Doctor Orient

by Frank Lauria

  He was relieved to understand that each of Shakespeare’s words was a facet of the natural protection of the universe.

  He went to the cot and stretched out. Secure that his prayer would continue to pulse through every cell with each heartbeat, he closed his eyes.

  XIX

  On Thursday both Newsweek and Time came out with Susej on their covers. Every possible angle had been explored. Susej’s letter of resignation from the Church was exhumed, photographed and reproduced. It was brief and sincere. There were comprehensive investigations of all his cures. His activities since entering the United States were reviewed. Everything in his past was in order. The disclosure of his brilliant scholastic record had prompted a search for his early published thesis. The discovery of one of the few remaining copies of the review sent bidders frantically to Paris. Everyone who had personal contact with the priest reported enthusiastically. Statesmen, showmen, money men, and religious men alike had only high praise for Susej and his work. An unreleased album titled “The Clear Power” had already accumulated an advance sale of 250,000. It was rumored that Kane Mulnew would head a foundation to administer the affairs of Susej after her cure. The priest himself flatly denied and declined any financial support. The proceeds from Saturday’s rally had already been pledged to charity. Yankee Stadium, designated for the event, had sold out in a matter of hours. The television interests were still in serious negotiation over the television rights.

  “D’Te seems to have the knack,” Orient said, violently throwing the magazine against the table. He was tired. He had been pushing hard; studying, teaching, fasting, using every waking moment for preparation.

  “But why upset yourself with all this?” Redson said lazily. “You’ve made your decision. Worrying about his impact on the public isn’t going to help you, is it?”

  “Okay.” Orient rubbed his eyes with the tips of his fingers “you’re absolutely right.” He opened his eyes. “But it still has me worried.”

  “It doesn’t take some people very long to cause the same impact and they’re working without any supernatural energy,” Levi remarked from the chessboard.

  “Yes, but their potential is limited,” Orient said. “Susej is just beginning. By the way”—he twisted in his chair to face Levi—“how are you coming with the bishop?”

  Levi looked up. “Very nicely. He’ll be ready by tomorrow.”

  “Amazing,” Redson observed. “The quack has managed to clear my headaches.”

  “I wish you’d let me teach you a few breathing patterns,” Orient said.

  “No thanks, Owen.” Redson smiled. “I’m sure it’s all worthwhile but I’m not looking for anything else right now.”

  Orient nodded,

  “But you might reconsider your decision to challenge D’Te Saturday,” Redson reminded him gently. “I’m going to be precious little help to you when the time comes. Aren’t you being a little impetuous?”

  Orient closed his eyes against the steady drumming of emotion against the base of his brain. It didn’t help. Redson was dangerously close to his fears. Perhaps his own exaggerated responsibility for Argyle was causing him to overact. Perhaps it was he whose ego had been challenged. Perhaps he was recklessly gambling his pilgrims’ lives out of some kind of vanity. Some kind of retribution for Malta. Malta. Even now, through the churning possibilities of his thoughts he could hear the tiny, tinny music box melody and smell the cedar fragrance of her hair.

  He opened his eyes and saw the four-color face of Susej dominating a collage of American life. He was doing the right thing. If Susej was successful Saturday he would have enough strength to break through any protection. Then through Argyle he would have the key to telepathy and a power that could shred even the barriers of consecration. There was no choice about Saturday.

  He looked at Redson. “You can back out if you like,” he said.

  “Don’t give me any nonsense about backing out now,” Redson said angrily. “I’m just thinking that you might be overestimating your own powers.”

  Orient shook his head. “If Susej could break through to us he would have done it by now. No, he doesn’t have enough power yet to crack your chapel. But if he makes it Saturday he’ll be strong enough for almost anything.”

  “You just relax and let me handle your trance, Bishop,” Levi said as he studied the problem on the board. “You’ll be a big help.”

  Orient picked up the phone and dialed J.J.’s number.

