by Josh Emmons
The evening’s group activity was a film called PASE in the World at the Prescription Palace. We were given more juice, another fig bar, the same green seats. It opened on a balding, clean-shaven, tall man in his late thirties—Denver Stevens—standing in midafternoon on the roof of a Chicago skyscraper, with Lake Michigan stretched out behind him and a tripod-mounted globe in front. He removed his hands from his pockets and said he wanted to share some exciting developments with us. We knew about the explosive effect PASE was having on America, but were we aware that it was being embraced in dozens of foreign countries? That people of all creeds and colors found it an inspiring belief system, and that they were joining in staggering numbers?
Stevens spun the globe and stopped it with his right pointer finger. “For instance, the United Kingdom,” he said, suddenly standing in London as Big Ben towered over him. “After America, we’re growing fastest here. Thousands of new Pasers flock every month to the temporary PASE drop-in center at Covent Garden while a bold new PASE Station is erected near Kew Gardens. We can hardly keep up with the British demand to be part of ultimate reality.” He spun the globe again. “China.” The Forbidden City was etched behind him against the sky in dusky blues, like an ink drawing on a porcelain teapot. “The President here and his advisers have commissioned a thorough study of The Prescription and found a great deal to praise.” The President at a factory opening, with subtitles: PASE has a fascinating approach to zero population growth. We are pleased to consider its methods as we plot our course for continued prosperity for all our people. Globe spin. An imam from Iran who between his turban and beard was just a pair of gold-framed sunglasses and a nose, standing before a giant mosque: We greatly esteem PASE’s enjoinment to chastity and modesty. PASE recognizes to a degree that few other religions do the hazards of sensuality. If Islam has a moral ally in the world today it is Prescription for a Superior Existence. Globe spin. “Africa.” Near an entryway to Serengeti National Park, with semiwild ungulates roaming in the distance, a dozen men in suits stood with their hands behind their backs. PASE is potentially a breakthrough in global health development, said one, a viable plan that could save millions of lives while promoting peace and personal responsibility. I speak for my colleagues here today, representing seven great nations, when I say that we are very hopeful about what it can do for our people.
The screen cut back to Stevens, whose keen expression turned thoughtful while the Eiffel Tower sprang up in the background. “Even France is now embracing PASE. Perhaps you’ve heard that last year Minister of Culture François Pissoud, under the influence of petty xenophobic advisers, attacked PASE and tried to prevent a Wellness Center from being built in Marseilles. That was a dark day for liberty in this freedom-loving country.” On-screen a red-nosed man addressed the National Assembly; English subtitles scrolling along the bottom of the screen: PASE is little more than an American by-product of fast food and television, of a lifestyle so fattening and masturbatory that it has invented an excuse to do away with labor-intensive intercourse; we should not be surprised that it has come in the form of a new religion, for at heart Americans, beneath their incredible gluttony, have always been hysterical Puritans. Stevens came back on. “More recently, however, after investigating PASE for himself, Monsieur Pissoud had something quite different to say.” Pissoud again, calmer, with a paler complexion and a respectful quiver in his lower lip: My comment several months ago about PASE was itself hysterical, and I am deeply ashamed of it. PASE is a profound and vital religion that I have proudly joined. If France is to escape its sadly divisive ethnic quagmire, if it is to hope for universal improvement, it would do well to embrace the practices set forth by Montgomery Shoale in Prescription for a Superior Existence. Stevens again. “As you can see, no corner of the planet is blind to the wonder and splendor of PASE.”
