Pihkal

by Alexander Shulgin

  "Ah, yes," he chuckled, "It's kind of a neat story. When my parents and I moved out here, there were walnut trees, orchards, everywhere that you now see houses and highways. There was no freeway, only country roads. We lived in the only house on the land, an old abandoned ramshackle place that had belonged to the original owners many years earlier. It actually leaned. I think it was held up by the acacia tree alongside it. There was one central room, surrounded by a verandah which actually sloped downwards, outwards, on all sides.

  "My folks and I started to build this house, the one we're in now, about the time of World War Two. And someone from the post office dropped in, and told us that Almond was becoming too civilized to allow anyone to live in a rural route box. People had to live on a street.

  "'What's going to be the name of this street?' my father asked.

  "'You give it a name,' said the postmaster, or whoever the man was.

  "'Borodin Road?'

  '"Fine. Why not?' the man said.

  "Then, a few years later, there was another administration, another postmaster. He came out and said, 'You can't just live on a road; you've got to live at a number on a road.'

  '"How about number one?' said my father, quite reasonably, since we were the only family on Borodin Road.

  "Number one apparently wasn't one of the postal department's options. 'Let's make it 1692,'

  said the postmaster.

  "That was okay by my father. 'Why not?' he said, and that was that. Nobody ever discovered the reason for that number being chosen; I sup pose nobody ever asked the postmaster, and now it's far too late. It was a mystery then, and it remains a mystery to this day!"

  I laughed, "That's a great story. But I remember you saying something once about civilization not having arrived yet in the town of Almond?"

  "I meant real civilization. The kind that means murders and bank holdups and people who don't know you in the grocery store."

  I laughed, "Ah, now I understand!"

  Turning from the window, I stopped in surprise. Against this side of the wall that divided the room hung a large portrait in a frame of antique gold. It showed a young boy, dressed in a blue silk tunic with a high neck and embroidery in the Russian style. I knew it was Shura and I went close to it and looked at the face. Blond hair, very blond. A firm chin and lower lip, a determined mouth. The eyes were clear blue and alert.

  He spoke from behind me, "I'm not sure exactly what age I was then. Probably around twelve."

  "That's a beautiful portrait. I like it."

  The child was holding a musical instrument that looked familiar. I asked Shura what it was.

  "That's a balalaika. I still have it; as a matter of fact, it's on top of the piano, but it hasn't been tuned in years, I'm sorry to say."

  I glanced over at the piano and saw the shape of the instrument, but suddenly decided that closer inspection would have to wait. I was feeling something changing inside me.

  I told Shura I was going to sit down. I curled up in a corner of the couch with pillows and concentrated on what was starting to happen. He sat down in a large armchair, facing me, his feet on a hassock which was covered with the same material as the chair. I found myself staring at the pattern, soft blue stripes against a silvery grey background, with a suggestion of tiny flowers. It was old-fashioned, I thought, and comfortable. Like the room.

  I looked around, seeing things I hadn't noticed earlier. A large oriental vase on a bookcase shelf, a stack of photograph albums on a shelf below it, a miniature stone owl on the mantel of the fireplace, and next to it a small framed photograph of a woman.

  I'd like to see that photograph. Probably his wife. It looks old, sepia tint. Maybe it's his mother.

  I'm not going to move from here, though, not until I know what's happening inside me.

  Strange new feeling, he said. Okay. Take a deep breath and relax the body.

  "You're aware of something?" asked Shura.

  "I'm not sure," I replied, picking up my purse to get my cigarettes. On the coffee table, which was set with small beige tiles, there was a copper ashtray. Next to it sat a round, sand-colored stoneware vase, holding white daisies. A few of them were wilting. Flowers for Ursula.

  Now, there was unmistakably something happening, and it was, indeed, an unfamiliar sensation. It wasn't like what I remembered of the start of the peyote effect; that had begun more as a change in the light, or rather, a change in the way I saw light. Light had seemed almost palpable, I recalled, a living presence in the room.

