He took off his jacket and his collar, tossing the celluloid collar away and hanging the jacket on the back of a chair. The shoulders wouldn't lay right, he knew. He should hang it, but he could not make himself care. He lay down on his made bed and stared at the ceiling.
He turned the experience over in his mind. Could it have been real? Could Peter the doppelgänger actually be another person and not some horrible Freudian version of himself? In retrospect, Peter had not really looked that much like Henri. The similarities were superficial: blond hair worn slicked back with pomade, blue eyes, a narrow face... If it had been real these things could all be coincidence. He would not have been struck by such a person if he'd met him on the street. The hair was simple and fashionable in style and the man's clothes were so unremarkable as to be nearly remarkable again. Peter could be someone not a product of a drugged imagination.
He could. Did that mean he was?
Henri pinched the bridge of his nose. He could worry about it all night, chasing himself (ha!) in circles. Nothing could prove or disprove what he had seen was imagination. He shuddered, thinking again of the horrible, cyclopean thing in the cloak. He had to stop thinking about it, had to get some sleep. He had clients in the morning.
He put his mind to thinking about his ladies, and how he would dress them. It helped him sleep, though the back of his mind still worried and fussed and hoped he would not have nightmares.
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He had nightmares. At first, he was adrift in a dingy. There were no paddles and no sight of land. An open sore was eating at his ankle. Days went by and the sore devoured more and more. It was another mouth to feed. Having nothing to give it, Henri could only sate the predator on his foot by giving of himself. Eventually it ate right down to the joint, revealing a bone that was already necrotic.
A few minutes after midnight, Henri checked in on Pierre. He was awake too. Pierre took a cautious step forward and presented his whiskers to Henri, paw raised. Having learned his pet's signals well enough over the past few days, Henri went to the kitchen and procured half a carrot stick for him.
The foot was gone, replaced with a peg. Henri sat on a low wooden stool in some kind of rustic workshop. A haberdasher, a shoemaker? His Mistress's clothing was something like a nun's. Her skin, pale and weighed down by folds of wrinkles, looked soft enough to wear. "You shall cut along the ventral plane from the anus to the throat, then transversely below the ribs. After this, you shall peel the skin back and thusly you can nearly shell it like a big, bloody pea." Finally able to draw his attention away from his Mistress, Henri saw what was the on table. Dead on its back was a rabbit. The Mistress had her fingers inside its body cavity and was breaking, twisting its ribcage open like a fruit. "In this species, the animus is most concentrated in a cord that usually extends from the first thoracic vertebra to the fourth. One breath." Something rudely cracked inside the little corpse. "I have it here." Between her fingers, shining with blood, the Mistress withdrew a tiny, silver string. "Purity itself."
A sudden need to urinate overtook Henri and he was into the bathroom. He washed his hands and his face. The clock had struck two.
"Now taste a bit," she said. Broken particles of the rabbit's flesh clung to the shining thread.
It was not hot, but he was sweating. Three-thirty. Henri sat up in bed, frustrated.
An indistinguishable movement in the dark – a moth had flown by or a shadow had fallen too quickly, and Henri's crocodile brain had been activated. He pulled the covers to his lap, and another moth and another shadow came – the substance of the darkness itself might have been flowing, he realized, like smoke rising from a cigarette. Henri peered unwillingly, unable to do anything else. A black jelly unfolded and was, for an instant, a globule, then a pancake, then a blossom – and a thousand interpretations came to Henri's mind.
"Jehos," said she.
- - -
What wretched shapes a weary mind could conjure in the dark! The sunlight across the shades was welcome. His ladies would be coming soon, and Thelonius might be along as well.
(Henri passed a sanity check.
Two things can happen right now. First, we can dwell on the night of the 29th/the morning of the 30th a little longer. Henri can interact with one of his three dream environments - the boat, the workshop, or the bed with the dark blob - or you can add something to his activities during one of his sleepless periods. He might, for instance, have taken the opportunity to skim Ramanuja's notes.
Secondly, you could keep things moving ahead into the future by writing about Henri's day at the shop. (Thelonius will not be coming along, and that in itself may prod Henri into further action - or he might welcome the chance to evade more craziness for a day or two.)
Even if you don't have him do anything, something will happen on its own, but after some other players have been caught up a little bit.)
Henri blinked at the morning light. Then he sneered at it. Then he stood and grumbled at it crossly. Nothing would make it go away so he took a shower. in the steam he focused on the tile wall, counting tiles, making patterns, anything but think about his dreams.
In his robe, damp hair hanging in his face, he stared into his shirt drawer. Gingerly, as though they might suddenly lash out and bit him, he removed his peach shirt, his tangerine shirt, and his Cuban sunset shirt. He tossed them into the wastebasket. Then came his tie rack, his handkerchief drawer, his glove and his sock drawer until any and all shades of orange were removed entirely from his wardrobe. He shuddered, staring at the orangey mass overflowing his wastebasket. Then turned his back on it.
