Le Croix
by Barry Malzberg



Copyright ©1980 by Barry N. Malzberg



Depersonalization takes over. As usual, he does not quite feel himself, which
is
for the best; the man that he knows could hardly manage these embarrassing
circumstances. Adaptability, that is the key; swim in the fast waters. There
is
no other way that he, let alone I could get through. “Pardonnez tout ils,” he
says, feeling himself twirling upon the crucifix in the absent Roman breezes,
a
sensation not unlike flight, “mais ils ne comprendre pas que ils fait.”
Oh my, is that awful. He wishes that he could do better than that. Still,
there
is no one around, strictly speaking, to criticize and besides, he is merely
following impulse which is the purpose of the program. Do what you will. “Ah
pere, this is a bitch,” he mutters.
The thief on his left, an utterly untrustworthy type, murmurs foreign curses,
not in French, to the other thief; and the man, losing patience with his
companions who certainly look as culpable as all hell, stares below. Casting
his
glance far down he can see the onlookers, not so many as one would think, far
less than the texts would indicate but certainly enough (fair is fair and
simple
Mark had made an effort to get it right) to cast lots over his vestments.
They
should be starting that stuff just about now.
Ah, well. This too shall pass. He considers the sky, noting with interest
that
the formation of clouds against the dazzling sunlight must yield the aspect
of
stigmata. For everything a natural, logical explanation. It is a rational
world
back here after all. If a little on the monolithic side.
“I wonder how long this is going to go on,” he says to make conversation. “it
does seem to be taking a bloody long time.”
“Long time?” the thief on the left says. “Until we die, that's how long, and
not
an instant sooner. It's easier,” the thief says confidentially, “if you
breathe
in tight little gasps. Less pain. You're kind of grabbing for the air.”
“Am I? Really?”
“Leave him alone,” the other thief says. “Don't talk to him. Why give him
advice?”
“Just trying to help a mate on the stations, that's all.”
“Help Yourself,” the second thief grumbles. “That's the only possibility. If
I
had looked out for myself I wouldn't be in this mess.”
“I quite agree,” I say. “That's exactly my condition, exactly.”
“Ah, stuff it, mate,” the thief says.
It is really impossible to deal with these people. The texts imbue them with
sentimental focus but truly they are swine. I can grasp Pilate's dilemma.
Thinking of Pilate leads into another channel, but before I can truly
consider
the man's problems a pain of particular dimension slashes through me and there
I
am, there I am, suspended from the great cross groaning, all the syllables of
thought trapped within.
“Ah,” I murmur, “ah,” he murmurs, “ah monsieurs, c'est le plus,” but it is
not,
to be sure, it is not le plus at all. Do not be too quick to judge.
It goes on, in fact, for an unsatisfactorily extended and quite spiritually
laden period of time. The lot-casting goes quickly and there is little to
divert
on the hillside; one can only take so much of that silly woman weeping before
it
loses all emotional impact. It becomes a long and screaming difficulty, a
passage broken only by the careless deaths of the thieves who surrender in
babble and finally, not an instant too soon, the man's brain bursts . . . but
there is time, crucifixion being what it is, for slow diminution beyond that.
Lessening color; black and grey, if there is one thing to be said about this
process, it is exceedingly generous. One will be spared nothing.
Of course I had pointed out that I did not want to be spared anything. “Give
me
Jesus,” I had asked and cooperating in their patient way they had given me
Jesus. There is neither irony nor restraint to the process, which is exactly
the
way that it should be.
Even to the insult of the thieves abusing me.
****
Alive to the tenor of the strange and difficult times, I found myself moved
to
consider the question of religious knowledge versus fanaticism. Hard choices
have to be made even in pursuit of self-indulgence. Both were dangerous to
the
technocratic state of 2219, of course, but of the two religion was considered
the more risky because fanaticism could well be turned to the advantage of
the
institutions. (Then there were the countervailing arguments of course that
they
were partners, but these I chose to dismiss.) Sexuality was another pursuit
possibly inimical to the state but it held no interest for me; the general
Privacy and Social Taboo acts of the previous century had been taken very
seriously by my subdivision and
I inherited neither genetic nor socially-derived interest in sex for its own
non-procreative sake.
Religion interested me more than fanaticism for a permanent program, but
fanaticism was not without its temptations. “Religion after all imposes a
certain rigor,” I was instructed. “There is some kind of a rationalizing
force
and also the need to assimilate text. Then too there is the reliance upon
another, higher power. One cannot fulfill ultimately narcissistic tendencies.
On
the other hand—fanaticism dwells wholly within the poles of self. You can
destroy the systems, find immortality, lead a crushing revolt, discover
immortality within the crevices. It is not to be neglected; it is also
purgative
and satisfying and removes much of that indecision and social alienation of
which you have complained. No fanatic is truly lonely or at least he has
learned
to cherish his loneliness.”
“I think I'd rather have the religious program,” I said after due
consideration.
“The lives of the prophets, the question of the validity of the text, the
matters of the passion attract me.”
“You will find,” they pointed out, “that much of the religious experience is
misrepresented. It leads only to an increasing doubt for many, and most of
the
major religious figures were severely maladjusted. You would be surprised at
how
many were psychotics whose madness was retrospectively falsified by others
for
their own purpose.”
“Still,” I said, “there are levels of feeling worth investigating.”
“That, of course, is your decision,” they said, relenting. They were nothing
if
not cooperative; under the promulgated and revised acts of 2202, severely
liberalizing board procedures, there have been many improvements of this
illusory sort. “If you wish to pursue religion we will do nothing to stop
you.
It is your inheritance and our decree. We can only warn you that there is apt
to
be disappointment.”
“Disappointment!” I said, allowing some affect for the first time to bloom
perilously forth. “I am not interested in disappointment. This is of no
concern
to me whatsoever; what I am interested in is the truth. After all, and was it
not said that it is the truth which will make ye—”
“Never in this lifetime,” they cut me off, sadly, sadly, and sent me on my
way
with a proper program, a schedule of appointments with the technicians, the
necessary literature to explain the effects that all of this would have upon
my
personal landscape, inevitable changes, the rules of dysfunction, little
instances of psychotic break but all of it to be contained within the larger
pattern. By the time I exit from the transverse I have used up the
literature,
and so I dispose of it, tearing it into wide strips, throwing the strips into
the empty, sparkling air above the passage lanes, watching them catch the
little
filters of light for the moment before they flutter soundlessly to the
metallic,
glittering earth of this most unspeakable time.
****
I find myself at one point of the way the Grand Lubavitcher Rabbi of Bruck
Linn
administering counsel to all who would seek it.
The Lubavitcher Sect of the Judaic religion was, I understand, a twenty or
twenty-first reconstitution of the older, stricter European forms which was
composed of refugees who fled to Bruck Linn in the wake of one of the
numerous
purges of that time. Now defunct, the judaicists are, as I understand it, a
sect
characterized by a long history of ritual persecution from which they
flourished, or at least the surviving remnants flourished, but then again the
persecution might have been the most important part of the ritual. At this
remove in time it is hard to tell. The hypnotics, as the literature and
procedures have made utterly clear, work upon personal projections and do not
claim historical accuracy, as historical accuracy exists for the
historicists,
if anyone, and often enough not for them. Times being what they are.
It is, in any case, interesting to be the Lubavitcher Rabbi in Bruck Linn,
regardless of the origins of the sect or even of its historical reality; in
frock coat and heavy beard I sit behind a desk in cramped quarters surrounded
by
murmuring advisors and render judgments one by one upon members of the
congregation as they appear before me. Penalty for compelled intercourse
during
a period of uncleanliness is three months of abstention swiftly dealt out and
despite explanations that the young bride had pleaded for comfort. The Book
of
Daniel, reinterpreted, does not signal the resumption of Holocaust within the
coming month; the congregant is sent away relieved. Two rabbis appear with
Talmudic dispute; one says that Zephaniah meant that all pagans and not all
things were to be consumed utterly off the face of the Earth, but the other
says
that the edict of Zephaniah was literal and that one cannot subdivide
“pagans”
from “all things". I return to the text for clarification, remind them that
Zephaniah no less than Second Isaiah or the sullen Ecclesiastes spoke in
doubled
perversities and advise that the literal interpretation would have made this
conference unnecessary, therefore metaphor must apply. My advisors nod in
approval at this and there are small claps of admiration. Bemused, the two
rabbis leave. A woman asks for a ruling on mikvah for a pre-menstrual
daughter
who is nonetheless now fifteen years old, and I reserve decision. A
conservative
rabbi from Yawk comes to give humble request that I give a statement to the
congregation for one of the minor festivals, and I decline pointing out that
for
the Lubavitcher fallen members of the judaicists are more reprehensible than
those who have never arrived. Once again my advisors applaud. There is a
momentary break in the consultations and I am left to pace the study alone
while
advisors and questioners withdraw to give me time for contemplation.
It is interesting to be the Lubavitcher, although somewhat puzzling. One of
the
elements of which I was not aware was that in addition to the grander
passions,
the greater personages, I would also find myself enacting a number of smaller
roles, the interstices of the religious life, as it were, and exactly as it
was
pointed out to me there is a great deal of rigor. Emotion does not seem to be
part of this rabbi's persona; the question of Talmudic interpretation seems
to
be quite far from the thrashings of Calvary. Still, the indoctrinative
techniques have done their job; I am able to make my way through these roles
even as the others, on the basis of encoded knowledge; and although the
superficialities I babble seem meaningless to me, they seem to please those
who
surround. I adjust my cuffs with a feeling of grandeur; Bruck Linn may not be
all of the glistening spaces of Rome but it is a not inconsiderable part of
the
history, and within it I seem to wield a great deal of power. “Rabbi,” an
advisor says opening the door, “I am temerarious to interrupt your musings,
but
we have reached a crisis and your intervention is requested at this time.”
“What crisis?” I say. “You know I must be allowed to meditate.”
“Yes,” he says. “Yes, we respect your meditations. It is wrong to impose. I
should not,” and some edge of agony within his voice, some bleating aspect of
his face touches me even as he is about to withdraw. I come from behind the
desk
saying, “What then, what?” and he says, “Rabbi, it was wrong to bother you,
we
should protect, we will respect,” and now I am really concerned, from large
hat
to pointed shoe he is trembling and I push past him into the dense and smoky
air
of the vestibule where congregants, advisors, women and children are
gathered.
