Glimmering (15 page)
Authors: Elizabeth Hand
Leonard hushed him, touching a finger to Jack’s lips. “He
said
you were really
quite ill
; and so I decided this was not the time to be patient.”
said
you were really
quite ill
; and so I decided this was not the time to be patient.”
“Oh,
right
. Leonard Thrope’s famous patience—”
right
. Leonard Thrope’s famous patience—”
Leonard ignored him. He stood, peeked into the corridor, then closed the bedroom door.
“You’re not going to smoke, are you?” Jack tried not to sound peevish.
“No.” Leonard settled back onto the bed. He looked so serious that Jack’s anxiety began to churn into fear.
“Now,” said Leonard, “I want you to listen to me very carefully. You know I was in Tibet, right?”
Jack nodded. His gaze was fixed on the little bag in Leonard’s hand.
“Well, I
met
someone there—”
met
someone there—”
“Congratulations.”
“Don’t be an idiot. I mean, I met a
very extraordinary
person, someone who—well, someone who just may have been the most important person I’ve ever met in my life. The most important person
any
of us might meet . . .”
very extraordinary
person, someone who—well, someone who just may have been the most important person I’ve ever met in my life. The most important person
any
of us might meet . . .”
Jack suppressed a groan, thinking of all the other Most Important People in Leonard’s life, from the Dalai Lama to Gunther, Leonard’s personal scarification artist.
“Don’t you look at me like that.” His tone startled Jack: not Leonard’s usual imperious command, but something that held a warning. Leonard looked distinctly uncomfortable, almost frightened. And
that
worried Jack most of all, because Leonard Thrope made his art, and his living, by not being afraid of anything.
that
worried Jack most of all, because Leonard Thrope made his art, and his living, by not being afraid of anything.
“Jackie, I am doing you a favor. A very
big
favor. I think.” He glanced down at the cloth bag.
big
favor. I think.” He glanced down at the cloth bag.
“Oh.” Jack swallowed. He imagined any number of horrors that Leonard might have brought back from Tibet—scorpions, a mummified penis, a chunk of uranium. “Well. Maybe you shouldn’t have.”
Leonard sighed. His fingers closed around the sack. For an instant Jack’s heart leapt: he wouldn’t be able to part with it, after all. But then Leonard let out his breath and, leaning forward, opened Jack’s hand and placed the cloth pouch inside it.
“Okay. There—I’ve done it. It’s yours, now.”
Jack tried to shove the thing back at Leonard. Leonard shook his head.
“Hey! Relax, Jack—it’s not a goddamn monkey’s paw—”
“Leonard, I don’t really—”
“Just open it, okay? For chrissake.” Leonard stared at his friend in disgust. “And be
careful
—”
careful
—”
Jack looked down at his open palm. The pouch lay there, small and oddly heavy.
“Open it,” Leonard urged.
The pouch was closed with a narrow strip of leather. Jack teased it loose, his heart beating much too fast. He turned so that Leonard would not see how his hands trembled.
“Right,” Jack whispered. Now the pouch was open. He tilted it above his palm, half-expecting something to spill forth, bones or stones or magic beans. But whatever it held was too big. Jack bit his lip, then stuck his finger and thumb into the pouch and pulled whatever was inside, out.
“There!” Leonard grinned triumphantly, the same expression he’d had when he first talked Jack into visiting the Anvil with him oh, a hundred years ago.
Jack held a small bottle up to the light. A brown-glass medical vial, of the sort Jack had become too familiar with over the last few years, wide-mouthed and stoppered with a lump of soft lead and a wax seal. A neatly hand-lettered label was pasted across it. Jack squinted, trying to read, but it was covered with Japanese characters. Only at the very bottom someone had written in a shaky hand.
FUSARIUM APERIAX SPOROTRICHELLIA
FUSAX 687
Jack turned to Leonard. “What is it?”
Leonard hesitated. “It’s an experimental drug. Dr. Hanada calls it Fusax. The 687 is a batch number—it’s the most recent one.”
“Dr.
who
?” Jack shook his head. “Leonard—what the hell
is
this?”
who
?” Jack shook his head. “Leonard—what the hell
is
this?”
Leonard smoothed his leather kilt, fiddled with a gold chain dangling from a sleeve.
“I have a client, a CEO at Zeising, who collects birds,” he said, “Apparently there was a sighting a few months ago of a Himalayan griffon. Of course they’re supposed to be extinct, like everything else, but you’d be surprised what turns up.
“Anyway, my client arranged for me to go to Gyantse. Private jet, fake visas—the usual shit. Only when I got there the guide who’d been arranged for me had mysteriously disappeared—I never found out what happened—and I was stranded for two weeks in Lhasa. Just as well, since I needed the extra time to acclimate, so I wouldn’t get altitude sickness. I spent most of my time at Nechung Monastery. The monks weren’t crazy about having me at first, but eventually we came to an understanding and they allowed me to live there for several days.
