The Occult Persuasion and the Anarchist's Solution

by Lisa de Nikolits

  After I moved into the hostel, I established a routine of sorts: I woke when my body told me to, which was usually late since I stayed out with Tim and Janet until the early morning hours. I had found it increasingly easy to lose myself in the noisy glamour of their vibrant show, unlike that first night.

  After I woke, I showered and grabbed some toast in the kitchen. Then, I caught a bus or a ferry or a train to somewhere where I’d walk around or people-watch. Or I’d spend the day on a beach somewhere, trying to read. Then I’d head back to the hostel to get ready to go to Dames and hang out with Tim and Janet. This routine had become my life, and it was amazing how the days passed in this way. And although I had established a certain rhythm, I was still waiting to hear from Lyndon, constantly checking my phone. And now, finally, limbo had given way to the next step although what that step actually entailed was remarkably vague.

  I took the bus to Coogee Beach and by mid-morning, I was sitting on the hilltop at the Coogee Virgin Mary’s shrine. Worshippers swear the Virgin had been seen in the very spot I was sitting, so a shrine had been built in her honour. Gold-and-silver Christmas balls, tinsel, and glittering pink-and-purple carnival beads were draped across the aging laminated newspaper clippings of the sighting. Rosaries and burnt-out candles were mementoes of prayers, all of them desperate, no doubt.

  This was not my first visit to the shrine. And that was why I was so extremely blunt with Adam. I did have my own issues to deal with. Because, the previous day, yes, not even twenty-four hours earlier, I had asked the Virgin for help.

  I had prayed for the first time in my life since I was a schoolgirl. And even back then, I hadn’t really prayed. I had gone to church with my mother, but as soon as I could wrangle myself out of it, I stopped going.

  So, I had prayed for the first time in decades, begging for help. Please let me hear from Lyndon, please. I can’t go on like this. I need your help. I need to know what’s going on.

  And then, first thing the next morning, my husband sent me an email. There was no way around it. My prayer had been answered. And I didn’t know how I felt about that.

  Life was easier to manage without religion muddying up the waters. I felt guilty for having asked for anything. Who was I to ask for favours from God? And who was the God who’d answered me? And this led me to wonder, had they done other things along the way, in my life, that I hadn’t acknowledged? Would I be punished for not having acknowledged them? But I hadn’t known any God was there. Maybe He or She had never been there. Maybe I just felt guilty for having snapped at Adam, my poor sweet boy, whose needs would most likely remain unmet for the rest of his life. He was was an open wound, always had been. He was a delicate, finer prettier cast of Lyndon, slim and dainty. When he came out, it had been no surprise to me. I had only wondered what had taken him so long. And I had tried, over the years, to encourage him to be whatever he needed to be, without pushing him this way or that way. But he had done things in his own time, in his own way.

  He seemed happy with Rick, a nice enough, well-dressed lawyer built like a stocky rugby player with broad shoulders and a solid chest. And then there was my Helen. I wondered what she would make of Lyndon’s email. She would no doubt find a way to excuse and forgive him. She had always understood him whereas I judged him, and Adam feared him. Why were we all so intrinsically, inescapably ourselves?

  I was sick of all of it. I was sick of being needed in the wrong ways. I was sick of standing on the pinnacle of the mountain of my life and looking down at such a mess. My life was a littered Everest and I hated that. It had always been an inside joke between Lyndon and me, that life was like mountain climbing, and somehow, we’d felt so superior to everyone else. Why was that? The arrogance and naivety of youth?

  I stared at the Virgin’s shrine. All I had were unanswered questions and a crushing guilt. I couldn’t sit still. I was angry with the Virgin, which confused me. Perhaps it was because while she had answered my prayer, it hadn’t changed anything. Perhaps I hadn’t asked for the right thing. I should have asked for Lyndon to come back and fix this mess. But instead, I said I wanted to hear from him, and I had, but not in the way I wanted.

