"I'm perfectly happy here." She leaned her head back against his arm and shut her eyes. "Rub my back," she said. "I'm stiff from leaning against the wall; it hurts here." She touched a midpoint in her spine, leaning forward. He began to massage her neck. "That feels good," she murmured.
"Lie down on the bed," he said. "So I can get more pressure; I can't do it very well this way."
"Okay." Linda Fox hopped from the couch and padded barefoot across the room. "What a nice bedroom. I've never stayed at the Essex House. Are you married?"
"No," he said. No point telling her about Rybys. "I was once but I got divorced."
"Isn't divorce awful?" She lay on the bed, prone, her arms stretched out.
Bending over her he kissed the back of her head.
"Don't," she said.
"Why not?"
"I can't."
"Can't what?" he said.
"Make love. I'm having my period."
Period? Linda Fox has periods? He was incredulous. He drew back from her, sitting bolt upright.
"I'm sorry," she said. She seemed relaxed. "Start up around my shoulders," she said. "It's stiff there. I'm sleepy. The wine, I guess. Such ..." She yawned. "Good wine."
"Yes," he said, still sitting away from her.
All at once she burped; her hand, then, flew to her mouth. "Pardon me," she said.
He flew back to Washington, D.C., the next morning. She had returned to her barren apartment that night, but the matter was moot anyhow because of her period. A couple of times she mentioned—he thought unnecessarily—that she always had severe cramps during her period and had them now. On the return trip he felt weary, but he had closed a deal for a rather large sum; Linda Fox had signed the papers ordering a top-of-the-line stereo system, and, later, he would return and supervise the installation of video recording and playback components. All in all it had been a profitable trip.
And yet—his ultimate move had fallen through because Linda Fox ... it had been the wrong time. Her menstrual cycle, he thought. Linda Fox has periods and cramps? he asked himself. I don't believe it. But I guess it's true. Could it have been a pretext? No, it was not a pretext. It was real.
When he arrived back home his wife greeted him with a single question. "Did you two fool around?"
"No," he said. Worse luck.
"You look tired," Rybys said.
"Tired but happy." It had been a satisfying and rewarding experience; he and the Fox had sat together talking for hours. An easy person to get to know, he thought. Relaxed, enthusiastic; a good person. Substantial. Not at all affected. I like her, he said to himself. It'll be good to see her again.
And, he thought, I know she'll go far.
It was odd how strong that intuition was inside him, his sense about the Fox's future success. Well, the explanation was that Linda Fox was just plain good.
"What kind of person is she?" Rybys said. "Nothing but talk about her career, probably."
"She is tender and gentle and modest," he said, "and totally informal. We talked about a lot of things."
"Could I meet her sometime?"
"I don't see why not," he said. "I'll be flying up there again. And she said something about flying down here and visiting the store. She goes all over the place; her career is taking off at this point—she's beginning to get the big breaks she needs and deserves and I'm glad for her, really glad."
If she only hadn't been having her period ... but I guess those are the facts of life, he said to himself. That's what makes up reality. Linda is the same as any other woman in that regard; it comes with the territory.
I like her anyhow, he said to himself. Even if we didn't go to bed. The enjoyment of her company: that was enough.
***
To Zina Pallas, the boy said, "You have lost."
"Yes, I have lost." She nodded. "You made her real and he still cares for her. The dream for him is no longer a dream; it is true down to the level of disappointments."
"Which is the stamp of authenticity."
"Yes," she said. "Congratulations." Zina extended her hand to Emmanuel and they shook.
"And now," the boy said, "you will tell me who you are."
16
ZINA SAID, "YES, I will tell you who I am, Emmanuel, but I will not let your world return. Mine is better. Herb Asher leads a much happier life; Rybys is alive ... Linda Fox is real—"
"But you did not make her real," he said. "I did."
"Do you want back again the world you gave them? With the winter, its ice and snow, over everything? It is I who burst the prison; I brought in the springtime. I deposed the procurator maximus and the chief prelate. Let it stay as it is."
"I will transmute your world into the real," he said. "I have already begun. I manifested myself to Herb Asher when you kissed him; I penetrate your world in my true form. I am making it my world, step by step. What the people must do, however, is remember. They may live in your world but they must know that a worse one existed and they were forced to live in it. I restored Herb Asher's memories, and the others dream dreams."
"That's fine with me."
"Tell me, now," he said, "who you are."
"Let us go," she said, "hand in hand. Like Beethoven and Goethe: two friends. Take us to Stanley Park in British Columbia and we will observe the animals there, the wolves, the great white wolves. It is a beautiful park, and Lionsgate Bridge is beautiful; Vancouver, British Columbia, is the most beautiful city on Earth."
"That is true," he said. "I had forgotten."
"And after you view it I want you to ask yourself if you would destroy it or change it in any way. I want you to inquire of yourself if you would, upon seeing such earthly beauty, bring into existence your great and terrible day in which all the arrogant and evil-doers shall be chaff, set ablaze, leaving them neither root nor branch. OK?"
"OK," Emmanuel said.
Zina said:
We are spirits of the air
Who of human beings take care.
