“Such as?”
“Reading your book.”
I picked up the manuscript. “I’ll run through it this evening,” I promised.
The Professor shook his head. “Only the beginning. You’ll read it tonight and then you’ll read it again. And again. The content is the key to our whole system. It must be correlated with your other reading. For the next three months you’re going to sit in that apartment of yours and read. I’ll see that you eat, meanwhile.”
“Sounds pretty soft.”
“It won’t be. You’re going to study and sweat. I’ll quiz you. You’ll take tests. By the time I’m done, you’ll be able to hold your own conversationally with any occultist, real or phony, and sound convincing.”
“Okay. You’re the Professor.”
“And you’re Judson Roberts.”
That’s how it started. I walked into the office as plain Eddie Haines and I walked out as Judson Roberts, with my book under my arm.
Judson Roberts took his book home and studied it. Then he studied the basic, selected writings of Freud, Adler, Jung, Brill, Moll and Stekel. He subscribed to psychiatric journals.
He read Swedenborg and Isis Unveiled. He read Frazer in bed, Charles Fort at the lunch counter, Briffault in the bathroom. He waded through it all, good and bad alike—Lully, Flammarion, Tyndall, Toynbee, Nietzsche.
At first I couldn’t make sense out of it all. Nothing seemed related. But gradually Judson Roberts made sense of it. For as I read, Judson Roberts took shape. He was born out of the books, weaned on the Professor’s nightly question sessions. Judson Roberts learned to discourse on affects and autistic phenomena. He could give a Rorschach test. He could explain the symbolic derivatives of a matriarchic culture pattern and analyze the inherent masochism of Kafka’s works. Roberts could improvise a relationship between the Sung Dynasty, Appolonius of Tyana, and enuresis.
It takes a few minutes to write down, but it took months of doing. Eight hours of reading a day, seven days a week, plus two or three hours of talk—questions and answers. But wading through theories and ideas, I began to understand people a little better. Motivation and compulsion and compensation. Sublimation and projection.
Meanwhile the Professor kept educating me on the practical level. He took me around to astrologers, palmists, phrenologists, spiritualists—men like Jake on the midway and top operators working out of mansions in the hills north of Hollywood. I saw how they worked, who they worked on. I learned that suckers are all alike, and the methods of handling them basically the same.
And through it all, he kept after me with questions. One afternoon towards the end of the third month, for example: “What are the twelve divisions of normal interest?” droned Professor Hermann.
“Time, personal magnetism, sex and marriage, investments, friends, obstacles, enemies, health, money trouble, changes and trips, surprises, and warnings.”
“What is yoga?”
“Yoga means unity, right action. Yoga is practiced by a Guru, or teacher, and a Chela, or pupil. There are five divisions of yoga.”
“Name them.”
“Raja-Yoga, the development of consciousness. Jnana-Yoga, or knowledge. Karma-Yoga, right action, and Bhakti-Yoga, right religious action. Then Hatha-Yoga, or power over the bodily functions. Govern your body and you govern the universe through Asana, the system of bodily posture, breath control, and the control of the circulation and nervous system.”
“Good enough. Now, define Turiya, Dharma, kalpa, mantavaras. And recite the laws of Manu.”
“Hey, take it easy!” I stood up. “You’ve got me so full of that stuff, it’s coming out of my ears.”
“I know. But there’s no time to waste. We must be ready to act soon.”
“I’m ready now. Ready for Utter-McKinley’s enbalming staff. Have a heart, Professor, I’m only human.”
“You must be more than human for this job. You might apply some of the principles of Hatha-Yoga for exercise.”
“I don’t need exercise. I need a rest, a chance to get out of this damned hot apartment. I haven’t had a drink for months, haven’t seen anybody to talk to but you.”
“That was our bargain.”
“Our bargain was for me to make a million dollars, to have anything I wanted. And what do I get? A little cigarette money and enough studying to kill Einstein. Look—I’m not Judson Roberts all the time, you know. I like a little fun once in a while.”
“So.” The Professor’s fingers caressed the nakedness of his skull. “How would you like to go to a party tonight?”
“What kind of a party—another seance in Pasadena?”
“No. I’m talking about the real thing. As a matter of fact, you’re invited to attend. She’s been inviting you for weeks, but I didn’t tell you.”
“She?”
“Lorna Lewis. She has inquired about you frequently. Yes, maybe that would work out—if you’re interested.”
“Count me in. I’ll be there with bells on.”
“No bells. You’ll be there in a nice, conservative gray Palm Beach suit. You’ll behave yourself and do the job I’ve laid out for you.”
“But—”
“You’ll do one thing and one only. Be nice to Lorna Lewis.”
“That,” I said, “is just ginger-peachy. I might even teach her a few yoga positions.”
Seven
I sat on the sofa at Lorna Lewis’ party and played footsie with myself. When I got tired of that, I just watched the crowd.
The movie bunch is peculiar. There are sets, cliques and a definite pecking-order here. The $500 per week mob doesn’t mix with stock contract players. The $1000 up-and-coming gang has nothing to do with the $3000 celebrities. Producers, writers and directors spend most of their time with the agents and the money men, if possible.
This happened to be the $500 crowd, with a sprinkling of $1000 eager beavers. I could figure that out after a little observation. Everybody was in there with the good old college try—a bunch of former extras who were now extroverts. The clothing was flashy, the conversation loud and brassy.
Lorna Lewis herself was a typical specimen. It was obvious that she had come to Hollywood via the contest-winner route. Probably she had talent, too—if not necessarily the kind that displays itself before a camera. But her language was coarse, her geniality forced.
I watched her race around the big living room and the miniature bar out on the terrace, displaying the incredible whiteness of those famous legs through a slitted black skirt. She was high on excitement, not alcohol.
I sat on the sofa and the sports jackets wove a pattern of tartan and checks before my eyes. I monitored a parade of sandals, moccasins, brogues. I eyed elkskin and surveyed suede.
The Professor had planted me here half an hour ago and then wandered away, after acknowledging a nod from our hostess. I was a little disappointed with that nod. I hadn’t really expected Lorna Lewis to throw herself into my arms and nibble my ears, but even so her cool reception didn’t sit well with me after all the buildup. So when the Professor vanished, I sat and fidgeted. All I’d gotten from that greeting was a distinct letdown.
Plump little Miss Bauer from the Professor’s office had been on hand, too, at first. It was she who had identified the stocky, freckled, curly-haired man who dug his fingers possessively into Lorna’s forearm.
“Mike Drayton. Is her husband.”
“Husband? Didn’t know she was married.”
“Yes. He is a professional player.”
“Playboy?”
“No, player. Of hockey.”