The
End
Of Life of Our
Universe
Florinda
Donner Grau - "BEING-IN-DREAMING"
Флоринда
Доннер-Грау - "Будучи в Полёте" - РУССКИЙ ПЕРЕВОД ЭТОЙ КНИГИ МОЖНО
НАЙТИ НИЖЕ.
We are
not our Physical Body; We are Not the Physical Matter: We are
Sun Energy
!
Any
material inc. pictures and videos can be
taken from this website!
Флоринда Доннер-Грау - "Будучи в Полёте" - РУССКИЙ ПЕРЕВОД ЭТОЙ КНИГИ
МОЖНО НАЙТИ НИЖЕ, мой перевод.
Все
Женщины - Dreamers, правда некоторые - более одарённые, чем другие !
Dreamer - это человек, который умеет себя гипнотизировать и поднимать
себя на более высокую вибрацию, зная или не зная этого. Обычно среди
мужчин это : Колдуны, первопроходцы Роберта Монро, маги, индийские
гуру, некоторые монахи и т.д. У всех Женщин этот дар есть из-за того,
что у них есть Матка (если она не вырезана), но этот дар иеется у очень
малого количества мужчин и этот дар ещё должен быть развит огромным
трудом. Dreaming-Awake - означает быть в самогипнозе, т.е. сознательно
или бессознательно поднимать себя выше, на более высокую вибрацию, не
теряя контроль над собой и исполняя поставленные задачи !
All
Women are Dreamers, though among them there are more gifted, then
others. Dreamer is a person, who can hypnotize herself and lift herself
up, to a faster and higher vibrational level. All Women are Dreamers,
but Dreamers among Men are usually: Sorcerers, Robert Monroe' s
Institute explorers, some magicians, indian gurus, some buddists, some
priests/cledgy and so on. All Women, because of their Womb (if it's
still inside), have this gift, but Men have to work a great deal to
develop this ability ! Dreaming-Awake is self-hypnosis, means
consciously or subconsciously raise herself to a higher consciousness
level (vibration), without loosing control and to perform certain
tasks.
For
thousands of years most Women of Earth have been
living under unbearable conditions in order to make them to fly without
physical bodies to the New Universe and create new worlds there (esp.
new worlds of New Earth).
"Unfortunately women
must rally around
them (men), lest (for fear) they want to lead themselves." Florinda Donner
"BEING-IN-DREAMING", p. 12.
Теперь поговорим о Времени
Время
на 5м Уровне Сознания не существует, так как Энергия Времени слишком
низкой вибрации для 5го Уровня. А для Коммунизма - наоборот: Коммунизм
может только существовать на 5м Уровне Сознания и выше, но не на 3м
Уровне Сознания низкой и медленной вибрации. На 5м Уровне Сознания и
выше Время заменяется на 'Совершенно
Новую, Незнакомую Структуру'. Эта
Структура не что иное, как ИНТЕНСИВНОСТЬ СОЛНЕЧНОГО СВЕЧЕНИЯ, то есть
нужды во времени нет вообще, всё упирается в интенсивность свечения
Солнца (в волну его вибрации). Чем скорость вибрации Солнца быстрее
(волна короче), тем Солнце более зрелое, его интенсивность выше и оно
ближе к Источнику Всех Солнц. Это касается не только отдельного Солнца,
но всей Вселенной. Мы тоже иногда ломаем течение Времени, растягиваем
или сжимаем энергию Времени во время Планетарной Игры, но делаем это
неосознанно, не зная об этом. Тогда как Колдуны манипулируют Временем
для своих целей, прекрасно зная что и как это делать.
Ниже отрывок о природе Времени из книги "Находясь в
Полёте" - Флоринда Доннер, стр. 242 :
"Колдуны
ломают течение Времени," ответила Флоринда на мои мысли. "Время, как мы
измеряем его, не существует, когда мы летаем, как летают Колдуны. Колдуны
растягивают или сжимают Время по желанию. Для Колдунов, Время - это не
минуты, часы или дни, а совершенно другая вещь.
Когда находишься в (Dreaming-Awake) в Осознанном Полёте на 5м Уровне
Сознания, то
наша способность восприятия - повышена," продолжала она терпеливым,
неторопливым тоном. "Однако, когда дело доходит до восприятия там
Времени, происходит что-то совершенно другое. Восприятие Времени
вибрационно не доходит до 5го Уровня Сознания, а полностью аннулируется."
Она добавила, что Время всегда фактор Сознания, что осознавать время -
психологическое состояние, которое мы автоматически
трансформируем в физические измерения. Это настолько
вбито в нас силой, что мы можем подсознательно слышать, как часы
тикают внутри нас, которые подсознательно сохраняют Линию Времени. На
более высоком, 5м Уровне Сознания (Dreaming-Awake) эта способность отсуствует (там вибрация слишком высокая для
низкой вибрации энергии Времени! ЛМ),"
подчеркнула она.
"Совершенно Новая, Незнакомая Структура
заменяет
там Время и её не нужно стараться понимать или обсуждать, как мы
обычно
делаем это здесь со Временем. Колдуны не тратят Время на его измерение,
они заняты его использованием: растягиванием или сжатием Времени по
желанию."
"Тогда всё, что я когда-либо буду знать о Dreaming-Awake это то, что
Время или растянули, или сжали," сказала
я, стараясь привыкнуть к её
объяснению.
Флоринда
сказала, что она и её товарищи постоянно
находятся на более высоком 5м Уровне Сознания
(Dreaming-Awake), хотя они никогда не
следят за этим, что это как раз было
их общее усилие, которое втянуло
меня в Dreaming-Awake.
"Ты что, намекаешь, что я тоже могу находиться в данный момент в
состоянии Dreaming-Awake?" спросила я, зная ответ, до того как она
ответила.
"Если так, то что я сделала, чтобы достигнуть этого Уровня? Какие шаги
я проделала?"
"Самый простой шаг, какой только можно вообразить," сказала Флоринда.
"Ты не разрешила себе быть такой, какая ты обычно. Это - Ключ, который
открывает все двери. Мы много раз тебе говорили разными путями, что
Колдовство - это совсем не то, что ты думаешь. Сказать это, чтобы
остановить себя от возврата к своей обычной персоне, и есть самый
сложный секрет Колдовства, звучит как идиотизм, но это не так. Это -
Ключ к Могуществу, поэтому является самой трудной вещью достичь для
Колдуна. И в то же время, это не что-то сложное или невозможное, чтобы
понять. Это не изумляет Разум и, как раз по этой самой причине, никто
не
подозревает об её Важности или не относится к этому серьёзно."
TIME
does not exist on the 5th Level of Consciousness, because the energy of
TIME has very low and slow vibration for the 5th Level. Vibrationally,
TIME suits only the 3d and the 4th Levels of Consciousness. For
COMMUNISM it is the opposite: COMMUNISM can only exist on the 5th and
higher Levels of Consciousness, but not on the 3d Level of low and slow
vibration. On the 5th Level and higher TIME is exchanged for a 'New,
Unfamiliar Structure'. This Structure is nothing, but INTENSITY OF
SUNLIGHT, it means, there is no need in TIME anymore, that everything
is dictated by INTENSITY OF SUNLIGHT (a wavelength of vibration of
Sun). The faster the speed of vibration of Sun (its wave is
shorter), the riper is that Sun, the higher its INTENSITY and the
closer that Sun is to the SOURCE OF ALL SUNS ! And that applies not
just to a separete Sun, but to the whole Universe. We also sometimes
can break Time's Flux, stretch and compress the energy of Time during
our Planetary Game. But we do it without knowing it, Sorcerers
manipulate Time's Flux, knowing, what they are doing.
Below is an extract
about Time from "Being in Dreaming" by Florinda Donner-Grau, p. 242:
"Sorcerers
break Time's Flux (Flow)," Florinda answered my thoughts. "Time, in the
fashion we measure it, doesn't exist, when one Dreams, the way
Sorcerers Dream. Sorcerers stretch or compress Time at will. For
Sorcerers, Time is not a matter of minutes or hours or days, but an
altogether different matter. When Dreaming-Awake, our perceptual
faculties are heightened," she proceeded in a patient, measured tone:
"However, when it comes to perceiving Time, something altogether
different happens. The perception of Time does not become heightened,
but is canceled out completely." She added, that Time is always a
factor of Consciousness; that is, to be aware of Time is a
psychological state, that we automatically transform into physical
measurements. It is so ingrained in us, that we can hear it, even when
we are not consciously aware of it, a clock ticking inside us,
subliminally keeping track of Time. In Dreaming-Awake, that capacity is
absent,"
she emphasized. "A thoroughly New, Unfamiliar
Structure, which
somehow is not to be understood or interpreted, as we normally do with
Time, takes over."
"Then all I will ever consciously know about Dreaming-Awake is, that
Time has either been stretched or compressed," I said, trying to come
to grips with her elucidation (explanation).
"You
will understand a
great deal more, than that," she assured me emphatically: "Once you become adept
(proficient, highly skilled, expert) at entering Heightened Awareness,
as Mariano Aureliano calls it, you'll be aware then of
whatever you wish, because Sorcerers are not involved in measuring Time. They are
involved in using it; in stretching or compressing it at will..."
Florinda
said, that she and her companions were perennially (all the time) in a
state of Dreaming-Awake (not
visible to ordinary eyes, LM), that it was precisely
their joint effort, that pulled me into Dreaming-Awake, but that they never kept track of it.
"Are
you implying (hint), that I might be Dreaming-Awake now?" I asked,
knowing the answer before
she responded. "If I
am, what did I do to reach this state? What steps did I take?"
"The
simplest step imaginable," Florinda said. "You didn't let yourself be
your Usual Self.
That is the Key, that opens doors. We have told you many
times and in many ways, that Sorcery is not at all, what you think it is. To say, that to stop
yourself from being your Usual Self, is Sorcery's most Complex Secret, sounds like idiocy, but
it isn't. It is the Key to Power, therefore the most difficult thing a Sorcerer does. And yet, it isn't
something complex or impossible to understand. It doesn't boggle
(baffle, elude) the Mind,
and for that reason
noone can even suspect its Importance or take it seriously.
Judging by the result of your latest Dreaming-Awake,
I can say, that
you have accumulated enough Energy, through preventing yourself from
being your Usual Self."
“Being
in
Dreaming: An Initiation into the Sorcerers' World” - by
Florinda Donner, 1991
English
version of “Being in Dreaming: An Initiation into the
Sorcerers' World”
- by Florinda Donner, 1991 is below russian version.
"The secret of a
Woman's strength is her Womb" - these words you will read in this book
!
Author's Note
My first contact with the sorcerers' world was not something I planned
or sought out. It was rather a fortuitous (unplanned) event. I met a
group of people in northern Mexico, in July of 1970, and they turned
out to be the strict followers of a sorcerers' tradition, belonging to
the Indians of pre-Columbian Mexico. That first meeting had a
long-range, overpowering effect on me. It introduced me to another
world, that coexists with ours. I have spent twenty years of my life
committed to that world. This is the account of how my involvement
began, and how it was spurred (stimulate) and directed by the
sorcerers, who were responsible for my being there. The most prominent
of them was a Woman, named Florinda Matus. She was my mentor and guide.
She was also the one, who gave me her name, Florinda, as a gift of Love
and Power.
To call them
sorcerers is not my choice. Brujo or bruja, which mean sorcerer or
witch, are the Spanish terms they themselves use to denote (mark,
reveal, indicate) a male or a female practitioner. I have always
resented the negative connotation of those words, but the sorcerers
themselves put me at ease, once and for all by explaining that what is
meant by sorcery is something quite abstract; the ability, which some
people develop, to expand the limits of normal perception. The abstract
quality of sorcery voids (nullify, take out) automatically, then, any
positive or negative connotation (logic) of terms used to describe its
practitioners. Expanding the limits of normal perception is a concept,
that stems from the sorcerers' belief, that our choices in life are
limited, due to the fact, that they are defined by the Social Order.
Sorcerers believe, that the social order sets up our lists of options,
but we do the rest. By accepting only these choices, we set a limit to
our nearly limitless possibilities. This limitation, they say,
fortunately applies only to our social side and not to the other side
of us; a practically inaccessible side, which is not in the realm of
ordinary awareness. Their main endeavor, therefore, is to uncover that
side. They do this by breaking the frail, yet resilient, shield of
human assumptions about what we are and what we are capable of being.
Sorcerers acknowledge that in our world of daily affairs there are
people who probe into the unknown in pursuit of alternative views of
reality. The sorcerers contend that the ideal consequences of such
probings should be the capacity to draw from our findings the necessary
energy to change, and to detach ourselves from our definition of
reality.
But the
sorcerers
argue that unfortunately such probings are essentially mental
endeavors. New thoughts and new ideas hardly ever change us. One of the
things I learned in the sorcerers' world was that without retreating
from the world, and without injuring themselves in the process,
sorcerers do accomplish the magnificent task of breaking the agreement
that has defined reality.
Chapter 1
1
On an impulse, after attending the baptism of a friend's child in the
city of Nogales, Arizona, I
decided to cross the border into Mexico. As I was
leaving my friend's house, one of her guests, a Woman named Delia
Flores,
asked me for
a ride to Hermosillo. She was a
dark-complexioned Woman, perhaps in her mid-forties, of medium height
and
stout (strong in body, sturdy, bold, brave) build. She was
powerfully big, with straight black hair, arranged into a thick braid. Her dark,
shiny eyes highlighted a shrewd, yet slightly girlish, round face. Certain,
that she was a Mexican, born in Arizona, I asked her, if she needed a
tourist card
to enter
Mexico.
"Why
should I need a tourist card to enter my own country?" she retorted,
widening her
eyes with
exaggerated surprise.
"Your
mannerism and speech inflection (alteration in pitch/tone of the voice)
made me think, you were from Arizona," I said.
"My
parents were Indians from Oaxaca," she explained, "but I am a
ladina."
"What's
a ladina?"
"Ladinos
are sharp Indians, who grow up in the city," she elucidated (explain,
clarify). There was an odd excitement
in her voice.
I was at a
loss to understand, as she added, "They take up the ways of the white
man, and
they are so
good at it, that they can fake their way into anything."
"That's
nothing to be proud of," I said judgingly. "It's certainly not too
complimentary to you, Mrs.
Flores."
2-3
The
contrite (remorseful, penitent) expression on her face gave way to a
wide grin:
"Perhaps not
to a real Indian or to a real white man," she said cheekily, "but I am perfectly
satisfied with it myself." She leaned
toward me, and added, "Do call me Delia. I've the feeling, we're going
to be great
friends."
Not knowing
what to say,
I concentrated on the road. We drove in
silence to the check point. The guard
asked for my tourist card, but didn't ask for Delia's. He didn't seem
to notice
her - no
words or glances were exchanged between them. When I tried
to talk to Delia, she forcefully stopped me with an imperious
(domineering, dictatorial) movement of her hand. Then the
guard looked at me questioningly. Since I didn't say anything, he
shrugged his
shoulders
and waved me on.
"How
come the guard didn't ask for your papers?" I asked, when we were some
distance
away.
"Oh,
he knows me," she lied, and knowing, that I knew, she was lying, she
burst into a
shameless
laughter.
"I
think, I frightened him, and he didn't dare to talk to me," she lied
again. And
again
she laughed.
I decided to
change the subject, if only to save her from escalating her lies. I began to
talk about topics of current interest in the news; but mostly we drove
in
silence. It
was not
an uncomfortable or strained silence. It was like the desert around us;
wide and
stark
(bare), and oddly reassuring.
"Where
shall I drop you?" I asked, as we drove into Hermosillo.
"Downtown,"
she said. "I always stay in the same hotel, when I'm in the city. I know the
owners well, and I'm sure I can arrange for you, to get the same rate I
get."
I
gratefully accepted her offer. The hotel
was old and run down. The room I
was given, opened to a dusty courtyard. A double,
four-poster bed and a massive, old-fashioned dresser shrunk the room to
claustrophobic dimensions. A small
bathroom had been added, but a chamber pot was still under the bed: It
matched the
porcelain washing set on the dresser. The first
night was awful. I slept
fitfully (periodic), and in my dreams I was conscious of whispers and
shadows, moving
across
the walls.
Shapes of
things, and monstrous animals rose from behind the furniture. People
materialized from the corners; pale, ghostlike.
The
next day I drove around the city and its surroundings; and that night,
although I was exhausted, I
stayed awake.
When I
finally fell asleep into a hideous nightmare, I saw a dark,
amoeba-shaped creature stalking
(follow) me at the foot of the bed. Iridescent
(display of rainbow colors) tentacles hung from its cavernous crevices
(narrow crack/opening, cleft). As the
creature leaned over me, it breathed, making short, raspy sounds, that
died out into
a wheeze
(hoarse whistling sound).
My screams were smothered (suffocate, deprive) by its iridescent ropes,
tightening around my neck. Then all
went black, as the creature, which somehow
I knew to be female, crushed me by lying on top
of me. That
timeless moment between sleep and wakefulness was finally broken by the
insistent
banging on
my door, and the concerned voices of the hotel 'guests' (from Don Juan's group, LM)
out in the hall. I turned on
the light, and mumbled some apologies and explanations through the door. With the
nightmare, still sticking to my skin like sweat, I went into the
bathroom. I
stifled
(hold back, cut off, suffocate) a scream, as I looked into the mirror.
The red lines across my throat and the evenly
spaced red dots, running down my chest, looked like an unfinished
tattoo.
Frantically,
I packed my bags. It was three o'clock in the morning, when I walked
out into
the deserted
lobby to pay my bill. "Where are
you going at this hour?" Delia Flores asked, emerging from the door
behind the
desk: "I
heard
about your nightmare. You had the whole hotel worried." I was so
glad to see her, I put my arms around her, and began to sob.
"There,
there," she murmured soothingly, stroking my hair: "If you want
to, you can come and sleep in my room. I'll watch over you."
"Nothing
in this world will make me stay in this hotel," I said. "I'm returning
to Los
Angeles this
very instant."
"Do
you often have nightmares?" she casually asked, leading me toward the
creaky (lapidated, unreliable) old couch in the
corner.
"Off
and on," I said. "I've suffered from nightmares all my life. I've
gotten sort of used to them. But tonight
it was different. It was the most real, the worst nightmare,
I've ever had." She gave me
an appraising, long look and then, slowly dragging her words, said,
"Would you
like to
get rid of your nightmares?"
4-5
As
she spoke, she gave a half glance over her shoulder toward the door, as
if afraid, that someone
might be listening there. "I know someone, who could truly help you."
"I
would like that very much," I whispered, untying the scarf around my
neck to show her the red
marks. I
told her
the explicit details of my nightmare. I asked,
"Have you ever seen anything like this?"
"Looks
pretty serious," she pronounced, carefully examining the lines across
my throat.
"You really
shouldn't leave, before seeing the healer I have in mind.
She lives about a hundred miles south of here; about a two-hour ride." The
possibility of seeing a healer was most welcome to me. I had been
exposed to them since birth
in Venezuela.
Whenever I
was sick, my parents called a doctor, and as soon, as he left, our
Venezuelan
housekeeper
would bundle me up and take me to a healer. As I grew
older and no longer wanted to be treated by a witchdoctor - none of my
friends
were - she
(the housekeeper) convinced me, that it couldn't possibly do any harm
to be twice protected. The habit
was so ingrained in me that, when I moved to Los Angeles, I made sure
to see a
doctor as
well, as a healer, whenever I was ill.
"Do
you think she will see me today?" I asked. Seeing her
uncomprehending expression, I reminded her, that it was already Sunday.
"She'll
see you any day," Delia assured me. "Why don't you just wait for me
here, and I'll take you to
her. It won't take me but a minute to get my belongings together."
"Why
would you go out of your way to help me?" I asked, suddenly
disconcerted (upset, ruffle, perturb) by her offer.
"After all, I'm a perfect stranger to you."
"Precisely!"
she exclaimed, rising from the couch. She gazed
down at me indulgently (thoughtfully), as though she could sense the
nagging doubts, rising within me.
"What
better reason could there be?" she asked rhetorically (showy,
insincere). "To
help a
perfect stranger is an act of folly (foolishness) or one of great
control. Mine is one
of great control." At a loss
for words, all I could do was to stare into her eyes, which seemed to
accept the
world with
wonder and curiosity. There was
something strangely reassuring about her. It was not
only, that I trusted her, but I felt, as if I had known her all my
life. I sensed a link between
us; a closeness. And yet, as
I watched her disappear behind the door, to get her belongings, I
considered
grabbing my
bags and bolting (run away, make off suddenly) for the car.
I didn't want to end up in a predicament (embarrassing situation,
dilemma, plight) by being daring, as I had so many times before. But some
inexplicable curiosity held me back, despite the familiar nagging
feeling of
alarm. I
had waited
for nearly twenty minutes when a Woman, wearing a red pantsuit and platform
shoes, stepped out of the door behind the clerk's desk. She paused
underneath the light. With a
studied (carefully calculated) gesture, she threw her head back, so
that the curls of her blond wig shimmered in
the light. "You
didn't
recognize me, did you?" she laughed gleefully.
"It's
really you, Delia," I exclaimed, staring at her, open-mouthed.
"What
do you think?" Still cackling (shrill brittle laughter, sound like
hen), she stepped out with me onto the sidewalk toward my car,
parked in front of the hotel.
She flung (hurl, throw carelessly) her basket and duffel bag (canvass
soldier bag) in the back seat of my small convertible, then sat beside me. Delia said:
"The healer, I'm taking you to see, says, that only the young and the
very old
can afford
to look outrageous." Before I had
a chance to remind her, that she was neither, she confided, that she
was much
older, than
she appeared to be. Her face was
radiant, as she turned toward me and exclaimed, "I wear this outfit,
because
I
like to dazzle my friends!" Whether she
meant me or the healer, she didn't say: I certainly was dazzled. It wasn't
only her clothes, that were different. Her whole demeanor (manner,
bearing) had changed.
There wasn't a trace of the aloof, circumspect (prudent, taking into
account all circumstances) Woman, who had traveled with me from Nogales to
Hermosillo. "This
will be
a most enchanting trip," she pronounced, "especially, if we put the top down." Her voice
was happy and dreamy.
"I adore traveling at night with the top down." I readily
obliged (perform a courtesy, force) her. It was
almost four o'clock in the morning by the time we left Hermosillo
behind. The
sky,
soft and black and speckled with stars, seemed higher, than any other
sky I had
ever seen.
6-7
I
drove fast, yet it seemed we were not moving. The gnarled
(misshapen) silhouettes of cactus and mesquite trees appeared and
disappeared endlessly under the
headlights. They seemed to be all the same shape; all the same size. "I packed us
some sweet rolls and a full thermos of champurrado (hot chocolate),"
Delia said, reaching for her
basket in the back seat. "It'll be morning, before we get to the
healer's house." She poured
me half a cup of the thick hot chocolate made with cornmeal, and fed
me, bite by
bite, a
sort of Danish roll. "We're
driving through a magical land," she said, as she sipped the delicious
chocolate.
"A magical
land populated by warring people."
"What
warring people are they?" I asked, trying not to sound patronizing.
"The
Yaqui people of Sonora," she said and kept quiet, perhaps measuring my
reaction.
"I admire
the Yaqui Indians, because they have been in constant war,"
she continued: "The
Spaniards first; and then the Mexicans- as recently, as 1934- have felt
the savagery (cruel, barbarous action), cunning, and
relentlessness of the Yaqui warriors."
"I
don't admire war or warlike people," I said. Then, by way
of apologizing for my belligerent (state of being at war) tone, I
explained, that I came from a German
family, that had been torn apart by the war.
"Your
case is different," she maintained. "You don't have the Ideals of
Freedom."
"Wait
a minute!" I protested. "It is precisely, because I espouse (adopt,
support) the Ideals of Freedom, that I find war
so abhorrent (disgusting, repellent)."
"We
are talking about two different kinds of war," she insisted.
"War
is war," I interjected.
"Your
kind of war," she went on, ignoring my interruption, "is between two
brothers, who
are both
rulers and are fighting for supremacy." She leaned
toward me, and in an urgent whisper added, "The kind of war, I'm talking about, is
between a slave and the master, who thinks, that he owns people. Do you
see the
difference?"
"No.
I don't," I insisted stubbornly, and repeated, that war is war, no
matter what the reason.
"I
can't agree with you," she said, and sighing loudly leaned back in her
seat. "Perhaps
the
reason for our philosophical disagreement," she continued, "is that
we come
from
different social realities." Astonished
by her choice of words, I automatically slowed the car.
I didn't mean to be rude, but to hear her spout (gush in a rapid
stream) academic concepts, was so incongruous (unbelievable) and unexpected,
that I couldn't help, but laugh. Delia didn't
take offense.
She watched me, smiling, thoroughly pleased with herself, and said, "When
you get to know my point of view, you may change your mind." She said
this so seriously and yet so kindly, that I felt ashamed of myself for
laughing at
her. "You
may
even apologize for laughing at me," she added, as if she had read my
thoughts.
"I do
apologize, Delia," I said and truly meant it. "I'm terribly sorry for
my rudeness.
I was so
surprised by your statements, that I didn't know, what to do." I
glanced at her briefly, and
added contritely (remorseful, penitent), "So I laughed."
"I
don't mean social apologies for your conduct," she said, shaking her
head in
disappointment. "I mean apologies for not understanding the plight
(dilemma) of man."
"I
don't know, what you're talking about," I said uneasily. I could feel
her eyes boring through me.
"As a Woman, you should
understand that plight very well," she said. "You have been a slave all
your life."
"What
are you
talking about, Delia?" I asked, irritated by her impertinence
(irrelevance). Then I immediately calmed down, certain, that the poor
Indian had no doubt an insufferable (not indurable; intolerable),
overwhelming husband.
"Believe
me, Delia, I'm quite free. I do as I please."
"You
might do as
you please, but you're not free," she persisted: "You are a Woman, and
that automatically means, that you're at the mercy of men."
"I'm
not at the
mercy of anybody!" I yelled. I couldn't tell, whether it was my
assertion (declaring without support) or my tone of voice, that made
Delia burst into loud guffaws (hearty burst of laughter). She laughed
at me as hard, as I had laughed at her before. "You seem to
be enjoying your revenge," I said, peeved (annoyed). "It's your turn to
laugh now, isn't it?" Suddenly
serious, she said:
"It's
not the same at all. You laughed at me, because you felt superior. A
slave, that talks like a master, always delights the master for a
moment."
I
tried to
interrupt her and tell her, that it hadn't even crossed my mind, to
think of her as a slave, or of me as a master, but she ignored my
efforts.
8-9
In the same solemn tone she said, that the reason, she had laughed at
me, was because I had been rendered (caused to become) stupid and blind
to my own Womanhood.
"What's
with you, Delia?" I asked, puzzled. "You're deliberately insulting me."
"Certainly,"
she
readily agreed and giggled, completely indifferent to my rising anger.
She slapped my knee with a resounding (loud, long, reveberating) whack
(slap). "What
concerns me," she went on, "is, that you don't even know, that by the
mere fact, that you're a Woman, you're a slave."
Mustering
(summon, assemble, collect, gather) up all the patience, I was capable
of, I told Delia, that she was wrong: "No one is a slave nowadays."
"Women
are
slaves," Delia insisted. "Men enslave Women. Men befog (make foggy,
cause confusion, muddle) Women. Men's desire to brand Women, as their
property, befogs us," she declared: "That fog hangs around our necks,
like a yoke."
My blank
look made her smile. She lay back on the seat, clasping her hands on
her chest. "Sex
befogs Women," she added softly, yet emphatically: "Women are so
throughly befogged, that they can't consider the possibility, that
their low status in life is the direct end result of what is done to
them sexually."
"That's
the most
ridiculous thing, I've ever heard," I pronounced.
Then, rather ponderously (consider carefully), I went into a long
diatribe (bitter, abusive criticism) about the social, economic, and
political reasons for Women's low status. At great length I talked
about the changes, that have taken place in the last decades; how Women
have been quite successful in their fight against male supremacy.
Peeved (annoyed) by her mocking
(ridicule, mimic, imitate, delude, counterfeit, disappoint) expression,
I couldn't refrain (curb, restrain or hold oneself back) from
remarking, that she was no doubt prejudiced by her own experiences; by
her own perspective in time. Delia's whole body shook with suppressed
mirth. She made an effort to contain (confine, restrain, keep within
limits) herself and said:
"Nothing has really changed. Women are slaves. We've been reared to be
slaves. The slaves, who are educated are now busy, addressing the
social and political abuses, committed against Women. None of the
slaves, though, can focus on the root of their slavery- the Sexual Act
- unless it involves rape or is related to some other form of physical
abuse."
A little smile parted her lips, as she said, that religious men,
philosophers, and men of science have for centuries maintained, and of
course still do, that men and women must
follow a biological, 'God-given' imperative (extremely important,
essential, obligatory) having to do directly with their sexual
reproductive capabilities. "We have been
conditioned to believe, that sex is good for us," she stressed:
"This inherent belief and acceptance has incapacitated (deprive of
strength or ability, disqualify) us to ask the right question."
"And
what question
is that?" I asked, trying hard not to laugh at her utterly erroneous
convictions. Delia didn't seem to have heard me. She was silent for so
long,
I thought she had dozed off. I was startled, when she said :
"The question, that noone dares ask, is, what does it do to us, Women,
to get laid (to have sexual intercourse with a man)?"
"Really,
Delia," I chided
(scold, reprimand) in mock (ridicule, mimicing) consternation (sudden
confusion, amazement, frustration).
"Women's
befogging
is so total, we will focus on every other issue of our inferiority,
except the one, that is the cause of it all," she maintained.
"But,
Delia, we can't do without sex," I laughed. "What would happen to the
human race if we don't..."
She
checked my question and my laughter with an imperative (extremely
important) gesture of her hand. "Nowadays,
Women like yourself,
in their zeal (passion, enthusiastic devotion, extreme commitment) for
equality, imitate men," she said: "Women imitate men to such an absurd
degree, that the sex, they are interested in, has nothing to do with
reproduction. They equate Freedom with sex, without ever considering,
what sex does to their physical and emotional well-being. We have been
so thoroughly indoctrinated, we firmly believe, that sex is good for
us."
She nudged (push gently) me with her elbow, and then, as if she were
reciting a chant, she added in a sing-song tone, "Sex is good for us.
It's pleasurable. It's necessary. It alleviates depression, repression,
and frustration. It cures headaches, low and high blood pressure. It
makes pimples disappear. It makes your tits and ass grow. It regulates
your menstrual cycle. In short, it's fantastic! It's good for Women.
Everyone says so. Everyone recommends it." She paused
for an instant, and then pronounced with dramatic finality, "A fuck a
day keeps the doctor away."
I
found her
statements terribly funny, but then I sobered (make more
serious,
thoughtful) abruptly, as I remembered, how my family and friends,
including our family doctor, had suggested - not so crudely (not
carefully, skillfully) to be sure - sex, as a cure for all the
adolescent ailments, I had had growing up in a strictly
repressive environment.
10-11
The
doctor
had said, that once I was married, I would have regular menstrual
cycles. I would gain weight. I would sleep better. I would be sweet
tempered.
"I
don't see
anything wrong with wanting sex and love," I said defensively:
"Whatever I've experienced of it, I have liked very much. And noone
befogs me. I'm free ! I choose, whom I want and when I want it." There was a
spark of glee in Delia's dark eyes when she said:
"Choosing your partner does in no way alter the fact, that you're being
fucked."
Then
with a smile,
as if to
mitigate (relieve, alliviate, moderate in force and intensity) the
harshness of her tone, she added, "To equate Freedom with sex is the
ultimate irony. Men's befogging is so complete, so total, it has zapped
us of the needed Energy and imagination to focus on the real cause of
our enslavement."
She
stressed, "To
want a man sexually or to fall in love with one romantically are the
only two choices given to the slaves. And all the things, we have been
told about these two choices, are nothing, but excuses, that pull us
into complicity (complex) and ignorance."
I was indignant (outraged) with her. I couldn't help, but think, that
she was some kind of repressed, man-hating shrew (woman of violent,
nagging temperament).
"Why do you
dislike men so much, Delia?" I asked in my most cynical tone.
"I
don't dislike them," she assured me: "What I passionately object to is
our reluctance to examine, how thoroughly indoctrinated we are. The
pressure, put upon us, is so fierce and self-righteous, that we have
become willing accomplices (partners).
Whoever dares to differ is dismissed (discharge, reject, rid one's mind
of, dispel) and mocked, as a man-hater or as a freak (capricious,
abnormal)." Blushing, I
glanced at her surreptitiously (secretly). I decided, that she could
talk so disparagingly
(reduce in esteem, discredit, decry) about sex and love, because she
was, after all, old. Physical desires were all behind her. Chuckling
(laugh quietly or to oneself) softly, Delia put her hands behind her
head : "My
physical desires are not behind me, because I'm old," she confided,
"but
because I've been given a chance to use my energy and imagination to
become something different, than the slave, I was raised to be." I felt
thoroughly insulted rather, than surprised, that she had read my
thoughts. I
began to
defend myself, but my words only triggered more laughter. As soon, as
she stopped, she turned toward me. Her face was
as stern and serious, as that of a teacher, about to scold (reprimand
harshly/noisily) a pupil.
"If
you are not a slave, how come they reared you to be a Hausfrau
(housewife)?" she
asked. "And how come all you think about is to
heiraten (marry), and about your future Herr Gemahl (husband), who will
Dich mitnehmen (give you his name)?" I laughed so
hard at her use of German, I had to stop the car, lest we have an
accident.
More
interested in finding out where she had learned German so well, I
forgot to defend myself from
her unflattering remarks, that all I wanted in life was to find a
husband, who
would whisk
me away.
Regardless
of how hard I pleaded, however, she disdainfully (despise, consider
unworthy) ignored my interest in her German. "You and I
will have plenty of time to talk about my German later," she assured me. She regarded
me mockingly and added, "Or about your being a slave."
Before
I had a chance to retort (reply, answer), she suggested, that we talk
about something impersonal.
"Like
what?" I asked, starting the car again. Adjusting
the seat in an almost reclining position, Delia closed her eyes.
"Let
me tell you something about the four most famous leaders of the
Yaquis," she said softly: "I'm
interested in leaders; in their successes or their failures."
Before
I had a chance to grumble, that I really wasn't that interested in war
stories, Delia said, that
Calixto Muni was the first Yaqui leader, who had attracted her
attention.
She wasn't a
gifted storyteller. Her account was straightforward, almost academic,
yet I was
hanging
on her every word. Calixto Muni
had been an Indian, who had sailed for years under the pirates' flag in
the
Caribbean.
On his
return to his native Sonora, he led a military uprising against the
Spaniards in the 1730s.
Betrayed, he was captured and executed by the Spaniards. Then Delia
gave me a long and sophisticated elucidation (explain, clarify) of how
during the 1820s, after the Mexican
independence was achieved and the Mexican government attempted to parcel out
the Yaqui lands, a resistance movement turned into a widespread
uprising.
It was Juan
Bandera, she said, who, guided by the spirit itself, organized military
units among
the
Yaquis.
Often armed
only with bows and arrows, Bandera's warriors fought the Mexican troops for nearly
ten years. In 1832, Juan Bandera was defeated and executed. Delia said,
that the next leader of renown was Jose Maria Leyva, better known as
Cajemethe,
one who
doesn't drink.
12-13
He
was a Yaqui from Hermosillo. He was educated, and had acquired vast
military skills fighting in
the Mexican army. Thanks to
those skills, he unified all the Yaqui towns. From his first uprising
in the
1870s,
Cajeme kept his army in an active state of revolt. He was
defeated by the Mexican army in 1887 in Buatachive; a fortified mountain stronghold.
Although Cajeme managed to escape and hide in Guay-mas, he was eventually
betrayed and executed. The last of
the great Yaqui heroes was Juan Maldonado, also known as Tetabiate -
rolling
stone. He
reorganized the remnants of the Yaqui forces in the Bacatete Mountains,
from which
he waged
ferocious and desperate guerrilla warfare against Mexican troops for
more than
ten years.
"By
the turn of the century," Delia wrapped up her stories, "the dictator
Porfirio Diaz had inaugurated
(begin as a president/prime-minister, start officially) a campaign of
Yaqui extermination. Indians were
shot down as they worked in the fields. Thousands
were rounded up and shipped to Yucatan to work in the henequen (plant
for making ropes) plantations,
and to Oaxaca to work in the sugar cane fields."
I
was impressed by her knowledge, but I still couldn't figure out why she
had told me all this. I said
admiringly, "You sound like a scholar; a historian in the Yaqui way of
life. Who
are you
really?"
For
an instant she seemed to be taken aback by my question, which was
purely rhetorical (showy, insincere), then she
quickly recovered and said, "I've told you who I am. I just
happen to know a great deal about the Yaquis. I live around them, you
know." She
was
silent for a moment, then nodded, as if she had reached some conclusion
and
added, "The reason, I've told you about the Yaqui leaders, is, because it is up to
us Women
to know the strength and the weakness of the leader."
"Why?"
I asked, puzzled. "Who cares about leaders? They are all nincompoops
(fools, blockheads) as far, as I'm
concerned."
Delia
scratched her head under the wig, then sneezed repeatedly and said with
a hesitant
smile:
"Unfortunately,
Women must rally (gather) around men, lest (unless) Women want to lead
themselves."
"Whom
are they going to lead?" I asked sarcastically. She looked
at me, astonished, then rubbed her upper arm; the gesture, like her
face,
girlish.
"It's
quite difficult to explain," she murmured. A peculiar softness had
entered her voice; part
tenderness, part indecision, part lack of interest:
"I'd better not. I might lose you completely. All I can
say, for the time being, is, that I'm neither a scholar, nor a
historian. I'm a storyteller,
and I haven't told you the most important part of my tale yet."
"And
what might that be?" I asked, intrigued by her desire to change the
subject.
"All,
I've given you so far, is factual information," she said. "What I
haven't mentioned is the World of
Magic, from which those Yaqui leaders operated. To them, the
actions of wind and shadows, and of animals and plants were as
important, as
the doings
of men.
That's the
part, that interests me the most."
"The
actions of wind and shadows, and of animals and plants?" I repeated
mockingly.
Unperturbed
(not disturbed) by my tone, Delia nodded. She pushed
herself up in the seat, pulled off the blond curly wig and let the wind
blow
through her straight black hair.
"Those
are the Bacatete Mountains," she said, pointing to the mountains to the
left of us,
barely
outlined against the semidarkness of the dawn sky.
"Is
that, where we are going?" I asked.
"Not
this time," she said, sliding down into her seat again. A cryptic
(mysterious) smile played around her lips, as she half turned toward me. "Perhaps one
day you'll have a chance to visit those mountains," she mused (ponder,
wonder), closing her eyes. "The
Bacatetes are inhabited by creatures of another World; of another Time."
"Creatures
of another World, of another Time?" I echoed her in mock seriousness.
"Who
or what are they?"
"Creatures,"
she said vaguely (indefinite, uncertain, ambiguous). "Creatures, that
don't belong to our Time, to our World."
"Now,
now, Delia. Are you trying to scare me?" I couldn't help laughing, as I
turned to
glance at
her.
Even in the dark, her face shone. She looked extraordinarily young, the
skin molded
without
wrinkles over curving cheeks, chin, and nose.
"No.
I'm not trying to scare you," she said matter-of-factly, tucking (put
something into place) a strand of hair behind her
ear. "I'm simply telling you what is common knowledge around here."
"Interesting.
And what kind of Creatures are they?" I inquired, biting my lip to
suppress my
giggles.
"And have you seen them?"
14-15
"Of
course I've seen them," she said indulgently (thoughtfully). "I
wouldn't be talking about them, if I hadn't." She smiled
sweetly, without a trace of resentment.
"They are
Beings, that populated the
Earth at another Time and now have retreated to isolated spots." At
first I couldn't help laughing out loud at her gullibility.
And then, seeing how serious and how convinced she was, that these
Creatures indeed existed, I
decided, that rather than make fun of her, I should accept her
credulousness. [credulousness
- tendency to believe too readily and therefore to be easily
deceived]. After all,
she was taking me to a healer, and I didn't want to antagonize her with
my
rational (logical basis) probes (test, investigate).
"Are
those Creatures the ghosts of the Yaqui warriors, who lost their lives
in battle?" I
asked. She
shook
her head negatively, then, as if afraid someone might overhear, she
leaned
closer and
whispered in my ear:
"It's
a well-known fact, that those mountains are inhabited
by enchanted (bewitch, charm) Creatures: birds, that speak, bushes,
that sing, stones, that dance. Creatures, that can take any form at
will." She
sat back and regarded (observe closely) me expectantly. "The Yaquis
call these Beings Surem. They
believe, that the Surem are ancient Yaquis, who refused to be baptized
by the first
Jesuits, who
came to Christianize the Indians." She patted
my arm affectionately. "Watch out. They say, that the Surem like blond Women." She cackled
(shrill brittle laughter, sounds like hen) with delight. "Maybe that's,
what your nightmare was all about. A Surem trying to
steal you."
"You
don't really believe, what you're saying, do you?" I asked derisively
(mocking, scoffing), unable to keep my annoyance
in check.
"No.
I've just made up, that the Surem like blonds," she said soothingly.
"They don't like blonds at
all."
Although I
didn't turn to glance at her, I could feel her smile and the humorous
twinkle in
her eyes.
It irked (irritate, annoy) me to no end. I thought her to be either
very candid (open, without pretence, straight forward, fair, frank,
impartial), very coy (shy, demure, retiring), or, even worse, very mad.
"You
don't believe, that Creatures from another World really exist, do you?"
I snapped ill-humoredly. Then, afraid
I had offended her, I glanced at her with a word of half-anxious apology ready. But before I
could say anything, she answered in the same loud, ill-tempered tone of voice, I had
used.
"Of
course I believe they exist. Why shouldn't they exist?"
"They
just don't!" I snapped sharply and authoritatively, then quickly
apologized.
I told her
about my pragmatic (dealing with facts) upbringing and how my father
had guided me to realize, that the
monsters in my dreams, and the playmates, I had as a child - invisible
to everyone,
but me, of
course - were nothing, but the product of an overactive imagination. "From an
early age I was reared to be objective and to qualify everything," I
stressed. "In
my world,
there are only facts."
"That's
the problem with people," Delia remarked. "They are so reasonable, that
just
hearing about it lowers my vitality."
"In
my world," I continued, ignoring her comment, "there are no facts
anywhere about Creatures
from another World, but only speculations and wishful thinking, and," I emphasized,
"fantasies of disturbed minds."
"You can't be that dense!"
she cried out delightedly in between fits of laughter, as if my explanation
had surpassed all her expectations.
"Can
it be proven, that those Creatures exist?" I challenged.
"What
would the proof consist of?" she inquired with an air of obvious false
diffidence [diffidence
-
lack of self-confidence].
"If
someone else can see them, that would be a proof," I said.
"You
mean, that if, for instance, you can see them, that'll be proof of
their existence?" she inquired,
bringing her head close to mine. "We can
certainly begin there."
Sighing,
Delia leaned her head against the backrest of her seat and closed her
eyes. She
was
silent for such a long time, I was certain she had fallen asleep, and
I was thus
startled,
when she sat up abruptly and urged me to pull over to the side of the
road. She
had to
relieve herself, she said. To take
advantage of our stop,
I, too, went into the bushes. As I was
about to pull up my jeans, I heard a loud male voice say, "How
delicious!" and sigh just
behind me.
With my
jeans, still unzipped, I dashed (move with haste, rush, race) to where
Delia was. "We'd
better
get out of here fast!" I cried out. "There is a man, hiding in the
bushes."
"Nonsense,"
she brushed my words aside. "The only thing behind the bushes is a donkey."
16-17
"Donkeys
don't
sigh like lecherous (interested in improper matters esp. sex) men," I
pointed out, then I repeated, what I had heard the man say. Delia
collapsed into helpless laughter, then seeing how distressed I was, she
held up her
hand in a
conciliatory (pacify, reconcile) gesture. "Did you actually see the
man?"