The screen then segued into a montage of people representing nearly every race, culture, age, gender, class, and physical condition. They wore PASE buttons on T-shirts emblazoned with the PASE logo—The Prescription cover, with all its glowing dashes (wands)—and were either seated against a solid white backdrop or engaged in charitable activities. A Japanese schoolgirl pushed an elderly Egyptian man in a wheelchair into a PASE Station. A Dutch businessman read from The Prescription to barefooted Mayan Indians in a hilltop Guatemalan schoolroom as an ox stuck his head through the glassless window. Three middle-aged women—black, white, and South Asian—embroidered a giant quilt with the Reality Facts stitched onto it at a PASE Process clothing distribution warehouse. Two men helped a junkie wrap up his crack cocaine paraphernalia and throw it into a Dumpster outside a Wellness Center. A short woman wearing a PASE hat walked down a Jerusalem street holding hands with an Israeli girl on one side and a Palestinian girl on the other, and as the shot faded to gray she stepped back from the middle and linked them together.
The lights went up and I clapped respectfully along with the other guests. Whatever arguments could be made against PASE on rational and theological and scientific and biological grounds, its usefulness in the global struggle against overpopulation could not be denied, nor could the benefit of its philanthropic work combating poverty, drugs, and the neglect of old people. And its actions against sexually transmitted diseases were commendable, even heroic. Mihir and I filed out of our row and said good night to the facilitators closing up the theater. Outside, pools of ground lighting illuminated from below the trees and gardens and path we followed back to the dorm, where, exhausted from a day’s activity that was more varied and educational than any in my working career, I brushed my teeth. Also noteworthy was the religion’s role in uniting cultures traditionally antagonistic toward one another. Yes, to see so many world leaders endorse PASE across so many political and ideological divides—and to know that it intended good without prompting by government or concerned citizens or greed, sui generis, because its nature was to help those in a position of weakness climb to a position of strength—well, I was impressed.
I fell asleep the second my head touched my pillow.
CHAPTER 6
Friedrich Dürrenmatt, a Swiss dramatist, novelist, and essayist, once wrote, “The worst possible turn can not be programmed. It is caused by coincidence.” He wrote this because he knew nothing about how life and the world operated. I wouldn’t mention him, for he ought to be forgotten, a crushed carbon flake on the ash heap of history, if his belief in coincidence weren’t so widespread. Elizabeth, for example, like Monsieur Dürrenmatt, denied the gravitational forces that cause misfortune because she had never been pinched by their influence, whereas I, who after being fired at Couvade, was being flattened by them, knew immediately after seeing Teresa/Mary on the street that her relation to Montgomery Shoale was no more a coincidence than was the moon’s maintaining a constant distance from the Earth, and I knew, as a bus horn trumpeted behind my car and the policewoman eyed me suspiciously, that the sooner I discovered the properties of attraction involved, the better able I would be to cultivate those of repulsion.
At home I printed out a picture of Mary Shoale from the Internet and took it to Conrad, who answered his door wearing a gray bathrobe so loose and rumpled on his round body that it resembled elephant skin. His wiry, untrimmed eyebrows splayed out in every direction like the bristles of a worn paintbrush.
“Is this your student?” I asked, holding up the picture.
With a tobacco-stained forefinger he lightly traced the outline of her face. “No.”
“This isn’t the woman who was here the other night?”
“It’s her, but her hair’s different.”
I could see behind him into his apartment, the structural layout of which was identical to mine, though its walls were a brownish taupe that gave the place an earthy, underground feel. A baby grand piano stood between two footstools against the side wall, and stacks of music books and blank score sheets were arranged around the square room like chess pieces in midgame. A portrait of J. S. Bach—except for one’s powdered wig, th
e resemblance between the two portly men was uncanny—hung over the piano, framed in a resplendent gold leaf chain of treble clefs and G-bars.
“Why did you say she’s not your student?” I tried to slip the picture of Mary into my breast pocket, but it was too big and I had to fold it in half and stuff it into my back pocket. Conrad tracked its movements as though we were playing a shell game.
“She quit taking lessons yesterday.”
“Why?”
“She didn’t give a reason, but I think it’s because you complained.”
“Did you know her real name is Mary?”
“Of course.”
“She didn’t tell you it was Teresa?”
“No.”