  I sensed that Shura was watching me, but I wasn't about to pay attention to him, right now.

  The strangeness was quite physical, I decided, mostly in the chest, where it felt like a mixture of fear and excitement.

  All right, I thought, it's a new feeling. I mentally surveyed myself, noting that the back of my neck was tingling, and my spine was alert. No surprise there. But the sensation I had at first assigned to my chest was now all throughout my body.

  It's like a voice speaking from inside, without words. Not unpleasant at all. Just new.

  "There's no need to talk," said Shura, quietly. "You must feel free to do anything you wish.

  Anything that feels comfortable to you."

  "Yes," I said. My head was changing, now. It felt light. Not dizzy, just light. There was something else I was just beginning to be aware of: a feeling of peacefulness taking the place of the strangeness. Simple, overwhelming peacefulness.

  "I'm feeling a bit more relaxed, now," I said to Shura.

  1 forgot - he took it, too. Wonder what he's experiencing. I'm not going to ask him yet. Have to listen to my own innards for a while.

  "You're probably at the plateau, or you will be very shortly," Shura said, "And what you're feeling now is pretty much what you'll continue feeling. I mean, the intensity of it. It'll stay the same from now on - for the next hour or so, anyway - and there shouldn't be any further increase."

  "I understand. Thank you."

  "You're welcome," he replied, softly, not teasing.

  He's watching, listening, noting everything. He's relieved that I'm okay. He cares and he wants this to be good for me.

  "It's a very lovely feeling, very peaceful and gentle," I said.

  "Good. I was hoping it would be like that."

  "I think I'll get up and walk around, if that's all right?"

  He stood and gave me his hand, pulling me up slowly. Then he put his hands on my arms and looked into my eyes for a moment. His eyes were very blue in the light from the windows, and I looked into them and saw seriousness and unmistakable affection. Caring and watchfulness. I reached up with both hands to hold his face and stood on tiptoe to put my lips on his, very lightly. Then I turned and walked toward the kitchen.

  Behind me, Shura asked, "Would you like me to walk with you, or would you prefer to be alone right now?" I stopped to think and knew immediately that I needed to be alone, to explore by myself for a while, and told him so.

  He nodded, "I'll be in my study if you need me. Take your time. You can come for me, or just call out if you want company. I'll hear you calling if you're near the house."

  He means if I'm in trouble, but he's not going to say that. He doesn't want to program me to expect anything negative.

  "Thank you very much, my dear," I said, and left him. I walked, my body light, moving easily, to the back door. There had been no hesitation in saying, "My dear." I knew his dearness to me, and there had been no need to censor either the feelings or that one small expression of them.

  Outside, the dirt path was dappled with sun and leaf shadow. It was cool and I was glad of my cardigan. I sat down on a grassy area to the right of the path, not far from the door, began to reach into the shirt pocket where I'd put my cigarettes, and stopped. The peacefulness had changed. Something I hadn't expected at all was pushing up inside me - a sudden surge of grief so powerful, I braced myself with hands on the ground.

  Oh, Lord, no! I don't need this!

  It was comi
ng like a wall of water roaring down a dry desert wash. Tears were rising in my throat and I let them come, not even trying to fight what I knew would not be held back. Part of me scolded that this wasn't the way to encourage Shura to give me this stuff again - or any other psychoactive drug, for that matter. But there was a deeper, overriding certainty that this sorrow had been gathering inside me for a long time, for years, and that the pain had to be experienced, had to be released, if I was to become strong and whole.

  There was another thing making itself heard, something which went beyond the traumas and sorrows of the past or present, a message with an energy of its own which would not allow it to be lost in the crying.

  I am driven by an urge, a need, to find out - to know - what is, how it is, why it is. The truth about myself, other living things, the world, and whatever drives the universe. It's the First Commandment for my life, and although I don't understand why, it must always be the First Commandment: keep wanting to know, trying to know.

