“Go ahead,” Saul said. “I still find this entertaining.”
The man looked through the papers in his clipboard and smiled disarmingly. “Oh, I see here that it’s the Bavarian Illuminati, not the Prussian Illuminati, pardon my mistake.” He flipped a few more pages. “Here we are,” he said.
“The root of the subject’s problems,” he began to read, “can be found in the trauma of the primal scene, which was reconstructed under narco-analysis. At the age of three, he came upon his parents in the act of fellatio, which resulted in his being locked in his room for ‘spying.’ This left him with a permanent horror of being locked up and a pity for prisoners everywhere. Unfortunately, this factor in his personality, which he might have sublimated harmlessly by becoming a social worker, was complicated by unresolved Oedipal hostilities and a reaction formation in favor of ‘spying,’ which led him to become a policeman. The criminal became for him the father-symbol, who was locked up in revenge for locking him up; at the same time, the criminal was an ego-projection and he received masochistic gratification by identifying with the prisoner. The deep-buried homosexual desire for the father’s penis (present in all policemen) was next cathected by denial of the father, via denial of paternal ancestory, and he began to abolish all Irish Catholic traces from ego-memory, substituting those of Jewish culture, since the Jew, as persecuted minority, reinforced his basic masochism. Finally, like all paranoids, the subject fancies himself to be of superior intelligence (actually, on his test for the Trenton Police Force, he rated only one hundred ten on the Stanford-Binet IQ index) and his resistance to therapy will take the form of ‘outwitting’ his doctors by finding the ‘clues’ which reveal that they, too, are agents of the Illuminati and that his assumed identity as ‘Saul Goodman’ is, in fact, his actual identity. For therapeutic purposes, I would recommend …” The “doctor” broke off. “After that,” he said briefly, “it is of no interest to you. Well,” he added tolerantly, “do you want to ‘detect’ the errors in this?”
“I’ve never been in Trenton in my life,” Saul said wearily. “I don’t know what anything in Trenton looks like. But you’ll just tell me that I’ve erased those memories. Let’s move to a deeper level of combat, Herr Doktor. I am quite convinced that my mother and father never performed fellatio in their lives. They were too old-fashioned.” This was the heart of the labyrinth, and their real threat: while he was sure that they could not break down his belief in his own identity, they were also insidiously undermining that identity by suggesting it was pathological. Many of the lines in the Muldoon case history could refer to any policeman and might, conceivably, refer to him; as usual, behind a weak open attack they were mounting a more deadly covert attack.
“Do you recognize these?” the doctor asked, producing a sketchbook open to a page with some drawings of unicorn.
“It’s my sketchbook,” Saul said. “I don’t know how you got it but it doesn’t prove a damned thing, except that I sketch in my spare time.”
“No?” The doctor turned the book around; a bookplate on the cover identified the owner as Barney Muldoon, 1472 Pleasant Avenue, Trenton, N.J.
“Amateur work,” Saul said. “Anybody can paste a bookplate onto a book.”
“And the unicorn means nothing to you?” Saul sensed the trap and said nothing, waiting, “You are not aware of the long psychoanalytical literature on the unicorn as symbol of the father’s penis? Tell me, then, why did you decide to sketch unicorns?”
“More amateurism,” Saul said. “If I sketched mountains, they would be symbols of the father’s penis, too.”
“Very well. You might have made a good detective if your—illness—hadn’t prevented your promotion. You do have a quick, skeptical mind. Let me try another approach—and I wouldn’t be using such tactics if I weren’t convinced you were on the road to recovery; a true psychotic would be driven into catatonia by such a blunt assault on his delusions. But, tell me, your wife mentioned that just before the acute stage of your—problem—you spent a lot of money, more than you could afford on a patrolman’s salary, on a reproduction of the mermaid of Copenhagen. Why was that?”
“Damn it,” Saul exclaimed, “it wasn’t a lot of money.” But he recognized the displaced anger and saw that the other man recognized it too. He was avoiding the question of the mermaid … and her relation to the unicorn. There must be a relationship between fact number one and fact number two…. “The mermaid,” he said, getting there before the enemy could, “is a mother symbol, right? She has no human bottom, because the male child dare not think about that area of the mother. Is that correct jargon?”
“More or less. You avoid, of course, the peculiar relevance in your own case: that the sex act in which you caught your mother was not a normal one but a very perverted and infantile act, which, of course, is the only sex act a mermaid can perform—as all collectors of mermaid statues or mermaid paintings unconsciously know.”
“It’s not perverted and infantile,” Saul protested. “Most people do it….” Then he saw the trap.
“But not your mother and father? They were different from most people?”
And then it clicked: the spell was broken. Every detail from Saul’s notebook, every physical characteristic Peter Jackson had described, was there. “You’re not a doctor,” he shouted. “I don’t know what your game is but I sure as hell know who you are. You’re Joseph Malik!”