I turned and ran down the stairwell to the street level where, opening the door that led to the corner of Hayes and Fulton, determined to find answers to questions that weren’t entirely clear to me, like a scientist who has found data anomalies that appear natural but must be the result of human error, I slammed into someone coming in. It was a violent collision and we staggered back like gonged bells. My chin and jaw felt wrenched out of place and I sank to the ground in pain, while she covered her forehead with both palms and leaned against the wall. Rising to my feet as the world came back into focus, I checked for my wallet and saw that I had collided with Mary in the Teresa wig.
“You,” I croaked, the single syllable gargling out thickly from the back of my throat.
“Are you okay? Let’s go inside. I need an ice pack.”
“So you know me now?” I touched the lower half of my face gently, applying little or no pressure. Every word was torture.
“Yes. Please, let’s go in.”
“There must be cops waiting in the hallway to entrap me.”
“It’s not like that. I’ll explain inside. Let’s just—please!” Dropping her hands to reveal a round red welt spreading from beneath her bangs to her eyebrows, she took my elbow and slowly climbed the stairs to my apartment, the maimed leading the maimed. I filled two washcloths with ice and wrapped them up, one for her and one for me, and we stared at each other from either end of the kitchen like wounded duelists.
“Thanks,” she said, applying the pack to her injury. “Maybe you should sit down.”
I shook my head and winced.
“Mind if I do?”
I gestured to a chair.
Wiping away the tears that slowly collected and fell from the corners of her eyes, she said, “Could I have a glass of water?”
“I’ll remind you to use the bathroom before you go.”
“I feel dizzy.” She stared uncertainly at the wall calendar’s picture of a moonlit Yosemite Park. “I’m sorry about the police earlier, but I had to call them in case anyone noticed us talking. What I said about my name and father was true. And this isn’t my real hair.” She tugged on the black wig and a crop of short dirty-blond hair sprouted up in its place. Then she took a long series of gulps from the water I set beside her on the table, draining the glass as a few drops ran down her mouth and onto her sweater. “I don’t know how we could have been moving fast enough for that impact. Everything seems so bright—I may need to lie down in a minute—unless there’s a light we could turn off? Anyway, what I’m going to say is embarrassing, but I have to say it so let’s just act like this is a normal conversation. I didn’t randomly sign up for piano lessons from your neighbor. I did it because I wanted to meet you, and I wanted to meet you because I overheard a conversation between my dad and Couvade’s CEO, who said there’d been sexual misconduct at your company and mentioned you as one of the offenders. It was just in passing as an example, and he named other people too, but my dad zeroed in on you and asked what kind of worker you were and what else you might have done against company regulations. Then he offered to provide the seminar to Couvade for free. That never happens. Normally PASE charges sixty thousand dollars for that kind of event, and more when my dad speaks.”
“Why was your dad interested in me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then why did you want to meet me?”
“So we could have sex.”
I coughed violently, five seconds of agony. “But you’re a Paser.”
“No I’m not.”
“You’re Montgomery Shoale’s daughter.”
“Do you believe in everything your parents do?”
“Well—”
“My dad and I have a complicated arrangement,” Mary said, “but basically I get an allowance in exchange for acting like a Paser and going to his charity events and conferences, for keeping up appearances.”
“Having sex is not acting like a Paser.”
“I cheat a little.”
“But it’s the most important thing.”
“Not always, and besides he doesn’t find out. I wear a disguise and use false names with men. You’re the first one who’s ever recognized me without the wig.”
“I don’t understand why overhearing your dad’s conversation with Mr. Hofbrau made you want to have sex with me.”
“I’m not ready for psychoanalysis right now. My head is killing me. Could I lie down? Just for a few minutes. And maybe I could have another ice pack?”
She stood up, eyes as wide open as if she were trying to see in the dark, the dripping washcloth pressed against her forehead, water drops from the melted ice mixing with her tears, and then, squinting as though floodlights had been thrown on, she fell to the ground.
