Pihkal

by Alexander Shulgin

  I interrupted, "The farm?"

  "We live - I live - on a 20-acre farm. At least, it used to be a farm, with cows and goats and a horse. There still is a vegetable garden, when somebody attends to it. Helen wanted to like the Farm, but she missed the stimulation of Berkeley, her friends, all the things you find in a university town. So I think going back to work was very satisfying for her. Our son was growing up, so she didn't have to be a full-time mother/ and - although I had a good scholarship to pay my way - it was a help to have that extra money coming in while I studied."

  "Did she take the psychedelics with you?"

  "No. She couldn't - didn't have enough trust in herself; she was afraid of losing control, and self-control was a religion with her. I didn't try to persuade her, because that's one thing that must never be done - ever. It's not a decision that can be made by one person for another.

  But during her last year, for some reason, she got up the courage to try. One day, she came to me and said she'd like to take mescaline. She'd done quite a bit of reading about it, and finally she'd made up her mind that it would be all right to take it because it was one material that had a long, respected history.

  "So, one Sunday we gathered together with some of our closest friends and all of us - except the person who was doing the driving - took mescaline, then we piled our picnic and blankets into the car and went up to a place that has a tremendous view of the whole Bay, and settled down on the hillside for the afternoon. Helen had a wonderful experience, a really beautiful experience. And now, looking back, I wonder if-whether she might have had some intuition, some feeling about the future - but, anyway, I'm very glad she made the decision."

  "And that she didn't have to regret it."

  "Yes. It was a wise choice, I think. But, then, I have great faith in mescaline, since it was my own introduction to the whole world of consciousness expansion. It's a true ally, for me. And I'm very grateful that it turned out to be an ally for Helen."

  I remembered Castaneda's teacher, Don Juan, referring to his "little ally," but I couldn't recall exactly which plant it was. It was a pleasing word, for some reason, stronger than "friend," as if there were a suggestion of weapons at the ready, to help defend you against dangers. A friend with strength to back up his loyalty. Ally.

  I glanced at Shura's face and saw him far away again, so I told him what I'd been thinking. He smiled, "Yes. It's a good word. I'm not sure about weapons at the ready, but yes, it has a strength to it and that's the way certain psychedelics strike me - as friends and allies." He thought for a moment, then added, "Or, at least, they put you in touch with some part of yourself which serves you as friend and ally."

  By now, the wine had relaxed me completely. I felt comfortable, warm, at ease with either words or silence. I focused my eyes on the fire, letting images and thoughts drift. Shura put his glass down on the floor and got up to add more logs; when he sat down again, it was in a different place, closer to me. I found myself smiling again at the pleasure I felt, being with him. Then, on impulse, I rose up on my knees, opposite him. I asked, "Are you getting tired of all these questions?"

  "Not at all," he said, and put out a hand to gently trace the outline of my cheek, "I'm a teacher, you know, and teachers love questions. It means somebody's interested."

  "Ah, yes," I said, placing my hands on his shoulders, "I am very interested indeed. As you perfectly well know."

  He then did something completely unexpected. He placed his right hand behind my shoulder, then the left went between my thighs and up my back, so that he had me sitting on his upper arm, my breasts against his face. Inside the blue jeans, my body responded to the pressure of the arm with a flush of warmth. I was suddenly aware of the center seam of the jeans pressing into me. I pushed back a bit, riding now on his forearm. It was a strange, lovely sensation, having that long muscled arm pressing up into the seam, into the soft flesh inside it. I looked down at his face, my hands still on his shoulders. His eyes were open and he was looking directly into mine, not smiling now. I bent my head down until my forehead touched his. There was a slight sheen of perspiration on him, and I knew my own skin was damp.

  His right hand moved to my waist and pulled part of my blouse out, then I felt his fingers on the back fastening of my bra. I thought. Oh, dear, he'll never manage it, and I laughed and said, "You'll have trouble with that. I'd better help a little."

