The illuminatus! trilogy
Page 73
“Treat every man to his dessert and none should ‘scape tripping,” said Hagbard.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I was parodying Shakespeare,” said Hagbard. “But it’s not very relevant. Please go on.”
“Well, so far no one has been able to give me a coherent or plausible account of the evening’s events,” said Hauptmann. “There have been at least twenty-seven deaths that I’m fairly sure of. There has been massive abuse of LSD. There are numerous accounts of pistol, rifle, and machinegun fire somewhere on the shore of the lake. A number of witnesses say they saw many men in Nazi uniforms running around in the woods. If that wasn’t a hallucination, dressing as a Nazi is a serious crime in the Federal Republic of Germany. So far we have managed to keep much of this out of the papers by holding the press people who came here incommunicado, but we will have to determine precisely what crimes were committed and who committed them, and we must prosecute them vigorously. Otherwise, we will appear to the whole world as a nation incapable of dealing with the wholesale corruption of youth within our borders.”
“All nations are wholesale corruptors of youth,” said Hagbard. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”
Hauptmann grunted, seeing in his mind’s eye a vision of drug-crazed masqueraders in Nazi uniforms and himself in a German army uniform over thirty years ago at the age of fifteen and understanding very well what Hagbard meant. “I have my job to do,” he said sullenly.
See how much more pleasant the world is now that the Saures are gone, the Dealy Lama flashed into his brain. Hagbard kept a poker face.
Hauptmann went on, “Your own role in the incident seems to have been a constructive one, Freiherr Celine. You are described as going to the stage when the hysteria and the hallucinating had reached some sort of a climax and making a speech which greatly calmed the audience.”
Hagbard laughed. “I have no idea at all what I said. You know what I thought? I thought I was Moses and they were the Israelites and I was leading them across the Red Sea while the Pharaoh’s army, intent on slaughtering them, pursued.”
“The only Israelites present last night seemed to have fared rather badly. You’re not Jewish yourself, are you, Freiherr Celine?”
“I’m not religious at all. Why do you ask?”
“I thought that then, perhaps, you could shed some light on the scene we find here in these rooms. Well, no matter for the moment. It is interesting that you thought you led them across the lake. In fact, this morning, when the police reserves entered the area, they found most of the young people wandering around on the shore of the lake opposite the festival.”
“Well, perhaps we all marched around it while we thought we were going across it,” said Hagbard. “By the way, didn’t you have any men at the festival at all? If you did, they should be able to tell you something.”
“We had a few plainclothes agents there, and they could tell me nothing. All but one had unknowingly taken the LSD, and the one who didn’t must have been hallucinating too, from some kind of psychological contagion. He saw the Nazis, a glowing woman a hundred feet tall, a bridge across the lake. Sheer garbage. As you doubtless noticed, there were no uniformed police there. Arrangements were made—and sanctioned at the highest level of government —to leave policing at the festival to its management. It was felt that, given the attitudes of youth today, official police would not be effective in handling the huge crowd. I might say, in my own opinion, I consider that a cowardly decision. But I’m not a politician, thank God. As a result of that decision, order-keeping at the festival was ultimately in the hands of people like yourself who happened to be inspired to do something about the situation. And were themselves hampered, as involuntary victims of LSD.”
“Well,” said Hagbard, “in order to fully understand what happened, you have to realize that many people there probably welcomed an acid trip. Many must have brought their own acid and taken it I, personally, have had a great deal of experience with LSD. A man of my wide-ranging interests, you understand, feels obligated to try everything once. I was taking acid back when it was still legal everywhere in the world.”
“Of course,” said Hauptmann sourly.
Hagbard looked around the room and said, “Have you considered the possibility that these men, old as they are, might have unknowingly imbibed LSD and suffered heart failure or some such thing?”
There were twenty-three dead men in the suite. Thirteen were in the large parlor where Hagbard and Hauptman were sitting. The dead men, too, were seated, in various attitudes of total collapse, some with their heads lolling back, others bent forward at the waist, heads hanging between their knees, knuckles resting on the floor. There were nine more old men in the bedroom, and one in the bathroom. Most of them were white-haired; several were completely bald. Not one could have been under eighty years of age, and several appeared to be over ninety. The man in the bathroom had been caught by death in the embarrassing position of sitting on the toilet with his pants down. This was the old gentleman with the white mustache and the unruly forelock who had spoken harshly to George in the lobby the night before last.
