"What have you got?" I said.
"It is growing here," Bill said, in wonder. "What I searched for in Israel. What I went so far to find. This is the vita verna mushroom that Pliny the Elder mentions in his Historia Naturalis. I forget which book." He chuckled in that familiar good-humored way that I knew so well. "Probably Book Eight. This exactly fits his description."
"To me," I said, "it looks like an ordinary edible mushroom that you see growing this time of year everywhere."
"This is the anokhi," Bill said.
"Bill—" I began.
"Tim," he said, reflexively.
"Bill, I'm taking off. Dr. Greeby says I wrecked your mind. I'm sorry." I stood up.
"You never did that," Bill said. "But I wish you had come to Israel with me. You made a major mistake, Angel, and I did tell you that night at the Chinese restaurant. Now you're locked into your customary mind-set forever."
"And there's no way I can change?" I said.
Smiling up at me in his guileless way, Bill said, "I don't care. I have what I want; I have this." He carefully handed me the mushroom that he had picked, the ordinary harmless mushroom. "This is my body," he said, "and this is my blood. Eat, drink, and you will have eternal life."
I bent down and said, speaking with my lips close to his ear so that only he could hear me, "I am going to fight to make you okay again, Bill Lundborg. Repairing automobile bodies and spray-painting and other real things; I will see you as you were; I will not give up. You will remember the ground again. You hear me? You understand?"
Bill, not looking at me, murmured, "I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinedresser. Every branch in me that bears no fruit he cuts away, and every—"
"No," I said, "you're a man who spray-paints automobiles and fixes transmissions and I will cause you to remember. A time will come when you leave this hospital; I will wait for you, Bill Lundborg." I kissed him, then, on the temple; he reached to wipe it away, as a child wipes a kiss away, absently, without intent or comprehension.
"I am the Resurrection and the life," Bill said.
"I will see you again, Bill," I said, and walked away.
The next time I attended Edgar Barefoot's seminar, Barefoot noted Bill's absence and, after he had finished talking, he asked me about Bill.
"Back inside looking out," I said.
"Come with me." Barefoot led me from the lecture room to his living room; I had never seen it before and discovered with surprise that his tastes ran to distressed oak rather than to the Oriental. He put on a koto record which I recognized—that is my job—as a rare Kimio Eto pressing on World-Pacific. The record, made in the late Fifties, is worth something to collectors. Barefoot played "Midori No Asa," which Eto wrote himself. It is quite beautiful but sounds not at all Japanese.
"I'll give you fifteen bucks for that record," I said.
Barefoot said, "I'll tape it for you."
"I want the record," I said. "The record itself. I get requests for it every now and then." I thought to myself: And don't tell me the beauty is in the music. The value to collectors lies in the record itself; this is not a matter that need be opened to debate. I know records: it is my business.
"Coffee?" Barefoot said.
I accepted a cup of coffee and together Barefoot and I listened to the greatest living koto player twang away.
"He's always going to be in and out of the hospital, you realize," I said, when Barefoot turned the record over.
"Is this something else you feel responsible for?"
"I've been told that I am," I said. "But I'm not."
"It's good that you realize that."
I said, "If somebody thinks Tim Archer came back to him, that somebody goes into the hospital."
"And gets Thorazine," Barefoot said.
"It's Haldol now," I said. "A refinement. The new anti-psychotic drugs are more precise."
Barefoot said, "One of the early church fathers believed in the Resurrection 'because it was impossible.' Not 'despite the fact that it was impossible' but 'because it was impossible.' Tertullian, I think it was. Tim talked to me about it one time."
"But how smart is that?" I said.
"Not very smart. I don't think Tertullian meant it to be."
"I can't see anybody going through life that way," I said. "To me that epitomizes this whole stupid business: believing something because it's impossible. What I see is people becoming mad and then dying; first the madness, then the death."
"So you see death for Bill," Barefoot said.
"No," I said, "because I am going to be waiting for him when he gets out of the hospital. Instead of death, he is going to get me. How does that strike you?"
