Pihkal

by Alexander Shulgin

Shura was quiet for a moment, then said, "Well, yes, of course they are. But just what is the right way? Use them with care, and use them with respect as to the transformations they can achieve, and you have an extraordinary research tool. Go banging about with a psychedelic drug for a Saturday night turn-on, and you can get into a really bad place, psychologically.

  Know what you're using, decide just why you're using it, and you can have a rich experience.

  They are not addictive, and they're certainly not escapist, either, but they're exceptionally valuable tools for understanding the human mind, and how it works."

  "A lot more than just the mind," I muttered, remembering my day in Golden Gate Park with Sam.

  "Well, one of the problems in talking about this kind of exploration," said Shura, "Is vocabulary. There simply aren't the right words available - words everybody can agree on - to do a good job of defining a lot of this territory. The word, 'mind,' for instance, can mean only the thinking function, or it can stand for everything that isn't purely physical, the whole psyche. You get used to being very exact in the way you use words, after a while, when you're trying to communicate with someone about this area of experience."

  I kept gazing at him, trying not to let my happiness show. It was a rare thing for me to be feeling so happy. Of course, there was still the wonderful, lovely, young, intelligent Ursula - it was best to assume she was all of those things - but he wasn't, at the moment, holding anyone's hand but mine.

  From down the hall came the sounds of applause. I thought, we don't have much time before somebody's going to come looking for us, and I have to make it possible for us to continue this.

  "Shura, before they hunt us down, could you write a date in your appointment book, if you have one?"

  He let go of my hand and reached for his wallet. Out of it he produced a small notebook, and from a pocket of his jacket came a pen. He sat, poised to write.

  "In February, I'm giving a Valentine's Day party at my home, and I want you to come." I gave him the date and time, my address and instructions on how to find it; I couldn't remember whether I had given him anything more than my phone number the first time we'd met.

  "I would be happy to come," he said, writing in the little book, "I don't see any conflict that day."

  "It'll be mostly Mensa people," (for once, I didn't feel it necessary to explain that Mensa was an international society for people whose IQ's tested out over 132, or play apologetic games about being a member) "And some other friends, including my kids - at least, the three I'm living with

  - and please try to get there; I want to continue this conversation," I concluded, "I have an awful lot of questions to ask you."

  My God! Do I have QUESTIONS!

  "I'll do my best to be there," he said, standing and taking my hand again to help me up. We started out of the study just as Hilda turned on the lights in the hallway and cried, "Oh, here you are!"

  Back in the living room, we were separated immediately by other guests, and I decided to leave the party without saying goodbye to him. It wasn't necessary. If he was going to see me again, it would be within two weeks. He had the address, the phone number and the date, and he'd said yes. Now we'd see whether he meant it. There was no reason for me to hang around him, acting like a moonstruck idiot. I kissed Hilda, said, "Thank you, it was wonderful,"

  speaking the absolute truth, then got my coat and quietly let myself out.

  CHAPTER 19. SEDUCTION

  On the night of the party, I dressed in black ballet tights and black dancer's top with low-cut neck and long sleeves. Around my waist I tied a long wraparound skirt with a paisley design in dark red, and hung tiny red balls from my ears.

  Checking my reflection, I felt a quick surge of pleasure; when you're only 5 feet, 4 inches tall, every excess pound shows, and the body in the long bathroom mirror had a clean outline, with no bulges to apologize for. Small breasts. Brown hair falling in thick waves to a few inches below the shoulders, glinting reddish blonde where the light caught it. My face no longer reminded me of the young Ingrid Bergman, but then, neither did Ingrid Bergman's. At least, the lines were mostly what people call laugh lines, in the usual places around mouth and eyes.

  During the past year or so, the children had made me smile just enough to keep my face from beginning to sour, as can happen all too easily when you're over forty and your marriage has taken a long, bitter time to end.