"Are you?" he said. Because, he thought, if that is so then you are an atmospheric spirit, which is to say—an angel.
Zina said:
Come, all ye songsters of the sky,
Wake and assemble in this wood;
But no ill-boding bird be nigh,
None but the harmless and the good.
"What are you saying?" Emmanuel said.
"Take us to Stanley Park first," Zina said. "Because if you take us there, we shall actually be there; it will be no dream."
He did so.
Together they walked across the verdant ground, among the vast trees. These stands, he knew, had never been logged; this was the primeval forest. "It is exceedingly beautiful," he said to her.
"It is the world," she said.
"Tell me who you are."
Zina said, "I am the Torah."
After a moment Emmanuel said, "Then I can do nothing regarding the universe without consulting you."
"And you can do nothing regarding the universe that is contrary to what I say," Zina said, "as you yourself decided, in the beginning, when you created me. You made me alive; I am a living being that thinks. I am the plan of the universe, its blueprint. That is the way you intended it and that is the way it is."
"Hence the slate you gave me," he said.
"Look at me," Zina said.
He looked at her—and saw a young woman, wearing a crown, and sitting on a throne. "Malkuth," he said. "The lowest of the ten sefiroth."
"And you are the Eternal Infinite En Sof," Malkuth said. "The first and highest of the sefiroth of the Tree of Life."
"But you said that you are the Torah."
"In the Zohar," Malkuth said, "the Torah is depicted as a beautiful maiden living alone, secluded in a great castle. Her secret lover comes to the castle to see her, but all he can do is wait futilely outside hoping for a glimpse of her. Finally she appears at the window and he is able to catch sight of her, but only for an instant. Later on she lingers at the window and he is
able, therefore, to speak with her; yet, still, she hides her face behind a veil ... and her answers to his questions are evasive. Finally, after a long time, when her lover has become despairing that he will ever get to know her, she permits him to see her face at last."
Emmanuel said, "Thus revealing to her lover all the secrets which she has up to now, throughout the long courtship, kept buried in her heart. I know the Zohar. You are right."
"So you know me now, En Sof," Malkuth said. "Does it please you?"
"It does not," he said, "because although what you say is true, there is one more veil to be removed from your face. There is one more step."
"True." Malkuth, the lovely young woman seated on the throne, wearing a crown, said, "but you will have to find it."
"I will," he said. "I am so close now; only a step, one single step, away."
"You have guessed," she said. "But you must do better than that. Guessing is not enough; you must know."
"How beautiful you are, Malkuth," he said. "And of course you are here in the world and love the world; you are the sefira that represents the Earth. You are the womb containing everything, all the other sefiroth that constitute the Tree itself; those other forces, nine of them, are generated by you."
"Even Kether," Malkuth said, calmly. "Who is highest."
"You are Diana, the fairy queen," he said. "You are Pallas Athena, the spirit of righteous war; you are the spring queen, you are Hagia Sophia, Holy Wisdom; you are the Torah which is the formula and blueprint of the universe; you are Malkuth of the Kabala, the lowest of the ten sefiroth of the Tree of Life; and you are my companion and friend, my guide. But what are you actually? Under all the disguises? I know what you are and—" He put his hand on hers. "I am beginning to remember. The Fall, when the Godhead was torn apart."
"Yes," she said, nodding. "You are remembering back to that, now. To the beginning."
"Give me time," he said. "Just a little more time. It is hard. It hurts."
She said, "I will wait." Seated on her throne she waited. She had waited for thousands of years, and, in her face, he could see the patient and placid willingness to wait longer, as long as was necessary. Both of them had known from the beginning that this moment would come, when they would be back together. They were together now, again, as it had been originally. All he had to do was name her. To name is to know, he thought. To know and to summon; to call.
"Shall I tell you your name?" he said to her.
She smiled, the lovely dancing smile, but no mischief shone in her eyes; instead, love glimmered at him, vast extents of love.
Nicholas Bulkowsky, wearing his red army uniform, prepared to address a crowd of the Party faithful at the main square of Bogotá, Colombia, where recruiting efforts had of late been highly successful. If the Party could swing Colombia into the antifascist camp the disastrous loss of Cuba would be somewhat offset.
However, a cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church had recently put in an appearance—not a local person, but an American, dispatched by the Vatican to interfere with CP activities. Why must they meddle? Bulkowsky asked himself. Bulkowsky. He had discarded that name; now he was known as General Gómez.
To his Colombian advisor he said, "Give me the psychological profile on this Cardinal Harms."
"Yes, Comrade General." Ms. Reiz passed him the file on the American troublemaker.
Studying the file, Bulkowsky said, "His head is up his ass. He's a spinner of theology. The Vatican picked the wrong person." We will tie Harms into knots, he said to himself, pleased.
"Sir," Ms. Reiz said, "Cardinal Harms is said to have charisma. He attracts crowds wherever he goes."
"He will attract a lead pipe to the head," Bulkowsky said, "if he shows up in Colombia."
As a distinguished guest of an afternoon TV talkshow, the Roman Catholic Cardinal Fulton Statler Harms had lapsed into his usual sententious prose. The moderator, hoping to interrupt at some point, in order to achieve a much-needed commercial information dump, looked ill at ease.