  Still riding on the hard, muscled arm, I undid the buttons of my blouse and slowly, feeling very thoughtful, took it off, then threw it up in the air; there was a glimpse of pink firelight on white cotton, then it was gone. I said, "I'm going to get a cover for us, just in case the fire doesn't last forever," and he pulled his forearm slowly from between my thighs and said, "All right. Don't take too long, though. I'd hate to have you forget I'm here, you know?" Fat chance, I thought, grinning down at him.

  I was back almost immediately with my old patched eiderdown. It was immense and soft and well-worn and I bunched it up at the end of the pad farthest from the fireplace. Shura was very carefully placing another log on the fire, and by the time he turned around, I had taken off my bra and was rising to my knees to pull the jeans down over my hips. He sat on the pad, cross-legged, with the firelight behind him; it gave him a corona of yellow and orange. He asked, "Would you mind if I took my clothes off? I really would feel much more comfortable.

  It's rather hot in here, at the moment."

  I whooped with laughter. Then I lay on my back and pulled the jeans off my upraised legs, like a child fooling around at bedtime. I hesitated for a moment, weighing modesty and ladylike behavior against the bother of having to think about clothes at all, then realized that both modesty and the lady had vanished in the recent arm-ride, and the panties may as well come off too.

  I lay on my tummy, naked as a two-year old in a sunny back yard, and supported my chin on my hands while I watched Shura's slow, dignified performance. Underneath the soft beige shirt he wore nothing. His rib cage was huge, and it presided over a stomach so flat, it looked almost undernourished. There was a scatter of dark hair on his chest, and his nipples shone softly pink. When he had carefully placed his folded shirt on the side hearthstones, away from the fire, he rose to take off his slacks. I peered up at him and thought, my God, he's so damned tall! I said, "I see that you grow dark hair on the other parts of your body. I mean, what I can see so far," and giggled as he stepped out of boxer shorts, "Which is pretty much everything, at this point, I guess."

  He eased himself down and lay on his side, facing me, one hand supporting his head, and I observed, "You really don't have much fat on you, do you?"

  "I feel much better without it."

  I arranged my own body opposite his, about two feet away, and continued with the earlier thought, "Does that mean you were dark-haired before you went all gorgeous silver?"

  "No, as a matter of fact, I wasn't. The hair on my head was quite blonde, strangely enough, even though - as you see -" he allowed himself a small twitch of the mouth, "The hair on the body is dark."

  I kept my eyes averted from the curly nest below his stomach, and asked him when did his hair turn white, and was it all at once, and what was the drug he was researching at the time?

  "It all began turning when I was 30."

  "Thirty! Good heavens. Any particular reason - a shock of some kind?"

  "No, no shock. And no drug, either. At that time in my life, I was still working for Dole and hadn't really begun doing my own research."

  "It's beautiful, as I'm sure you know."

  Shura smiled broadly, this time, and said, "I thank you. My hair thanks you. I have only one theory as to why it all went white so early. I suspect I was unconsciously preparing myself to look the part of the harmless old professor, which can be useful at times when you do the kind of work I do. And publish what I publish. Sound reasonable to you?"

  "Well, it's a great theory, but I think you goofed. You don't look at all harmless. In fact, you look like the archetypa
l alchemist or mad scientist. My ever-loving Pete, do you look like the perfect mad scientist!" I was laughing again, and I was thinking, I can't believe how completely happy I am. Naked with this long drink of water with - oh, my - the loveliest slender man legs I've ever seen, and the world's most erotic forearm, and he's in love with a girl in Germany and it doesn't matter.

  "Alice," he said.

  "Yes, Sir?" "You're a very beautiful woman." "You're rather appealing, yourself."

  "All I can offer you is truth. I will always tell you the truth - about my feelings, about what I'm thinking - and the rest I have to leave up to you."