  I bared my teeth in a final grin at the mirror and snapped off the bathroom light. Against the dark I saw again the image of the tall man with the observing eyes and reminded myself, not for the first time that day, to try - to do my very best - not to look for Shura. He might not come. I wanted to believe that he would have phoned if he couldn't make it, but I didn't know him well enough to be sure. Perhaps he said yes to too many people and ran into conflicts, or maybe he just hadn't remembered to look at his appointment book; perhaps he'd heard from Ursula and she was arriving to stay forever and he'd forgotten that I existed.

  My first guest turned out to be the one member of Mensa who would inevitably feel uneasy at finding himself the early bird. Stanley was one of two people in the local Mensa society who could be described as idiot savants; he was awkward, socially inept, a 26 year old man with the general intelligence of a 12 year old child, except for one thing: the ability to do mathematics, all kinds of mathematics, with the speed and accuracy of a computer. One of the two intelligence tests given by Mensa to prospective members was loaded in the math direction - or so it had seemed to me. I had done miserably on that one and made it into membership on the basis of my score on the second test, which contained almost no math.

  Stan had done the same thing, in reverse.

  I took my shy guest's hand and led him with his wine bottle into the kitchen, where I gave him a plastic cup and said, "Pour yourself whatever you want, and since you're here first, you get the good seat by the fire." He smiled and filled his cup, then let me guide him to the long couch, which I had moved near the big fireplace.

  From the outside, this was an impressive-looking A-frame house. It had three storeys - four if you counted the little room at the very top, under the peak of the roof, which was Brian's. I rented out the small apartment on the first floor to a young couple, and the children and I lived in the rest of the house.

  The place was dominated by its three-storey living room and an impressive fireplace, built out of polished dark stone and volcanic rock. There were immense windows which allowed a view of trees and a small river which flowed past us, down below. For parties, it was wonderful; for daily living, less wonderful. There was no insulation anywhere; the windows and doors leaked cold air, and every winter there was a new drip of water from yet another hole in the aging roof. Sometimes, if we were lucky, the new hole would seal itself up as the wood expanded with the rain, but that still left a couple of old friends which kept us busy laying out pots and pans on the floor.

  Thank heaven, I thought, no rain tonight. I put on a record, hoping it would reassure Stan that there actually was going to be a party here.

  More guests arrived, and within an hour there were over forty of them, with drinks in their hands, talking and laughing; several were taking over the choosing of records, reading the jackets of my albums and arguing about what should go on next. I had made sure there would be music playing all evening, laying out a selection of jazz, Simon and Garfunkel, the Beatles and - for the later and mellower hours - some of my classical albums, Copeland and de Falla, and a few others that had rhythm and sensuality and lightness of heart.

  Kelly arrived with his new girlfriend and I gave him a heartfelt hug, glad we were now, finally, friends. He hugged me back, taking a few seconds longer than his lady fully appreciated; I saw her mouth tighten and moved quickly to hug her, too, before she could step back from me.

  Don't worry, sweetheart; he's all yours!

  The front door kept opening, and the light from clusters of candles throughout the room flickered softly on brow
n silk, red wool and the occasional blue denim. I paused, finally, listening to the noise level, and knew I could relax. The party was underway.

  For a while, I was in the small kitchen, which was divided from the living room by a long tiled bench at table height, which the children and I used for our meals. The room was crowded, and I was perching on the edge of the bench, laughing with two women about the New Year's party we had attended, at which one of Mensa's less introverted bachelors had appeared in a costume consisting of one large red satin bow tied around his penis and absolutely nothing else, when suddenly, in the archway dividing kitchen from hall, I saw Shura. A wave of goose-bumps went up my back.

  He came! He really camel

  I stood on tiptoe and called out, "Hello, Shura! Bring your bottle over here!" He made his way toward me, his head easily visible above everyone else's, and when he arrived, I took his bottle of red wine out of its paper bag, placed it on the tiles and gave him a plastic glass and a cork-puller. When he had poured out his drink, I took his hand and led him through the sardine pack, out to the big room.

