‘I have a reality problem.’
‘That’s called life.’
‘But I’m living in two realities. Maybe more.’
‘And?’
‘I’m trying to understand them, trying to define what they are.’
‘Why?’
‘So I’ll know, so I can deal with them.’
‘Knowing won’t help. That’s a waste of energy. Get practical.’
‘How?’
‘It doesn’t matter how many realities there are or what they are; just handle them one at a time and do whatever needs to be done.’
‘That’s theory; practice is something else. I want to talk about Volatore Two.’
‘But you haven’t told me about Volatore One yet.’
So I told him all there was to tell about Volatore.
‘And I still don’t know if it was real. I mean, how can a woman have sex with an imaginary creature that only exists in a book?’
‘Everything is real — try to remember that.’
‘Even a hallucination?’
‘Even a hallucination. You experienced it; whatever it was, it happened to you and is part of your reality.’
‘You’re batting a thousand, Doc. I’m ready to throw away my placebos. Have you read Orlando Furioso, by the way?’
‘Yes, I have. Did you make up the name Volatore?’
‘No, he, the hippogriff, told it to me.’
‘Are you in love with him?’
‘Yes, but I want him to be somebody I can walk down the street with, and he can only assume human form if he takes over someone else’s body. I’ve told you all that.’
‘What if you did walk down the street with him in his original hippogriff form — do you think other people would see him?’
‘I’m afraid to try that experiment. Can we move on to Volatore Two?’
‘OK.’
‘He had the same smell and he knew about the painting of Ruggiero and Angelica in El Paso. He himself did a weird painting while in a sort of trance, then he came out of it, didn’t remember doing the painting, and hasn’t painted since. I keep wondering if Volatore played any part in that.’
‘Where is the original Volatore now?’
‘I don’t know. Somehow we dropped out of the Ariosto story and now we’ve lost touch.’
‘Have you tried to contact him?’
‘No, this double-reality stress got to be too much for me and I’ve just been trying to get my head straight for a while now.’
‘Do you want to find him?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘So will you try to reach him now?’
‘Yes, I will. It’s something I have to think about.’
‘What is there to think about?’
‘How to do it.’
‘Don’t you know how?’ The ripple pattern on the ceiling was moving faster, as if speeded up by his voice.
‘It’s a trial-and-error thing,’ I said, ‘and I’ll have to do it in my own time if you’ll allow me.’
‘You sound defensive.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I feel attacked.’
‘I’m not attacking you.’
I looked at my watch.
‘Isn’t my time up?’ I said. ‘You probably have someone coming for your next session.’
Dr Long shook his head.
‘Is it possible,’ he said, ‘that you’re not altogether sure you want to be with Volatore again?’
‘I have to go now,’ I said. ‘I’m expected elsewhere.’
Chapter 45. Random Passes, Wide Receivers
Olivia Partridge, my partner at Eidolon, is more of a pragmatist than I am; her thinking always leads to action.
‘We promised Ossip Przewalski a new show,’ she said, ‘a while before our recent Volatore binge, remember?’
‘I remember.’
‘So let’s do it, OK?’
‘OK.’
Przewalski rides a Harley Davidson and he paints nudes on Harley Davidsons. His approach is somewhere between Kokoschka and Redon and his last show was a sell-out. We swung into action planning the layout of the show, composing the ad for the art magazines, making up the invitation list and organising the catering.
I did this automatically while my mind was on other things. Sometimes I ask myself whether being human in the usual way is enough. Whether something isn’t missing. Some animality in another dimension. Well, I would say that, wouldn’t I? I have coupled with an imaginary beast and I can still see his strange eyes, his beaked face close to mine. Not a dream, not a hallucination. Part of my humanity. Maybe I’m not the only one. Maybe others have had imaginary-animal lovers.
Dr Long says not to bother with definitions but to deal with things in the simplest way practical. Occam’s razor and all that. But what is the simplest way? It seems that the original Volatore is transmitting something of himself to receivers who don’t necessarily have any connection with him. Joe Fontana had read Orlando Furioso and knew about the da Carpi painting but Alyosha Zhabotinsky, who might have read Gogol but not Ariosto was picking up scrambled Volatorisms such as ‘dim red taverns of sheep’. Are these the people he’s trying to reach? Not likely. He’s firing off random shots because he’s unable to aim his transmissions. I know he’s trying to reach me.
Dr Long asked me whether I was sure I wanted to be with Volatore again. Am I sure? Well, no. It’s a heavy trip, and scary because I sense in it the danger of losing my mind. R. D. Laing said, at the height of his vogue in the seventies, that the breakdown is often the breakthrough but that idea hasn’t had too many adherents lately and I don’t think it would work for me. I’m afraid of falling through a hole in reality if I keep messing with two kinds of it. So are my fears and doubts creating a barrier to communication from Volatore? I won’t think about that any more right now, I’ll think about other things.
Chapter 46. Expectation
‘Irene,’ I said. ‘You’re losing your figure.’
‘But you’re gaining a litter,’ said the look she gave me.
‘So who’s the father?’
‘I didn’t see his face — it was a speed-dating kind of thing.’
‘Maybe it’s time to have you spayed.’
‘What, you don’t believe in free love?’
‘Irene, nothing about love is free.’
‘Has life made you bitter? Talk to me about it, I’m a good listener.’
‘Some other time, Irene. Now I have to think of names for your love-children.’
‘You’re all heart, Boss.’
Chapter 47. Cometh the Hour
The painting stayed on the easel. We hadn’t framed it and we mostly kept it covered. People came and went; for some, but not many, we uncovered it but it stayed unsold. One day the Volatore smell walked in, bearing on its waves a small man with a beautiful hairpiece that concealed his baldness so realistically that it was like the acting of a method actor whose realism emphasises the artfulness of his art. This man was wearing Armani, Rolex and a confident smile. He had a red-carpet kind of walk; in his small way he was grandiose.
Olivia and I uncovered the tiny, tinies and stood on either side of his avenue of approach. He looked at the painting, sighed, closed his eyes, opened them and turned to us, at the same time taking out a large chequebook.
‘How much?’ he said.
It was a moment or two before I was able to take in the reality of his words.
‘You want to buy it?’ I said.
He nodded, and speaking slowly, as to a foreigner, said, ‘It is for this reason that I flourish my large chequebook.’
‘This one speaks to you, does it?’ said Olivia.