“It was the griffon that did it. Sky burials, you know. In Tibet they chop you up and put the pieces on a mountaintop for the vultures, unless you’re a lama, in which case you’re cremated or buried. I—”
Jack sighed. “I remember.” Five years earlier, Leonard’s customarily graphic
Cemetery of the 84 Mahasiddhas
had caused some problems at Sundance. With a grim expression, Jack held up the vial of Fusax. “
Leonard. What
does this have to—”
Cemetery of the 84 Mahasiddhas
had caused some problems at Sundance. With a grim expression, Jack held up the vial of Fusax. “
Leonard. What
does this have to—”
“—I told them about the griffon,” Leonard went on. “They consider it sacred in Nechung. It’s a holdover from the Bon faith. Very rarely, holy men are given sky burial; if the griffon comes to the funeral, it’s considered a sign that the dead man has been accepted into the highest level of existence in the afterlife, and will not be reborn. Griffons oversee the passage between this world and the world of the dead. Really, it’s just a vulture—a very beautiful vulture.
“One night, a monk came to my room. He spoke a little English, and he understood that I didn’t want to hunt the griffon, or to kill it—they’d seen all my equipment, helped me hide it, as a matter of fact, in case the PSB came looking for me. He told me that there was a place I should visit, another monastery on an island in the sacred lake of Yandrok-tso. He said I might see the griffon there; but he also said there was a man I should meet. A monk. Someone who had been waiting many years for me to come.”
Leonard fell silent, his dark gaze fixed upon the window. Jack grew increasingly uneasy. In motion Leonard possessed a certain predictability; sitting still he filled Jack with alarm. He tried to think of something to say that would disarm the moment—like, who in their right mind would have been waiting for
Leonard
?—but any answer to this question was too ominous to contemplate.
Leonard
?—but any answer to this question was too ominous to contemplate.
“So I went to Pelgye Kieria. That was the name of the island, and the monastery. An amazing place, Jack! Only seven monks are left there, from this sect that goes back to Genghis Khan. They say they protect the door between the worlds. They protect us from Brag-srin-mo, the demon of the cliff. Beneath Pelgye Kieria is the secret gate to her heart, which leads to the underworld. That’s what the monks believe, anyway . . .
“I was at Pelgye Kieria for three days before I learned that there was a Japanese monk there with them. Quite an elderly man—the others were relatively young, I mean in their forties or fifties—but this monk was old, and very frail. He didn’t take his meals with the rest, and no one at Pelgye Kieria mentioned him to me, even though I told them that the monks at Nechung had sent me there specifically to meet someone.
“I tell you, Jackie, the whole place gave me the fucking creeps, and by then I was pretty goddamn sick of yak butter and
tsampa
. They wouldn’t let me take any pictures inside the monastery, so I spent all my time out on the rocks, looking for the Himalayan griffon.
tsampa
. They wouldn’t let me take any pictures inside the monastery, so I spent all my time out on the rocks, looking for the Himalayan griffon.
“Without any luck, as it turned out; for all I know they
are
extinct. By the third day I figured I’d just about shot my wad at Pelgye Kieria. I was outside taking pictures of the cliffs, trying to think of some way to get back to shore, when this very old man came up and started talking to me.
are
extinct. By the third day I figured I’d just about shot my wad at Pelgye Kieria. I was outside taking pictures of the cliffs, trying to think of some way to get back to shore, when this very old man came up and started talking to me.
“He had his head shaved, and he was wearing the same robes and everything as the rest of them. So I probably wouldn’t have figured out that he was Japanese and not Tibetan: he just looked like another incredibly ancient monk. But he spoke
English
—I just about swallowed my gum when he started talking to me—and he said that he had heard I was looking for him. I told him about the monk at Nechung; he just nodded, like he knew all about it. But when I asked what
he
was doing there, he just shook his head and said
‘Nga lam khag lag song. Ha ko ma song?’
English
—I just about swallowed my gum when he started talking to me—and he said that he had heard I was looking for him. I told him about the monk at Nechung; he just nodded, like he knew all about it. But when I asked what
he
was doing there, he just shook his head and said
‘Nga lam khag lag song. Ha ko ma song?’
“‘That means ‘I’m lost,’” Leonard explained, smiling wryly. “One of the few bits of Tibetan I
do
know. ‘I am lost: do you understand?’ I thought he was joking, and so I laughed.
do
know. ‘I am lost: do you understand?’ I thought he was joking, and so I laughed.
“His name was Keisuke Hanada.
Doctor
Keisuke Hanada; he was careful to tell me that. He had heard that an American photographer had somehow managed to enter the country, looking for the griffon, and had visited Nechung and shown interest in the paintings of the demons there. He thought I was a newspaper reporter; he very much wanted to talk to me.
Doctor
Keisuke Hanada; he was careful to tell me that. He had heard that an American photographer had somehow managed to enter the country, looking for the griffon, and had visited Nechung and shown interest in the paintings of the demons there. He thought I was a newspaper reporter; he very much wanted to talk to me.