As they see me their faces one by one register intent and then they are
pleading, their voices inchoate but massed. Save us, Rabbi, they are saying,
save us, and I do not know what is going on here, an awkward position for a
Talmudic judge to occupy but I simply do not know; I push my way through the
clinging throng pushing them aside, Oh my God, Rabbi, they are saying, oh my
God, and I go through the outer doors, look down the street and see the
massed
armaments, see the troops eight abreast moving in great columns toward the
building, behind them the great engines of destruction, and in the sky,
noise,
the holocaust, Rabbi, someone says, the holocaust has come, they will kill
us,
and I feel disbelief. How can this be happening? There was no purge in Bruck
Linn to the best of my recollection; there have never been any great purges
on
this part of the continent. Nevertheless here they are and behind me I can
hear
the children screaming. It is all that I can do to spread my arms and, toward
them, toward the massed congregants and advisors behind, cry, “Stay calm,
this
is not happening; it is an aspect of the imagination, some misdirection of
the
machinery.” Surely it must be that, some flaws in the fabric of my
perceptions
being fed through the machines and creating history out of context, and yet
the
thunder and smell of the armies is great in the air and I realize that they
are
heading directly toward this place, that they have from the beginning, and
that
there is nothing I can do to stop them.
“Be calm, be calm,” I cry, “you are imagining this, indeed you are all
imagining,” but the words do not help, and as I look at the people, as they
look
at me, as the sounds of Holocaust overwhelm, I seem to fall through the
situation leaving them to a worse fate or perhaps it is a better, but it is
only
I who have exited, leaving the rest, these fragments of my imagination, to
shore
themselves against their ruins, and not a moment too soon, too soon.
****
Otherwise, life such as it is proceeds as always. I spend a portion of the
time
on the hypnotics and in the machinery, but there are commitments otherwise to
eat, to sleep, to participate in the minimal but always bizarre social
activities of the complex; even, on occasion to copulate, which I accomplish
in
methodical fashion. The construction, I have been reminded, is only a portion
of
my life; responsibilities do not cease on its account. I maintain my cubicle,
convey the usual depositions from level to level, busy myself in the
perpetuation of microcosm. Only at odd times do I find myself thinking of the
nature of the hypnotic experiences I have had, and then I try to push these
recollections away. They are extremely painful and this subtext, as it were,
is
difficult to integrate into the outer span of my life. In due course I am
assured that the fusion will be made, but in the meantime there is no way to
hasten it. “You have changed, Harold,” Edna says to me. Edna is my current
companion. She is not named Edna, nor I Harold, but these are the names that
they have assigned for our contemporary interaction, and Harold is as good as
any; it is a name by which I would as soon be known. Harold in Galilee. And I
have spoken his name and it is Harold. She leans toward me confidentially.
“You
are not the same person that you were.”
“That is a common illusion provided by the treatments,” I say. “I am exactly
the
same person. Nothing is any different than it was.”
“Yes it is,” she murmurs. “You may not realize how withdrawn and distracted
you
have become.” She is a rather pretty woman and there are times, during our
more
or less mechanical transactions, when I have felt real surges of feeling for
her, but they have only been incidental to the main purpose. In truth I can
have
no feeling for anyone but myself; I was told this a long time ago. She puts a
hand on me intensely. “What are they doing to you?”
“Nothing,” I say quite truthfully. “They are merely providing a means.
Everything that is done I am doing myself; this is the principle of the
treatment.”
“You are deluded,” she says and loops an arm around me, drags me into
stinging
but pleasurable embrace. Forehead to forehead we lay nestled amidst the
bedclothes; I feel the tentative touch of her fingers. “Now,” she says,
moving
her hand against me. “Do it now.”
I push against her embrace. “No. It is impossible.”
“Why?”
“During the treatments—”
“Nonsense,” she says, “you are avoiding me. You are avoiding yourself. The
treatments ate anaesthetic, don't you see that? They are forcing you to avoid
the terms of your life and you cannot do that.” Her grasp is more insistent,
at
the beginning of pain. “Come on,” she says. Insistent woman. Against myself,
I
feel a slow gathering.
“No,” I mutter against her cheekbone, “it is impossible. I will not do it
now.”
“Fool.”
“The chemicals. I am awash in chemicals; I remain in a sustaining dose all
the
time. I would upset all of the delicate balances.”
“You understand nothing,” she says, but in an inversion of mood turns from me
anyway, scurrying to a far point. “Have it as you will. Do you want me to
leave?”
“Of course not.”
“Of course not. You are so accommodating. Do you want me to entertain you
then?”

“Whatever you will.”
“You have changed utterly. You are not the same. These treatments have
rendered
you cataleptic. I had hopes for you, Harold, I want you to know that. I
thought
that there were elements of genuine perception, real thought. How was I to
know
that all of the time you merely wanted to escape into your fantasies?”
“What did you want me to do?” I say casually. “Overthrow the mentors?”
She shrugs. “Why not?” she says. “It would be something to keep us occupied.”
“I'd rather overthrow myself.”
“You know, Harold,” she says and there is a clear, steady light of
implication
in her eye, “it is not impossible for me to like you; we could really come to
understand one another, work together to deal with this crazy situation, but
there is this one overwhelming problem, and do you know what that is?”
“Yes I do,” I say wearily because this has happened before. “I surely do.”
“Don't deprive me of the satisfaction,” she says. “Harold, you are a fool.”
“Well,” I say shrugging, “in these perilous and difficult times, this madly
technocratic age of 2219, when we have so become merely the machinery of our
institutions, where any search for individuality must be accomplished by
moving
within rather than without, taking all of this into consideration and what
with
one thing being like every other thing in this increasingly homogenous world,
tell me, aren't we all?”
“Not like you,” she says. “Harold, even in these perilous and difficult
times,
not like you at all.”
****
On the great and empty desert he takes himself to see the form of Satan,
manifest in the guise of an itinerant, wandering amidst the sands. Moving
with
an odd, off-center gait, rolling on limping leg, Satan seems eager for the
encounter, and he is ready for it too, ready at last to wrestle the old,
damned
angel and be done with it, but Satan is taking his time the cunning of the
creature and seems even reluctant to make the encounter. Perhaps he is merely
being taunted. Once again he thinks of the odd discrepancy of persona; he is
unable in this particular role to work within the first person but is instead
a
detached observer seeing all of it at a near and yet far remove, imprisoned
within the perception, yet not able to effect it. An interesting phenomenon,
perhaps he has some fear that to become the persona would be blasphemous. He
must discuss this with the technicians sometime. Then again, maybe not. Maybe
he
will not discuss it with the technicians; it is none of their damned
business,
any of it, and besides, he has all that he can do to concentrate upon Satan,
who
in garb of bright hues and dull now comes upon him. “Are you prepared?” Satan
says to him. “Are you prepared for the undertaking?”
He looks down at his sandals embedded in the dense and settled sands. “I am
ready for the encounter,” He says.
“Do you know the consequences?” Satan says. He has a curiously ingratiating
voice, a warm and personal manner, an offhand ease which immediately grants a
feeling of confidence, but then again this was to be expected. What belies
the
manner, however, is the face, the riven and broken features, the darting
aspect
of the eyes, the small crevices in which torment and desert sweat seem to
lurk
and which compel attention beyond the body which has been broken by the
perpetration of many seeming injustices. Satan extends his arm. “Very well,
then,” Satan says, “let us wrestle.”
“Non-disputandum,” he says. “I understood that first we were to talk and only
after that to struggle.”
“Latin is no protection here,” Satan says firmly. “All tongues pay homage to
me.”
“Mais non,” he says in his abominable French, “voulez-vous je me porte bien.”
“Nor does humor exist in these dark spaces,” Satan says. “From walking up and
down upon the earth and to and fro I have learned the emptiness of present
laughter. Come,” he says, leaning forward, his arm extended, “let us wrestle
now.”
He reaches for that gnarled limb, then brings his hands back. The sun is
pitiless overhead but like a painting; he does not feel the heat. His only
physical sensation is of the dry and terrible odor seeping from his
antagonist.
“No,” he says. “Mais non, mon frere. Not until we have had the opportunity to
speak.”
“There is nothing to speak about. There are no sophistries in this emptiness,
merely contention.”
Do not argue with Satan. He had been warned of this, had known it as his
journey
toward the darkness had begun, that there was no way in which the ancient and
terrible enemy could be engaged with dialectic and yet, non disputandum, he
has
faded again. Not to do it. Not to try argument; it is time to wrestle and it
might as well be done. He seizes the wrist and slowly he and the devil lock.
Coming to grips with that old antagonist it is to the man as if he has found
not
an enemy but only some long-removed aspect of himself, as if indeed, just as
in
sex or dreams, he is in the act of completing himself with this engagement.
The
stolidity of the form, the interlocking of limbs, gives him not a sense of
horror, as he might have imagined, but rather comfort. It must have been this
way. Their hands fit smoothly together. “Do you see?” Satan says winking and
coming to close quarters. “You know that it must always have been meant this
way. Touch me, my friend, touch me and find grace,” and slowly, evenly, Satan
begins to drag him forward.
He understands, he understands what is happening to him: Satan in another of
his
guises would seduce him with warmth when it is really a mask for evil. He
should
be fighting against the ancient and terrible enemy with renewed zeal for
recognizing this, but it is hard, it is hard to do so when Satan is looking
at
him with such compassion, when the mesh of their bodies is so perfect. Never
has
he felt anyone has understood him this well; his secret and most terrible
agonies seem to flutter, one by one, birdlike, across the features of the
antagonist, and he could if he would sob out all of his agonies knowing that
Satan could understand. Who ever would as well? It must have been the same
for
him. I do not believe, he wants to cry to the devil; I believe none of it; I
am
taken by strange, shrieking visions and messages in the night; I feel that I
must take upon the host of Heaven, and yet these dreams which leave me empty
and
sick are, I know, madness. I hear the voice of God speaking unto me saying I
am
the Father, I am the incompleteness which you will fill and know that this
must
be madness, and yet I cannot deny that voice, can deny no aspect of it, which
is
what set me here upon the desert, but I am filled with fear, filled with
loathing and trembling … he wants to cry all of this out to Satan, but he
will
not, he will not, and slowly he finds himself being drawn to the ground.
