“To attempt to destroy our country is an outrage,” he bellowed.
A murmur ran through the crowd.
“To attempt the assassination of my young friend and his woman is barbarism,” he cried out.
The crowd surged forward, muttering agreement, adding shouts of encouragement.
“But to destroy my automobile,” Amanullah screamed. “To destroy my automobile,” he shrieked. “MY AUTOMOBILE!”
The crowd was roaring its agreement.
“Twenty miles to the gallon,” Amanullah bawled.
The crowd pressed at the doors of the café.
“Automatic transmission! You never had to shift!”
The crowd was in the streets.
“Snow tires!”
The crowd was adding new members. Lurking in the shadows I saw the Bulgarian with the pointed beard. “It’s one of them,” I called out, “Don’t let him get away!”
They didn’t let him get away. Men and women, screaming hysterically, took hold of his arms and legs and tore him apart. Little children used his head for a soccer ball. And the crowd, wild with the taste of blood, surged down the street toward the Soviet Embassy.
“Vinyl seat covers,” Amanullah screamed. “A heater! A radio! An emergency brake! Oh, the villains!”
The Afghan police, reinforced by soldiers, took to the streets. They flooded the area around the Soviet Embassy. There were whispered exchanges between the police and the crowd.
The police joined the crowd.
The army joined the crowd.
“Onward,” shouted Amanullah. “For Kabul! For Afghanistan! For your lives and your country and your sacred honor! For my car!”
Those poor goddamned Russians.
Chapter 15
I sat cross-legged on the ground. I was wearing a white loincloth and holding, in both hands, a yellow flower. I did not know the name of the flower. I knew that names were but an illusion, and that what one must seek to know is not the name of the flower but the essence of the flower, the flowerness of the flower, and through it the flowerness of oneself and the selfness of the universe. And I poured the selfness of myself into the flowerness of the flower, and time opened and flowed like wine, and I was the flower and the flower was I.
The Manishtana sat cross-legged beside me. I handed him the flower. He looked deep into its center and said nothing for a long time. He returned the flower to me. I looked at it some more.
“You meditate,” he said.
“Yes.”
“It is beauty, the flower, and you meditate upon it in the peace of the ashram, and you sense the beauty, and it becomes a part of you as you in turn become a part of it. And there are three parts to the beauty. There is the beauty that exists and is perceived, and there is the beauty that exists but is not perceived, and there is the beauty that is perceived but does not exist.”
I studied the flower.
“You meditate, and your mind recovers.”
“It does.”
“You regain health.”
“I am much better. I have stopped vomiting.”
“That is good.”
“I can concentrate again. And I no longer break out in cold sweats all the time.”
“But you do not sleep,” said the Manishtana.
“No.”
“So you have not yet healed yourself.”
“I do not think that is to be healed.”
“Man is to sleep. There is the night that is for sleep and the day that is for wakefulness, and there is no time between the two, just as the Holinesses in their infinite wisdom give us no state between wakefulness and sleep, or between yin and yang, or man and woman, or good and evil. It is the principle of dualism.”
“It is my special difficulty,” I said. “I was wounded long ago in a forgotten war. The powers of light took the art of sleep from me, and they alone can return it.”
“The perfect man sleeps of night,” said the Manishtana.
“Nobody’s perfect,” I said.
I found Phaedra sitting in the garden beside the waterfall. She was smelling a flower. She had her eyes closed, and she was curled up in the fetal posture clutching the flower in both hands. She had her nose in it and she seemed to be trying to inhale it.
“Good day,” I said.
“I am a flower, Evan. And the flower is a girl named Phaedra.”
“The beauty is the flower and the beauty is the girl.”
“You, too, are beautiful.”
“We are all flowers who would be as flowers.”
“I love you, Evan.”
“I love you, Phaedra.”
“I am better now.”
“And I, too.”
“We both talk funny. We talk like the Manishtana. We speak strangely, and converse of flowers, and the beautiness of things, and the wonderfulness and flowerness of our holy souls.”
“We do.”
“But we are well again.” She sat up, crossed one leg over the other. “Evan, I know what happened in that other country. I was with men, many men every day, day after day. I know this, but I cannot recall it.”
“This is your good fortune.”
“Evan, I know that I enjoyed it, that it was a sickness with me, and that I was so sick and so dominated by the yang of all, that you were sick at the touch of me. I know this, but I remember it not.”
“There are those parts of the lifeness of life which we must know but not remember, and there are those parts of the lifeness of life which we must remember but need not know.”
“The Manishtana told me that yesterday. Or something like it. There are times when I think that it does not matter what the Manishtana says, but only that it sounds well to one’s ears.”
“It is so with all of human speech. What one says is of less matter than the vibrations of the sounds one utters.”
“Evan, I am at peace again.”
I kissed her. Her mouth was honey and spice and cider and flowers and the songs of small birds and the purring of kittens and the petals of a rose. Her sighing was the wind in the trees and rain on a snug roof and flames on a hearth. Her skin was velvet and wool and cotton and satin and bedsheets and blankets and fur. Her flesh was food and water. Her body was my body and my body was her body, and thunder rolled in the hills and bolts of lightning skipped like rams.
“Ah,” she said.
Her body was my body and my body was her body, yin and yang, darkness and light, east and west. Hare krishna Hare krishna. Hare rama Hare rama. The twain shall meet.
Om.
“Never before,” said Phaedra Harrow.
A bead of sweat trickled down her golden breast. I flicked at it with my tongue. She purred. I flicked at other nonexistent beads of sweat. She giggled and purred some more.
“Never before,” she said again. “I thought I was all better a few minutes ago, and it turns out I didn’t even know what all better was. Do you know what I mean?”
“Do I ever.”
“I don’t even have to talk like the Manishtana anymore. That was sort of fun, but I can see where it might get to be a hangup. I mean, flowers are very nice.”
“Flowers are wonderful.”
“But you could get kind of dragged with doing nothing but grooving on flowers all day.”
“True.”
I put an arm around her and drew her close. Her mouth opened for my kiss. We held each other for a moment.
“Evan? Just now. It was really something.”
“You don’t have to talk about it.”
“I know. I sort of want to. But I don’t know the words.”
“Forget it. There aren’t any.”
“In Afghanistan. That whorehouse. It never happened.”
“I know.”
“I was never there. My body was there but my soul left my body. It was off somewhere, frozen in ice.”
“It’s not frozen now.”
“Oh, no. Oh, that feels good.”
“Uh-huh.”