  “One minute,” JJ.’s voice flicked, then the dull quiet of hold.

  “Okay, Waxoff here.”

  “Orient. How about that ticket?”

  “Not easy this time, Owen,” J.J. said.

  “It’s important to me.”

  Orient tapped his finger on the mouthpiece while J.J. paused to consider.

  “It’ll cost me a favor,” J.J. said, “so you’ll have to make up the difference.”

  “How much?”

  “Not money, a favor is all.”

  “Anything specific in mind?”

  “Something I’ve been trying to get you to do for three years/’

  “A séance?”

  “Exactly. For a special group of friends.”

  Orient started to refuse, then held up. If he was still able to pay off J.J. after Saturday it was worth bending a principle. “All right,” he said finally, “send it over.”

  “You’ll have it tomorrow morning. Now how about my report?”

  “Report?”

  “Of course. You promised me a full profile on Susej after the Kirk show. I caught the tape. Sensational you weren’t.”

  “What do you want to know?” Orient’s grip tightened on the phone.

  “All about Susej. What’s the hang-up?”

  “He wants control, that’s his hang-up.”

  “Sure he does, but what about the cures?”

  “They’re legitimate.”

  There was a long pause. When J.J.’s voice returned it had another tone. “You mean it’s worth getting into?”

  “I mean it’s worth staying out of.” Orient stressed it even though he knew it was useless. J.J. was curious now.

  “Okay, thanks.” J.J.’s voice cut through his regrets. “Probably see you Saturday.” The line was disconnected.

  Orient hung up. He was drained.

  A tax was being levied against his dwindling resources with each move. Even Sordi was feeling the intensity of the bite. He thought of Argyle. The immense price. The enormous pressure he must be enduring.

  He tried to think of something else. Even an empathetic link between them could be used by Susej. And he had too much already.

  “So you’re going then?” Redson was saying.

  Orient nodded.

  Redson stood. “Well, then, I guess it’s time for my lessons. What do you say, Claude, ready?”

  “Minute,” Levi rumbled. He was bent low over the board, the implications of a knight furrowing his brow. He pushed a pawn forward. “That does it,” he bragged. “If Larsen had used his pawn against the Russian he’d be king now.” He beckoned to Redson. “Take a look at this, Bishop.”

  “Let’s get to work, Claude,” Redson wailed. “I can’t be worried about a game now.”

  “Okay,” Levi said, leaving the board reluctantly, “but you’re missing a rare opportunity. Perhaps I can give you a P.S. that will help you appreciate the game.”

  Redson ignored him. “Listen,” he said to Orient, “are you sure you want me to use the Pentacle of Mars?”

  Orient nodded.

  “Why that talisman in particular?” Redson asked suspiciously.

  Orient leaned back on the couch. “Because it’s the planetary pentacle which suits the conjunction of Susej’s planets on Saturday. And because it’s one of the only pentacles in Mars which isn’t a talisman for attack, or personal gain.”

  “Well, that’s just what I mean, Owen,” Redson boomed, “we can’t hold anything back against D’Te. You said yourself that Saturday is ou
r last play.”

  Orient smiled. “Have you learned the invocation from the Pentacle?”

  “Sure.”

  “And the game plan?”

  Redson frowned. “Saturday afternoon I received communion. Saturday evening I let Claude put me into a receptive state. While I’m under I repeat the invocation of the Pentacle of Mars. At the right time you enter the field of my trance.”

  “Exactly.” Orient sifted a cigarette from his case. “And the right time will be after I’ve challenged Susej. At that point I won’t need any offensive momentum, I’ll need an impenetrable defense. And that will serve as my offense.”

  “C’mon, Bishop, get with it,” Levi drawled impatiently. “If a warlock sends a spell of destruction and it fails, the curse returns to the sender. Now how about getting to work now that you’ve interrupted my game?”

