Or maybe they piss and shit in glass jars and turn it into gold, he thought, chuckling to himself. He'd seen rarer things.
The company owned several properties in North and South America, Europe, and Africa. Connecting these points on a map would not yield any gauche or predictable shapes or symbols, but branch locations followed a precise geometry, as did the buildings themselves. Building codes were irrelevant to those who design and own the structures. Some were pyramidal, others lacking any right angle, inside or out.
No receptionist or desk was present in the lobby. No bell to ring to let them know he had arrived. The only interior door, solid looking and crafted from dark wood, stood about thirty feet away from the entrance, but the width of the room could only be about ten feet. Paul felt simultaneously drawn forward along the length of the room and repelled. He scribbled his first impressions into a small notebook.
The lobby's sole comforts, its few chairs and tables, appeared expensive but not lavish. A few paintings, all landscapes, hung on the walls. They impressed Paul as much as such things could. He removed his sunglasses and tucked them into the breast pocket of his bleached linen jacket. Tall, slim, pale, and blond, he enjoyed wearing white. It made him look angelic, at least in the mirror, a look that became increasingly difficult to pull off as he tumbled through his mid-thirties. In his world of black tie parties and shadowy suits, he also liked to play up the role of trickster by being the only man in white at any gathering. People often mistook him for a servant, which in some ways he was. For now.
He sat in a leather armchair and stared at a painting on the opposite wall, rolling hills with a sunset and moonrise in the distance. Apprehensive minutes went by as he scrutinized the image, its balance of muted to vibrant colors. His excitement to be inside a branch of Temple Laboratories, actually there and about to tour, collected in his chest and beat the bars of his ribs.
"Hello, Mr. Pinder."
The wood door stood open, framing a woman of about Paul's age. He had neither heard her come in nor seen it in his peripheral vision. He rose from his chair.
"Sophia Martinetti, director of funds. Thank you for waiting and for making yourself comfortable."
She had a cruel and gorgeous figure. Of course her business suit was black. Everything else about her was also richly dark — her Mediterranean complexion, her long, glossy hair, her stockings and executive pumps, even her lipstick. She looked like Theda Bara with nothing to fake, a woman that Paul, in a previous life, might've seduced if no men were available. Just for the challenge of it.
She scrutinized him. "You do like to stand out. Ms. Bamford said you'd be amusing." She did not extend her hand to shake his.
What a bitch, he thought, concentrating on not showing this in his face or body language. If she perceived his thoughts, she didn't indicate it. Or perhaps she was used to this reaction. "I do my best," he said.
"Follow me, then."
They entered a bright and sterile hallway lined with offices. Judging by the length of the corridor, it ran from the corner lobby along the entire length of the building to the next corner, where it presumably turned right and continued. Martinetti led and spoke without glancing back at him.
"I'm very pleased that Ms. Bamford shows such interest in our research. I would've preferred to meet her in person today, but I accept her request to send you alone. Her philanthropy is legendary, and she manages to keep her financial and intellectual business quite private. We only accept investors who demonstrate the utmost discretion."
"She's a modest woman," Paul said of his teacher. "All her work with children requires her to maintain that privacy. Her little antagonists have accused her of being a Satanist, Illuminati, a cult leader, even a closet Scientologist. The only shallow associations they're capable of making. And they don't even know about all of..." he gestured broadly, even though Martinetti wasn't looking at him, "...this. Those accusations are based solely on her books. The ones she wrote, I mean. Few people know about her private collection. She keeps a low profile to prevent a scandal." He sensed that he told Martinetti things she already knew, kicked himself for being such a neophyte still.
He passed doors of wood similar to that of the lobby, with titles that included varied disciplines: tenebration, genesis, hagio-linguistics. Names of researchers showed a polyglot of origins: Ghavami, Xian, Fairclough, Goldberg, Cortez. Paul wondered if Temple Laboratories intentionally employed a diverse staff. From what he'd heard and read, their investigation into metaphysics was frenzied, no particular focus on any field of study. There were even questions as to the goals. Pure research? Marketable knowledge and products? Perhaps something else entirely. Even so, the members of Charlotte Bamford's circle regarded Temple Laboratories as marvelous and intimidating. Paul himself burned with the desire to find out more about them.
