No Fury Like That

by Lisa de Nikolits

  “Can we see the washrooms?” I ask, not knowing how to respond to her comments.

  “Sure. They are called Ablution Blocks. This way.”

  We leave the cafeteria and walk down the endless hallway again.

  As we pass one of the doors, I hear a piercing scream and I stop, horrified. It sounds like someone is being tortured alive.

  “What the fuck was that?”

  “The Scream Room,” Agnes says calmly. “It’s supposed to be soundproof but as you can hear, it’s not. I tried to free my inner scream but all that comes out is a little squeak. Says loads about me, I suppose. Maybe one day when I can scream at the top of my lungs, I’ll be able to move on.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  “So young,” I say. “How did you die?”

  “I’ll tell you one day,” Agnes says. “Maybe. Here we are, at an Ablution Block. There are a few of them around and they aren’t signposted as being male or female but the correct one will appear for you. Purgatory isn’t in favour of gender-neutral facilities, although I’ve never bumped into anyone inside, male or female. ”

  “What if you’re trans?”

  “Then a trans one would pop up. Purgatory knows everybody’s shit inside and out. It’s freaky that way. You’ll see.”

  The Ablution Block reminds me of a corporate gym changing room. Industrial grey carpeting lines the floor and there are steel lockers and wooden benches. Showers are to one side, with lilac curtains and pale grey tiles.

  “No bathtubs?” I am dismayed.

  “No bathtubs,” Agnes confirms. “I guess they think showers are less luxurious or something. This isn’t supposed to be a spa vacay in the Bahamas.”

  “But the bowling ladies have their version of heaven,” I object. “Bowl all day, enjoy high tea, and do whatever they want.”

  “Even they can only have a room for four hours, and then they have to leave.”

  “I have a question: How can you calculate four hours if there’s no such thing as time here?” I feel smug, as if I have found the flaw in Purgatory and, in so doing, have solved the mystery of the whole place. I’m confident I will soon find myself back in my own bed, with all this nothing more than a very odd, very intricate dream.

  Agnes isn’t impressed by my insightful discovery. “Everybody just knows it’s four hours,” she says.

  “How long before you can go back?”

  “There’s no definitive number. You just know.”

  I inspect the showers. “Very utilitarian,” I say. The showerheads are small and nothing like the sunflower-sized, five-star hotel designs that I am used to. Hanging wire baskets are filled with mini bottles of no-name shampoos and conditioners. I inspect the individually wrapped bars of soap and I rip the plastic off one and sniff it. Nothing. How can soap smell of nothing? I sniff it again and catch the vaguest scent of a memory of clean and I look at Agnes in horror. I take my soaps very seriously.

  “Not exactly Pré de Provence,” I say sarcastically and although Agnes looks blank at the reference, she understands what I mean. She shrugs, takes the soap from me and throws it in a steel trashcan. I catch sight of myself in the bank of mirrors and I recoil in horror. My skin is dull and pasty, my hair looks like it got caught in a wind tunnel, and my eyes are bloodshot.

  “What the fuck happened?” I ask. “Look at me.” My eyes fill with tears and I look away, unable to deal with my bedraggled and sorry self. There are hair dryers on the counter, next to two steel trays, one filled with hairbrushes and a sign that says USE, while the empty tray bears the sign USED.

  “You put your used hair brushes into that one,” Agnes states the obvious.

  I know I should pick up a brush and fix my hair but I am flooded with exhaustion.

  “I need a break,” I say, and I sound grumpy.

  “We can go back to the Rest Room,” Agnes suggests, but I shake my head.

  “Let’s go for a walk,” I say. “I think best when I’m walking. Actually, running. I suppose there’s a Running Room too?”

  Agnes nods. “Yeah, but you need special privileges for it. There are endless Rooms, but you can’t get into them unless your Helper gives you a voucher.”

  “I shouldn’t have worn this stupid ball gown.” I am angry with myself. “It’s uncomfortable and hot and scratchy. I don’t give a fuck if it’s vintage Dior. I don’t care if I never see it again.”