  The sorrow was pushing through me in waves, as sorrow always does, but my mind continued to function clearly, separate from the tears and the convulsive sobs. I thought of the time I read someone's cynical observation that the desire to understand the What's, How's and Why's of life and the cosmos was an obsession of the young, usually outgrown by the end of the second year of college; thus, concluded the writer, it was appropriate to call them The Great Sophomoric Questions.

  So be it. I'm a bloody sophomore.

  All right. Today's truth was a simple one: I had found a man unlike any other I had ever known; he was the man I had waited for all my life; the man I wanted to be with, live with, to experience life with, and he was in love with a woman named Ursula. I had made the decision to stay as close to him as he would allow, for as long as possible - win or lose - and I had to acknowledge that I was involved in all this by my own choice. It was my responsibility.

  I cried for a long time, huddled with my arms around myself/ rocking in place, sobbing on the grass until the torrent began to lessen and I could pay attention again to the Observer, who noted that the peaceful center was still there, and that I should take another look at it.

  Underneath the terrible grief, there was a calmness, a serenity, and something that felt, incredibly, like joy.

  Don't try to understand. Just know it's there. You're held in God's hand, and that hand cradles you with complete love. All is well, even though that doesn't make any sense right now.

  There had been no sound, but suddenly I knew Shura was near. I could feel his presence in the hall, out of my direct sight. I was aware of his concern, and something underneath it which I knew was his own sadness and bewilderment about Ursula, and I found myself crying again, more gently, this time for him. Finally, it was over.

  I waited patiently while my breathing gradually returned to normal, with only an occasional shuddering breath to remind me of what had passed through. I got up from the grass and went into the house.

  There was no one in the hall, but I heard papers rustling and knew Shura had returned to his study.

  Standing in the doorway, I said, "Thank you for your patience. It seems I had to get something out of my system, and it's all over." I was smiling easily at him, knowing my eyes were red and probably beginning to swell, and that it didn't matter.

  Shura came to where I stood and put his arms around me, holding me tightly to his chest. He whispered, "I'm sorry."

  I looked up at his face and said, firmly, "No. Sorry is not what I want - in fact, it's the last thing I want from you. I enjoy being with you, and it's not your fault that I love you - it's not even my fault, it's just the way things are - and as long as we are both absolutely honest with each other, it'll be all right. Believe me, whatever happens, it'll be all right."

  Don't know where that certainty comes from, but it feels true, so it's okay to say it.

  He nodded, "I don't want to cause you pain. I just don't want to hurt you in any way."

  I pressed my cheek to his chest, "I know that. But if I have to choose between being with you and having some pain, or - or not being with you just to stay pain-free, you know perfectly well what my choice is. Please let it be that way. I don't believe I'll regret the decision, and I hope you won't either."

  We went back to the living room. We talked about me, this time. I told him about growing up in Italy, in a village called Opicina, high on the cliffs behind the city of Trieste, where my father had been Consul for six years before World War II. I told him about my brother, Edward, who was always called by a very English nickname - Boy - until we returned to the United States, when I had to get used to calling him by his chosen grown up name - Ted.

  I said, "My father was Jewish, but he had diplomatic immunity, of course. Boy and I knew very little about what was going on, but I remember being told very sternly that whenever our governess took us for our daily walk and we ended up in the village - which wasn't very often, because usually we went into the fields behind our house - but if we did go to the village, and we wanted to say something about the man called II Duce or the other person we heard mentioned by the grownups - Hitler - we were to use the code names, 'Mr. Strong-arm' and 'Mr. Strong-heart.' It was impressed upon both of us that this was not a game and that it could mean serious trouble for our parents - for our entire family - if the wrong passerby heard us using the other names."

  "Did you run into trouble in school?"

  "No," I replied, "We didn't go to school. They were being run by the Fascists. We were taught at home by whoever happened to be our governess at the time, using the Calvert System. It's based - I imagine it's still in existence - in Baltimore, and Foreign Service families have it sent to them when they're assigned to a place where the available schools are poor, or there's some other reason to keep their kids out of them. It was a superb education, by the way.