“Comfort,” Satan says in the most confiding and compassionate of whispers,
covering him now with his gnarled body so that the sun itself is obscured,
all
landscape dwindled to the small perception of shifting colors, “comfort: I
understand, I am your dearest and closest friend. Who can ever understand you
as
I? Who would possibly know your anguish? Easy, be easeful,” Satan says, and
he
begins to feel the pressure come across his chest. “So easy,” Satan murmurs,
“it
will be so easy, for only I understand; we can dwell together,” and breath
begins to desert him. The devil is draining his respiration.
Understanding that, he understands much else: the nature of the engagement,
the
quality of deception, exactly what has been done to him. Just as Satan was
the
most beautiful and best loved of all the angels, so in turn he would be
Satan's
bride in the act of death. It is the kiss that will convey the darkness, and
seeing this, he has a flickering moment of transcendence: he thinks he knows
now
how he might be able to deal with this. Knowing the devil's meaning will
enable
him to contest, and yet it would be so easy—inevitable is the
word—necessary—to
yield to his antagonist and let it be done, let the old, cold, bold intruder
have his will, thy will be done, and Satan's too, and the yielding is so
close
to him now he can feel himself leaning against the network of his being, the
empty space where desire might have rested, in the interstices the lunge
toward
annihilation—mais non, he says, mais non, je renounce, I will not do it!—and
forces himself against the figure, understanding finally the nature of this
contest, what it must accomplish, in what mood it must be done and wearily,
wearily, carrying all of consequence upon him he begins the first and final
of
all his contests with the devil.
****
It is a madly technocratic age, a madly technocratic age, and yet it is not
cruel; the devices of our existence, we have been assured, exist only in
order
to perpetrate our being. Take away the technology and the planet would kill
us;
take away the institutions and the technology would collapse. There is no way
in
which we can continue to be supported without the technology and the
institutions, and furthermore they are essentially benign. They are
essentially
benign. This is not rationalization or an attempt to conceal from myself and
others the dreadful aspects of our mortality, the engines of our condition
grinding us slowly away . . . no, this is a fixed and rational judgment which
comes from a true assessment of this life.
It is true that a hundred years ago, in the decades of the great slaughters
and
even beyond, the institutions were characterized by vengeance, pusillanimity,
murder and fear, but no more. In 2160 the oligarchy was finally toppled, the
reordering began, and by 2189, the very year in which I was born, the
slaughter
was already glimpsed within a historical context. I was nurtured by a
reasonable
state in a reasonable fashion; if I needed love, I found it; sustenance was
there in more forms than the purely physical. I grew within the bounds of the
state; indeed, I matured to a full and reasonable compassion. Aware of the
limits which were imposed, I did not resent them nor find them stifling.
There was space; there has been space for a long time now. Standing on the
high
parapet of the dormer, looking out on Intervalley Six and the web of
connecting
arteries beneath the veil of dust, I can see the small lights of the many
friendly cities nodding and winking in the darkness, the penetrating cast of
light creating small spokes of fire moving upward in the night. Toward the
west
the great thrust of South Harvest rears its bulk and spires, lending geometry
to
a landscape which would otherwise be endless, and I find reassurance in that
presence just as I find reassurance in the act of being on the parapet
itself.
There was a time, and it was not so terribly long ago, that they would not
have
allowed residents to stand out on the parapet alone; the threat of suicide
was
constant, but in the last years the statistics have become increasingly
favorable, and it is now within the means of all of us if only we will to
come
out in the night for some air.
Edna is beside me. For once we are not talking; our relationship has become
almost endlessly convoluted now, filled with despair, rationalization and
dialogue, but in simple awe of the vision she too has stopped talking and it
is
comfortable, almost companionable standing with her thus, our hands touching
lightly, smelling the strange little breezes of our technology. A long time
ago
people went out in pairs to places like this and had a kind of emotional
connection by the solitude and the vision, but now emotions are resolved for
more sensible arenas such as the hypnotics. Nevertheless, it is pleasant to
stand with her thus. It would almost be possible for me at this moment to
conceive some genuine attachment to her, except that I know better; it is not
the union but its absence which tantalizes me at this moment, the knowledge
that
there is no connection which will ever mean as much to us as this landscape.
The
sensation is unbearably poignant although it does not match in poignance
other
moments I have had under the hypnotics. At length she turns toward me, her
touch
more tentative in the uneven light and says, “It hurts me too. It hurts all
of
us.”
“I wasn't really thinking about pain.”
“Nevertheless,” she says. “Nevertheless. Pain is the constant for all of us.
Some can bear it and others cannot. Some can face this on their own terms and
others need artificial means of sustention. There is nothing to be done about
this.”
“I don't need artificial means,” I say. “I have elected —”
“Surely,” she says. “Surely.”
And they are not artificial, I want to add; the experiences under the
hypnotics
are as real, as personally viable, as much the blocks of personality
formulation
as anything which this confused and dim woman can offer, as anything which
has
passed between us. But that would only lead to another of our arguments and I
feel empty of that need now. Deep below we can hear the uneven cries of the
simulacrum animals let out at last for the nighttime zoo, the intermingled
roars
of tigers.
“Has it made any difference?” she says. “Any of it?”
“Any of what? I don't understand.”
“The treatments. Your treatments.”
Tantalizingly, I find myself on the verge of a comment which will anneal
everything, but it slips away from me as if so often the case, and I say, “Of
course they have made a difference.”
“What have you gained?”
“Pardonne? Pardonnez moi?”
“Don't be obscure on me,” she says. “That will get you nowhere. Tell me the
truth.”
I shrug. My habit of lapsing into weak French under stress is an old
disability;
nonetheless I find it difficult to handle. Most have been more understanding
than Edna. “I don't know,” I say. “I think so.”
“I know. It's done nothing at all.”
“Let's go inside now,” I say. “It's beginning to chill here.”
“You are exactly the same as you were. Only more withdrawn, more stupid.
These
treatments are supposed to heal?”
“No. Merely broaden. Healing comes from within.”
“Broaden! You understand less than ever.”
I put a hand to my face, feel the little webbing where years from now deep
lines
will be. “Let's go inside,” I say again. “There's nothing more
“Why don't you face the truth? These treatments are not meant to help you;
they
are meant to make you more stupid so that you won't cause any trouble.”
I move away from her. “It doesn't matter,” I say. “None of it matters. It is
of
no substance whatsoever. Why do you care for it to be otherwise?”
There is nothing for her to do but to follow me into the funnel. She would
argue
in position but my withdrawal has offered the most devastating answer of all:
I
simply do not care. The attitude is not simulated: on the most basic level I
refuse to interact.
“You are a fool,” she says, crowding against me for the plunge. “You do not
understand what they are doing to you. You’ simply don't care.”
“Quite right,” I say. “Quite right. Absolutely. Not at all. That is the point
now, isn't it?” The light ceases and we plunge.
****
I am in an ashram surrounded by incense and the dull outlines of those who
must
be my followers. Clumped in the darkness they listen to me chant. It is a
mantra
which I appear to be singing in a high, cracked chant; it resembles the
chanting
of the Lubavitchers of Bruck Linn, although far more regularized in the vocal
line, and limited in sound. Om or ay or eeh, the sounds are interchangeable
and
I am quite willing to accept the flow of it, not rationalize, not attempt to
control those sounds but rather to let them issue according to my mood. It is
peaceful and I am deeply locked within myself; the soft breathing of my
followers lending resonance to the syllables which indeed seem to assume a
more
profound meaning, but at a certain point there is a commotion and the sound
of
doors crashing and then in the strophes of light I can see that the room has
been invaded by what appear to be numerous members of the opposition. They
are
wearing their dull attack uniforms, even this if nothing else is perceptible
in
the light and from the glint of weaponry I can see that this is very serious.
They move with an awful tread into the room, half a dozen of them, and then
the
portable incandescence is turned on and we are pinned there in frieze.
I know that it is going to be very bad; the acts of 2013 specifically
proscribed
exactly what is going on here and yet five years later the pogroms have
dwindled
to harassment, random isolated incursions. I did not think that in this
abandoned church in the burned-out core of the devastated city—they would
ever
move upon me, and yet it seems now that my luck has suddenly, convulsively
run
out, as I always knew that it would. Surely in some corner of the heart I
must
have known this; the om must have always been informed by doom; and yet it is
one thing to consider demolition in a corner of the heart and another, quite
another, to live it. Ahbdul, one of them says pointing, his finger enormous,
dazzling, and as I lift my eyes to it I feel myself subsiding in the wickers
of
light, Ahbdul, you are in violation of the codes and you have brought woe to
all.
In a moment, in one moment, they will plunge toward me. I know how it goes
then,
what will happen; they will strike at me with their weapons and bring me to a
most painful position; they will obliterate consciousness and cause
bloodstains;
not of the least importance they will humiliate me before my small
congregation,
which has already witnessed enough humiliation—thank you very much— otherwise
why would they have gathered here?—and yet I can tolerate all of that, I
suppose. I have dreamed worse, not to say suffered many privations and
indignities before opening this small, illegal subunit. In fact, none of this
concerns me; what does, I must admit, is the fear that I will show weakness
before my congregation. To be humiliated is one thing, but to show fear, beg
for
mercy, is quite another; I would hardly be able to deal with it. A religious
man
must put up a stiff front. A religious man whose cult is based upon the
regular,
monotonic articulation of ancient chants to seek for inner serenity can
hardly
be seen quivering and shrieking in front of those who have come for
tranquility.
if tranquility is all that I have to offer, I cannot give them pain. Thinking
this, I resolve to be brave and draw myself to full stature or what there is
left of it after all these years of controlled diet and deliberate physical
mutation. “You will not prevail,” I say.
“You cannot prevail against the force of the om,” and with a signal I
indicate
to my congregation that I wish to resume the chant, humiliate them by my own
transcendence, but they do not attend. Indeed they do not attend at all, so
eager do so many of them appear to search out any means of exit open to them.
A
small alley has been left open by the massed opposition leading to one of the
doors, and in their unseemly haste to clear the hall they ignore me.
