Jean-Marie Blas De Robles - Where Tigers Are at Home

“I agree with all that,” Eléazard said, shrugging his shoulders, “but no one is going to persuade me that Descartes, Leibniz or even Spinoza had not already got rid of God, that in their writings the word is nothing but a term for a mathematical void. Beside them Kircher looks like a diplodocus.”

“I don’t think it’s that simple,” Loredana said with a doubtful look. “Anyway, I’d quite like to read this biography if you could lend me a copy.”

“Can you read French?”

“Well enough, I think.”

“No problem, then. I have a duplicate of my working copy, though you won’t be able to see my notes, I’ve only got a rough draft of those. You could come round to my place, tomorrow morning, for example. It’s not far: 3, Pelourinho Square.”

“OK. My God, just look at that rain … I’ve never seen it like that. I feel all clammy, it’s very unpleasant. I hope Alfredo’s managed to get the water working, I’m dying to have a shower.”

“I’ve no idea what he’s doing, but he must have some problem. With the pump or with his wife.”

“Oh, I hope not,” said Loredana with a smile. “I wouldn’t like to be responsible for a domestic squabble.”

Something about the corners of her smile, or perhaps it was just the ironic glint in her eyes, convinced Eléazard that, on the contrary, she was flattered to have aroused Eunice’s jealousy despite herself. This coquettishness suddenly made her seem desirable. Fixing his eyes on hers, he found he was imagining her in his arms, then devising various strategies to produce that result: suggesting she came to collect the Kircher biography that evening; taking her hand without a word; just telling her straight out that he wanted her. Each of these ploys generated a fragmentary scenario, hazy and with infinite ramifications that led nowhere except back to the acknowledgment of his desire, the image of their two bodies coming together, the urgent, suddenly vital need to touch her skin, to smell her hair …

“The answer’s no,” Loredana whispered with a hint of sadness in her voice. “I’m sorry.”

“What are you talking about?” Eléazard said, realizing she had read him like an open book.

“You know perfectly well,” she told him with a mild reprimand.

She had turned her head away to look at the rain. Without appearing nervous, she was rolling little balls of warm wax in her fingers and then putting them on the table, a faraway look in her eyes and the sulky expression of a little girl disheartened by an unwarranted reproof on her face.

“And may one ask why?” Eléazard went on, in the conciliatory tone of one who accepts defeat.

“Please … Don’t ask anymore. It’s not possible, that’s all.”

“Forgive me,” he said, moved by the sincere note. “I … It’s not something that happens to me every day, you know … That is, I mean … I meant it seriously.”

When she saw him getting himself into such an awkward situation, she was a whisker away from telling him the truth. It did her good to see his desire for her in his eyes; two years ago she would already have dragged him off to her room and they would have made love while listening to the rain. But why should she, she told herself, since her openness — and it wasn’t something she wanted to try again — disconcerted people more than it brought them closer.

“It’s too soon,” she said to give herself one last chance. “You need to give me time.”

“I can wait, I’m good at that,” Eléazard said with a smile. “It’s one of my rare qualities, apart from …” (with a look of surprise he took the ping-pong ball that had just appeared in his mouth and put it in his pocket) “a certain acquaintance with Athanasius Kircher, Esq …” (a second ball, like an egg that insisted on being regurgitated) “… a modicum of intelligence and, of course …” (as a last ball was expelled more slowly, his eyes wide, like someone preparing to spew out the whole contents of his gut) “my natural modesty …”

Loredana had burst out laughing as soon as the first ball appeared: “ Meraviglioso! ” she said, applauding. “How do you do that?!”

“Secret,” Eléazard whispered, putting his finger to his lips.

“How stupid of me — it’s the same one each time, isn’t it?”

“What d’you mean, the same one each time? You can count them if you want,” he said, taking out of his pocket the three balls he always carried with him to practice with.

Loredana was still astonished. “Well I’m flabbergasted! With a trick like that you’d be made king of the Papuans.”

Now it was Eléazard’s turn to burst out laughing. She had never seemed so attractive as in her artless amazement.

“If you tell me how you do it, I’ll read your future,” she offered in mysterious tones.

“From the lines of my hand?”

“Not at all, caro … That’s a load of bullshit. I read the I Ching , now that’s something else, isn’t it?”

“That’s debatable, but OK,” said Eléazard, delighted at having managed to revive her spirits.

“So?”

“So what?”

“The trick. That’s our deal: you tell me how you do it …”

When she knew how to conjure the balls away — the trick was all the more deceptive for being simple, once you knew — Loredana took a booklet out of her bag and three little orange pottery discs. “The sticks are too much of a bother to carry round, so I use these things …”

“What is it?” Eléazard asked, picking up one of the discs.

“It’s called a St. Lucia’s eye, a little plate that covers the entrance to some seashell, but I don’t know its real name. Have you seen the spiral? It’s almost the sign of the Tao. Right. Now you have to ask me a question.”

“A precise question?”

“That’s up to you. A precise question gets a precise answer, a vague one, a vague answer. That’s the rule. But take it seriously or it’s not worth the effort.”

Eléazard took a sip of wine. Elaine had immediately appeared in his mind’s eye. Elaine as a question. Not surprising, given the circumstances, but the contradictory questions that almost immediately clamored to be asked made him think: Was there a chance she might come back and everything would be as it was before? If she came back, would I be able to love her again? Will I know love with another woman? Does something else start once something has finished, or is that just an illusion to ensure the survival of the species? All this, he realized sadly, could be summed up in the one question: When will I be free of her?

“Come on. Is it so difficult?” she said, growing impatient.

“The two of us …” said Eléazard, looking up at her.

“What do you mean, the two of us?”

“The two of us. What will be the consequences of our meeting?”

“Clever,” said Loredana with a smile. “But that could well make the answer complicated. Shall we start? OK. You’ve to throw the shells six times while concentrating on your question. That’s the ‘heads or tails’ that allows me to determine the nature of the lines, but I imagine you know that.”

Having tried to concentrate but having produced nothing but Elaine’s distorted face, Eléazard threw the discs. After each throw, Loredana noted down the result, said some numbers and marked the lines of the hexagram with whole matches or ones that had been broken in half, as necessary.

“This first Gua ,” she said when the figure had finally been completed, “represents the current possibilities of your question. From that I will derive a second one, which will give you some elements of a reply for the future. You will know that there are some ‘old’ and some ‘new’ lines; an ‘old’ line always remains itself, while a ‘young’ line can become the opposing ‘old’ line. Thus a young yin changes into an old yang and a young yang into an old yin …”