"I
didn't have to," I retorted (reply). "It was enough to hear him." She lingered
(stay) for a moment longer, then headed toward the car. Right before
we climbed up the embankment (retaining wall) to the road, she stopped
abruptly and,
turning
toward me, whispered:
"Something quite mysterious has happened. I must make you aware of
it."
She led me by the hand back to the spot, where I had squatted, and
right there, behind the bushes, I
saw a donkey.
"It
wasn't there before," I insisted. Delia
regarded me with apparent pleasure, then shrugged her shoulders and
turned to the
animal.
"Little
donkey," she cooed in a baby voice, "did you look at her butt?" She's a
ventriloquist (performer speaking from the belly), I thought. She's
going to make the beast talk. However,
all, the donkey did, was to bray (utter harsh cry of a donkey) loudly
and repeatedly.
"Let's
get out of here," I pleaded, tugging at her sleeve. "It must have been
the owner, who's
lurking
(sneak, slink, exist unobserved) in the bushes."
"But
this little darling has no owner," she cooed (sound of a dove/pigeon)
in that same silly baby voice, and scratched
the animal's soft, long ears.
"It
certainly has an owner," I snapped. "Can't you see how well fed and
groomed it is?" In a voice,
that was getting hoarse with nervousness and impatience,
I stressed again, how dangerous it
was for two Women to be out alone on a deserted road in Sonora. Delia
regarded me silently, seemingly preoccupied. Then
she nodded, as if in agreement and motioned me to follow her. The donkey
walked close behind me, nudging (pushing) my buttocks repeatedly with
its muzzle (projecting part of head). Mumbling an
imprecation (curse), I turned around, but the donkey was gone. "Delia!" I
cried out in sudden fright. "What happened to the donkey?" Startled by
my cry, a flock of birds rose in raucous (harsh) flight. The birds
circled around us, then flew east toward that fragile crack in the sky,
that
marked the end of the night and the start of the day.
"Where
is the donkey?" I asked again in a barely audible whisper.
"Right
here in front of you," she said softly, pointing to a gnarled
(misshapen), leafless tree.
"I
can't see it."
"You
need glasses."
"There
is nothing wrong with my eyes," I said tartly (sharp, bitter, cutting).
"I can even see the lovely flowers on the tree." Astonished
at the beauty of the glowing, snow-white morning glory-shaped blossoms,
I
moved closer. "What kind of a tree is it?"
"Palo
Santo." For
one
bewildering second I thought, that the donkey, which was emerging from
behind the
satiny
(fabric with glossy face and dull back), silver-gray trunk, had spoken. I turned to
look at Delia.
"Palo
Santo!" she laughed. Then the
thought crossed my mind, that Delia was playing a joke on me. The donkey probably
belonged to the healer, who, no doubt, lived nearby.
"What's
so funny?" Delia asked, catching the all-knowing smirk (self-satisfied)
on my face.
"I've got a most horrible cramp," I lied. Holding my
hands against my stomach, I squatted, and said, "Please wait for me in
the
car."
The
instant she turned to go, I took off my scarf and tied it around the
donkey's neck. I enjoyed
anticipating Delia's surprise upon discovering, once we were at the
healer's
place, that
I had known about her joke all along. However, any
hope of seeing the donkey or my scarf again were soon dashed (smashed).
It took us
almost two
more hours to reach the healer's house.
Chapter 2
18-19
It was around eight o'clock in the morning, when we arrived at the
healer's house in the outskirts of
Ciudad Obregon. It was a
massive old house with whitewashed walls and a tile roof, gray with
age. It had
wrought-iron
windows and an arched doorway. The heavy
door to the street was wide open. With the
confidence of someone, familiar with her surroundings, Delia Flores led
me
across the dark hall, down a long corridor, toward the back, to a
sparsely furnished room with a
narrow bed, a table, and several chairs. What was
most unusual about the room was, that it had a door in each of the four
walls. They
were all
closed. "Wait
here,"
Delia ordered me, and, pointing with her chin toward the bed, she said,
"Take a
little
nap, while I get the healer. It might take me some time," she added,
closing the
door behind
her.
I waited for her footsteps to fade down the corridor, before I
inspected the most unlikely healing
room, I had ever seen. The
whitewashed walls were bare. The light brown tiles of the floor shone
like a mirror. There was no
altar, no images or figurines of saints, the Virgin, or Jesus, which I
had
always assumed were customary in healing rooms. I poked my
head through all four doors. Two opened into dark corridors. The other
two
led to a yard, enclosed by a high fence.
As I was tiptoeing down a dark corridor, toward another room, I heard a
low, menacing
snarl
(vicious growls) behind me. Slowly, I
turned around.
Barely two feet away there stood an enormous, ferocious-looking black
dog.
It didn't attack me, but stood its ground growling, showing its fangs. Without
directly meeting the animal's eyes, yet not letting it out of my sight,
I walked
backward to
the healing room. The dog
followed me all the way to the door. I closed the
door softly, right on the beast's nose, and leaned against the wall,
until my
heartbeat
was back to normal.
Then I lay down on the bed, and after a few moments - without the
slightest intention of doing so - I
fell into a deep sleep. I was roused
(awaken, provoke) by a soft touch on my shoulder. I opened my
eyes and looked up into an old Woman's wrinkled pink face. "You're
dreaming," she said. "And I'm part of your dream."
Automatically,
I nodded in agreement. However, I wasn't convinced, that I was dreaming. The Woman
was extraordinarily small. She wasn't a midget (extremely small person)
or a dwarf. Rather, she was the size of
a child, with skinny arms and narrow, fragile-looking shoulders.
"Are
you the healer?" I asked.
"I'm
Esperanza," she said. "I'm the one, who brings dreams." Her voice
was smooth and unusually low. It had a curious, exotic quality, as
though
Spanish -
which she spoke fluently - was a language, to which the muscles of her
upper lip
were not
accustomed.
Gradually,
the sound of her voice rose, until it became a disembodied force,
filling the
room. The
sound made me think of running water in the depths of a cave.
"She's
not a Woman," I mumbled to myself. "She's the sound of darkness."
"I'll
remove the cause of your nightmares now," she said, fixing me with an
imperious (domineering, dictatorial) gaze, as her
fingers closed lightly around my neck: "I'll get
them out, one by one," she promised. Her hands
moved across my chest like a soft wave. She smiled
triumphantly, then motioned me to examine her opened palms. "See? They came out so
easily."
She was
gazing at me with an expression of such accomplishment and wonder, I
couldn't
bring myself
to tell her, that I didn't see anything in her hands. Certain,
that the healing session was over, I thanked her and sat up. She shook
her head in a gesture of reproach (accuse) and gently pushed me back on
the bed.
20-21
"You're
asleep," she reminded me. "I'm the one, who brings dreams, remember?" I would have
loved to insist, that I was wide awake, but all, I managed to do, was
to grin
foolishly,
as sleep pulled me into a comforting slumber. Laughter and
whispers crowded around me like shadows. I fought to
wake myself. It took a great effort to open my eyes and sit up, and
look at the
people
gathered around the table. The peculiar
dimness in the room made it difficult to see them clearly. Delia was
among them. I was about
to call out her name, when an insistent scratching sound behind me made
me
turn around.
A Man,
precariously (lacking in stability) squatting on a high stool, was
noisily shelling peanuts. At first
sight he seemed to be a young man, but somehow I knew him to be old. He
was
slight of body, with a smooth, beardless face. His smile was a mixture
of cunning and innocence.
"Want
some?" he asked. Before I
could so much as nod, my mouth dropped open. All, I could
do, was stare at him, as he shifted his weight to one hand and
effortlessly lifted his small,
wiry body into a handstand. From that
position he threw a peanut at me, and it went straight into my gaping
(open) mouth.
I choked on
it.
A sharp tap between my shoulder blades immediately restored my
breathing.
Grateful, I
turned, wondering, who among the people, who were all standing by me
now,
had reacted so swiftly (fast, fleet). "I'm Mariano
Aureliano," said the Man, who had tapped my back. He shook my
hand. His
gentle
tone and the charming formality of his gesture mitigated (moderate in
force and intensity) the fierce expression
in his eyes and the severity (stern, strict) of his aquiline (hooked
nose) features. The upward slant (sloping, incline direction)
of his
dark brows
made him
look like a bird of prey. His white
hair and his weathered, copperish face bespoke
(indicated) age, but his muscular body exuded
(emitting, make felt) the vitality of youth. There were
six Women in the group, including Delia. All of them
shook my hand in that same eloquent (persuasive, graceful) formality. They didn't
tell me their names. They simply said, that they were glad to meet me. Physically,
they didn't resemble each other, and yet there was a striking alikeness
about them;
a
contradictory blend of youth and age, a blend of strength and delicacy,
that was
most
baffling to me, accustomed, as I was, to the roughness and directness
of my male-oriented, patriarchal,
German family. Just as with
Mariano Aureliano and the acrobat on the stool, I could not tell the
Women's
ages. They
could have been as much in their forties, as in their sixties. I
experienced a fleeting anxiety, as the Women kept staring at me. I had the
distinct impression, they could see inside me and were reflecting on,
what they
saw. The
amused,
contemplative (consider thoroughly) smiles on their faces did little to
reassure me.
Anxious to
break that disturbing silence in any way I could, I turned away from
them and
faced the
Man on the stool. I asked him, if he was an acrobat. "I'm Mr.
Flores,"
he said. He did a back flip (throw, flick, toss, turn over
effortlessly) from the stool and landed in a cross-legged position on
the floor.
"I'm not an
acrobat," he pronounced. "I'm a wizard." There was a
smile of unmistakable glee on his face, as he reached into his pocket
and
pulled out my silk scarf; the one, I had tied around the donkey's neck.
"I
know, who you are. You're her husband!" I exclaimed, pointing an
accusing finger at Delia. "You
two sure played a clever trick on me."
Mr.
Flores didn't say a word. He simply gazed at me in polite silence. "I'm
nobody's
husband," he
finally pronounced, then cartwheeled out of the room through one of the doors, that
led to the yard. On an
impulse, I jumped off the bed and went after him. Blinded
momentarily by the brightness outside, I stood for a few seconds dazed
by the
glare, then
crossed the yard and ran down the side of a dirt road into a recently
ploughed
field,
partitioned off by tall eucalyptus trees. It was hot.
The Sun bore down like flames. The furrows shimmered in the heat like effervescent
(bubbly) giant snakes.
"Mr.
Flores," I called out. There was no answer. Certain, that he was hiding
behind one of
the trees, I
crossed the field in a run.
"Watch
those bare feet!" warned a voice coming from above me. Startled, I
looked up, straight into Mr. Flores' upside-down face. He was hanging
from a
branch,
dangling from his legs.
22-23
"It's
dangerous and utterly foolish to run about without shoes," he
admonished (caution, warn) sternly, swinging
back and forth like a trapeze artist: "This place
is infested with rattlesnakes. You'd better join me up here. It's safe
and cool."
Knowing,
that the branches were far too high to reach, I nonetheless held up my
arms
with childish trust. Before I
realized, what he intended to do, Mr. Flores had grabbed my wrists and
whisked me
up into
the tree with no more effort, than if I had been a rag doll. Dazzled, I
sat beside him, staring at the rustling leaves. They glimmered in the
sunlight,
like
slivers (sharp, slender piece) of gold. "Do you hear,
what the wind is telling you?" Mr. Flores asked after a long silence. He moved his
head this way and that, so I could fully appreciate the astounding
manner, in
which he wiggled his ears. "Zamurito!"
I exclaimed in a whisper, as memories flooded my mind. 'Zamurito',
little buzzard (american vulture), was the nickname of a childhood
friend from Venezuela. Mr. Flores had
the same delicate, birdlike features, jet-black hair, and
mustard-colored eyes. And most
astounding, he, like Zamurito, could wiggle his ears one at a time or
both
together. I
told Mr.
Flores about my friend, whom I had known since kindergarten. In the
second grade, we had shared a desk. During the
long midday recess (temporary cessation of activities), instead of
eating our lunch at the school grounds, we used to sneak
outside and climb to the top of a nearby hill to eat in the shade of,
what we
believed
was, the largest mango tree in the World. Its lowest branches
touched the ground. Its highest swept the clouds.
In the fruit season, we used to
gorge ourselves on mangoes. The hilltop
was our favorite place, until the day we found the body of the school
janitor (caretaker, doorman), hanging from
a high branch. We didn't
dare to move or to cry. Neither of us wanted to lose face in front of
the other.
We didn't
climb up the branches that day, but tried to eat our lunch on the
ground,
practically
under the dead man, wondering, which of us would break down first. It was I,
who did.
Zamurito had
asked me in a whisper, "Have you ever thought of dying?"
I had looked
up at the hanged man. At that same instant the wind had rustled through
the
branches with an unfamiliar insistence. In the rustle
I had distinctly heard the dead man, whispering to me, that death was soothing.
It was so uncanny (weird, strange, unexpected, exciting wonder and
fear), that I got up and ran away screaming, indifferent to what
Zamurito
might have
thought of me. "The wind
made those branches and leaves speak to you," Mr. Flores said, as I
finished my
story. His
voice
was soft and low. His golden eyes shone with a feverish light, as he
went on to
explain,
that at the moment of his death, in one instantaneous flash, the old
janitor's
memories,
feelings, and emotions were released and absorbed by the mango tree.
"The
wind made those branches and leaves speak to you," Mr. Flores repeated.
"For the wind is yours by right." Dreamily, he
glanced through the leaves, his eyes, searching beyond the field,
stretching
away in the
Sun. "Being a Woman
enables you to command the wind," he went on. "Women don't know it, but
they can have a dialogue with the wind any time."
I
shook my head uncomprehendingly. "I really don't know, what you're
talking about," I said, my
tone, betraying my mounting unease: "This is
like a dream. If it wouldn't be, that it goes on and on, I'd swear, it
was one of my
nightmares."
His
prolonged silence annoyed me. I could feel
my face flush with irritation. What am
I doing here, sitting in a tree with a crazy old
man? I pondered. And at the
same time I was apprehensive, that I may have offended him. I opted for
apologizing for my bluntness.
"I
realize, that my words don't make much sense to you," he admitted.
"That's because there is too much crust on you. It prevents you from
hearing, what the wind has to say."
"Too
much crust?" I asked, puzzled and suspicious. "Do you mean, that I'm
dirty?"
"That,
too," he said, and made me blush. He smiled and repeated, that I was
enveloped by too thick a crust and that this crust couldn't be washed
away with soap and water, regardless of how many baths I took. "You
are filled with judgments," he explained. "They prevent you from
understanding, what I'm telling you and, that the wind is yours to
command."
He regarded
me with narrowed, critical eyes. "Well?" he
demanded impatiently.
The longer I watched them, the more concerned I became. It
was all so strange to me. I could
easily explain, why I had accepted Delia's invitation to see a healer,
but I couldn't understand
at all my subsequent actions.
It was, as if someone else had taken over my rational faculties
(skill), making me stay there, react
and say things, I didn't mean to. And now they
were going to have a celebration in my honor. It was disconcerting
(upset, ruffle, perturb) to say the least. No matter
how hard
I thought about it, I couldn't figure out, what I was doing there. "I certainly
haven't merited (earn, deserve, warrant) any of this," I mumbled, my
Germanic upbringing, getting the better of
me. "People don't just do things for others for the hell of it."
Only upon hearing
Mariano Aureliano's exuberant (abandonedly joyous, lavish, effusive,
luxuriant, overflowing) laughter did I realize, that all of them were staring
at me. "There's
no
reason to ponder (consider carefully) so heavily, what's happening to
you today," he said, tapping me softly on
the shoulder. "We're having a picnic, because we like to do things on
the
spur of the moment. And, since
you have been healed by Esperanza today, my friends here like to say the picnic is in
your honor."
He spoke
casually, almost indifferently, as if he were talking of some trifling
(trivial, insignificant) matter. But his eyes
said something else: they were hard and serious, as though it were
vital I
listen to
him carefully. "It's a joy
for my friends to say, that the picnic is in your honor," he continued.
"Accept it,
just as they
say it, in simplicity and without premeditation (arranging, plotting in
advance)."
His eyes
became soft, as he gazed at the Women, then he turned to me and added,
"The
picnic is not in your honor at all, I assure you. And yet," he
mused (wonder), "it is in your honor. It's a
contradiction, that will take you quite some time to understand."
"I
didn't ask
anyone to do anything for me," I said sullenly (gloomy, bad-tempered,
morose). I had become inordinately (excessive) ponderous
(massive, huge, graceless, dull), the way I always have been, when
threatened:
"Delia
brought me here, and I am thankful." I felt then compelled (force,
constrain) to add,
"And I would
like to pay
for any services, rendered (given in return) to me." I was
certain, I had offended them, and I knew, that any minute now I would
be asked to
leave.
Other, than hurting my ego, it wouldn't have bothered me much. I was
frightened,
and I had
had enough of them. To my
surprise and annoyance, they didn't take me seriously. They laughed
at me, and the angrier I became, the greater their mirth. Their shiny,
laughing eyes were fixed on me, as if I were an unknown organism. Wrath made
me forget my fear. I lashed out at them, accusing them of taking me for
a
fool. I
charged,
that Delia and her husband - I didn't know, why
I insisted on, pairing them together -
had played a disgusting joke on me. "You brought
me here," I said, turning to Delia, "so you and your friends can use
me, as your
clown." The
more I
ranted (speak in violent manner), the more they laughed. I was about
to weep with self-pity, anger, and frustration, when Mariano Aureliano
came
to stand beside me. He began to
talk to me, as if I were a child. I wanted to
tell him, that I could take care of myself, that I didn't need his
sympathy, and
that
I was going home, when something in his tone and in his eyes appeased
(soothe) me so thoroughly,
that I was certain, he had hypnotized me. And yet, I knew,
he hadn't.
What was so
unknown and disturbing to me, was the suddenness and completeness of my change. What would
have ordinarily taken days, had happened in an instant: all my life I
had
indulged in brooding (moodiness) over every indignity (offence to
dignity) or affront - real or imagined - I had suffered. With
systematic thoroughness, I would mull (consider a problem deeply) them
over, until every detail was explained to my
satisfaction.
26-27
As I looked at Mariano Aureliano, I felt like laughing at my earlier
outburst. I
could
hardly remember, what it was, that had infuriated me to the point of
tears.
Delia pulled me by the arm and asked me to help the other Women unpack
the china
plates,
crystal goblets, and ornate silverware from the various baskets,
they had brought. The Women
didn't talk to me or to each other. Only little
sighs of pleasure escaped their lips, as Mariano Aureliano opened the
serving
dishes. There were tamales, enchiladas, a hot chili stew, and
hand-made tortillas - not flour
tortillas, as was customary in northern Mexico and which I didn't much
care for, but
corn
tortillas.
Delia handed
me a plate with a little bit of everything on it. I ate so
greedily, I was finished before anyone else. "This is the most
delicious food I've ever
tasted," I gushed (excessive, usually insincere display of emotions),
hoping for seconds. Noone
offered them. To hide my disappointment, I commented on the beauty of
the
antique lace trim around the canvas cloth, we were sitting on.
"I
did that," the Woman sitting on Mariano Aureliano's left said. She was
old-looking, with disheveled (unkept, untidy) gray hair, that hid her
face. In spite of the heat, she wore a long
skirt, a blouse, and a sweater. "It's
authentic Belgian lace," she explained to me in a gentle, dreamy voice.
Her long
slender
hands, glinting with exquisite jeweled rings, lingered (stay) lovingly
on the broad trim. In great
detail, she told me about her handiwork, showing me the kinds of
stitches and
threads,
she had used to sew on the trim.
Occasionally, I caught a fleeting glimpse of her face through all that
mass of hair, but I couldn't
tell, what she looked like.
"It's authentic Belgian lace," she repeated. "It's part of my trousseau
(special wardrobe for bride)." She picked
up a crystal goblet, took a sip of water and added, "These, too, are
part of my
trousseau:
they're Baccarat." I didn't
doubt, that they were. The lovely
plates - each one was different - were of the finest porcelain. I was
wondering, whether a discreet (modest) peek (glance quickly) under mine
would pass unnoticed, when the Woman
sitting to Mariano Aureliano's right encouraged me to do so: "Don't be
shy. Take a look," she urged me. "You're among friends."
Grinning, she lifted her own plate. "Limoges (fine porcelain made in
France, Limoges ware)," she pronounced, then lifted mine briefly and noted,
that it was a Rosenthal. The Woman had
childlike, delicate features. She was small, with round, thickly lashed black eyes.
Her hair was black, except for the crown of her head, which had turned
white, and
was
combed back into a tight little chignon. There was a
force, an edge to her, that was quite chilling, as she besieged
(harass) me with direct, personal
questions.
I didn't
mind her inquisitor's tone. I was accustomed to being bombarded with
questions
by my father
and brothers, when I went on a date or embarked (enlist a person,
commence) on any kind of activity on my own.
I had resented it, but it was the normal interaction at home. Thus, I
never learned how to converse.
Conversation for me was parrying (exchange) verbal attacks, and
defending myself at any cost. I was
surprised, when this Woman's coercive (forceful) interrogation
(questioning) didn't immediately make me feel like
defending myself.
"Are
you married?" the Woman asked.
"No,"
I said softly, but firmly, wishing, that she would change the subject.
"Do
you have a man?" she insisted.
"No.
I don't," I retorted, beginning to feel the stirring of my old
defensive self.
"Is
there a type of man, you're partial to?" she went on. "Are there any
personality traits, you prefer
in a man?"
For an
instant I wondered, whether she was making fun of me, but she seemed to
be
genuinely interested, as did her companions. Their curious,
anticipating faces put me at ease. Forgetting
my belligerent (warlike) nature and that these Women might be old
enough to be my
grandmothers, I spoke to them, as if they were friends my age and we
were discussing men.
"He
has to be tall and handsome," I began. "He has to have a sense of
humor. He has to be sensitive
without being wishy-washy (weak, feeble). He has to be intelligent
without being an
intellectual." I lowered my
voice and in a confidential tone added: "My father used to say, that intellectual
men are weak to the core, and traitors - all of them. I think, I agree
with my
father."
"That's
all you want in a man?" the Woman inquired.
"No,"
I hastened to say. "Above all, the man of my dreams has to be athletic."
"Like
your father," one of the Women interjected (throw between).
28-29
"Naturally,"
I said defensively. "My father was a great athlete; a fabulous skier and swimmer."
"Do
you get along with him?" she asked.
"Marvelously,"
I enthused (show enthusiasm). "I adore him. Just the thought of him
brings tears to my eyes."
"Why
aren't you with him?"
"I'm
too much like him," I explained. "There is something in me, that I
can't quite
understand
or control, that pulls me away."
"What
about your mother?"
"My
mother." I sighed and paused for a moment to find the best words to
describe her:
"She's very
strong. She's the sober part in me. The part, that is silent and
doesn't need
reinforcement."
"Are
you very close to your parents?"
"In
spirit, I am," I said softly. "In practice, I am a loner. I don't have
many attachments." Then, as if
something inside me was pushing to come out, I revealed a personality
flaw, that
not even
in my most introspective (self-examination) moments would I have
admitted to myself: "I use
people rather, than nourish or cherish them," I said, then immediately
made amends (correct, rectify), saying,
"But I'm quite capable of feeling affection." I gazed from
one to the other with a mixture of relief and disappointment. None of
them
seemed to attach any importance to my confession. The Women
went on to ask, if I would describe myself, as a courageous being or as
a
coward. "I'm
a
confirmed coward," I stated. "But unfortunately, my cowardice never
stops me."
"Stops
you from what?" the Woman, who had been questioning me, inquired. Her
black eyes
were
serious, and the wide span of her brows, like a line, drawn with a
piece of
charcoal,
was concentrated in a frown.
"From
doing dangerous things," I said. Pleased to
notice, that they seemed to be hanging on my every word, I explained,
that
another one of my serious flaws was my great facility (ease) to get
into trouble.
"What
trouble have you gotten into, that you can tell us about?" she asked.
Her face,
which had
been grave (extremely serious, important) all this time, broke into a
brilliant, almost malicious smile.
"How
about the trouble I'm in now?" I said half in jest, yet fearing, that
they might take my comment
the wrong way. To my
surprise and relief, they all laughed and yelled, the way rural people
are wont (accustomed, used to) to do, when
something strikes them, as daring or funny.
"How
did you end up in the United States?" the Woman asked, when they had
all calmed
down. I
shrugged,
not really knowing, what to say.
"I wanted to go to school," I finally mumbled. "I
was in England first, but I didn't do much, except have a good time. I really
don't know, what I want to study. I think, I'm in search of something,
although I
don't know
exactly what."
"That
brings us back to my first question," the Woman said. Her thin,
pert (vivacious) face and her dark eyes were animated and peering like
an animal's. "Are you in
search of a man?"
"I
suppose, I am," I admitted, then added impatiently, "What woman isn't? And why do
you ask me so insistently about it? Do you have someone in mind? Is this some kind of
a test?"
"We
do have someone in mind," Delia Flores interjected. "But he's not a
man." She and
the others
laughed and shrieked (high pitched scream) with such abandon,
I could not help, but giggle, too.
"This
is definitely a test," the inquisitive Woman assured me as soon, as
everyone was
quiet. She
was
silent for a moment, her eyes watchful and considering.
"From what you told me, I can
conclude, that you are thoroughly middle class," she went on. She flung
(hurl) her arms wide in a gesture of forced acceptance.
"But then, what else can a German
Woman, born in the New World, be?" She saw the
anger in my face and, with a barely suppressed grin on her lips, added:
"Middle-class people have middle-class dreams." Seeing, that
I was about to explode, Mariano Aureliano explained, that she was
asking all
these
questions, because they were simply curious about me. Only seldom did
they have
visitors and
hardly ever any young ones.
"That
doesn't mean, that I have to be insulted," I complained. As though I
hadn't said anything, Mariano Aureliano continued to make excuses for
the
Women. His
gentle
tone and his reassuring pat on my back melted my anger, just as it had
before.
30-31
His smile was so touchingly angelic, I didn't for a moment doubt his
sincerity, when he began to
flatter me. He said, that I was one of the most extraordinary, one of
the most
remarkable
persons, they had ever met. I was so
moved, that I encouraged him to ask anything, he wanted to know about
me.
"Do
you feel important?" he inquired. I nodded.
"All of us are very important to ourselves," I stated. "Yes, I think I
am
important, not in a general sense, but specifically, just to myself."
At
great length I talked about a positive self-image, self-worth, and how
vital it was to reinforce
our importance, in order to be psychically healthy individuals.
"And
what do you think about Women?" he asked. "Do you think they are more
or less
important,
than men?"
"It's
quite obvious, that men are more important," I said. "Women don't have
a choice.
They have to
be less important, in order for family life to roll on smooth wheels,
so to
speak."
"But
is it right?" Mariano Aureliano insisted.
"Well,
of course, it's right," I declared. "Men are inherently superior.
That's why, they run the World. I've been
brought up by an authoritarian father, who, although
he raised me as freely, as my brothers,
nevertheless let me know, that certain things are not so important for a Woman. That's why,
I don't know, what I'm doing in school or what I want in life." I
looked at
Mariano
Aureliano, then in a helpless, defeated tone added, "I suppose, I'm
looking for a
man, who is
as sure of himself, as my father."
"She's
a simpleton!" one of the Women interjected.
"No,
no, she isn't," Mariano Aureliano assured everyone. "She's just
confused, and as opinionated,
as her father."
"Her
German
father," Mr. Flores corrected him emphatically (bold, definite in
action/expression), stressing the word German. He had
descended from the tree like a leaf, softly and without a sound. He
served himself an
immoderate (extreme, excessive) amount of food.
"How
right you are," Mariano Aureliano agreed and grinned. "Being as
opinionated, as her German
father, she's simply repeating, what she has heard all her life."
My
anger, which rose and fell like some mysterious fever, was not only due
to what they
were saying
about me, but also because they were talking about me, as if
I were not
present.
"She's
unredeemable (not capable of being saved)," another Woman said.
"She's
fine for the purpose at hand," Mariano Aureliano defended me with
conviction.
Mr. Flores
backed Mariano Aureliano. And the only Woman, who had not spoken so
far, said
in a
deep, husky (strong) voice, that she agreed with the Men; that I was
fine for the purposes at hand.
She was tall and slender. Her pale-
complexioned face, gaunt (thin,
angular) and severe (stern, strict, inflexible), was crowned by braided
white hair and high-lighted by large, luminous eyes.
In spite of her worn, drab clothes, there was something innately
(inborn, inbred, inherent, possessed at birth) elegant about her.
"What
are you all doing to me?" I shouted, unable to contain myself any
longer. "Don't you realize,
how horrible it is for me to hear, you talk about me, as if I were not
here?"
Mariano
Aureliano fixed his fierce eyes on me.
"You are not here," he said in a tone, that was devoid
of all feeling. "At least not yet. And most
important, you don't count. Not now or ever."
I
almost fainted with wrath. Noone had ever spoken to me so harshly and
with such
indifference
to my feelings. "I puke (vomit), piss and shit on all of you, goddamned, cocksucking
farts!" I yelled.
"My
God! A German hick (bumpkin, gullible, provincial person) !" Mariano
Aureliano exclaimed, and they all laughed. I was about
to jump up and stomp away, when Mariano Aureliano tapped me repeatedly on my back.
"There,
there," he murmured, as if burping a baby. And, as
before, instead of resenting, being treated like a child, my anger
vanished. I felt light and
happy.
Shaking my
head uncomprehendingly, I looked at them and giggled.
"I learned to speak
Spanish," I said, "in the streets of Caracas with the riff-raff
(worthless, uncultured, disreputable person). I can cuss (curse)
horribly."
"Didn't
you just love the sweet tamales?" Delia asked, closing her eyes in
delicate
appreciation.
Her question
seemed to be a password: the interrogation ended.
32-33
"Of
course she did!" Mr. Flores responded for me. "She only wishes, she had
been served
more. She
has an insatiable appetite." He came to
sit beside me.
"Mariano Aureliano outdid himself and cooked a delight."
"You
mean he cooked the food?" I asked in disbelief. "He has all these
Women, and he
cooks?"
Mortified
(scared) by how my words might be interpreted, I hastened to apologize.
I explained, that it
surprised me to no end, that a Mexican male would cook at home, when
there were
Women.
Their
laughter made me realize, that
I hadn't meant to say that either.
"Especially,
if the Women are his Women. Isn't that what you meant?" Mr. Flores
asked, his
words
interspersed (scatter) by everybody's laughter. "You're quite
right," he continued. "They are Mariano's Women. Or to be more precise, Mariano
belongs to them." He slapped
his knee gleefully, then turned to the tallest of the Women - the one,
who had
only spoken
once - and said, "Why don't you tell her about us."
"Obviously,
Mr. Aureliano doesn't have that many wives," I began, still mortified
(scared) by my gaffe
(clumsy social error).
"Why
not?" the Woman retorted, and everyone laughed again. It was a joyful,
youthful
laughter,
yet it didn't put me at ease. "All of us
here are bound together by our struggle, by our deep affection for one
another,
and by the
realization, that without one another, nothing is possible," she said.
"You
aren't part of a religious group, are you?" I asked in a voice, that
betrayed my
growing
apprehension. "You don't belong to some kind of a commune, do you?"
"We
belong to Power," the Woman replied. "My companions and I are the
inheritors of an ancient
tradition. We are part of a myth." I didn't
understand, what she was saying. I glanced
uneasily at the others. Their eyes were fixed on me. They were watching
me
with a mixture of expectation and amusement. I shifted my
attention back to the tall Woman. She, too, was observing me with that
same
bemused (bewildered) expression. Her eyes were so shiny, they sparkled. She leaned
over her crystal goblet and daintily (deliciously, pleasantly) sipped
her water. "We are
essentially Dreamers," she explained softly. "We are all Dreaming now,
and, by the
fact,
that you were brought to us, you are also Dreaming with us." She said
this so smoothly, that I really didn't realize, what she had said.
"You
mean I am sleeping and having a dream with you?" I asked in mock
incredulity. I bit my lip
to suppress the laughter, bubbling up within me.
"That's
not exactly, what you're doing, but it's close enough," she admitted. Unperturbed
(not disturbed) by my nervous giggles, she went on to explain, that
what was happening to me was more
like an extraordinary Dream, where all of them were helping me by Dreaming my
Dream.
"But
that's idio--," I started to say, but she silenced me with a wave of
her hand.
"We
are all Dreaming the same Dream," she assured me. She seemed
to be transported by a joy, I was at a loss to understand.
"What
about the delicious food I just ate?" I asked, looking for the chili
sauce, that had dribbled on
my blouse.
I showed her
the spots. "That can't be a Dream. I ate that food!" I insisted in a
loud,
agitated
tone. "I did! I ate it myself."
She
regarded me with a cool composure, as though she had been expecting
just such an
outburst. She asked equably (just the same, uniformly, unvaryingly):
"But what about Mr. Flores, lifting you up to the top of the eucalyptus
tree?" I
was on the
verge of telling her, that he hadn't lifted me to the top of the tree,
but only to a
branch, when
she whispered, "Have you thought about that?"
"No.
I haven't," I said snappishly.
"Of
course, you haven't," she agreed, nodding her head knowingly, as if she
were aware, that
I had
that instant remembered, that even the lowest branch of any of the
trees around
us was
impossible to reach from the ground. She said
then, that the reason, I hadn't thought about it, was because in Dreams
we are not
rational.
"In Dreams we can only act," she stressed.
"Wait
a minute," I interrupted her. "I may be a little dizzy, I admit. After
all, you and
your friends
are the strangest people, I have ever met. But I am as
awake, as I can be." Seeing, that she was laughing at me, I yelled,
"This is not
a Dream!"
34-35
With
an imperceptible nod of her head she motioned to Mr. Flores, who in one
swift
movement
reached for my hand and propelled himself, with me in tow, to a branch
of the
nearest
eucalyptus tree. We sat there
for an instant, and, before I could say anything, he pulled me back to
the
ground, to the same spot, where we had been sitting.
"Do
you see, what I mean?" the tall Woman asked.
"No,
I don't," I screamed, knowing, that I had had a hallucination. My fear
turned to rage, and I let out a stream of the foulest (revolting,
smelly) imprecations (curse).
My rage spent, I was engulfed by a wave of self-pity, and I began to
weep. "What have you people
done to me?" I asked in between sobs. "Have you put something in the
food? In
the
water?"
"We
have done nothing of the sort," the tall Woman said kindly. "You don't
need
anything..."
I could
barely hear her. My tears were like some dark, gauzy
veil (transparent
fabric): they blurred her face and also her
words.
"Hold on," I
heard her say, although I could no longer see her or her companions.
"Hold on,
don't
wake up yet."
There was
something so compelling (forceful) about her tone, I knew, that my very
life depended on seeing her
again. With
some
unknown and totally unexpected force, I broke through the veil of my
tears. I
heard a
soft clapping sound, and then I saw them. They were smiling, and their
eyes
shone so intensely, their pupils seemed to be lit by some inner fire. I apologized
first to the Women and then to the two Men for my silly outburst; but
they
wouldn't hear of it. They said,
that I had performed exceptionally well.
"We
are the living parts of a myth," Mariano Aureliano said. He puckered
his lips, and blew into the air. "I will blow you to the
person, who now holds the
myth in his hands. He will help you clarify all this."
"And
who might he be?" I asked flippantly (disrespectfully). I was going
to ask, whether he would be as opinionated, as my father, but I was
distracted
by Mariano
Aureliano.
He was still
blowing into the air. His white hair stood on end. His cheeks were red
and
distended (dilated, expanded, extended, stretched out). As if in
answer to his effort, a soft breeze began to rustle through the
eucalyptus trees. He nodded,
apparently aware of my unspoken thought and confusion. Gently,
he turned me, until I faced the Bacatete Mountains. The breeze
turned into a wind; a wind so harsh and cold, it hurt to breathe. With a
seemingly boneless, uncoiling movement, the tall Woman rose, grabbed my
hand, and
pulled
me with her across the ploughed furrows. We came to a
sudden halt in the middle of the field. I could have
sworn, that with her outstretched arms, she was luring the spiral of
dust and
dead leaves,
spinning in the distance.
"In
Dreams, everything is possible," she whispered. Laughing, I
opened my arms to beckon (signal
or summon by waving) the wind. Dust and
leaves danced around us with such force, that everything blurred before
my
eyes. The
tall
Woman was suddenly far away. Her body seemed to be dissolving in a
reddish
light, until
it completely vanished from my field of vision. And then
blackness filled my head.
Chapter 3
36-37
It was impossible for me to determine at that time, whether the picnic
had been a Dream or had
actually taken place. I was
incapable of remembering in a sequential order all the events, I had
participated in, from the
moment I fell asleep on the bed in the healing room. My next
clear recollection was, that I found myself talking with Delia at the
table, in that same room. Familiar
with such lapses of memory, which used to occur in my childhood, I
didn't at first
make much of this discrepancy (inconsistency, disagreement,
difference). As a child, eager to play, I would often get out of my bed half
asleep and sneak out of my house through the window grill (metal
screen). Many times, I did indeed
wake up in the plaza, playing with other children, who weren't put to
bed as
early, as I
was.
There was no doubt in my mind, that the picnic had been real, although
I couldn't
immediately
place it in a time sequence. I tried to
think, to reconstruct the events, but it frightened me to bring forth
the idea of my childhood
memory lapses. Somehow, I
was reluctant to ask Delia about her friends, and she didn't volunteer
any
information either. However, I
did ask about the healing session, which I knew had been a Dream. "I had such
an elaborate Dream about a healer," I began cautiously. "Not only did
she tell me
her name,
but she also assured me, that she had made all my nightmares vanish."
"It wasn't a Dream," Delia stated, her tone clearly revealing her
displeasure.
She stared
at me with an intensity, that made me want to fidget (constantly moving
nervously hands/feet), to move away. "The healer did
tell you her name," she went on. "And she certainly did cure you from
your
sleep maladies."
"But
it was a Dream," I insisted. "In my Dream, the healer was the size of a
child. She
couldn't
have been real." Delia
reached for the glass of water on the table, but she didn't drink. She
turned it
around, on
and on, without spilling a drop. Then she
looked at me with glittering eyes.
"The healer gave you the impression of being little,
that's all," she said, nodding to herself, as though the words had just
occurred to her, and she had
found them satisfactory. She sipped
her water with slow, slurping noises, and her eyes grew soft and
reflective.
"She had to
be little, in order to cure you."
"She
had to be little? You mean, I only saw her, as being little?" Delia nodded
repeatedly, then, leaning toward me, whispered:
"You see, you were Dreaming.
Yet it wasn't a Dream. The healer
really came to you and cured you, but you were not in the place, in
which you
are now."
"Come
on, Delia," I objected. "What are you talking about? I know, it was a
Dream. I am
always
totally aware, that I am Dreaming, even though the Dreams are
completely real to me. That's
my malady, remember?"
"Maybe
now, that she has cured you, it's no longer your malady, but your
talent," Delia proposed,
smiling. "But going back to your question, the healer had to be small,
like a
child,
because you were quite young, when your nightmares first began." Her
statement was so outlandish (bizarre, absurd), I couldn't even laugh.
"And now I am cured?" I asked facetiously
(disrespectful, insensitive).
"You
are," she assured me. "In
Dreaming, cures are accomplished with great ease, almost effortlessly.
What's difficult is to make people Dream."
"Difficult?"
I asked, my voice harsher, than I had intended. "Everybody has Dreams.
We
all have to sleep, don't we?"
Delia
rolled her eyes derisively (mocking, scoffing, absurd) to the ceiling,
then gazed at me and said: "Those are not
the Dreams I am talking about.
Those are ordinary dreams. Dreaming has purpose. Ordinary
dreams don't have any."
38-39
"They certainly do!" I emphatically disagreed with her, then went into
a lengthy diatribe (bitter, abusive criticism) about the
psychological importance of dreams.
I cited works on psychology, philosophy and art. Delia wasn't
in the least impressed with my knowledge. She agreed
with me, that ordinary dreams must indeed help maintain the mental
health of
individuals,
but insisted, that she wasn't concerned with that.
"Dreaming
has a purpose. Ordinary dreams don't," she reiterated.
"What
purpose, Delia?" I said condescendingly (superiority, patronising
behaviour/manner). She turned
her head sideways, as if she wanted to hide her face from me. An instant
later she looked back at me. Something cold and detached showed itself
in her
eyes, and
the change of expression was altogether so ruthless, that
I was frightened.
"Dreaming
always has a practical purpose," she declared. "It serves the Dreamer
in simple or intricate ways. It has served you to get rid of your
sleeping maladies.
It
served the witches at the picnic to know your essence. It served me to
screen myself out of the awareness of the immigration guard patrol,
asking to see your tourist card."
"I'm
trying to understand, what you are saying, Delia," I mumbled. Then I
asked forcefully, "Do you mean, that you people can hypnotize others
against their wills?"
"Call
it that, if you wish," she said. On her face was a look of calm
indifference, that bore little sympathy. "What you can't see yet is
that you, yourself, can enter quite effortlessly into, what you would
call, a hypnotic state. We call it Dreaming; a Dream, that's not a
dream; a Dream, where we can do nearly anything our hearts desire."
Delia
almost made sense to me, but I had no words, with which to express my
thoughts,
my feelings.
I stared at
her, baffled.
Suddenly, I
remembered an event from my adolescence. When I was
finally allowed driving lessons in my father's jeep, I surprised my
family, by
showing
them, that I already knew how to shift. I had been doing it for years
in my
dreams.
With an
assurance, that was even baffling to me, on my first venture I took the
jeep on the
old road
from Caracas to La Guayra, the port by the sea. I
deliberated (hesitated), whether I should tell Delia about this
episode, but instead, asked her about the healer's
size.
"She
is not a tall Woman, but neither is she as small, as you saw her. In her
healing Dream, she projected her smallness for your benefit, and in
doing so, she
was small.
That's the
nature of magic. You have to be, what you want to give the impression
of."
"Is
she a magician?" I asked expectantly. The thought,
that they all worked in a circus; that they were part of some magic
show had
passed my
mind at various times. It would explain so many things about them, I
believed.
"No.
She's not a magician," Delia said. "She's a Sorceress."
Delia gazed at me so scornfully (treat as unworthy, despicable,
inferiour, with contempt or disdain) I was ashamed of my question.
"Magicians are in a show," she
explained, gazing at me pointedly (sharply): "Sorcerers are in the World, without
being part of the World."
She was silent for a long time, then a sigh escaped her lips. "Would
you like to see Esperanza
now?" she asked.
"Yes,"
I said eagerly. "I would like that very much." The
possibility, that the healer had been real and not a Dream, made my
head spin.
I didn't
quite believe Delia, and yet I wanted to believe her in the worst way.
My thoughts
ran wild.
Suddenly I
realized, that I hadn't mentioned to Delia, that the healer of my Dream
had told me
her name
was Esperanza. I was so
absorbed in my thoughts, I failed to notice, that Delia was speaking. "I'm sorry,
what did you say?"
"The
only way, you can make sense of all this, is to call back Dreaming,"
she maintained. Laughing
softly, she waved her hand, as she were signaling someone to come. Her words
were of no importance to me. I was already pondering another train of thought. Esperanza
was real, and I was certain, she was going to clarify everything for me. Besides, she
had not been at the picnic. She had not treated me as abominably
(thoroughly unpleasant, detestable), as all the other Women
had.
I
harbored the vague hope, that Esperanza had liked me, and this thought
somehow
restored my
confidence.
To disguise my feelings from Delia, I told her, that I was anxious to
see the healer. "I would like
to thank her, and of course, pay her for all, she did for me."
"It's
already paid," Delia stated. The mocking glint in her eyes early
revealed, that she was privy
(aware) to my thoughts.
40-41
"What
do you mean, it's already paid?" I asked in an involuntarily
high-pitched voice. "Who paid
for it?"
"It's
hard to explain," Delia began with a distant kindness, that put me
momentarily at ease: "It all
began at your friend's party in Nogales. I noticed you instantly."