  “Just a minute, Claude.” Orient held up his hand. It’s important that he understands this completely. Now”—he turned to Redson—“do you remember the words?”

  “Their swords shall enter into their own heart, and their bows shall be broken,” Redson recited.

  Orient lit his cigarette and waited.

  “Ahh,” Redson said after a moment, “obvious, isn’t it?”

  “You’re damned right.” Levi scratched his bearded chin disgustedly. “Took you long enough.”

  Orient felt a slight sense of relief. “Good,” he said, “so you see that the Pentacle is a strong one. With the protection of your state of grace and Claude’s and Hap’s combined energy, we should make a tussle out of it”

  Redson grimaced. “I’ll do it, but I don’t think I’ll ever understand it.”

  “What about Sordi on Saturday?” Levi asked.

  Orient shook his head. “Sordi will only be able to give us moral support.” There was a pause. “Why not get him out of harm’s way?” Levi said quietly.

  Orient picked up the magazine he had thrown and carefully placed it face down on the table. “There is no such place,” he sighed.

  XX

  Raymond flicked an imaginary speck of dust off his wide moiré silk tie and cleared his throat.

  Seth felt a vague annoyance growing at the incessant sound that accompanied Raymond’s presence. He slipped the tape into a metal container and scrawled a take number on the label with a marking pen.

  “Did you get DeMann?” he said.

  “Yeah, put him down for twenty-five thousand long ones and double on the singles.”

  Seth grunted. Raymond did have a feel for distribution. Unfortunately, the kid was hung up on a very limited scene. Unfortunately for him, he had no feel for ritual. The only ceremony Raymond could grasp was cashing a check. Of course, Seth reflected, placing the container in the out box, Raymond’s blind greed made him eminently trustworthy. All he wanted was the pennies.

  “Did you speak to the magazine people?” he asked.

  Raymond cleared his throat. “We got an issue on the album and Addison, an issue on the film and an issue on Susej.”

  “What kind of print order?”

  “A mill.”

  “What about tomorrow?”

  “All set. I checked out the system at the stadium and I sent tickets to everybody on the list.”

  Seth stood at his control board idly fingering the dials, staring out into the deserted discotheque. Tomorrow night he would direct Addison’s greatest—and last—album. Tomorrow night the people would be dancing to the full music of Susej through Addison. And then he and Addison would both take their places with Susej in another reality.

  “Okay,” Seth turned slowly and leaned against the control board, “now Raymond, everything you’ve asked for you shall have.”

  Raymond stiffened automatically. Seth still made him nervous. “What do you mean?” he said, too quickly.

  “I mean that you’ve got the whole music operation as your special toy”—Seth smiled genially—“just like that.”

  Raymond cleared his throat. “Thanks,” he said.

  Seth had seen some films of Governor Chase’s campaign. The Governor had the same grating habit of clearing his throat. “As of Monday you take my chair.” he said. “When Addison’s first two albums are out you’ll be responsible for developing new talent.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m going to form a corporation that will hold the music company as part of its function. You’ll be directly under me, and Susej.”

  You, and ten-thousand others, he thought as he watched the smile form soft and smug on Raymond’s face.

  Ten-thousand minds shaped by pecking aspiration into a perfect bureaucracy. Sync. Seth’s smile broadened and he leaned confidentially toward Raymond.

  “Now you’re going to come with me to see Susej,” he said softly.

  Raymond’s face fell. “What for?” he said, his voice hushed.

  “You’re going to learn something,” Seth said, knowing that all that would register with Raymond was fear.

  Argyle Simpson was time inside of timelessness; a growing act of existence traveling toward some distant potential, the prayer his leverage and his direction. Occasionally he could feel the strangely ponderous turbulence of some other need veering him. from his flow, but always there was the firm leverage guiding the shape of his motion.

  Even as the three men entered the room he understood their presence only as a temporary form randomly created by elements. Their form, however, he understood as extensions of the turbulence. He felt for the prayer and found it pounding faithful time.