  “So pretty much thanks for nothing,” I told the Virgin with no small amount of sarcasm. I wondered if I only imagined the sun ducking behind a cloud because the world darkened for an instant, while my body felt lit up like a human biofield image. My anger was radioactive, nuclear. I shut my eyes and tugged hard at my hair, needing the pain. I had asked for help and what had I received? A cryptic message—not that that should be any surprise, coming from Lyndon.

  I wanted to smash the shrine, rip the newspaper clippings, and scatter the stupid old shiny Christmas ornaments. Why were there Christmas ornaments in April anyway? I wanted to throw the rosaries and candle stubs across the lawn, but I knew I couldn’t do that, so I kept my hands buried in my hair. I needed to bring this terrible mood under control, and as the wave of anger slowly ebbed, I felt exhausted, eviscerated by life.

  I had no idea what I was going to do.

  I needed to leave, that much was for sure. But I decided to take a photograph of the shrine of the Virgin of Coogee to mark the moment, as a reminder for me to thank her later. Great, I was getting like Lyndon: Don’t think about it now.

  I snapped the shot on my phone of the Virgin with her outstretched hands, her beatific smile, and her flowing robes. I checked to see if the image was in focus. But something very strange happened, and I wondered if my phone was broken. Because, where Mary should have been, there was no image, only a black outline, a cardboard cut-out, like the outline of a body on a crime show.

  I took a picture of the bathing station archway, just beyond, to test my phone. Nope, it was all good. And I snapped a few pics of a frolicking dog and they were all fine. I took a few more pictures of the Virgin Mary and it was the same in all of them: she was a black cardboard cut-out. The tinsel, the gold balls, the rosaries, and the candles were all there, but the Virgin was solid black.

  I shot backwards, terrified. I scrabbled up the slope, grazing my hands on the grass, such was the force of my panic. My heart had grown the wings of a vulture, and my ribs were clawed with sharp talons.

  I couldn’t breathe. My chest was blocked. I engaged a breathing method a friend had taught me years back. I held my breath and then breathed out, just a tiny bit, and gradually each in and out increased until I was nearly back to normal.

  I approached the Virgin again, and I took several more pictures from various angles, all with the same result. She was a black cardboard cut-out. I zoomed in and out and it was the same, every time.

  I tucked the phone in my purse with shaking fingers, zipped it closed, and walked away. I walked to Bondi, along the coastal path I loved so much. The day was scorching hot, but I was shivering, covered in goosebumps. I couldn’t even appreciate the beauty of the waves crashing below me, or the aqua sea to my right, or the perfect clouds above me. I took comfort when I reached the gravestones in the Waverley Cemetery that overlooked the ocean. Death and despair, the unknown, the occult, the various religious persuasions, all spun around in my mind. I had unleashed something, that much, I knew. Something dark. I felt as if I was walking in the shadows although I could see the sun on my skin. I should have brought a hat. Even if I couldn’t feel it, I’d get sunstroke at this rate. I had run out of the hostel without thinking, and I didn’t have any sunscreen or water with me. It was lunchtime, and the heat was peaking. I was thirsty and I knew I should stop for water, but I powered on, trying to figure out what happened.

  I got to Bondi and stopped for a moment to admire the view and catch my breath. Despite everything that happened, I still loved the curve of the beach and its soft, pale sand in the crescent-moon bay. I’d be safe, here.

  But I felt dizzy. I needed food, water, and rest. I needed to find an outdoor café where I could have a glass of wine, take a Xanax, and try to calm down
.

  I knew I should be thinking about Lyndon and his message, but I was too frazzled by the Virgin and the call with Adam. It was all too much for me.

  I walked into the first restaurant I could find. I ordered a cocktail with rum and pineapple and coconut, and I told the waiter I needed to visit the washroom, that I’d be right back.

  I studied myself in the mirror. I wished my twenty-year-old self could see the face I was looking at now. Because I had no idea what I was looking at. Was I really old? How old was old? Old people always said they didn’t feel old, but I felt old. I looked at my withered cheeks and the puckered lines along my upper lip, even though I’d never been a smoker. Why did I have those lines when I had never smoked? I reached into my purse and smeared on some makeup, but it made things worse, as if I was trying to fill in the cracks, which now only stood out even more. Lipstick turned me into a demented clown, the Joker. I was the Joker, but nothing was funny.