"Their policies," Harms declared, "inspire disorder, which they capitalize on. Social unrest is the cornerstone of atheistic communism. Let me give you an example."
"We'll be back in just a moment," the moderator said, as the camera panned up on his bland features. "But first these messages." Cut to a spraycan of Yardguard.
To the moderator—since for a moment they were off camera—Fulton Harms said, "What's the real estate market like, here in Detroit? I have some funds I want to invest, and office buildings, I've discovered, are about the soundest investments of all."
"You had better consult—" The moderator received a visual signal from the show's producer; immediately he composed his face into its normal look of sagacity and said, in his informal but professional tone, "We're talking today with Cardinal Fulton Harmer—"
"Harms," Harms said.
"—Harms of the Diocese of—"
"Archdiocese," Harms said, miffed.
"—of Detroit," the moderator continued. "Cardinal, isn't it a fact that in most Catholic countries, especially those in the Third World, no substantial middle class exists? That you tend to find a very wealthy elite and a poverty-stricken population with little or no education and little or no hope of bettering themselves? Is there some kind of correlation between the Church and this deplorable situation?"
"Well," Harms said, at a loss.
"Let me put it to you this way," the moderator continued; he was perfectly relaxed, perfectly in control of the situation. "Hasn't the Church held back economic and social progress for centuries upon centuries? Isn't the Church in fact a reactionary institution devoted to the betterment of a few and the exploitation of the many, trading on human credulity? Would that be a fair statement, Cardinal, sir?"
"The Church," Harms said feebly, "looks after the spiritual welfare of man; it is responsible for his soul."
"But not his body."
"The communists enslave man's body and man's soul," Harms said. "The Church—"
"I'm sorry, Cardinal Fulton Harms," the moderator broke in, "but that's all the time we have. We've been talking with—"
"Frees man from original sin," Harms said.
The moderator glanced at him.
"Man is born in sin," Harms said, totally unable to gather his train of thought together.
"Thank you, Cardinal Fulton Statler Harms," the moderator said. "And now this."
More commercials. Harms, within himself, groaned. Somehow, he ruminated as he rose from the luxurious chair in which they had seated him, somehow I feel as if I've known better days.
He could not put his finger on it, but the feeling was there. And now I have to go to that little rat's ass country Colombia, he reflected. Again; I've been there once, as briefly as possible, and now I have to fly back this afternoon. They have me on a string and they just plain jerk me around this way and that. Off to Colombia, back home to Detroit, over to Baltimore, then back to Colombia; I'm a cardinal and I have to put up with this? I feel like stepping down.
This is not the best of all possible worlds, he said to himself as he made his way to the elevator. And TV hosts of daytime talk shows abuse me.
Libera me Domine, he declared to himself, and it was a mute appeal; save me, God. Why doesn't he listen to me? Harms wondered as he stood waiting for the elevator. Maybe there is no God; maybe the communists are right. If there is a God he certainly doesn't do anything for me.
Before I leave Detroit, he decided, I'll check with my investment broker about office buildings. If I have the time.
Rybys Rommey-Asher, plodding listlessly into the living room of their apartment, said, "I'm back." She shut the front door and took off her coat. "The doctor says it's an ulcer. A pyloric ulcer, it's called. I have to take phenobarb for it and drink Maalox."
"Does it still hurt?" Herb Asher said; he had been going through his tape collection, searching for the Mahler Second Symphony.
"Could you pour me some milk?" Rybys threw herself down on
the couch. "I'm exhausted." Her face, puffy and dark, seemed to him to be swollen. "And don't play any loud music. I can't take any noise right now. Why aren't you at the shop?"
"It's my day off." He found the tape of the Mahler Second. "I'll put on the earspeakers," he said. "So it won't bother you."
Rybys said, "I want to tell you about my ulcer. I learned some interesting facts about ulcers—I stopped off at the library. Here." She held out a manila folder. "I got a printout of a recent article. There's this theory that—"
"I'm going to listen to the Mahler Second," he said.
"Fine." Her tone was bitter and sardonic. "You go ahead."
"There's nothing I can do about your ulcer," he said.
"You can listen to me."
Herb Asher said, "I'll bring you the milk." He walked into the kitchen and he thought, Must it be like this?
If I could hear the Second, he thought, I'd feel okay. The only symphony scored for many pieces of rattan, he mused. A Ruthe, which looks like a small broom; they use it to play the bass drum. Too bad Mahler never saw a Morley wah-wah pedal, he thought, or he would have scored it into one of his longer works.
Returning to the living room he handed his wife her glass of milk.
"What have you been doing?" she said. "I notice you haven't picked up or cleaned up or anything."
"I've been on the fone to New York," he said.
"Linda Fox," Rybys said.
"Yes. Ordering her audio components."
"When are you going back to see her?"
"I'll be supervising the installation. 1 want to check the system over when it's all set up."
"You really like her," Rybys said.
"It's a good sale."
"No, I mean personally. You like her." She paused and then said, "I think, Herb, I'm going to divorce you."
The VALIS Trilogy Page 43