Hauptmann shook his head. “I’m afraid it will be no easy task to find out what happened to these men. They all seem to have died at about the same moment. There are no observable traces of poison, no signs of struggle or pain, except for the expression around the eyes. All of their eyes are open, and they appear to be looking at some unguessable horror.”
“Do you have any idea who they are? Why did you say I might have been able to help if I were Jewish?”
“We have found their passports. They are all Israeli citizens. That in itself is quite odd. Generally, Jews that old do not care to come to this country, for obvious reasons. However, there was an organization connected with the Zionist movement founded here in Ingolstadt on May 1, 1776. These elders of Zion might have assembled here to celebrate the anniversary.”
“Oh, yes,” said Hagbard. “The Illuminati of Bavaria, wasn’t it? I remember hearing about them when we first arrived here.”
“The organization was founded by an unfrocked Jesuit, and its membership consisted of freemasons, freethinkers, and Jews. There were also some famous names in politics and the arts: King Leopold, Goethe, Beethoven.”
“And this organization was behind the Zionist movement, you say?”
Hauptmann brushed away the suggestion with long, slender fingers. “I did not say they were behind anything. There are always those who think that every political or criminal phenomenon must have something behind it There is always a conspiracy that explains everything. That is unscientific. If you wish to understand events, you must analyze the masses of the people and the economic, cultural, and social conditions in Which they live. Zionism was a logical development out of the situation of the Jews during the last hundred years. One need not imagine some group of illuminated ones thinking it up and promulgating the movement for devious reasons of their own. The Jews were in a wretched condition in many places—they needed somewhere to go—a child could have seen that Palestine was an attractive possibility.”
“Well,” said Hagbard, “if the Illuminati are of no importance in the history of Israel, what are these twenty-three old Israelis doing here on the day of the organization’s founding?”
“Perhaps they thought the Illuminati were important Perhaps they themselves were members. I shall make inquiries to Israel about their identities. Relatives will probably claim the bodies. Otherwise, the German government will see that they are buried in Ingolstadt Jewish cemetery with proper rabbinical ceremonies. The government is very solicitous of Jewish persons. Nowadays.”
“Maybe they were freethinkers,” said Hagbard. “Maybe they wouldn’t like being buried with religious ceremonies.”
“The question is wearisome and unimportant,” said Hauptmann. “We shall consult the Israeli government and do as it suggests.” An elderly waiter knocked and was admitted by one of Hauptmann’s men. He pushed a serving cart bearing a
magnificent silver coffee urn, cups, and a tray full of pastries. Before serving anyone else, he rolled the cart across the thick carpet to Hauptmann and Hagbard. His rheumy eyes studiously avoided the bodies scattered around the suite. He poured out coffee for both men.
“Lots of cream and sugar,” said Hagbard.
“Black for me,” said Hauptmann, picking up a pastry with cherry filling and biting into it with relish.
“How do you know somebody hasn’t dosed the coffee or the pastry with LSD?” said Hagbard, smiling mischievously.
Hauptmann brushed his hand over his hair and smiled back. “Because I would put this hotel out of business if I were served food tainted in any way, and they know it. They will take the utmost precautions.”
“Now that we’re being a little more sociable and drinking coffee together,” said Hagbard, “let me ask you a favor. Turn me loose today. I have interests to look after in the U.S., and I’d like to be leaving.”
“You were originally planning to stay for the entire week. Now, suddenly, you have to leave at once. I don’t understand.”
“I was planning to stay, but that was before most of the U.S. government got wiped out. Also, since the remainder of the festival is being called off, there’s no reason to stay. I’m still not clear on that, however. Why is the festival being called off? Whose idea is it, and what are the reasons?”
Hauptmann stared down his long nose at Hagbard and took another bite of the pastry, while Hagbard wondered how the man could eat in the midst of this awful smell. He could understand how a detective would not be bothered by the presence of the dead, but the fishy smell was something else again.