  Greek and Roman mythology along with the usual elementary school stuff, believe it or not!"

  I told of the morning when huge red letters were found, scrawled in red paint on the outside of our iron gate, letters Boy and I couldn't understand, but which the maid told us meant "Jew,"

  and of watching the cleaning lady and my father scrubbing the paint off the black iron, while I wondered if I should ask what a Jew was. And of the nice neighbor across the street, an elderly, stooped man whose name I couldn't remember, who disappeared one night and never came back.

  I said, "We were told it was because he was Jewish, and Mr. Strong-arm and Mr. Strong-heart were bad men who were very powerful in their countries, and they didn't like Jews or gypsies or anybody who disagreed with them, and sometimes they took them away. They didn't say to where, and we children weren't allowed to ask a lot of questions. I suppose this was around 1939, maybe 1940, and people were beginning to vanish in the middle of the night/ though Boy and I were told nothing about any of that."

  Shura was listening intently, then - at a pause in my tale - he suddenly jumped from his chair, saying, "Hold it a minute; I've got to check the time," and rushed to the kitchen. When he came back he announced, "It's past the hour and a half point, so I need to ask you if you wish a supplement or not?"

  "Oh," I replied, and silently consulted myself, "If I took the supplement, I would simply continue where I am for longer than I would otherwise?"

  "Exactly. Approximately an hour longer."

  "Then yes, please. I would like very much to have the supplement, if you don't mind.

  "No, of course not. I'll join you. Wait just a moment."

  When he brought out our wine glasses again, I shuddered at the memory of the taste, and Shura apologized, "I forgot. Let me bring you some juice." From the kitchen, he called out, "As a matter of fact, you should be drinking a lot of fluid, because this drug tends to cause a bit of dehydration."

  I excused myself to go to the bathroom. Sitting on the toilet, I looked around at the pale green wall tiles and the old-fashioned sink, and saw that there was one very neat, well-spun spiderweb in a corner o
f the light blue ceiling. I assumed it had been left there deliberately, because the rest of the bathroom was clean and tidy and dusted.

  In the living room, I clinked glasses with Shura and downed the juice without difficulty.

  I settled back onto the blue tweed couch, and Shura brought in a pitcher of ice water and an empty plastic tumbler. As he put them on the table in front of me, I smiled. "Thank you. I'll try to remember to keep drinking."

  "It's important that you do," he said, seated again in his armchair. I saw a glass of water on the small table by his side.

  "Before you continue your story," Shura said, "I'd like you to tell me if you notice any physical effects of any kind, at this point?"

  "Physical?" I paid attention and reported, "There's a bit of dryness in the mouth, now that I think of it, and a funny little feeling, a kind of tension, in the jaw hinges; it's not a problem though."

  "Notice anything about the eyes?"

  I rolled my eyes, looked to right and left and said, "There's a tendency for them to wiggle a bit, when I look to either side; I don't mind it. Actually, it's sort of fun."

  "That's called nystagmus. Most people have a touch of it with MDMA, especially the first time they take it."

  I practiced the eye-wiggle a few times and laughed at the sensation. "Are you comfortable with where you are?"

  I answered yes, thinking that "comfortable" was not exactly the word I would have chosen. I was seeing my world differently. There was still the peacefulness within me, and a clarity to whatever I looked at, inside myself and outside. I was not afraid; there was no anxiety. Then the realization struck me that I lived most of the time in a state of habitual anxiety. I was so used to it, I had long ago forgotten to notice or wonder at it. Anxiety was my way of life. It was very unusual - and it felt wonderful - to be without it.

  That can't change yet. Too many things to be responsible for. The children. My job. Paying bills. Wondering if I'll ever have a true soulmate, like this one, to share life with. So many things to do, to keep in balance. Can't relax and trust the universe yet.