  “If there is a God, then you’re a cruel one for having invented aging,” I told the mirror. “How come we never see pictures of the Virgin older? She’s stuck at what, an eternal twenty? The math doesn’t add up. If Jesus died when he was thirty-three, Mary would have been at least forty-seven. Where are her wrinkles? Where are her sunspots? Her hands are unlined. All of her is unlined. Talk about creating unrealistic body expectations. I realize that my observations are not endearing me to you, and I should be more careful after your recent display of anger….” Then the washroom door opened, and a woman walked in. A woman who stared at the crazy lady who looked like the Joker and who was shouting at the mirror or rather, at the Virgin Mary and at God.

  “Margaux? Oh my God, it’s you!”

  Oh my God. Just what I didn’t need. Anita.

  I let her hug me. She twisted me into an awkward embrace, and I felt like I was being crushed by an iron maiden. She finally let me go.

  “I’m here having a girl’s lunch,” she said. “Are you here with Lyndon? I didn’t see him out there. I would have spotted him, the gorgeous man.”

  Gorgeous man? “No, he’s back at the hotel,” I lied. “He isn’t feeling too good, but I love Bondi, so I thought I would come and have lunch by myself.”

  “How brave of you, dining alone! Well, I’m here to save you. My word, I would have thought you’d have been off to your next big world stop weeks ago! We had dinner what, three, four weeks ago? What have you been doing in Sydney all this time, without getting in touch again? Well, never mind, come and join me and my friends! But wait, I have to tinkle.”

  Who even uses the word “tinkle”?

  She carried on chatting to me while she “tinkled” loudly. I wondered if I should make a run for it, but I’d have to pay for my cocktail on the way out. She’d find me and the whole thing would be strange and rude, so I stood there until she came out, adjusting her panties. I looked away. She was sixty-five if she was a day, and I didn’t need to see her adjusting her leopard-print thong.

  I wished I had taken my Xanax, but I hadn’t had the chance. Now life was roaring at me in full colour, teeth bared. I was caught in the gale force wind of Anita’s chatter, staring at the uvula of a tiger’s throat, which hung there like a deformed, bloody teardrop. And Anita’s teeth looked like giant yellow Brazil nuts, half skinned. There was a rushing noise in my head and suddenly there was silence.

  Anita was staring at me. “Darling,” she said carefully, “are you all right?”

  I couldn’t tell her she was the open mouth of a tiger with Brazil nuts for teeth. I couldn’t tell her my husband had left me. I couldn’t tell her anything real. So, I said, “Coogee’s Virgin Mary turned black,” and then I felt myself fainting. I fell fast. I hit the floor and it was nice and cool down there. And then, there was nothing at all.

  14. LYNDON

  A COUPLE OF NIGHTS LATER, I was sitting at the kitchen table, working on some sketches. I felt like a kid at Christmas—Jason had said I could try my first tattoo on him as soon as I was ready.

  “Never forget the first time, do you?” he said, winking at me. He was digging in the fridge for the makings of supper. He hadn’t mentioned the email to my family, and I hadn’t asked if there were any replies.

  “Any ideas on what I’m getting? Good luck finding a place on my body.”

  “I’ve got a few ideas,” I said, and I showed him. I’d done a couple of versions of the Tree of Life, and I was nervous that he wouldn’t like any of them. He put down the vegetables he had taken from the crisper and a lifetime passed before a great smile spread across his face. “Beauty!”

  I wanted to run around the kitchen table like Adam did when he was a kid—run from the sheer exhilaration of being alive and having done the right thing. It occurred to me that perhaps I was substituting Jason for my father, but I didn’t know what to do with that thought, and I wouldn’t let anything diminish my happiness. Besides, Jason was hardly old enough to be my father.

  “I like this one,” he said, pushing the more intricate sketch at me, and I inwardly winced. I’d hoped he choose the easier one.