Martinetti huffed. "Ten novels about the so-called occult, children brandishing wands and turning into dragons and such trash, and she won't even admit to her intellectual interests. Must be toasty there, tied to the stake. We do have investors who are quite open about their interests, though no one can trace them back to us."
"Openness is an excellent distraction from the truth," Paul quipped.
He nearly walked into her as she stopped walking and turned to peer at him. "Is that a Wilde quote, or Houdini?" Her eyes held such darkness that it was difficult to discern pupil from iris.
Was she mocking his attempts at conversation? Paul shrugged and tried not to react. She continued. "Is that why you wear white? To distract?"
Paul paused to consider his answer. She was testing him, as he knew she would.
"Do not fuck with Sophia Martinetti," Bamford had told him. "She's all business. An absolute shaman when it comes to financial relations. She's probably a sensitive, so don't even attempt to lie to her. Try anything funny and we'll be permanently on their blacklist."
"What would I try?" Paul said, playfully feigning obliviousness.
Bamford gave him that look she reserved for situations of the greatest gravity. "Stop it, Paul. This is profoundly serious, more so than anything I've allowed you to do. More serious than your sacrifice."
Paul immediately rubbed the place where his left ring finger had been, a wedding vow to his first and greatest love: the pursuit of secrets, a lover who demanded full devotion.
Bamford continued, "It's your greatest challenge, and greatest opportunity. Transmute your impulsiveness into control. I can't be there. You know I would if I could. Go there, observe, find out what you can, and answer the pertinent questions. Do not try to charm Martinetti, do not leave anything behind you, do not accept gifts, and for God's sake, do not try to deceive her."
Paul promised to restrain himself. He'd sacrificed so much to get to this point, not just the finger he'd severed ecstatically at the beginning of his apprenticeship. He let go of the banal comforts of a typical life in return for the knowledge he'd thirsted for since childhood.
No career — Charlotte Bamford took care of him now, requiring a different kind of work. Little contact with family and former friends, and no more boyfriends. They took his mind away from his studies. Not even casual sex. The time and energy to pursue encounters had to be devoted to the pursuit of knowledge. He'd never expected the occult to be so sexually repressive.
Even masturbation was often limited outside of ceremonies. "Spend your energy wisely," Bamford was fond of telling him.
His life wasn't entirely without release. Orgasms were now planned, refined, ritualized. Bamford chose the men, occasional women, and others with whom he now mingled his body. Sex rites required the same effort and intention as all other disciplines. Spilling energy carelessly weakened the power. Paul, a man who'd dreamed of knowing these secrets since he could read, gave up anything Charlotte Bamford asked. He would've given his sex organs entirely if that had been the price. One finger? Yes, mistress. Right away, mistress.
As a child, he'd tried casting spells on the schoolmates who taunted him. In high
school he read tarot and looked up Santa Ria on a nascent internet. He immersed slips of paper bearing the names of his crushes into jars of honey. Now, such past times felt like voyeurism; he sought visceral participation, and his pursuit tormented him.
Alchemy, manifestation, necromancy, prophecy, polymorphism, mediumship: there existed more to know than anyone could ever learn. Paul could temper his mind and body to the point of virtual immortality and still never map the breadth behind the Veil. It was an infinite library, each book in a unique language that took years to learn. The endless labyrinth had walls of gingerbread, delicious and sickening and daunting. And yet here he was, in Temple Laboratories, itching to prove himself worthy of a larger morsel.
"I admit my clothes are a mode of distraction," Paul told Martinetti. He watched her eyes as their focus point darted around his face. He met the challenges of Martinetti's, and ultimately Bamford's, current test with eagerness.