"As much better than death," Barefoot said.
"Then you approve of me," I said. "Unlike Bill's doctor, who thinks I helped put him in the hospital."
"Are you living with anyone right now?"
"As a matter of fact, I'm living alone," I said.
Barefoot said, "I'd like to see Bill move in with you when he gets out of the hospital. I don't think he has ever lived with a woman except with his mother, with Kirsten."
"I'd have to think a long time about that," I said.
"Why?"
"Because that's how I do things like that."
"I don't mean for his sake."
"What?" I said, taken by surprise.
"For your sake. That way, you would find out if it really is Tim. Your question would be answered."
I said, "I have no question; I know."
"Take Bill in; let him live with you. Take care of him. And maybe you'll find you're taking care of Tim, in a certain real sense. Which—I think—you always did or anyhow wanted to do. Or if you didn't, should have done. He is very helpless."
"Bill? Tim?"
"The man in the hospital. Who you care about. Your last tie to other people."
"I have friends. I have my little brother. I have the people at the store ... and my customers."
"And you have me," Barefoot said.
After a pause, I said, "You, too; yes." I nodded.
"Suppose I said I think it may be Tim. Actually Tim come back."
"Well, then," I said, "I'd stop coming to your seminars."
He eyed me intently.
"I mean it," I said.
"You are not readily pushed around," Barefoot said.
"Not really," I said. "I've made certain serious mistakes; I stood there doing nothing when Kirsten and Tim told me that Jeff had returned—I did nothing and as a result they are now dead. I wouldn't make that mistake again."
"You genuinely foresee death for Bill, then."
"Yes," I said.
"Take him in," Barefoot said, "and I tell you what; I'll give you the Kimio Eto record we're listening to." He smiled. "'Kibo No Hikari,' this song is called. The Light of Hope.' I think it's appropriate."
"Did Tertullian actually say he believed in the Resurrection because it is impossible?" I said. "Then this stuff started a long time ago. It didn't begin with Kirsten and Tim."
Barefoot said, "You're going to have to stop coming to my seminars."
"You do think it's Tim?"
"Yes. Because Bill talks in languages he doesn't know. In the Italian of Dante, for instance. And in Latin and—"
"Xenoglossy," I said. The sign, I thought, of the presence of the Holy Spirit, as Tim pointed out that day we met at the Bad Luck Restaurant. The very thing Tim doubted existed any more; he doubted that it had ever existed, probably. According to what he, anyhow, could discern; to the best of his ability. And now we have it in Bill Lundborg claiming to be Tim.
"I'll take Bill in," Barefoot said. "He can live with me here on the houseboat."
"No," I said. "Not if you believe that stuff. I'll bring him to my house in Berkeley, rather than that." And then it came to me that I had been maneuvered and I gazed at Edgar Barefoot; he smiled and I thought: Just the way Tim could do it—control people. In a sense, Bishop Tim Archer is more alive in you than he is
in Bill.
"Good," Barefoot said. He extended his hand. "Let's shake on it, to close the deal."
"Do I get the Kimio Eto record?" I asked.
"After I've taped it."
"But I do get the record itself."
"Yes," Barefoot said, still holding onto my hand. His grip was vigorous; that, too, reminded me of Tim. So maybe we do have Tim with us, I thought. One way or another. It depends on how you define "Tim Archer": the ability to quote in Latin and Greek and Medieval Italian, or the ability to save human lives. Either way, Tim seems to be still here. Or here again.
"I'll keep coming to your seminars," I said.
"Not for my sake."
"No; for my own."
Barefoot said, "Someday perhaps you'll come for the sandwich. But I doubt that. I think you will always need the pretext of words."
Do not be that pessimistic, I said to myself; I might surprise you.
We listened to the end of the koto record. The last song on the second side is called "Haru No Sugata," which means, "The Mood of Early Spring." We listened to that last and then Edgar Barefoot returned the record to its cover and handed it to me.
"Thank you," I said.