Religious
disposition, it would seem, is a function of boredom: give people something
really necessary to face in their lives and religion can be ignored, all
except
for the fanatics who consider religion itself important, of course; but they
are
disaster-ridden. Like flies these little insights buzz about, gnawing and
striking small pieces of psychic flesh while the hall is emptied, the
opposition
standing there looking at me bleakly, but I find as usual that this insight
does
me no good whatsoever. It can, indeed, be said merely to magnify my sense of
helplessness. “Gentlemen,” I say, raising a hand, “this is a futile business.
join me in a chant.” I kneel, my forehead near the floor, and begin to
mumble,
hoping that the intensity of this commitment will strike shame within them,
convince them that they are dealing with someone so dangerously self-absorbed
that all of their attacks would be futile, but even as I commence the
syllables
I am pulled to my feet by a man in a uniform which I do not recognize,
obviously
a latecomer to the room. He stares at me from a puffy, heart-shaped face and
then raises his hand, strikes me skillfully across first one check and then
the
other. The collision of flesh is enormous; I feel as if I am spattering
within.
“Fool,” he says, “why have you done this?”
“Why do you care? Why are you asking?” He hits me again. No progression of
the
sacred blocks of personality; the levels of eminent reason have prepared me
for
this kind of pain. I realize that I am crying. “Give me a response,” he says.
“Don't withdraw, don't protest, don't argue; it will lead only to more blows
and
eventually the same results. Simply answer questions and it will go much
easier
for both of us. Knowing all of the penalties, knowing of the responsibilities
for your acts and what would happen to you if you were discovered, why did
you
nonetheless persist? Didn't you understand? Didn't you know what danger you
brought not only upon yourself but the fools you seduced? Now they too will
have
to pay.”
He is choleric with rage, this man; his face seems to have inflated with
blood
and reason as he stands there and I begin to comprehend that he is suffering
from more than situational stress. Looking at him I want to accentuate that
sudden feeling of bonding, but there is every emotion but sympathy in that
ruined face and suddenly he hits me again convulsively; this the most painful
blow yet because it was not expected. I fall before him and begin to weep. It
is
not proper context for a martyr, but I never wanted it to be this way; I
never
imagined that there would be such blood in sacrifice. He puts one strong hand
under an arm, drags me grunting to my feet, positions me in front of him as if
I
were a statue.
“Do you know what we're going to have to do now?” he says. “We're going to
have
to make an example of you, that's all, we're going to have to kill you. Why
did
you put us into this position?”
“I am not able to believe that you will do that,” I say. I am struggling for
tranquility. “You wouldn't kill me, not here in the temple—”
“This is not a temple. It is a dirty cluttered room and you are an old fool
who
imagines it to be a church.”
“Om,” I say. The word comes; I did not calculate. “Om. Eeeh. Ay.”
“You would fight the state regardless. If the state believed in om you would
cry
for freedom of choice. If the state were stateless you would wish to form
institutions within. There is no hope for you people, none at all; you would
be
aberrants in any culture at any time and you cannot understand this. You want
to
be isolated, persecuted, to die. It has nothing to do with religion.”
“Eeh. Ay. Oooh. Alih. Om.”
“Enough,” he says, “enough of this,” and signals to the others at the rear;
they
come forward slowly, reluctantly, but with gathering speed at the approach,
perhaps catching a whiff of death which comes from the syllables. “You wish a
public death, you wish a martyrdom; then you will have it. Reports will be
issued to all of the provinces. Icons will be constructed. Dispatches will
even
glorify. You will achieve everything that you were unable in life. But this
will
do you no good whatsoever.”
The fear is tightly controlled now. Truly, the syllables work. I would not
have
granted them such efficacy and yet what I have advised my congregants all of
this time turns out to be true. They paste over the sickness with the sweet
contaminations of courage, grant purchase upon terror, make it possible for
the
most ignorant and cowardly of men, which must be myself, to face annihilation
with constant grace. “Om,” I say. “Eeh. If it were to be done, then it must
be
done quickly.”
“Ali,” he says, “it is impossible. Nothing will be gained from this and yet
you
still will not face the truth. It would be so much easier if at least you
would
give up your bankrupt purchase, if you would understand that you are dying
for
no reason whatsoever and that it could have been no other way; it would make
matters so much easier—”
“Ah,” I say. “Oh.”
“Ali, shit,” the man with the heart-shaped face says and gives a signal to
one
of the supporters, who closes upon me, a small man in uniform with a highly
calibered weapon and puts its cold surfaces against my temple. His hand
shakes,
imperceptibly to the vision, but I can feel that quiver against the ridged
veins. It is remarkable how I have gained in courage and detachment; just a
few
moments ago it would have seemed impossible. Yet here I am, apparently,
prepared
to face what I feared the most with implacable ardor. “Now,” the man says.
“Do
it now.”
There is a pause. Om resonates through me; it will be that with which I will
die, carrying me directly to the outermost curved part of the universe. I
close
my eyes, waiting for transport, but it does not come, and after a while I
understand that it will not. Therefore I open my eyes, reasonable passage
seeming to have been denied me. The positions are the same except that the
leader has moved away some paces and the man carrying the gun has closed his
eyes.
“Shoot him, you fool,” the leader says. “Why haven't you shot him?”
“I am having difficulty.”
“Kill him, you bastard.”
There is another long pause. I flutter my eyes. Om has receded. “I can't,”
the
man with the gun says at last. “I can't put him down, just like that. This
isn't
what I was prepared to do. You didn't say that it would be this way. You
promised.”
“Ah, shit,” the heart-shaped man says again and comes toward us, breaks the
connection with a swipe of his hand, knocking the gun arm down and the
supporter
goes scuttling away squealing. The leader looks at me with hatred, red-tinted
veins alight. “You think you've proven something,” he says. “Well, you've
proven
absolutely nothing. Weakness is weakness. I will have to do it myself.”
I shrug. It is all that I can do to maintain my demeanor considering the
exigencies but I have done it. Will; everything is will. “Om", I murmur.
“Om,” he says, “om yourself,” and goes to the supporter; the supporter hands
him
the gun silently; the leader takes it in his left hand, flexes fingers, then
puts it against my “temple.”
“All right,” he says, “it could have been easier but instead it will be more
complex. That does not matter, all that matters is consummation.”
“Consummate,” I say. “Om.”
“I don't want to do this,” he says with the most immense kindness. “I hope
you
understand. It's nothing personal; I have little against you; it's just a
matter
of assignment, of social roles.” Unlike the others he seems to need to
prepare
himself for assassination through a massive act of disconnection. “Nothing
personal,” he says mildly, “I really don't want to.”
I shrug. “I don't wait to die, particularly,” I say. “Still, I seem able to
face
it.” And this is the absolute truth. Calm percolates from the center of the
corpus to the very brain stem; I seem awash in dispassion. Perhaps it is the
knowledge that this is all a figment, that it is a dream and I will not die
but
awake again only to sterile enclosure and the busy hands of technicians. “Do
it,” I say. “Do it.” Is this the secret of all the martyrs? That at the end,
past flesh and panic, they knew when they would awaken and to what? Probably.
On
the other hand, maybe not. Like everything else it is difficult and complex.
Still, it can be met with a reasonable amount of dignity, which is all that
we
can ask.
“Indeed,” he says sadly, “indeed,” and fires the gun into my temple killing
me
instantly and precipitating in one jagged bolt the great religious riots and
revivals of the early twenties. And not one moment too soon, Allah and the
rest
of them be praised.
****
Systematically I face examination in the cold room. It is a necessary part of
the procedure. “The only hint of depersonalization other than at the end of
the
last segment,” I say calmly, “has been during the Jesus episodes. I seem
unable
to occupy it within the first person but feel a profound disassociative
reaction
in which I am witnessing him as if from the outside, without controlling the
actions.”
The counselor nods. “Highly charged emotional material obviously,” he says.
“Disassociative reaction is common in such cases. At some point in your life
you
must have had a Jesus fixation.”
“Not so,” I say. “in fact I did not know who he was until I was introduced
through the texts.”
“Then it must have hit some responsive chord. I wouldn't be unduly concerned
about this. As you integrate into the persona it win fall away and you will
begin to actively participate.”
“I feel no emotional reaction to the material at all. I mean, no more than to
any of the others. It's inexplicable to me.”
“I tell you,” the counselor says with a touch of irritation, “that is of no
concern. The process is self-reinforcing. What we are concerned about is your
overall reactions, the gross medical signs, the question of organic balances.
The psychic reactions will take care of themselves.”
I look past him at the walls of the room which contain schematic portraits of
the intervalley network. Interspersed are various documents certifying the
authenticity of his observer's role. The absence of anything more abstract
disturbs me; previously it never occurred to me how deprived our institutions
seem to be of artistic effect, but now it does; the hypnotics must be
working.
There is a clear hunger within me for something more than a schematic
response
to our condition. “Are you listening to me?” he says. “Did you hear my
question.”
“I heard it.”
“I am going to administer a gross verbal reaction test now, if you will pay
attention.”
“I assure you that is not necessary,” I say. “I am in excellent contact.”
“That is a judgment which we will make.”
“Must you?”
“I'm afraid so,” the counselor says. “We wish to guard against exactly that
which you manifest, which strikes me as a rather hostile, detached response.
We
do not encourage this kind of side-effect, you see; we consider it a negative
aspect of the treatment.”
“I'm sorry to hear that.”
“It is often necessary to terminate treatment in the face of such reactions,
so
I would take this very seriously.”
“Why do you do this to us?” I say. I look at his bland, pleasant face, masked
by
the institutional sheen but nonetheless concealing, I am convinced, as
passionate and confused a person as I might be, perhaps a little more
passionate
and confused since he has not had, after all, the benefit of the treatments.
“Why can we simply not go through this on our own terms, take what we can
take,
miss the rest of it? Why must we be monitored?”
“The procedures “
“Don't tell me of procedures,” I say, leaning forward with a sudden
intensity,
aware that I am twitching at the joints and extremities in a new fashion,
emotionally moved as rarely has been the case. Definitely the treatments are
affecting me. “The real reason is that you're afraid that unless we're
controlled we might really be changed, that we might begin to react in
fashions
that you couldn't predict, that we wouldn't be studying religion and
fanaticism
any more but would actually become religious fanatics and what would you do
with
us then?”
“Confine you,” my confessor says flatly, “for your own protection. Which is
exactly what we want to avoid by the process of what you call monitoring,
which
is merely certifying that you are in condition to continue the treatments
without damage to yourself.”