"You
did?" I asked expectantly, eager to hear some compliment on my tasteful
and
carefully chosen wardrobe. There was an
uncomfortable silence. I couldn't see Delia's eyes, veiled under her
halfclosed
lids. There
was
something quiet, yet oddly disturbing about her voice, as she said,
that what she
had noticed
about me was, that every time I had to talk to my friend's grandmother,
I
seemed to be absent-minded, as if I were asleep.
"Absentminded
is putting it mildly," I said. "You have no idea, what I went through;
what
I had to do to convince that old lady, that I wasn't the devil
incarnate."
Delia
seemed not to have heard me. "I knew in a flash, that you had great
facility to
Dream," she
went on:
"So I
followed you around through the house and saw you in action. You were not
fully aware of, what you were doing or saying. And yet you were doing fine;
talking and laughing, and lying your head off to be liked."
"Are
you calling me a liar?" I asked in jest, but betraying my hurt. I felt an
impulse to get angry. I stared at
the pitcher of water on the table, until the threatening feeling had
passed.
"I
wouldn't dare call you a liar," Delia pronounced rather pompously. "I'd
call you a
Dreamer."
There was a
heavy
solemnity (seriousness) in her voice, but her eyes sparkled with mirth,
with genial (pleasant, friendly disposition) malice
(desire to harm others), as she said : "The Sorcerers, who reared me,
told me, that it doesn't matter,
what one
may say, as
long, as one has the Power to say it." Her voice
conveyed such enthusiasm and approval, that I was sure, someone was
behind one
of the
doors, listening to us. "And the way
to get that Power," she said, "is from Dreaming.
You don't know this, because you do it naturally, when you are in a
pinch (painful, difficult, straitened circumstance), your mind goes
instantly into Dreaming."
In
order to change the subject, I asked, "Were you reared by Sorcerers,
Delia?"
"Of
course I was," she declared, as if it were the most natural thing in
the World.
"Were
your parents Sorcerers?"
"Oh,
no," she said and chuckled: "The
Sorcerers found me one day and reared me from then on."
"How
old were you? Were you a child?" Delia
laughed, as if with my question I had reached the height of humor.
"No, I wasn't a child," she said. "I was perhaps, your age, when they
found me and began to rear me."
"What
do you mean, they began to rear you?" Delia gazed
at me, but without focusing her eyes on me. For a moment I thought she hadn't heard
me or, if she had, she wasn't going to answer me. I repeated
my question.
She shrugged
and smiled.
"They reared me, as one rears a child," she finally said. "It doesn't
matter, how old you are. In their World, you are a child."
Suddenly
afraid, we might be overheard, I glanced over my shoulder, and
whispered,
"Who are
these Sorcerers, Delia?"
"That's
a very tough question," she mused. "At the moment, I can't even begin
to answer
it. All, I
can
tell you about them, is, that they are the ones, who said to me, that
one should
never lie to
be believed."
"Why
should one lie then?" I asked.
"For
the sheer pleasure of it," Delia promptly retorted. She then
rose from the chair, and walked toward the door, that led to the yard. Before
stepping outside,
she turned and with a grin on her face asked, "Do you know the saying: 'If
you are not lying to be believed, you can say anything, you want,
regardless of
what anybody
thinks of you.'"
"I've
never heard such a saying." I suspected,
she had made it up: it had her stamp. "Besides, I
don't understand, what you're trying to say," I added primly
(excessively formal).
"I'm
sure, you do," she said, looking sidelong at me through the strands of
her black hair. Gesturing
with her chin, she motioned me to follow her. "Let's go and see
Esperanza
now."
I
jumped up and dashed after her, only to come to an abrupt halt by the
door.
Momentarily
blinded by the brightness outside, I stood there, wondering, what had happened. It seemed,
that no time had elapsed, since I had run after Mr. Flores across the
field. The
Sun, as it
had been then, was still at the zenith.
42-43
I
caught a glimpse of Delia's red skirt, as she turned a corner. I rushed
after her across a stone archway, that led to a most enchanting patio. At first I
saw nothing; so strong was the contrast between the dazzling sunlight
and the
intense
shadows of the patio.
Breathlessly, I simply stood there, perfectly still, inhaling the humid
air.
It was fragrant with the
scent of orange blossoms, honeysuckle, and sweet peas. Climbing up
strings, that seemed to be suspended from the sky, the sweet peas hung
like a
brightly
colored tapestry amidst the foliage of trees, shrubs, and ferns. The healer,
I had seen before in my Dream, was sitting on a rocking chair in the
middle of
the patio.
She was much
older, than Delia and the Women at the picnic; though how I knew this, I couldn't say. She was
rocking to and fro with an air of dreamy abandon. I felt an
anguishing pain, that gripped my whole being, for I had the irrational
certainty, that
her
rocking movement was taking her farther and farther away from me. A wave of
agony, an indescribable loneliness engulfed me, as I kept staring at
her.
I wanted to cross the patio and hold her, but something about the
patio's dark tiles, laid out in a
most intricate pattern, held my feet in place. "Esperanza,"
I finally managed to whisper in a voice so feeble, it was barely
audible even
to myself.
She opened
her eyes and smiled quite without surprise; as if she had been
expecting me.
She rose and
walked toward me.
She was not the size of a child, but about my height; five feet and two
inches. She
was thin
and fragile-looking, yet exuded (emitting, make felt) a vitality, that
made me feel puny (weak, feeble) and shrunken. "How happy I
am to see you again." Her voice sounded sincere. She motioned
me to grab one of the rush chairs and sit beside her. As I looked
around me, I discovered the other Women, including Delia. They were
sitting on rush chairs, half hidden by shrubs and trees. They, too, were watching me
curiously.
Some of them
smiled, while the others kept on eating tamales from the plates on their laps. In the
shady, green light of the patio - in spite of the mundane (trivial)
task of eating - the Women appeared
insubstantial (not firm, lacking substance), imaginary. Each one of
them was unnaturally vivid without being distinct. They seemed
to have absorbed the patio's greenish light, which had settled all
around us
like a
transparent fog. The
fleeting, but awesome idea, that
I was in a house populated by ghosts, crossed my mind. "Would you
like to eat something?" Esperanza asked me. "Delia has made the most delicious
food, you can imagine."
"No,
thank you," I murmured in a voice, that didn't sound like my own. Seeing her
questioning expression, I added feebly (weak), "I'm not
hungry." I
was so
nervous and agitated, that even, if I had been starving, I wouldn't
have been able to swallow a
bite.
Esperanza
must have sensed my fear.
She leaned toward me and patted my arm
reassuringly. "What is it, that you want to know?"
"I
thought, I had seen you in a Dream," I blurted out, then, noticing the
laughter in her eyes, added, "Am I Dreaming now?"
"You
are, but you are not asleep," she replied, enunciating her words slowly
and precisely.
"How
can I be Dreaming and not be asleep?"
"Some
Women can do that with great ease," she maintained. "They can be
Dreaming and not be asleep. You are one of those Women. Others have to
work a lifetime to accomplish that." I
sensed a tinge of admiration in her voice, yet I wasn't in the least
flattered. On the contrary: I was more worried, than ever.
"But how is
it possible to Dream without sleeping?" I insisted.
"If
I explain to you, how it is possible, you won't understand it," she
pronounced. "Take my word for this: it's much better to postpone the
explanations for the time being." Again she patted my arm and a gentle
smile lit up her face. "For the moment it's enough for you to
know that, for you, I am the one, who brings Dreams."
I
didn't think, it was enough, but I didn't dare to tell her so. Instead,
I asked her, "Was I awake, when you cured me of my nightmares? And
was I
Dreaming, when I sat outside in the field with Delia and all the
others?"
Esperanza
regarded me for a long moment, then nodded sagely (wisely), as if she
had decided to reveal some monumental truth. "You're too dumb to see
the mystery of what we do." She
said this so matter-of-factly; so nonjudgmentally, that it didn't occur
to me to take offense, or to attempt any kind of rebuttal (disprove,
prove to be fault).
"But you could make me see it, couldn't you?" I pleaded eagerly.
44-45
The
other Women giggled: it wasn't a mocking sound, but a murmuring, that
echoed all around me like a muffled chorus. The sound didn't seem to
come from the Women, but from the shadows of the patio. Rather than a
giggle, it was a whisper; a delicate warning, that not only made me
lose my thrust (driving force), but erased my troubling doubts; my
desire to know. And then I knew,
without a shadow of doubt, that I had been Awake and Dreaming both
times. It was a
knowledge, that I couldn't explain, however. It was
something beyond words. Yet, after a
few moments, I felt compelled (forced) to dissect my realization, to
put it all into some kind of
logical framework. Esperanza
regarded me with apparent pleasure. Then she
said: "I'm going to explain to you, who we are and what we do." She prefaced
(provided) her elucidation (explanation) with an admonition (caution,
warn). She warned me, that whatever she had to tell me,
wasn't easy to believe. Therefore, I had to suspend judgment and hear
her out
without
interruptions; without questions: "Can you do
that?"
"Naturally,"
I shot back.
She was
silent for a moment, her eyes appraising me thoughtfully. She must
have sensed my uncertainty and the question, that was about to burst
from my
lips.
"It
isn't, that I don't want to answer your questions," she maintained.
"It's rather, that at this time it will
be impossible for you to understand the answers."
I
nodded, not in agreement, but afraid, that if so much as a peep (weak
sound/utterance) came out of me, she would stop
talking altogether. In a voice,
that was, but a soft murmur, she told me something, that was both
incredible and fascinating. She said,
that she was the spiritual descendant of Sorcerers, who lived in the
valley of
Oaxaca millennia before the Spanish Conquest. Esperanza was silent
for a long time.
Her eyes, fixed on the bright, multicolored, sweet peas, seemed to
reach nostalgically into the past. Esperanza
continued, "As it is for me, the part of those Sorcerers' activities,
pertinent (relevant) to you, is
called Dreaming. Those
Sorcerers were Men and Women, who possessed extraordinary Dreaming
Powers, and
performed acts, that defied the imagination." Hugging my
knees, I listened to her. Esperanza
was a brilliant raconteuse (skilled, witty storyteller) and a most
gifted mimic. Her face changed with each turn of
her explanation. It was at
times the face of a young Woman, at other times an old Woman's; or it
was the
face of a
man, or that of an innocent and impish (playful, mischievous) child.
She said, that millennia ago,
Men and
Women were the possessors of a Knowledge, that
allowed them to slip in and out of our normal World. And thus they divided
their lives into two areas: the day and the night. During the day they
conducted their activities like everyone else. They engaged in normal, expected, everyday
behavior.
During the night, however, they became Dreamers. They systematically
Dreamed Dreams, that broke the boundaries of, what we consider to be reality.
Again she paused, as though giving me time to let her words sink in.
"Using the Darkness, as a cloak (cover), they
accomplished an inconceivable thing. They were able to Dream, while
they
were Awake."
Esperanza explained,
that to be Dreaming, while they were Awake meant, that they could
immerse themselves in a Dream, that gave them the Energy, necessary to
perform feats, that stagger (overwhelm) the mind, while they were
perfectly conscious and awake.
Because
of the aggressive mode of interaction at home, I never developed the
ability to listen for
very long. If I couldn't meddle (interfere) with direct, belligerent
(state of being at war) questions, any verbal exchange, no
matter how interesting, was meaningless to me. Now, unable
to argue, I became restless. I was dying to interrupt Esperanza.
Esperanza
stared at me for an instant and then signaled me to speak. Or I
thought she had given me such a command. I opened my
mouth to say- as usual- anything, that came to my mind, even if it
wasn't related to
the subject. But I couldn't say a word. I struggled
to speak and made gargling sounds (sound of rinsing throat) to the
delight of the Women in the background. Esperanza
resumed talking, as if she hadn't noticed my futile (useless) efforts.
It surprised
me to no end, that she had my undivided attention.
46-47
She said, that the origins of the Sorcerers' Knowledge could be
understood only in terms of a legend. A
superior Being commiserating (express sorrow, sympathise) with the
terrible plight (situation, dilemma) of human - to be driven, as an
animal, by food and
reproduction - gave human the Power to Dream and taught him how to use
his
Dreams. "Legends, of
course, tell the truth in a concealed fashion," she elucidated: "The
legends' success in concealing the truth rests on human's conviction,
that they are simply
stories. Legends of
human, changing into birds or angels, are accounts of a concealed
truth, which
appears to be the fantasizing, or simply the delusions (deception,
mistaken belief/idea) of primitive or deranged (disturbed) minds. So
it's been
the task of Sorcerers for thousands of years to make new legends, and
to discover the
concealed truth of old ones. This is
where Dreamers come into the picture. Women
are best at Dreaming. They have the facility to abandon themselves; the
facility to let go. The Woman, who taught me to Dream, could maintain
two hundred Dreams." Esperanza
regarded me intently, as if she were appraising my reaction, which was
complete
stupefaction (great astonishment), for I had no idea, what she meant. She explained, that to
maintain a Dream meant, that one could Dream something specific
about oneself and could enter into that Dream at will. Her teacher, she
said, could enter at will into two hundred specific Dreams about
herself. "Women are
peerless (unmatched, unequal) Dreamers," Esperanza assured me: "Women
are extremely practical. In order to sustain a Dream, one must be
practical, because the Dream must pertain (relate) to practical aspects
of oneself. My teacher's favorite Dream was to Dream of herself, as a
hawk. Another was to Dream of herself as an owl. So, depending on the
time of the day, she could Dream about being either one, and since she
was Dreaming, while she was awake, she was really and absolutely a hawk
or an owl."
There was
such sincerity and conviction in her tone and in her eyes, I was
entirely under her spell. Not for a
moment did I doubt her. Nothing, she
could have said, would have seemed outlandish (bizarre, absurd) to me
at that moment. She further
explained, that in
order to accomplish a Dream of that nature, Women need to have an iron
discipline. She leaned toward me and
in a confidential whisper, as though she didn't want the others to overhear
her, said, "By iron
discipline I don't
mean any kind of strenuous routine, but rather, that
Women have to break the routine of what is expected of them. And they have
to do
it in their youth. And most important, with their
strength intact. Often, when Women are old enough to be done with the
business of being Women, they decide it's time to concern themselves
with nonworldly or other-worldly thoughts and activities. Little do they know or want to believe,
that hardly ever do such Women succeed."
She gently
slapped my stomach, as if she were playing on a drum. The secret of a Woman's strength is
her WOMB." Esperanza
nodded emphatically, as if she had actually heard the silly question,
that
popped into my mind: "Her womb?"
"Women,"
she continued, "must begin by burning their Matrix. They cannot be the
fertile ground, that has to be seeded by men, following the command of
'God himself'." Still
watching me closely, she smiled and asked, "Are you religious by any
chance?" I shook my
head (No). I couldn't
speak. My throat was so constricted,
I could scarcely breathe. I was
dumbstruck (unable to speak through shock/surprise) with fear and
amazement, not so much by, what she was saying, but by her change. If
asked, I wouldn't have been able to
tell, when she changed, but all of a sudden her face was
young and radiant. Inner life seemed to have been fired up in her.
"That's
good!" Esperanza exclaimed. "This way you don't have to struggle
against beliefs," she pointed out. "They are very hard to overcome. I
was reared a devout Catholic. I nearly died, when I had to examine my
attitude toward religion."
She sighed. Her voice,
turning wistful, became soft, as she added, "But that was nothing,
compared to
the battle I had to wage (engage in, carry on), before I became a bona
fide (real) Dreamer."
I waited
expectantly, hardly breathing, while a quite pleasurable sensation
spread like a mild
electrical current through my entire body.
48-49
I
anticipated a tale of a gruesome (frightful, shocking, ghastly) battle
between herself and terrifying creatures. I could
barely disguise my disappointment, when
she revealed, that she had to battle
herself.
"In
order to be a Dreamer, I had to vanquish (defeat, subjugate) the Self,"
Esperanza explained. "Nothing, but nothing, is as hard, as
that.
We, Women are the most wretched (miserable, mean, despicable) prisoners
of the Self. The Self is our Cage. Our Cage is made out of
commands and expectations, poured on us from the moment we are born. You know how it is. If the
first born child is a boy, there is a celebration. If it's a girl, there is a shrug of the
shoulders and the statement, 'It's all right. I still will love her and do anything for her."
Out of
respect for the old Woman, I didn't laugh out loud.
Never in my life had I heard statements of that sort. I considered
myself an independent woman, but obviously, in light of what Esperanza
was saying, I was no better off, than any other woman. And contrary to
the manner, in which I would have normally reacted to such an idea, I
agreed with her.
I had always been made aware, that the precondition (prerequisite,
condition, train, accustom in advance) of my being a woman, was to be
dependent. I was taught, that a Woman was indeed fortunate, if she
could be desirable, so men would do things for her. I was told, that it
was demeaning (degrading) to my womanhood to endeavor (conscientious
effort) to do anything myself, if that thing could be given to me. It
was drilled into me, that a woman's place is in the home with her
husband and her children.
"Like you, I
was
reared by an authoritarian, yet lenient (gentle, forgiving,
understanding, merciful, liberal, generous) father," Esperanza went on.
"I thought, like yourself, that I was
free. For me to understand the Sorcerers' Way, that
Freedom didn't mean to be myself, nearly killed me. To be myself was to
assert (express positevely, affirm) my womanhood. And to do that, took
all my time, effort, and Energy. The Sorcerers, on the contrary,
understand Freedom, as the capacity to do the Impossible, the
Unexpected - to Dream a Dream, that has no basis, no reality in
Everyday Life." Her voice again became but a whisper, as she added,
"The
Knowledge of Sorcerers is, what is exciting and new. A Woman needs to
change the Self, become a Dreamer."
Esperanza said,
that
if she had not succeeded in vanquishing (defeating, subjugating) the
Self, she would have only led a Woman's normal life; the life her
parents had designed for her. A life of defeat and humiliation. A life
devoid (completely lacking, empty) of all mystery. A life, that had
been programmed by custom
and tradition." Esperanza
pinched my arm. I cried out in pain. "You'd better pay attention," she
reprimanded me.
"I
am," I mumbled defensively, rubbing my arm: I had been certain, that no
one would notice my waning (declining) interest.
"You
won't be
tricked or enticed (lure, attract) into the Sorcerer's World," she
warned me. "You have to choose, knowing, what awaits you." The
fluctuations
of my mood were astonishing to me, because they were quite irrational.
I should have been afraid. Yet I was calm, as if my being there was
the most natural thing in the World.
"The secret of a
Woman's strength is her Womb," Esperanza said and slapped my stomach
once more. She said, that Women Dream with their Wombs, or rather, from
their Wombs. The fact, that they have Wombs, makes them perfect
Dreamers." Before I had even
finished the thought "why is the womb so important?" Esperanza answered me. "The
Womb is
the
Center of Our Creative Energy," she explained, "to the point that, if
there would be no more males in the World, Women could continue to
reproduce. And the World would then be populated by the Female of the
Human species only." She added, that Women reproducing unilaterally
(one sided, one parent without a man)
could only reproduce clones of themselves.
(It
means, that women can give birth without men only to female-babies. But
to give birth to male-babies, women need a man. In this case energy for
a male-baby is taken from both: a man and a woman parents. LM.)
I was
genuinely surprised at this specific piece of Knowledge. I couldn't
help interrupting Esperanza to tell her, that I had read about
parthenogenetic and asexual
reproduction in a biology class. She shrugged
her shoulders and went on with her explanation.
"Women, having then the
ability and
the organs for reproducing life, have also the ability to produce
Dreams with those same organs," she
said. Seeing the
doubt in my eyes, she warned me, "Don't
trouble yourself
wondering how it is
done. The explanation is very simple, and because it's simple, it's the
most difficult thing to understand. I still have trouble myself. So
in a true Woman's fashion, I act: I
Dream and leave the explanations to Men."
Esperanza
claimed, that, originally, the Sorcerers, she had told me about, used
to
pass their Knowledge on to their biological descendants or to people of
their private choice, but the results had been catastrophic.
50-51
Instead of enhancing this Knowledge, these new Sorcerers, who had been
selected by
arbitrary (random, determined by chance/caprice, dictatorial)
favoritism, confabulated (plainly speaking) to enhance themselves. They
were finally destroyed, and their destruction nearly obliterated (wipe
out) their Knowledge. The few Sorcerers, who were left then, decided,
that their Knowledge should never again be passed on to their
descendants or to people of their choice, but to those, selected by an Impersonal Power, which they
called the Spirit. "And
now, all this brings us to you," Esperanza pronounced. "The Sorcerers
of Ancient Times decided, that only the ones, who were pinpointed,
would qualify. You
were pointed out to us. And here you are! You are a natural Dreamer.
It's up to the Forces, that rule us, where
you go from here. It's not
up to you. Nor to us, of course. You can only acquiesce (accept without
protest) or refuse."
From the
urgency in her voice, and the compelling (forceful) light in her eyes,
it was obvious, that she had
given this explanation in complete seriousness. It was this
earnestness, that stopped me from laughing out loud. Also, I was too exhausted. The mental
concentration, I had needed to follow her, was too intense. I wanted to
sleep. She
insisted, I stretch my legs, lie down, and relax. I did it so
thoroughly, that I dozed off. When I
opened my eyes, I had no idea, how long I had slept. I sought the
reassuring presence of Esperanza or the other Women. There was
noone with me on the patio.
But I didn't feel alone. Somehow their presence lingered
(stayed) amidst the green all around me, and I felt protected. A breeze
rustled the leaves. I felt it on my eyelids, warm and soft. It blew
around me,
then passed
over me, the same way it was passing over the desert, quickly and soundlessly. With my
gaze, fixed on the tiles, I walked around the patio trying to figure
out its intricate design. To
my delight, the lines led me from one rush chair to the other. I tried
to recall, who
had sat
in which chair, but hard as I tried, I couldn't remember. I was
distracted by a delicious scent of food, spiced with onions and garlic. Guided by
that smell, I found my way to the kitchen, a large rectangular room. It was as
deserted, as the patio. And the bright tile designs, adorning
(decorating) the walls, reminded me of the
patterns in the patio.
I didn't pursue (follow) the similarities, for I had discovered the
food left on the sturdy wooden table,
standing in the middle of the room. Assuming,
that it was for me,
I sat down and ate it all. It was the same spicy
stew, I had
eaten at the
picnic. Warmed over, it was even tastier. As I
gathered the dishes to take them to the sink,
I discovered a note and a drawn map under my
place mat.
It was from
Delia. She suggested I return to Los Angeles by way of Tucson, where she would meet
me at a certain coffee shop specified on the map. Only there,
she wrote, would she tell me more about herself and her friends.
Chapter
4
52-53
Eager to hear what Delia had to tell me about her friends, I went to
Tucson on my way to Los Angeles. In Tucson I
arrived at the coffee shop in the late afternoon.
An old man directed me to an empty space in the parking lot. Only when he
opened my door did I realize, who it was.
"Mariano
Aureliano!" I exclaimed. "What a surprise. I'm so glad to see you. What
are
you doing here?"
"I
was waiting for you," he said. "So my friend and I saved this space for
you." I
caught a
glimpse of a burly (heavy, strong, muscular) Indian, driving an old red
pickup truck. He had pulled out of the parking
space, as I drove into the lot. "I'm afraid
Delia couldn't make it," Mariano Aureliano said apologetically. "She
had to
leave for
Oaxaca unexpectedly." He smiled
broadly and added, "I'm here on her behalf. I hope, I fit the bill."
"You've
no idea, how delighted I am to see you," I said truthfully. I was
convinced, that he, better than Delia, would help me make sense of all,
that had
happened to
me during the past few days. "Esperanza
explained to me, that I was in some sort of a trance, when I met all of
you," I
added.
"Did
she say that?" he asked almost absent-mindedly. His voice,
his attitude, and his whole demeanor was so different from, what I remembered,
that I kept staring at him, hoping to discover, what had changed. His fiercely
chiseled face had lost all its fierceness. I was busy
with my own turmoil, however, and didn't give his change any more
thought.
"Esperanza left me alone in the house," I went on: "She and all
the Women went away without even saying good-bye to me. But I wasn't
disturbed," I hastened to point out: "Although
I'm usually very put out, when people are not courteous."
"Oh
really!" he exclaimed, as if I had said something extremely meaningful. Afraid, that
he might take offense, at what I was saying about his companions,
I
immediately started to explain, that I hadn't really meant to say, that
Esperanza and the others had
been unfriendly. "Quite the contrary, they were most gracious and
kind," I
assured him.
I was about
to reveal, what Esperanza had told me, but his steady gaze stopped me. It wasn't an
angry stare or a threatening one. It was a piercing look, that cut
through all
my defenses.
I had the
certainty, he was seeing right into the mess, that my mind was. I glanced
away to hide my nervousness, then told him in a light, almost joking
tone, that it
hadn't
really mattered to me, that I had been left alone in the house. "I was
intrigued, that I knew every
corner of that place," I confided, then paused for a moment, wondering
what
impact my words were having on him. But he kept
staring at me. "I went to
the bathroom, and
I realized, that I had been in that bathroom before," I continued: "There were
no mirrors in it. I remembered that detail, before I actually entered
the room.
Then
I remembered, that there were no mirrors in the whole house. So I went
through every room, and sure enough, I couldn't find any." Noticing,
that I was still getting no reaction from him, I went on to say, that I
had realized,
while
listening to the radio on my way to Tucson, that it was one day later,
than I
expected.
"I must have
slept a whole day," I finished in a strained tone.
"You
didn't quite sleep a whole day," Mariano Aureliano pointed out
indifferently: "You walked
through the house and talked to us a great deal, before falling asleep
like a log." I started
laughing. My laughter was very near to hysteria, but he didn't seem to
notice this. He laughed
too, and I relaxed.
54-55
"I don't sleep like a log, ever," I felt compelled (forced) to explain.
"I'm an extremely light sleeper." He was
silent, and when he finally spoke, his voice was serious: "Don't you
remember being curious about, how the Women dressed and did their hair without
glancing into mirrors?" I could
think of no reply, and he went on to say: "Don't you remember how odd
you
found it, that there were no pictures on the walls, and that there was
no--"
"I
have no recollection of having talked to anyone," I cut him off in
midsentence.
Then I
glanced at him guardedly, thinking, that perhaps, just in order to
mystify me, he was saying,
I had interacted with everybody in that house, when in reality nothing
of that
sort had
happened.
"Having
no recollection of it, doesn't mean it didn't take place," he said
curtly (rudely brief or abrupt, gruff). My stomach
fluttered (vibrate/beat erratically) involuntarily: it wasn't his tone
of voice, I took exception to, but rather the
fact, that he had answered my unspoken thoughts. Certain,
that if I kept on talking, something would dispel (rid by scattering)
my mounting apprehension, I went into a
long and muddled (mix up the mind, confuse) recitation (act of
reciting) of how
I felt. I
recounted
(narrate the facts/details, enumerate), what had happened. There were
gaps in the order of events, as I tried to reconstruct
all, that had taken place between the healing session and my drive to
Tucson,
during
which I knew, that I had lost a whole day.
"You people are doing something to me; something strange and
threatening," I finished, feeling
momentarily righteous.
"Now
you're being silly," Mariano Aureliano pronounced and he smiled for the
first time:
"If
something is strange and threatening, it is only, because you're new at
it.
You're a tough Woman. It'll make sense to you sooner or later." I was
annoyed at the sound of his word 'Woman'. I would have
preferred, if he had said girl. Accustomed, as I was, to
being asked for my papers to
prove, that I was over sixteen, I suddenly felt old. "Youth must
be only in the eyes of the beholder (seer),"
he said, as if he were again reading my thoughts: "Whoever
looks at you must see your youth, your vigor; but for you to feel,
you're a kid, is wrong. You must be
innocent without being immature." For some
inexplicable reason, his words were more, than I could bear. I wanted
to weep;
not out of
hurt, but out of despondency (despair, dejection). At a loss
for what to do, I suggested we have something to eat. "I'm famished," I
said,
trying to
sound cheerful.
"No,
you're not," he said with authority. "You're just trying to change the
subject."
Startled by
his tone and his words, I looked at him, appalled (frightened).
My surprise swiftly turned to anger. Not only was I hungry, but I was
also exhausted and stiff from
the long drive. I wanted to
yell and vent (discharge, relieve through emotions) on him all my wrath
and frustration, but his eyes didn't let me move.
There was something reptilian about those unblinking, burning eyes: for
a moment
I thought,
he might swallow
me up, as a snake swallows a mesmerized, defenseless bird. The mixture
of fear and anger escalated to such heights, I felt blood rushing to my
face. And I
knew
by the slight curious lift of his brows, that my face had turned purple. Since very
early childhood, I had indulged in horrid attacks of temper. Other than
trying to soothe me, noone had ever stopped me from indulging in these attacks, and
I had indulged in them, until I had refined them into king-sized temper tantrums. These
tantrums were never caused by being denied, what I wanted to have or
wanted to do,
but by
indignities (offence to dignity) real or imagined, inflicted on my
person.
Somehow the
circumstances of that moment, however, made me feel ashamed of my habit. I made a
conscious effort to control myself, which nearly consumed all my
strength, but I calmed down.
"You
were a whole day with us, a day, which you can't remember now," Mariano Aureliano
proceeded, seemingly unconcerned by my fluctuating mood. "During that
time, you
were
very communicative and responsive; a thing, which was extremely
rewarding to
us. When
you are
Dreaming, you are a much better Being, more appealing, more resourceful. You allowed
us to know you in great depth."
His
words threw me into a turmoil. Growing up asserting myself, the way I
did, I had
become quite
adept (proficient, highly skilled, expert) at detecting
meaning, hidden behind words. 'To know me
in great depth' bothered me to no end, especially 'great depth.' It
could only
mean one
thing, I thought, and immediately discarded it, as being preposterous
(absurd).
56-57
I
became so absorbed in my own calculations, that I no longer paid any
attention, to what he was
saying. He
kept on
explaining about the day, I had lost, but I only caught bits and
pieces. I must have been
staring at him blankly, for all of a sudden he stopped talking. "You're not
listening," he reprimanded me sternly.
"What did you do to me, when I was in a trance?" I shot back at him.
More than a
question, it
was an accusation. I was
startled by my own words, for it was not a thought-out statement: the
words had
simply
escaped me of their own accord. Mariano
Aureliano was even more surprised. He almost choked on the burst of
laughter,
that
followed his wide-eyed expression of shock.
"We
don't go around, taking advantage of little girls," he assured me. Not
only did he
sound
sincere, but he seemed to be offended by my accusation: "Esperanza
told you, who we are. We are very serious people," he stressed, then in
a
mocking tone added, "And we mean business."
"What
kind of business?" I demanded belligerently (warlikely, bellicose,
forcefuly). "Esperanza didn't tell me, what you want from
me."
"She
certainly did," he retorted with such assurance, I wondered for an
instant, if he hadn't been
concealed, listening to our conversation in the patio. I wouldn't have
put it past him. "Esperanza
told you, that you have been pointed out to us," he went on. "And now
we are as driven by that, as you are driven by fear."
"I'm
not driven by anything or anybody," I shouted, quite forgetting, that
he hadn't told me, what it was, they wanted from me. Without being in
the
least affected by my anger, he said, that Esperanza had made it very
clear to me, that they were committed to rear me from now on. "Rear
me!" I yelled. "You're crazy. I've had all the rearing, I need!"
Ignoring my outburst, he went on to explain, that their commitment was
total; and whether or not I understood this, was of no importance to
them.
I stared at him, unable to hide my dread. Never before had I heard,
someone express himself with such compelling (force, constrain)
indifference and such concern at the same time. In an effort to conceal
my alarm, I tried to imbue (saturate) my voice with a spunkiness
(spirited), I was far from feeling, when I asked, "What do you imply
(hint, suggest, entail), when you say you are going to rear me?"
"Just
what you hear," he answered. "We're committed to guide you."
"But
why?" I asked, frightened and curious at the same time. "Can't you see,
that I don't need any guidance, that I don't want any..." My
words were drowned by Mariano Aureliano's joyful laughter.
"You
certainly need guidance. "Esperanza already showed you, how meaningless
your life is." Anticipating my next question, he motioned me to be
silent.
"As to why you and not someone else, she explained to you, that we let
the Spirit tell us, who we should guide. The Spirit showed us, that you
were the one."
"Wait
a minute, Mr. Aureliano," I protested. "I really don't want to be rude
or ungrateful, but you must understand, that I'm not seeking help. I
don't want anybody to guide me, even though I probably need guidance.
The mere thought is abhorrent (disgusting, repellent) to me. Do you
see,
what I mean? Do I make myself clear?"
"You
do, and I do see, what you mean," he echoed, moving back a step away
from my pointed finger. "But precisely, because you don't need
anything, you are a most adequate candidate."
"Candidate?"
I yelled, fed up with his insistence. I looked around me, wondering, if
I had been overheard by the people, going in and out of the coffee
shop.
"What
is this?" I went on yelling. "You and your companions are all a bunch
of nuts. You leave me alone, you hear? I don't need you or anyone." To
my surprise and morbid (gruesome) delight, Mariano Aureliano finally
lost his temper and began to berate (scold harshly) me like my father
and brothers used to. In a tightly controlled voice, that never
rose to be heard beyond us, he insulted me. He called me stupid and
spoiled. And then, as if insulting me had given him impetus (stimulus,
impulse, impelling force), he said something unforgivable.
58-59
He shouted, that the only
asset I ever had, was to be born blond and
blue-eyed in a land, where blond hair and blue eyes were coveted
(desirable, craved for) and revered (feeling of profound awe, respect).
"You
never had to struggle for anything," he asserted. "The colonial
mentality of the cholos (people) of your country made them regard you,
as if you really deserved special treatment. Privilege, based merely on
having blond hair and blue eyes, is the dumbest privilege there is."
I
was livid (ashen, pallid, extremely angry, furious). I've never been
one to take insults sitting down. My years of training at shouting
matches at home and the extraordinarily descriptive vulgarities I
learned - and never forgot - in the streets of Caracas in my childhood,
paid off that afternoon. I said things to Mariano Aureliano, that
embarrass me to this day. I was so worked up, I didn't notice, that the
burly (heavy, strong, muscular) Indian, who was driving the pick-up
truck, had joined us. I only realized, he was there, when I heard
his loud laughter. He and Mariano Aureliano were practically on the
ground, clasping their stomachs, shrieking (high pitched screams) with
delight. "What's so funny?" I yelled, turning to the burly Indian. I
insulted him, too.
"What
a foul-mouthed Woman," he said in perfect English. "If I were your
daddy, I would wash your mouth with soap."
"Who
asked you to
butt in (interfere, meddle, intrude on a talk), you fat turd (poos,
piece of excrement)?" In blind fury, I kicked him in the shinbone (bone
from knee to ankle). He yelled out in pain, and cursed me. I was about
to reach for his arm, and bite him, when Mariano Aureliano grabbed me
from behind and tossed me in the air. Time stopped. My descent (fall)
was so slow, so imperceptible, it seemed to me, that I was suspended in
the air forever. I didn't land on the ground with my bones broken, as I
expected, but in the arms of the burly Indian. He didn't even stagger
(hesitate, sway), but held me, as if I weighed no more, than a pillow,
a
ninety-five pound pillow. Catching the wicked glint in his eyes, I was
certain, he was going to toss me again. He must have sensed my fear,
for
he smiled and gently put me down. My wrath and strength spent, I leaned
against my car and sobbed. Mariano Aureliano put his arm around me and
stroked my hair and shoulders, the way
my father used to do, when I was a child. In a soothing
murmur, he assured me, that he wasn't in the least upset at the
barbarities (harsh/cruel conduct), I had yelled
at him.
Guilt and
self-pity only made me weep harder.
He shook his head in a sign of resignation (unresisting acceptance,
passive submission, patience), although his eyes shone with mirth. Then in an
obvious effort to make me laugh too, he confessed, that he still
couldn't
believe, I
would know, let alone use, such foul language. "Well, I suppose
language is
there to be
used," he mused, "and foul language should be used, when the
circumstances
are called
for." I
wasn't
amused. And once the attack of self-pity had passed, I began, in my
usual
fashion, to
mull over (consider a problem deeply) his assertion, that all, I had
going for me, was blond hair and blue eyes. I must have
cued Mariano Aureliano about my feelings, for he assured me, that he had said, that
only to upset me and that there wasn't a shred (pinch) of truth in it. I knew, he
was lying. For an instant I felt doubly insulted, and then I was
appalled to
realize,
that my defenses were shattered. I agreed
with him. He had been right on target about everything, he had said. With a
single stroke, he had unmasked me; cut through my shield, so to speak. Noone, not
even my worst enemy, could have hit me with such an accurately
devastating
blow. And
yet,
whatever I might have thought about Mariano Aureliano, I knew, he
wasn't my
enemy. I
felt quite
dizzy with my realization. It was, as
if an unseen force were crushing something within me; the idea of
myself.
Something,
that had given me strength, was now depleting me. Mariano
Aureliano took me by the arm, and walked me toward the coffee shop.
"Let's sign
a truce
(peace agreement)," he said jovially. "I need you to do me a favor."
"You
need only to ask," I responded, trying to match his tone.
"Before
you got here, I went into this coffee shop to have a sandwich, and they practically
refused to serve me. When I
complained, the cook threw me out." Mariano Aureliano looked at me dejectedly
(desperately), and added, "That happens, when one is an Indian."
"Report,
that cook to the manager," I cried out in righteous indignation
(anger); my own turmoil totally and
most mysteriously forgotten.
60-61
"That
wouldn't help me in the least," Mariano Aureliano confided.
The only way, I could help him, he assured me, was to go into the
coffee shop by myself, sit at the
counter, order an elaborate meal, and drop a dead fly in my food."
"And blame the cook," I finished for him. The whole scheme sounded so
preposterous (absurd), it made me
laugh. But
when I
caught sight of his genuine expectation, I promised to do, what he
asked of
me.
"Wait
here," Mariano Aureliano said, then together with the burly Indian -
who had yet to be
introduced to me - headed toward the old red pickup truck, parked in
the street. They returned
within moments. "By the way,"
Mariano Aureliano said, "this man here is John. He's a Yuma Indian from Arizona." I wanted to
ask him, if
he also was a Sorcerer, but Mariano Aureliano beat me to the punch. "He
is the youngest member of our group," he confided.
Giggling
nervously, I extended my hand and said, "I'm glad to meet you."
"Likewise,"
John responded in a deep, resonant voice, and clasped my hand warmly in his. "I hope
you and I never come to blows again," he grinned. Although
he wasn't very tall, he exuded (emitting, make felt) the vitality and
strength of a giant. Even his big, white teeth
seemed indestructible. In a joking
manner, John felt my biceps. "I'd bet, you can knock a fellow out cold
with
one punch," he said.
Before I had a chance to apologize to him for my kicks and insults,
Mariano Aureliano pressed a
small box into my hand. "The fly," he
whispered. "John here suggests, that you wear this," he added,
retrieving a
black, curly
wig from a bag. "Don't worry, it's brand new," he assured me, as he
pulled the
wig over my
head. Then,
holding me at arm's length, he regarded me critically. "Not bad," he
mused, making
sure my
long, blond braid was tucked in properly. "I don't want anyone to
recognize
you."
"There's
no need to disguise myself," I asserted. "Take my word for it, I don't
know
anyone in Tucson." I turned the
side mirror of my car and looked at myself.
"I can't go in looking like this," I protested.
"I look like a poodle." Mariano
Aureliano gazed at me with an exasperating (provoking) air of
amusement, as he arranged some stray
curls. "Now, don't you forget, that you have to sit at the counter and
yell
bloody murder, when you discover the fly in your food."
"Why?" He regarded
me, as if I were dim-witted (mentally slow, stupid).
"You have to attract attention and humiliate the cook," he
pointed out.
The coffee
shop was packed with the early dinner crowd. However, it wasn't long,
before I
was seated
at the counter and was waited on by a harrassed-looking, but friendly
old
waitress.
Half-hidden
behind the order rack was the cook. Like his two helpers,
he appeared to be Mexican or
Mexican-American. He went
about his job so cheerfully, I was quite certain, he was harmless;
incapable of
malice. But
when I
thought of the old Indian, waiting for me in the parking lot, I felt no
guilt
whatsoever,
as I emptied the little matchbox- with such stealth (acting covertly)
and speed, not even the men on
either side of me noticed it- over the perfectly cooked hamburger steak
I had
ordered. My
shriek of
revulsion was genuine upon seeing a large, dead cockroach on my food.
"What
is it, dear?" the waitress asked concernedly.
"How
does the cook expect me to eat this?" I complained. I didn't
have to pretend anger. I was indignant (outraged); not at the cook, but
at Mariano Aureliano.
"How
can he do this to me?" I asked in a loud voice.
"It's
all some dreadful accident," the waitress explained to the two curious
and concerned
customers on
either side of me. She showed
the plate to the cook.
"Fascinating!"
the cook said, his voice loud and clear. Rubbing his
chin thoughtfully, he studied the food. He wasn't in the least upset. I had the
vague suspicion,
he was laughing at me. "This cockroach must have either fallen from the
ceiling," he deliberated, gazing at my head in fascinated interest, "or
perhaps
from her
wig."
Before
I could retort indignantly (reply angrily) and put the cook in his
place, he offered me anything, that was on
the menu. "It'll be on the house," he promised.
I asked for a steak and a baked potato, which was almost immediately
brought to me.
62-63
As
I was pouring some salad dressing over my lettuce, which I always ate
last, I discovered a good-sized
spider crawling from under a lettuce leaf. I was so
taken aback by this obvious provocation (trick), I couldn't even shriek. I looked up.
Waving from behind the order rack was the cook (Carlos Castaneda), a
dazzling smile on his face.
Mariano Aureliano was waiting for me impatiently. "What happned?" he
asked.
"You
and your disgusting cockroach!" I spat out, then added resentfully,
"Nothing
happened.
The cook
didn't get upset. He enjoyed himself immensely, at my cost, of course.
The
only one, who got upset, was me." At his
urging, I gave Mariano Aureliano a detailed account of what took place.
The more I
talked,
the more pleased he was. Disconcerted
by his reaction, I glowered (ruddy flushed) at him. "What's so funny?"
I demanded.
He tried to
keep a serious face, but his lips twitched. His soft
chuckle exploded into a loud, delighted laughter. "You can't take
yourself so
seriously,"
he chided (scold, reprimand). "You're an excellent Dreamer, but you're
certainly no actress."
"I'm
not acting now. And I certainly wasn't acting in there either," I said
defensively in a high, shrill
voice.
"I
meant, that I was counting on your ability to be convincing," he said.
"You had to make the cook
believe something, that wasn't true. I really thought you could."
"How
dare you criticize me!" I shouted. "I made a fool of myself on your
behalf, and all you can say
is, that I don't know how to act!" I pulled off
the wig and threw it at him. "I'm sure, I've got lice now." Ignoring my
outburst, Mariano Aureliano went on to say, that Florinda had already
told
him, that I was incapable of pretending.
"We had to know it for sure,
in order to put you in your proper slot," he added equably (just the
same). Sorcerers are either Dreamers or Stalkers. Some are
both."
"What
are you talking about? What's this nonsense of Dreamers and Stalkers?"
"Dreamers
deal with Dreams," he explained softly. "They get their Power; their
Wisdom from Dreams. Stalkers, on the other hand, deal with people; with
the Everyday World.
They get their Wisdom, their Power, from interacting with their fellow
men."
"You
obviously don't know me at all," I said derisively (mockingly). "I
interact very well with people."
"No,
you don't," he contradicted me. "You, yourself, said, that you don't
know how to
converse.
You're a
good liar, but you lie only to get, what you want. Your lies
are too specific, too personal. And do you know why?" He paused
for a moment, as if to give me time to respond. But before I could even
think of,
what to
say,
he added, "Because for you, things are either black or white with no
shades of
color in
between.
And I don't
mean it in terms of morality, but in terms of convenience. Your convenience,
that is. A true authoritarian." Mariano
Aureliano and John exchanged glances, then both squared (forming right
angle) their shoulders, clicked
their heels and did something unforgivable to me. They raised
their arms in a fascist salute and said, "Mein Fuehrer!" The more
they laughed, the greater was my rage. I felt my
blood ringing in my ears, rushing to my face. And this time, I did
nothing to
calm myself.