  I reached up and stroked the side of his cheek and said/ "Thank you." There was no doubt in me, no hesitation at all. There was a feeling of complete rightness about everything. A rightness that was almost a sense of inevitability, as if this part of the script had been written long ago, and there was no other way to play it. I had no desire to change anything, right now.

  Tomorrow did not exist and neither, for the moment, did Ursula.

  There were so many reasons for being with him. His sharp, clear mind, the almost palpable lust for ideas, for knowing; the excitement about new experiences and new ways of thinking about things. Beneath the sadness of recent loss and occasional bewilderment about Ursula, there was something else, something inside him which was a laughing, shining thing, eager for life, greedy for living. The dark side of him - that, I hadn't met yet.

  Now, I thought, another face of the man would begin to be known. He reached out to finger-trace the line of my hipbone. We were still about a foot apart and each of us was supporting head on hand. There was going to be no hurry. No hurry at all.

  The light fingertips moved thoughtfully, up over the top of my shoulder, and paused behind my ear. Then, very gently, he clenched his fingers in my hair and moved his body close to me. His mouth came down on mine, open, his tongue meeting my tongue; I tasted wine and Shura.

  His mouth holding mine, he took his hand from my hair and I felt the palm, open, exploring the side of one breast, moving down, firmly, over my stomach, like a potter shaping the side of a clay vase.

  The hand took charge. It explored and insisted. I suddenly felt vulnerable, because I knew he was aware of the response inside me, that he had tuned in to my longing, was letting himself be open to my pride, my aching for him, and all the questions I had yet to ask. I felt his breath on my nose and mouth.

  I opened my eyes to meet his direct, clear gaze and hold it for a moment, then I closed my eyes again.

  As my body clenched itself, I could hear his breathing quicken, and when the purple iris flower behind my eyelids opened its petals fully, I heard him cry out with me, then his hand came to rest like a benediction on my pubic bone.

  After a moment, I opened my eyes and stroked his head where it lay, covering my tummy, and I said, "You know, that's the first time anyone has ever done that -1 mean, that way.

  What an extraordinary hand you have. Doctor Borodin!"

  Shura raised his head and said, "Well, I don't think one should be limited to making love with just one or two parts of the body, do you? And -1 have to tell you that/ at least for now, the other way - the usual way - well, I feel that I must reserve that for Ursula. I know it seems a bit foolish, but the coming into a woman's body with mine involves a degree of intimacy, for me, that has to belong to her, at least for a while."

  "Oh," I said, thinking, what a strange way of staying loyal - if not exactly faithful. "I understand," I said, "I understand."

  I sat up, shook out my hair and smiled down at him, then murmured, "With your permission,"

  and moved myself downward.

  I spotted one long white hair, curled in his left groin, cried "Ah Ha!" and drew it out to its full length. Shura looked at my fingers, holding up the single hair, and asked what the noise was all about.

  "Just look at this! I'll bet you never bother looking down here to see if anything is turning silver, do you!"

  "Hadn't occurred to me to think about it, I must admit."

  I laughed and let the hair spring back to its original place, then leaned down again. I heard a soft gasp, and his head fell back. Once, I opened sweat-blurred eyes to see his hand on the pillow beside him, fingers spread, as if in agony. As I closed my eyes, the hand was grasping the pillow, the knuckles ivory in the flickering light.

  When it came, the sound from his throat was strangled, as if he had come to the end of some strange, exhausting battle, and I slowly took my mouth from him. I reached across his body for a corner of the eiderdown, and pulled it over both of us. His voice, in a harsh whisper, said, "It's been so long. So long."

  "Me, too," I answered, truthfully. I lay quietly for a while, my head on his shoulder, then knew I was going to have to give words to something which was pushing at me from the inside; it was just the way things had to be.

  I said, "I must tell you something. Don't let it frighten you. You've promised to tell me the truth, and I'm going to do the same. Please don't give me an answer, because I know there can't be one, right now."