“Or to the state.”
“Of course to the state. I work for it, you live within it; why should we not
have the interests of the state at heart? The state need not be perceived as
the
enemy by you people, you know.”
“I never perceived—”
“You can't make the state the repository of all your difficulties, the
rationalizing force for your inadequacies. The state is a positive force in
all
of your lives and you have more personal freedom than any citizenry at any
time
in the history of the world.”
“I never said that it wasn't.”
“In fact,” the counselor says, rising, his face suffused now with what might
be
passion but then on the other hand might only be the consequence of improper
diet, highly spiced intake, the slow closure of arteries, “we can get damned
sick of you people and your attitudes. I'm no less human because I have a
bureaucratic job, I want you to know; I have the same problems that you do.
The
only difference is that I'm trying to apply myself toward constructive
purposes,
whereas all you want to do is to tear things down.” He wipes a hand across
his
streaming features, shrugs, sits again. “Sorry to overreact,” he says. “It's
just that a good deal of frustration builds up and it has to be expressed.
This
isn't easy for any of us, you know. We're not functionaries; we're people
just
as you are.”
There seems nothing with which I can disagree. I consider certain religious
virtues which would have to do with the absorption of provocation without
malice
and remain quietly in my chair, thinking of this and that and many other
things
having to do with the monitoring conducted by these institutions and what it
might suggest about the nature of the interrelation, but thought more and
more
is repulsive to me; what I concentrate upon, what seems to matter is feeling,
and it is feeling which I will cultivate. “Some questions,” the counselor
says
in a more amiable tone. “Just a series of questions which I would like you to
answer as briefly and straightforwardly as possible.”
“Certainly,” I say, echoing his calm. “Tres bonne, merci. Maintenant et
pourquoi.” “Pourquoi?” he says with a glint in his eye and asks me how often
I
masturbate.
****
He looks at the man who has come from the tomb. Little sign of his entrapment
is
upon him; he looks merely as one might who had been in deep sleep for a
couple
of days. He touches him once gently upon the cheek to assure the pulse of
light,
then backs away. The crowd murmurs with awe. This is no small feat; here he
has
clearly outdone the loaves and the fishes. They will hardly be able to
dismiss
this one; it will cause great difficulty when the reports hit Rome. “How are
you?” he says to Lazarus. “Have you been merely sleeping or did you perceive
the
darkness? What brang you back from those regions?”
Documentary sources indicate no speech from the risen man, of course. But
documentary sources are notoriously undependable, and, besides, this is a
free
reconstruction as he has been so often advised. Perhaps Lazarus will have
something to say after all; his eyes bulge with reason and his tongue seems
about to burst forward with the liquid syllables of discovery. But only an
incoherent babble emerges; the man says nothing.
He moves in closer, still holding the grip. “Were you sleeping?” he says, “or
did you perceive?”
“Ah,” Lazarus says. “Eeeh. Om.”
He shrugs and dropping his hand moves away. If a miracle is to succeed, it
must
do so on its own terms; one must have a detached, almost airy attitude toward
the miracles because at the slightest hint of uncertainty or effort they will
dissipate. “Very well,” he says, “be on your way. Return to your life.”
The disciples surround him, all but Judas, of course, who as usual is
somewhere
in the city, probably making arrangements for betrayal. There is nothing to
be
done; he must suffer Judas exactly as Judas must suffer him; it is the
condition
of their pact. Peter puts a heavy hand on his shoulder. “What if the man
cannot
move, master?” he says, always practical. “What if he is unable to complete
the
journey from the grave.”
“He will be able to.”
Indeed Lazarus seems to have adopted a stiff gait which takes him slowly
toward
the crowd. The crowd is surprisingly sparse after all; it is not the throng
indicated by scriptures, but instead might be only forty or fifty, many of
whom
are itinerants drawn to the scene in their wanderings. Scriptural sources
were
often only a foundation for the received knowledge, of course; the scribes
had
their own problems, their own needs to fill and retrospective falsification
was
part of their mission ... still, he thinks, it is often embarrassing to see
how
hollow that rock is upon which the church was built. Oh well. “I think we had
better leave now,” Peter says.
“Oh?”
“Indeed,” this man of practicality says. “it will make more of an impression,
I
think; it will lend more of an air of mystery and have greater lasting effect
than if you were to stay around. A certain detachment must be cultivated.”
“We will surround you, Master,” little Mark says, “and leave together hiding
your aspect from the populace. In this way you will seem to be attended at
all
times by a shield.” He beckons to Luke, John, the others. “Come,” Peter says,
“nothing can be served by staying here longer. It would be best to move on.”
He does admire the practicality, the disciples simply acting within the
situation to bring the maximum interest, and yet reluctance tugs at him. He
is
really interested in Lazarus. He would like to see what happens next: will
the
man leave the area of the tomb or will he simply return to it? The rock has
merely been pulled aside, the dark opening gapes; Lazarus could simply return
to
that comfort if he desired, and perhaps he does. Or perhaps not; it is hard
to
evaluate the responses of an individual toward death. The man is now shielded
from view by the crowd which seems to be touching him, checking for the more
obvious aspects of mortality. “Let us wait a moment,” he says. “This is very
interesting. Let's see what is happening here.”
“It would not serve, Master,” Peter says.
“It is not a matter of serving, merely one of observation. I am responsible
for
this man, after all; it is only reasonable that I would take an interest in
his
condition.”
“No,” Luke says. He scuttles over, a thin man with bulging, curiously
piercing
eyes. No wonder he wrote the most elaborate of the gospels dictated, that is
to
say, all of the disciples being fundamentally illiterate. “That will not
serve.
It is important that we leave at once, Master.”
“Why?”
“The mood of the crowd is uncertain; it could turn ugly at any time. There
can
be much contremps over miracles, and the superstitious are turned toward
fear.
The very hills are filled with great portents—”
“Enough,” Peter says. “You have a tendency for hyperbole, Luke; there is no
danger here. But it would be better, from many standpoints if we were to
leave;
an air of mystery would serve best.”
“Oh, all right,” I say. “Je renounces.” It is, after all, best to adopt a
pose
of dignity and to give in to the wishes of the disciples, all of whom at
least
intermittently take this matter more seriously than I ... they are, after
all,
in a position of greater vulnerability. I cast one last look at Lazarus, who
is
now leaning back against the suspended door of the tomb, elbows balanced
precariously on stones, trying to assume an easeful posture for the group
almost
obscuring him. How exactly is one to cultivate a je ne sais quoi about death?
It
is something to consider; of course I will have ample time to consider the
issue
myself, but Lazarus could hardly yield much information on the subject. The
man
is speechless, highly inarticulate; one would have hoped that for a miracle
such
as this that I could have aroused someone less stupid, but nothing to be
done.
All of existence is tied together in one tapestry, take it all or leave it,
no
parts. Surrounded by my muttering disciples I walk toward the west, kicking
up
little stones and puffs of dust with my sandals.
It is disappointing, quite a letdown really, and I would like to discuss
this,
but not a one of them would want to hear it. I know that they already have
sufficient difficulties having given up their lives for the duration of this
mission and it would be an embarrassment for them to hear that I too do not
quite know what I am doing. Or perhaps I do. It is hard to tell. In the
distance
I hear a vague collision of stone. I would not be surprised if Lazarus had
gone
back into the tomb. Of the tapestry of existence je ne sais pas.
****
As I copulate with Edna, images of martyrdom tumble through my mind, a
stricken
figure on the cross, stigmata ripped like lightning through the exposed sky,
and
it is all that I can do under the circumstances to perform, but thy will be
done, the will must transcend, and so I force myself into a smaller and
smaller
corner of her, squeezing out the images with little birdcalls and carrying
her
whimpers through me. She coils and uncoils like a springy steel object and at
long last obtains sexual release; I do so myself by reflex and then fall from
her grunting. It is quite mechanical, but in a highly technological culture
sexual union could only be such; otherwise it would be quite threatening to
the
apparatus of the state, or so, at least, I have deduced. She lies beside me,
her
face closed to all feeling, her fingers clawed around my wrist. I groan deep
in
my throat and compose for sleep, but it is apparent then that there will be
no
sleep because suddenly she is moving against me and then sitting upright in
the
bed, staring. Hands clasped behind my head, elbows jutting at an angle of
eighty-five degrees. I regard her bleakly. “I can't talk now,” I say.
“Please,
if you must say something, let it be later. There's nothing right now.”
“You mean you have to face your treatments in the morning and you need your
rest
so that you can be alert for the drugs. That's all you think about now, those
treatments.
Where are you living? Here or there? Come on, tell me ...
“I don't want to talk, I told you.”
“You've changed,” she said. “They've destroyed you. You aren't what you used
to
be.”
There comes a time in every relationship when one has approached terminus,
when
the expenditure of pain is not worth the pleasure input, where one can feel
the
raw edges of difference collide through the dissolved flesh of care. Looking
at
Edna I see that we have reached that point, that there is not much left, and
that it will be impossible for me to see her again. This will be the end.
After
she leaves this time there will be no recurrence. It is this, more than
anything
else, which enables me to turn from her with equanimity, to confront the bold
and staring face of the wall. “Goodnight,” I say. “We won't talk about this
any
more.”
“You can't avoid this. You can run from me but not from what has happened.
You're not living here any more; you're living in the spaces of your own
consciousness. Don't you realize that? You've turned inside; you've shut it
out!
These aren't experiences that you're having; they're dreams, and all of this
is
taking place inside you. I hate to see it happen; you're better than this;
together we could have helped one another, worked to understand what our
lives
were, maybe even made progress.”
Too late. I stand. “You'd better leave now, Edna.”
Arms folded across her little breasts, she juts her chin at me. “That won't
solve anything at all. Getting rid of me won't change it.”
“The only truth is the truth we create within ourselves.”
“I don't believe that. That's what they tell us, that's how you got started
on
these treatments, but it isn't so. There's an objective truth and it's
outside
of this and you're going to have to face it sooner or later. You're just
going
to have to realize.” I look at her with enormous dispassion and my expression
must be a blade which falls heavily across her rhetoric, chopping it,
silencing
her. At length, and when I know that she is ready to receive the necessary
question, I pose it as calmly and flatly as I have ever done and its
resonance
fills the room, my heart, her eyes until there is nothing else but her
flight,
and at last that peace which I have promised myself.