  “Good evening, Mr. Simpson.”

  It took Argyle time to remember the structure of words. When he did die other structures of his physical reality came roaring into his mind. And then he felt the vibration. Weaving insinuations and structures actual and potential through every promise of his being. Stroking his chemistry with the persistent whisper of a new direction, a new sensation.

  He looked past the man speaking, to the source of the emanation that pulled steadily at every electron of his existence. Shango.

  “Have you been well, Mr. Simpson?” Susej said gently, coming closer.

  “Fair enough.” Argyle found his throat dry and constricted.

  “You don’t sound well, Mr. Simpson.” Susej gravely shook his head. “Perhaps you should consider the inevitability of your position.”

  Argyle stood up and held out his hand. “Unlock this chain,” he said evenly. As he spoke he felt the prayer punctuate each word.

  Susej smiled. “Do you know how long you’ve been here, Mr. Simpson?” He went on, not waiting for Simpson to answer. “You’ve been here six nights,” he said, pausing to make sure Simpson had heard him, “and in that time no one has made an attempt to help you. Your teacher, Dr. Orient, is helpless. He has no power, Mr. Simpson, he is merely a dabbler who had developed a facility. And he does not dare face me again.”

  “Again?” Argyle caught the sequence through the insistent demands of the doll.

  “Your doctor was humiliated. He has conceded you to me.

  “In that case,” Argyle retorted, “why do you need chains?”

  Susej seemed delighted by Argyle’s logic. “Of course, Mr. Simpson, it is up to me to take what I wish. Tonight I shall take your technique. Or rather, you will give it to me. You will scream for me to take it from you.”

  Argyle felt the probing turbulence blocking his flow, opposing his leverage.

  “What if I agree to give you the technique?”

  Susej nodded. “That would be wise.” He reached into his pocket and took out a small key. “You would be free, and you would be in a position to bargain. I do not enjoy these methods, Mr, Simpson.”

  Argyle waited.

  Susej went to the chair and placed the key next to the doll.

  “All that is necessary is to go to Shango, Mr. Simpson,” he said, “and you will be free.”

  Argyle still waited. He was using almost all his conscious energy to prevent the turbulence from surging through his
balance.

  “Go to Shango, Mr. Simpson,” Susej was saying, his words mingling with the turbulence, sending the full weight of its huge spin crashing against his direction.

  “You know yourself that Orient is a methodical man,” Susej was saying. “You know yourself that his imagination will eventually limit you. You are greater than Orient, Mr. Simpson, why enslave yourself to mediocrity?”

  Argyle braced his consciousness as the heavy monotonous cycles thundered against his prayer… he knew that with each contact something was being lost…

  “Seth, go to Shango,” Susej whispered.

  The large shadow behind Susej separated and a single figure went to the chair, emerging slowly into Simpson’s focus. The cat in the control room. He squinted across at the remaining shape behind Susej. At first it was a vague recollection but then he pinpointed the memory. The signifying monkey at the discotheque.

  Despair tugged at his concentration, as he realized that he was scrambling to catch up. His direction had been changed.

  “Shango,” Susej said.

  Seth the cat crouched at the chair and put his finger on the doll.

  A bristling shock of pleasure brought Argyle to his knees.

  “Shango,” Susej said again.

  This time the sensation started in his stomach and spread out to the ends of his nerves, shattering the prayer and sending him careening wildly through the roaring turbulence. He sobbed as the ecstasy intensified, sizzling the billion fibers of his body into something beyond pleasure, and beyond pain. He heard himself screaming somewhere far away.

  And then, abruptly, it stopped.

  He was rolling on the floor, his breath coming in choking gasps. And someone was still screaming.

  Someone else.

  He lifted his head and saw feet shuffling to the door.

  He closed his eyes and let his head come to rest against the floor.

  XXI