I kicked my
car and banged my arms against the roof. The two Men,
instead of trying to soothe me - as my parents or my friends definitely would have
done - stood there and laughed, as I were providing them with the
funniest
spectacle
possible.
Their
indifference, their complete lack of concern for me was so shocking,
that my wrath
slowed down
of its own accord. Never had I
been so completely disregarded. I was lost. I realized
then, that I had no more maneuvers left. I had never
known, until that day, that if the witnesses to my tantrums didn't show
any
concern, I didn't know, what to do next. "I think,
she's confused now," Mariano Aureliano said to John. "She doesn't know,
what to do."
He put his arm around the burly indian's shoulders and added softly,
yet still loud enough for me to
hear, "Now she is going to cry, and when she does, she's going to cry
her head
off, until
we console her. Nothing is as tiresome, as a spoiled cunt."
64-65
That
did it for me. Like an injured bull, I lowered my head and charged
Mariano
Aureliano. He
was so
startled by my vicious, sudden attack, he almost lost his balance. It
gave me
enough time
to sink my teeth in the fleshy part of his stomach. He let out a
yell, a mixture of pain and laughter. John grabbed
me by the waist and pulled me away. I didn't let go of my bite, until my partial
bridge came off. I had knocked two of my upper front teeth out, when I
was
thirteen, in a fight between the Venezuelan and the German students at
the German high school in
Caracas.
Both Men
howled with laughter. John bent over the trunk of my Volkswagen,
holding his
stomach and
banging my car. "She's got a hole in her teeth, like a football
player," he
cried out in
between shrieks. My
embarrassment was beyond words. I was so vexed (annoyed), that my knees
gave in on me and I slid to the
paved ground, like a rag doll, and actually passed out. When I came
to my senses,
I was sitting inside the pickup truck. Mariano
Aureliano was pressing my back. Smiling, he stroked my head repeatedly
and
then embraced me. I was
surprised by my absence of emotion: I was neither embarrassed, nor
annoyed. I
was
relaxed; at ease. It was a tranquility; a serenity I had never known
before. For
the
first time in my life, I realized, that I had never been at peace with
myself or with others. "We like you
immensely," Mariano Aureliano said. "But you have to cure yourself of your temper
tantrums. If you don't, they will kill you. This time it
was my fault. I must apologize to you. I did deliberately provoke you." I was too
calm to say anything. I got out of the truck to stretch my arms and
legs. I had
painful
cramps in my calves. After a few
moments of silence, I apologized to the two men. I told them, that my
temper had
gotten
worse, since I had started drinking colas compulsively (irresistible
impulse). "Stop
drinking them," Mariano Aureliano suggested. Then he
completely changed the subject and went on talking, as if nothing had
happened.
He said,
that he was extremely pleased, that I had joined them.
"You
are?" I asked uncomprehendingly. "Did I join you?"
"You
did!" he emphasized. "One day it will all make sense to you." He pointed
to a flock of crows cawing above us. "The crows are a good Omen. See how
marvelous they look. They are like a painting in the sky. To see them
now is a
promise,
that we will see each other again." I gazed at
the birds, until they flew out of sight. When I
turned to look at Mariano Aureliano, he was no longer there. The pickup
truck
had rolled away without a sound.
Chapter
5
66-67
Disregarding the scratchy bushes, I dashed after the dog, who was
scurrying (light running steps, hurry) through the sagebrush
with reckless speed. I soon lost
sight of its golden fur, shimmering amidst the fragrant wild shrubs and followed the
sound of its barks, growing fainter and fainter in the distance. Uneasily, I
glanced at the THICK FOG, advancing on me. It closed in
around the spot, where I stood and within moments there was no sight of
the
sky. The late afternoon Sun, like a subdued ball of fire, was scarcely
discernible. And the magnificent
view of the Santa Monica Bay, now more imagined, than seen from the
Santa
Susana
Mountains, had disappeared with incredible speed. I wasn't
worried about the dog, getting lost. I, however,
had no idea, where to find the secluded spot, my friends had chosen for
our
picnic. Or where the hiking path was, that I had taken to chase after
the dog. I
took a few
hesitant steps in the same general direction the dog had followed, when something
made me stop.
Emerging
from above, through some crack in the fog, I saw a tiny point of light, descending
toward me. Another one followed, then another, like little flames tied
to a
string. The
lights
trembled and vibrated in the air, then, just before they reached me,
they
vanished, as though the fog around me had swallowed them up. Since they
had disappeared only a few feet in front of me, I moved on, closer to
the spot,
eager to
examine that extraordinary sight.
As
I peered intently into the fog, I saw dark, human shapes glide through
the air, two or three feet
off the ground, moving, as though they were tiptoeing on
clouds.
One after
the other, the human shapes squatted, forming a circle. I took a few
more vacillating (hesitating) steps, then stopped, as the fog thickened
and absorbed them. I remained
still, not knowing what to do. I felt a
most unusual fright. Not the fright I am familiar with, but one in my
body, in my
belly; the
kind of fright animals must have. I don't
know, how long I stood there. When the fog
cleared enough for me to see, I saw to my left, about fifty feet away,
two
Men sitting cross-legged on the ground. They were
whispering to each other, and the sound of their voices seemed to be all around me,
captured in small patches of fog, that were like tufts (dense clump) of
cotton. I
didn't
understand, what they were saying, but I felt reassured, as I caught a
word here and
there. They
were speaking in Spanish.
"I'm
lost!" I shouted in Spanish. Both Men
slowly turned around, hesitant, disbelieving, as though they were
seeing an
apparition.
I spun
around, wondering, if there was someone behind me, that was causing
their
dramatic
reaction; but there was noone. Grinning,
one of the Men rose, stretched his limbs, until his joints cracked,
then covered
the distance
between us in quick strides (walk with long steps). He was
young, short, and powerfully built, with massive shoulders and a big
head.
His
dark eyes radiated amusement and curiosity. I told him,
that I had been hiking with friends and had gotten lost, chasing after
their dog.
"I've
no idea how to get back to them," I finished.
"You
can't go any further this way," the man warned me. "We are standing on
a cliff."
He took me
confidently by the arm and led me to the very edge of the precipice
(extremely steep mass of rock), no more, than ten
feet away, from where I had been standing. "This friend
of mine," he said, pointing to the other Man, who had remained seated, staring at
me, "had just finished telling me, that there is an ancient Indian
burial ground
down below,
when you showed up and nearly scared us to death." He studied
my face, my long blond braid, and asked, "Are you Swedish?"
68-69
Still
bewildered, by what the young man had said about the burial ground, I
stared into the fog. Under normal
circumstances, as a student of anthropology, I would have been thrilled
to
find out about an ancient Indian burial ground. At the
moment, however, I couldn't care less, if there was indeed one in that
foggy
emptiness
below me.
All I could
think of was, that if I hadn't been distracted by those lights, I might
have ended
up buried
myself.
"Are
you Swedish?" the young man asked again.
"I
am," I lied and immediately regretted it. I couldn't think of any way
to correct it, though,
without losing face.
"You
speak Spanish perfectly," the man commented. "Swedish people have a
marvelous
ear for
languages."
Although I
felt terribly guilty, I couldn't help adding, that more, than a gift,
it was a
necessity
for Scandinavians to learn various languages, if they wanted to
communicate
with the
rest of the World.
"Besides," I confessed, "I grew up in South America." For some
strange reason this piece of information seemed to baffle the young man. He shook his
head, as if in disbelief, and then remained silent for a long while,
deep in
thought.
Then, as if
he had arrived at some kind of a decision, he took me briskly by the
hand, and
guided me,
to where the other man was sitting. I had no
intention of socializing: I wanted to get back to my friends as soon,
as possible,
but the
young man made me feel so at ease, that instead of asking them, to lead
me back to
the hiking
path, I gave them a detailed account of the lights and human shapes, I
had just
seen.
"How
strange, that the Spirit would spare (save) her," the seated Man
muttered, as if to himself, his dark
brows, drawn together in a frown. But
obviously, he was talking to his companion, who mumbled something in
return, that I didn't catch. They
exchanged conspiratorial glances, intensifying my feelings of unease.
"I
beg your pardon?" I said, turning to the man, who was sitting. "I
didn't get, what you were saying." He stared at
me aggressively and morosely.
"You were warned of the danger," he stated in a voice, that was deep
and resonant. "The emissaries
of death came to your help."
"The who?" I felt compelled (forced) to ask, even though I had
understood him perfectly well. I examined
him closely. For an instant, I had the certainty, I knew him, but as I
kept
staring at him, I realized, I had never seen him before. Yet I couldn't
completely discard the feeling
of knowing him. He was not
as young, as the other man, but he wasn't old either. He was
definitely an Indian. His skin was dark brown. His hair was blue-black,
straight
and thick,
as a brush.
But it
wasn't only his outward appearance, that was almost familiar to me. He
was
morose, as only I could be morose. Seemingly
uncomfortable under my scrutiny, he rose abruptly.
"I'll take you to your friends," he
mumbled:
"Follow me,
and don't you dare fall down. You'll fall on top of me and kill us
both," he
added in a
gruff tone.
Before I had
the opportunity to say, that I wasn't a clumsy oaf (stupid person), he
led the way down a very steep side
of a mountain in the opposite direction of the cliff.
"Do
you know, where you are going?" I shouted after him, my voice sharp with nervousness. I couldn't
orient myself - not that I am normally good at it - but I had not been
aware of
climbing up
a hill, as I chased the dog. The man
turned around. An amused
little grin quickly lit his face, though his eyes did not smile. He looked at
me with a black, stony look. "I'm going to take you to your friends,"
was all he
said. I
didn't
like him, yet I believed him. He wasn't
too tall- about five feet ten- and
he was small boned, yet his body projected the massiveness
and compactness of a stocky person. He moved in
the fog with extraordinary confidence, stepping with ease and grace
down, what
I
thought was a vertical drop. The younger
Man climbed down behind me, helping me every time I got stuck. He had the
solicitous (thoughtful, concerned) manner of an old-fashioned gentleman. His hands
were strong and beautiful, and incredibly soft to the touch. His
strength was
tremendous.
He easily
lifted me up and over his head several times; perhaps not an
extraordinary feat, considering
my puny (small) weight, but quite impressive, taking into account, that
he was
standing on
shale (sedimentary rock) ledges, and was no more, than two or three
inches taller, than I.
70-71
"You
have to thank the emissaries of death," the man, who had led the way,
insisted as
soon, as we
had reached level ground.
"I
do?" I asked mockingly. The thought
of saying thank you to the 'emissaries of death' seemed ridiculous to
me.
"Do I
have to get down on my knees?" I asked in between a fit of giggles. The Man
didn't think, I was being funny. He rested
his hands on his hips and looked me full in the eye, his narrow, gaunt
(bony, angular) face unsmiling. There was
something menacing about his stance (sportsmen's position); about his
slanted dark eyes under the bristly
(short, coarse) eyebrows, running together over the bridge of his
chiseled nose.
Abruptly, he turned his back to me, and moved away to sit on a nearby
rock. "We
can't
leave this spot, until you thank the emissaries of death," he
pronounced. Suddenly,
the realization, that I was alone in a godforsaken place, hit me. I was fogged
in (envelop with fog, bewilder) with two strange men; one of them
perhaps dangerous.
I knew, he wouldn't budge (alter position/attitude) from the spot,
until
I fullfilled his ludicrous (foolish, laughable, hilarious) request. To my
amazement, instead of feeling frightened, I felt like laughing. The
all-knowing smile on the younger man's face clearly revealed, that he
knew, how I
felt, and he
was quite delighted by it.
"You
don't have to go as far, as kneeling," he told me, and then, no longer
able to hold
back his
mirth, he began to laugh. It was a
bright, raspy sound; it rolled like pebbles all around me. His teeth
were snowwhite and
perfectly even, like a child's. His face had
a look at once mischievous and gentle. "It's enough
to say thank you," he prompted (quick to respond) me. "Say it. What do
you have to lose?"
"I
feel stupid," I confided, deliberately trying to win him over. I won't
do it."
"Why?"
he asked in a nonjudgmental tone. "It'll only take a second, and," he
stressed,
smiling, "it
won't hurt a bit." In spite of
myself, I had to giggle.
"I'm sorry,
but I can't do it," I repeated: "I'm like
that. The moment, someone insists, that I do something, I don't want to
do, I get
all tense
and angry."
Eyes
on the ground, his chin resting on his knuckles, the young Man nodded
his head
thoughtfully.
After a long
pause he said, "It's a fact, that something prevented you from getting
hurt,
perhaps even
killed. Something inexplicable (unexplainable)." I agreed
with him. I even admitted, that it was all very baffling to me. I tried to
make a point about phenomena, happening coincidentally at the right
time; in the
right place.
"That's
all very appropriate," he said. Then he
grinned and daringly nudged me on the chin. "But it doesn't explain your particular
case," he said: "You have
been the recipient of a gift. Call the
giver coincidence, circumstances, chain of events, or whatever. The fact remains,
that you were spared pain; injury."
"Perhaps
you're right," I conceded (admit, acknowledge). "I should be more
grateful."
"Not
more grateful. More pliable, more fluid," he said and laughed. Seeing, that
I was getting angry, he opened his arms wide, as if to encompass the sagebrush
around us.
"My friend
believes, that what you saw, has to do with the Indian burial ground,
which
happens to
be right here."
"I
don't see a burial ground," I said defensively.
"It's
hard to recognize it," he explained, squinting at me, as if he had
trouble with his eyes. "And it
isn't the fog, that prevents one from seeing it. Even on a sunny day,
one sees
nothing, but
a patch of sagebrush." He went down
on his knees and, grinning, looked up at me. "However, for the knowing eye, it's an
unusually shaped patch of sagebrush." He lay flat on the ground, on his stomach, his
head tilted to the left, and motioned me to do the same. "This is the
only way to see it clearly," he explained, as I lay down beside him on
the
ground. "I wouldn't have known this, but for my friend here, who knows
all kinds of
interesting
and exciting things." At first I
saw nothing, then one by one I discovered the rocks in the thick
underbrush.
Dark and shiny, as though they had been washed by the mist, they sat
hunched (draw themselves up closely into a crouched, or cramped
posture) in a circle, more like
creatures, than stones. I stifled
(hold back) a scream, as I realized, that the circle of rocks
was exactly like the circle of human figures, I
had seen earlier in the fog.
"Now
I am truly frightened," I mumbled, shifting uncomfortably. "I told you,
that I saw
human
figures, sitting in a circle." I looked at
him to see, if his face betrayed any disapproval or mockery before I
added,
"It's too
preposterous (absurd), but I could almost swear those rocks were the
people, I saw."
72-73
"I
know," he whispered, so softly I had to move closer to him. "It's all
very mysterious," he went on: "My friend,
who you must have noticed, is an Indian, says, that certain Indian
burial
grounds,
such as this one, have a row or a circle of boulders. The boulders
are the emissaries of death." He looked at
me closely, and then, as if he wanted to make sure, he had my full
attention,
he confided,
"They are the emissaries, mind you, and not the representation of the emissaries." I kept
staring at the man, not only because I didn't know, what to make of his
statements,
but because
his face kept changing, as he talked and smiled. It wasn't, that his
features
changed, but
his face was at moments, that of a six-year-old child, a
seventeen-year-old boy, and
that of an old man, too. "These are
strange beliefs," he continued, seemingly oblivious to my scrutiny: "I didn't
put too much stock in them, until the moment, you came out of the blue,
as my
friend was
telling me about the emissaries of death, and then you told us, that
you had just
seen them.
If I were
given to distrust," he went on, his tone suddenly menacing, "I would
believe, that
you and
he are in cahoots."
"I
don't know him!" I defended myself, indignant (angry) at the mere
suggestion, then whispered softly, so
only he could hear, "To be quite frank, your friend gives me the
creeps."
"If I
were given to distrust," the young man repeated, ignoring my
interruption, "I would believe,
that you two are actually trying to scare me. But I'm not distrustful. So the only
thing, I can do, is suspend judgment and wonder about you."
"Well,
don't wonder about me," I said irritably. "And I don't know, what the
hell you're
talking
about anyway." I glared at
him angrily. I had no sympathy for his dilemma. He too was giving me the creeps.
"He's
talking about thanking the emissaries of death," the older man said. He had
walked, to where I was lying, and was peering down at me in a most
peculiar
manner.
Eager to get
away from that place and those two crazy people, I stood up and shouted
my
thanks. My
voice
echoed, as if the under-brush had turned into rocks. I listened,
until the sound died away. Then, as if
possessed, and quite against my better judgment, I cried out my thanks
again and again.
"I'm
sure the
emissaries are more, than satisfied," the younger man said, nudging my
calf. Laughing, he rolled on his back. There was a wonderful strength
in his eyes, in the delighted Power of his laugh. I didn't
doubt for
an instant, despite the levity (inconstancy, frivolity, changeableness,
buoyancy, lightness), that indeed
I had thanked the emissaries of death. And most oddly, I felt myself
protected by them.
"Who
are you two?" I directed my question at the younger man. In one agile
(fast, light), smooth motion he sprang to his feet.
"I'm Jose Luis
Cortez; my friends call me Joe," he said, holding out his hand to clasp
mine. "And this here is my friend Gumersindo Evans-Pritchard."
Afraid
I would
laugh out loud at the name, I bit my lip and bent to scratch an
imaginary bite on my knee. "A flea, I think," I said, gazing from one
man to the other. Both stared back at me, defying
(challenging) me to
make fun of the name. There was such a serious expression on their
faces, that my laughter vanished. Gumersindo Evans-Pritchard
reached
for my hand - hanging limply at my side - and shook it vigorously.
"I'm delighted to make your acquaintance," he said in perfect English
with an upper-class British accent. "For a moment I thought you were
one of those stuck-up cunts."
Simultaneously, my
eyes widened and my mouth opened. Although something in me registered,
that his words were meant, as a compliment, rather than an insult, my
shock was nevertheless so intense, that I just stood there, as if
paralyzed.
I wasn't
prudish (morally excessive) - under the proper circumstances I could
outswear anyone - but to me
there was something so appallingly (causing dismay, frightful,
horrifying, very bad, terrible) offensive about the sound of the word
cunt, it
rendered
(caused
to become) me speechless. Joe came to my rescue. He apologized for his
friend, explaining, that Gumersindo was an extreme social iconoclast
(destroyer of sacred images, popular ideas, institutions). Before I had
a chance to say, that Gumersindo had definitely shattered my sense of
propriety (etiquette appropriateness), Joe added, that Gumersindo's
compulsion (irresistible impulse, coercion, forcing) to be an
iconoclast had to do with the fact, that his last name was
Evans-Pritchard. "It shouldn't surprise anyone," Joe noted.
74-75
"His father is an Englishman, who abandoned his mother, an Indian Woman
from Jalisco, before Gumersindo was born."
"Evans-Pritchard?"
I repeated guardedly, then turned to Gumersindo and asked him, if it
was
all right for Joe to reveal to a stranger his family's skeletons in the
closet.
"There
aren't skeletons in the closet," Joe answered for his friend. "And do
you know why?" He fixed me
with
his shiny, dark eyes, that were neither brown, nor black, but the color
of ripe cherries. Helplessly, I shook my head to say no, my attention
held by his compelling (force, constrain) gaze. His one eye seemed to
be laughing at me. The other one was dead serious, ominous and
menacing. "Because,
what you
call skeletons in the closet, are Gumersindo's source of strength,"
Joe
went on. "Do you know, that his father is now a famous English
anthropologist? Gumersindo hates his guts." Gumersindo
nodded
his head almost imperceptibly, as if he were proud of his hatred. I
could hardly believe my good fortune. They were referring to none
other, than E. E. Evans-Pritchard, one of the most important social
anthropologists of the twentieth century. And it was precisely during
this term at UCLA, that I was researching a paper on the history of
social anthropology and the most eminent proponents (advocate, one who
supports something) in the field.
What a scoop (utensil, ladle, portion of something, sudden profit,
sensational story)! I had to restrain myself from shouting out loud,
and
jumping up and down with excitement. To be able to come with some awful
secret like that. A great anthropologist seducing and abandoning an
Indian Woman. I was not in the least concerned, that Evans-Pritchard
hadn't done any fieldwork in Mexico - he was mainly known for his
research in Africa - for I was certain, I would discover, that during
one of his visits to the United States he had gone into Mexico. I had
the very proof, standing before me. Smiling sweetly, I gazed at
Gumersindo and made the silent promise that, of course, I wouldn't
reveal anything without his permission. Well, perhaps I would just say something to
one of my professors, I thought. After all, one didn't come across this
kind of information every day.
My mind was spinning with possibilities. Perhaps a small lecture with
only a few selected students at the home of one of my professors. In my
mind, I had already selected the professor. I didn't partcularly like
him, but I appreciated the rather childish manner, in which he tried to
impress his students. Periodically, we met at his home. Every time I
had been there, I had discovered on his desk a note, left there, as if
by mistake, written to him by a famous anthropologist, Claude
Levi-Strauss.
"You
didn't tell us your name," Joe said politely, gently pulling me by my
sleeve.
"Carmen
Gebauer,"
I said without hesitation, giving the name of one of my childhood
friends. To ease my discomfort and guilt, at having lied again with
such
facility (ease in doing, acting, moving, fluency, aptitude), I asked
Joe, if he was from Argentina. Seeing his puzzled frown, I hastened to
add, that his inflection (accent) was definitely Argentinian. "Even
though you don't look like an Argentinian," I noted.
"I'm
Mexican," he said. "And judging by your accent, you grew up either in
Cuba or in Venezuela." I didn't
want to
continue on that line of conversation and swiftly changed the subject.
"Do you know how to get back to the hiking path?" I asked, suddenly
concerned, that my friends might be worried by now.
"No,
I don't," Joe confessed with childish candor (boldness,
straightforwardness). "But Gumersindo Evans-Pritchard does." Gumersindo
led the
way across the chaparral, up a narrow trail on the other side of the
mountain. It wasn't long before we heard my friends' voices and the
barking of their dog. I felt intense relief, and at the same time I was
disappointed and puzzled, that neither man tried to find out how to get
in touch with me. "I'm sure
we'll
meet again," Joe said perfunctorily (act mechanically, routinely, no
care) by way of farewell. Gumersindo Evans-Pritchard surprised me by
gallantly kissing my hand. He did this so naturally and gracefully,
that it didn't occur to me to laugh at him.
"It's
in his
genes," Joe explained. "Even though he's only half English, his
refinement is beyond reproach. He's totally gallant (amorous, stately,
brave, courteous, daring, dashing, showy in appearance)!"
76
Without another word or backward glance, both of them disappeared in
the mist. I doubted very much, that I would ever see them again.
Overcome with guilt for having lied about my name, I was on the verge
of running after them, when my friends' dog almost knocked me to the
ground, as it jumped on me and tried to lick my face.
Chapter 6
77
Dumbfounded (surprised), I stared at the guest speaker. In
his three-piece suit, short, curly hair, and clean-shaven
face, Joe Cortez looked like someone from another time amidst the
long-haired,
bearded and
beaded (covered with beads, shrewd, piercing), casually dressed
students in one of the large lecture auditoriums
at the University of California in Los Angeles. Hastily, I
slipped into the empty seat in the back row of the packed auditorium, a
seat
saved for me by the same friend, I had gone hiking with in the Santa
Susana Mountains.
"Who is he?" I asked her. Shaking her
head in disbelief, she regarded me impatiently, then scribbled Carlos Castaneda on
a piece of paper.
"Who
in the dickens is Carlos Castaneda?" I asked and giggled involuntarily.
"I
gave you his book," she hissed, then added, that he was a well-known
anthropologist, who had done
extensive fieldwork in Mexico. I was about
to confide to my friend, that the guest speaker was the same man, I had
met in the
mountains, the day I had gotten lost. However, for
some very good reason, I didn't say anything. That man was
responsible for almost destroying our friendship, which I treasured immensely.
My friend had been adamant (inflexible, resilience, exceptional
hardness) in her opinion, that the story about Evans-Pritchard's son was hogwash. I had
insisted, that the two men had nothing to gain, by telling me a tall
tale.
78-79
I just knew, that they had
candidly (open, without pretence, straight forward, fair, frank,
impartial) spoken the truth. My friend,
mad at me for believing them, had called me a gullible fool.
Since neither of us had been willing to yield (provide, give in return,
surrender, relinquish), our argument had become quite heated. Her husband,
hoping to bring us out of our frenzy (mania, craze), had suggested,
that perhaps I had been told the
truth.
Irked
(irritate, annoy) by his lack of solidarity with her, my friend had
yelled at him to shut up. We had
driven home in a morose state, our friendship strained. It took a
couple of weeks to wash away the bad feeling.
In the meantime, I had tried my information on Evans-Pritchard's son on
several people more versed
in anthropological matters and in anthropologists, than I or my friend. Needless to
say, I was made to feel like an idiot. Out of
stubbornness, I held on to my blind belief, that I alone knew the truth. I had been
reared to be practical;
if one lies, it has to be to gain something, that can't be gained
otherwise. And I was at a loss to figure out, what those men could have
had to gain. I paid
little attention to Carlos Castaneda's lecture. I was too absorbed with
wondering
about his
reason for lying to me about his name. Given, as I was, to deducing
other
people's
motives from a simple statement or an observation, I had a field day,
trying to
search for a
clue to his. But then I remembered, that I, too, had given him a false
name. And I
couldn't determine, why I had done so. After long
mental deliberation (thoughtful, lengthy consideration), I decided,
that I had lied, because automatically I hadn't trusted him.
He was too self-confident, too cocky to inspire my trust. My mother had reared me to
distrust Latin men, especially, if they were not somewhat subservient.
She
used to say, that Latin machos were like bantam cocks, interested only
in fighting, eating, and having
sex, in that order. And
I suppose, I had believed her without even thinking about it. I finally
looked at Carlos Castaneda. I couldn't make heads or tails, of what he
was talking
about. But
I became fascinated by his movements. He seemed to
speak with his whole body, and his words, rather, than emerging from his mouth,
seemed to flow from his hands, which he moved with the gracefulness and
agility of
a
magician.
Boldly, I
walked up to him after the lecture. He was
surrounded by students. He was so solicitous (thoughtful, concerned,
anxious) and engaging with the Women, that I
automatically despised him.
"You've lied to me about your name, Joe Cortez," I said in Spanish,
pointing an accusing finger at
him.
Holding his hand over his stomach, as if he had received a blow, he
gazed at me with that same
hesitant, disbelieving expression, he had had, when he first
saw me in the mountains. "It is also a
lie, that your friend Gumersindo is the son of Evans-Pritchard," I
added, before
he recovered
from his surprise at seeing me. "Isn't it?" He made a
pleading gesture for me not to say any more. He didn't
seem to be in the least embarrassed. There was
such plain and simple wonder in his eyes, that my righteous wrath was
stopped
short.
Gently,
he held me by the wrist, as if afraid I would leave. After he
finished talking with the students, he silently led me to a secluded
bench, shaded
by a
gigantic pine tree, in the north campus.
"All
this is so strange, that I am truthfully speechless," he said in
English, as we sat down. He gazed at
me, as if he still couldn't believe, I was sitting beside him.
"I
never thought, I would find you again," he mused: "After we
left, my friend - his name, by the way, is Nestor - and I discussed you
at great
length. We
concluded, that you were a semiapparition." He abruptly
changed to Spanish and said, that they even went back to the place,
where they
had
left me in the hope of finding me.
"Why
did you want to find me?" I asked in English; confident, that he would
respond in
English,
that he went there, because he liked me. In Spanish,
there is no way to say, that one just likes someone else. The response
has to be
more florid
(rosy colored, ornate) and at the same time more precise. In Spanish,
one can either happen to evoke
(summon, call forth, reawaken, inspire) a good feeling - me caes bien -
or arouse total passion - me gustos.
My candid (open, without pretence, straight forward, fair, frank,
impartial) question plunged him into a long silence. He seemed to be
fighting, whether he ought to
speak or not.
At last, he
said, that finding me in the fog that afternoon, had caused him a
profound
upheaval.
His face was
enraptured (enchanted, delight completely), as he revealed all this,
and his voice betrayed the deepest awe, as he added,
that finding me in the lecture room, had been nearly the end of him.
"Why?"
I asked, my vanity (false pride, vain, worthless, conceit) pricked
(puncture, pierce, sting). I instantly
regretted it, because I was convinced, he was going to tell me, he was
head over
heels in
love with me, and that
would have been too disturbing. I wouldn't
have known
how to
respond.
80-81
"It's a very
long story," he said, still in a pensive (deeply thoughtful) mood. He puckered
his lips, as if he were talking to himself, rehearsing, what he was
going to
say next. I
knew the
signs of a man, who is preparing to make his pitch (assault). "I
haven't read your work," I said, in
order to head him off in a different direction. "What is it
about?"
"I've
written a couple of books about Sorcery," he replied.
"What
kind of Sorcery? Voodoo, spiritualism, or what?"
"Do
you know anything about Sorcery?" he asked with a note expectation in
his voice.
"Of
course I do. I grew up with it. I've spent a
great deal of time in the coastal region of Venezuela. It's an area,
that is
famous for
its Sorcerers. Most summers
of my childhood were spent with a family of witches."
"Witches?"
"Yes,"
I said, pleased with his reaction. "I had a nanny, who is a witch. She was a
black woman from Puerto Cabello. She took care of me, until I was an
adolescent. Both my parents worked, and when I was a child,
they were quite happy to leave me in
her care.
She could
handle me much better, than either of my parents.
She would let me do, as I pleased. My parents,
of course, let her take me everywhere. During the school holidays she would take
me with her to visit her family.
It
was not her biological family, but her witch family. Although I wasn't
allowed to
participate
in any of their rituals and trance sessions, I did manage to see a
great deal."
He regarded me curiously, as if he didn't believe me. Then he
asked with a bemused (confused, engrossed, bewildered) smile, "What
made her a witch?"
"All
sorts of things. She killed chickens and offered them to the Gods in
exchange for
favors. She
and her fellow witches - men and women- would dance, until they would go into a
trance. She recited secret incantations, that had the power to heal her
friends and
injure her
enemies. Her specialty was love potions. She prepared them with
medicinal
plants and
all sorts of bodily refuse, such as menstrual blood, nail clippings,
and hair,
preferably
pubic hair. She made amulets for good luck in gambling or in matters of
love."
"And
your parents allowed all this?" he asked in disbelief.
"At
home, noone knew about it, except myself and my nanny's clients, of
course," I
explained.
"She made house calls, as any doctor would. All, she ever
did at home, was to burn candles behind the toilet bowl, whenever I had nightmares.
Since it seemed to help me and there was no danger of anything catching
fire
amidst the tiles, my mother openly allowed her to do this." He suddenly
stood up and began to laugh. "What's so
funny?" I asked, wondering, whether he thought, I had made it all up.
"It's the
truth, I
assure you."
"You
assert something to yourself, and as far, as you are concerned, once
you make the
assertion,
it turns into the truth," he said with a serious face.
"But
I told you the truth," I insisted, certain, that he was referring to my
nanny.
"I
can see through people," he said calmly. "For instance, I see, you're
convinced, that I am going to
make a pass at you. You've convinced yourself about it and now, it is
the truth.
That's, what
I am talking about." I tried to
say something, but indignation (anger) took my breath away. I would
have liked to run away. But
that would have been too humiliating. He frowned
slightly, and I had the unpleasant impression, that he knew, what I was feeling. My face got
red. I trembled with suppressed anger. Nonetheless,
within moments I felt extraordinarily calm. It wasn't due to any
conscious
effort on my
part; yet I had the distinct sensation, that something in me had
shifted. I
had the
vague recollection, that I had gone through a similar experience
before, but my memory faded
away as fast, as it came.
"What
are you doing to me?" I muttered (speak in low indistinct
tones).
"I
just happen to see through people," he said in a contrite (remorseful,
penitent) tone. "Not all the time and certainly
not with everybody, but only with the people,
I am intimately associated with. I don't
know, why I can see through you." His
sincerity was apparent. He seemed much more baffled, than I was. He sat down
again and moved closer to me on the bench. We remained
in total silence for a while.
82-83
It was a most pleasant experience to be able to drop all
effort, at making conversation and not feel, that I was being stupid. I looked up
at the sky. It was cloudless and transparent like blue glass. A soft
breeze blew through the pine branches, and the needles fell on us like
a gentle rain. Then the
breeze turned into a wind, and the dry, yellow, fallen leaves of the
nearby
sycamore
blew toward us. They swirled
around us with a soft, rhythmic sound. In one abrupt swoop, the wind carried the
leaves high up into the air. "That was a
fine display of the Spirit," he murmured. "And it was for you; the
wind, the
leaves,
spinning in the air in front of us. The
Sorcerer, I work with, would say, that that was an Omen. Something
pointed you out to me, at
the precise moment I was thinking, that I'd better leave. I cannot
leave now."
Thinking
only about his last statement, I felt inexplicably happy. It wasn't a
triumphant
happiness,
the kind of glee one feels, when getting one's way. It was rather a
feeling of
profound
well-being, that didn't last long. My ponderous
(consider carefully) self took over suddenly and demanded, that I be
rid of those thoughts and feelings. I
had no business being there. I had cut a class, missed lunch with my
real
friends, missed my daily laps at the pool in the women's gym.
"Perhaps,
it'll be better, if I leave," I said. I intended it as a statement of
relief, but when I said it, it
sounded, as if I were feeling sorry for myself, which somehow
I was. But
instead
of leaving, I asked him, as casually, as I could, whether he had always
been
able to see through people.
"No,
not always." His kind tone clearly betrayed, that he was conscious of
my inner
turmoil.
"The old Sorcerer, I work with, has recently taught me how."
"Do
you think, that he could teach me, too?"
"Yes,
I think, he would." He seemed amazed at his own statement. "If he feels
about you,
the way I
do, he'll certainly try to."
"Did
you know about Sorcery before?" I asked timidly, slowly coming out of my agitation.
"In
Latin America everybody thinks, that they know, and I believed, I did. In that
sense, you remind me of myself. Like you, I was convinced, that I knew,
what
Sorcery was.
But then,
when I really encountered it, it wasn't like, I thought, it was."
"How was it?"
"Simple.
So simple, that it's scary," he confided: "We think,
that Sorcery is scary, because of its malignancy. The Sorcery,
I encountered, is not malignant at all, and because of that, it's the
scariest
thing there
is."
I interrupted him and commented, that he must be referring to white, as
opposed to black Sorcery. "Don't talk
nonsense, damn it!" he impatiently snapped at me. The shock,
of hearing him speak to me in that manner, was so great, that I gasped
for
breath. I was instantly thrown back into turmoil. He turned
his face to avoid my gaze. He had dared
to yell at me. I became so angry, I thought, I was going to have a fit.
My ears
were
buzzing. I saw dark spots in front of my eyes. I would have
hit him, if he hadn't jumped out of my reach so swiftly. "You're very
undisciplined," he said and sat down again. "And quite violent. Your nanny
must have indulged your every whim (caprice) and treated you, as if you
were made
of precious
glass."
Seeing my
scowling (anger, disapproval) frown, he went on to say, that he hadn't
really yelled at me out of impatience
or anger. "It doesn't matter
to me personally, whether you listen or not," he
explained. "But it matters to someone else, on whose behalf, I shouted
at you. Someone, who is watching us." I was
perplexed (confuse, puzzle, bewilder) at first, then uneasy. I looked
all around me, wondering whether his Sorcerer
teacher might be watching us. He ignored
me and went on to say, "My father never mentioned to me, that
we have a constant witness. And he never
mentioned it, because he didn't know it. Just like you, yourself, don't
know it."
"What
kind of nonsense are you talking about?" My raspy, angry voice
reflected my
feelings at
the moment.
He had
yelled at me, he had insulted me. I resented, that he was talking his
head off, as if nothing had
happened. If he believed, that I was going to overlook his actions, he
was in for
a
surprise. "You won't get away with it,"
I thought, smiling at him maliciously. "Not with me,
buddy."
"I'm
talking about a Force, an Entity, a Presence, which is neither a force,
nor an entity, nor a presence,"
he explained with an angelic smile. He seemed totally oblivious to my
belligerent (state of being at war) mood. Sounds like gibberish, but it
isn't. I am referring to
something, that only Sorcerers know about.
84-85
They
call it - the Spirit. Our personal Watcher, our perennial Witness." I
don't know exactly how or what precise word triggered it, but suddenly
he had my full attention. He went on talking about this Force, which he
said wasn't God or anything to do with religion or morality, but an
impersonal Force, a Power, that was there for us to use, if we only
learned to reduce ourselves to nothing. He even held
my hand, and I didn't mind it. In fact, I liked the feel of his strong,
soft
touch. I became morbidly (gruesome, grisly, melancholic) fascinated
with the strange Power, he had over me. I was aghast
(shocked), that I longed
to sit with him on that bench indefinitely with my hand in his. He went on
talking. And I went on listening to every word, he said. But at the
same time I
perversely
(contrary, perverted) wondered, when he was going to grab my leg, for I
knew, that he wasn't going to have
enough with my hand, and I couldn't do anything to stop him. Or was it,
that I
didn't want
to do anything to stop him? He
explained, that he had been as careless and undisciplined, as one could
be, but that he never knew
the difference, because he was imprisoned by the mood of the time.
"What's
the mood of the time?" I asked in a rough, unfriendly voice, lest he
think, I was
enjoying
being with him.
"Sorcerers
call it the modality of the time," he said. "In our day, it's the
concern of the middle
class. I am a middle-class man, just like you're a middle-class woman--"
"Classifications
of that nature don't hold any validity," I interrupted him rudely,
yanking
(pull
suddenly, jerk) my hand out of his. "They are simply generalizations."
I
scowled (disapproval) at him suspiciously. There was something
startlingly familiar about his words, but I
couldn't think, where I had heard them before or what significance I
was attaching to them. Yet, I was
sure: those words had a very vital significance for me, if I could only
recall, what
I already
knew about them.
"Don't
give me this social scientist gaff (cheap music hall)," he said
jovially (merry). "I'm, as aware of it, as you are."
Giving
in to a wave of total frustration, I took his hand and bit it. "I'm truly
sorry about that," I instantly mumbled, before he recovered from his
surprise.
"I don't
know, why I did it. I haven't bitten anyone, since I was a child." I sidled
(move in
a nervous, furtive manner, sideways) to the far edge of the bench, in
readiness for his retaliation (evil for evil, tat for tat). It didn't
come.
"You're
absolutely primitive" was all he said, rubbing his hand in a dazed sort
of way. I
let out a
deep sigh of relief. His Power
over me was shattered. And
I remembered, that I had an old score to settle with him. He had
turned me into the laughing-stock of my anthropology student friends.
"Let's go
back to our
original problem," I said, trying to arouse my anger. "Why did you tell
me all that
nonsense about Evans-Pritchard's son? You must have realized, that I
was going to
make a fool
of myself."
I watched
him carefully, certain, that confronting him like this after the bite,
would finally
break his
self-control or at least rattle (disconcert, unnerve) him. I expected
him to yell, to lose his confidence and
impudence.
But he
remained unperturbed (not greatly disturbed).
He took a deep breath and adopted a serious expression. "I know, that
it looks like a simple case of people, telling tall tales for their
amusement,"
he began in
a light, casual tone. "But it's more complex, than that." He chuckled
softly, then reminded me, that he hadn't known at that time, that I was
a
student of anthropology and that I would make a fool of myself. He paused
for a moment, as if searching for the proper words, then he shrugged helplessly
and added, "I really can't explain to you now, why I introduced my
friend to
you as
Evans-Pritchard's son, unless I tell you much more about myself and my
aims; and
that's not
practical."
"Why
not?"
"Because
the more you know about me, the more entangled you'll become." He regarded
me thoughtfully, and I could see in his eyes, that he was sincere.
"And I don't
mean a
mental entanglement (compromising relationship). I mean, you'll become
personally entangled with me." This was
such a
blatant (obvious, offensively conspicuous) display of gall (bitteness,
impudence, temerity), that I regained all my confidence.
I fell back on my well-tried sarcastic laughter and said in a cutting
tone: "You are perfectly
disgusting. I know your kind. You are the typical example of the
conceited
(holding too
high an opinion about oneself, vain, fanciful) Latin macho, I have
battled with, all my life." Seeing the
expression of surprise on his face, I pressed on in my most haughty
(annoyed) tone: "How dare
you to think, that I'll be entangled with you?"
86-87
He
didn't become red in the face, as I expected. He slapped his knee and
laughed
uproariously, as if that was the funniest thing, he had ever heard. And
to my utter dismay (dread, apprehension, discourage, disappoinment), he began to
tickle me in the ribs, as if I were a child.
Afraid to laugh - I was ticklish - I screeched (high-pitched, harsh,
piecing cry, shriek) with indignation (anger). "How dare you to touch me!" I stood
up to leave. I was shaking. And then I
shocked myself even further, by sitting down again. Seeing, that
he was about to tickle me again, I curled my hands into fists and held
them
before me. "I'll smash your nose, if you touch me again," I warned him. Thoroughly
unconcerned by my threat, he reclined his head against the back of the
bench and
closed
his eyes.
He laughed gaily, a deep chortling (joyful chucle) laugh, that made him
shiver all over. "You're a typical German girl,
who grew up, surrounded by brown people,"
he said, turning sideways toward me.
"How
do you know, I am German? I never told you that," I said in a faltering
(hesitating, stammer) voice, I intended to
be softly menacing.
"I
knew, that you were German, when I first met you," he said. "You
confirmed it, the moment you
lied, that you were Swedish. Only Germans, born in the New World after
the
Second World War, lie like that. That is, of course, if they live in
the United States." Although I
wasn't going to admit this to him, he was right. I often felt
people's hostility as soon, as they learned, that my parents were
Germans; in
their eyes
it automatically made us Nazis. It didn't
make any difference, when I told them, that my parents were idealists. Of course, I
had to admit to myself that, like good Germans, they believed, that
their kind
were
inherently better; but basically they were gentle souls, who had been
apolitical all lives.
"All
I did was to agree with you," I pointed out acidly. "You saw blond
hair, blue eyes, high
cheekbones, and all, you could think of, was a Swede. You are not very
imaginative,
are you?" I
pushed my
advantage. "You had no business lying yourself, unless you're a fucking
liar
by nature," I went on, my voice rising against my will. Tapping his
chest with my index finger, I
added derisively (mocking), "Joe Cortez, eh?"
Is
your name really Cristina Gebauer?" he shot back, imitating my odious
(hateful), loud voice.
"Carmen Gebauer!" I shouted, offended, that he hadn't remembered the
name correctly. Then,
suddenly, ashamed of my outburst, I went into a chaotic defense of
myself.
After a few
moments, realizing, that I didn't know, what I was saying, I abruptly
stopped and
confessed, that I was indeed German, and that Carmen Gebauer was the
name of a
childhood
friend.
"I
like that," he said softly, a barely suppressed grin on his lips.
Whether he was referring to my lying
or to my confession, I couldn't tell. His eyes
were brimming with kindness and with amusement. In a tender, wistful
voice he
proceeded to
tell me the story of his childhood girlfriend, Fabiola Kunze. Confused by
his reaction,
I turned away and gazed at the nearby sycamore and the pine trees beyond. Then, eager
to hide my interest in his story, I began to play with my fingernails.
I pushed
back
the cuticles (epidermis, piece of hardened skin) and peeled off the
nail polish, methodically and thoughtfully. The story of
Fabiola Kunze resembled my own life so closely, that after a few
moments I
forgot all
about my pretense at indifference and listened to him attentively. I suspected,
that he was fabricating the story, and yet, I had to give him credit
for coming
up with
details, that only a daughter of a German family in the New World would
know.
Fabiola allegedly (merely supposed, claimed to exist without proof) was
mortally afraid of dark Latin boys, but she was equally afraid of the Germans.
The Latins scared her, because of their irresponsibility; the Germans, because they
were so predictable. I had to
restrain myself from laughing out loud, when he described scenes of
Fabiola's
home on a
Sunday afternoon, when two dozen Germans would sit around a beautifully
set
table- with the best china, silver, and crystal- and she would have to
listen to two dozen monologues,
that passed for conversation. As he went
on, giving specific details of those Sunday afternoons, I began to feel
more
and more uncomfortable: there was Fabiola's father, prohibiting
political debates in his house, but
compulsively aiming at, starting one, seeking devious ways to tell
dirty jokes
about
Catholic priests. Or her
mother's mortal dread: her fine china was in the hands of these clumsy
oafs (stupid person).