“Why?” I say.
****
At Bruck Linn they do not start the pogrom after all, but instead seize me
roughly and burl me into detention. It seems that it was only this in which
they
were interested; they entered in such massive numbers only to make sure that
they could scour the area for me if I were not at my appointed place. In
detention I am given spartan but pleasant quarters within what appears to be
their headquarters, and a plate of condiments on which to nibble, as well as
the
five sacred books of the Pentauch, which, since they know I am a religious
man,
they have obviously given for the purposes of recreation. I look through them
idly, munching on a piece of cake, but as always find the dead and sterile
phrases insufficient on their own to provoke reaction, and it is almost with
relief that I see them come into the room, obviously to explain themselves
and
advise what will happen next. It is high time. There are two of them, both
splendidly uniformed, but one is apparently in the role of secretary;
unspeaking, he sits in a corner with a recording device. The other has a
blunt
face and surprisingly expressive eyes. I would not have thought that they
were
permitted large wet blue eyes like this.
“You are giving us much difficulty,” he says directly, sitting. “Too much and
so
we have had to arrange this rather dramatic interview. Our pardon for the
melodrama but it could not, you see, be spared; we needed to seize and detain
as
quickly as possible, and we could not take a chance on riots.”
“Certainly,” I say rather grandly. “I am a world figure. My abduction would
not
be easy.”
“It is not only that.”
“But that in itself would be enough.”
“No matter,” he says. He looks at me intently. “We're going to have to abort
the
treatments,” he says. “You are becoming obsessive.”
“What?”
“It has leached out into your personal life and you are beginning to combine
treatments and objective reality in a dangerous fashion. Therefore under the
contract we are exercising our option to cut them off.”
“I have no understanding of this,” I say. “Treatments? I am the Lubavitcher
Rabbi of Bruck Linn and I have been torn from the heart of my congregation in
broad daylight by fascists who will tell me this? This is unspeakable. You
speak
madness.”
“I am afraid,” he says, and those expressive eyes are linked to mine, “that
you
are displaying precisely those symptoms which have made this necessary. You
are
not the Lubavitcher Rabbi, let alone of Brooklyn. You are Harold
Thwaite of the twenty-third century; the Lubavitchers are a defunct,
forgotten
sect, and you are imagining all of this. You have reconceived your life; the
partitions have broken; and we are therefore, for your own good, ceasing the
treatments and placing you in temporary detention.”
“This is an outrage,” I say. “This is impossible. Pogrom? Pogroms I can
understand, I can deal with them. But this madness is beyond me.”
The uniformed man leans toward me and with the gentlest of fingers strokes my
cheek. “It will go easier if you cooperate, Harold,” he says. “I know how
difficult this must be for you, the shock.”
“My followers will not be easy to deal with. You will have to cut them down
with
rifle fire. I am sure that you can do this, but the cost in blood and bodies
will be very high, and in the long run you will not win. You will find a
terrible outcome. We are God's chosen; we and only the Lubavitchers carry
forth
his living presence in this century, and you cannot tamper with that presence
lacking the most serious consequences.”
And I see to my amazement and to my dismay that the interrogator, the one who
has come to intimidate and defile, this man in the hard and terrible uniform
of
the state, appears to be weeping.
****
I part the Red Sea with a flourish of the cane but the fools nonetheless
refuse
to cross. “What is wrong with them?” I say to Aaron. “It's perfectly safe.” I
move further into the abyss between the waves and turn, but the throng
remains
on the shore staring with bleak expressions. Only Aaron is beside me. “I'm
afraid they don't trust the evidence of sight,” he says, “and also they don't
trust you either; they feel that this is merely a scheme to lead them astray
and
as soon as they step over, the waters will close upon them.”
“That is ridiculous,” I say to him. “Would I take them this far, do so much,
walk with the guidance of the Lord to betray the Children of Israel?”
Aaron shrugs, a bucolic sort. “What can I tell you?” he says. “There's no
accounting for interpretation.”
****
At the first great hammer to the temple it comes to me that they were all the
time as serious as I. More serious, in fact. I was willing to trust the
outcome
of my rebellion to a higher power, whereas they, solid businessmen to the
end,
decided to make sure that the matter rested in their own hands.
Nevertheless, it hurts. I never knew that there was so much pain in it until
they put me down at the mosque and oh my oh my oh my oh my no passion is
worth
any of the real blood streaming.
****
“You see now,” the counselor says to me, “that you are clearly in need of
help.
There is no shame in it; there is precedent for this; it has all happened
before. We know exactly how to treat the condition, so if you will merely lie
quietly and cooperate, we should have you on your way before long. The fact
that
you are back in focus now, for instance, is a very promising sign. Just a few
hours ago we despaired of this, but you are responding nicely.”
I rear up on my elbows. “Let me out of here,” I say. “I demand to be let out
of
here. You have no right to detain me in this fashion; I have a mission to
perform, and I assure you that you will suffer greatly for what you have
done.
This is a serious business; it is not to be trifled with. Detention will not
solve your problems; you are in grave difficulty.”
“I urge you to be calm.”
“I am perfectly calm.” I note that I appear to be lashed to the table by
several
painless but well contrived restraints, which pass across my torso, digging
in
only when I flail. It is a painless but humiliating business and I subside,
grumbling. “Very well,” I said. “You will find what happens when you adopt
such
measures, and that judgment will sit upon you throughout eternity.”
The counselor sighs. He murmurs something about many of them at the beginning
not being reasonable, and I do not remind him that this is exactly as Joseph
had
warned.
****
Tormented by the anguish on the Magdalene's face, the tears which leak
unbidden
down her cheeks, he says, “It is all right. The past does not matter; All
that
matters is what happens in the timeless present, the eternal future.” He lifts
a
hand, strokes her cheeks, feeling a strange and budding tenderness working
which
surprises him in its intensity; it is of a different sort from the more
generalized tenderness he has felt through his earlier travels. “Come,” he
said.
“You can join me.”
She puts her hand against his. “You don't understand,” she says. “This is not
what I want.”
“What?”
“Talk of paradise, of your father, of salvation; I don't understand any of it.
I
don't know what you think they want.”
“I know what they want.”
“You don't know anything,” she says. “You are a kind man but of these people
you
know nothing.” She smooths her garments with a free hand. “To them you are
merely a diversion, an entertaining element in their lives, someone who
amuses
them, whereas you think in passionate terms. You will be deeply hurt.”
“Of course.”
“No,” she says, “not in the way you think. Martyrdom will not hurt you; that
is,
after all, what you seek. It will be something else.” Something else, he
thinks.
Something else, I think.
She is an attractive woman not without elements of sympathy, but staring at
her
I remember that she was, until very recently, a prostitute who committed
perhaps
even darker acts, and that it is an insolent thing which she, of all people,
is
doing in granting her Savior such rebuke. “Come,” I say to her. I should note
that, we have been having this dialogue by a river bank, the muddy waters of
the
river arching over the concealed stones, the little subterranean animals of
the
river whisking their way somewhere toward the north, the stunted trees of
this
time holding clumps of birds which eye us mournfully. “It is time to get back
to
the town.”
“Why?”
“Because if we remain out here talking like this much longer some will
misconceive. They will not understand why we have been gone so long.”
“You are a strange, strange man.”
“I am not a man. I am—”
“I would not take all of this so seriously,” she says, and reaches toward me,
a
seductive impact in the brush of her band, seductive clatter in her breath,
and
oh my Father it is a strange feeling indeed to see what passes between us
then,
and with halt and stuttering breath I hurl myself upright, thrust her away,
and
run toward Galilee. Behind me, it cannot be the sound of her laughter which
trails. It cannot, it cannot.
****
“Fools,” I say, my fingers hurtling through the sacred, impenetrable text,
looking for the proper citation. “Can't you understand that you are living at
the end of time? The chronologies of the Book of Daniel clearly indicate that
the seven beasts emerge from the seven gates in the year 2222, the numbers
aligned; it is this generation which will see the gathering of the light.”
They
stare at me with interest but without conviction. “You had better attend,” I
say. “You have little time, little enough time to repent, and it will go
easier
for you if you do at the outset.”
One of the congregants raises his hand and steps toward me. “Rabbi,” he says,
“you are suffering from a terrible misapprehension—”
“So are you all,” I say with finality, “but misapprehension can itself become
a
kind of knowledge.”
“This is not Bruck Linn and the Book of Daniel has nothing to do with what is
happening.”
“Fool,” I say, lunging against my restraining cords, “you may conceive of a
pogrom, but that cannot alter the truth. All of your murders will not stop
the
progress of apocalypse for a single moment.”
“There is no apocalypse, rabbi,” the congregant says, “and you are not a
rabbi.”

I scream with rage, lunging against the restraints once again and they back
away
with terror on their solemn faces. I grip the Pentauch firmly and hurl it at
them, the pages opening like a bird's wing in flight, but it misses, spatters
against an opposing wall, falls in spatters of light. “I have my duties,” I
say,
“my obligations. You had better let me go out and deliver the summons to the
world; keeping me here will not keep back the truth. It cannot be masked, and
I
assure you that it will go better for you if you cooperate.”
“You are sick, rabbi,” he says very gently. “You are a sick man. Thankfully
you
are getting the treatment that you so desperately need and you will be
better.”
“The great snake,” I point out, “the great snake which lies coiled in guard
of
the gates is slowly rising; he is shaking off the sleep of ten thousand
years.”
“To throw a holy book—”
“No books are holy. At the end of time, awaiting the pitiless and terrible
judgment even the sacred texts fall away. All that is left is judgment,
mercy,
the high winds rising.”
“If you will relax, rabbi—”
“I want to walk to and fro upon the earth and up and down upon it!” I scream.
“From all of these wanderings I will come to a fuller knowledge, crouching
then
at the end of time with the old antagonist to cast lots over the vestments of
the saved and the damned alike, bargaining for their garments out of a better
world—”
“If you will only be quiet...”
“The snake is quiet too,” I say, “quiet and waiting for the time of judgment,
but let me tell you that the silence which you will demand is the silence of
the
void—”
And so on and so forth, je ne sais pas. It is wearying to recount all of
those
admonitions which continue to rave through the spaces of the room at this
time.