“To begin with, Freiherr Celine, there is the disappearance and possible death by drowning of the four members of the Saure family, known as the American Medical Association. Accounts of what happened to them are garbled, fantastic, and contradictory, as are those of every other incident that occurred last night. As I reconstruct it, they drove their car straight into the lake.”
“From which side?”
Hauptmann shrugged. “It hardly matters. The lake is virtually bottomless. If they’re in there, I doubt that we will ever find them. They must have been under the influence of LSD, and they certainly weren’t used to it.” He looked accusingly at Hagbard. “They were so clean-cut. Absolutely the hope of the future. And the car was a national relic. A great loss.”
“Were they the only well-known casulaties?”
“Who can say? We have no accurate record of who was attending the festival. No list was kept of those who bought tickets, as should have been done. A thousand young men and women could have drowned themselves in that lake and we wouldn’t know about it. In any case, the Saures, as you may not know, were the moving spirits behind the Ingolstadt festival. Very patriotic. They wished to do something to promote tourism to Germany, particularly of Bavaria, since they were native Bavarians.”
“Yes,” said Hagbard, “I read that Ingolstadt was their home town.”
Hauptmann shook his head. “Their press agent gave that out when the festival was conceived. Actually, they were born in northern Bavaria, in Wolframs-Eschenbach. It is the birthplace of another famous German musician, the Minnesinger Wolfram von Eschenbach, who wrote Parzival. Well, now they are gone, barring a miracle, and no one else seems to be in charge. Without them the festival is simply collapsing, like a headless body. Furthermore, the government wants the festival shut down because we don’t want a repetition of last night. LSD is still illegal in West Germany, unlike the U.S.”
“There are parts of the U.S. where it’s still illegal,” said Hagbard. “It’s not illegal in Equatorial Guinea, because we’ve just never had a drug problem there.”
“Since you are an ethusiastic citizen of Equatorial Guinea, I am sure that delights you,” said Hauptmann. “Well, Freiherr Celine, I would like to release you immediately, but when I’ve pieced together more of last night’s events I shall have more questions for you. I must ask you to stay in the Ingolstadt area.”
Hagbard stood up. “If you’ll agree not to have me tailed or guarded, I’ll give you my word that I’ll stick around.”
Hauptmann smiled thinly. “Your word won’t be necessary. Every road is blocked; no planes are permitted to take off or land at Ingolstadt Aerodrome. You can have the run of the town, the lake, and the festival area, and you will not be disturbed.”
Hagbard left at the same time the old waiter did. The waiter bowed Hagbard out the door and when it closed behind him said, “A great shame.”
“Well,” said Hagbard, “they were all in their eighties. That’s a good age to die.”
The waiter laughed. “I am seventy-five, and I do not think any age is a good age to die. But that is not what I was referring to. Perhaps mein herr did not notice the fish-tank in the room. It was broken, and the fish were spilled all the floor. I have taken care of that tank for over twenty years. It was a fine collection of rare tropical fish. Even Egyptian mouth-breeders. Now they are all dead. So it goes.”
Hagbard wanted to ask the waiter what an Egyptian mouth-breeder was, but the old man suddenly nodded, pushed open a doorway to a service room, and disappeared.
Danny Pricefixer was wandering around in the dark with Lady Velkor and Clark Kent, feeling absolutely wonderful, when Miss Portinari intercepted him. “This will interest you,” she said, handing him an envelope similar to the one she had handed Fission Chips.
“What is it?” he asked, seeing her as a Greek woman in classic robes holding a golden apple.
“Take a look.”
He opened the envelope and found a picture of Tobias Knight and Zev Hirsch, in the middle of the Confrontation office, setting the timer on the bomb.
“This man,” she said, pointing to Knight, “is willing to turn State’s evidence. Against both Hirsch and Atlanta Hope. You’ve wanted to nab them for a long time, haven’t you?”
“Who are you?” Danny asked, staring.
“I am the one Mama Sutra told you of, the one appointed to contact you here in Ingolstadt. I am of the Illuminated.”
(“What are those two talking about?” Clark Kent asked Lady Velkor. “Who knows?” she shrugged. “They’re both tripping.”)