88-89
His
words were cues, to which I unconsciously responded. I began to see
scenes of my
Sunday
afternoons like pictures, flashed on the wall for my observation.
I was a veritable bundle of nerves. I wanted to stomp and
carry on, as only I knew how. I wanted to
hate this man, but I couldn't. I wanted vindication, apologies, but
I couldn't get any from
him. I wanted to dominate him. I wanted him to fall in love with me, so
I could
reject him.
Ashamed of
my immature feelings, I made a great effort to pull myself together. Pretending
to be bored, I leaned toward him and asked, "Why did you lie about your name?"
"I
didn't lie," he pronounced. "That's my name. I have several names.
Sorcerers have different
names for different occasions."
"How
convenient!" I exclaimed sarcastically.
"Very
convenient," he echoed and gave a slight wink, which infuriated me
beyond
measure.
And then he
did something completely outlandish and unexpected.
He put his arms around me. There was no
sexual overtone in his embrace. It was the spontaneous, sweet, and
simple
gesture of a
child, who wants to comfort a friend. His touch soothed me instantly
and so
completely,
that I began to sob uncontrollably.
"I'm
such a shit," I confessed. "I want to beat you, and look at me. I am in
your arms." I
was about to
add, that I was enjoying it, when a surge of Energy rushed through me. As if I had
awakened from a dream, I pushed him away.
"Let go of me," I hissed and stomped away. I heard him
choking with laughter. I wasn't in the least concerned about his
chuckles: my
outburst had
dissipated instantly. I stood
rooted to the spot, trembling all over, unable to walk away. And then,
as if I had a
giant rubber
band attached to me, I returned to the bench.
"Don't
feel bad," he said kindly. He seemed to
know exactly, what it was, that was pulling me back to the bench. He
patted my
back, as
one does a baby's after a meal. "It isn't,
what you or I do," he continued. "It's something outside the two of us,
which is
acting upon
us.
It's been acting upon me for a long time. Now I am accustomed to it. But I can't
understand, why it acts upon you. Don't ask
me, what it is," he said, anticipating my question. "I can't yet
explain it to you." I wasn't
going to ask him anything anyway. My mind had stopped functioning. I felt
exactly, as if I were asleep, dreaming, that I was talking. Moments
later, my numbness passed. I felt more animated, yet not quite like my
usual self.
"What's happening to me?" I asked.
"You
are being focused and pushed by something, that doesn't come from you,"
he said.
"Something
is pushing you, using me, as a tool. Something is superimposing another criterion on
your middle-class convictions."
"Don't
start on that middle-class idiocy," I said feebly (weakly). It was more
like I was pleading with him. I smiled
helplessly, thinking, that I had lost my usual gall (impudence).
"These,
by the way, are not my own opinions or ideas," he said: "I'm like
you, strictly a product of middle-class ideology. Imagine my
horror, when I came face to face with a different and more prevailing ideology. It
ripped me apart."
"What
ideology is that?" I asked meekly, my voice so low, as barely audible.
"A
man brought that ideology to me," he explained. "Or rather, the Spirit spoke and acted
on me through him. That man is a Sorcerer. I've written about him. His
name is Juan Matus. He's the one, who made me face my middle-class
mentality. Juan Matus once asked me a grand question: 'What do you
think university is?'
I,
of course, answered him like a social scientist: 'A center of higher
learning.' He corrected me and declared, that a uniersity should be
called a 'Middle-Class Institute', because it is the institution we
attend to further perfect our middle-class values.
90-91
We attend the institute to become professionists, he said. The ideology
of our social class tells us, that we must prepare ourselves for
occupying managerial positions. Juan Matus said, that men go to the
middle-class institute to become engineers, lawyers, doctors, etc., and
women go there to get a suitable husband, provider, and father of their
children. Suitable is naturally defined by middle-class values."
I
wanted to contradict him. I wanted to shout at him, that I knew people,
who weren't
necessarily
interested in a career or looking for a spouse; that I knew people, who
were
interested in ideas, in learning for its own sake. But I didn't
know such people. I felt a
terrible pressure in my chest and had an attack of dry coughing.
It wasn't the cough or the physical discomfort, that made me wriggle in
my seat and
prevented me
from arguing with him. It was the certainty, that he was speaking about
me:
I was going to a university precisely to find a suitable man. Again I
stood up, ready to leave. I had even extended my hand to shake his in
farewell,
when
I felt a powerful tug on my back. It was so
strong, I had to sit down, lest I fall. I knew, he hadn't touched me: I
had been
looking at
him all the time. Thoughts of
people, I didn't quite remember; of dreams, I hadn't quite forgotten,
came,
crowding into my mind, forming an intricate pattern, from which I
couldn't extricate myself. Unknown
faces, half-heard sentences, dark images of places, and blurred images
of
people threw me momentarily into some kind of limbo. I was close
to remembering something about all this kaleidoscope of visualizations
and
sounds; but the knowledge flittered away, and a feeling of calm and
ease overtook me;
a
tranquility so deep, that it screened out all my desire to assert
myself. I
stretched
my legs in front of me, as if I didn't have a care in the world - and
at the
moment
I didn't - and began to talk. I couldn't
remember ever, talking about myself so frankly before, and I couldn't
fathom, why
I was
suddenly so unguarded with him. I told him
about Venezuela, my parents, my childhood, my restlessness, my
meaningless
life. I
told him
of things, I wouldn't even admit to myself. "I've been
studying anthropology since last year. And I really don't know why," I
said. I was
beginning to feel slightly uncomfortable by my own revelations. I shifted
restlessly on the bench, but I couldn't stop myself from adding : "Two
subjects,
that
interest me more are Spanish and German literature. To be in the
anthropology
department
defies (resist, challenge, stand up to, withstand) all I know about
myself."
"That detail intrigues me to no end," he said. "I can't get into it
now, but it seems, as if I had been
placed here for you to find me, or vice versa."
What
does all this mean?" I asked, then blushed, realizing, that I was
interpreting and centering
everything on my womanhood. He seemed to
be thoroughly aware of my state of mind. He reached
for my hand and pressed it against his heart.
"Me gustas, nibelunga," he exclaimed
dramatically, and for good measure he translated the words into
English, "I'm
passionately
attracted to you, Nibelung."
He
looked at me with the eyes of a Latin lover and then burst into
raucous laughter. "You're
convinced I have to say this to you sooner or later, so it might as
well be now."
Instead of
getting angry at being teased, I laughed. His humor gave me great
pleasure.
The only
Nibelungen I knew were from my father's German mythology books.
Siegfried
and the
Nibelungen. As far, as I could remember, they were magical, underground,
dwarfish
Beings.
"Are
you calling me a dwarf?" I asked in jest.
"God
forbid!" he protested. "I'm calling you a German mythical Being." Shortly
afterwards, as if it were the only thing we could have done, we drove
to the Santa
Susana
Mountains, to the place we had met. Neither of
us said a single word, as we sat on the cliff, overlooking
the Indian burial ground. Moved by a
pure impulse of companionship, we sat there in silence, oblivious to the afternoon
turning into night.
Chapter
7
92-93
Joe Cortez parked his van at the bottom of a hill. He came
around to open my door and with a gallant flair helped me alight
(dismount, come down) from the car. I felt
relieved, that we had finally stopped, although I couldn't imagine why.
We were in
the middle
of nowhere.
We had been
driving since early morning. The day's
heat, the flat desert, the merciless sun, and the dust of the road
were, but a
vague
memory, as I breathed in the cold, heavy night air. Agitated by
the wind, the air swirled about us like something palpable, something
alive.
There was no
moon. And the stars, incredible in number and brilliance, only seemed to intensify
our isolation. Under that uneasy splendor, the hills and the desert
stretched all
around us,
nearly invisible, full of shadows and murmuring
(low/indistinct/continuous sound) sounds. I tried to
orient myself by looking at the sky, but I didn't know how to identify
the
constellations.
"We're
facing east," Joe Cortez whispered, as if I had spoken out loud; then
patiently he
tried to
teach me the major constellations in the summer sky. I could only
remember the star Vega, because the name reminded me of a seventeenth
century
Spanish
writer, Lope de Vega. While we sat
in silence on the top of his van looking at the sky, my mind wandered through the
events of our journey.
Less, than twenty-four hours ago, while we were eating in a Japanese
restaurant in
downtown Los
Angeles, he had asked me, out of the blue, if I would accompany him to Sonora for a
few days.
"I
would love to go," I said impulsively. "The school term is over. I'm
free. When do you plan to
leave?"
"Tonight!"
he said. "In fact, right after we finish our meal." I laughed,
certain that his invitation had been a joke. "I can't leave on such
short notice," I pointed out.
"What about tomorrow?"
"Tonight,"
he insisted softly, then held out his hand to clasp mine in a formal
handshake.
Only when I
saw the delight and mischief in his eyes, did I realize, that
he wasn't saying good-bye,
but sealing an agreement. "When
decisions are made, they have to be acted upon immediately," he
pronounced,
leaving the
words, hanging in midair in front of me. Both of us stared at them, as
though we
could
indeed see their size and shape. I nodded,
hardly aware of having made the decision. The chance had been there,
outside of
me,
ready, inevitable. I didn't have to do anything to bring it about. Suddenly,
with shattering vividness, I remembered my other trip to Sonora a year
before. My
body
stiffened with fear and shock, as images - disconnected in their
sequence- stirred deep within
me.
The events of that odd trip had faded from my conscious mind so totally
and absolutely, that, only
until a moment before, it was, as if they had never taken place. But
now the
events were
as clear in my mind, as they were the day, they happened. Shivering
not with cold, but with an undefinable dread, I turned to face Joe
Cortez; ready
to tell him
about that trip. He was
staring at me with an odd intensity. His eyes were like tunnels, deep
and dark.
They absorbed my dismay (dread, apprehension, discourage,
disappoinment). But they also made the images of that trip recede (move
back). Once
the images had lost their impulse (effect), all that was left in my
mind was a trite (overused, common place, lacking originality), empty thought. I believed
at that instant, in my usual assertive (affirm, express positevely)
manner, that I couldn't tell anything to Joe Cortez,
because a true adventure always dictates its own course and the most
memorable,
exciting
events in my life had always been those, whose course I had not
interfered with.
94-95
"What do you want me to call you? Joe Cortez or Carlos Castaneda?" I
asked with
nauseating
feminine joviality (merry). His
copper-colored face crinkled up in a smile. "I'm your childhood
companion. Give me a name. I
call you nibelunga."
I
couldn't come up with a suitable name. I asked him, "Is there any order
to your names?"
"Well,"
he mused, "Joe Cortez is a cook, a gardener, a handy-man; a solicitous
(thoughtful, concerned) and thoughtful
man. Carlos Castaneda is a man from the academic world, but I don't
think, you
have met
him yet."
He looked at
me fixedly and smiled. There was something childlike and intensely
trusting
about that
smile. I
decided to
call him Joe Cortez. We spent the
night- in separate rooms- in a motel in Yuma, Arizona. After
leaving Los Angeles, all through the long drive I had worried myself
sick about the sleeping
arrangements.
I had at
moments feared, he would pounce on me, before we got to the motel. After all,
he was a strong young man, too self-confident and aggressive. I
wouldn't have
been so
worried, if he had been American or European. But because he was Latin,
I
simply knew, what his assumptions (logic) were. Accepting his
invitation to spend a few days with him
meant, that I was willing to share his bed. His
thoughtfulness and considerate behavior toward me throughout the long
drive was a
detail, that
fit perfectly, with what I thought and expected of him. He
was preparing the ground. It was late,
when we got to the motel. He went to the manager's office to see about
our
rooms. I
stayed in
the car, imagining scenario upon lurid (ghastly, vivid, glaring,
causing shock or horror) scenario. I had been
so absorbed with my fantasies, I failed to notice his return from the
office.
Hearing him
dangle a set of keys before me,
I jumped in my seat and dropped the brown paper sack,
I had been holding, unconsciously clutched against my breast. It
contained all
my
toiletries, which we had bought on the way. "I got you a
room at the back of the motel," he said. "It's away from the highway." He pointed
to the door a few steps away from us and added, "I'll sleep in this
one, close to
the street.
I'm used to sleeping through any kind of noise." He chuckled (laugh
quietly) to himself. "These were
the only two rooms, they had left."
Disappointed, I took the key from his hand. All my
scenarios fell apart. I wasn't going to have the opportunity to refuse
him. Not that
I really
wanted to do so. Yet my very soul clamored (demanded) for a victory, no
matter how small.
"I
don't see, why we have to rent two rooms," I said with studied
casualness.
My hand was
shaking, as I retrieved the toiletries on the floor and stuffed them
into the
paper sack.
What I had
said next sounded incredible to me, yet I couldn't stop myself. "The
traffic
won't let
you rest, and you need your sleep as much, as I do."
I
didn't for a moment believe, that anyone could sleep through the noise,
coming from the highway. Without
looking at him, I got out of the car, and then I heard myself propose,
"We could
sleep in the
same room - in two beds, that is." I stood
there for a moment, numbed and appalled. Never before had I done such a
thing, nor
had I
had such a schizoid reaction. I was saying
things, that I didn't mean. Or did I mean them, but didn't know, what I
felt? His
mirth put
an end to my confusion. He laughed so hard, people turned on the light
in
one of the rooms and yelled at us to shut up.
"Stay
in the same room and have you take advantage of me in the middle of the
night," he
said in
between waves of hilarity (fun). "Right after my shower. No way!"
I
blushed so intensely, my ears were burning. I wanted to die of shame. This was not
one of my scenarios. I went back
inside the car and slammed the door.
"Take me to the Greyhound bus," I hissed at
him with suppressed wrath. "Why in the hell did I come with you? I
should have
my head
examined!"
Still laughing, he opened the door and gently pulled me out. "Let's
sleep not only in the same room,
but in the same bed." He looked at
me sheepishly. "Please, let me make love to you!" he pleaded, as if he
really
meant it.
Aghast (shocked), I tore myself loose from his hold and yelled, "Not in
your fucking life!"
96-97
"There,"
he said. "This is such a fierce refusal, that I dare not insist." He reached
for my hand and kissed it. "You have refused me and put me in my place.
No
more problems. You're vindicated (clear of blame)." I turned
away from him, ready to weep. My chagrin
(annoyance, embarrassment) was not due to his unwillingness to spend
the night with me - had he expected to do so, I
truly wouldn't have known what to do- but to the fact, that he knew me
even
better, than I knew myself. I had
refused to give credence, to what I thought was his way of flattering
himself. He was able to see
through me. Suddenly, it frightened me. He moved
closer and hugged me. It was a sweet, simple embrace. As had
happened before, my turmoil vanished completely, as though it had never
existed.
I hugged him back and said yet the most incredible thing: "This is the
most exciting
adventure of
my life." I
immediately wanted to retract (take back) my statement. The
words, that had escaped, were not mine. I didn't
even know, what I meant. This was not the most exciting adventure of my
life. I had
taken
many exciting trips.
I had been around the World. My
irritation reached its peak, when he kissed me goodnight, swiftly and
softly, as one kisses a
child, and I liked it against my will. I had no will. He pushed me
down the corridor toward my room. Cursing
myself, I sat down on my bed and wept in frustration, in anger and
self-pity.
Since as far
back in life, as I could remember, I had always had my way. I was accustomed
to it. To be confused and not know, what I wanted, was a brand-new
sensation
for me and a
most unwelcome one. I slept
restlessly with my clothes on, until he banged on the door, early in
the morning, to wake me up.
We drove all
day, meandering (wander) along out-of-the-way roads. As he had
told me, Joe Cortez was indeed a solicitous man. Throughout the long
drive, he
was the
kindest, the most considerate and entertaining companion one could wish
for. He
pampered me
with food, songs and stories. He had an astonishingly deep, yet clear baritone
voice. And
he knew
all my favorite songs. Corny (sentimental) love songs from every South
American
country, all
their national anthems, old ballads, and even nursery rhymes. His stories
made me laugh, until my abdominal muscles hurt. As a storyteller, he
kept me
enraptured
(enchanted, delight completely) with every turn of his tale. He was a
born mimic. His uncanny imitation of every conceivable South American
accent - including the distinctive Portuguese of Brazil - was more,
than mimicry (imitation), it was
magic. "We'd
better
climb down from the car's roof." Joe Cortez's voice broke into my
reveries.
"It gets
cold at night in the desert."
"It's
a tough environment," I said, wishing we would get back into the van
and drive off. Ill at ease,
I watched him retrieve some bags from the car. He had bought all kinds
of
presents for the people, we were going to visit.
"Why
did you park here in the middle of nowhere?"
"You
ask the dumbest questions, nibelunga," he replied. "I parked here,
because it is here, where our
car journey ends."
"Have
we arrived at our mysterious destination, that you can't talk about?" I
asked in a
sarcastic
tone. The
only
thing, that had marred the enchanting drive, had been his refusal to
tell me, where exactly we
were going.
In a matter
of milliseconds, I became so angry with him, that I was ready to punch
him in the
nose. The
thought,
that my sudden irritability, was simply the result of a long,
exhausting day, brought me a
needed sense of relief. "I'm getting
nasty now, but I don't mean to," I said in a jovial tone, that sounded
phony even
to me. My
voice was
so strained, it revealed just, how much it cost me to hold back my
temper. It
worried me,
that I could get mad at him so easily and so quickly.
"You
really don't know how to converse," he said with a big smile. "You only
know how to
coerce."
"Oh!
I see, Joe Cortez has left. Are you going to start insulting me again,
Carlos
Castaneda?"
He chortled (joyful chucle) gaily at my remark, which wasn't meant to
be funny. "This place is not in the
middle of nowhere," he said. The city of Arizpe is nearby."
"And the U.S. border is to the north," I recited (repeat aloud). "And
Chihuahua to the east. And Los Angeles is
somewhere northwest of here."
98-99
He
shook his
head disparagingly (speak dismissively) and took the lead. Silently, we
walked through the chaparral, which I could feel more, than see, along a winding
narrow trail.
The path grew wider, as we approached a vast clearing, fenced in by
short mesquite trees. The
silhouettes of two houses could be discerned in the darkness. The
bigger of the two had lights
inside. The small dark house stood some distance away. We walked up
to the large house. Pale moths fluttered in the light, slanting through
the
windowpanes. "I have to
warn you, that the people you're going to meet, are a bit strange," he
said in a
whisper.
"Don't say anything.
Let me do the talking."
"I
always say whatever I please," I asserted. "And I don't like to be told
how to behave. I'm not a
child. Besides, my social manners are impeccable. I can assure you,
that I won't
embarrass
you."
"Get
off your high horse, goddamn it!" he hissed in a tightly controlled
voice.
"Don't
treat me like I am your wife, Carlos Castaneda," I yelled at the top of
my voice, pronouncing his last name the way I felt it ought to be
pronounced: with a tilde (mark nasal n) on the n, which I knew, he much
disliked. But he didn't get angry. It made him laugh, as he so often
did, when I expected him to explode with wrath.
He never does, I
thought, and sighed despondently (dejected, dishearted, despair). He
had the most extraordinary equanimity (even tempered, composure).
Nothing
ever seemed to ruffle him or cause him to lose his temper. Even when he
shouted, it somehow always sounded phony. Just as he was about to
knock, the door opened. A
thin man formed a black shadow in the rectangle of light. With an
impatient gesture of his arm, he
bade (direct, command) us in. We entered
a plant-filled vestibule. Swiftly, as though
afraid to show
his face, the man moved ahead
of us and, without a word of greeting, opened an inner door with rattly
(unkempt, dirty, shabby, dilapidated) glass panes
(window/door panels). We followed
him along a dark corridor and across an inside patio, where a young man, sitting on a
rush chair, was playing a guitar and singing in a soft, grief-stricken
voice. He
paused
the instant, he noticed us. He didn't return my greeting and resumed
his playing,
as we
turned a corner and went down another equally dark corridor.
"Why
is everyone so impolite?" I whispered into Joe Cortez's ear. "Are you
sure this is
the right
house?"
He
chuckled softly. "I've told you, they are eccentric," he nurmured.
"Are
you sure, you know these people?" I insisted.
"What
kind of a question is that?" he snapped in a quiet, yet menacing tone.
"Of course I
know them."
We had
reached a lighted doorway. His pupils gleamed.
"Are we going to stay here overnight?"
I asked uneasily.
"I've
no idea," he whispered in my ear and then kissed my cheek. "And please,
don't ask
any more
questions. I'm trying my best to accomplish a nearly impossible
maneuver."
"What
maneuver is that?" I whispered back. A sudden
realization made me feel anxious and uncomfortable, but also excited.
The word
maneuver had
been the clue. Seemingly
aware of my innermost feelings, he shifted the bags, he was carrying,
into one
arm and
gently took my hand and kissed it - his touch sent pleasurable shivers
throughout
my body -
and led me across the threshold. We entered a
large, dimly lit, sparsely furnished living room. It was not,
what I expected a provincial Mexican living room to look like. The
walls and
the low
ceiling were immaculately white. There wasn't a picture or a wall
decoration to
mar that
whiteness.
Against the
wall, opposite the door stood a large couch. On it sat
three elderly, elegantly dressed Women. I couldn't quite see their
faces, but in the dim light
they looked peculiarly alike - without actually resembling one another
- and
vaguely
familiar. I
was so
baffled by this, I barely noticed the two people sitting on the
spacious armchairs nearby. In my
eagerness to reach the three Women, I took an involuntary giant leap. I
had failed
to notice,
that the room had a split-level brick floor.
As I steadied myself, I noticed the beautiful
oriental rug and the Woman, sitting in one of the armchairs.
"Delia
Flores!" I exclaimed. "My God! I can't believe this!" I touched
her, for I needed to make sure, she was not a figment of my imagination. "What is
going on?"
I asked, instead of greeting her. At that same
instant I realized, that the Women on the couch were the same Women, I
had
met the previous year at the healer's house.
100-101
I stood gaping, frozen, my mind dazed with shock. A quick,
faint smile twitched the corners of their mouths, as they turned toward
the whitehaired old man,
sitting in the other armchair. "Mariano
Aureliano." My voice was, but a soft, shaky whisper. All the
energy was gone from me. I turned to
face Joe Cortez and in that same feeble voice accused him of tricking
me.
I wanted to scream at him, insult him, do him bodily harm, but I had no
strength left in me, not even
to lift my arm. I barely
realized that, like me, he stood rooted to the floor, his face ashen
(pale) with shock and bewilderment.
Mariano Aureliano rose from his chair and moved toward me, arms
extended to embrace me. "How
happy I am to see you again." His voice
was soft and his eyes shone brightly with excitement and joy. He lifted me
off the ground in a bear's hug. My body was
limp (weak). I had no strength - or desire - to reciprocate (give/take
mutually) his warm embrace. I could not say a
word. He
put me
down, and went over to greet Joe Cortez with that same effusive
(demonstrative) warmth.
Delia Flores and her friends came over, to where I stood. One by one
they embraced me and whispered something in my ear. I felt
comforted by their affectionate touches and by their soft voices, but I
didn't
understand a
thing, they said. My mind wasn't there with me. I could feel
and hear, but I couldn't make sense, of what
I felt and heard. Mariano
Aureliano gazed at me and said in a clear voice, that pierced the fog
of my mind: "You
haven't
been tricked. I told you from the beginning, that I would blow you to
him."
"So
you're..." I shook my head, unable to finish my sentence, as it finally
dawned on me, that Mariano
Aureliano was the man, Joe Cortez had told me so much about: Juan Matus, the
Sorcerer, who had changed the course of his life. I opened my
mouth to say something, but shut it again. I had the
sensation of being cut loose from my own body. My mind
couldn't accommodate any further astonishment; and then I saw Mr. Flores emerge from
the shadows. Upon realizing, that
he was the man, who had let us in, I simply passed out. When I
regained consciousness, I was lying on the couch. I felt
extraordinarily well rested and free of anxiety. Wondering how long I
had been out,
I sat up and
lifted my arm to look at my wristwatch.
"You
have been out for exactly two minutes and twenty seconds," Mr. Flores
(Don Genaro) announced, studying his
watchless wrist. He was
sitting on a leather ottoman near the couch. In a sitting position he
appeared
much taller,
than he did, standing up, for his legs were short and his torso long. "How terribly
dramatic to swoon away (faint)," he said, coming to sit beside me on
the couch:
"I'm truly
sorry, we have frightened you." His
yellow-amber eyes, shiny with laughter, belied (disguise) the genuinely
concerned tone of his voice. "And
I do apologize, for not greeting you at the door." His face
reflected a bemusement (bewilderement) bordering on fascination, as he
pulled my braid. "With your hair,
hidden under the hat, and with that heavy leather jacket I thought, you
were a boy." I stood up
and had to hold on to the couch. I was still
a bit dizzy. Uncertainly, I looked around me. The Women
were no longer in the room, and neither was Joe Cortez.
Mariano Aureliano was sitting in one of the armchairs, staring fixedly
ahead of him.
Perhaps he
was asleep with his eyes open. "When I first
saw the two of you, holding hands," Mr. Flores went on, "I was afraid,
that
Charlie Spider had turned queer (strange)." He said the
whole sentence in English. He pronounced his words beautifully and precisely
and with genuine relish (take pleasure, enjoy).
"Charlie
Spider?" I laughed at the name and at his formal English pronunciation.
"Who is he?"
"Don't
you know?" he asked, his eyes wide with genuine puzzlement.
"No,
I don't. Should I know?" He scratched
his head, perplexed by my denial, then asked, "With whom have you been holding
hands?"
"Carlos
held my hand, as we stepped into this room."
"There
you are," Mr. Flores said, gazing at me with rapt (transported with
powerful emotion) approval, as if I had resolved a particularly
difficult riddle. Then seeing
my still-mystified expression he added, "Carlos Castaneda is not only
Joe
Cortez, but he's also Charlie Spider."
102-103
"Charlie Spider," I mumbled softly. "That's a very catchy name." Of all the
three names, it was the one I liked best, no doubt, because I was
exceedingly
fond of
spiders. They didn't frighten me in the least, not even big, tropical
spiders. The
corners of
my apartment were always spotted with spider webs. Whenever I cleaned, I could not
bring myself to destroy those gauzy (transparent fabric) webs. "Why does he
call himself Charlie Spider?" I asked curiously.
"Different
names for different situations." Mr. Flores recited the answer, as if
it were a
slogan
(catch frase). The one, who should explain all this to you, is Mariano
Aureliano."
"Is
Mr. Aureliano's name also Juan Matus?" Mr. Flores
nodded emphatically (intimate understanding without words).
"It most certainly is," he said, with a broad, gleeful smile. "He
also has different names for different situations."
"How
about yourself, Mr. Flores? Do you also have different names?"
"Flores
is my only name. Genaro Flores." His tone was flirtatious. He leaned
toward me and in an insinuating (gradual introduction, suggestion)
whisper proposed, "You can call me Genarito." I shook my
head involuntarily. There was
something about him, that scared me more, than Mariano Aureliano did. On a
rational level,
I couldn't decide what it was, that made me feel this way. Outwardly,
Mr. Flores seemed much more approachable, than the other man. He was childlike,
playful, and easy-going. And yet, I didn't feel at ease with him. "The reason I
only have one name," Mr. Flores broke into my reveries, "is that I am
not a
Nagual."
"And
what is a Nagual?"
"Ah,
that's a terribly difficult thing to explain." He smiled disarmingly.
"Only Mariano
Aureliano or
Isidore Baltazar can explain that."
"Who
is Isidore Baltazar?"
"Isidore
Baltazar is the new Nagual."
"Don't
tell me any more, please," I said fretfully (agitate). Holding my
hand to my forehead, I sat down again on the couch. "You're confusing
me,
Mr. Flores, and I'm still kind of weak." I looked at
him pleadingly and asked, "Where
is Carlos?"
"Charlie Spider is spinning some spiderish dream." Mr. Flores said the
whole sentence in his extravagantly pronounced English, then chuckled
contentedly, as though he were savoring (taste, aroma, smell) a
particularly clever joke. He glanced gleefully at Mariano Aureliano -
still staring fixedly at the wall - then back at me and back
at his friend. He must have
sensed my growing apprehension, for he shrugged helplessly, held up his hands in a
resigned gesture, and said, "Carlos, also known as Isidore Baltazar,
went to
visit..."
"He
left?" My shriek made Mariano Aureliano turn to look at me. I was more
distraught (extremely agitated, crazed, mad) at being left alone with
the two old Men, than I was about learning, that Carlos
Castaneda was known by yet another name, and that he was the new Nagual, whatever
that meant.
Mariano
Aureliano rose from his chair, bowed deeply, and, holding out his hand
to help me
up, said:
"What could possibly be more delightful and rewarding for two old Men,
than
to guard you, until you awoke from your dreams?" His engaging
(pleasing, attracting) smile and his old-fashioned courtesy were
irresistible.
I relaxed
instantly.
"I can't think of anything more delightful," I cheerfully agreed and let him lead me
to a brightly lit dining room across the corridor, to an oval-shaped
mahogany
table at the
far end of the room. Gallantly,
he held out a chair for me, waited until I was comfortably seated, then
said, that
it was not
too late for supper and that he would go himself to the kitchen and
bring me
something
delicious to eat. My offer to
help him was graciously rejected. Mr. Flores,
instead of walking to the table, cart-
wheeled across the room, calculating the distance
with such precision, he landed a few inches away from the table. Grinning, he
sat beside me. His face showed no trace of exertion (effort). He wasn't
even out of
breath. "In
spite of
your denial, that you aren't an acrobat, I believe, that you and your
friends are
part of some
magic show," I said. Mr. Flores
sprang from his chair, his face crinkling (wrinkling) with mischief.
"You're absolutely right. We
are part of some magic show!" he exclaimed, reaching for one of the two earthenware
jugs standing on the long sideboard. He poured me
a cup of hot chocolate. "I make a meal of it, by eating a piece of
cheese with
it." He
cut me a slice of Manchego cheese. Together
they were superb.
104-105
I wanted seconds, but he didn't offer me any. I thought,
that a cup - and it had only been half full - was not enough. I had
always been
partial to
chocolate and could eat inordinate amounts of it without ill effects. I was
certain, that if I concentrated on my desire to have more of it, he
would be obliged to pour me
another cup, without my having to ask. I was able to do this
as a child, when I wanted
something badly enough. Greedily, I
watched him remove two extra cups and two saucers from the tall china closet. I noticed,
that between the crystal, the china, and the silverware on the shelves
stood an
odd
assortment of prehispanic clay figurines and plastic prehistoric
monsters. "This
is the
witches' house," Mr. Flores said in a conspiratorial tone, as if to
explain the
incongruity
(unbelievable) of the decor in the china closet.
"Mariano
Aureliano's wives?" I asked daringly. He didn't
answer, but gestured for me to turn around. Mariano Aureliano was
standing
right behind
me.
"The
same ones," Mariano Aureliano said cheerfully, placing a porcelain
tureen (deep dish with lid for soups) on the table. "The
same witches, who made this delicious oxtail soup." With a
silver ladle he served me a plateful and urged me to add to it a wedge
of lime and
a slice of
avocado. I
did so,
then devoured it all in a few gulps. I ate
several platefuls, until I felt physically satisfied, almost stuffed. We sat
around the table for a long time. The oxail soup had the most soothing
effect on
me. I was
at
ease. Something, that was usually very nasty in me, had been
turned off.
My whole
Being, body and spirit, was thankful, that I didn't have to use up
energy to
defend
myself. Nodding
his
head, as though silently confirming each of my thoughts, Mariano
Aureliano
watched me
with keen, amused eyes. I was about
to address him as Juan Matus, when he anticipated my intent and said,
"I'm
Juan Matus for Isidore Baltazar. For you, I
am the nagual Mariano Aureliano." Smiling,
he leaned closer and whispered in a confidential tone, "The Man, who
drove you
here, is the
new Nagual, the Nagual Isidore Baltazar. That's the name you should
use, when
you talk to
him or about him. You're not
quite asleep, but not quite awake either," Mariano Aureliano went on explaining,
"so you'll be able to understand and remember everything, we say to
you."
Seeing, that
I was about to interrupt him, he added sternly, "And tonight, you're
not going
to ask
stupid questions."
It
wasn't so much his tone, but a force, an edge to him, that was
chilling. It paralyzed my tongue; my
head, however, of its own accord, made a nodding gesture of
affirmation.
"You
have to test her," Mr. Flores reminded his friend. A definite
wicked gleam appeared in Mr. Flores' eyes, as he added, "Or better yet,
let me test
her
myself."
Mariano
Aureliano paused, a long, deliberate moment charged with ominous
possibilities, and regarded me critically, as if my features would give
him a clue to some important
secret.
Mesmerized
by his keen, piercing eyes, I didn't so much, as blink. He nodded
thoughtfully, and Mr. Flores asked me in a deep, grave tone:
"Are you in love with Isidore
Baltazar?"
And I'll be
damned, if I didn't say yes in a mechanical, unanimated voice. Mr. Flores
moved closer, until our heads almost touched, and in a whisper, that
shook with
suppressed laughter, asked, "Are you really madly, madly in love with
him?" I
said yes
again, and both men burst into loud, elated guffaws (hearty burst of
laughter).
The sound of
their laughter, bouncing around the room like ping-pong balls, finally
broke my
trance-like state.
I hooked onto the sound and pulled myself out of the spell. "What, in the
name of hell, is this," I shouted at the top of my voice. Startled,
both men jumped out of their chairs. They looked
at me, then at each other, and burst out laughing again with ecstatic abandon.
The more eloquent (persuasive, fluent, graceful in speech/writing) my
insults, the greater their mirth. There was something so infectious about their
laughter, I couldn't help, but giggle, too. As soon, as
we had all calmed down, Mariano Aureliano and Mr. Flores bombarded me with
questions. They were
particularly interested in, how and when I first met Isidore Baltazar.
Every absurd little detail overjoyed them. By the time
I had gone over the events for the fourth and fifth time, I had either
improved
and enlarged
my story with each telling, or I had remembered details, I wouldn't have dreamed, I
could remember.
106-107
"Isidore Baltazar saw through
you and through the whole thing," Mariano Aureliano
judged, when I finally finished with my various accounts. "But he
doesn't see well enough yet. He couldn't even conceive (imagine), that
I had sent you to him." He regarded me wickedly and corrected himself.
"It wasn't really I, who sent you to him. It was the Spirit. The Spirit
chose me to do its bidding, though, and I blew you to him, when you
were most powerful, in the midst of your Dreaming-Awake."
He
spoke lightly, almost listlessly (lack of Energy, indifferent). Only
his eyes conveyed the urgency of his knowledge. "Perhaps
your Dreaming-Awake Power was the reason Isidore Baltazar didn't
realize, who you were, even though he was Seeing; even though
the
Spirit let him know, the very first time he set eyes on you.
A
Display of Lights in the Fog is the Ultimate Giveaway. How stupid of
Isidore Baltazar not to see the obvious." He chuckled softly, and I
nodded in agreement, without knowing, what I was agreeing to. "That'll
show you, that to be a Sorcerer is no big deal," he continued. "Isidore
Baltazar is a Sorcerer. To be a Man of Knowledge is something else. For
that, Sorcerers have to wait sometimes a lifetime."
"What's
the difference?" I asked.
"A Man
or Woman of
Knowledge is a Leader," he explained, his voice low, subtly mysterious: "Sorcerers need Leaders to
lead us into and through the Unknown.
A Leader is revealed through his/her actions. Leaders have no price tag
on their heads, meaning, that there is no way to buy them or bribe them or cajole
(persuade by means of flattery, coax) them or mystify them." He settled more comfortably
in his chair and went on to say, that all the people in his
group had made it a point
to study Leaders throughout the ages, in order to see, if any of them fulfilled the
requirements.
"Have you found
any?"
"Some," he
admitted. "Those, we have found, could have been Naguals." He pressed
his
finger against my lips and added, "Naguals are, then, natural Leaders;
Men (and Women) of tremendous Energy, who become Sorcerers by adding
one more track to their repertoire: the Unknown. If those Sorcerers
succeed in becoming Men/Women of Knowledge, then there is practically
no limit, to what they can do."
"Can
Women--", he didn't
let me finish.
"Women, as you will learn someday, can do infinitely more complex
things, than that," he affirmed.
"Did Isidore Baltazar remind you of someone, you met before?" Mr.
Flores interrupted.
"Well,"
I began expansively, "I felt thoroughly at ease with him. "I felt, as
if I had known him all my life. He reminded me of someone, perhaps in my childhood;
a forgotten childhood friend."
"So
you really don't remember, meeting him before?" Mr. Flores interjected.
"You
mean at Esperanza's house?" I asked, wondering, whether I had seen him
at the
healer's
place and didn't recall it. He shook his
head disappointedly. Then,
apparently no longer interested in my response, he went on to ask, if I
had seen
someone,
waving at us on our way to the house.
"No,"
I said. "I didn't seen anyone, waving at us."
"Think
hard," he insisted. I told the
two men, that after Yuma, instead of going east to Nogales on Highway 8
- the most
logical
route - Isidore Baltazar headed south into Mexico, then east through
"El Gran
Desierto,"
then north again into the United States through Sonoyta, to Ajo,
Arizona, and
back into
Mexico to Caborca, where we had a most delicious lunch of beef tongue
in a
green chili sauce.
"After
getting into the car with a full stomach, I hardly paid any attention
to the road," I admitted. "I
know we passed through Santa Ana, and then we headed north again to Cananea, and
then south again. A veritable (real, actual) mess, if you ask me."
"Can't
you remember, seeing anyone on the road?" Mr. Flores insisted. "Anyone
waving at
you?" I
shut my
eyes tightly in an effort to visualize anyone, waving at us, but my
memory of
the trip was
one of stories and songs, and of physical exhaustion. And then, as
I was about to open my eyes, the image of a man flashed before me. I told them,
that I vaguely recalled, there had been a young man in the outskirts of
one of
those towns,
who, I thought, was trying to catch a ride.
"He might have waved at us," I said. "But I'm not sure." Both Men
chuckled like children trying hard not to give away a secret.
108-109
"Isidore
Baltazar wasn't too sure of finding us," Mariano Aureliano remarked
gleefully. "That's why he followed this outlandish (bizarre, absurd)
route. He followed the Sorcerers' path; the coyote trail."
"Why
wouldn't he be sure of finding you?" I interrupted.
"He
didn't know whether he would find us, until he saw the young Man waving
at him," Mariano Aureliano explained. "That young Man is a sentry
(guard, usually a soldier, watch) from the Other World. His waving was
a sign, it was all right to continue. Isidore Baltazar should have
known
then, who you really were, but he is very much like you; extremely
cautious. And when he's not cautious, he's extremely reckless
(careless, wild, uncontrolled)." He
paused for a moment to let the words sink in, then added meaningfully,
"Moving between those two points is the surest way to miss the boat.
Cautiousness blinds as surely, as recklessness."
"I
can't understand the logic of all this," I murmured wearily (exhausted,
tired).
Mariano Aureliano elucidated (clarify):
"Whenever Isidore Baltazar
brings a guest, he has to heed (pay attention, listen, consider) the
sentry's signal, before he can continue on his journey."
"Once he brought a girl, he was in love with." Mr. Flores chuckled,
closing his eyes, as if transported by his own memory of the girl: "A
tall, dark-haired girl. Strong girl. Big feet. Nice face. He drove all
over Baja California, and the sentry never let him through."
"Do
you mean, he brings his girlfriends?" I asked with morbid (gruesome)
curiosity. "How many has he brought?"
"Quite
a few," Mr. Flores said candidly (without pretence): "He did that, of
course, entirely on his own. Your case is different," he pointed out.
"You're not his girlfriend. You were just coming back. Isidore Baltazar
nearly croaked (die), when he found out, he was so stupid to miss all
the indications of the Spirit. He was merely your chauffeur. We were
waiting for you."
What
would have happened, if the sentry hadn't been there?"
"What
always occurs, when Isidore Baltazar comes accompanied," Mariano
Aureliano replied: "He wouldn't have found us, because it's not up to
him to choose, whom to bring into the Sorcerers' World."
His
voice was enticingly (lure, attractive) soft, as he added, "Only those,
the Spirit has pointed out, may knock on our door, after
they have been ushered (lead) into it by one of us."
I
was about to interrupt, then remembering his admonition (caution,
warn), that I wasn't to ask stupid questions, I quickly pressed my hand
against my mouth. Grinning appreciatively, Mariano Aureliano went on to
say, that in my case Delia had brought me into their World. "She's one
of the two columns, so to speak, that make the door of our door. The
other one is Clara. You'll meet her soon." There
was genuine admiration in his eyes and in his voice, as he went on to
say,
"Delia crossed the border just to bring you home. The border is an
actual fact, but Sorcerers use it symbolically. You were on the other
side and had to be brought here, to this side. Over on the other side
is the Daily World, here on this side is the World of Sorcerers. Delia
ushered (lead) you in smoothly; a real professional job. It was in
impeccable (faultless, not to be doubted) maneuver, that you will
appreciate more and more, as time passes."
Mariano
Aureliano half-rose from his chair and reached for the porcelain
compote (fruit, cooked in syrup) on the sideboard. He placed it
in front of me. "Help yourself. They're delicious." Enraptured,
I gazed at the pulpy (soft, moist mass) dry apricots on the
hand-painted dish, then tried one. They were
more, than wonderful.
I put three in my mouth. Mr. Flores
winked at me. "Go ahead," he urged me. "Put all of them in your mouth,
before we
take the
plate away."
I blushed
and tried to apologize with a mouth full of apricots.
"Don't
apologize!" Mariano Aureliano exclaimed. "Be yourself, but be yourself
in
control. If
you want
to finish the apricots, then finish them, and that should be all there
is to it.
What you
should never do is finish them, and then feel sorry, you did."
"Well,
I'll finish them," I said. And that made them laugh.
"Do
you know, that you met Isidore Baltazar last year?" Mr. Flores said. He was
balancing so precariously (lacking in stability) on his tilted chair, I
feared, he would fall backwards and crash into
the china closet. A wicked
glint (glance, flash, sparkle) of delight dawned (emerge) in Mr.
Flores' eyes, as he began to hum a well-
known
ranchero (rancher) song. Instead of the words, that went with it, he
made up a little ditty (simple song, composition), that told the story of
Isidore Baltazar, a famous cook in Tucson.
A cook, who never lost his cool, not even when he
was accused of putting dead cockroaches in the food.
110-111
"Oh!"
I exclaimed. "The cook! The cook in the coffee shop was Isidore
Baltazar! But that can't be
true," I mumbled. "I don't think, he would..." I stopped myself in
midsentence.
I kept
staring at Mariano Aureliano, hoping to discover something in his face,
in that
aquiline
nose, in those piercing eyes. I shook
involuntarily,
as if I were suddenly chilled. There was something savage in his cold eyes.
"Yes?"
he prompted (quick to
respond) me. "You
don't think, he would...?" he urged me with a movement of his head to
finish my sentence. I was going
to say, inanely (foolishly), that I didn't think Isidore Baltazar could
lie to me so
despicably
(mean, vile). I couldn't quite bring myself to say it, though. Mariano
Aureliano's eyes became even harder, but I was too upset; too sorry for
myself to
feel
frightened.
"So,
I was tricked after all," I finally blurted out, glowering (ruddy
flushed) at him. "Isidore Baltazar knew all
along, who I was. It's all a game."
"It's
all a game," Mariano Aureliano readily agreed. "A marvelous game,
though. The
only game,
worth playing." He paused,
as if to give me time to complain some more. But before I
had a chance to do so, he reminded me of the wig, he had pulled over my hair. "If you
didn't recognize Isidore Baltazar - who wasn't disguised - what makes
you think,
that he
recognized you in your poodle outfit?" Mariano
Aureliano kept watching me. His eyes had lost their hardness. Now they
were
sad, weary (tired). "You weren't
tricked. You weren't even enticed (lure, attract). Not that I wouldn't
do so, if I deemed (judge, consider, think) it necessary,"
he noted in a light, soft tone: "I told you,
what was what, from the beginning. You have
witnessed stupendous events; still you haven't noticed them. As most
people do,
you associate sorcery with bizarre behavior, rituals, drugs,
incantations." He leaned
closer and lowered his voice to a mere whisper, then added, that true
Sorcery was
a most
subtle and exquisite manipulation of perception.