George’s stateroom was paneled in teak, the walls hung with small but exquisite paintings by Rivers, Shahn, De Kooning, and Tanguy. A glass cabinet built into one wall held several rows of books. The floor was carpeted in wine red with a blue stylized octopus in the center, its waving tentacles radiating out like a sunburst. The light fixture hanging from the ceiling was a lucite model of that formidable jellyfish, the Portuguese man-of-war.
The bed was full size, with a rosewood headboard carved with Venetian seashell motifs. Its legs didn’t touch the floor; the whole thing was supported on a huge, rounded beam that allowed the bed to seesaw when the ship rolled, the sleeper remaining level. Beside the bed was a small desk. Going to it, George opened a drawer and found several different sizes of writing paper and half a dozen felt-tipped pens in various colors. He took out a legal-size pad and a green pen, climbed on the bed, curled up at the head and began writing.
April 24
Objectivity is presumably the opposite of schizophrenia. Which means that it is nothing but acceptance of everybody else’s notion of reality. But nobody’s perception of reality is the same as everybody’s notion of it, which means that the most objective person is the real schizophrenic.
It is hard to get beyond the accepted beliefs of one’s own age. The first man to think a new thought advances it very tentatively. New ideas have to be around a while before anyone will promote them hard. In their first form, they are like tiny, imperceptible mutations that may eventually lead to new species. That’s why cultural cross-fertilization is so important. It increases the gene-pool of the imagination. The Arabs, say, have one part of the puzzle. The Franks another. So, when the Knights Templar meet the Hashishim, something new is born.
The human race has always lived more or less happily in the kingdom of the blind. But there is an elephant among us. A one-eyed elephant.
George put the pen down and read the green words with a frown. His thoughts still seemed to be coming from outside his own mind. What was that business about the Knights Templar? He had never felt the slightest interest in that period since his freshman year in college, when old Morrison Glynn had given him a D for that paper on the Crusades. It was supposed to be a simple research paper displaying one’s grasp of proper footnote style, but George had chosen to denounce the Crusades as an early outbreak of Western racist imperialism. He’d even gone to the trouble of finding the text of a letter from Sinan, third leader of the Hashishim, in which he exonerates Richard Coeur de Lion of any complicity in the murder of Conrad of Montferret, King of Jerusalem. George felt the episode demonstra
ted the essential goodwill of the Arabs. How was he to know that Morrison Glynn was a staunch conservative Catholic? Glynn claimed, among other dyspeptic criticisms, that the letter from the castle called Messiac was well known as a forgery. Why were the Hashishim coming back to mind again? Did it have to do with the weird dream he’d had of the temple in the Mad Dog jail?
The sub’s engine was vibrating pleasantly through the floor, the beam, the bed. The trip so far had reminded George of his first flight in a 747—a surge of power, followed by motion so smooth it was impossible to tell how fast or how far they were going.
There was a knock at the stateroom door, and at George’s invitation Hagbard’s receptionist came in. She was wearing a tight-fitting golden-yellow slack ensemble. She stared compellingly at George, her pupils huge obsidian pools, and smiled faintly.
“Will you eat me if I can’t guess the riddle?” George said. “You remind me of a sphinx.”
Her lips, the color of ripe grapes, parted in a grin. “I modeled for it. But no riddle, just an ordinary question. Hagbard wants to know if you need anything. Anything but me. I’ve got work to do now.”
George shrugged. “You beat me to the question. I’d like to get together with Hagbard and find out more about him and the submarine and where we’re going.”
“We are going to Atlantis. He must have told you that.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, rolling her hips. She had marvelously long legs. “Atlantis is, roughly speaking, about half way between Cuba and the west coast of Africa, at the bottom of the ocean.”
“Yeah, well—That’s where it’s supposed to be, right?”
“Right. Hagbard’s going to want you in the captain’s control room later. Meanwhile, smoke some of this, if you want. Helps to pass the time.” She held out a gold cigarette case. George took it from her, his fingers brushing the velvety black skin of her hand. A pang of desire for her swept through him. He fumbled with the catch of the case and opened it. There were slender white tubes inside, each one stamped with a gold K. He took one out and held it to his nose. A pleasant, earthy smell.
“We’ve got a plantation and a factory in Brazil,” she said.
“Hagbard must be a wealthy man.”
“Oh, yeah. He’s worth billions and billions of tons of flax. Well, look, George, if you need anything, just press the ivory button on your desk. Someone will come along. We’ll be calling you later.” She turned with a languid wave and walked down the fluorescent-lit corridor. George’s gaze clung to her unbelievable ass till she climbed a narrow flight of carpeted stairs and was out of sight.
What was that woman’s name? He lay down on the bed, took out a joint, and lit it. It was marvelous. He was up in seconds, not the usual gradual balloon ascent, but a rocket trip, not unlike the effect of amyl nitrate. He might have known this Hagbard Celine would have something special in the way of grass. He studied the sparkles glinting through the Portuguese man-of-war and wiggled his eyeballs rapidly to make the lights dance. All things that are, are lights. The thought came that Hagbard might be evil. Hagbard was like some robber baron out of the nineteenth century. Also like some robber baron out of the eleventh century. The Normans took Sicily in the ninth century. Which gave you mixtures of Viking and Sicilian, but did they ever look like Anthony Quinn? Or his son Greg La Strade? What son? What the sun done cannot be undone but is well dun. The quintessence of evil. Nemesis of all evil. God bless us, every one. Even One. Odd, the big red one. Eye think it was his I. The eye of Apollo. His luminous I. Aum Shiva.
