Марк Лэйдлоу - The 37th Mandala

Derek said, “I had the impression they’re more along the line of ancestral spirits, Ascended Masters, or something like that. But mine certainly isn’t the last word on the subject.”

“You see? You have real insight. I’d love to hear your suggestions.”

“We should really ask the mandalas what they think.” At that thought, he looked for Lenore. He hadn’t seen her for a while. “I never got to tell you how much I admired your illustrations.”

“Well, thanks, I’m glad. But these, I think, are light-years beyond the black and whites.”

Derek spoke to the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the artist of The Mandala Rites ! Neil Vasquez! Don’t neglect to add his signature to your copy!” He turned to Vasquez, who looked flustered, smiling nervously, his entire skull flushed and mottled. “Put yourself right here next to me, Neil. We’ll get an assembly line going.”

“Wow,” a girl said, leaning over the table. “Are these like Tarot cards?”

“That’s right. We’ll be putting them out shortly.”

“Cool!” She started flipping through them, and soon others were craning to see over her shoulders.

Derek glanced over at Neil, who was blushing proudly.

“I think they’re a hit,” he said.

He wasn’t sure how much time passed before Nina appeared at his elbow, placing a glass of wine at his side. “Are you ready for a break?” she asked.

His hand was cramping, so he gave a short nod and stood up. “Neil, why don’t you stay?” he said. “Give them something extra for their money.”

“We have another surprise,” she said. “Etienne’s waiting downstairs.”

On the ground floor, there was scarcely room to move. People had begun to circle around on the dance floor more or less in unison. It was either that or not move at all, apparently. The lock-step pounding of their feet merged with the thrumming music. He found himself thinking of fan blades swinging around and around, slicing heavily at the air: monotonous, hypnotic, a droning rhythmic whir.

While he hesitated at the edge of the dance floor, someone took him by the arm. He turned, expecting another fan, another request for an autograph.

“If it isn’t Derek Crowe, famous author,” said Lilith. “Or should I say plagiarist?”

He couldn’t quite hear her in the noise. “Lilith—I didn’t expect you here.”

“Did he find you?”

“What?”

“Your friend with one ear.”

“One… ear?” Derek went cold.

“Oh, Chhith !” Nina said. “Don’t worry, Derek. Everything’s taken care of.”

“What—how did you know about him?” he asked Lilith.

“He gave me a lift tonight. He says you have something that belongs to him, which I don’t doubt. You seem to have a lot of people’s things. I didn’t realize you had so many secrets, Derek. You were wise to hide them from me.”

He was completely baffled. She couldn’t possibly be referring to all the things he feared she meant.

“Could you excuse us?” Nina said firmly. “Mr. Crowe has to be somewhere else right now.”

“Be my guest,” she said.

“I’ll catch up with you later,” he called as Nina tugged him along.

“Don’t bother,” she replied. And he couldn’t be sure of the words she added, the club was so noisy. Surely it was nothing to do with “Elias Mooney.” He’d misheard her, out of guilt or paranoia. No one knew a thing about Elias. Not even Etienne and Nina.

He was growing intensely aware of the second skin he wore. It fit more comfortably than he would have believed. Was it insane to wear such a thing so close to his skin? No one suspected. It was utterly perverse! The way it rustled against him, tickling and tingling, tightening in places, was very strange, very pleasurable. A comforting, all-enveloping pressure that was more than slightly erotic, as if his entire body were an enlarging sex organ, blood-pumped, sensitive.

He found himself laughing as Nina led him downstairs past what had to be a guard or bouncer. He hadn’t realized there was a basement until now. But this, clearly, was where it was all happening. The party within the party. The coolest of the cool were here, standing and kneeling before small displays of technology and multimedia art pieces, as if worshipping at the very latest altars.

His eyes were hooked briefly by one particularly incongruous sight among the blur of fashion: a pinch-faced, sad-eyed, clearly puzzled man dressed as if for a business meeting, in a shiny Hong Kong suit. He moved haltingly down the halls, peering into rooms. It was not so much the man who interested Derek, as the stack of papers he carried—typescripts, photocopies, even a few red and black notebooks of the sort Eli Mooney had filled with his rant. Derek’s first and craziest thought was that these were his secret mandala files, stolen from his closet. Impossible! The man sidled on, vanishing around a corner, but not before Derek caught a glimpse of his own handwriting.

With a muttered excuse to Nina, he followed the man. His horror knew no bounds. They couldn’t be his papers; how could they? How could some stranger have acquired them?

Chhith, he thought.

Derek looked around the corner and saw an alcove with a door in it. He pushed his way into a dark, purple-lit space. At first he saw ultraviolet patterns glowing and writhing under a black light—mandalas and creepers, vines and skeletons, dragons and carnivores with poisonous diamond eyes. As his pupils adjusted to the low light, he saw that the shapes were imprinted on the skins of two naked figures who coupled vigorously before a small but appreciative audience.

Just then, the sad-eyed man with the bundle of papers opened a door at the far end of the room. Derek saw his silhouette briefly, the bundle of papers clutched to his chest, then the door closed. He stepped in, averting his eyes from the couple who were working their way across the floor of the room. One hurled the other hard against the wall—nearly in his path—and they continued to fuck in a vertical position. Derek sidestepped them and continued on. It was a bad North Beach sex show, redone for the culture vultures. As he reached the far door, it opened under his hand. Etienne smiled in.

“There you are!” Etienne stepped in and closed the door. “I see everyone’s warming up!”

Derek looked back and saw that the crowd he’d moved through, as if wearing blinders, was beginning to imitate the actors—if they were actors. The audience members had begun groping each other and seemed to be shedding their clothes, although given the dim light and the pounding of Derek’s head, it was difficult to be sure of anything he saw.

“Charming, isn’t it?” Etienne said.

“We think heterosexuality is very quaint ,” said Nina, emerging from behind Derek, sliding an arm around Etienne.

Derek felt as if some similarly jaunty response were mandatory. “Quaint but effective,” he said. They all laughed together as they steered him out of the room.

“Yes,” said Etienne, “sex still has its uses.”

He must not appear to be terrified, but he was reluctant to let them lead him along anymore. Overhead, the din of pounding feet had settled into a softer, more rhythmic shuffle.

“You—you mentioned a surprise,” he said uncertainly.

“Any guest of honor has certain duties,” said Etienne.

“You are the master of ceremonies!” said Nina gaily.

“And it is time to fulfill yours. Everything is ready, even you must sense that.”

Even I? Derek thought. Was Etienne implying that he was obtuse?

“Of course,” he answered.

They rushed him toward another door where two burly men stood guard. The bouncers opened the door and ushered them through.