  We found a piece of unoccupied space against one side wall, and I said, "Let me tell you a bit about the people - a few of them, at least," and proceeded to give him rapid-fire descriptions of some of Mensa's main attractions, as they stood talking or moved past us. In my best museum-guide manner, I told him, addressing his right ear closely because of the noise in the room, "You see that man there, the tall one with the red vest? He created the SIG - Special Interest Group - which is known as the Orgy SIG; I forget his official title for it, something like Sexual Freedom SIG, but everyone refers to it by the other name. I've never been to a meeting, but I hear they're a lot of fun for those who go in for that sort of ..." I waved my hand vaguely in the air to complete the picture.

  Okay, I'm obviously trying to be amusing and maybe even shock him a bit, but now he can assume I'm not a swinger.

  I continued, "That woman over there in the purple dress, the one standing in a straight line between us and the candles," I glanced at him and he nodded, "That's Candice. She's a very good-hearted, motherish person who gives the Mensa tests in this area, and for a while her little boy, Robin, was the youngest member of Mensa in the country. He's around ten now, and no longer the youngest."

  I pointed across the room, "Now, the small-boned man with the bow tie, standing at the end of the couch; he's the best chess-player in the Northern Californian Mensa. I've only managed to beat him once, but that once fed my ego for a long, long time. He's a dear; a very funny, kind person who never seems to find it necessary to say anything nasty about anybody. His name is Jack, and I like him very much." Shura said, raising his voice over the noise, "I like chess, but I haven't played it for years, now. It would be fun to try it again."

  I looked up at him and smiled, showing all my teeth, "I learned long ago that the most dangerous opponent is the one who tells you he hasn't been near the game in years. He's the one who'll wipe the board with you, while apologizing for being so terribly rusty."

  Shura laughed.

  "And now," I continued, "That tall man with the black beard, standing near the door - he's got a big house in Black Mountain, which is a nice, wealthy little neighborhood a bit north of here, and he gives a lot of Mensa parties and his swimming pool is usually full of naked people -1

  almost said naked members - and one of my finest moments was during a party last summer, when I wore the black dancer's outfit I'm wearing tonight and toward the end of the evening I decided to be really daring, and I took off the skirt and plunged into the pool fully dressed in the top and tights. You never saw a woman get so much attention! Every naked male in that pool wanted to know my name and asked where I'd been hiding myself; I was the belle of the pool! I guess they were tired of so much bare pinkness and I was a vision of temptation in all those clothes."

  I had him laughing again.

  I told him about the mathematical computer which inhabited the sometimes bewildered soul of the young man on the couch, and he said he was very interested in that kind of mind, and would go over and talk with him later on. I said I had hoped he would want to do that, because few people paid any attention to the boy, and he was very sweet.

  I asked Shura's ear, "Why haven't you joined Mensa, by the way? It's a good way to meet interesting people, especially when you've been divorced or - or widowed."

  "Well," shouted Shura, "To tell you the truth, I never thought of applying, probably because you have to take an IQ test, and I will not take an IQ test."

  "Why, in heaven's name?"

  I could sense hesitation, and waited for him to decide whether to explain or not. Finally, he turned toward me and said, "I feel total, complete disgust for all tests of intelligence, and only limited patience with the people who give them. When I was in the third grade or thereabouts, I was given a so-called IQ test, a Binet-something-something -"

  I said, "Stanford-Binet."

  " - and I made an honest and diligent effort to complete it. There were angular objects, and number games, and if-this-then-what types of questions, and the strategies needed for getting to most of the answers were pretty obvious."