If there is one thing to say about a Talmudic authority in heat, it is that
once
launched upon a point he can hardly pause; pauses would form interstices
where
the golem itself might worm. And of the golem, of course, little more need be
said.
****
“Will you yield?” Satan says to me, putting me into an untenable position
upon
the sands. His face looms near mine like a lover's; he might be about to
implant
the most sustained and ominous of kisses. “Yield and it will go easier with
you.”
“No,” I say, “never. I will not yield.” The French has fled, likewise the
depersonalization, I feel at one with the persona, which is a very good sign,
surely a sign that I am moving closer to the accomplishment of my great
mission.
“You may torture me; you may bring all of your strength to bear; it is
possible
that you will bend and break me, but you will never hear renunciation.” I
grab
purchase with my ankles, manage to open up a little bit of space, which of
course I do not share with my ancient antagonist, and then with a sly wrench
drag him toward me, defy his sense of balance and send him tumbling beside.
He
gasps, the exhalation of breath full as dead flowers in my face, and it is
possible for me now to hurl myself all the way over him, pressing him into
the
sands. Gasping, he attempts to fling me, but as I collapse on top of him my
knee
strikes his horned and shaven head, administering a stunning blow and from
the
opening I see leaching the delicate, discolored blood of Satan. His eyes
flutter
to attention and then astonishment as I close upon him and my strength is
legion. “Do you see?” I say to him. “Do you see now what you have done? You
cannot win against the force of light,” and I prepare myself to deliver the
blow
of vanquishment. Open to all touch he lies beneath me; his mouth opens.
“Stop!” he says weakly, and to my surprise I do so. There is no hurry, after
all; he is completely within my power. “That's better,” he says. His
respiration
is florid. “Stop this nonsense at once. Help me arise.”
“No,” I say, “absolutely not.”
“You don't understand, you fool. This dispute was supposed to be purely
dialectical; there was no need to raise arms.” Ali, the cunning of Satan!
Defeated on his own terms he would Shift to others, but I have been warned
against this too, I have been fully prepared for all the flounderings of the
ancient enemy; there is nothing that he can do now to dissuade me, and so I
laugh at him, secure in my own power and say, “Dialectical! No, it was a
struggle unto the death; those were clearly the terms and you know that as
well
as I.”
“No,” he says, twitching his head. “No, absolutely not, you never saw this
right. There was never the matter of murder; don't you realize that? We
aren't
antagonists at all! We are two aspects of the overwhelming one; our search
was
for fusion in these spaces, and that is what we are now prepared to do.” His
head sinks down; he is clearly exhausted. Still he continues muttering. “You
fool,” he says. “There is no way that one of us can vanquish the other. To
kill
either is to kill the self.”
Sophistry! Sophistry! I am so sick of it; I intimate a life, a dark
passageway
through to the end lit only by the flickering and evil little candles of
half-knowledge and witticism, casting ugly pictures on the stones, and the
image
enrages me; I cannot bear the thought of a life which I contain little more
than
small alterations of language or perception to make it bearable,
reconsideration
of a constant rather than changing the unbearable constant itself, but this
is
to what I have been condemned. Not only Satan, but I will have to live by
rhetoric; there will be nothing else.
But at least, this first time on the desert, rhetoric will not have to
prevail.
Perhaps for the only time in my life I will have the opportunity to undertake
the one purposive act, an act of circumstance rather than intellection.
And so, without wishing to withhold that moment any longer, I wheel fiercely
upon Satan. “I've had enough of this shit,” I say. “I've got to deal with it;
I
cannot go on like this forever; there has to be a time for confrontation.”
The
words seem a bit confused, but my action is not; I plunge a foot into his
face.
It yields in a splatter of bone, and in that sudden rearrangement I look upon
his truest form.
“Well,” says Satan through flopping jaw. “Well, well.” He puts a claw to a
slipped cheekbone, “Well, I'll be damned.”
“Oh, yes,” I say, “but you don't have to take all of us with you.”
His eyes, surprisingly mild, radiate, of all things, compassion. “You don't
understand,” he says. He falls to his knees like a great, stricken bird. “You
don't understand anything at all.”
“I do enough.”
“I'm not here by choice,” Satan murmurs. “I'm here because you want me. Do
you
think that this is easy? Being thrown out of Heaven and walking up and down
the
spaces of the earth, and to and fro upon it, and the plagues and the cattle
and
the boils? I've just been so busy, but it was you who brought me into being,
or
again—” Satan says, drawing up his knees to a less anguished posture,
fluttering
on the desert floor, “—is this merely rationalization? I am very good at
sophistry, you know, but this isn't easy; there's a great deal of genuine
pain
in it. I have feelings too.”
I stand, considering him. What he is saying is very complex and doubtless I
should attend to it more closely (I sense that it would save me the most
atrocious difficulty later on if only I would) but there is a low sense of
accomplishment in having dealt with this assignment so effectively, and I do
not
want to lose it so easily. It may be one of the least equivocal moments in a
life riven, as we all know, with conflicts. “I'm dying,” Satan says. “Won't
you
at least reach out a hand to comfort me?”
The appeal is grotesque and yet I am moved. He is, after all, a creature of
circumstance no less than any of the rest of us. I kneel beside him, trying
not
to show my revulsion at the smell of leaking mortality from him. Satan extends
a
hand. “Hold me,” he says. “Hold me; you owe me at least that. You called me
into
being; you have to take responsibility for my vanquishment. Or are you
denying
complicity?”
“No,” I say, “I can hardly do that.” I extend my hand. His claw, my fingers,
interlock.
“You see,” Satan says gratefully, “you know at least that you're implicated.
There may be some hope in that for all of us and now if you will permit me, I
believe that I am going to die.”
Grey and greenish blood spills from his mouth, his nasal passages, eyes and
ears. It vaults into the desert and as I stare fascinated, he dies with quick
muffled little sighs not unlike the sounds of love. It is an enormous and
dignified accomplishment not noted in all the Scripture, and I am held by the
spectacle for more than a few moments.
But as his claw slips away, as touch is abandoned, I have a vision and in
that
vision I see what I should have known before going through all of this. I see
what might have saved me all of this passage, which is to say that knowing he
is
dead there is a consequent wrench in my own corpus indicating an echoing,
smaller death, and as I realize that he has told me the truth, that the
divestment of Satan has resulted only in my own reduction, I stand in the
desert
stunned, knowing that none of this—and I am here to testify, gentlemen, I am
here to testify!—is going to be as simple as I thought.
****
“Even the minor prophets have problems,” I point out in the mosque. “The fact
that I am not famous and that many of my judgments are vague does not mean
that
they are not deeply felt or that I will not suffer the fate of Isaiah;
Jeremiah,
Zephaniah, had their problems. Ezekiel had a limp and was tormented by
self-hatred. Hosea had blood visions too.”
They took at me bleakly, those fifteen. This is what my flock has dwindled
into,
and I should be grateful to have them, what with all of the efforts to
discredit
and those many threats of violence made toward those who would yet remain
with
me. They are quite stupid, the intelligent ones long since having responded
to
the pressure, but they are all I have, and I am grateful, I suppose, to have
them. “Attend,” I say. “The institutions cannot remain in this condition.
Their
oppression is already the source of its own decay; they panic, they can no
longer control the uprising. The inheritors of these institutions are stupid;
they do not know why they work or how, but just mechanically reiterate the
processes for their own fulfillment, massacre to protect themselves, oppress
because oppression is all they know of the machinery. But their time is
limited;
the wind is rising and the revolution will be heard,” and so on and so forth,
the usual rhetorical turns and flourishes done so skillfully that they occupy
only the most fleeting part of my attention. Actually I am looking at the
door.
It is the door which I consider; from the left enter three men in the dress
of
the sect, but I have never seen them before and by some furtive, heightened
expressions of their eyes I know that they have not come here on a merciful
business.
They consult with one another against the wall and it is all that I can do to
continue speaking. I must not show a lapse of rhetoric, I must not let them
know
that I suspect them, because all that I hold is the prospect of my
inattention,
but as my customary prose rolls and thunders I am already considering the way
out of here. My alternatives are very limited. The windows are barred, the
walls
are blank behind me, there only exits are at the edge of the hall and what
has
happened to the guards? Did they not screen this group? Are they not supposed
to
protect me, or are they all part of the plot? “Be strong, be brave,” I am
telling my followers, but I do not feel strong or brave myself; I feel
instead
utterly perplexed and filled with a fear which is very close to
self-loathing.
Their conference concluded, the men scatter, one going for a seat in the
center,
the other two parting and sliding against the walls. They fumble inside their
clothing; I am sure they have firearms.
I am sure that the assassins, on my trail for so very long, have at last
stalked
me to this point; but I am in a very unique and difficult position because, if
I
show any fear whatsoever, if I react to their presence, they will doubtless
slay
me in the mosque, causing the most unusual consternation to my followers
assembled; but on the other hand, if I proceed through the speech and toward
an
orderly dismissal, all that will happen is that I will make the slaying more
convenient and allow for less witnesses, to say nothing of giving them an
easier
escape. Anything I do, in short, is calculated to work against me, and yet I
am
a man who has always believed in dignity, the dignity of position, that is to
say, taking a stand, following it through whatever the implications; and so I
continue, my rhetoric perhaps a shade florid now, my sentences not as
routinely
parsed as I would wish but it is no go, no go at all; they have a different
method, I see, as the seated one arises and moves briskly toward me. “This is
not right,” I say as he comes up to me, takes me by an elbow. “You could at
least have let me finished; if I was willing to take this through, then you
could have gone along with me.” The congregants murmur.
“You'd better come with me, Harold,” he says. “You need help.”
“Take your hands off me.”
“I'm afraid I'd best not do that,” he says gently, gesturing toward the two
in
the back who begin to come toward me solemnly. “You see, what we have to do
is
to jolt you out of these little fugues, these essays in martyrdom, and it
would
be best if you cooperated; the more you cooperate, the quicker you see that
it
becomes evident that you are accepting reality, and therefore the more
quickly
you will be back to yourself. Come,” he says, giving me a hearty little tug,
“let's just bounce out of here now,” and the others flank me fore and aft and
quite forcefully I am propelled from the rostrum. To my surprise my
congregants
do not express dismay, nor are there scenes of riot or dislocation as I might
have expected; on the contrary they look at me with bleak, passive interest,
as
I am shoved toward the door. It is almost, I think, as if they had expected
me
to come exactly to this state and they are glad that I am being taken off in
this fashion.