  “Sean will help you learn,” he said, noticing my concern. Then he folded his arms across his chest when my face closed at his suggestion. “Lyndon, if you can’t take help from those who know more than you do, then you’re a stupid git and you’ll never get to be any good. You’ve got the chance to learn from the best and you should take it. Sean went to art school after he decided to get into this line of work. Plus, he’s been doing this for years. You couldn’t find a better teacher if you tried.”

  “You’re right, I’m sorry,” I said. “I used to be the one who ran the show, so I’m not used to being the rookie.”

  “What did you do when you ran the show? What kind of show was it?”

  “Well, I’ve always been an asset at dinner parties,” I offered, trying to change the subject. “I’m famous for being the epitome of wit and bonhomie.”

  “Basically, you’re a dickhead at other people’s expense.”

  “I don’t know why, Jason, but coming from you, that’s not the insult it would be from anyone else.”

  “And I will take that as a compliment. What else did you offer this world besides your amazing sense of humour? How did you make filthy lucre to support you and your family?”

  “I was the editor of a business, marketing, and investment magazine for thirty-three years.” I proudly announced, and Jason sprang up as if I’d tasered him.

  “Bollocks you were! No way? You, my friend, are the enemy! You are Satan!”

  I shrank back in my chair. I had expected him to be impressed. But he was trembling, his long lean wiry body was shaking and rippling, like a blow-up air doll at a car wash. It was clear he was outraged, but by what, I had no idea. I’d never had anyone react this strongly to my job description. I sat there, my mouth open, my world in flames around me.

  “Jason? Please explain. I am not Satan or your enemy. I don’t understand.”

  Jason finally sat down, to my relief. “If I had known that about you,” he said, “I never would have opened my door to you. I thought you were one of us. You stole a car, and a cat, for God’s sake. You showed up here with nothing but the horrible old clothes on your back. I thought you were a brother.”

  I was confused. “Jason, I don’t follow. And they weren’t horrible old clothes, they were brand new Tilley Around-The-World-For-However-Long-We-Want travel clothes that Margaux picked out for me. They were expensive. I like my new clothes a lot more, don’t get me wrong, but I wasn’t some kind of homeless thief.” I stopped and rubbed my head. “Okay, so I was homeless and I was a thief, but it was the first time for either of those things. I took Queenie by accident.”

  “Capitalism,” Jason said, and he spoke slowly as if I was the village idiot, “is the occult bruise on the body of the earth. That’s the truth, Lyndon, and you need to understand it. Please, open your heart to
what I have to say.” He stopped and got up and paced around the kitchen. “No, first I have to think about how to approach this. I can’t go the obvious route. I can’t come barging in through the front door. I have to think about this.”

  He sat down as Queenie jumped onto my lap and started chirping. I hung onto her for dear life.

  Jason muttered and pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. I tried to think of something to say, but I came up short. I quietly picked up my book and started paging through it while Queenie kneaded my thighs.

  “I know what to do,” Jason finally said. His eyes had calmed down and were focused. He wiped away a small piece of spittle that had landed on his chin, something I’d thought best not to point out. “Come with me,” he said.

  I got up and followed him into his bedroom and saw six cardboard boxes lining a wall. The room, much like Jason’s entire apartment, was sparsely decorated. It had a king-size mattress on the floor, a ridiculously neatly organized bookcase, and a spectacular view of the ocean. Apart from a framed print of earth as seen from space, the walls were bare. Jason’s blanket was bright yellow and his pillow was red, and his bed, unlike mine, was neatly made. My clothes were strewn all over the floor. His were not. I made a note to tidy my room as soon as this conversation was over.

  I was still trying to figure out how I had metamorphosed from being a brother to being Satan, simply by being the magazine editor of a financial publication. And how capitalism was the occult bruise on the body of the earth? That Jason didn’t approve of my former, lifelong job, was obvious. I had thought my job was laudable, impressive, worthy of respect even.

  I stood there, struggling with my thoughts while Jason opened one of the boxes. It was filled with copies of the same book and he handed one to me. It was a slim volume titled, The Occult Persuasion and The Anarchist’s Solution. The author was Jason Deed, who I presumed to be the same man standing in front of me.