"True
sorcery," Mr. Flores interjected, "does not allow for human
interference."
"But Mr. Aureliano claims, that he blew me to Isidore Baltazar," I
pointed out with immature
impertinence (irrelevance). "Isn't that interfering?"
"I'm
a Nagual," Mariano Aureliano said simply. "I'm the Nagual Mariano
Aureliano, and the fact,
that I am the Nagual, enables me to manipulate perception."
I had
paid close attention to his words, but I didn't have the vaguest idea,
what he meant
by
Manipulating Perception. Out of sheer nervousness, I reached for the
last dry apricot on the
plate. "You're
going
to get sick," Mr. Flores said. "You're so tiny, and you're such a super
pain
in the... eye."
Mariano
Aureliano came to stand behind me, then pressed my back in such a way:
it made me
cough up
the last apricot, I had had in my mouth.
Chapter 8
112-113
At this point, the sequence of events, as I remember it, becomes
blurry. I don't know, what happened
next. Perhaps, I fell asleep and wasn't aware of it, or perhaps, the
pressure
Mariano
Aureliano exerted (exercised) on my back was so great, that I passed
out.
When I came to my senses again, I was lying on a mat on the floor.
I opened my eyes and instantly became conscious of the intense
brightness around me. There seemed
to be sunlight in the room. I blinked
repeatedly, wondering whether there was something wrong with my eyes. I couldn't
focus them. "Mr.
Aureliano," I called out. "There seems to be something wrong with my
eyes."
I
tried to sit up, but couldn't. It wasn't
Mr. Aureliano or Mr. Flores, who was standing by my side. A Woman was
there. She
was
leaning over me blotting (cancel) out the brightness, so to speak. Her black
hair hung loosely down her sides and shoulders. She had a round face
and an
imposing
(grand) bust.
Again I
tried to sit up.
She didn't touch me, yet I knew, that somehow she was holding me down.
"Don't
call him Mr. Aureliano," she said. "Or Mariano either. That's very
disrespectful of you: "Call him
Nagual, and when you talk about him, call him the Nagual Mariano
Aureliano.
He likes his
full name." Her voice was melodious. I liked her. I felt
feisty (touchy, spirited). I wanted to ask her, why all the nonsense
about being disrespectful. I had
heard Delia and all the other Women call him the most ridiculous pet
names and fuss over him, as if he were their favorite doll. He
certainly had enjoyed every minute of it. But I couldn't remember, when
and where I had witnessed that. "Do
you understand?" the Woman asked. I wanted to say yes, but I didn't
have a voice. I tried, to no avail, to open my mouth and say something.
When she insisted on knowing, if I had understood, all I could do was
nod. She offered me her hand to help me up. Before she touched me, I
was up, as if my desire to rise had superseded the actual contact with
her hand and had pulled me into a sitting position, before she did.
Astonished by this occurrence, I wanted to ask her about it, but I
could barely keep myself upright. And, as for talking, words simply
refused to come out of my mouth. She stroked my hair repeatedly.
Obviously, she was thoroughly aware of my plight (situation, dilemma).
She smiled kindly and said: "You're Dreaming." I
didn't hear her say that, but I knew, that her words had moved directly
from her mind into mine. She nodded and told me, that, indeed, I could
hear her thoughts and that she could hear mine. She assured me, that
she was like a figment (something imaginary, fabrication) of my
imagination, yet she could act with me or upon me. "Pay
attention!" she commanded me. "I'm not moving my lips, and yet I am
talking to you. Do the same." Her
mouth didn't move at all. Wondering, whether I could feel a movement in
her lips, when she silently enunciated her words, I wanted to
press my fingers against her mouth. She was, actually, very
good-looking, but menacing. She reached for my hand and pressed it
against her smiling lips. I didn't feel a thing.
"How
can I talk without my
lips?" I thought.
"You have a hole
between your legs," she said directly into my mind. "Focus your attention on it. The pussy
talks." That remark
hit a funny chord in me. I laughed so hard, I lost my breath and
blacked out
again. The
Woman
shook me awake. I was still
on the same mat on the floor, but I was propped up with a thick cushion
behind my
back. I
blinked
and shuddered (tremble, shake), then drew a long breath and looked at
her. She was sitting on the floor
beside me.
114-115
"I'm
not given to fainting," I said and surprised myself by being able to
utter the words. The sound of
my own voice was so reassuring, that I laughed out loud and repeated the same
sentence several times.
"I
know, I know," she appeased (soothe) me. "Don't worry, you're not quite
awake anyway. I am Clara. We
have already met at Esperanza's." I should
have protested or asked her, what she meant. Instead, without doubting
for an
instant, I
accepted, that I was still asleep and that we had met at Esperanza's. Memories,
foggy thoughts, visions of people, of places, began to emerge slowly. A clear
thought popped into my mind: I had dreamt once, that I met her. It was
a dream.
Thus, I
never had thought about it in terms of real events. The moment, I
hooked onto that realization,
I remembered Clara.
"Of
course, we've met," I said triumphantly. "But we met in a dream, so you
are not real.
I must be
Dreaming now, therefore I can remember you."
I
sighed, content, that it could all be explained so easily, and relaxed
against the thick pillow. Another
clear memory of a dream popped into my mind. I couldn't recall exactly,
when I had
dreamt
this dream, but I remembered it as clearly, as if the event had
actually taken place. In
it, Delia had introduced me to Clara. Delia had
described Clara, as the most gregarious (sociable) of the
Women-Dreamers.
"She actually
has friends,
who adore her," Delia had confided in me. The Clara of
that dream was quite tall, strong, and rotund (rounded, plump, fat). She had
observed me insistently, as one observes a member of an unknown
species, with
careful eyes
and nervous smiles. And yet, in
spite of her demanding scrutiny,
I had liked her immensely. Her eyes were speculating
(engage in risk), smiling and green. What I remembered best, about her
intense
watchfulness, was, that
she had looked at me with the unblinking stare of a cat.
"I
know, this is just a Dream, Clara," I repeated, as if I needed to
reassure myself.
"No.
This is not just a Dream, it's a special Dream," Clara contradicted me
forcefully: "You're
wrong to entertain such
thoughts. Thoughts have Power. Be watchful of them."
"You're
not real, Clara," I insisted, in a strained, high-pitched voice.
"You're a dream. That's why I
can't remember you, when I am awake."
My
stubborn persistence made Clara chuckle (laugh quietly). "You have
never tried to remember me," she finally
explained. "There was no point in it, no reason for it. "We, Women, are excruciatingly
practical. Our great flaw or our great asset."
I was about to ask her, what the practical aspect of remembering her
now was, when she anticipated
my question.
"Since I am
in front of you, you need to remember me. And you do." She bent lower
and,
fixing me with her catlike stare, added, "And you won't forget me
anymore. "The Sorcerers, who reared
me, told me, that Women need two of anything, in order to solidify it. Two sights of
something, two readings, two frights, etc. You and I have now met
twice. Now I am solid and real."
To
prove how real she was, she pushed up the sleeves of her blouse and
flexed her
biceps.
"Touch them," she urged me. Giggling, I
did. She indeed had hard, powerfully defined muscles. They felt as
real, as
anything.
She also made me touch the muscles of her thigh and calf.
"If
this is a special Dream," I said cautiously, what do I do in this
Dream?"
"Anything
your heart desires," she said. "You're doing fine so far. I cannot
guide you, though, for I am not your Dreaming Teacher. I am simply a
fat witch,
who actually takes care of the other witches. It was my
partner, Delia, who delivered you into the Sorcerers' World, just like
a midwife. But she was not the one,
who first found you. Florinda did."
"Who
is Florinda?" I giggled uncontrollably. "And when did she find me?"
"Florinda
is another witch," Clara said matter-of-factly, then began to giggle
too. "You met her. She's the one, who took you into her Dream in
Esperanza's house.
Do you remember the picnic?"
"Ah,"
I sighed appreciatively. "You mean the tall Woman with the husky
voice?" A radiance filled me. I had always admired tall Women.
116-117
"The tall Woman with the husky voice," Clara confirmed: "She found you
a couple of years ago at a party, you attended with your boyfriend; a
plush (luxurious) dinner in Houston, Texas, at the house of an oilman."
"What
would a witch be doing at a party in an oilman's house?" I asked. Then
the full impact of her claim hit me. I was dumbstruck (unable to speak
through shock). Although I didn't remember seeing Florinda, I certainly
did recall the party. I had gone with a friend, who flew in his private
jet from Los Angeles, just to attend that party and flew back the next
day. I was his translator. There had been several Mexican businessmen
at that party, who didn't speak English. "Jesus!" I exclaimed under
my breath. "What a weird turn of events!" In
great detail I described the party to Clara. It was the first time I
had been to Texas. Like some star-struck movie fan, I ogled (gaze,
stare at) the men, not because they were handsome, but because they
looked so outlandish (bizarre) to me in their Stetson hats,
pastel-colored suits, and cowboy boots. The oilman had hired
entertainers. They had staged a variety show,
worthy of Las Vegas, in a nightclub grotto, built especially for the
occasion. It throbbed (vibrate, pulsate, pound, beat violently) with
loud music and strobe lights. And the food had been superb. "But why would Florinda
attend such a party?" I asked.
"The
World of Sorcerers is the strangest thing there is," Clara said by way
of an answer. She jumped up, like an acrobat, from a sitting position
to a standing one, without using her arms. She paced about
the
room, back and forth in front of my mat. She looked formidable
(awe-inspiring, awesome, admirable) in her full, dark skirt, her cowboy
denim (jeans fabric) jacket - colorfully embroidered in the back - and
her sturdy (strong, durable) cowboy boots. An Australian hat, pulled
low over her brow, as if to protect her from the noon-day sun, added
the
last touch to her eccentric, outlandish appearance. "How do you like my
outfit?" she asked, pausing in front of me. Her face was radiant.
"It's great," I
gushed. She certainly had the flair, the confidence to carry off any
kind of outfit. "It's really cool."
She
kneeled beside me on the mat and in a confidential whisper said, "Delia
is green with envy. We are always in competition to see, who comes up
with the nuttiest getup (outfit, costume). It has to be crazy without being
stupid. She
was silent for a moment, and her eyes watched me, considering. "You're
welcome to compete," she offered. "Do you want to join us in our game?" I nodded
emphatically, and she spelled out the rules for me. "Originality, practicality, low price,
and no self-importance," she rattled off (perform/utter
effortlessly). Then she
rose again and twirled (circled) a few more times around the room. Laughing,
she collapsed beside me and said, "Florinda thinks, I should encourage
you to
participate.
She says, that in that party, she found out, that you had a touch for
thoroughly
practical
outfits."
She could
barely finish the sentence. She was overcome by a great burst of
giggles.
"Did
Florinda talk to me there?" I asked and gazed at her slyly, wondering,
whether she
would tell
me, what I had omitted from my account; information, that I wasn't
going to
volunteer.
Clara shook
her head, then gave me a distracted smile, meant to deflect further
questions
about the
party. "How
did
Delia happen to be at the baptism in Nogales, Arizona?" I asked,
shifting the
conversation
to the events of the other party.
"Florinda
sent her there," Clara admitted, tucking all her loose hair into her
Australian
hat. "She
crashed the party by telling everyone, that she had come with you."
"Wait
a minute!" I interrupted her. "This is no Dream. What are you trying to
do to me?"
"I'm
trying to instruct you," Clara insisted, without altering her air of
indifference.
Her tone was
even, almost casual. She didn't seem to be interested in the effect,
her words
were having
on me. Yet she watched me carefully, as she added, "This is a Dream,
and we are
certainly talking in your Dream, because I am also Dreaming your Dream." That her
outlandish (bizarre) statements were enough to appease (soothe) me was
proof, that I was Dreaming. My mind
became calm, sleepy, and capable of accepting the situation. I heard
myself speak, a voice detached from my volition.
"There is no way Florinda could have known
about my driving to Nogales," I said. "My girlfriend's invitation was accepted on
the spur of the moment."
118-119
"I
knew, that this would be incomprehensible to you," Clara sighed. Then,
looking into my eyes and weighing her words carefully, she declared, "Florinda is your mother
more, than any mother you ever had." I found her statement
preposterous, but I couldn't say a word. "Florinda
feels you," Clara continued. She had a devilish glint in her eyes, as
she added, "There is a homing device she uses. She knows, wherever you
are."
"What
homing device?" I asked, my mind suddenly completely in control. The
thought, that someone might know at all times, what I was up to, filled
me with dread.
"Her
feelings for you are a homing device," Clara said with beautiful
simplicity and in a tone so soft and harmonious, that it made my
apprehension vanish.
"What
feelings for me, Clara?"
"Who knows, child?" she said
wistfully. She drew her legs up, wrapped her arms around them, and
rested her chin on her knees. "I've never had a daughter like this." My mood
changed abruptly from amusement back to apprehension. In the rational, thought-out
manner, that was my style, I began to worry about the subtle
implications of Clara's
statement.
And it was
precisely my rational deliberations (thoughtful, lengthy
consideration), that again turned on my doubts. This
couldn't possibly be a Dream. I was awake. My concentration
was too keen for me to be otherwise. Sliding down
the cushion, propped against my back, I half closed my eyes. I kept
watching Clara through my lashes, wondering, whether she would slowly
fade
away, as people and scenes fade away in dreams. She didn't.
I felt momentarily reassured, that I was awake and so was Clara. "No, we're
not awake," she contradicted me, again intruding into my thoughts.
"I
can speak," I said by way of validating my state of total
consciousness.
"Big
deal!" she cackled. "Now I am going to do something, that will wake you
up, so that
you can
continue the conversation, while you are really awake."
She enunciated the last word with
great care, drawing it out in an exaggerated fashion. "Wait. Wait,
Clara," I pleaded. "Give me time to adjust to all his." I preferred my uncertainty,
to what she might do to me. Impervious
(not affected, not influenced) to my pleading, Clara rose and reached
for the pitcher of water, standing on a low table
nearby.
Still
giggling, she hovered over me, holding the pitcher over my head. I tried to
roll to the side, but I was not able to do so. My body wouldn't obey
me; it
seemed to be
glued to the mat. Before she
actually poured the water over me, I felt a cold, soft sprinkle on my
face. The
coldness, rather than the wetness, produced a most peculiar sensation.
It first blurred Clara's
face, looming over me, the way ripples distort the surface of water. Then the
coldness centered itself on my stomach and pulled me inward, like a
sleeve,
that's
pulled inside out. My last
thought was, that I was going to drown in a pitcher of water. Bubbles
upon
bubbles of darkness spun me around, until everything went black. When I came
to myself again, I was no longer lying on the mat on the floor, but on
the
couch in the living room. Two Women
were standing at the foot of the couch, staring at me with wide,
curious eyes.
Florinda,
the tall, white-haired Woman with the husky voice, was sitting beside
me,
humming an old lullaby - or so it seemed to me - and caressing my hair,
my face, my arms, with great
tenderness.
Her touch
and the sound of her voice held me down. I just lay
there, my unblinking eyes fixed on hers, certain I was having one of my
vivid
Dreams,
which always began as Dreams and ended up as nightmares. Florinda was
speaking to me. She was telling me to look into her eyes. Her words
moved soundlessly, like the wings of butterflies. But
whatever,
I saw in her eyes, filled me with a familiar feeling - the irrational,
abject (mean, miserable, wretched) terror, I
experienced in my nightmares. I jumped up
and bolted straight for the door. It was the automatic, animal's
reaction, I had always had
in a nightmare.
"Don't
be frightened, my darling," the tall Woman said, coming after me.
"Relax. We are all here to help you. There is no need to be so upset.
You'll hurt your little body, by subjecting it to unnecessary fright."
120-121
I had
stopped by the door,
not because she had persuaded me to stay,
but because I couldn't open the damn thing. Frantically (wildly,
uncontrolled, mad), I pulled and pushed the door. It didn't budge
(alter position/attitude). The tall Woman was just behind me. My
trembling increased. I shook so hard, that my body ached, and my heart
beat so loudly and erratically (wandering, straying, lacking
regularity), I knew it would burst through my chest. "Nagual!"
the tall Woman called out, turning her head over her shoulder. "You'd
better do something. She's going to die of fright." I
didn't see, to whom she was talking, but in my wild search for an
escape,
I saw a second door at the other end of the room. I was certain,
I had enough energy, left in me, to make a dash for it, but my legs
gave
in on me. As if life had already abandoned my body. I sank to the
floor. My last
breath escaped from
me.
The Woman's long arms swooped down on me like a great eagle's wings.
She held me,
put her mouth to mine, and breathed air into me. Slowly, my body relaxed.
My heartbeat returned to normal. I was filled with a
strange peace, that quickly turned into a wild excitement. It wasn't fear, that
filled me with wildness, but her breath. It was hot. It scorched me, my throat, my lungs, my
stomach, my groin; moving all the way to my hands and my feet. In a flash, I
knew, that the Woman was exactly like me, only taller, as
tall, as I would have liked
to be. I felt such love
for her,
that
I
did something outlandish. I kissed her passionately. I felt
her
lips widen into a smile. Then she threw her head back and laughed. "This
little rat kissed
me,"
she said, turning to the others.
"I'm
Dreaming!" I exclaimed, and they all laughed with childlike abandon. At first I
couldn't help, but laugh, too. Within moments, however, I was my usual
self-
embarrassed,
after one of
my impulsive acts, and angry at having been caught. The tall Woman embraced me.
"I'm Florinda," she said, she
lifted me up and cradled
me in her arms, as if I were a baby: "You and I are the same," she went
on. "You're as petite, as I would have liked to be. It's a great disadvantage to be tall. Noone
can ever cradle you. I'm five ten."
"I'm
five two," I confessed, and we both laughed, because we understood each
other to
perfection.
I was short on the second inch, but always rounded it up. I was certain Florinda was
closer to five eleven, but rounded it down to ten. I kissed her
cheeks and her eyes. I loved her with a love, that was incomprehensible
to
me.
It was a feeling, untainted by doubt, dread or expectation. It was the
love one feels in Dreams. Seemingly,
in complete agreement with me, Florinda chuckled softly. The elusive
light in her eyes, the ghostly whiteness of her hair, was like some
forgotten
memory. I
felt, as
if I had known her from the day, I was born. It occurred
to me, that children, who liked their mothers, must be lost children.
Filial (parental) love, coupled
with admiration for the mother's physical being, must result in a sense
of total
love, like
the love I felt for this tall, mysterious Woman. She put me
down.
"This is Carmela," she said, turning me toward a beautiful, dark-eyed, dark-haired
Woman. Her features delicate, and her skin was flawless. She had the
smooth,
creamy
pallor (unnatural paleness) of someone, who stays much indoors.
"I
only take moon baths," she whispered in my ear, as she embraced me.
"You ought to do the same.
You're too fair to be out in the Sun. You're ruining your skin."
It
was her voice, more, than anything else, that I recognized. She was the
same Woman, who
had asked
me all those direct, personal questions at the picnic.
I remembered her in a sitting position: she had seemed small and frail.
To my surprise, she was
three or four inches taller, than I. Her powerful, muscular body made
me feel
insignificant in comparison. With her arm
draped around my shoulder, Florinda guided me toward the second Woman, who had been
standing beside the couch, when I awoke. She was
muscular and tall, but not as tall, as Florinda. She wasn't
conventionally beautiful: her features
were too strong for that, yet there was something striking, thoroughly attractive
about her, including the faint shadow of fine hair on her upper lip,
which she
obviously
didn't bother to wax or bleach.
I sensed a tremendous force in her, an agitation, that was
completely under control, yet still there.
122-123
"This
is Zoila," Florinda said to me. Zoila made
no motion to either shake my hand or to embrace me. Carmela
laughed and spoke for Zoila:
"I'm very happy to see you again." Zoila's
mouth curved in the loveliest of smiles, showing white, large, even
teeth. As her
long,
slender hand, glinting with jeweled rings, brushed my cheek, I
realized, she was the one, whose
face had been hidden under a mass of scraggly (ragged, unkept) hair.
She was the one, who had sewn the
Belgian lace around the canvas cloth, we had sat on during the picnic. The three
Women surrounded me and made me sit on the couch.
"The
first time we met you, you were Dreaming," Florinda said. "So we really
didn't have
time to
interact.
This time,
however, you're awake, so tell us about yourself." I was about
to interrupt her and say, that this was a dream and, that during the
picnic,
whether
asleep or awake, I had told them everything, worth knowing about
myself. "No,
no.
You're wrong," Florinda said, as if I had spoken my thoughts out loud.
"You're
completely
awake now.
And what we
want to know is, what you've done since our last meeting. Tell us specifically
about Isidore Baltazar."
"You
mean, this is not a dream?" I asked timidly.
"No.
This is not a dream," she assured me. "You were Dreaming a few minutes
ago, but
this is
different."
"I
don't see the difference."
"That's,
because you're a good Dreamer," she explained. "Your nightmares are
real. You
said that
yourself."
My whole
body tensed up; and then, as though it knew, that it couldn't withstand
another
attack of
fright, it gave up. My body abandoned itself to the moment. I repeated
to them, what I had already told and retold Mariano Aureliano and Mr.
Flores earlier. This time, however, I remembered details, I had
altogether overlooked before, such as the
two sides of Isidore Baltazar's face; the two simultaneous moods he
showed, that were plainly revealed in his eyes. The left one was
sinister, menacing. The right one was friendly, open. "He's a dangerous Man," I
maintained, carried away by my observations. "He has a
peculiar Power to move events, in whatever direction he pleases, while
he remains outside, watching you quirk (twist)." The
Women were enthralled (captivated,
charmed),
by what I was saying. Florinda signaled me to continue. "What makes
people so vulnerable to his charm is, that he is a generous Man," I
went
on. "And generosity is perhaps the only virtue, that none of us (Women)
can resist, because we are dispossessed (physically or spiritually
homeless or deprived of security), regardless of our background." Realizing,
what I had said, I stopped abruptly and gazed at them, aghast
(shocked): "I
don't
know, what has come upon me," I muttered in an attempt to apologize. "I
truly don't
know,
why I said that, when I haven't thought about Isidore Baltazar in those
terms
myself.
It's not me
talking. I'm not even capable of, making those kinds of judgments."
Florinda
said, "Never mind, child, where you get these thoughts. Obviously you're plugging into The Source
itself (The Source
of All Suns! LM).
Everybody does that: plugs
into The Source itself, but it takes a Sorcerer to be aware of it." I didn't
understand, what she was trying to tell me. I restated, that I had no
intention of
shooting off
(discharge, go off) my big mouth. Florinda
giggled and regarded me for a few moments thoughtfully. "Act, as if you
were in a
Dream. Be
daring
and don't apologize," she said. I felt
stupid, incapable of analyzing, what I felt. Florinda
nodded, as if in agreement, then turned to her companions and said,
"Tell her
about us."
Carmela
cleared her throat and, without looking at me, said: "The three of us
and Delia make a unit. We deal with the Daily World." I hung on her
every word, but
I
didn't understand her at all. "We're the unit of Sorceresses, who deal
with people," Carmela clarified: "There is another unit of four Women,
who don't deal with people at all." She took my hand in hers and
examined my palm - as if she were to read my fortune - then closed it
gently into a fist and added:
124-125
"You're just like us in general. That is, you can deal with people. And
you're like Florinda, in particular." Again she paused, and, with a
dreamy look on her face,
she repeated, what Clara had already told me. "It was Florinda, who
found you," she said. "Therefore, while you remain
in the World of Sorcerers, you belong to her. She'll guide you and look
after you." Her tone carried such a great certainty, that it threw me
into genuine worry.
"I
don't belong to anyone," I said. "And I don't need anyone to look after
me." My voice was strained, unnatural, uncertain. Silently, the Women
watched me, bemused smiles on their faces. "Do you think I need
guidance?" I asked defiantly, gazing from one to the other. Their eyes
were half closed, their lips parted in those same contemplative
(consider thoroughly) smiles. The imperceptible nods of their chins
clearly indicated, that they were waiting for me to finish, what I had
to say. "I think, I do very well in life on my own," I finished lamely
(weakly).
"Do
you remember, what you did at the party, where I found you?" Florinda
asked me. As I stared at her in amazement, Carmela whispered in my ear:
"Don't worry, you can always find a way to explain anything." Florinda
waved a finger at me, not in the slightest disturbed. Panic crept over
me at the thought, that they might know, that I had walked naked in
that party in front of dozens of people. Until that moment, I had been,
if not proud of my outlandish (bizarre) behavior, at least acceptant of
it. To my way of thinking, what I did at that party, was a
manifestation of my spontaneous personality. First, I had taken a long
horseback ride with the host, in my evening gown without a saddle, to
show him - after he dared me and bet, I couldn't do it - that I was as
good on horseback, as any cowboy. I had an uncle in Venezuela, who had
a stud farm, and I had been on a horse, since I was a toddler. Upon
winning the bet, dizzy from the exertion (effort) and alcohol, I took a
plunge in his giant pool - in the nude.
"I
was there by the pool, when you went in naked," Florinda said,
obviously privy to (concealed, secret) my recollection (memory). "You
brushed me with your naked buttocks. You shocked everyone, including
me. I liked your daring. Above all, I liked, that you walked naked all
the way from the other side of the pool just to brush against me. I
took that, as an indication, that the Spirit was pointing you out to
me."
"It can't be true," I mumbled. "If you had been at that party, I would
have remembered you. You're too tall and striking-looking, to be
overlooked." It wasn't meant, as a compliment: I wanted to convince
myself, that I was being tricked, manipulated.
"I
liked the fact, that you were killing yourself, just to show off,"
Florinda went on: "You were a clown, eager to draw attention to
yourself at any cost, especially, when you jumped on a table
and danced
for a moment, shaking your buttocks shamelessly, while the host yelled
his head off." Instead of
embarrassing me, her remarks filled me with an incredible sense of ease
and
delight. I
felt
liberated. The secret was out, the secret I had never dared to admit,
that I was a
show-off,
who would do anything to get attention. A new mood
overtook me, definitely more humble, less defensive. I feared,
however, that such a mood wouldn't last. I knew, that any insights and realizations
I had arrived at in dreams, had never survived. But perhaps
Florinda was right and this was no dream, and my new frame of mind would endure
(bear, remain, last, undergo, put up with). Seemingly
cognizant of my thoughts, the three Women nodded emphatically. Instead of
feeling encouraged by their agreement, it only revived my uncertainties. As I had
feared, my insightful mood was short-lived. Within moments I was
burning with
doubts; and
I wanted a respite (postponement, relief).
"Where
is Delia?" I asked.
"She's
in Oaxaca," Florinda said, then added pointedly, "She was here just to
greet you."
I had
thought, that if I changed the subject, I would get a respite and have
a chance to
recuperate
my strength.
Now I was
facing something, I had no resources to deal with. I couldn't
accuse Florinda outright - as I would normally have done with anybody -
of
telling lies, in order to manipulate me. I couldn't
tell her, that I suspected, they had made me groggy (unsteady, dazed,
weak) and had taken me from room to room,
while I was unconscious.
"What
you say is
really preposterous (contrary to common sense), Florinda," I chided
(scold, reprimand). "I can't believe, that you expect me to take
you seriously."
Chewing
the inside of my lip, I stared at her long and hard. "I know, that
Delia is hiding in one of the
rooms."
126-127
Florinda's
eyes seemed to tell me, she understood my quandary (dilemma,
predicament, state of uncertainty/perplexity).
"You
have no other option, except to take me seriously," she said. Though
her tone was
mild, it was
final. I
turned to
the other two Women, hoping for some kind of an answer, anything, that
would ease
my
growing apprehension.
"If
someone else guides you, it's actually very easy to Dream," Carmela
confided: "The only drawback is, that that someone else has to be a
Nagual."
"I've
been hearing all along about a Nagual," I said. "What is a Nagual?
"A
Nagual is a Sorcerer of Great Power, who can lead other Sorcerers
through and out of the darkness. But the Nagual himself told you all
that a while ago. Don't you remember?" Carmela
explained.
Florinda
interceded (act as a mediator in dispute), as my body contorted
(twisted, strained out of shape, bent upon itself) in an effort to
remember. "Events,
we live in
everyday life, are easy to recall. We have plenty of practice in doing
that. But events, lived in Dreams, are another story. We have to
struggle very hard to bring them back, simply because the body stores
them in different places. With Women, who don't have your somnambulist
(sleep-walking) brain," she pointed out, "Dreaming instructions begin
by making them draw a map of their bodies: a painstaking job, that
reveals, where the visions of Dreams are stored in their bodies."
"How
do you draw this map, Florinda?" I asked, genuinely intrigued.
"By
systematically tapping
every inch of your body," she said: "But I can't tell you
more. I'm your mother, not your Dreaming teacher. Now, she recommends a small wooden
mallet (short-handled hammer with a wooden head) for the actual
tapping. And she also recommends to tap only the legs and
hips. Very rarely, the body stores those memories in the chest or belly. What's stored in
the chest, back, and belly are the memories of everyday life. But that's another matter. All that concerns you now
is, that remembering Dreams has to do with physical pressure on the Specific Spot,
where that vision is stored. For instance, if you push
your vagina by putting pressure on your clitoris, you'll remember, what
Mariano Aureliano told you," she finished
with a kind of simple cheerfulness.
I
stared at her aghast shocked, then burst into nervous, fitful
giggles. I wasn't going to push anything. Florinda laughed, too,
gleefully, seemingly enjoying my embarrassment.
"If you won't do it," she threatened, "then I will simply have Carmela
do it for you."
I turned to Carmela. With a half smile about to break into a laugh, she
assured me, that indeed she would push my vagina for me.
"There
is no need to!" I cried out in dismay (discourage, disappoinment). "I
remember everything!" And indeed I did. And not only what Mariano
Aureliano had said, but also other events. "Is Mr. Aureliano..."
"Clara
told you to call him the Nagual Mariano Aureliano," Carmela cut me off
in midsentence.
"Dreams
are doors into the Unknown," Florinda said, stroking my head: "Naguals
lead by means of Dreams. And the Act of Dreaming with purpose is the
Art of Sorcerers. The Nagual Mariano Aureliano has helped you to get
into Dreams, that all of us Dreamed."
I
blinked repeatedly. I shook my head, then fell back against the
cushions of the couch, shocked by
the absurdity of all, I was remembering.
I remembered, that I had dreamed of them a year ago in Sonora, a Dream,
that had lasted, I thought, forever. In that Dream, I met Clara,
Nelida, and Hermelinda; the other team, the Dreamers. They told me,
that the leader of that team was Zuleica, but that I couldn't Dream of
her yet. As the memory of that Dream became clear in my mind, it also
became clear, that among
those Women noone was more, and noone was less, than the other. That
one Woman in each group was the leader, was in no way a matter of
Power, of prestige, or of accomplishment; but simply a matter of
efficiency. I didn't know why, but I was convinced, that all, that
mattered to them, was the deep affection they had for each
other.
In that Dream everyone had said to me, that Zuleica was my Dreaming
teacher. That was all I could remember. Just as Clara had told me, I
needed to see them or Dream of them one more time, in order to solidify my knowledge of them.
As it was, they were, but disembodied memories.
128
I
vaguely heard Florinda say, that after a few more tries, I would fare
(get along) much better in shifting
from my memory of Dreams, to the Dream I was Dreaming, and then to the
normal
state of
awakeness.
I heard
Florinda giggle, but I was no longer in the room (Dreaming). I was
outside, walking across the chaparral. I
walked slowly along an invisible path, a
little uneasy, for there was no light, no moon, no stars in the sky.
Pulled by some invisible force, I stepped into a large room. It
was dark inside, except for the lines of light, criss-crossing from
wall
to wall over the faces of the people, sitting in two circles: an inner
and an outer circle. The light got bright and then became dim, as if
someone in the circle were playing with the electric switch, turning it
on and off. I recognized Mariano Aureliano and Isidore
Baltazar
sitting, back to back, in the middle of the inner circle. It wasn't so
much, that I recognized their faces, but rather their Energy. It
wasn't, that their Energy was brighter, than or different from anyone
else's. There was simply more of it. It was massive. It was one
splendid, great lump of Inexhaustible Brilliance. The room shone WHITE.
There was a vividness to things, a hardness to
every edge and corner. There was such a clarity in that room, that
everything stood out separately, by itself, especially those Lines of
Light, that were tied to the people, sitting in the circle, or that
emanated from them. The people were all connected by Lines of Light,
and they looked, as if they were the suspension points of a giant
spider
web. They all communicated wordlessly, through the Light. I was pulled
to that silent, electric tension, until I too was a point in that Web
of Luminosity. - I was
stretched out on the couch; my head resting in Florinda's lap. "What's
going to
happen?" I
asked, looking up at her. She didn't
answer; neither did Carmela or Zoila, who were sitting by her with
their eyes
closed. I
repeated
my question several times, but all I heard was the gentle breathing of
the three
Women. I
was
certain they were asleep, yet I felt their quiet, keen eyes on me. The darkness
and the silence moved about the house like something alive, bringing
with
them an icy wind and the scent of the desert.
Chapter 9
129
Shivering with cold, I wrapped the blanket tightly around me and sat up. I was in a
strange bed, in a strange room, furnished only with the bed and a night
table, yet
everything around me exuded (emitting, make felt) familiarity. However,
I couldn't decide, why it was all so well
known to me.
Perhaps I am
still asleep, I thought.
How do I know, this isn't a dream? I sank back
into my pillows. I lay there with my arms behind my head and let the
bizarre
events, I
had witnessed and lived, half dream, half memory, run through my mind. It had all
begun, of course, the year before, when I drove with Delia Flores to
the healer's
house.
Delia had
claimed, that the picnic I had had with everyone there, had been a
Dream. I had
laughed at
her, and discarded her statements, as preposterous (contrary to common
sense).
She had been right, though. I knew now,
that the picnic had been a Dream. Not my
Dream, but a Dream, Dreamt by others and, to which I had been invited;
I was a
participating
guest. My
mistake
all along had been trying doggedly (deceitfully, dangerous) to deny it;
to discard it, as a fake, without knowing,
what I meant by fake.
All, I succeeded in doing, was to block that event from my mind so
completely, that I was never aware
of it. What
I needed to do was to accept, that we have a Track for Dreams; a
groove, where only Dreams run. Had I set up
myself to remember the Dream, I had had in Sonora, as nothing else, but
a
dream, I would have succeeded, in retaining the wonder, of what had
occurred, while the Dream was
being Dreamt.
130-131
The more I speculated about it, and about all the things, that were
happening to me now, the greater
was my discomfort. But what
surprised me the most was, that
I wasn't really scared of all these people, who, although
supportive, were a scary bunch by any count. And it
suddenly dawned on me, that the reason, why I wasn't scared, was, that
I knew them
very well.
The proof to me was, that they themselves had voiced the strange, yet comforting
feeling I had had: that I was coming home. I discarded
all these thoughts as soon, as I had formulated them, and honestly
wondered
whether,
perhaps, I was mentally unbalanced and they had found a way to focus on
it and thus
enhance
it.
In a serious, systematic fashion I reviewed the history of my family in
an effort to recall everything,
I might have heard about mental illness. There was a
story of a maternal great-uncle who, Bible in hand, would preach at
street
corners.
Then both my great-grandfather and my grandfather, at the onset
(beginning/start) of the First and the Second
World Wars, respectively, committed suicide upon realizing, that
everything
was lost to
them. One of my grandmothers blew her brains out, when she realized,
that she
had lost her
beauty and sex appeal. I liked to
believe, that I had inherited my feeling of detachment from being the
true
granddaughter of all those nuts. I had always believed, that this
Feeling of Detachment gave me my
daring (brave, reckless, fearless,
bold, adventurous). Those morbid
(gruesome, grisly, melancholic) thoughts caused me such anxiety, that I
jumped out of bed. With
nervous, jerky movements I pulled my body out of the blanket. To my utter
bafflement I found myself bundled in a heavy flannel nightshirt. I had
on
thick, knee-length wool socks, mittens, and a cardigan sweater. "I must be
ill," I mumbled to myself in dismay. "Why else would I be cold with all
these
clothes on?"
Normally, I slept in the nude, regardless of the climate. Only then
did I notice the sunlight in the room. It came through the thick,
semi-opaque
window. I
was
certain, that the light, shining in my eyes, had awakened me.
And I really needed to find the bathroom. Worried,
that the house didn't have inside plumbing, I stepped toward the
sliding door at the other
end of the room, which was open, and sure enough, it was a
water closet with a lidded
chamber pot in it. "Damn it! I
can't go to the bathroom in a water closet!" I yelled.
The door opened and Florinda walked in. "It's all right," she said,
embracing me. "There's an outhouse.
The water closet is a relic from the past."
"How
fortunate, it's already morning," I laughed. "Noone will ever know,
that I'm too
faint-hearted (coward) to go to the outhouse in the dark."
Florinda
gave me a strange look, then turned her gaze away, and at last said in
a whisper,
"What makes
you think it's morning?"
"The
Sun woke me up a little while ago," I said, moving toward the window.
Uncomprehendingly, I stared at the darkness outside. Florinda's
face brightened.
She seemed to control herself, but then her shoulders shook with
laughter, as she pointed to the light bulb in the lamp, standing behind
the bed. I had mistaken the
bright bulb for the sunlight. "What makes
you so sure, you're awake?" she asked.
I turned to look at her and said: "My unbearable urge to go to the
bathroom."
She took me by the arm and said: "Let me take you to the outhouse,
before you disgrace yourself."
"I'm
not going anywhere, until you tell me, whether I'm awake or Dreaming,"
I yelled.
"What
a temper!" Florinda exclaimed, lowering her head, until her forehead
touched
mine. Her
eyes
were wide. "You're Dreaming-Awake," she added, enunciating each word carefully. In spite of
my growing apprehension, I began to laugh. The sound of
my laughter, which reverberated around the room like a distant echo, dispelled my
anxiety. At
that
moment I was no longer concerned about, whether I was Awake or
Dreaming. All
my attention
was focused on reaching the toilet.
"Where
is the outhouse?" I growled (speak in a angry/surly manner).
"You
know, where it is," Florinda said, folding her arms over her chest.
"And you'll never reach it in time, unless you will yourself be there.
But don't bring the outhouse to your bed.
That's called lazy Dreaming; the surest way to soil your bed. Go to the
outhouse yourself in a flick of an eyelid."
132-133
To my
utter horror, I couldn't reach the door, when I tried to. My feet
lacked the
confidence
to walk. Slowly and uncertainly, as if they were unable to decide,
which way
to go, they
moved, one foot ahead of the other. Resisting to
accept, that my feet were no longer under my command, I tried to speed
up
my movements by lifting, with my hands, one foot after the other. Florinda
didn't seem to care, what was happening to me. Tears of
frustration and self-pity welled up in my eyes, as
I stood rooted to the spot. My lips shaped
the word help, but no sound came out of my mouth. What's the
matter?" she asked, as she took hold of one of my arms and gently
pulled me
down to the
floor. She
removed
my heavy wollen socks and examined my feet. She now seemed genuinely concerned. I wanted to
explain, that my inability to move, was due to my being emotionally exhausted.
But hard as I tried, I couldn't formulate my thoughts into words. As I
struggled to utter a sound, I noticed, that something was wrong with my
vision. My
eyes were no
longer able to focus. Florinda's
face remained blurry and fuzzy, no matter how hard
I squeezed my eyes; regardless
of how close I moved my face to hers. "I know,
what's the matter with you," Florinda whispered in my ear. "You have to go to the outhouse.
Do it! Will yourself there!" I nodded
emphatically. I knew, that I was indeed Dreaming-Awake, or rather, that
I was
living in
another reality, that didn't yet fully belong to me, but to which I had
access
through
these people.
Then I felt inexplicably at ease; and
suddenly I was in the outhouse, not in a dreamed
outhouse, but in a real one. It took me a long time to test my
surroundings, to make sure this was the real thing. It was. Then I was
back in the room, but I didn't know how. Florinda
said something flattering about my Dreaming capacity. I paid
little attention to her remarks, for I was distracted by the pile of
blankets against the wall.
I hadn't noticed them upon awakening, yet I was certain, I had seen
them before.
My feeling
of ease vanished quickly, as I tried to recall, where I had seen those
blankets.
My anguish
grew. I didn't know any longer, whether I was still in the same house,
I had
arrived at
earlier in the evening with Isidore Baltazar, or whether
I was someplace else. "Whose room
is this?" I asked. "And who bundled me up with all these clothes?" It terrified
me to hear my own voice. Florinda
stroked my hair and in a kind, soft voice said, that for the time being
this was my
room; and
that she had bundled me up, so I wouldn't get cold. She
explained, that the desert is deceiving; especially at night. She regarded
me with an enigmatic expression, as though she was hinting at something else. It disturbed
me, because her words gave me no clues, about what she might be
referring to.
My thoughts
reeled aimlessly. The key word, I decided, was desert. I hadn't
known the witches' place was in the desert. We had arrived at it in
such a
roundabout
way, I had failed to ascertain (discover, find out), where exactly the
house was located. "Whose house
is this, Florinda?" I asked. She seemed
to be wrestling with some deep problem, her expression changing from thoughtful
to worried several times.
"You're home," she finally said, her voice deep with emotion. Before I
could remind her, that she hadn't answered my question, she gestured
for me to
be silent
and pointed a finger at the door. Something
whispered in the darkness outside. It could have been the wind and the
leaves, but
I knew
it was neither. It was a
soothing, familiar sound. It brought back to me the memory of the
picnic. In
particular,
it brought back Mariano Aureliano's words: "I will blow you, as I blew
the
others, to the one person, who now holds the myth in his hands." The words
rang in my ears: I turned to look, wondering, if Mariano Aureliano had,
perhaps,
come into
the room and was repeating them out loud this very instant. Florinda
nodded. She had read my mind. And her eyes, fixed on mine, were forcing
me to
acknowledge
my understanding of his claim. At the
picnic I hadn't given much thought to his statement. It had simply been
too
preposterous (hard to believe, contrary to common sense). Now I was so
curious to find out, who "the others" really were, that I couldn't
afford to let
the topic of
the conversation slip by.
134-135
"Isidore Baltazar talked about some people, who work with him," I began
cautiously:
"He said,
that they had been entrusted to him and that it was his sacred duty to
help them.
Are they the
ones, who... blew to him?" I asked hesitantly. Florinda
nodded her head affirmatively, a faint smile curling her lips, as if
she found my
reluctance
to mention the word blew, amusing.
"Those are the ones the old Nagual blew to the new
Nagual. They are Women, and they are like you."
"Like
me?" I asked uncertainly. I wished, I
hadn't been so absorbed with my own puzzling changes of moods and
feelings
toward
Isidore Baltazar during the trip, and had paid closer attention to all,
he had
revealed
about his World. "In what way
are those Women like me?" I asked and then added, "Do you know them?"
"I've
seen them," she said noncommittally (revealing no preference/purpose).
"How
many Women have been blown to Isidore Baltazar?" I asked with
ill-concealed
displeasure;
yet the mere thought of them was both exciting and alarming. Florinda was
positively gleeful at my reaction. "A few. And they
don't resemble you physically, yet they are like you. What I mean
is, that they resemble one another, the way my fellow Sorceresses and I resemble one
another," Florinda explained: "Weren't
you, yourself, surprised at how much alike we looked, when you first
met us?"
Acknowledging my nod, she went on to say, that what made her and her
cohorts (team) so alike, in spite of the
obvious physical differences, was their unbiased commitment to the Sorcerers'
World. "We
are drawn
together by an affection, that is, as yet incomprehensible to you," she
said.
"I
bet it is," I stated as cynically, as I could. Then
my curiosity and
excitement about the Women, who had been blown to Isidore Baltazar (Carlos
Castaneda) got the better of me. "When will I meet them?"
