. ‘I can’t wait to get out of this place,’ he said.
‘It’ll be sooner than you think,’ she said, wishing it weren’t so harshly true. She had begun to hate herself for lying, but she had no better thing to tell him. ‘Please don’t let it depress you. I want you to get well.’
A poignant sadness rose in her, as if the words ‘I want you to get well’ had been a splash of cold water on the hot stones of her emotions. But the sadness didn’t seem attached to his dying. It seemed instead a product of the way the light slanted down, the temperature, the shadows and sounds: a kind of general sadness attaching to every human involvement, one you only felt when the conditions were just right but was there all the time. She thought the feeling must be showing on her face, and to hide it she pretended to cough.
‘God,’ he said, ‘I wish I was well now.’ He looked over at her, eyes wide, mouth downturned, the same expression he had worn during the drive from Tulane. ‘Ah, Hell. I guess there’s some virtue to having died…’ He trailed off.
She knew he had been about to refer to her as that virtue, to make a joke of it, to address lightly his attraction for her, but he left the punchline unsaid and the last words he had said hung in the air between them, taking on the coloration of all the fear and sickness in the room. Shortly afterward she excused herself and went into the bathroom. She sat on the edge of the sink for almost fifteen minutes, expecting to cry, on the verge of crying, tears brimming, but the sob never built to critical in her chest, just hung there and decayed.
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