"And I do love Houdini," he went on, deciding that openness was the best route with Martinetti, even after his quip. "I like the glamour that causes others to underestimate me. I like dazzling flashes of light and what I can accomplish while everyone's blinking."
Nothing changed in Martinetti's face. "Are you a faerie? I mean an actual faerie—your sexual interests mean nothing to me."
So those do exist, he thought. More of his myriad suspicions of the World Beyond the Veil seemed confirmed every day. He went on quickly, "Um, not that I'm aware. My mother had some gifts, but not for glamour. Not that I know of. And I've been warned severely about deceiving you. Ms. Bamford's exact words were, 'do not fuck with Sophia Martinetti.'"
She smiled for the first time. "Houdini pissed publicly on metaphysics and claimed to be a mere artist of illusion," Martinetti said, her smile falling. "We know better. He's not a bad role model for a trickster."
They resumed walking. Martinetti said, "Ms. Bamford's warning is intended to protect us from you as much as you from us. As we continue the tour, do nothing to change the energy of the building. It's perfectly balanced. If I find you using disruptive instruments or intentions, I have permission from Ms. Bramford to take whatever measures are necessary to resolve the situation."
She would, he thought. She'd cut my throat in an instant. Paralyze me. Or worse. No, he certainly would not try anything with Sophia Martinetti.
They reached the end of the hallway, turned right, and began down another long corridor, slowing their pace significantly. Paul noticed that subtly but surely the hallway sloped upward. The acoustics of it had been altered – perhaps by physical design, perhaps by other means – so that the merciless tock of Martinetti's heels on the tile did not reverberate from the walls. Sounds from behind doors only became audible when Paul was directly in line with them.
"We're entering the hagio-linguistic wing," she said. The real tour had begun, and Martinetti brought out her most impressive guns immediately. "These studies are proving quite fruitful. We're very close to finding an undiscovered name for the Enochian god."
Paul heard numerous voices as they made their way down the hallway, mostly vowel sounds, some singing, some monotone. These doors had no names or titles, only numbers. Unlike the rich wood of the office doors, these appeared to be solid metal.
"It's a matter of trial and error. Time, diligence, intention, and pronunciation. Even the acoustics of the rooms. The hagio-linguists we have here are some of the best, and they're perfectly willing to go barking mad in return for this opportunity. You may observe some of them if you wish, but I'm afraid it's a rather tedious process. And you don't want to be within earshot when one of them finds the right sequence."
As the hallway ended and turned right again, it continued its almost imperceptible slope. For the first time, he noticed fist-sized cameras mounted periodically along the tops of walls.
He tried to ask questions without obvious answers. "I noticed the slope of the floor. Do the corridors get shorter, laid out in a spiral?"
"Indeed. But I don't expect we'll travel all the way to the apex."
He decided to use a little humor. "Oh? I don't even get to see the gift shop?" Paul said with his best boyish smile.
Martinetti clucked a short laugh and looked at him. "No plush Cthulhu dolls, I'm afraid." Was she warming to him? They continued walking. Bamford's words came to him again — do not try to charm her.
Here, on the north side of the building, rooms featured generous observation windows beside the doors.
"This wing is for show, as is the next. Investors and other guests may observe the experiments with little risk of contamination."
They slowed their pace again. They passed a window, behind which a man shook something in his cupped hands. As they walked, Paul watched the man cast his lot — teeth, possibly human, and quite yellowed. The man looked them over quickly but seemed disappointed by their configuration. They didn't pause to see what the man did next.
Martinetti kept speaking. "The glass is opaque on the inside, not mirrored. It lets light out but not in. There's a parallel glass on the opposite wall inside. Behind it, members of the research staff observe the experiments. We can't see them, they can't see us, and the subjects can't see anyone."
Through the next window, before which they did pause, Paul watched a naked woman of about fifty, in profile, performing something akin to tai chi. Lit only from the back, her shadow on the wall seemed wrong, somehow darker than it should be.
