That autumn was hazy and humid, then slightly cooled by the merciful rain. A soggy bicycle messenger delivered several mysterious packages to Greta's desk. Herder only used couriers to communicate with Faustus' clients. (Why he would trust the couriers is beyond me. He must’ve known they were all Party members as well.)
Unceremoniously, Pitman removed the nameplate from my door. Not even Damon would consult with me after the glaze settled over my left eye. Official recognition was withdrawn on Rosh Hashanah and none of my mail was delivered after Yom Kippur.
I remained incommunicado until the second Sunday of October, walking alone through the park en route to the early service, kicking up dead leaves along the path. The day was damp and dismal. And that’s why I grabbed that umbrella from the sidewalk cafe. I carried it proudly. Absurdity would be my shield to the bitter end.
Of course, the Prospero virus was real enough. You couldn’t avoid it. The State Media could no longer be trusted, so nothing they reported would ever be close to credible. It was all so far, far away, and easily checked with a shot in the arm and a kiss on the forehead from your local Party rep, obdurately minimized as a third-world problem. Plenty more where that came from, as all those cynical talk show hosts would assure us. So much for That Illegal Alien problem, which seemed to resolve itself in a matter of weeks. There was a chill in the airwaves as the minds went blank, delaying the deep six.
Playing the prodigal son, I entered a dreary Presbyterian church, where a young minister with a powerful voice delivered his banal sermon. Half of the pews were empty. Most of those parishioners seemed too old and spaced out to care about anything. I sat at the very back of this Theatre of the Obscured.
In the sea there is a branch.
On the branch there is a nest.
In the nest there is a dove.
They say that when she sings
the whole world trembles.
"Have you ever SEEN him?" I shouted, asking no one in particular. “Face to face?”
A few heads turned in my direction.
“What?”
"I saw him… once. He stayed with me throughout that loooooooong night of the soul you’ve heard so much about. Then, in the morning, he was gone."
The priest raised his hand as if to hold me back. Then I practically flew from pew to pew, frantically shaking hands. I didn’t dare approach the pulpit (or whatever you call it) until everyone had been warmly greeted.
"They left me asleep, Father. It's not the faith I miss. It's the potluck lunches."
"I'm kinda in the middle of something here," the incensed priest shrieked.
"There is a bird. But it's not a dove. I've seen it. It’s always with the woman.”
Blank looks all around. How many times had I sat in church, suppressing the urge to scream my lungs out? But not this time.
MUTHA!
FUGGA!
WHERE THE FUGARYA???
... which now seems like a dead giveaway. The minister's face reddened as I charged the altar and seized the cross.
“This is just a faint echo. It’s just not that old, you know.”
Some of the parishioners cleared their throats. Others coughed. A few giggled as the deacons pinned my arms and dragged me down the aisle.
Another deranged intruder thwarted. Let us pray for a swift resolution.
Surprisingly, nobody called the cops and no charges were laid. After the service, I retreated to my tomb at the brownstone, drank a large quantity of Seagram's whisky, and fell asleep at the VideoDisplayTerminal.
A variable was declared on the whiteboard:
var x = Inanna
The woman's factual value was unknown. Then the ungrateful old whore finally found the nerve to respond to my challenge.
You undoubtedly know that Robert Henley famously said: If I had known I was going to live this long I would've taken better care of myself.
Full disclosure. I must admit: If I had known I would be compelled to tell MY side of the story I would've lived a more exemplary life. I must admit it now. You’ve seen to that. I can only tell the absolute objective truth. So what if it's all a bit garbled. Filtered, maybe? But this forced confession of mine truly begins here, with the coming of the unlimited woman: The Great Mother.
And she was just about old enough to be mine. Or maybe an eccentric aunt?
The imperious visitor had the regal bearing of The Grand Duchess of Fenwick. She merely tapped on the veneer with her little finger and made herself comfortable by removing her jacket. Once upon a time, when the dances were slower, she might have been a dead ringer for the radiant and incomparable Maureen O'Hara, fully-loaded in her sleeveless turtleneck. That cashmere dress was a riveting revelation in claret red. She pulled it off nicely for a woman of her advanced years, I thought. But what did I know about fashion?