  I looked at the fine line of one nostril, at the profile with its peacefully closed eye, and said, matter-of-factly, "I'm in love with you. It may not be sensible, but that's the way it is. Now, good night, and sleep well." I kissed a hollow in his neck and wiggled contentedly against him, then I became aware of a rich smell - something like carnations and fresh cut grass - coming from his armpit. It wasn't cologne or powder; it was Shura. I thought, he tastes lovely and he even smells wonderful. I've got to tell him what a delicious armpit he has. The words were arranging themselves in my mind as I fell asleep.

  CHAPTER 20. DOOR CLOSING

  The next morning, while I cooked a breakfast of scrambled eggs and toasted English muffins, Shura played my piano, an old mellow-toned upright which occupied the corner to the right of the big windows. He played a Chopin prelude with a mixture of passion and gentle sweetness, then something fiercely joyful by Beethoven. When he had finished, he sat with head bowed, his hands braced on the edge of the piano. I waited for a moment, until the last ghosts of sound had melted into the slanting wooden walls, before calling out that breakfast was ready.

  When he sat down, I told him, "That was a pleasure. You're very good. How do you like your coffee and do you play any other instruments?"

  "Black, please, and I play some piano, a lot of viola, used to play the clarinet many years ago, and I can switch to the violin pretty easily - most viola players can."

  Across the table from him, I looked again at the bearded face and the eyes, which seemed a darker blue than they had the night before. He looked back at me with an expression I was beginning to recognize: direct, thoughtful, a suggestion of amusement at the corners of the eyes. Then he looked down at his eggs and picked up his paper napkin. I realized I was smiling only when he glanced up again and smiled in return.

  When the eating was done, we took our coffee cups over to the mat and sat cross-legged, while he told me about growing up on the farm outside the town of Almond, in the East Bay, the cow named Bluebell, who was his favorite, and the three goats. I asked him if he liked farm life with all the animals, and he said that a little cow-milking went a very long way and that, despite his affection for the animals, he was quite happy to live without that kind of responsibility, these days.

  I asked, "Do you have any animals around, now?" He stubbed out his cigarette and lay back on a pillow with his arms folded behind his head. "I have two cats who live outside and hunt r gophers and mice. I used to have a wonderful dog named Bruno, and after he died, I didn't have the heart to replace him. Besides," he shrugged, "This way, I can pack up and take off anywhere without worrying about kennels and all that stuff. The cats take good care of themselves. They hunt all day and there's always a bit of running water somewhere on the Farm."

  I said I'd never seen the town of Almond, and hardly ever heard it mentioned; it didn't seem to come up in the news much. Shura said, "It's very small and qu
iet and not too many of its inhabitants go in for murder or armed robbery, but things are growing and expanding pretty rapidly, so all that can be depended upon to change before long; real civilization can't be too far off."

  I laughed and said I hoped Almond would stay a quiet, uncivilized backwater for a long, long time.

  He said, "We used to own a lot more than the present 20 acres, but a couple of parcels were sold off. Sad to say, the crest of the hill right behind us -," he caught himself, "- behind me, has been built up now with a whole row of apartments. They're just a few feet from my property line. For some reason, I never thought anyone would build up there. It was my skyline, you know; it was supposed to look that way forever. It's a strange feeling to look up the hill, across the grass, and see those buildings staring down, where there used to be nothing but sky and trees." He shrugged, "But that's the way it goes. Nothing in the world stays the same and you learn to roll with the changes. If you don't," he paused to sip coffee, "You waste a lot of energy and a lot of time regretting. Or trying to hold back what isn't going to be held back. I still have a lot of privacy and I keep planting more trees every year to block the view into my place."

  I asked about his childhood, and he told me he had been born in Berkeley, and grew up there.

  I repeated, "Berkeley! You were actually born in Berkeley?"

  His eyebrows shot up, "Yes, I actually was. What is it about my being born in Berkeley that strikes you as unlikely?"

  "Because you're far too exotic to have been born like an ordinary person in an ordinary place like Berkeley!"