  "You did well?" "Of course I did, and that's where I really tangled with the school principal. He accused me of having cheated, since no one could get the results I had gotten without cheating, and so I was in essence thrown out of the testing group, and was pretty much humiliated. They obviously wanted scores that fit on a kind of distribution curve about some sort of a norm. Mine was a bit too far to the right of the curve. My mother was furious with the principal; she pulled me into his office and confronted him and lectured him about my integrity, which made me want to run and hide even worse than before. I swore then that I'd never take another IQ test, and I never will."

  I nodded in sympathy, "Of course, of course."

  Then the front door opened and I caught sight of my former husband, Walter Parr, respected psychiatrist and author, adoring father and com-pulsively unfaithful mate. The children were with him. I took Shura's hand and said, "I want you to meet these ones. Walter is my ex, and he's truly a very good man and a fascinating person to talk to, and I'm not saying that just to give you the impression that I'm a noble and forgiving woman, which of course I am."

  I forgot; I haven't told him anything about the marriage yet, so he won't know what exactly I'm being noble and forgiving about. Okay, okay.

  As we squeezed past warm bodies, I continued shouting over the voices and music, "The children are Ann, Wendy and Brian; they are absolutely the world's most wonderful people, and that is a completely objective, dispassionate, clinical observation."

  When we reached Walter, I introduced him to Shura and added, "Dr. Walter Parr is a very good Jungian analyst and he's written two books about the myth-making aspects of the human psyche, and they are genuinely worth reading, and I did some superb line drawings for one of them," then I pointed at Shura's chest and told Walter, my mouth close to his ear because of the din, "Shura is the expert on psychoactive drugs and their effects in humans, and he invents new ones and publishes all the information in big, important chemistry journals!" Then I pantomimed loss of voice due to strain, while the men said hello and shook hands.

  The children were already drifting away, so I pulled Shura by the sleeve and caught up with each one in turn and yelled the name to him, and he shouted hello and when that was done, I gestured that I had to go in the direction of the kitchen, patted his sleeve and left him standing there, holding his wine glass, with a bemused expression on his face, hemmed in by strangers.

  I tried not to look for the big gleaming head, during the next 15 or 20 minutes, while I checked supplies in the kitchen and said hello to as many people as I could, making sure they had everything they needed and knew where the bathroom was. I caught sight of Shura often enough to reassure myself that he hadn't left the party. When I had done everything I had to do as a good hostess, I began pushing through the people-clusters toward where I'd
last seen him.

  A few brave souls were trying to dance and the idea showed signs of spreading; I called out encouragement, since it was my belief that dancing could make the difference between a nice party and a great one. I eased past warm shoulders and backs, sweat trickling between my breasts.

  I know what it would take to make this a truly great party: if I could convince the Big Man to stay after everybody else has gone home. Wonder whether he would? How to invite him without making it hard for him to say no? Mustn't put him on the spot.

  I made my way to a little antique desk sitting against the far wall and searched through its drawers until I found some small pastel-colored note cards with envelopes, and a pen. I leaned down and carefully wrote my message on a small pink card: "Dear Dr. Borodin, I would be most appreciative and grateful if you found it possible to remain for a while after the other guests have left? Would like to have a chance to talk."

  I wondered if it was a bit too forward; after all, it could be exactly what it seemed to be, an invitation to continue our conversation of the other evening. I actually had no plan. I just wanted to have a chance to really talk, to really get to know him, to hear about some of his adventures, some of what he had learned. If it led to something beyond holding hands, well, all right. I'd tackle that when and if the time came. I considered adding something about gracefully accepting a refusal, promising to ask for his exclusive company again, at a later time, if he should have to decline tonight. I decided against it. In for a penny, in for a pound.

  Let it stand as it was. I printed his name on the front of the envelope, then eased through the crowd toward the white head which I'd spotted near one of the wooden walls.

  Most of the guests were dancing now, and when I reached Shura, he was engaged in what looked like an animated conversation with Walter. I handed him the note, saying only, "I believe this is for you," and brushed past, hearing the two men resume their discussion behind me, aware of feeling a mixture of triumph and terror.