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.