  I wrench it off, ripping it in the process and I feel childishly satisfied. I tear the bodice from the skirt for good measure and fling the torn pieces on the floor.

  “Let the cleaners deal with that,” I announce scornfully and Agnes smiles.

  “They will. They don’t care if you break things. No one cares about stuff here.”

  I look at the ruined ball gown on the floor and give it a kick for good measure.

  “I want a pedicure,” I say petulantly and Agnes sighs.

  “There’s a Room for that,” she begins, but just as quickly I lose interest.

  “Actually, forget the mani/pedi crap. How do I get out of here? I want to get the fuck out of Purgatory, so tell me how to do that.”

  “You have to come to an epic realization,” Agnes says. “I can introduce you to your Helper. He’ll guide you through the process. Let’s go. Now is a good a time as any.”

  “Are Helpers therapists?”

  “Sort of, only they are ordinary people who have been promoted.”

  “So they haven’t reached their own realization but they tell us how to?” I am sarcastic.

  “They may or may not have. Once you’ve reached your realization, they say you can choose whether or not to stay. You might be surprised, but many want to stay.”

  We leave the Ablution Block and Agnes leads me down the corridor, another airport runway of polished linoleum. We finally turn a corner and I see a row of glass brick offices.

  It looks like the human resources department at work. The décor is impersonal and bland and there’s a ubiquitous leafy Boston fern that I can tell is a fake. An enormous signboard dominates the area. It is a slogan-bearer, much like the signs you see outside churches, trying to entice you to attend Sunday mass with a clever quip. This sign says: Mere religion does not take away the penalty of sin.

  “Who’s in charge of the sign?” I ask.

  “What sign?”

  How can she not see the sign? I point to it and she shrugs. “I never noticed it before,” she says.

  She is tapping a code onto an electronic whiteboard that I had failed to see, and she studies the screen.

  “Ha!” she laughs.

  “What?” I walk up to her and stare at the board.

  “You’ve got Cedar Mountain Eagle.”

  “Male or female?”

  “Male. Hippie dude as you can probably tell by his name. You ready to meet him?”

  “Why did you laugh?”

  “He takes some getting used to, but he’s good. You ready?”

  “He’s my ticket out of here?”

  “I guess.”

  “Then, yeah, I’d like to meet him, pronto-haste.”

  Agnes points down the narrow hallway of glass bricks.

  “Third office on the left. His name’s on the door.”

  “You aren’t coming with me?” I am alarmed at the thought of Agnes leaving.

  “Nope.”

  “Where will I find you afterwards? No, ditch that. Will you wait out here for me?”

  “You don’t need me to wait for you. You’ll be fine. I’ll be at the Canteen. Or the Card Room. I like to play poker. We use jellybeans for money.”

  “Oh, for god’s sake,” I say. “I’ll never find you. This place is an endless maze of halls and unmarked rooms. I’ll never see you again, will I?” I am panic-stricken and I grab at Agnes�
�s arm.

  “Sure you will,” Agnes says and she pats my hand. “I’ll come and find you. Don’t worry, I won’t abandon you. This is my designated job, remember.”

  That a midget-sized, overweight gothic girl with a face full of piercings, a head of red and purple hair, and a variety of senseless tattoos has fast become my best friend, says a lot about my current situation.

  I watch her walk away and I feel more alone than I ever have in my entire life, and let me tell you, I have done alone.

  I figure the sooner I get my meeting with the hippie dude done and dusted, the sooner I will be able to make my way back down to Earth and I turn towards the door.

  5. CEDAR MOUNTAIN EAGLE

  I KNOCK ON THE DOOR. “Come in, come in, we don’t stand on ceremony here,” a high-pitched male voice calls out and I instantly hate him. I like deep, chocolate, radio-rich baritones. There’s something about a shrill man that invites disrespect.