He checked Pierre before getting dressed. The image of the quartered rabbit and its silvery, pure spirit flashed across his eyes and he felt his bile rise. He would not be controlled by his dreams. He would not. He had come to love Pierre, a gentle, soft companion unlike the hard, snappy, working dogs of his youth. He would not let his dreams make Pierre grotesque to him. He forced himself to reach in and pat Pierre's offered head. Warm, fuzzy and very much alive. He breathed a sigh of relief. Then he fed Pierre and gave him fresh water.
Henri took his time dressing, relaxing and letting the dreams slough away in the ritual of choosing and putting on his clothes. Pale primrose shirt, apple green tie, and camel suit with fuchsia pocket square. He did not use his lilac pomade today, but the spicy one with a touch of cinnamon.
Then he went down and purged the stock room of all orange or even orange-ish fabrics. The blanks on the shelves this left behind gave him all the more reason to plan a trip to Paris to buy fabric.
He examined his appointment book and, with a hand that hardly shook at all, crossed Millie off this afternoon's appointments. He took a deep breath, made a pot of coffee and then saw that Pearl S. would be coming. Blues were the way with her, long cool drink of water that she was. He went and fetched some from the stockroom and laid them out for her perusal.
By the time the day trailed to an end Henri felt refreshed. He'd used Millie's empty appointment to start planning his Paris trip, deciding where he would shop and whose ateliers he must visit for inspiration.
He glanced at the clock as he locked the door behind Claire R. 4:30. He'd more than half expected Jones to have stopped by with something to say, whatever it might be, by now or perhaps Mlle. Predovicu to tell him... tell him what? Why was he expecting one or both of them? Why did he think they thought about him at all?
He frowned. To expect them was to credit all the strangeness that had occurred, to not be planning on ignoring it for the rest of his life. He picked up his possible Paris itinerary and turned the sheet of paper over in his hands a few times. He set it down.
That wasn't it at all. It was like Pierre. He had grown fond of them. He could associate with them without getting tangled in strange occurrences, surely. After all he had to make Mlle. Predovicu one of his own, his Cati P., resplendent in an M. Henri original. And as for Jones, well, he was Jones and he was hard not to like, despite all the things about him Henri might have once called unlikeable.
Having thoroughly justified himself to himself, Henri put on a pair of chartreuse gloves and pulled on his camel coat and the watermelon scarf. He would go see Jones, whose card he still had. He pulled out the card, creased and soiled as he had received it, and saw with disappointment it had only Jones' name and telephone number, no address.
He sighed then picked up the receiver asked the operator to get him the number listed below Jones' name.
The phone rang. Then again and again. It rang eight times. "No one is picking up," said the operator. "Would you like to try another number?"
Just at the edge of his field of vision, was Ramanuja's notebook. Having barely flipped through it, he already knew that making sense of the swami's notes would require a few hours - not to mention that half of it was written in foreign scripts that were so many squiggles to Henri's eyes.
"Sir?" asked the operator. Then again: Hadn't he said he wanted to make her his Cati P.?
"No. Merci. Not right now," Henri said, setting the receiver down. Mlle. Predovicu had not given him a card, but it could not be a common name, even in Manhattan, surely.
Henri picked up the telephone directory from its place in the drawer on the telephone table and began scanning the P section. If this too proved fruitless, he would sit with M. Swami's notes. At least he'd have something to tell his new friends when he did at last contact them.
It occurred to him then that if he could find Jones' address as well, and at least note it down on the card for when Jones was home. If--of course--Jones had his first name in his listing. Otherwise the Joneses would be overwhelming.
He looked up Jones first, to make note of his home, and then looked for Mlle. Predovicu's number. He would note down both her address and number on the back of Jones' card if he found them.
His head was starting to hurt. The world was taking on an orangish look he didn't like. He concentrated hard on the phone book and the orange went away. He realized he hadn't eaten anything all day.
He must focus. Phone book. Phone call. Food. A visit to Cati or an evening of notes. In that order.
Jones Thelonius 114B E 72nd Av 2-2533
Henri was not familiar with Thelonius' part of town. Was that Yorkville or Harlem?
Predoviciu Ecatarina 2620 Lexington 6-3308
Cati's Murray Hill address was near to the homes of many of his ladies - not to mention Fifth Avenue.
Phone. "Operator, 6-3308."
The phone rang twice. The third ring was replaced by a breathy inhale, the sort of sound one might make when leaving a particularly comfortable chair. "Predoviciu residence," announced a weary contralto.
"Hello? Cati Predoviciu please?"
"Miss Ecatarina" - the woman's accent was Eastern European - "stepped out for the evening. Is it important? I can take message."
"Not important," Henri said with a sigh. "Tell her only that Henri duMonde phoned. I will ring again tomorrow."