“God’s Lightning is the most active front in America today for the Cult of the Yellow Sign,” Miss Portinari went on, Telling the Mark the Tale … A few feet away, Joe Malik said to Hagbard, “I don’t like frame-ups. Even for people like Hirsch and Hope.”
“You suspect us of unethical behavior?” Hagbard asked innocently.
(Pat Walsh is dialing a phone.)
“I don’t believe in jails,” Joe said bluntly. “I don’t think Atlanta and Zev will be any better when they get out. They’ll be worse.”
“You can be sure the Illuminati will protect you,” Miss Portinari concluded gravely. Danny Priceiker continued staring at her.
The phone is ringing far away, dragging me back to a body, a self, a purpose, shattering my memories of being the Ringmaster. I sit up and lift the receiver. “Hirsch,” I say.
“My name is Pat Walsh,” a woman’s voice says. “I speak for Atlanta herself. The pass word is Theleme.”
“Go ahead,” I say hoarsely, wondering if it’s about that peacenik professor we killed at UN plaza on April 1.
“You’re being framed for a bombing,” she said. “You have to go into hiding.”
Hagbard laughed. “Atlanta isn’t returning to the States. She’s been a double agent for over two years. Working for me.” (I found the warehouse door the Walsh woman described. It was open, as she had promised, and I wondered about the name on it, Gold & Appel Transfers…) “So is Tobias Knight, and he’ll cop a plea. It’s all been carefully planned, Joe. You only thought bombing your own office was your idea.”
“How about Zev Hirsch?” Joe asked.
“He’s having some very educational experiences about this time in New York City,” Hagbard replied. “I don’t believe in jails, either.”
“A bombing in New York?” the President asked shrewdly, trying to look as tough as his predecessor.
“Yes,” Saul went on. “As soon as the link with God’s Lightning was clear to us, Barney and I took off for Las Vegas. You can understand why.”
The President didn’t understand any of this, but wasn’t about to admit that. “You headed for Las Vegas?” he asked shrewdly, trying to look as tough as his predecessor.
“Yes,” Saul said sincerely. “As soon as we found out about Anthrax Leprosy Pi and Dr. Mocenigo’s death, we realized the same organization must be implicated. God’s Lightning—”
“God’s Lightning?” the President asked shrewdly, remembering earlier years when he had been a guest speaker at their rallies.
“And the secret group that has infiltrated them and taken them over, the Cult of the Yellow Sign. We have reason to believe that an English intelligence agent named Chips will be arriving in London in a few hours with evidence against most of the Yellow Sign operatives within their government. You see, sir, this is an international conspiracy.”
“An international conspiracy?” the President asked shrewdly.
And in Central Park our old friend Perri hops from tree to ground, snatches a nut thrown by August Personage, and quickly runs around the tree three times in case this friend-possibly-enemy produces a gun and starts blasting …
While far above the highest mountains in California another aspect of my consciousness soars like winged poetry: and knows, somehow, more about what is coming than Dr. Troll’s seismograph: for I am the last, truly the last. The ecologists are right: mine is not merely an endangered but nearly an extinct species, and my senses have been sharpened beyond instinct by these last years. I circle around, I circle around, I soar: I bank: I float. I am, rare moment for me! not thinking about fish, for my belly is full at present. I circle around, circle around, thinking only about the soaring, the freedom, and, more vaguely, about the bad vibes coming up from below. Must you have a name? Call me Hali One, then: haliaeetus leucocephalus the last: symbol once of imperial Rome and now of imperial America: of which I neither know nor care, for all I know is the freedom of my estate and about that the Romans and the Americans have never had aught but the most confused and distorted ideas. Wearing my long green feathers I circle around. I am Hali One and I scream, not with rage or with fear or with anger; I scream with ecstasy, the terrible joy of my very existence, and the scream echoes from mountain to mountain to another mountain, resonating onward and onward, a sound that only another of my species could understand, and none are left to hear it. But still I scream: the shriek of Shiva the Destroyer, true face of Vishnu the Preserver and Brahma the Creator: for my scream is not of life or death but of life-in-death, and I am equally contemptuous of Perri and of August Personage, of squirrels and of men, and of all lesser birds who cannot ascend to my height and know the agony and supremacy of my freedom.