  I open the door and my dislike is confirmed by what I see. A tall, old hippie stands before me. His greying hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and he has a weirdly elongated torso that accounts for most of his body, long simian arms, short corduroy-clad legs, Jesus sandals, and an ornate feather necklace.

  “Julia! I’ve been waiting for you! I’m Cedar Mountain Eagle and I will be your Helper during your time in Purgatory. Of course, Agnes isn’t one of the more speedy Introducers but be that as it may. No disrespect intended of course. Agnes and I go way back. I’m very open and honest about my feelings with, and to her, and I encourage you to be the same with regards to all your relationships in Purgatory. I encourage you to be absolutely honest with me.”

  In which case, I should probably tell him that I already hate him but I’m fairly certain that will be counter-productive. There is always time for insults later.

  I sit down on a brown corduroy sofa that sags in the centre but is surprisingly comfortable. I immediately feel sleepy.

  “To start, I’d like to clarify that this isn’t therapy,” Cedar says. “This is open, honest communication that will hopefully help you move towards the healing light of realization, thereby setting you free from the prison chains that hold your soul captive.”

  “And in specific, practical terms, that means what?”

  He chuckles and I grit my teeth. “Ah, now, Julia, I encourage you to leave those rigid thought-patterns behind you. Specific, practical, etcetera etcetera. Who needs the constraints of such boundaries? I encourage you to open your heart and mind to new ideas, new thought patterns, and new motivations. And do you know what the only real motivator is, Julia? Can you guess?”

  “Money? Power?” I know he won’t go for those but I have to throw them out there anyway, and he gives that shrill chuckle again.

  “Oh my dear, you are in so much pain. No, sweetie, it’s love. Love is all you need. You may think it’s a cliché but it’s true!”

  “I don’t believe anybody has ever called me sweetie in my life,” I say.

  “Well, there we go,” he says cheerfully. “Breaking new ground already. That’s what we’re here to do, break new ground. What would you like to talk about today?”

  “Why the fuck I’m here.”

  He frowns and shakes his head emphatically. “I don’t have many rules, Julia, in fact I am well-known for being Mr. Easy Going, but I draw the line at profanity. Please, no swearing.”

  “And what if I do swear?”

  “Then our session will be terminated until the following day.”

  “I thought you guys don’t have time here. How will I know it’s been a day?”

  “The door will not open,” he says. “The door will remain shut. Now, if you’d like to talk about how and why you are here, over to you. I encourage you to say anything you wish.”

  “Without swearing, of course.”

  “Yes, no profanity.”

  “I thought you hippies swore like troopers, man.” I am mocking him but he just looks at me.

  “I encourage you to respect the rights of the individual, Julia, and I personally don’t approve of swearing.”

  “Do you put the signs up on the board outside the therapy office?”

  “These aren’t therapy offices,” he corrects me. “They’re Help-Facilitation Centres. What sign are you talking about?”

  “The one—” I give up. “So, Cedar Bear,”

  “Cedar Mountain Eagle,” he corrects me. “And you know it. I encourage you to respect my name, just as I respect yours.”

  “Don’t you have a more normal name? Like Dave or Judas or something?”

  His eyes narrow. “You see me as your betrayer?”

  “It was a joke, man. You guys aren’t big on humour, are you?”

  “Depends on the humour,” he fires back, deadpan. “I’ll tell you honestly, Julia, that I don’t believe you and I will be sharing much by way of humour. However, that will not impede the healing process, unless you let it.”

  “How do I get out of here?” I ask. “I want to go back home.”

  He looks at me steadily. “You weren’t exactly happy back home,” he says.

  “What’s that supposed to mean? What do you know about me? What happened to me?”

  “Life happened, Julia. And it’s not what happens, it’s how we deal with it.”

  “And I dealt with it how?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “No, Dave, I don’t. Give me a clue.”

  He sighs. “This isn’t a game, Julia.” He looks out the window.

  “Don’t you ever get tired of the same fucking view?” I ask without thinking, and Cedar Mountain Eagle stands up.