I finished my coffee and then left. The weather struck me as good. I felt a lot better. And I could probably get almost thirty dollars for the record. I had not seen a copy in years; it has long been out of print.
You must keep these things in mind when you operate a record store. And acquiring it that day amounted to a sort of prize: for doing what I intended to do anyhow. I had outsmarted Edgar Barefoot and I felt happy. Tim would have enjoyed it. Were he alive.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Aeschylus. Agamemnon. Quoted in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, Fifteenth Edition. Boston: Little, Brown, 1980.
Aristophanes. Lysistrata, Jack Lindsay, trans. New York: Bantam, 1962.
Bible, the. The Jerusalem Bible. Garden City, New York: Doubleday & Co., 1966.
Büchner, Georg. Wozzeck. Alfred A. Kalmus, trans. by arrangement with Universal Edition of Eric Blackall and Vida Harford. 1836.
Cohen, Hermann. In Contemporary Jewish Thought: A Reader. Simon Noveck, ed. New York: B'nai B'rith Department of Adult Jewish Education, 1963.
Dante. The Divine Comedy. Laurence Binyon, trans., with notes by C.H. Grandgent. In The Portable Dante. New York: The Viking Press, 1947.
Donne, John. "Batter my Heart, three person'd God." Holy Sonnet XIV. In The Complete Poetry and Selected Prose of John Donne. New York: The Modern Library, 1952.
Geothe, Johann Wolfgang von. Faust: Part Two. Bayard Taylor, trans. Revised and edited by Stuart Atkins. New York: Collier Books, 1962.
Hertz, Dr. J.H. The Pentateuch and Haftorahs. London: Soncino Press, 5729[1967].
Huxley, Aldous. Point Counter-Point. New York: Harper & Row, 1965.
Jennens, Charles. Belshazzar [text of Handel oratorio]. 1744.
Kohler, Kaufmann. Quoted by Samuel M. Cohon in Great Jewish Thinkers of the Twentieth Century. Simon Noveck, ed. New York: B'nai B'rith Department of Adult Jewish Education, 1963.
Menotti, Gian Carlo. Liner notes to Columbia recording of Menotti's The Medium. Undated.
Plato. In From Thaïes to Plato. T.V. Smith, ed. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1934.
Prabhavananda, Swarni, and Isherwood, Christopher. The Song of God: Bhagavad-Gita. New York: NAL/Mentor, 1944.
Schiller, Friedrich. In The New Encyclopedia Britannica. Chicago: Encyclopedia Britannica, 1973.
Shakespeare. Hamlet. 1601.
Sonnleithner, Joseph, and Treitschke, Friedrich. Fidelio [text of Beethoven opera]. 1805.
Tate, Nahum. Dido and Aeneas [text of Purcell opera]. 1689.
Tertullian. Quoted in Psychological Types, or The Psychology of Individuation by C.G. Jung. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1923.
Tillich, Paul. A History of Christian Thought. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1967.
Vaughan, Henry. "They are all gone into the world of light." 1655.
Virgil. Quoted in Caesar and Christ by Will Durant. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1944.
Yeats, W.B. "The Second Coming" and "The Song of the Happy Shepherd." The Collected Poems of W.B. Yeats. London: Macmillan, 1949.
Footnotes
1. Plato's Cosmology. The Timaeus of Plato, Library of Liberal Arts, New York, 1937.
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1. Also known as Angel Dust.
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1. A Scanner Darkly, Doubleday, 1977, pgs. 15/16.
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1. Fat has left out Buddha, perhaps he doesn't understand who and what the Buddha is.
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1. Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? Doubleday, 1968.
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2. The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch, Doubleday, 1964.
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3. The Man in the High Castle, G.P. Putnam's Sons, 1962.
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1. The Golden Man, edited by Mark Hurst, Berkley Publishing Corporation, NY., 1980.
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1. (Var. plenipotentiary)
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2. Nommo is represented in a fish form, the early Christian fish.
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The VALIS Trilogy Page 70