“Can't you see,” I say gesticulating to them, “can't you see what is
happening
here? They don't want you to know the truth, they don't want you to accept
the
truth of your lives; that's why they're taking me away from here, because I
was
helping you to face the truth.”
“Come on, Harold,” they murmur taking me away. “All of this has its place,
but
after a while it's just best to cooperate; just go along,” and now they have
me
through the doors, not a single one of my congregants making the slightest
attempt to fracture their progress. I shake a fist at them.
“For God's sake,” I say, “don't any of you care, don't you know what's going
on
here?” and so on and so forth, the sounds of my rhetoric filling my ears, if
hardly all of the world, and outside I am plunged repeatedly into the
brackish
waters of Galilee, which to no one's surprise at all (or at least not to
mine)
hardly lend absolution.
****
“You'd better destroy them,” I say in a conversational tone, settling myself
more comfortably underneath the gourd. “They're a rotten bunch of people as
you
all note. Not a one of them has but a thought of their own pleasure, to say
nothing of the sexual perversity.”
“I may not,” he says reasonably. He is always reasonable, which is a good
thing
if one is engaged in highly internalized dialogues. What would I do if he
were
to lose patience and scream? I could hardly deal with it. “After all, it's
pretty drastic, and besides that, without life there is no possibility of
repentance.”
“Don't start that again,” I say. “You sent me all of these miles, through
heat
and water, fire and pain to warn them of doom, and you would put both of us in
a
pretty ridiculous position, wouldn't you, if you didn't follow through?
They'd
never take me seriously again.”
“You let me decide that, Jonah,” he says, and there is no arguing with him
when
he gets into one of these moods, no possibility of argument whatsoever when
he
becomes stubborn, and so I say, “We'll see about this in the morning,” much
as
if I were controlling the situation rather than he, which is not quite true
of
course, and slip into a thick doze populated with the images of sea and
flying
fish, but at the bottom of the sleep is pain, and when I bolt from it it is
with
terrible pain through the base of being, my head in anguish, my head as if it
were carved open, and looking upward I see that the gourd which he had so
kindly
spread for me has shriveled overnight, and I am now being assaulted by a
monotonous eastern sun. “Art thou very angry?” he says companionably, lapsing
into archaicism as is his wont.
“Of course I am very angry,” I say, “You have allowed my gourd to die. And
besides I want to know when you're going to get rid of these people. Looking
down from this elevation I can see very distinctly that the city is still
standing.”
“Ah,” he says as I scratch at my head, trying to clobber the sun away, “thou
takest pity upon the gourd which was born in a night and died in a night; why
should I not take pity upon forty thousand people who cannot discern their
right
hand from their left to say nothing of much cattle?”
“Sophistry,” I say, “merely sophistry.”
“Unfortunately,” he says, “there is no room for your reply,” and smites me
wildly upon the head, causing me to stumble into the ground, Gomorrah still
upright, and I am afflicted (and not for the first time I might add) with
perception of the absolute perversity of this creature who dwelleth within
me.
At all times.
****
The thieves have died, but I am still alive to the pain of the sun when I
feel
the nails slide free and I plunge a hundred feet into the arms of the
soldiers.
They cushion my fall, lave my body with strong liquids, murmur to me until
slowly I come over the sill of consciousness to stare at them. Leaning over
me
is a face which looks familiar. “Forgive them,” I say weakly, “forgive them,
they know not what they do.”
“They know what they do.”
“Jamais,” I say and to clarify, “never.”
“You have not been crucified,” he says. “You'd better accept that.”
“Then this must be hell,” I say, “and I still in it.” He slaps me across the
face, a dull blow with much resonance.
“You're just not being reasonable,” he says. “You are not a reasonable man.”
“Help me up there, then,” I say. “It is not sufficient. Help me up there and
crucify me again.”
“Harold—”
“Jesu,” I say admonishingly and close my eyes waiting for ascent and the
perfect
striations of the nails through the wrist: vaulting, stigmata.
****
The face looking at me is Edna's, but this is strange because Edna will not
be
born for several centuries yet, and what is even stranger than that is the
fact
that despite this I recognize her. How can this be? Nevertheless, one must
learn
to cope with dislocations of this sort if one is to be a satisfactory martyr.
“They asked me to come here and speak to you,” she says. “I don't know why
I'm
here. I don't think it will be of any use whatsoever. But I will talk to you.
You have got to stop this nonsense now, do you bear me?”
“You could help by getting me out of here,” I say, plucking at my clothing.
“My
appearance is disgusting and it is hardly possible for me to do the work when
I
am confined to a place like this. Or at least you could have them hurry and
order up the crucifixion. Get it over with. There's no reason to go on this
way;
it's absolutely futile.”
“That's what they want me to talk to you about. They seem to think that this
is
something that can be reasoned with. I keep on telling them that this is
ridiculous; you're too far gone but they say to try so I will. They're as
stupid
as you. All of you are stupid; you've let the process take over and you don't
even understand it. Face reality, Harold, and get out of this or it is going
to
go very badly—”
“Jesu,” I remind her.
“Do you see?” she says to someone in the distance. “It's absolutely hopeless.
Nothing can come of this. I told you that it was a waste.”
“Try,” the voice says. “You have to try.” She leans toward me. Her face is
sharp, her eyes glow fluorescent in the intensity. “Listen, Harold,” she
says.
“You are not jesu or anyone else any of your religious figures. This is 2219
and
you have been undergoing an administered hypnotic procedure enabling you to
live
through certain of your religious obsessions, but as is very rarely the case
with others you have failed to come back all of the way at one point, and now
they say you're in blocked transition or something. They're quite able to
help
you and to reverse the chemotherapeutic process, but in order to begin you
have
to accept these facts, that we are telling you the truth, that they are
trying
to help you. That isn't too much, is it? I mean, that isn't too much of an
admission for you to make; and in return look at the wonderful life you'll
have.
Everything will be just as it was before, and you can remember how you loved
it
that way.”
“Let me out of here,” I say. “Where are my robes? Where are my disciples?
Where
are the sacred scrolls and the voice of the Lord? You cannot take all of this
away; you will be dealt with very harshly.”
“There are no sacred scrolls or followers. All of those people died a long
time
ago. This is your last chance, Harold; you'd better take it. Who knows what
the
alternative might be? Who knows what these people might be capable of doing?”
“Magdalene,” I say reasonably, “simply because you're a whore does not mean
that
you always speak the truth. That is a sentimental fallacy.”
Her face congests and she spits. I leave it rest there. A celebration. A
stigmata.
****
Conveyed rapidly toward Calvary I get a quick glimpse of the sun appearing in
strobes of light as they drive me with heavy kicks toward the goal. The yoke
is
easy at this time and burdens light; it is a speedy journey that I have made
from the court to this place and it will be an easier one yet that I will
make
to Heaven. A few strokes of the hammer, some pain at the outset: blood,
unconsciousness, ascension. Nothing will be easier than this, I think; the
getting to this condition has far outweighed in difficulty this final stage.
Struggling with the sacred texts has been boring, the miracles sheer
propaganda;
now at last I will find some consummative task worthy of my talents.
“Faster,” they shout, “faster!” and I trot to their urging. Vite, vite, vite
to
that great mountain where I will show them at last that passion has as
legitimate a place in this world as any of their policies and procedures and
will last; I will convince them as I have already convinced myself a hell of
a
lot longer. Brava passione! Brava!
****
So they yank me from the restraints and toss me into the center of the huge
room
to meet the actors. There they all are, there they are: congregants,
disciples,
Romans, pagans, troopers, all of the paraphernalia and armament of my
mission.
Edna and the Magdalene are somewhere, but concealed; I have to take their
presence on faith. I have had to take everything on faith, and at the end it
destroys me; this is my lesson.
“Enough of this!” they cry. Or at least one of them says this; it is very
difficult to be sure. The shout must come from an individual but then again
it
would appear to be a collective shout; they all feel this way. “This is your
last chance, your very last chance to cooperate before it becomes very
difficult.”
“I don't know.”
“Ne rien,” they cry. A great clout strikes, knocking me to the floor. It
hurts
like hell. Attende bien, I could have expected nothing less; I have waited
for
it so very long. Still, one tries to go on. I scramble for purchase, hurl
myself
upright. My capacity to absorb pain, oh happy surprise, seems limitless after
all.
“Listen!” they say, not without a certain sympathy, “Listen, this is very
serious business; it cannot go on; the matter of the treatments themselves is
at
stake. The treatment process is complex and expensive and there are
complications, great difficulties—”
I confront them reasonably. I am a reasonable man. I always have been. “I
will
see you with my Father in Heaven,” I say. “That is where I will see you and
not
a bloody moment sooner.”
“Don't you understand? Don't you realize what you are doing? The penalties
can
be enormous. This must stay controlled; otherwise—”
“Otherwise,” I say. “Otherwise you will lose your world and it is well worth
losing. I have considered this. I have given it a great deal of thought.
Martyrdom is not a posture, not at all; martyrdom springs from the heart. I
am
absolutely serious; it did not begin that way but that is the way it has
ended.
I will not yield. I will not apologize. I will not be moved. Thy will be
done,
pater noster, and besides, once you get going you can't just turn it off, if
you
have any respect, if you have any respect at all.”
There is a sound like that of engines. They close upon me. I know exactly
what
they have in mind but am nonetheless relieved.
It would have had to be this way. “I will not yield,” I say to them quietly.
“I
will not apologize. I will not be moved. This isn't folklore, you know; this
is
real pain and history.”
They tear me apart.
****
I think of Satan now and am glad that we were able to have that little
conversation in the desert the second time, to really get to know one another
and to establish a relationship. He was quite right, of course, the old best
loved angel, and I wish I'd had the grace to acknowledge it at the time. We
wanted him; we called him into it. It was better to have him outside than in
that split and riven part of the self. Oh how I would like to embrace him
now.
****
They leave me on the Cross for forty days and forty nights. On the
forty-first
the jackals from the south finally gnaw the wood to ash and it collapses. I
am
carried off, what is left of me, in their jaws and on to further adventures I
cannot mention in bowels and partitions of the Earth.


The End