"When you find
them," Florinda said. Her voice, though low, had an extraordinary force, that all, but silenced me
for a moment.
"How can I find
them, if I don't know them? It's impossible."
"Not
for a witch," she remarked casually: "As I already said, you
don't resemble them physically, but the Glow, inside you, is as bright, as the Glow inside
them.
You will recognize them by that Glow." Her eyes were fixed on me
intently, as if she could indeed see the Glow inside me. Her face was grave and her
voice unusually low, as she said, "It's the Glow of Sorcerers." I wanted to make some
impudent remark, but something in her manner alarmed me.
"Can I
see that Glow?" I asked.
"We
need the Nagual for that," Florinda said
and pointed to the
Nagual Mariano
Aureliano, who was standing in the shadowy corner of the room. I hadn't noticed him at
all, but I didn't find his sudden appearance in any way alarming. Florinda told him, what I
wanted.
He motioned me to follow him to the middle of the room.
"I'll show you that Glow," he said, then squatted and,
holding up both hands, gestured for me to get on his back. I
asked:
"We are going for a
piggyback ride?"
I made no effort to conceal my disappointment. "Aren't you going to
show me the Glow
of Sorcerers?"
Although I clearly remembered his words, that true Sorcery was not
bizarre behavior,
rituals, drugs, or incantations, I nevertheless expected a show; some
demonstration of his
Power, such as mixing
spells and simples (composed of one thing, easy, trivial) over the fire. Ignoring my
disillusionment, Mariano Aureliano urged me to put my arms around his neck, lightly so, as not
to choke him. "Don't
you think, I am a little too old to be carried around?" I cautioned him. Mariano Aureliano's
laughter gurgled up inside him, exploding with outrageous delight. In one swift motion he
sprang to his feet. Tucking his arms behind my knees, he shifted me into a comfortable
position and stepped out into the hall, but my head didn't hit the door frame. He walked so fast and
effortlessly, I had the distinct sensation of floating down the long dark corridor. Curious, I glanced all
around me. However, we moved too fast to catch any, but brief glimpses of the house. A soft, yet persistent,
scent permeated everything: a fragrance of orange blossoms and the freshness of cold air.
136-137
Outside the yard was blurred by mist. All I was able to see was a
uniform mass of dark
silhouettes. Swirls of
fog, transformed every space, revealing and then blotting out strange shapes of trees and stones. We were not at the
witches' house. I was sure of that. I heard nothing, except a
rhythmical breathing. I couldn't tell,
if it was the Nagual Mariano Aureliano's breathing or
my own.
The sound spread all over the yard. It made the leaves tremble, as if a
wind were rustling
through the branches. The trembling seeped into my body with every
breath I took.
It made me so dizzy, I wrapped my arms tightly around his shoulders,
lest I lose
consciousness. Before I had a chance to tell him, what I was
experiencing, the fog closed in around me, and I felt
myself dissolve into nothingness.
"Rest your chin on
the top of my head." The Nagual Mariano Aureliano's voice came, as if from a great distance. The words jolted me, for I
had quite forgotten, that
I was riding on his back. "Whatever
you do, don't let
go of me," he added with great urgency, as he pushed me up on his back, so my head
was above his.
"What could
possibly happen, if I let go?" I asked in a tone, that betrayed my
growing
apprehension. "I would just fall onto the ground, wouldn't I?" My voice
had gotten
terribly screechy.
Mariano Aureliano laughed softly, but didn't answer. Leisurely, he walked up
and down the extensive yard with light, soft steps, almost in a kind of dance. And then, for an instant,
I had the distinct impression, that we rose in the air. We became weightless. I felt, that we actually
traveled through the darkness for a fleeting moment, then I felt the solid ground through
Mariano Aureliano's body.
Whether the fog had lifted
or whether we were in a different yard,
I couldn't determine, but
something had changed.
Perhaps it was only the
air. It was heavier, harder to breathe. There was no moon, and the
stars were faint, yet the sky shone, as if it were lit from some faraway spot. Slowly, as
if someone were outlining them in the air, the contours of trees became clear.
About five feet away, in front of a particularly tall and bushy zapote
tree, Mariano
Aureliano came to an abrupt halt. At the foot of that tree
stood a group of people, perhaps twelve or fourteen. The long leaves, weighed
down by the mist, shadowed their faces. A
strange green light,
emanating from the tree, made each person unnaturally vivid. Their eyes, their noses, their
lips, all of their features gleamed in that green light, yet I could make out nothing of their
faces.
I didn't recognize any of them. I couldn't even determine, whether they
were males or
females; they were simply people.
"What are they
doing?" I whispered into Mariano Aureliano's ear. "Who are they?"
"Keep your chin on
the top of my head," he hissed. I pressed my chin firmly
against his head, fearing, that if I pushed too hard, my whole face would sink into his skull. Hoping to recognize
someone by his or her voice, I said good evening to them. Fleeting smiles parted
their lips. Instead of returning my greeting, they averted (turn away)
their
faces.
An odd sound came from amidst them; a sound, that energized them, for
they, too, like the tree,
began to glow. Not a
green light, but a golden brilliance, that coalesced (fuse, mix) and shimmered, until they all
fused into one big Golden Ball, that just hovered there under the tree. Then the Golden Ball
dissolved into patches of Luminosity. Like giant glowworms they appeared and disappeared
among the trees, sowing light and shadow in their passing.
"Remember that
Glow," Mariano Aureliano murmured. His voice echoed in my head. "It's the Glow... of the surem
(nature spirit)."
A sudden gust of wind scattered his words. The wind was alive; it
glowed against the darkness of the sky. It blew with great violence, with a strange
ripping sound.
Then the wind turned against me; I was certain it meant to annihilate
me. I cried out in
pain, as a particulariy icy gust seared (burning, scorching) my lungs.
A coldness spread through my body, until
I felt myself grow stiff.
Whether it was Mariano
Aureliano, who had spoken or the wind self, I couldn't tell. The wind roared in my ears,
blotting out everything around me. Then it was inside my lungs. It wriggled like a living
thing, eager to devour every cell in my body. I could feel myself
collapse, and I knew, I was going to die.
But the roaring stopped. The silence was so sudden, I heard it. I
laughed out loud, thankful, that I was still alive.
The
bed was big and comfortably soft. A golden radiance filled the room. Hoping to
prolong this moment of well-being a bit longer, I closed my eyes and
buried
myself in
sleepy bliss amidst fragrant linen sheets and subtly scented lavender
pillow
cases. I
could feel
every muscle and every bone in my body tense, as
I remembered the night's events;
disconnected fragments of some awful dream. There was no
continuity, no linear sequence to all I had experienced during those interminable
(continual, endless) hours. I had awoken
twice during the night, in different beds, in different rooms, even in a different
house. As
if they
had a life of their own, these disconnected images piled up and
expanded, all at once, into a
labyrinth, that somehow I was able to comprehend all at once. That is, I
perceived every event simultaneously. The
sensation of those images, growing out of my skull into an enormous,
fanciful
headdress
was so real, I jumped out of bed and dashed across the room to the
steel and
glass
dresser.
The
three-paneled mirror was covered with rice paper. I tried to peel off a
corner, but the paper clung
to the glass like a skin. The sight of
the silver-backed hairbrush with its matching comb, the bottles of
perfume,
and the jars
of cosmetics on the dresser had a soothing effect on me:
I, too, would
have
arranged the bottles and jars by size, in a row, like tools. Somehow I
knew, that I was in Florinda's room, in the witches' house. This
knowledge restored my sense of equilibrium. Florinda's
room was enormous. The bed and the dresser were the only pieces of
furniture
in it. They
stood in opposite corners, away from the walls and at an angle, leaving
a
triangular space behind them. I pondered
the arrangement of the bed and the dresser for quite some time, but
couldn't
figure out,
whether it followed some kind of esoteric pattern, the significance of
which
eluded (avoid, escape from) me, or whether it was merely the result of
Florinda's aesthetic (show a well developed sense of beauty) whim
(capricious idea, passing fancy). Curious, as
to where the three doors in the room led,
I tried them all. The first
one was locked from the outside. The second
one opened to a small, rectangular-shaped walled-in patio. Puzzled, I
stared at
the sky,
until it finally dawned on me, that it was not morning, as I had
assumed upon
awakening,
but late afternoon. I wasn't
disturbed, that I had slept the whole day. On the contrary, I was
elated. Convinced, that
I am an insomniac (chronic inability to sleep), I am always overjoyed
by my oversleeping spells (short period of time, word/formula for
magic, fascination). The third
door opened into the corridor. Anxious to
find Isidore Baltazar, I made my way to the living room. It was empty. There was
something forbidding about the neat and straight manner, in which the furniture
was arranged.
Nothing
revealed, that anyone had sat on the couch and the armchairs
the night before. Even the
cushions stood stiffly, as if at attention. The dining
room across the corridor looked equally forsaken, equally austere
(strict, sombre, grave). Not a chair
was out of place. Not a crumb; not a stain in the polished surface of
the
mahogany table; nothing betrayed, that I had sat there last night with
the Nagual Mariano Aureliano
and Mr. Flores, and eaten dinner. In the
kitchen, separated from the dining room by an arched vestibule and a
narrow hall, I found a jug,
half filled with champurrado, and a covered plate with some sweet
tamales. I
was too
hungry to bother with heating them. I poured myself a mugful of the
thick
chocolate
and ate the three corn cakes directly from their corn-husk wrappings.
Stuffed
with pieces
of pineapple, raisins, and slivered almonds, they were delicious. It was
inconceivable to me, that I had been left alone in the house, yet I
couldn't ignore the stillness
around me.
140-141
It wasn't the comforting peace, one is conscious of, when people are
purposely being quiet, but rather
it was the overwhelming soundlessness of a deserted place. The
possibility that, indeed, I had been abandoned there, made me choke on
a piece of
tamale. On
my way
back to Florinda's room, I paused in front of every door
I passed. "Anybody
home?" I called out, as I knocked repeatedly. There was no
answer. I
was about
to step outside, when I distinctly heard someone ask,
"Who is calling?" The voice
was deep and raspy, but I couldn't tell, whether it was a man or a
woman, who
had spoken.
I couldn't
determine from which direction, let alone from which room, the voice had come. I retraced
my steps and called out again at the top of my voice, whether anybody
was
home. Upon
reaching the far end of the corridor, I hesitated for a moment in front
of a closed
door. I
turned the
doorknob, then quietly opened it a crack and sidled (move in a nervous,
furtive manner, sideways) in. With my eyes
tightly shut, I reclined against the wall and waited for my heartbeat to normalize. Suppose
someone caught me in here, I thought guiltily, but my curiosity
outweighed any sense of
wrong-doing, as I breathed in the air of mystery, of enchantment, that
permeated
the room.
The heavy,
dark curtains were drawn, and the only light came from a tall reading
lamp.
Its huge shade, fringed with tassels (ornament of loose threads), cast
a circle of yellow light on the chaise lounge (long reclining chair
with room for feet) by the window. At the very
center of the room stood a four-poster bed. Canopied and curtained, it dominated
the space, as if it were a throne. The bronze
and wood-carved oriental figurines, ensconced (settle comfortably) on
the four round tables in each corner,
appeared to stand guard over the room like some celestial deities. Books,
papers, and magazines were piled on the drop-front French desk and on
the chest
of drawers.
There was no
mirror on the kidney-shaped dresser, and instead of a comb and brush, or bottles of
perfume and cosmetics, a set of fragile-looking demitasses (demitasse-
small
coffee cup
for serving black coffee) stood on the glass-topped surface. Strands of
pearls, gold chains, rings, and brooches spilled from the delicate gold-
rimmed cups
like
some abandoned treasure. I recognized
two of the rings: I had seen them on Zoila's hand. The
inspection of the bed I reserved for last. Almost
reverentially (awe, respect), as if indeed it were a throne, I pulled
back the curtain and gasped with
delight. The brightly colored pillows on the silky green spread made me
think of
wild flowers
in a meadow.
And yet an
involuntary shiver shook my body, as I stood in the middle of the room. I couldn't
help, but feel, that the warmth, the mystery, and the enchantment this
room
exuded (emitting, make felt), were but an illusion. The
sensation, of having stepped into some kind of a mirage, was even more
pronounced
in the third
room. It,
too,
seemed warm and friendly at first. The very air was tender and loving.
Echoes of
laugher
seemed to bounce off the walls. However,
this atmosphere of warmth was only a tenuous (weak, flimsy), fleeting
impression, like the fading
sunlight streaking through the glassless, gauze-curtained windows. As in the
other room, the bed dominated the space. It too was canopied and
decorated
with
brightly colored pillows, that had been tossed about with absentminded
abandon.
Against one
wall stood a sewing machine. It was an old one; a hand-painted treadle (pedal
operated by foot) machine. Next to it
was a tall bookcase. Instead of books, the shelves were stacked with
bolts (rolls) of the finest
cottons, silks, and wool gabardine cloth, all neatly arranged by color
and fabric.
Six
different colored wigs, all stretched over staked gourds (pointed
bottles), were dislayed on a low table under the
window.
Among them
was the blond one I had seen Delia Flores wear, and the dark, curly one Mariano
Aureliano had pulled over my head outside the coffee shop in Tucson. The fourth
room was a bit further down from the others and across the hall. The last
afternoon Sun rays, filtering through a latticed wall, lay on the floor
like a carpet
of light and
shadows, a wavering square of rectangular patterns. Compared to
the other two rooms, it gave the impression of being empty. The few
pieces of furniture were so artfully placed it made the space seem
larger, than it actually was. Low
bookshelves with glass doors lined the walls. At the far
end, in an alcove (arched niche, a part of the room), stood a narrow
bed. The white-and-grey-checkered blanket hung low,
and matched the shadows on the floor.
142-143
The
dainty
(delicious, choice, fastidious, fussy) rosewood secretaire with its
delicate chair of ebonized (black tropical tree) rosewood with ormolu
(decorative imitation of gold) didn't detract from the overall sense of
starkness (bare, bluntness) of the room, but rather enhanced it. I knew, that
it was Carmela's room. I would have
liked to check the titles of the books behind the glass panels, but my
anxiety was
too
great. As
if
someone were chasing me, I dashed out into the corridor and down to the
inside
patio. I
sat on one
of the rush chairs.
I was trembling and perspiring, yet my hands were icy cold. It wasn't
guilt, that had me shaking - I
wouldn't have minded getting caught snooping around - but the alien,
otherworldly
quality
these beautifully furnished rooms exuded (emitted). The
stillness, that clung about the walls, was an unnatural stillness. It
had nothing to do with the
absence of its inhabitants, but with the absence of feelings and
emotions, that usually
permeate lived-in spaces. Every time
someone had referred to the Women, as Sorceresses and witches, I had inwardly
laughed. They neither acted, nor looked, as I had expected witches to
look and
act,
flamboyantly (richly colored, vivid, showy) dramatic and sinister. But now I
knew for certain, that they were indeed different from other Human
Beings. It
frightened me, that they were different in ways, I couldn't understand;
in ways I couldn't even
conceive (imagine). A soft,
rasping sound put an end to my disturbing thoughts. Following
the distinctly eerie noise, I tiptoed down the corridor, away from the bedrooms,
toward the other end of the house. The rasping
sound came from a room at the back of the kitchen. I crept up softly,
only to
have the
sound die down, the instant I pressed my ear against the door. It resumed
as soon, as I moved away. Puzzled, I
once more pressed my ear to the door, and the rasping sound promptly
ceased. I
moved back
and forth several times, and, as if the rasping sound were dependent on
my
doings, it either started or stopped. Determined
to find out, who was hiding - or worse, who was purposely trying to
frighten me
- I
reached for the doorknob. Unable to
open the door, I fumbled (touch/handle nervously) for several minutes,
before I realized, that it was locked and
that the key had been left in the lock. That someone
dangerous might have been confined in that room, for a very good reason, only came to
me once I was inside. An oppressive
semidarkness clung (sticking, adhere to something) about the heavy
drawn curtains, like something alive, that was
luring the shadows of the entire house to this enormous room. The light
grew dimmer. The shadows thickened around, what appeared to be discarded pieces of
furniture; peculiar-looking small and enormous figures, made out of wood and metal. The same
rasping sound, that had drawn me to this room, broke the silence. Like
felines, the shadows prowled about the room, as if searching for prey. In frozen
horror, I watched the curtain. It pulsated and breathed like a monster
of my
nightmares.
All of a
sudden, the sound and the movement ceased. The motionless silence was
even
more frightening. I turned to
leave, and the pulsating, rasping sound began again. Resolutely (determined, firmly), I
crossed the room and pulled back the curtain. I laughed
out loud upon discovering the broken glass pane in the French door. The
wind
had been alternately sucking and blowing the curtain through the jagged
gap (broken hole). The fading
afternoon light streaming through the half-opened curtain, rearranged
the
shadows in the room and revealed an oval-shaped mirror on the wall,
half hidden by one of the
odd-looking metal figures. I squeezed
myself between the sculpture and the wall and gazed rapturously
(ecstatically, with delight) into the old Venetian
glass. It was blurry and misty with age, and it distorted my image so grotesquely
(bizarre), that
I ran out of the room. I went
outside the house, through the back door. The wide
clearing behind the house was deserted. The sky was
still bright, but the tall fruit trees, circling the grounds, had
already turned the color of
twilight. A
flock of
crows passed overhead. Their black flapping wings extinguished the brightness
in the sky, and night swiftly descended into the yard. With a
feeling of utter dejection (depression) and despair, I sat on the
ground and wept. The harder I cried, the
more pleasure I felt from lamenting (expression of sorrow, grief,
pathetic) at the top of my voice. The sound of
a rake jolted me out of my self-pity. I looked up
and saw a slight person, raking leaves toward a small fire in the back
of the
clearing.
"Esperanza!"
I cried out, rushing toward her, only to stop abruptly upon realizing,
that it
wasn't her,
but a man.
"I'm sorry,"
I mumbled apologetically. "I mistook you for someone else."
144-145
I
held out my hand and introduced myself. I tried not
to stare at him, but I couldn't help it: I wasn't quite sure, that he
wasn't
Esperanza,
disguised as a man. He put his
hand in mine, pressing it softly, and said, "I'm the caretaker." He
didn't tell me his name. His hand
felt as brittle, as a bird's wing in mine. He was a
thin, ancient-
looking man. His face was birdlike, too, aquiline and keen-eyed. His white
hair was tufted (dense clump) and feathery. It wasn't
only his slight frame and birdlike appearance, that reminded me of
Esperanza,
but also the
wrinkled, expressionless face and the eyes, shiny and limpid (clear,
serene, untroubled, calm) as those of a child, and
the teeth, small and square and very white.
"Do you know where Florinda is?" I asked. He shook his
head and I added, "Do you know where any of the others are?"
He was silent for a long moment, and then, as though I hadn't asked him
anything, he
repeated,
that he was the caretaker. "I take care of everything."
"You
do?" I asked, eyeing him suspiciously. He was so
frail and puny (weak, feeble) - looking, that he didn't seem to be
capable of taking care of anything, including
himself.
"I
take care of everything," he repeated, smiling sweetly, as if thus he
could erase my doubts. He was about
to say something else, but instead he chewed his lower lip thoughtfully
for
a moment, then turned around, and went on raking the leaves into a
little pile with neat, deft
(skillfully), quick movements.
"Where
is everyone?" I asked. Resting his
chin on his hand, cupped over the end of the rake handle, he glanced at
me
absently.
Then
grinning inanely (foolishly),
he looked all around him, as though at any moment someone might
materialize from behind one of the fruit trees. Sighing
loudly and impatiently, I turned to leave.
He cleared his throat, and in a voice, that was wavering and hoarse
with old age said, "The old Nagual
took Isidore Baltazar to the mountains." He didn't
look at me: his eyes were focused somewhere in the distance. "They'll
be back in
a couple
of days."
"Days!"
I screeched indignantly (outraged). "Are you sure, you heard them
correctly?"
Dismayed
(disappointed), that my worst fear had come true, I could only mumble,
"How could he have left me here
all by myself?"
"They
left last night," the old man said, pulling back a leaf, that the wind
had blown away from the
pile in front of him.
"That's
impossible," I contradicted him forcefully. "We only got here last
night. Late last night," I
stressed.
Indifferent
to my assertively rude tone and to my presence, the old man set fire to
the
little pile of leaves in front of him. "Didn't
Isidore Baltazar leave a message for me?" I asked, squatting beside
him. "Didn't
he leave me a note or something?" I felt an
impulse to shout, but for some reason I didn't dare. Some
mystifying aspect of the old man's appearance disconcerted (upset,
ruffle, perturb) me. The thought, that he was
Esperanza in disguise still nagged me. "Did
Esperanza go with them to the mountains?" I asked. My voice
trembled, because suddenly I was seized by a desperate desire to laugh.
Short of
pulling down
his pants and showing me his genitals, there was nothing, he could do to convince me,
that he was indeed a man.
"Esperanza is in the house," he murmured, his attention fixed on the
little pile of burning leaves.
"She's in the house with the others."
"Don't
be ridiculous: She's not in the house," I contradicted him rudely.
"Noone is in the house. I've
been searching for them the whole afternoon. I checked every room."
"She's
in the little house," the old man repeated obstinately (contrary,
inflexibly), watching me as intently, as he had watched
the burning leaves. The glint of mischief in his eyes made me want to
kick
him.
"What
little..." My voice faded, as I remembered the other house, the one I
had seen upon
our arrival.
It actually caused me an intense physical pain to think of that place. "You could
have told me right away, that Esperanza is in the little house," I said peevishly
(discontented, fretful, ill-tempted).
Surreptitiously (secretly),
I glanced all around me, but I couldn't see the place. The tall trees
and the
wall beyond
hid it from view. "I'm going to
see, if Esperanza is indeed there, as you claim," I said, rising. The old man
rose, too, and turning toward the nearest tree, he reached for an oil
lamp and a
burlap
sack, hanging from a low branch.
"I'm afraid I can't let you go there by yourself," he said.
146-147
"I
don't see why not," I countered, piqued (wounded pride/vanity
resentment). "Perhaps you're not aware of it, but I'm Florinda's
guest. I
was taken
to the little house last night." I paused for a moment, then added for
good
measure, "I was there for sure." He listened
carefully, but his face looked doubtful.
"It's tricky to get there," he warned me at last. "I have to prepare
the path for you. I have to..." He seemed to
catch himself in the middle of a thought, he didn't want to express. He shrugged,
then repeated, that he had to prepare the path for me.
"What's
there to prepare?" I asked irritably. "Do you have to cut through the
chaparral
with a
machete?"
"I'm
the caretaker. I prepare the path," he repeated obstinately (inflexibly) and sat on
the ground to
light the
oil lamp.
For an
instant it guttered (flickered) in the air, then burned strongly. His
features appeared almost fleshless,
unwrinkled, as if the light had smoothed away the mark of time. "As
soon, as
I'm done
with burning these leaves, I'll take you there myself."
"I'll
help you," I offered. Clearly, the man was senile and needed to be
humored. I
followed
him around the clearing and helped him gather the leaves into little
piles,
which he
promptly burned. As soon, as
the ashes had cooled, he swept them into the burlap sack. The sack was
lined with
plastic. It
was this
particular detail - the plastic lining - that brought back a
half-forgotten childhood
memory. As
we swept
the heaps of ashes into the sack, I told him, that as a small child,
living in a
village
near Caracas, I was often awakened by the sound of a rake. I used to
sneak out of bed and, cat-footed, creep down the corridor, past my
parents' and
brothers'
rooms into the parlor, which faced the plaza. Heedful
(mindful, paying close attention) of the creaking hinges, I used to
open the wooden panels, covering the windows, and squeeze
through the wrought iron bars. The old man,
in charge of keeping the plaza clean, was always there to greet me with
a
toothless smile, and together we used to rake into little piles the
leaves, that had fallen during the
night - any other kind of refuse was put into trash cans. We burned
these piles, and as soon, as the ashes had cooled, we swept them into a
silklined
burlap sack.
He claimed, that the water fairies, dwelling in a sacred stream in the nearby
mountains, turned the ashes into gold dust. "Do you also
know of fairies, who change ashes into gold dust?" I asked, seeing how delighted
the caretaker was with my story.
He didn't answer, but giggled with such pleasure and abandon, I
couldn't help, but laugh, too. Before I
knew it, we had reached the last little pile of ashes next to a
recessed, arched doorway,
built into the wall. The narrow wooden gate stood wide open. Across the
chaparral was the other house almost hidden in shadows.
No light shone through the windows, and it appeared to be shifting away
from me.
Wondering
whether the house was, but a figment of my imagination; a place
remembered
in a dream,
I blinked repeatedly and rubbed my eyes. Something
was wrong, I decided, as I recalled walking up to the witches' house
the night
before with
Isidore Baltazar. The smaller
house had stood to the right of the larger one. How then, I asked
myself,
could I now
see the place from the witches' backyard?
In an effort to orient myself, I moved this way and that, but I
couldn't get my bearings. I bumped into
the old man, who was squatting before the pile of ashes, and fell over
him.
With astounding agility he rose and helped me up. "You're full of
ashes," he said, wiping my face with
the folded cuff of his khaki shirt. "There it
is!" I cried out. Sharply focused, silhouetted against the sky, the
elusive house
appeared to
be only a few steps away: "There it
is," I repeated, jumping up and down, as if by doing so, I could hold
the house in
place;
detain it in time. "That's the
true house of the witches," I added, standing still in front of the old
man, so he
could
proceed with wiping the ashes off my face. "The big house is but a
front."
"The
house of the witches," the old man said slowly, savoring his words.
Then he
cackled,
seemingly amused. He swept the
last of the ashes into his burlap sack, then motioned me to follow him through the
gate. Two
orange
trees grew on the other side of the gate, away from the wall. A cool
breeze rustled through the blooming branches, but the flowers didn't
stir.
148-149
They
didn't fall to the ground. Against the
dark foliage, the blossoms looked carved, as though they had been made
of
milky quartz.
Like
sentinels (guard), the two trees stood guard over the narrow path. The path was
white and very straight, like a line, that had been drawn on the
landscape
with a ruler.
The old man
handed me the oil lamp, then scooped out a handful of ashes from his
burlap sack
and
poured them from one hand to the other - as though he were weighing
them, before
he sprinkled them onto the ground. "Don't ask
any questions and do, as I say," he said, his voice no longer hoarse.
It had an
airy
quality. It sounded energetic and convincing. He bent
slightly, and walking backwards, he let the rest of the ashes trickle
directly from
his burlap
sack onto the narrow trail. "Keep your
feet on the line of ashes," he admonished (caution, warn). "If you
don't, you'll never reach the house." I
coughed to hide my nervous laughter. Holding out
my arms, I balanced on the narrow line of ashes, as if it were a
tightrope.
Each time we
stopped for the old man to catch his breath, I turned to look at the
house, we
had just
left. It
seemed to
be receding into the distance; and the one in front of us didn't seem
to get any
closer. I
tried to
convince myself, that it was merely an optical illusion, yet I had the
vague
certainty,
that I would never make it on my own to either house. As if
sensing my discomfort, the old man patted my arm reassuringly. "That's
why I'm
preparing
the path."
He looked
into his burlap sack and added, "It won't be long now, before we'll get
there.
"Just
remember to keep your feet on the line of ashes.
If you do, you'll be able to move back and
forth safely, anytime." My mind told
me, that the man was a lunatic. My body,
however, knew, that I was lost without him and his ashes. I was so
absorbed, in
keeping my
feet on the faint line, it took me by surprise, when we finally stood
in front of
the door.
The old man
took the oil lamp from my hand, cleared his throat, then rapped
(knocked) lightly on the carved
panel with his knuckles. He didn't
wait for an answer, but pushed the door open and went inside.
"Don't
go so fast!" I cried out, afraid to be left behind. I followed
him into a narrow vestibule. He left the oil lamp on a low table. Then without
a word or a backward glance, he opened a door at the far end and disappeared
into the darkness. Guided by
some vague memory, I stepped into, the dimly lit, rooom and went
directly to
the mat on
the floor.
There was no
doubt in my mind now, that I had been there the night before, that I had slept on
that very mat. What I
wasn't so sure of was, how
I got to that room in the first place. That Mariano
Aureliano had carried me on his back across the chaparral was vivid in my mind.
I also was certain, that I had woken up in that room - before being
carried
over by the
old Nagual - with Clara sitting beside me on the mat. Confident,
that within moments all would be explained to me,
I sat on the mat. The light in
the oil lamp flickered and then went out. I sensed,
rather than saw, things and people moving around me. I heard a murmur of voices,
intangible sounds coming from every corner. Out of all these noises, I
recognized
a familiar
rustling of skirts and a soft giggle. "Esperanza?"
I whispered, "God! I am so glad to see you!" Although it was her I expected to
see, I was nevertheless stunned, when she sat beside me on the mat.
Timidly, I
touched her
arm.
"It's
me," she assured me. Only after
hearing her voice was I convinced, that it was indeed Esperanza and not
the
caretaker, who had exchanged his khaki pants and shirt for the rustling
petticoats and the white dress.
And once I felt the soothing touch of her hand on my face, all thoughts
the
caretaker vanished.
"How did I get here?" I asked.
"The
caretaker brought you here," she laughed. "Don't you remember?" She turned
toward the low table and relit the oil lamp.
"I'm
talking about last night," I clarified. "I know, I was here. I woke up
on this mat. Clara was here
with me. And then Florinda was here, and the other Women..."
My
voice trailed off (lagged behind), as I remembered, that I had awoken
afterward in the living room of the other
house and then again on a bed. I shook my
head, as if I could thus bring some order to my memories.
150-151
Forlornly (desparately), I gazed at Esperanza, hoping she would fill in
the gaps. I told her of the
difficulties, I was having, remembering the night's events in
sequential order.
"You
shouldn't have any problems," she said. "Get in the track of Dreams.
You're
Dreaming-Awake now."
"You
mean, that I am asleep now, this very instant?" I asked mockingly. I
leaned toward
her and
asked, "Are you asleep, too?"
"We
are not asleep," she repeated, enunciating her words carefully. "You
and I are
Dreaming-Awake." She held up
her hands in a helpless gesture. "I told you what to do last year.
Remember?"
A rescuing
thought suddenly occurred to me, as if someone had just whispered it in
my
ear: 'When in doubt, one must separate the two tracks; the track for
ordinary affairs and the track
for Dreams, since each has a different State of Awareness.' I felt
elated, for I knew, that the first track, one should test, is the track
of Dreams. If the situation at
hand doesn't fit that track, then one is not Dreaming. My elation
quickly vanished, when I tried to test the track for Dreams. I had no
inkling (vague idea) of how to go about it or of what the track for
Dreams was, for that matter; and worse, I
couldn't remember, who had told me about it. "I did," Esperanza said just behind me:
"You have moved a great deal in the Realm of Dreams. You nearly
remembered, what I told you last year, the day after the picnic. I
said to you then that, when in doubt about, whether you are in a Dream
or whether you are awake, you should test the track, where Dreams run
on - meaning the Awareness, we have in Dreams, is by feeling the thing,
you are in contact with. If you are Dreaming, your feeling comes back
to you, as an echo. If it doesn't come back, then you are not Dreaming."
Smiling, she pinched my thigh and said, "Try it on this mat, you're
lying on. Feel it with your buttocks. If the feeling returns, then
you're Dreaming." There was no feeling returning to my numbed buttocks.
In fact, I was so numb, that I didn't feel the mat. It seemed to me, I
was lying on the rough tiles of the floor. I had a strong urge to point
out to her, that it should be the opposite - if the feeling returns,
then one is awake - but I controlled myself in time. I knew without any
doubt, that what she meant by 'the feeling returning to us' had nothing
to do with our known, agreed-upon knowledge of what feeling is. The
distinction between being awake and Dreaming-Awake still eluded (escape
from) me, yet I was certain, that its meaning had nothing to do with
our ordinary way of understanding Awareness. Right then, however, words
came out of my mouth without any control on my part. I said, "I know,
that I am Dreaming-Awake, and that's that." (DREAMING-AWAKE MEANS:
TAKING YOUR PHYSICAL BODY WITH AWARENESS TO A HIGHER VIBRATION ! LM).
I sensed, that I was near a new, deeper level of understanding, and yet
I could not quite grasp it. I asked,
"What I would like to know is, when did I fall asleep?"
"I've
already told you, you're not asleep. You are Dreaming-Awake."
I
began to laugh involuntarily, in a quiet, utterly nervous manner. She didn't
seem to notice or to care. "When did the
transition occur?" I asked.
"When
the caretaker was making you cross the chaparral and you had to
concentrate, on keeping your
feet on the ashes."
"He
must have hypnotized me!" I exclaimed, in a not altogether pleasant
voice. I
began to
talk incoherently, entangling myself in words, without quite succeeding
in
making sense, until finally I was weeping and denouncing (accuse
formally) them all. Esperanza
watched me silently, her eyebrows lifted, her eyes wide open with
surprise. I
was
immediately ashamed of my outburst; but at the same time I was glad, I
had spoken, because a
momentary relief, the kind, that comes after a confrontation, washed
over me.
"Your
confusion," she continued, "originates with your facility to move from
one State of Awareness into the other with great ease. If you had
struggled, like everybody else does to attain smooth transitions, then
you would know, that Dreaming-Awake is not just hypnosis." She paused
for an instant, then finished softly, "Dreaming-Awake is the most
sophisticated State humans can attain." She stared
off into the room, as if a clearer explanation might suddenly be
brought to her by someone,
hiding in the shadows. Then she
turned to me and asked, "Did you eat your little food?"
152-153
Her change of
subject took me by surprise, and I began to stammer. Once I
recovered, I told her, that I had indeed eaten the sweet tamales. "I
was so hungry, I didn't
bother to heat them up. They were delicious." Idly (lazy)
playing with her shawl, Esperanza asked me to give her an account, of
what I had
done, since
I awoke in Florinda's room. As if I had
been given a truth-telling potion, I blurted out more, than I intended
to reveal,
but
Esperanza didn't seem to mind my snooping around the Women's rooms. She wasn't
impressed with my knowing, to whom each room belonged. What
interested her to no end, however, was my encounter with the caretaker. With a smile
of unmistakable glee on her face, she listened, as I told my tale of
confusing
the Man with
her.
When I mentioned, that at one point
I considered asking him to pull down his pants, so I could check
his genitals, she doubled up on the mat, shrieking with laughter.
She leaned against me and whispered suggestively in my ear, "I'll put
you at ease." There was a wicked
gleam in her eyes, as she added, "I'll show you mine."
"There
is no need to, Esperanza," I tried to ward her off. "I don't doubt,
that you are a Woman."
"One
can never be too sure, what one is," she casually dismissed my words. Oblivious to
my embarrassment, caused not so much by her imminent nudity, but by the thought,
that I had to look at her old, wrinkled body - she lay down on the mat
and with
great
finesse (delicacy of performance) slowly lifted her skirts.
My curiosity won out over my embarrassment. I stared at
her, open-mouthed. She had no panties on. She had no pubic hair. Her
body
was incredibly young, the flesh strong and firm, the muscles delicately
delineated.
She was all
one color; an even, copperish pink. There were no stretch marks on her
skin, no
ruptured
veins. Nothing marred the smoothness of her stomach and legs. I reached
out to touch her, as if needing to reassure myself, that her silky,
smooth-looking skin was
real, and she opened the lips of her vagina with her fingers. I
averted (turn away) my face, not so much from embarrassment,
as from my conflicting emotions. Nudity,
whether male or female, wasn't the issue. I had grown
up quite freely at home. Noone was particularly careful to avoid being
seen
naked. And
while in
school in England, I had been invited one summer to spend a couple of weeks in
Sweden at a friend's house by the sea. The whole family belonged to a
nudist
colony, and
they all worshiped the Sun with every bit of their naked skin.
Seeing Esperanza naked before me was different. I was
aroused in a most peculiar manner. I had never really focused on a
Woman's sexual organs. Of course, I
had examined myself thoroughly in the mirror, and from every possible angle. I had also
seen pornographic movies, which I had not only disliked, but had found offensive as
well.
Seeing
Esperanza so intimately, was a shattering experience, for I had always
taken my
sexual
responses for granted. I had
thought, that as a Woman, I could only get aroused with a male. My
overwhelming desire, to jump on top of her, took me completely by
surprise and was
counterbalanced by the fact, that I didn't have a penis. When
Esperanza suddenly rose from the mat and took off her blouse I gasped
out loud,
then stared
at the floor, until the feverish, tingling sensation in my face and
neck subsided. "Look at me!"
Esperanza demanded impatiently. Her eyes
were bright. Her cheeks were flushed. She was
completely naked. Her body was
slight, yet bigger and stronger looking, than when dressed. Her breasts
were
full and pointed. "Touch them!"
she commanded in a soft, alluring tone. Her words
echoed around the room like a disembodied sound, a mesmerizing rhythm,
that
swelled into a throb in the air, a pulse of sound felt rather, than
heard, which little by little tightened
and quickened, until it beat fast and hard, like the rhythm of my own
heart. Then
all I
heard and felt was Esperanza's laughter.
"Is
the caretaker hiding in here, by any chance?" I asked, when I could
talk. I was
suddenly
suspicious and guilty about my daring.
"I
hope not!" she cried out with such an air of dismay (disappoinment),
that it made me laugh.
"Where
is he?" I asked. Her eyes
opened wide, then she grinned, as though she were going to laugh. But she
wiped the mirth from her face, and in a serious tone said, that the
caretaker was
somewhere on
the grounds, and that he took care of both houses, but he didn't go
around
spying on
anybody.
154-155
"Is
he really the caretaker?" I asked, trying to sound skeptical. "I don't
want to malign (slander,
speak evil of) him, but he really doesn't look capable of taking care
of anything."
Esperanza
giggled, then said, that his frailness was deceptive. "He is very
capable," she
assured me:
"You have to
be careful with him. He likes young girls, especially blond ones." She leaned
closer and, as if afraid we might be overheard, whispered in my ear,
"Did he
make a pass
at you?"
"Heavens
no!" I defended him. "He was exquisitely polite and helpful. It's just
that..." My voice trailed off into a whisper, and my attention began to
wander in
an odd sort
of way to the furniture in the room, which I couldn't see, because the
low burning
oil lamp
cast more shadows, than light on my surroundings. When I
finally managed to focus my attention back on her, I was no longer
concerned
with the
caretaker.
All I could
think of, with a persistence I couldn't shake off, was why Isidore
Baltazar had
left for the
mountains without letting me know, without leaving me a note. "Why would he
leave me like that?" I asked, turning to Esperanza. "He must have told someone,
when he'll return." Seeing her
all-knowing smirk, I added belligerently (state of being at war), "I'm
sure, you know, what's going on."
"I
don't," she insisted, quite incapable of understanding my plight
(situation, dilemma). "I don't concern myself with
such things.
And neither
should you. Isidore Baltazar is gone, and that's that. He'll be
back in a couple of days, in a couple of weeks. Who knows? It all
depends on,
what happens
in the mountains."
"It
all depends?" I shrieked. I found her
lack of sympathy and understanding abominable (thoroughly unpleasant).
"What about me?" I demanded. "I
can't stay here for weeks."
"Why
not?" Esperanza inquired innocently. I regarded
her, as if she were demented, then blurted out, that I had nothing to
wear, that
there was
nothing for me to do here. My list of
complaints was endless. They came pouring out, until I was exhausted.
"I
simply have to go home; be in my normal milieu (environment,
surroundings)," I finished. I felt the inevitable tears, and did my
best to suppress them.
"Normal?"
Esperanza repeated the word slowly, as though she were tasting it. "You
can
leave any time, you wish. Noone is
holding you back. It can easily be arranged to get you to the border,
where you
can catch a
Greyhound bus, bound for Los Angeles." I nodded,
not trusting myself to speak. I didn't
want that either.
I didn't know, what I wanted, but the thought of leaving was
unbearable. I somehow knew, that if I
left, I would never find these people again, not even Isidore Baltazar
in Los
Angeles. I
began to
weep uncontrollably. I wouldn't have been able to put it into words,
but the
bleakness
(barren, cold, harsh, gloomy, sombre) of a life, of a future without
them, was unbearable to me. I didn't
notice Esperanza leaving the room, and I didn't notice her coming back.
I
wouldn't have noticed anything, if it wasn't for the delicious aroma of
hot chocolate
wafting
(floating gently) under my nose. "You'll feel
better after eating," she assured me, placing a tray in my lap. Smiling
slowly and affectionately, she sat beside me and confided, that there
is nothing
like
chocolate, to take away one's sadness. I couldn't
agree with her more.
I took a few hesitant sips and ate several of the buttered, rolled
tortillas.
I told her,
that although I didn't really know her or any of her friends, I
couldn't conceive (imagine) of
not ever seeing them again. I confessed,
that I felt a freedom and an ease with her and her group, that I had
never
encountered
anywhere else before.
It was a strange feeling, I explained, part physical, part
psychological, and wholly defiant
(challenging) of analysis. I could
describe it only as a sense of well-being or a certainty, that I had
finally found a place, where
I belonged.
Esperanza
knew exactly, what it was, I was trying to express. She said,
that having been part of the Sorcerers' World, even for a short time,
was addictive. It wasn't
the amount of time, she stressed, but the intensity of the encounters,
that
mattered.
"And your encounters have been very intense," she said.
"They
have?" I asked. Esperanza
lifted her eyebrows with sincere surprise, then rubbed her chin in an exaggerated
attitude, as though she were deliberating on a problem, that had no
solution.
After a long
silence, she finally pronounced:
"You will walk lighter, after you fully realize, that there
is no going back to your old life." Her voice,
though low, had an extraordinary force.
156-157
Her eyes held mine for a moment, and I knew that
instant, what her words meant. "Nothing
will ever be the same for me again," I said softly.
Esperanza nodded.
"You'll return to the World, but not to your World or to your old life," she said,
rising from the mat. She rushed
toward the door, only to come to a sudden halt.
"It's wildly exciting to do something,
without knowing, why we are doing it," she said, turning to look at me: "And it's
even more exciting to set out to do something, without knowing, what
the end
result will
be." I couldn't
disagree with her more, and declared:
"I
need to know, what I'm doing. I need to know, what
I'm getting into." She sighed
and held up her hands in comical deprecation (disapproval).
"Freedom
is terribly frightening," she spoke harshly and, before I had a chance
to
respond, she added gently, "Freedom requires spontaneous acts. You have
no idea, what it is to abandon yourself spontaneously..."
"Everything
I do is spontaneous," I interjected. "Why do you think, I am here? Do
you
think I deliberated much, whether I should come or not?"
She
returned to the mat and stood, looking down at me for a long moment
before she said, "Of course
you didn't deliberate about it. But
your acts of spontaneity are due to a lack of
thought, rather than to an act of abandon." She
stomped her foot to prevent me from interrupting her again. "A real
spontaneous act is an act, in which you abandon yourself completely,
but only after profound deliberation," she went on: "An act, where all
the pros and cons have been taken into consideration and duly
discarded. You expect nothing, and you regret nothing. With
acts
of that nature, Sorcerers beckon (signal or summon by waving) freedom."
"I'm
not a Sorcerer," I mumbled under my breath, pulling at the hem of her
dress to
prevent her
from leaving, but she made it clear, that she had no interest in
continuing our conversation. I followed
her outside, across the clearing, to the path, that led to the other
house. As
the
caretaker had done earlier, she too urged me to keep feet on the line
of ashes. "If
you don't,"
she admonished, "you'll fall into the abyss."
"Abyss?" I repeated uncertainly, glancing all around me at the mass of
dark chaparral, extending
on either side of us. A light
breeze sprung up. Voices and whispers rose from a dark mass of shadows.
Instinctively, I held on to Esperanza's skirt.
"Can
you hear them?" she asked, turning to face me.
"Who
am I supposed to hear?" I murmured hoarsely. Esperanza moved closer,
then, as if afraid we might be overheard, she whispered in my ear,
"Surems (entities) of another time. They use the wind to wander across
the desert, forever awake."
"You
mean ghosts?"