  “See you tomorrow,” he says courteously and I find myself outside his door, with no idea how I got there.

  “Fuck me gently with a barge pole,” I say to the door. I am tempted to knock but I don’t want to give Cedar the pleasure of knowing that I am trying to get back in.

  I stop in front of the sign, which now says: There is more hope for a fool than for someone who speaks without thinking.

  “Ha ha, very fucking funny,” I say. “Well, that was a blast, wasn’t it?” I turn to leave, hoping I am heading in the right direction.

  6. MAKEOVER

  I SAUNTER DOWN THE HALLWAY, away from Dave the Mountain Man and his fucking therapy office, and I enjoy the feeling of my bare feet slapping against the coolness of the linoleum. But I feel horribly lost. All the corridors look the same.

  “Card Room,” I say, out loud. “Card Room, appear, toot sweet.” But nothing happens. It seems Purgatory hasn’t granted me any magical powers.

  On impulse, I open the next door and a group of men look up at me from the floor. They are playing with model trains and I can tell by their expressions that “playing” is the wrong terminology. They glare at me with an expression close to hatred.

  “Can we help you?” one of the men asks, clearly wanting me to leave.

  “I’m looking for Agnes,” I say, and he shrugs.

  “In that case, I’ll close this door and open another,” I joke, but they don’t respond. They just glare at me and I leave, baffled. I lean against the wall and try to process what just happened.

  Here’s the thing. I am, by my own or any definition really, extremely beautiful. Women hate me and men love me and that’s what I’m used to. Therefore, the reaction of those guys was beyond unusual. Never, and I do mean never, not since my blossoming adulthood anyway, have I entered a room full of men and encountered such nothingness. Well, it wasn’t entirely nothingness, there was an ounce of disinterest, coloured by a smidgeon of disdain.

  Disdain? For me?

  I look down at myself. I am still wearing the fantastically bright, tiny Versace dress and it clings in all the right places and reveals all the right things. How could they have resisted me? Granted, I am barefoot with the
chipped remains of a pedicure, but surely my beautiful legs make up for that fashion misdemeanor?

  My faith is shaken. I had forgotten to ask Agnes about sex and I hope this isn’t the kind of place where beauty, sex appeal, and physical charms hold no sway, because if that’s the case, I’ll be in deep shit.

  I try another door and find a group of women knitting and crocheting.

  “Come in, come in!” They are too welcoming and I back out as if I’ve stumbled into a room full of bees.

  These doors. Why can’t they have signs on them?

  I try another one. Ah! Mecca! This must be the Makeup Room. It’s an enormous cavern filled with makeup, nail polish, fragrances, hair styling products, creams, lotions and potions. I feel right at home and I figure I may as well take care of my awful pedicure before trying to find Agnes again.

  I pluck a bottle of nail polish remover and some cotton balls off a shelf and sit down on the sofa. I’ll give Purgatory this: it’s one helluva comfortable place. Well, parts of it are, anyway.

  I bend down to clean the chipped aqua polish off my toes and maybe I lean down too quickly, but I suddenly feel dizzy and everything goes black. I have a fleeting vision or thought or something, of me getting my nails done with the lovely aqua polish and I was happy at that moment but then something went horribly wrong. What had happened? Something very bad but I can’t remember what.

  My husband! Martin! I shoot upright. My vision is still black and my ears are ringing. How could I have forgotten about him? He must be here somewhere but where? How can I find him? I can see him clearly: he’s a little man, not very tall at all, blonde and handsome as a movie star. He’s particularly well-dressed. He wears bespoke suits and he’s never without his monogrammed cufflinks. He drives a Lamborghini convertible and he loves to laugh. And I’ve lost him.

  Did we have an accident? Is he dead? If he’s dead, why isn’t he here with me? I sit motionless on the sofa, wishing I had the answers to my questions. The door opens and Agnes strolls in.

  “Hi,” she says. “How did it go with Cedar?”