“He told me that he’d come to the monastery in 1946, right after the war. I don’t know how or why they admitted him; he was pretty evasive about answering any questions. He described himself as
samsara
—‘wandering on’—you know, that whole Buddhist thing of being trapped between here and various afterlives. He’d had virtually no contact with the outside world since after the war, and the other monks at Pelgye Kieria pretty much left him alone. I guess if you were to look at it from our perspective, he was there to make atonement, to ease his guilt. But guilt’s a pretty Western concept—I don’t think that’s how Dr. Hanada would have put it.
samsara
—‘wandering on’—you know, that whole Buddhist thing of being trapped between here and various afterlives. He’d had virtually no contact with the outside world since after the war, and the other monks at Pelgye Kieria pretty much left him alone. I guess if you were to look at it from our perspective, he was there to make atonement, to ease his guilt. But guilt’s a pretty Western concept—I don’t think that’s how Dr. Hanada would have put it.
“He invited me to his room, and—and showed me what he had in there. He said the time had come for him to tell someone the truth about his life. He wanted to tell an American. It was very important to him, that he talk to an American . . .”
Jack looked up, surprised at the hesitancy in Leonard’s voice. His friend only stared at the window, then continued.
“His room was your typical Tibetan monk’s cell. But he had set up this sort of—laboratory—in it. Not exactly state-of-the-art, either. He’d brought his own equipment with him fifty years ago, and since then he’s just sort of jury-rigged everything with—well, you can imagine the kind of shit you’d find in a Tibetan monastery, right? No electricity whatsoever. We’re talking Dr. Caligari here, Jackie. And he had a bunch of other stuff—photos and documentation, field notes—though he didn’t show me those on that particular visit.
“But it was a real working lab, and he’d been working in it, for all those years. He showed me. And he told me this—story. This very long, almost unbelievable, story. For two days, he told me—oh, everything! It would take me a week to do it justice.”
Leonard turned. There was something in his expression that Jack had never seen before. A look of
abundance
, of satiety. It would have been captivating in anyone else. Seeing it on Leonard’s merry death’s-mask of a face, Jack shuddered. When Leonard spoke again, his voice was a hoarse whisper.
abundance
, of satiety. It would have been captivating in anyone else. Seeing it on Leonard’s merry death’s-mask of a face, Jack shuddered. When Leonard spoke again, his voice was a hoarse whisper.
“Have you ever seen someone look tortured? I don’t mean depressed, or sad, Jackie, but really tortured.
Tormented.
There’s this expression they get—it’s like they’re looking beyond, like they’re seeing the other side of something . . . When I did that series in Nairobi, after the femicides—I saw it there. Or remember that poem we learned in freshman English? ‘And then I saw his face/Like a devil’s sick of sin’—remember? Well,
that
was what Dr. Hanada looked like.
Tormented.
There’s this expression they get—it’s like they’re looking beyond, like they’re seeing the other side of something . . . When I did that series in Nairobi, after the femicides—I saw it there. Or remember that poem we learned in freshman English? ‘And then I saw his face/Like a devil’s sick of sin’—remember? Well,
that
was what Dr. Hanada looked like.
“He’s a kind of
saint
, Jack. I mean a real, live saint, like Mother Teresa, or—well, I don’t know. Thomas Merton, maybe? The Dalai Lama? I mean, I’ve met the Dalai Lama, Jack, and it wasn’t like this.
saint
, Jack. I mean a real, live saint, like Mother Teresa, or—well, I don’t know. Thomas Merton, maybe? The Dalai Lama? I mean, I’ve met the Dalai Lama, Jack, and it wasn’t like this.
“Because Dr. Hanada—he had
done
things. Like Merton, you know? He hadn’t just been in this monastery his whole life, he’d had this whole other life, this—Christ, you wouldn’t have believed it, Jackie.
I
didn’t believe it, at first—I thought he was just some crazy, senile old man.
done
things. Like Merton, you know? He hadn’t just been in this monastery his whole life, he’d had this whole other life, this—Christ, you wouldn’t have believed it, Jackie.
I
didn’t believe it, at first—I thought he was just some crazy, senile old man.
“But he had the photographs. And he had that lab. He’s been there for over fifty years now . . .”
Jack shivered, watching his old lover’s face trapped somewhere between horror and ecstasy, seeing in the ragged sky something Jack could not comprehend.
But Leonard had always seen it. The end of the century, the end of the world: Leonard had always known what was coming. In high school, the two of them on summer nights would sneak into the Episcopal church and in the darkness they would fuck breathless, nearly hysterical at their adolescent daring. Afterward Jack would lie exhausted across the front pew, his T-shirt pulled up to cool himself, bare feet pressed against the smooth wood. Leonard would sit at the church’s old pipe organ, and play and sing. He knew only one song. He played it over and over again, hands pounding the worn keys and feet stomping the treadles, shouting in his scorched voice until Jack’s hair stood on end—
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