Fifteen minutes later she regained consciousness on the couch and asked for another glass of water. I fetched it and a muscle relaxant—I’d taken five myself and felt exponentially better—and arranged a pillow behind her so she could sit up. The whole of her forehead had subsided from an intense, iron-oxide red to a dull aubergine, though the bump at its center was still angrily swollen.
“I think you have a concussion,” I said. “I called an ambulance, which should be here in a minute.”
“What?” she said, trying to sit up. “No! Call it off! If there’s a medical record saying I was picked up here, someone will tell someone who will tell someone close to my father that you and I were together.”
“And then you won’t get your allowance.”
“It’s not that. What would happen to me is nothing. There’d be a scene and repercussions, but I’d live.”
A knock sounded at the door, short but purposeful, followed by, “Hello! Open up! Medic!”
“Get rid of them!” Mary hissed, almost hyperventilating. “You must!”
Reluctantly, I went to the door and apologized to the paramedics and explained that the injured woman had left already, that I hadn’t been able to prevent it. One of them asked me twice if I was sure that I was telling the truth. Back in the living room I found Mary’s eyes rolled back, her jaw slack, and her breath coming in gasps. I tried to wake her with gentle slaps that grew in strength and volume to something like violence, then poured cold water on her face and sprinkled cayenne pepper into her nostrils. If anything she fell further from consciousness; a faintly aspirated sigh escaped her lips irregularly and her eyelids were motionless and REM-free. I was tempted to call the ambulance again but remembered Mary’s words: “but I’d live.” Had she placed a stress anywhere? But I’d live? But I’d live? But I’d live? The last variation, impossible and ridiculous, chased the other two out of my mind. But I’d live and you wouldn’t, it implied. I sat on the edge of the couch beside Mary’s supine body—she looked like a floating Ophelia—and told myself, “I am not in any danger. ‘But I’d live’ is a figure of speech like ‘she killed him with kindness’ or ‘I’ll die if she doesn’t call me.’ Montgomery Shoale has eccentric ideas that have been codified into a religion, and his power and influence are wide-ranging, but he wouldn’t kill someone for being alone in a room with his daughter.”
When Mary’s eyes opened she put diffident fingers to her cheek and the top of her head. “My face stings. Where’s my wig?”
“In the kitchen.”
&nb
sp; “Did you send the ambulance away?”
“Yes. Were you saying that if your dad found out we were together, something would happen to me? Does he go after guys you’ve been with—as in, to hurt them?”
She closed her eyes again. “I told you, he doesn’t find out about them.”
At that moment, even disfigured, with half her face a rash of irritation, she struck me as the most lovely woman I’d ever seen. So that although she might objectively be called attractive, I felt myself to belong to a small subset of the world, perhaps encompassing me alone, that saw in her absolute beauty, the culmination of the female form. This sensation—wherein it’s unclear if you were created to admire an object or it was created to be admired by you, and the question is meaningless against the force of your admiration—can either be a passing infatuation or a life-altering election. And even though at first you don’t know which it is, the temptation to think, I know this certainly, without preparation or precondition, is irresistible. For me, at least, it was, and I know enough to call my behavior human nature when in hindsight it appears to have been foolish.
She opened her eyes and I looked away, prepared to say something to defuse the moment, but then we were kissing, and a second later we were holding each other with the desperation of a last embrace. “We shouldn’t do this,” I said inaudibly. Then we were on the floor with our hands everywhere, rolling around as though our revolutions would add up to a single, greater Revolution, and cloudlight filled the room like transparent smoke, and the roughness and smoothness of our skin, and the heat along its surface conducting back and forth, and our mindless sensitivity were all sides of a single shape.
At a certain point the silent noise in my head grew deafening and my body convulsed in relaxation and our fingers intertwined so fiercely they turned a bloodless white. Then everything quieted to susurrus and I became calm, as though I’d scaled a sheer cliff and could at last sit on its edge, able to survey the panorama that had been at my back. We were in the bedroom and lay faceup on a Peruvian throw rug my brother, Sid, had given me the year he went to Machu Picchu, our flush, warm bodies trembling.
