Although I had detected this potential in Verret at our initial meeting, still it dazzled me that love could arise between two such ill-matched individuals and under such intimidating circumstances. Their relationship provided a breath of normalcy amidst the abnormal atmosphere of Shadows, one which I inhaled deeply, rising to it as a miner trapped in a gas-filled tunnel would lift his head at the scent of fresh air. I became more and more interested to learn how far this affair might progress, interested to the point of adding my own thread to the tapestry they were weaving.
Manipulate? Yes, I manipulated. And despite the ensuing events, I would do so again, for it is the function of psychiatry to encourage the living to live, and thus did I encourage Harrison and Verret.
One day, while lunching in the commissary, I was joined by Laura Petit and Audrey Beamon. Petit had with her a Tarot deck and proceeded to tell Beamon’s fortune, and, thereafter, insisted on telling mine. I chose the Hierophant as my significator, cut the cards and listened as Laura interpreted their meanings. I could see the cards were ordinary, showing no pattern; I had not concentrated during the shuffle or the cut. Laura was not aware of my familiarity with the Tarot and therefore did not realize I learned more of her character from the reading than of my fate. Punctuating her delivery with ‘Oh dears’ and ‘Now, wait a minutes,’ she twisted the meanings of the cards, telling me a glittering tale of my future - fame after struggle - and told me also by the flattering, insinuating nature of her interpretation that here was a clever ally whom I could entrust with any mission, no matter how underhanded. Afterwards, she laid a card face up on the table: the Devil, a great, shaggy, horned figure crouched on a black stone to which a naked man and woman were chained. ‘I really think you should have chosen this as your significator, Dr Edman,’ she said, fluttering her lashes and giggling. Despite the apparent triviality of the comment, her identification of me with this awesome masculine figure, this cruel master, signaled her willingness to enlist in my cause, to submit, and, as well, displayed her sly delight in what she presumed we were really doing: all the subterfuge and nastiness of the project. All right, I thought, if I am to be Satan, then Laura will be my imp. I would put her simpering guile to use. And I did, though I am certain my manipulation was not the sole casual agent of the affair.
The character and climate of Shadows, no doubt, exerted an influence on my actions. This great manor house glooming on the edge of the swamp amid sentinel oaks and penitential moss, inhabited by dead men come to life again… here were both magical setting and characters, the stuff from which great drama arises, and perhaps, unconsciously, I was trying to spark such a drama, obeying the commands of some inner theatricality which the house had stirred in my depths, my ‘deep consciousness.’ Perhaps, were I to be injected with the Ezawa bacterium after death, I might well reincarnate as a playwright. But each morning before rounds as I took my constitutional, I would look back at the house and experience a thrill of excitement and fear. From a distance its windows appeared dead black as if it contained not furniture and walls and lives, but only a ripe and contaminating darkness. We inhabited that darkness, and I alone of all the project dared strike matches and dispel the gloom. Most of my colleagues, I believe, feared what would be revealed and satisfied themselves with behavioral studies. But this was an experiment, not a behavioral clinic; we were there to learn, not to footnote extant knowledge. And what did we learn? We uncovered new forces, we took a step along what may be an endless path towards divinity, we redirected the entire thrust of psychoanalytic theory, and, as with all knowledge, we found that deeper and more compelling mysteries yet lay beyond those we had reduced to the security of fact.
Chapter 7
April 18 - May 3, 1987
‘You should come on a run with me sometime,’ said Richmond; he lay back, arms behind his head, and pondered the passing clouds. ‘Cruisin’ through some half-ass town, pullin’ up to the fountain in the park or whatever they got for a public eyesore. ‘Bout forty or fifty of you. The cops ain’t to be found, man. You know, they got sudden problems out on the highway, and you are in control of the situation. That’s when the ladies will do some flockin’ around. The ladies dig on a Harley, man! They wanna run their fingers ‘long your gas tank, you understand?’
‘Uh huh,’ said Donnell, too exhausted to do more than listen to Richmond. He had managed to walk almost a hundred yards, and as a result his legs trembled, his chest hammered, and sweat was trickling into his eyes; but the accomplishment gave him a feeling of serenity.
‘Dig it, man. After we blow outta here, we’ll head on down to the Gulf, place I know, do some money trips, and then get the fuck outta Dodge City! Put our shit nationwide!’ He held out his hand to be slapped five.
Donnell propped himself up on an elbow and accommodated him, amused by Richmond’s adoption of him as a sidekick. His function, it seemed, was to agree, to share Richmond’s enthusiasm for drugs, violence, and sleazy sex - those things he considered the joys of life - and to confirm Richmond’s wisdom in all areas except that of intellectual wisdom, dominion over which he accorded to Donnell. He did not particularly like Richmond, and he still had a nervous reaction to him, but the vivid stories shored up his confidence in his own memories.
‘There’s a feelin’, man,’ said Richmond, solemn as a priest, ‘and don’t nothin’ else feel like it. That goddamn four-stroke’s howlin’ like a jet, and your ol’ lady’s got her tits squashed against your leathers, playin’ with your throttle. Whoo! Sex and death and sound effects!’
Audrey and Jocundra were sitting on a bench about thirty feet from where they were lying, and Donnell concentrated on Jocundra. He lowered his head, looked up at her through his brows, and brought her aura into focus: an insubstantial shawl of blue light, frail as the thinnest of mists, glimmering with pinpricks of ruby and gold and emerald-green.
‘Takes a commitment, though,’ said Richmond soberly. ‘If you gonna ride with the ‘hounds, you gotta kill a cop.’
‘You killed a cop?’ Donnell was surprised to learn that Richmond was capable of mortal violence; he had sensed an underlying innocence, a playfulness, and had assumed most of the bloody tales to be lies or exaggeration.
‘Naw, I was just runnin’ probate, but the day’s gonna come, man.’ Richmond plucked a handful of grass and tossed it up into the breeze, watched it drift. ‘My ol’ lady says I ain’t got what it takes to be a one-percenter, but what the hell’s she know? She works in a goddamn massage parlor, punchin’ oV farts’ hornbuttons for fifty bucks a pop. That don’t make her no damn expert on my potential!’
Donnell let the aura fade and studied Jocundra. He constantly was finding new features to examine - a nuance of expression, the glide of a muscle - and it was beginning to frustrate him to the point of physical discomfort. Through an unbuttoned fold of her blouse he saw the curve of her breast molded into a swell of beige silk, and he imagined it was as near to him as it appeared, warm and perfumed, a soft weight nudging his cheek. He suspected she was aware of his frustrated desire, and he did not think she was put off by the fact he wanted her.
Wheels crunched on the flagstones, footsteps, and Magnusson rolled up, his therapist beside him. ‘Go have a talk with your friends, Laura,’ he said. She started to object, then tossed her head in exasperation and stalked off.