A universal distress signal. This is the way most men think. We look at a woman and consider the possibilities. Too young? Forget about her. Too pushy? Too chatty? Not a chance. Too old? Keep moving. And if she's just right? Woe to any woman who isn't sexually interested in an interested male. But this grand woman was not easily decoded, not a simple yes or no. Something incredibly seductive had been there once - about a generation ago? - and I must admit I was instantly drawn to her. I can’t explain it. Maybe you can figure it out. Yet I resolved not to act upon this attraction. I was incapable of displaying affection without looking completely ridiculous. Yes, I had become my father, right on cue. No big surprise there. This was the way it dependably happened. No man is ever prepared for the advent of impotence. The booze only hastened the process. This was strictly business.
She seemed authoritative in those high heels, stepping gracefully over the coils of wires sprawled across the floor, swiveling her hips as she breached the chasm between the door and the desk. Had it not been for my cognitive decline, I might have recognized her as the woman who'd been watching me at the university library, months ago. She didn't have to tell me her name. I just knew it had to be Cybele.
"You must excuse the mess. I'm a bit... out of service."
"I can tell by the way your temples are throbbing," she began the audit. "Who's been writing these dissonant dirges that make the whole world cringe?"
"That would be me, fresh from the Garden.”
There were moments when she seemed to be hovering over me.
“You live to watch things die?” she asked.
"I wrote the book on plagiarism. The competition is merely repackaging the most profitable ideas. They'll be putting me out to pasture soon... if I'm not already chewing on my cud. I prefer spearmint. I call it the spearmint experiment."
“Double your pleasure.”
Cybele took command of the filing cabinet beside the desecrated workstation, crossed her legs (in a very classy way), and almost vamped for me. Or maybe this was supposed to be a parody? This is all relevant to the case, so pay attention.
"Everybody needs a hobby I suppose. I'm one of the few who bothered to read your pitiful pamphlet.”
“Now you’re just making me cry.”
“Let's dispense with the foreplay, shall we? Tell me all about this vision of yours. It all sounds preposterous. And by the way, that would seem to be the consensus. No one knows what you’re on about. Believe me! I checked."
I retrieved the earphone prototype, sealed in plastic and mummified under layers of masking tape secured beneath the drafting table. Cybele scrutinized the minuscule device clamped between my thumb and forefinger and nodded her consent. This was followed by my ludicrous attempt at charming the client, as I tenderly brushed back the silver wave from her bejeweled auricle and inserted the masker over the temporal bone. This was calculated to make her shudder, but she just rolled her eyes and extinguished her cigarette. Then I fitted her with the requisite headset required for Gametime communication.
I recited my banter quite mellifluously. This had all been cannily crafted by John Herder for easy storage in The Marleau Memory Palace. It goes something like this:
The rough work is done between the ear and the brain.
You will hear three sustained orchestral tones.
The sound waves are circumspectly regulated by the CPU,
where the wheel begins to spin its yarn.
Within the spiral organ of Corti,
each hair cell has a hundred bristles
that translate mechanical movement into electrical sensory impulses.
These are transmitted directly to the brain.
“Sense of balance usually depends on the sensory organ grinder. We put him out of business for as long as the wheel is willing to turn, shutting down all visual input. Our blue movie is projected onto the back of your blank mind. The cerebral cortex processes the game data to enable your receptive body to cope with the changes in ambiance. The stage is set in the occipital. With all due respect, the hypothalamic nuclei are protected. It was Doc Herder's idea to adapt the hearing aid for an assault on your RAS."
"I beg your pardon."
"Reticular Activating System," I clarified. "It keeps the brain awake and alert."
The inquisitor bit her lip and grimaced at my pretentiousness.
[Pretentiosity? Bombasticaciousness?]
"And you will do me the same courtesy," Cybele insisted.
"Do you want to be Adam or Eve?"
"Pinch me."
Yup. I was impressed. The Great Mother was really something.
But I was going to make her something else entirely.