Henri set down the receiver. How depressing. Jones could be up to anything, but Mlle. Predoviciu--she was out having fun. He thought for a moment. He could ring one of his ladies. It was short notice, but one of them might be in... He looked again at the swami's notes. Duty or pleasure? Reading or dancing somewhere bright and gay?
Henri was not much for duty and he certainly was prone to choosing pleasure, but something still simmered in the back of his mind. A voice tugged at him.
"Why a horse?" he said walking over to Pierre's hutch and peering in. "Why a horse, Pierre, hm? What was that place and why was he looking for a horse? Come and have some exercise, mon ami. I shall unplug everything but my reading lamp and you may nibble at whatever you like but that."
He swooped Pierre out of his hutch and brought him in. As he said he unplugged all the electrical cords but that of the lamp by his desk which he looped up and held above floor height with a paperweight.
"Explore, mon petit lapin. You and I are both too shy of learning things. Tonight you'll explore your new home and I'll explore M. Swami's notes. Tomorrow I will phone Mlle. Predoviciu and ask her to come and dance all night with me. Tonight, I am a scholar."
Ramanuja's notebook was about sixty pages of smattered notes, essays, rituals, and incantations in what Henri thought were three different languages. Some pieces were in English, but others were in a right-to-left cursive script that could have been Arabic or Persian script. Others used letters that hung off of a common bar drawn across the top of words; though Henri could guess that this style of writing was from Ramanuja's homeland, he didn't really know what to call it.
It took Henri four hours to sift through the notes, identify what would be salvageable in English, and put things together. Altogether Henri had managed to piece together two ritual descriptions, three poems, and what looks like a short account of things actually witnessed by Ramanuja. The rest of the notebook could be translated by an academic or other professional, or perhaps by Ramanuja himself, if he was still willing to help.
"Activating Zuhal" seemed to be a prescription for a draconic religious degree meant to facilitate the performer's connection to an obscure astrological body. It had clearly been written with the Hindu resident of India in mind, and the ritual would not likely be carried out in Manhattan with ease - where would one find a pipal tree or a temple to Hanuman? (Presumably a god of India . . .)
Though "Pulling the Mirror from Within" was left without commentary, its effects were obvious enough to Henri - even though the purpose of doing that eluded him.
The smaller poem "Anya" was also without commentary, but both of the larger poems, "The Sacrifice" and "Jehos the Centaur" were described as methods of coming into contact with ascended sages, Lopamudra and Jehos respectively.
Of "The Sacrifice", Ramanuja wrote, "it is the English rendition of the prayer recited by the original priest of Ibarcand in his own tongue, as penned by Guru X in Bombay. To be recited only under the right circumstances."
"Jehos the Centaur" was described as a "bhakti" rite meant to bring the devotee into closer contact with a divine object of adoration.
There were no further clues (in English) as to whom either Lopamudra or Jehos might be, though they were treated in the swami's notes as enlightened sages.
"On the City" spoke for itself as the record of a journey even stranger than the one Henri had taken.
(One knowledge roll passed, allowing Henri to roughly identify the Persian-derived script, and another knowledge roll failed, leaving him clueless about the other kind of text.
"Anya", below, is adapted from Rg Veda 1.95.1.)AnyaTwo shapes in two
different shades revolve
toward their own ends,
and each, one another,
nourishes offspring. In
one, the bull is the
receiver of the
oblations, and in the
other, the shining one
is beheld fleeing from
her cave.
Jehos. Jehos. There was something... something in his dreams... he shivered and pushed the notes aside. He looked around.
"Where are you hiding, Pierre?" he said and stood to look for the little rabbit. He found the creature looking calm enough--for a nervous rabbit--under the ottoman.
"Time to put you back in your hutch, petit homme."
He picked up the rabbit, stroking him between the ears and talking idly, more to himself than his pet.
"Jehos the centaur. Centaurs are like horses. They're distinctly horsey. Yet I have a distinctly non-horsey feeling about Jehos, though I can't say why."
Mechanically, still musing aloud Henri put Pierre in the hutch and fed the rabbit and gave him fresh water.
He wandered into his bedroom. Movement startled him from his reverie. His mouth snapped shut and he turned, but it was only his own reflection in his glass. He paused and looked.
The resemblance to Peter in the... dream... was very superficial, really. He himself had finer eyes and a more gracefully shaped mouth, but Peter had a stronger jaw and perhaps a better nose. It was hard to be certain with the spectacles on. It was the clothing and the smell of less-than-perfect pomade that made Peter give the impression of profoundly unkempt ordinariness. With a bit of polish, a decent suit, a truly fine tie, and better pomade he might actually be a handsome man.
Henri frowned. His mind was wandering. The man was only some strange dream figment, a personification of something. Freud would probably call it sexual. Dickens would say he had been just an "undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato." Nightmares were only nightmares.
"Except when mares are horses," Henri said and something about the sound of his own voice suddenly gave him a shiver. He turned his back on the mirror.
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