Марк Лэйдлоу - The 37th Mandala

Derek found himself in a large round room, lit only by a spotlight at the center. Mirrored walls curved around. At the center of the room sat a couch of oxblood leather, like a psychiatrist’s sofa; and beside it was a padded armchair. It resembled a psychiatrist’s setup.

Lenore Renzler lay on the couch. The chair was empty.

Derek took a few steps forward. “Lenore?” Her eyes were open; she lay there unblinking, without even glancing at him.

“She’s in a trance,” said Etienne. “Forgive me, I know you’re quiet proficient, but I took the liberty of preparing her. To spare you the trouble.”

Derek started to retreat, but Nina and Etienne each held an arm. “This really isn’t my kind of thing.”

“I realize it’s not the therapeutic situation you’re used to.”

“I’m not a party hypnotist. I need privacy for my work. This goes against every professional ethic. I can’t… can’t possibly.”

“But you must, Mr. Crowe. It’s not entirely up to you, you know. They asked to speak to you.”

“They?”

Lenore’s head rolled toward him then, her eyes still gazing upward. “Hello, Derek.”

“Hello, Lenore,” he said softly. Nina and Etienne gently forced him into the chair.

“We are not Lenore,” she said. “She will not speak tonight. It is we who have words for you now.”

He ran his hands nervously up and down his sides, causing the skin beneath to crackle and prick. “I—I should have something to write with.” He started to rise, as if he could flee under pretense of looking for a pen.

“No,” said Etienne. “We speak not for the ages tonight—we speak for you alone. Your time has come.” His voice was almost identical to Lenore’s—distant, grainy, but growing closer and louder. Dozens of people ringed him in. Everywhere he looked, the mandala signs were glowing, sak so powerful they cast their light through clothing.

“My time,” he repeated. The tramping overhead had grown indistinguishable from the music. He glanced at the ceiling and saw something bobbing there, something gray and glistening, acrawl with dark blotches moving crablike upon it, hissing and gaping and drooling down on him.

He did not quite register—or believe—what he saw. Not until he realized that someone must have slipped a dose of 37 into his drink. The hallucination was vivid as any he could imagine; and realizing it was only a vision freed him to watch it with remote fascination. A product of his mind and nothing more.

It was then, in the air above Lenore, that he saw the second shape swimming. Black arms; speckled eyes at the tips of radiant tendrils; a central mouth of lamprey fangs. It was bright as black crystal, as if an actual being had unfolded itself from nowhere and now dominated the room. He must congratulate his hosts on the spectacular special effects.

But when he turned to look for Etienne and Nina, he saw nothing of them—or of the crowd. A horde of mandalas filled the room like a jostling crowd, blotting out the pale human shadows; their tendrils dangled from the ceiling like the stinging arms of a multiform man-o-war, like poisonous party streamers strung from evil balloons.

“No,” Lenore choked suddenly. “Go back. You cannot speak. Don’t interfere.”

She was fighting, somewhere deep inside herself. He saw something familiar—an expression both naive and wise—flash across her features. She sat upright, swinging off the couch, and threw herself at Derek, catching his arms, pulling him out of the chair. He tried to free himself, but the guards could not aid him now; their bodies were tangled between the conflicting struggles of the mandalas. She drew herself to him, gazing into his face with a sad expression, and whispered.

“I remember you now,” she said. ‘I’ve come a long way to find you, Derek. They scared me, but they couldn’t stop me. I had to talk to you.”

Her voice was small and pathetic, and it stirred memories he couldn’t bear—didn’t dare—to have released. He tried to push away, but she clung too tenaciously. He would rather strangle her than hear another word, but he couldn’t move his arms; small as she was, she held him immobilized. With the pressure of the surrounding mandalas, the hallucinations squeezing them in, there was nowhere to flee.

“Don’t do this,” he said. “Please.”

“I have to,” she said. “I’ve waited a lifetime. Longer….”

Even before Nina found her wandering the corridors, Lenore sensed that something more would be required of her. The richness and clarity of her vision had turned into total acceptance of whatever happened—everything. She gave Nina a knowing nod, falling in alongside her.

“Etienne’s almost ready. This way.”

They found him in a bare room with a drain in the center of the cement floor. A janitor’s cart sat in one corner, propped full of mops, buckets dangling. The floor was wet, freshly sluiced.

“There you are. I’ll be right with you.”

On the wall were two large Polaroids mounted side by side. Lenore gazed at them while Etienne stripped out of a plastic smock and rubber gloves. The first showed the man they had called Chhith. The second was less recognizable. It seemed to document a war atrocity, something wet and red and horribly chewed. It was so fresh that it still smelled of the instant developing chemicals.

“Before and after!” Etienne sang.

“Our own little Tuol Sleng!” said Nina. “Now the curator’s on display!”

“Well, he just wouldn’t compromise. We didn’t go to all this trouble for one man !” Etienne stuffed the smock and gloves down into the trash barrel on the cart; a larger man wheeled it away. Etienne bent to retrieve a ballpoint pen from the floor near the drain. He clicked it several times, then stuck it in his shirt pocket. Nina laughed and clapped her hands.

“That’s that,” he said, taking Lenore’s elbow. “Our gallery is complete. Now as for you, my dear….”

“I’m ready,” she said.

“Yes, you are, aren’t you?” He took something from his pocket, a mirrored disk, round and shiny and incised with a design she knew instantly. It was her black guardian. He held it to her eyes, so she could see herself reflected in the disk. The pattern on her forehead was superimposed on its etched counterpart in the mirror. At the sight, she began to jet forward into darkness, shedding her body, the room rushing away with a quiet hum.

I want to see everything , she insisted. It had become habit by now. She had seen so much. There was nothing left to shy from, nothing to fear.

But tonight Lenore found herself against a definite wall. The limitless blackness refused to recede. The clarity of her thought processes made the psychic blindness even harder to bear, since now she was able to experience her helplessness to an infinitesimal degree.

I haven’t come all this way to be abandoned here, she thought. You can’t do this to me!

For the first time in what seemed like ages, she felt herself as something separate from her mandala. The black guardian had used up all its excuses for bringing her here, all the lies it had told to make her feel an integral part of its plan. Now, spinning idly in the dark, she realized that she had been nothing more than a vehicle.

Well… she had kept secrets—told lies—of her own.

Her attraction to Derek Crowe had been largely the mandalas’ doing, but at her core she had her own reasons for coming. There was an urge deep inside her, an instinct that had kept her streaking toward him through the darkness like a comet. She had skated through the outer darkness before, orbiting away from him; but now, returning on the inward plunge, feeling his gravity’s pull, her inner light blazed brighter than ever, as if reflecting his cold inglorious fire.