With his eyes closed, he said Consciousness is bliss.
I said This is something you know and feel? As opposed to something you were told or got as a message?
Again he groaned and said Yes, yes.
Was this literary or was it real? It seemed real. All my questions à la Then how are you ever going to get anything done? seemed callow, or worse.
Here was my beloved envelope looking into his palms. Why was parsing all this up to me? which it was.
I knew suddenly what he was really like: he was like a fortune-telling machine you put money into for each message or prophecy you got, the head being behind glass, encased.
This is something you feel even as we speak, I assume. Say those words again.
I will.
But he was pale and looked almost disgusted. This was the most excruciating part of the morning. He looked exsanguinated. I was being driven into seborrheic hyperactivity. I touched my nose and it felt anointed. A desperate protojoke tried to emerge premised on how difficult it would be for me to be led around by the nose, it was so shiny. Meanwhile the revenge of the womb was ongoing.
It was violative, but I had to make him say more. The gist of what I got out was that over the days, he had been allowed to have this experience of consciousness as bliss and finally to keep it, protract it, take it away with him as part of him in his reconstituted state. This element of allowance or permission was what bothered me the most, since it implied personal agency on the part of some undisclosed party. And I was right. He had had a vague sense of a presence always near, mostly behind him, and he would say female, if he had to assign that kind of quality to it. The word ethereal evidently caused him so much pain that I felt I had to apologize.
I wanted to know if this consciousness change was part of any other, larger conclusions about the secret of the universe or of nature or if it had anything to do with his conceit — I let myself use that word — about the confederal nature of the body.
No, there was no doctrine coming out of this. Every part of what had happened to him was separate.
I asked Might there be a connection, though, that you just haven’t forged or come upon yet?
The Smile.
I tried to slip in an insinuation or two about Taoism. The Smile again. Taoism was a nondoctrine, not to put too fine a point on it. He had always been a sort of Taoist, he said. I was making a mistake in trying to reduce any of this to some established schema. He could see where I was going, and it was a waste of time. I of course was thinking that his mother’s Mary fixation, osmosed to him as a child, was seeping up in all this in the guise of the hovering eternal feminine I had made him, by bitchlike persistence, disclose and talk about however minimally.
I was going to have to let us stop. But first I took him back over this bliss-consciousness development. He was halting and recursive. It was impossible to formulate it further for me. It was an overwhelming feeling when it was at its strongest. It was on the order of sexual pleasure and had to be controlled, actually — kept down. He claimed he was holding it down, keeping it at a subdued level even at that moment. One of his tasks was to learn how best to do this — in fact, it was one of his main tasks.
An image came to me from a philosophical discussion about torture we’d had a year or so before, something practiced by the Manchus in which an incision is made in the victim’s stomach and a piece of the intestine is nailed to a tree and the victim is lashed and made to circle the tree, unwinding his entrails as he goes. I was being the Manchu.
I produced a kind of last straw for both of us for that session by asking if I could watch him while he relaxed his control and let himself feel this new state of being he had discovered. I knew it was invasive when I said it, but I was desperate to get to some kind of conclusion I could penetrate. I felt slightly sordid and took it back right away, seeing the expression on his face.
When I asked him — looking for a little forgiveness — if he didn’t think he would feel better once all this was out, external, he said no.
It was time to stop. I got up. He had just lately given up the knobkerrie he’d been using as a crutch. He asked me to get it for him.
He suggested we not eat lunch together, if I didn’t mind. He would prefer to eat separately. I was hurt, but I was also convinced by his manner that his motivation, whatever it was, was not punitive, not in the least.
Satanic Miracle
After lunch he was willing to resume, but sitting side by side in our wicker chairs rather than facing. I’d moved the table away. We were in the same spot, al fresco. It was hot and bright. He apparently felt strongly about our continuing our conversation there, where it had begun, instead of indoors. I was for indoors for reasons of privacy. Because of the drought there was a ban on using hosepipes for garden watering, so the yardman was ubiquitous with his watering cans throughout the grounds. His English was rudimentary, though. An odd thing was that he professed to not be able to understand my quite good Setswana except with difficulty, whereas anything Nelson said, however murmurous, he got right away.
Nelson took the helm more that afternoon. I let him. There were long gaps, when he was doing the narrating, that I could use to reprise the questions I was asking and reasking myself, the main one being what was I going to do with him? Where had his comic side gone? was another. And why was everything between us so asymmetrical — my having urinary frequency versus his never having to pee, his appetite being tiny and precise, mine being pretty much out of control. And what exactly would he be to Tsau if he went back in his present mode? This was a very interesting question. What exactly was I supposed to do now? Should I stay with him and pray for a remission? Should I give him an ultimatum and somehow get him back to the States the same way I got him out of Tsau, even though it seemed everybody was certifying him as more lucid than thou? Should I marry him as he was, sweet, and take some kind of pleasure in his wifely qualities and satisfaction in my association with his past glorious works and the future glory of what Tsau would be seen as when it was thrown open to the world? Should I kill myself, seek professional help for myself, give him another six months of my nets and snares and shock therapy, stay with him on the assumption this was a maneuver of some kind on his part and that he’d turn to me some night with a smile and lucidly explain why all this had been necessary? Which? What? I grasped an unfortunate truth: his willingness to be a father was operating on me, confusing me, weakening me. He was appealing to my maternalism on two levels. He needed to be taken care of, self-evidently. And there was also the real thing: I could be the mother of the children of this brilliant, unique man. And then I would always have them, whatever else happened.
I must have said This is too much, because he said What is too much?
Nothing, I said. I realized I was doing something women did only in nineteenth-century novels. I was wringing my hands.
I should tell you about the lion, he said. I think you heard a parody of what it was like.
A lion found me, a male, a rogue, solitary, as the sun was going down that night.
It came toward me after nosing around what was left of my horse. By the way, streams of ants as big as my thumb were covering the carcass, and more were coming all the time.
The male was advancing on me, then I felt the presence I told you about behind me. This upsets you.
Well. At the same time from a tree off to my right a horde of bees came out and formed an arc in the air between me and the lion. They made a sound louder than I’ve ever heard bees make in my life.