—Aye, trust me not. Trust not a man who’s rich in flax—his morals may be sadly lax. Her name is Stella. Stella Maris. Black star of the sea.
The joint was down to the last half inch. He put it down and crushed it out. With grass flowing like tobacco around here, it was a luxury he could afford. He wasn’t going to light another one. That wasn’t a high, that was a trip! A Saturn rocket, right out of the world. And back, just as fast.
—George, I want you in the captain’s control room.
Clearly, this hallucinating of voices and images meant he wasn’t all the way back. Reentry was not completed. He now saw a vision of the layout of that part of the submarine between his stateroom and the captain’s control room. He stood up, stretched, shook his head, his hair swirling around his shoulders. He walked to the door, slid it back, and walked on down the hall.
A little later, he stepped through a door onto a balcony which was a reproduction of the prow of a Viking ship. Above, below, in front, to the sides, was green-blue ocean. They seemed to be in a glass globe projecting into the ocean. A long-necked red-and-green dragon with golden eyes and a spiky crest reared above George and Hagbard.
“My approach is fanciful, rather than functional,” Hagbard said. “If I weren’t so intelligent, it would get me into a lot of trouble.” He patted the dragon figurehead with a black-furred hand. Some Viking, George thought. A Neanderthal Viking, perhaps.
“That was a good trick,” George said, feeling shrewd but still high. “How you got me up on the bridge with that telepathy thing.”
“I called you on the intercom,” Hagbard said, with a look of absurd innocence.
“You think I can’t tell a voice in my head from a voice in my ears?”
Hagbard roared with laughter, so loud that it made George feel a little uncertain. “Not when you’ve had your first taste of Kallisti Gold, man.”
“Who am I to call a man a liar when he’s just turned me on with the best shit I ever had?” said George with a shrug. “I suspect you of making use of telepathy. Most people who have that power would not only not try to hide it, they’d go on television.”
“Instead, I put the ocean on television.” said Hagbard. He gestured at the globe surrounding their Viking prow. “What you see is simply color television with a few adaptations and modifications. We are inside the screen. The cameras are all over the surface of the sub. The cameras don’t use ordinary light, of course. If they did, you wouldn’t be able to see anything. The submarine illuminates the sea around us with an infrared laser-radar to which our TV cameras are sensitive. The radiations are of a type that is more readily conducted by the hydrogen in water than by any other element. The result is that we can see the ocean bottom almost as clearly as if it were dry land and we were in a plane flying above it.”
“That’ll make it easy to see Atlantis when we get to it,” George said. “By the way, why did you say we’re going to Atlantis, again? I didn’t believe it when you told me, and now I’m too stoned to remember.”
“The Illuminati are planning to loot one of the greatest works of art in the history of man—the Temple of Tethys. It happens to be a solid-gold temple, and their intention is to melt it down and sell the gold to finance a series of assassinations in the U.S. I intend to get there before them.”
The reference to assassinations reminded George that he’d gone down to Mad Dog, Texas, on Joe Malik’s hunch that he’d find a clue there to an assassination conspiracy. If Joe knew that the clue was leading 20,000 leagues under the sea and eons back through time, would he believe it? George doubted it. Malik was one of those hard-nosed “scientific” leftists. Though he had been acting and talking a little strangely lately.
“Who did you say was looting this temple?” he asked Hagbard.
“The Illuminati. The real force behind all communist and fascist movements. Whether you’re aware of it or not, they’re also already in control of the United States government.”
“I thought everybody in your crowd was a right-winger—”
“And I told you spacial metaphors are inadequate in discussing politics today,” Hagbard interrupted.
“Well, you sound like a gang of right-wingers. Up until the last minute, all I’ve heard from you and your people was that the Illuminati were commies, or were behind the commies. Now you say they’re behind fascism and behind the current government in Washington, too.”
Hagbard laughed. “We came on like right
-wing paranoids, at first, to see how you’d react. It was a test.”
“And?”
“You passed. You didn’t believe us—that was obvious—but you kept your eyes and ears open and were willing to listen. If you were a right-winger, we would have done our pro-communist rap. The idea is to find out if a new man or woman will listen, really listen, or just shut their minds at the first really shocking idea.”
“I’m listening, but not uncritically. For instance, if the Illuminati control America already, what’s the purpose of the assassinations?”
“Their grip on Washington is still pretty precarious. They’ve been able to socialize the economy. But if they showed their hand now and went totalitarian all the way, there would be a revolution. Middle-roaders would rise up with right-wingers, and left-libertarians, and the Illuminati aren’t powerful enough to withstand that kind of massive revolution. But they can rule by fraud, and by fraud eventually acquire access to the tools they need to finish the job of killing off the Constitution.”
The illuminatus! trilogy Page 22