"Is there something unusual about her shadow?"
"Some shadows are thicker than others. They linger a bit longer than they should when the casting body is moving. The goal is to isolate a shadow from its casting body."
Why? he thought.
"Why not?" Martinetti replied, staring into the observation room.
The nude woman moved more quickly now, her dance maintaining its fluidity.
"If she moves subtly enough, we suspect she can trick the shadow into losing synchronicity. Confuse it, so to speak."
"Confuse it? Is it conscious?"
"Oh no. It's only a shadow. But it has attractions and patterns, like all things. Those can be shaped or deranged. When you're an initiated disciple, you'll know more about such things."
Of course she knew him to be a mere apprentice. Bamford surely told her. If Martinetti found it tedious to explain the desires of shadows to the uninitiated, she no longer showed disdain.
"Your curiosity and naivety are preferable to the opposite," she told him. "There are some insufferably insecure know-it-alls who pass through here." She granted him a slight relaxation of her posture.
They passed other windows. Through one, Paul watched a calico cat revolving end over end in mid-air, neither rising nor falling. Through another, he saw a plump blond fellow using a bamboo cane to whip the footsoles of a man bound supine to a table. Each time the instrument whacked him, the skin of his entire body changed color, flesh tones at first, then vivid shades of blue, green, and violet.
"How many of the experiments are blind or double-blind?" Paul asked.
"Few, unless elements of ignorance and surprise are necessary," Martinetti replied.
"Where do you find your subjects? And how do you ensure discretion?"
"Our own researchers are required to participate in the experiments. Everyone you see is a scientist working for Temple Laboratories. Most we recruit. The occasional aspiring psychic shows up looking for a job, but they find nothing here. Discretion is ensured through a combination of threats and screening. We screen efficiently."
Martinetti went on without need or questions, suddenly and suspiciously forthcoming. "Most of them want merely to feel as though they're complicit in the discovery of something rare and powerful. You can relate to that. I feel your desire burning a hole in your chest. You're even hungrier for it than most of the members of Bamford's little club."
Paul felt himself blush, something he still couldn't control. "You're reading me deeply."
"No, Mister Pinder. You're not so deep."
> They rounded the corner to the East corridor. This hallway had to end before the lobby, and indeed it appeared to be a shorter walk. Again in the distance, the passage turned to the right.
"This," said Martinetti, lingering on the first word, "is the hallway dedicated to sexuality."
They stopped at the first window. Paul watched as two young men, very young, engaged in foreplay on a cushioned examination table. One was a slim and milky redhead, the other a muscular South Asian. Both showed clear arousal through their white briefs, the only clothing they wore. Wireless electrode patches clung to them along several meridian points.
"And what is going on in this room?" He knew Martinetti monitored his every reaction, so he didn't bother to hide the arousal in his voice or any other aspect of his body. He watched avidly as the young men touched their tongues together lightly but didn't quite kiss. Fingers manipulated nipples. Paul wished he could hear the little noises of their pleasure. He wished that he could join them.
"This study measures male sexual energy. Soon, we'll begin harnessing it. Did you know that two men together have a higher energy output than three or more? Groups have yielded other noteworthy results. We've tried many combinations. It works best to keep female subjects and researchers as far away as possible. I shouldn't linger, but you can." She took a few steps back from the window. "Does Bamford keep you celibate between rituals?"
Paul wasn't even trying to be poised anymore. "You know she does." He felt his impulses sizzling through him. He wasn't prepared for this, hadn't meditated as he would've before being confronted by ritual sex. Was this the culmination of his test then?
Martinetti continued backing away from the window. "If I stay, I'll risk contaminating the experiment. I'll be back to get you in a moment." She walked around the previous corner and the clicking of her pumps became inaudible almost immediately. As she disappeared, Paul saw the small video recorder keeping its eye on him from the corner. God only knew what other sort of instruments they had trained on him at this very moment.
Abominations of Desire Page 9