"There
are no ghosts," she said with finality, and started walking again. I made sure,
that my feet stayed on the line of ashes, and I didn't let go of her
skirt, until
she came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the patio of the big house. For an
instant she hesitated, as though she couldn't decide, to which part of
the house
she
ought to take me. Then she
went up and down the various corridors and turned corners, until
finally we
stepped into
an immense room, that had escaped my earlier exploration of the house. The walls
were lined to the ceiling with books. At one end of the room stood a
sturdy,
long, wooden
table. At the other end hung a white, flouncy (strip of pleated
fabric), hand-woven hammock.
"What
a magnificent room!" I exclaimed. "Whose is it?"
"Yours,"
Esperanza offered graciously. She went to
the wooden chest, standing by the door, and opened it. "The nights are
cold," she
warned,
handing me three thick woolen blankets.
"You
mean I can sleep in here?" I asked excitedly. My whole
body shivered with pleasure, as I matted the hammock with the blankets
and
lowered myself into it.
As a child, I had often slept in one. Sighing with
contentment, I rocked myself back and forth, then pulled in my legs and stretched
out luxuriously.
"Knowing how to sleep in a hammock is like knowing how to ride a
bicycle. One never forgets how," I said to her. But there
was noone to hear me. She had left, without my noticing it.
Chapter 11
I turned off the light and lay very still in my hammock, lulled (soothe,
calm) by
the
noises of the house, strange
creaking sounds and the trickling of water from an earthenware filter,
standing
outside my
door.
Abruptly, I
sat up, as the unmistakable sound of footsteps echoed along the
corridor.
"Who
could it be at this hour?" I thought. I tiptoed
across the room and pressed my ear against the door. The
footsteps were heavy. My heart beat fast and loud, as the steps came
closer. They
stopped in
front of my door. The knock
was urgent, and although I was expecting it, it nonetheless startled
me. I
jumped back,
knocking over a chair. "Did you have
a nightmare?" Florinda asked, stepping into the room. She left the door half open,
and the light from the corridor shone inside. "I thought,
you would be happy to hear the sound of my steps," she said mockingly, smiling at
me. "I didn't want to sneak up on you." She
straightened up the chair, and draped a pair of khaki pants and a shirt
over the
backrest.
"Compliments
of the caretaker. He says, you can keep them."
"Keep
them?" I repeated, eyeing the garments suspiciously. They looked clean
and
ironed. "What's wrong with my jeans?"
"You'll
be more comfortable in these pants during the long drive to Los
Angeles,"
Florinda
said.
"But I don't want to leave!" I cried out in alarm. "I'm staying here,
until Isidore Baltazar returns."
Florinda
laughed, then seeing, that I was about to weep, she said, "Isidore
Baltazar is
back, but
you're welcome to stay longer, if you wish."
"Oh,
no, I don't," I blurted out. The anxiety,
I had felt for the past two days, was all, but forgotten. So were all
the
questions I had wanted to ask Florinda. All I could
think of was, that Isidore Baltazar was back. "Can I see him now?" I
asked.
"I'm
afraid you can't." Florinda stopped me from leaving the room. For a moment
her statement didn't register. I stared at her uncomprehendingly, and
she
repeated, that it wasn't possible to see the new Nagual tonight.
"Why
not?" I asked, bewildered. "I'm sure, he would want to see me."
"I'm
sure, he would," she readily agreed. "But he is sound asleep, and you
can't wake him up." It was such
a fierce refusal, that all, I could do, was stare at her, speechless. Florinda
looked at the floor for a long time, then gazed up at me. Her
expression was sad. For an instant I believed, she would relent (become
softened, yield) and take me to see Isidore
Baltazar.
Instead, she
repeated with sharp finality, "I'm afraid you can't see him tonight." Hastily, as
if afraid she might still change her mind, she embraced and kissed me,
and
then left the room. She switched
off the light outside, then turned from the shadows of the corridor to
look at me
and said,
"Go to sleep now." Tossing and
turning, I lay awake for hours. Close to
dawn I finally got up and put on the clothes Florinda had brought me. They fit me
well, except for the pants, which I had to cinch in (tighten) at the
waist with a piece of string, I
had no belt with me. Shoes in
hand, I stroll down the corridor past the caretaker's room to the back
entrance.
Mindful of
the creaking hinges, I opened the door carefully and only a crack. It was still
dark outside, yet a soft, radiant blue was spreading across the eastern
sky.
I ran to the arched doorway, built into the wall, stopping momentarily
by the two trees outside it,
that guarded the path.
160-161
The air was heavy with the fragrance of orange blossoms. Whatever
lingering (stay, delay, procrastinate) doubts I might have had, about
crossing the chaparral, were dispelled, as I
dicovered, that fresh ashes had been strewn on the ground. Without
another thought I dashed to the other house. The door was
ajar (partially open),
but I didn't go in right away. I crouched
(bend low) beneath the window and waited for some kind of a sound. I didn't
have to wait long, before I heard a loud snoring.
I listened for a while and went inside. Guided by that distinct snoring
sound, I went
directly to
the room at the back of the house. In the
darkness I could hardly make out the sleeping form on the straw mat,
yet I had no
doubt, that
it was Isidore Baltazar.
Fearing, that he might be startled, if I were to wake him too
suddenly,
I returned to the front room
and sat on the couch. I was so
excited, I could not sit still. I was beside myself with joy, thinking,
that any
moment now
he would wake up. Twice I
tiptoed back into the room and looked at him. He had turned in his
sleep and was
no longer
snoring. I
must have
dozed off on the couch. I sensed through my fitful (periodic) sleep,
that someone stood in the room. I half
roused (awaken, provoke) to murmur, "I'm waiting for Isidore Baltazar
to wake up," but I knew, I had made no
sound. I
made a
conscious effort to sit up. I swayed
dizzily, before I could focus my eyes on the man, standing beside me.
It was
Mariano
Aureliano.
"Is
Isidore Baltazar still asleep?" I asked him. The old
Nagual gazed at me for a long time.
Wondering whether I was Dreaming, I boldly reached for his hand, only
to drop it abruptly. It
burnt, as if it were on fire. He raised
his brows, seemingly surprised by my actions. "You won't be
able to see Isidore Baltazar, until the morning," he spoke slowly, as
if it cost
him a
great effort to enunciate the words. Before I had
a chance to say, that it was almost morning; that I would wait for
Isidore
Baltazar on
the couch, I felt Mariano
Aureliano's burning hand on my back, pushing me across the
threshold.
"Go back to
your hammock." There was a
sudden rush of wind. I turned
around to protest, but Mariano Aureliano was no longer there. The wind
reverberated in my head like a deep gong. The sound grew softer and
softer,
until it was
but a bare vibration. I opened my
mouth to prolong (make it longer) the last faint echoes.
It was midmorning, when I awoke in my hammock, wearing the clothes,
Florinda had
brought me.
Automatically, almost without thought, I went outside and across the
clearing to the little house. The door was
locked. I
knocked
repeatedly and I called out, but there was no answer. I tried to
force the windows open, but they too were locked. I was so
shaken, I was on the verge of tears. I ran down
the hill to the small clearing beside the road, the only spot, where a
car could
be parked.
Isidore Baltazar's van was not there. I walked
along the dirt road for quite some time, looking for fresh tire tracks.
There were
none. More
confused, than ever, I returned to the house. Knowing,
that it would be useless to look for the Women in their rooms, I stood
in the
middle of
the inside patio and yelled for Florinda at the top of my voice. There was no
sound, except for the echo of my own voice settling around me. No matter
how many times I reviewed, what Florinda had said, I couldn't come up
with a
satisfying
explaination.
The only
thing, I could be sure of, was, that Florinda had come to my room in
the middle of
the night to
bring me the clothes, I was wearing. Her visit and her statement, that
Isidore
Baltazar was
back, must have triggered a vivid dream in me. To stop
myself from speculating (thinking, engage in risk), why I was alone in
the house - not even the caretaker seemed to be
about - I began to mop the floors. Cleaning
always had a soothing effect on me. I was done with all the rooms,
including the
kitchen,
when I heard the distinct sound of a Volkswagen engine. I ran down
the hill and flung (throw carelessly) myself at Isidore Baltazar, even
before he got out of the van, almost
jerking him to the ground.
"I
still can't get over it," he laughed, putting his arms around me in a
tight embrace. "You were the
one, the Nagual told me so much about. Do you know, that I nearly
passed out
(die) when
they greeted you?"
162-163
He didn't wait for my comment, but hugged me again, and laughing,
lifted me off the ground. Then, as if
some restraint had broken free within him, he began to talk nonstop. He said,
that he had known about me for a year. The Nagual had told him, that he
was
entrusting a weird girl to him. The Nagual
had described that girl metaphorically as 'twelve o'clock in the
morning of a
clear day,
which is neither windy, nor calm, neither cold, nor hot, but alternates
between all
those,
driving one nuts.' Isidore
Baltazar confessed, that being the pompous ass, that he was, he knew
instantaneously, that the Nagual was referring to his girlfriend.
"Who
is your girlfriend?" I cut him short. He made a
sharp movement with his hand, positively displeased by my words.
"This
is not a story of facts," he snapped. "This is a story of ideas; so you
would see, how idiotic I
am."
His annoyance quickly gave way to a brilliant smile.
"I actually believed I could find out for myself,
who that girl was." He paused for an instant, then added softly, "I've
even
involved a married Woman with children in my search." He heaved
(breathe) a deep sigh, then grinned and said, "The moral of my story
is, that in the Sorcerers'
World one has to cancel out the ego or it is curtains for us; for in
that World,
there is no
way for average persons, like ourselves, to predict anything." Then,
seeing, that I was weeping, he held me off at arm's length and gazed at
me
anxiously. "What is the matter, nibelunga?"
"Nothing
really," I laughed in between my sobs, drying my tears. "I don't have
an abstract
mentality,
that can worry about the world of abstract stories," I added cynically. In as hard a
tone, as I could muster, I added, "I worry about the here and now.
You've got
no idea,
what I've been through in this house."
"Of
course, I have a very good idea," he retorted with deliberate
harshness. "I've been at it for
years." He
regarded
me with an inquisitor's eye and asked,
"What I want to know is, why didn't you tell me,
you had been with them already?"
"I
was about to, but I didn't feel, it was important," I mumbled in
confusion.
Then my
voice acquired a firm and steady ring, as words poured involuntarily
out of me.
"It turns out, that meeting them, was the only important thing I have
ever done."
To hide my
surprise, I immediately began to complain, that I had been left in the
house all
by myself.
"I
didn't have a chance to let you know, that I was off to the mountains
with the Nagual," he whispered
with a sudden irrepressible smile.
"I
forgot all about that," I assured him. "I'm talking about today. This
morning, when I awoke, I expected you to be here. I was certain, you
had spent the
night in the
little house, sleeping on a straw mat. When I couldn't find you, I
panicked."
Seeing his
puzzled face, I told him of Florinda's midnight visit, of my subsequent
dream, and
of
finding myself alone in the house upon awakening this morning. I
sounded incoherent. My thoughts and words were all mixed up. However, I
couldn't
stop
talking. "There
are so
many things, I cannot accept," I said, finally putting an end to my
diatribe (bitter/abusive criticism). "Yet I
cannot refute (prove to be wrong) them either." Isidore
Baltazar didn't say a word. He kept staring at me, as if expecting me
to continue,
his eyebrows
raised in an inquiring, mocking arch. His face was
thin and drawn (looking tired) and the color of smoke. His skin exuded
a strange coolness and a faint
scent of Earth, as if he had spent his days underground in a cave. All
thought of my turmoil vanished, as I gazed into his ominous (menacing,
threatening) left eye, with its terrible, merciless gaze. At that
moment it no longer mattered, what was the authentic truth and
what was
the illusion - the dream within a dream. I laughed out loud, feeling as
light, as the wind. I could feel an unbearable weight being lifted off
my shoulders, as I kept staring into his Wizard's Eye. I recognized it.
Florinda, Mariano Aureliano, Esperanza, and the caretaker all had such
an eye. Preordained (appoint, decree) for all time to be
without
feeling; without emotion, that Eye mirrors emptiness. Then, as if it
had revealed enough, an inside lid - as in a lizard's eye - shut over
the
left pupil. Before
I had a chance to comment on his Wizard's Eye, Isidore Baltazar closed
both eyes
for an
instant.
When he
opened them again, they were exactly alike, dark and shiny with
laughter, the
Wizard's Eye
became an illusion. He put one
arm around my shoulders and walked with me up the hill.
"Get your things," he said just before reaching the house. "I'll wait
for you in the car."
164-165
I
thought it odd, that he wouldn't come in with me, but at the time I
didn't think of asking him why. Only as I
was gathering my few belongings, did it occur to me, that perhaps he
was afraid
of the Women.
That
possibility then made me laugh out loud; for I suddenly knew with a
certainty, that astonished
me, that the only thing, Baltazar was not afraid of, was
Women. I
was still
laughing, when I reached the van at the bottom of the hill. I opened my
mouth to explain to Isidore Baltazar the cause of my mirth, when a
strange,
fierce
emotion flooded me; a stab so strong, I couldn't speak. What I felt
wasn't sexual passion. Neither was it platonic affection.
It wasn't the feeling, I felt for my
parents or brothers or friends. I simply
loved Isidore Baltazar with a love, that was untainted by any
expectation, doubts, or
dread.
As if I had
spoken out loud, Isidore Baltazar embraced me so fiercely, I could
hardly
breathe. We
drove off
very slowly.
I craned my
neck out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the caretaker amidst
the
fruit trees. "It feels odd
to leave like this," I mused, slumping (sink, plump, collapse) back in
my seat. "In a way Florinda said goodbye
to me last night. But I wish, I could have thanked Esperanza and the caretaker." The dirt
road wound around the hill, and, as we reached a sharp bend, the back
of the little
house came
into view.
Isidore
Baltazar stopped the car and turned off the engine. He pointed to the
frail old man
sitting on a
crate in front of the house. I wanted to
get out of the car and run up the hill, but he held me back.
"Just wave at him," he whispered. The
caretaker rose from the crate. The wind made his loose jacket and pants
flap against
his limbs,
as if they were wings.
He laughed out loud, then bent backwards, and seemingly with the wind's
momentum did
a double
back flip.
For a moment
he appeared to be suspended high in the air. He never
landed on the ground, but vanished, as if the wind had sucked him away.
Where
did he go?" I whispered in awe.
"To
the other side," Isidore Baltazar giggled with childlike delight. "That
was his way of saying
good-bye to you." He set the
car in motion again. As if he
were baiting me, he glanced at me mockingly from time to time. "What is
it,
that's troubling you, nibelunga?" he finally asked.
"You
know, who he is, don't you?" I said accusingly. "He isn't the
caretaker, is he?" Isidore
Baltazar frowned slightly, then, after a long silence, he reminded me,
that, for me,
the Nagual
Juan Matus was Mariano Aureliano. He assured
me, that there must be a good reason, that I knew him under that name.
"I'm
sure, there is an equally sound justification for the old man, not to
reveal his name to you." I argued,
that, since I knew, who Mariano Aureliano was, I didn't see the purpose
of the old
man's
pretension.
"And," I stressed smugly (self-satisfied), "I do know, who the
caretaker is." I glanced
sideways to see Isidore Baltazar's reaction. His face revealed nothing.
"Like
all the people in the Sorcerers' World, the caretaker is a Sorcerer,"
he said. "But you don't know,
who he is."
He turned to
me briefly, then fixed his attention again on the road. "After all
these years,
I don't
know, who, any of them, really is, including the Nagual Juan Matus. As long, as
I am with him, I think, I know, who
he is. The moment his back is turned, however, I
am at a loss." Almost
dreamily, Isidore Baltazar went on to say, that in the World of
Everyday Life, our subjective
states are shared by all our fellow men. For this
reason, we know at all times, what our fellow men would do under given
circumstances.
"You're
wrong, you're deadly wrong," I shouted. "Not to know, what our fellow
men
would do under given circumstances, is what's exciting about life. That's one
of the few exciting things left. Don't tell me you want to do away with
it."
"We
don't know, what our fellow men would exactly do," he explained
patiently, "but we could write
down a list of possibilities, which would hold true; a very long list,
I grant
(consider it
proven, acknowledge, permit) you, yet a finite list. In order to
write down this list, we don't have to ask our fellow men for their
preferences. All we have to do is place ourselves in their
position and write down the
possibilities pertinent (relevant) to us. They'll be true to everybody,
because we share them. Our subjective
states are shared by all of us." He said,
that our subjective knowledge of the World is known to us, as common
sense.
166-167
It might be slightly different from group to group, from culture to
culture, yet, in spite of all these
differences, common sense is sufficiently homogeneous to warrant the
statement, that
the
Everyday World is an intersubjective (taking place within individual's
mind, personal experience) World. "With
Sorcerers, however, the common sense, we are accustomed to, is no
longer in
operation,"
he stressed. "They have another kind of common sense, because they have other kinds
of subjective states."
"You
mean, that they are like Beings from another Planet?" I asked. Isidore
Baltazar laughed. "Yes. They are like Beings from another Planet."
"Is
that why they are so secretive?"
"I
don't think secretive is the right term," he remarked thoughtfully: "They deal
differently with the Everyday World. Their behavior appears secretive
to us, because
we
don't share the same meaning. And since we
don't have any standards to measure, what is common sense to them, we opt (make
choice, decision, preference) for believing, that their behavior is
secretive."
"They
do, whatever we do: they sleep, they cook their meals, they read," I
interjected.
"Yet I could
never catch them in the act. Believe me, they are secretive."
Smiling,
he shook his head. "You saw, what they wished you to see," he insisted.
"And
yet they weren't hiding anything from you. You couldn't See. That's all."
I was
about to contradict him, but I didn't want him to dislike me. It wasn't so
much, that he was right, for I didn't really understand, what he was
talking
about;
rather,
I felt, that all my snooping around had not given me a clue, as to who
these
people were
or what they did. Sighing, I closed my eyes and leaned my head against
the
backrest.
As we drove,
I told him again of my dream; how real it was to have seen him asleep, snoring on
the straw mat. I told him of my conversation with Mariano Aureliano;
the heat on
his hand.
The more I
spoke, the more I was convinced, that it hadn't been a dream at all. I
drove
myself into
such a state of agitation, I ended up weeping. "I don't
know, what they did to me," I said. "I'm not quite sure, whether I'm
awake or
Dreaming
even now. "Florinda
kept telling me, that I was Dreaming-Awake."
Isidore Baltazar nodded, then said softly:
"The Nagual Juan Matus refers to it, as Heightened
Awareness."
"Heightened
Awareness," I repeated. The words
rolled easily off my tongue, even though they sounded exactly the
opposite of
Dreaming-Awake. I vaguely
remembered hearing them before. Either Florinda or Esperanza had used
the
term, but I couldn't recall, in what connection. The words
were on the verge of suggesting some meaning, albeit (although) vague,
but my brain
was already
too dulled by my unsuccessful attempts to recount my daily activities
at the
witches'
house.
Regardless
of how hard I tried, there were certain episodes I could not recall. I fumbled
(proceed awkwardly) for words, that somehow paled and died away in
front on my very eyes, like a vision half
seen and half remembered. It wasn't,
that I had forgotten anything, but rather, images came to me
fragmented, like pieces in a
puzzle, that didn't quite fit. This
forgetfulness was a physical sensation, as if a fog had settled over
certain parts of my brain.
"So
Dreaming-Awake and Heightened Awareness are the same?"
More than a question, it was a
statement, whose meaning escaped me. I shifted in
my seat and, pulling my legs under me, sat facing Isidoro Baltazar. The sun
outlined his profile. The black curly hair, falling over his high
forehead, the
sculpted
cheekbones, the strong nose and chin, and finely chiseled lips gave him
a Roman
appearance. "I
must be
still in Heightened Awareness," I said, "I never noticed you before."
The
car swayed on the road, as he threw his head back and laughed. "You are
definitely
Dreaming-Awake," he stated, slapping his thigh. "Don't you remember,
that I'm short, brown, and
homely looking?" I giggled.
Not because I agreed with his description, but because it was the only
thing, I
remembered
him saying in the lecture, he gave the day, I formally met him. My merriment
was quickly replaced by an odd anxiety.
168-169
It seemed, that months had passed,
instead of only two days, since we came to the house of the witches. "Time passes
differently in the Sorcerers' World," Isidore Baltazar said, as if I
had spoken
out loud.
"And one experiences it differently." He went on
to say, that one, of the most difficult aspects of his apprenticeship,
was to deal
with
sequences of events in terms of time. Often they were all mixed up in
his mind;
confused
images, that sank deeper, whenever he tried to focus on them. "Only now,
with the Nagual's help, do I remember aspects and events of his
teachings, that took place
years ago," he said.
"How
does he help you?" I asked. "Does he hypnotize you?"
"He
makes me shift Levels of Awareness (Vibrations. LM),"
he said. "And when he does, it is not only, that I remember
past events, but I relive them."
"How
does he do that?" I insisted. "I mean, make you shift."
"Until recently I believed,
that it was accomplished by a sharp pat on my back, between the shoulder blades," he
said:
"But now I'm quite certain, that his mere presence makes me shift
Levels of Awareness."
"Then
he does hypnotize you," I insisted. He shook his
head and said:
"Sorcerers
are experts at shifting Levels of Awareness. Some are so adept
(proficient, highly skilled, expert), they can shift the Level of
Awareness of others."
I
nodded. I had numerous questions, but he gestured for patience. "Sorcerers,"
he went on, "make one See,
that the whole nature of reality is different, from what we believe it
to be; that is, from what we have been taught it to be.
Intellectually, we are willing to tease ourselves with the idea, that
culture predetermines: who
we are, how we behave, what we are willing to know, or what we are able
to feel.
But we are
not willing to embody this idea; to accept it, as a concrete, practical proposition. And the
reason for that is, that we
are not willing to accept, that culture also
predetermines, what we are able to perceive. Sorcery makes us aware of
different realities; different possibilities, not only about the World,
but also about ourselves, to the extent, that we no longer are able to
believe in even
the most solid assumptions about ourselves and our surroundings." I
was surprised, that I could absorb his words so easily, when I didn't
really understand them.
"A Sorcerer is not only
aware of different realities," he went on, "but he uses that knowledge in
practicalities.
Sorcerers know- not only intellectually, but also practically- that
Reality, or the World, as
we know it, consists only
of an Agreement, extracted out of every one of us. That Agreement could be
made to collapse, since it's only a Social Phenomenon. And when Agreement collapses,
the whole World collapses with it." Seeing,
that I
couldn't follow his argument, he tried to present it from another angle. He said, that the Social World defines (state precise
meaning, explain) perception to us in proportion to its usefulness, in
guiding us through the complexity of experience in everyday life. The
Social World sets limits to, what we perceive; sets limits
to, what we
are capable of perceiving. To a Sorcerer, perception can go
beyond
these agreed-upon parameters," he stressed. "These parameters are
constructed and buttressed (support, reinforce) by words, by language,
by thoughts. That is, by Agreement."
"And
Sorcerers don't agree?" I asked tentatively (hesitantly), in an effort
to understand his premise (logic).
"They
do agree," he said, beaming at me, "but their Agreement is different.
Sorcerers break the normal Agreement, not only intellectually, but also
physically or practically or whatever one wants to call it. Sorcerers
collapse the parameters of socially determined perception; and to
understand, what Sorcerers mean by that, one has to become a
practitioner. That is, one has to be committed. One has to lend
(contribute, loan) the mind as well, as the body. It has to be a
conscious, fearless surrender."
"The
body?" I asked suspiciously, immediately wondering, what kind of ritual
might be
involved.
"What do they want with my body?"
"Nothing,
nibelunga," he laughed. Then, in a
serious, yet kind tone, he added, that neither my body, nor my mind was
yet in any
condition to follow the arduous (difficult) path of the Sorcerer. Seeing, that
I was about to protest, he quickly allowed, that there was nothing
wrong with
either my
mind or my body.
"Wait
a minute now!" I interjected forcefully.
170-171
Isidore Baltazar ignored my interruption and went on to say, that the World of Sorcerers is
a sophisticated World; that it wasn't enough to understand its
principles intuitively. One also needed to assimilate them
intellectually. Contrary to what people believe," he explained,
"Sorcerers are not practitioners of obscure esoteric rituals, but stand
ahead of our times. And the mode (way) of our time is Reason. We are
reasonable men as a whole.
Sorcerers, however, are men of reason,
which is
a different matter altogether. Sorcerers have a romance with ideas.They have cultivated reason
to its limits, for they believe, that only by fully understanding the intellect, can they
embody the principles of Sorcery without losing sight of their own sobriety and integrity
(honesty).
This is where Sorcerers differ drastically from us. We have very little
sobriety and even
less integrity." He
glanced at me briefly and smiled. I had the
unpleasant impression, that he knew exactly, what I was thinking, or
rather, that I couldn't
think at all.
I had
understood his words, but their meaning had eluded (escape from) me. I didn't
know, what to say. I didn't even know, what to ask. For the
first time in my life, I felt utterly stupid. It didn't
make me feel inadequate, though, for I realized, that he was right. My
interest in
intellectual
matters had always been shallow and superficial (trivial,
insignificant, not thorough). To have a romance with ideas was a
totally alien concept to me. We were at
the U.S. border in Arizona in a few hours, yet the drive was
unwarrantedly
exhausting.
I wanted to
talk, but I didn't know, what to say, or rather, I couldn't find the
words to
express
myself. I
felt
somehow intimidated (frightened, threatened) by all, that had happened.
It was a new feeling for me. Sensing my
uncertainty and discomfort, Isidoro Baltazar began to talk.
In a candid (open, without pretence, straight forward, fair, frank,
impartial) manner, he admitted to being baffled by the Sorcerers' World
even to this day; even after
so many years of studying and interacting with them. "And when I
say studying, I really mean studying." He laughed and slapped his thigh
to
emphasize his statement. "Only this
morning I was clobbered (defeat completely) by the Sorcerers' World in
ways, impossible to describe." He spoke in
a tone, that was half assertion (declaring without support), half
complaint, yet there was such a delighted power in his
voice; some wonderful inner strength in him, that I felt uplifted. He gave me
the impression, that he could do anything, endure anything, and allow
nothing to
matter. I
sensed a
will in him; an ability to overcome all obstacles. "Imagine, I
really thought, I was gone with the Nagual for only two days."
Laughing, he
turned to me
and shook me with his free hand. I had been
so absorbed by the sound, the vitality of his voice, that I failed to
understand,
what he was
talking about. I asked him
to repeat, what he had said. He did, and I still missed, what he meant.
"I
don't get, what's exciting you so much," I finally said, suddenly
irritated by my inability to grasp,
what he was trying to tell me. "You were gone for two days. What of it?"
"What?"
His loud exclamation made me jump in my seat and bang my head on the roof of the
van.
He peered straight into my eyes, but didn't say a word. I knew,
he was not accusing me of anything, yet I felt, that he was making fun
of my
moroseness
(gloomy, ill-humoured), my changing moods, or my lack of attention.
He parked the car on the side of the road, turned off the engine, then
shifted in his seat to face me. "And now I
want you to tell me all, you've experienced." There was a nervous
excitement
in his
voice, a restlessness, a vitality. He assured
me, that the sequential order of events didn't mean a thing. His
compelling (force, constrain), engaging smile was so reassuring, I told
him at length all, I remembered. He listened
attentively, chuckling (laugh quietly or to oneself) from time to time,
urging me with a movement of his chin, every
time I faltered (stumble, stagger, hesitate).
"So,
all this has happened to you in..." He paused, gazing at me with
shining eyes, then casually
added, "two days?"
"Yes,"
I said firmly. He crossed
his arms over his chest in an expansive gesture.
"Well,
I have news for you," he said. The merry look in his eyes belied
(misrepresent, disguise, defame) the seriousness of his tone,
the set expression of his straight lips. "I've been gone for twelve
days. But I
thought, it
was only two.
I thought,
you were going to appreciate the irony of it, because you had kept a
better
count of
time. You didn't, though. You're just like me. We've lost ten days."
172
"Ten
days," I mumbled, bewildered, then turned to look out the window. I didn't say
a word for the rest of the trip. It wasn't, that I didn't believe him.
It wasn't, that
I didn't want to talk. There was
nothing for me to say, even after I bought the L.A. Times in the first newsstand,
that carried it and corroborated (confirm) that, indeed,
I had lost ten days. But were
they really lost? I asked
myself that question, yet I didn't wish a reply.
Isidoro
Baltazar's office-studio consisted of one rectangular room overlooking
a parking
lot, a small
kitchen, and a pink-tiled bathroom. He took me there the night,
we returned
from Sonora.
Too exhausted to notice anything, I followed him up the two flights of stairs,
along a darkly carpeted corridor to apartment number 8.
The instant my head hit the pillow,
I was asleep and dreamt, that we were still on the road. We had driven
nonstop all
the way
from Sonora, alternating with each other at the wheel and pausing only
to eat or
fill up
the gas tank.
The
apartment was sparsely furnished. Beside the twin bed, he had a long,
masonite
folding
picnic table, that served as his desk, a folding chair, and two metal
filing cabinets, in which he
kept his field notes. Several suits and half a dozen shirts hung in the
two big
closets in
the hall. The rest of the space was taken up by books. They were
stacked up in
piles. There
were no bookcases. The books appeared to have never been touched, let alone read.
The cupboards in the kitchen were also crammed with books, except for
one
shelf, which had been set aside for a plate, a mug, a knife, a fork,
and a spoon. On the gas stove stood
a kettle and a saucepan. Within three
weeks I found myself a new apartment, about a mile down the street from the UCLA
campus, right around the corner from his office-studio. Yet I continued
to
spend most of my time at his place. He had set up a second twin bed for
me, a card table, and a
folding chair- identical to his- at the other end of the room.
174-175
In
the six months, that followed, Sonora became a mythological place for
me. Having no
longer any
desire to block away my experiences, I juxtaposed (place close
together) the memories of the two times, I had
been there. But hard, as I tried, I couldn't remember a thing about the
eleven days
I had
lost: one during the first trip, ten during the second. Isidoro
Baltazar plainly refused even to mention the idea of having lost those
days. At
times, I was
in total agreement with him. The absurdity of considering those days
lost,
simply because I couldn't remember them, became so plain to me, that I
was filled with gratitude
toward him for attaching no importance to the matter. It was clear,
that he was
protecting
me. At other times, however, for no reason at all, I nursed a deep
resentment.
It was his
duty to help me, to clarify the mystery for me, I repeated to myself,
until I was
convinced,
he was purposely hiding things from me. "You'll drive
yourself nuts, if you keep harping (dwell upon, talk about to tedious
degree) on it," he finally said one day. "And all your turmoil
will be for nothing, because it will resolve nothing."
He hesitated for a moment, as
if reluctant to voice, what he was about to say next, then shrugged and
added in a
challenging tone, "Why don't you use the same energy in a more
practical manner, like lining
up and examining your bad habits." Instead of
admitting to such a notion, I immediately counter-attacked with the
other
complaint,
that had been brewing inside me. I still hadn't met the other young
Women, who
had been
entrusted to him by the old Nagual. He had told
me so much about them, that I felt, I already knew them. Whenever I had asked him
about them, he had answered my questions at great length. He spoke rapturously (with delight,
ecstatically) about them. With profound and obviously sincere
admiration, he had said, that an outsider
would describe them as attractive, intelligent, accomplished - they all possessed
advanced university degrees - self-assured, and fiercely independent. To him,
however, they were much more, than that.
They were Magical Beings, who shared his destiny. They were
linked to him by ties of affection and commitment, that had nothing to
do with the
Social
Order.
They shared in common their search for Freedom, he had said. Once, I even
gave him an ultimatum.
"You've
got
to take me to them, or else." Isidoro
Baltazar laughed gaily, a deep, chuckling laugh.
"All I can tell you is, that nothing is, as you
imagine," he said. "And there is no way to tell when you will finally
meet them.
You'll just
have to wait."
"I've
waited long enough!" I shouted. Seeing no reaction on his face, I added
derisively (mocking, scoffing, absurd), "You're
deluding yourself, if you believe, that
I will find a bunch of Women in Los Angeles. I
don't even know, where to start looking."
"You'll
find them, the way you found me," he stated, "the way you found Mariano Aureliano." I regarded
him suspiciously.
I couldn't help, but suspect, that there was a sort of secret malice about
him. "I wasn't looking for you," I pointed out peevishly (fretful,
ill-tempted). "Nor did I look for Mariano
Aureliano. Believe me, meeting you and him was purely accidental."
"There
are no accidental meetings in the Sorcerers' World," he noted casually.
I was on the
verge of
telling him, that I didn't need this kind of advice, when he added in a
serious
voice,
"You'll meet them, when the time is right. You don't have to go,
looking for them." Facing the
wall, I counted to ten, then turned toward him saying "The problem with
you is, that you're a typical Latin. Tomorrow is always good enough for you. You've
no concept of getting things done." I raised my voice to prevent him
from
interrupting me. "My insistence, on meeting your friends, is to speed
things up."
"To
speed things up?" he repeated uncomprehendingly. "What's there to speed
up?"
"You
have been telling me almost daily, that there is so little time left,"
I reminded him. "You, yourself,
are always talking about how important it is for me to meet them, and
yet you
act, as if
you had an eternity before you."
"I
tell you this constantly, because I want you to hurry and clean your
Inner Being, not because I
want meaningless acts, done as fast, as you can," he said impatient-
ly.
"It isn't up
to me to
introduce them to you. If it were up to me, I wouldn't be sitting here,
listening to
your
inanities (absurd act or remark)."
176-177
He closed his eyes and sighed exaggeratedly in mock resignation. He smiled, then
mumbled softly, "You're too dumb, to see what's happening."
"Nothing
is happening," I retorted, stung by his insult. "I'm not as stupid, as
you think.
I've noticed this air of ambivalence (simultaneous existence of
mutually conflicting feelings/thoughts) about your reactions toward me.
Sometimes I have the distinct
impression, that you don't know, what to do with me."
"I
know exactly, what to do," he contradicted me.
"Then
why do you always appear undecided, when I propose something?" The
words had
escaped me,
as if of their own accord. Isidore
Baltazar looked sharply at me. For a moment I expected, that he would
attack me
with those
quick, harsh words he could use, demolish me with some sharp criticism.
But
his voice was surprisingly gentle, when he said, that I was quite right
in my assessment.
"I
always wait, till events make a choice for me," he affirmed. "And then
I move with
speed and
vigor. I will leave you behind, if you don't watch out."
"I'm
already far behind," I said in a self-pitying tone. "Since you won't
help me find these Women, I'm
doomed to remain behind."
"But
this is not the real pressing problem," he said. "You haven't yet made
your decision, that's the
trouble." He lifted his brows expectantly, as if waiting for my
impending
outburst.
"I
don't know, what you mean. What is it, I have to decide?"
"You
haven't decided to join the Sorcerers' World. You're standing at the
threshold,
looking in,
waiting to see, what's going to happen. You're waiting for something
practical, that
will
make it worth your while." Words of
protest rose in my throat. But before I could give vent to my profound indignation
(anger), he said, that I had the mistaken idea, that moving into a new
apartment and
leaving my
old life-style behind, was a change.
"What
is it then?" I asked sarcastically.
"You
haven't left anything behind, except your belongings," he said,
ignoring my tone. For some
people that is a gigantic step. For you, though, it's nothing.
You don't care about
possessions."
"No, I don't," I agreed, then insisted, that regardless of, what he
believed, I had made my decision to
join the Sorcerers' World a long time ago. "Why do you think, I'm
sitting here, if I haven't
joined yet?"
"You
have certainly joined it in body," he stated, "but not in Spirit. Now
you are waiting for some
kind of map, some comforting blueprint, before you make your final
decision.
Meanwhile,
you'll go on humoring them. The main problem with you is, that you want
to
be convinced, that the Sorcerers' World has something to offer."
"Doesn't
it?" I blurted out. Isidoro
Baltazar turned to me, his face crinkling with delight.
"Yes, it has something very special to
offer. It's called freedom. However, there's no guarantee, that you'll
succeed in
attaining
it; that any of us, for that matter, will succeed." I nodded
thoughtfully, then asked him, what I had to do to convince him, that I
had indeed
joined the
Sorcerers' World.
"You
don't have to convince me. You have to convince the Spirit. You have to
close the
door behind
you."
"What
door?"
"The
one, you still keep open. The door, that will permit you to escape, if
things are not to your liking
or don't fit your expectations."
"Are
you saying, that I will leave?"
He
regarded me with an enigmatic expression, then shrugged his shoulders
and in a voice, that was but
a mere murmur said, "That's between you and the Spirit."
"But
if you, yourself, believe that--"
"I
don't believe anything," he cut me short. "You came into this World,
the way everybody else did. It
was none of anybody's doing. And it will be none of anybody's doing, if
you or
anyone else
decides to leave."
I
gazed at him in confusion. "But surely you'll try to convince... if
I..." I stammered. He shook his
head, before I finished speaking.
"I will not convince you or anyone else. There will
be no power in your decision, if you need to be propped up, every time
you
falter (hesitate) or doubt."
"But
who will help me?" I asked, stricken.
178-179
"I
will. I'm your servant." He smiled, not cynically, but shyly and
sweetly. "But
I serve the Spirit first. A Warrior is not a slave, but a
servant of the Spirit. Slaves have no choice; servants do. Warriors'
choice is to serve impeccably. My help is exempt (excuse, release) from
calculation," he continued. "I cannot invest in you, and neither,
World. Nothing is done in it, that might be construed (assumed), as
useful; only strategic acts are permitted. This is what the Nagual Juan
Matus taught me and the way I live. A Sorcerer practices, what he or
she
preaches. And yet nothing is done for practical reasons. When you get
to understand and practice this,
you will have
closed the door behind
you." A
long, breathless silence settled between us. I changed positions on the
bed, where I was sitting.
Thoughts swarmed into my head. Perhaps none of the Sorcerers would
believe me,
but I had
certainly changed, a change, that had been almost imperceptible at
first. I
noticed it,
because it had to do with the most difficult thing some of us, Women,
can
encounter: jealousy and the need to know. My fits of
jealously were a pretense, not necessarily a conscious one, but
nevertheless
there was
something of a posturing about them. Something in me demanded, that I be jealous of
all the other Women in Isidore Baltazar's life. But then something in
me was
keenly
aware, that the new Nagual's life wasn't the life of an ordinary man,
not even one,
who might
have many wives. Our relation, if it could be called that, did not fit
into any
kind of
habitual, known mold, no matter how I tried to make it fit into that
mold. In order for jealousy
and possessiveness to have a grasp, it needs a mirror; not only one's
own, but
one's
partner's as well. And Isidore Baltazar no longer mirrored the drives,
needs,
feelings,
and emotions of a man. My need to
know about Isidore Baltazar's life was an overpowering need. It simply consumed me,
that he never allowed me a real entry into his private world. And yet I
did
nothing about it. It would have been quite simple to follow him or to
snoop through his papers and
find out once and for all, who he really was, I often reminded myself.
But I
couldn't do
it. Something in me knew, that I could not proceed with him, as I
normally
would have
done. What stopped me more, than any sense of propriety
(etiquette appropriateness), was the trust he had bestowed
(present as a gift of honour) on me. He had given me complete access to
his belongings, and that made him, not
only in practice, but even in my thoughts, inviolable (safe/secured
from violation). I laughed
out loud. I did understand, what a Warrior's strategic act was. Isidore
Baltazar
was wrong.
He was taking my lifelong habit of moodiness and Germanic finickiness
(fussy, hard to please), as lack of
commitment. It didn't matter. I knew, that I had at least begun to
understand and practice the
Warrior's strategy, at least when he was present - not necessarily
present in the studio, but
present in Los Angeles. In his absence, however, I often began to
falter (hesitate), and when I did,
I usually went to sleep in his studio. One night,
as I was inserting my key in the lock, I felt an arm reach out and pull
me in. I
screamed
in terror. "What... what...," I stammered, as the hand, that was
holding my arm, let go of me. Trying to
regain my balance, I leaned against the wall. My heart thumped (pound,
throb audibly) wildly. "Florinda!" I
stared at her, bewildered. She had on a long robe, gathered at the
waist. Her
hair hung
loose down the sides and back. I wondered, whether she was real or
merely a
shadowy
apparition, rimmed by the faint light behind her shoulders. I moved
toward her
and
surreptitiously touched her sleeve.
"Is
that you, Florinda? Or am I Dreaming?"
"It's
the real thing, dear. The real me."
"How
did you get here? Are you all by yourself?" I was well aware of the
futility (useless) of asking her
that. "Had
I known,
that you would come, I would have started earlier with my cleaning," I said, trying
to smile. My lips stuck to my teeth. "I love to clean Isidore
Baltazar's studio at night. I
always clean at night."
Instead
of making any remark, Florinda turned sideways, so the light hit her
face. A
wicked
smile of delight dawned in her eyes. "I told you never to follow any
one of us
or come
uninvited. You're lucky," she said. "You're lucky, it wasn't someone
else, who
pulled you
in here tonight."
"Who
else could have pulled me in?" I asked with a bravado, I was far from
feeling.
Florinda
gazed at me for a moment longer, then turned around and said over her
shoulder,
"Someone,
who wouldn't have cared, if you had died of fright."
180-181
She moved her head slightly, so her profile was outlined by the faint
light. She laughed softly, and,
waving her hand in the air, as if to brush away the words,
she traveled the length of
the room to the small kitchen. She seemed not to walk, but to glide in
a sort of
undeliberate
dance. It made her long white hair, hanging unbraided down her back, shimmer like
a silvery curtain in the uncertain light. Trying to
imitate her graceful walk, I followed behind her.
"I do have a key, you know," I said. "I've
been coming here every day, at any hour, since we returned from Sonora.
In
fact, I practically live here."
"Didn't
Isidore Baltazar tell you not to come here, while he's in Mexico?"
Florinda's tone was even,
almost casual. She was not accusing me, yet I felt she was.
"He
might have mentioned something," I remarked with studied indifference.
Seeing, that
she frowned,
I felt compelled (force, constrain) to defend myself. I told her, that
I was often there by myself and that I
didn't think it would make any difference, whether Isidore Baltazar was
five
miles or five hundred miles away. Emboldened (encouraged) by her
repeated nods, I confided, that besides
doing my schoolwork there, I spent hours rearranging the books in the
closets. I
had been
restacking them by author and subject matter. "Some of the books are so
new
the pages are still uncut," I explained. "I've been separating them. In
fact, that's, what I came here to
do tonight."
"At
three in the morning?" she exclaimed. Blushing, I
nodded.
"There
are plenty of pages still to cut. It takes forever in that, one has to be very
careful not to damage the pages. It's soothing work, though. It helps
me sleep."
"Extraordinary,"
Florinda said softly. Encouraged
by her obvious approval, I went on talking.
"I'm sure, you can understand, what, being
here, does to me," I said. "In this apartment, I feel detached from my
old life,
from
everything and everyone, but Isidore Baltazar and his Magical World.
The very air
fills me
with a sense of utter remoteness." I sighed,
long and loudly. "Here I never feel alone, even though most of the time
I'm here by
myself.
Something about the atmosphere of this apartment reminds me of the
witches'
house. That
same coldness and lack of feeling, which at first I had found so
disturbing,
permeates
the walls. And it's precisely this lack of warmth, this remoteness,
that I seek
day and
night. I find it oddly reassuring. It gives me strength."
"Incredible," Florinda whispered, as if in disbelief and took the
kettle to the sink. She said
something, which I didn't hear above the splash of water, then put the
water-filled
kettle on
the stove. "I'm
so
happy, that you feel so at home here," she said, sighing dramatically.
"The
security, you must feel in such a little nest, knowing you have a
companion." She added in a most
facetious (disrespectful, insensitive) tone, that I should do
everything, I could, to make Isidore Baltazar happy and that
included sexual practices, which she described with horrendous
directness. Stupefied to hear such
things, I stared at her open-mouthed. With the assuredness and efficiency
of someone, familiar with the peculiar setup of the kitchen, she
produced the
two mugs, my
special teapot, and the bag of chocolate chip cookies, I kept hidden in
the
cupboards behind the thick German and French Cassels' dictionaries. Smiling,
Florinda turned to me and asked abruptly, "Whom did you expect to find
here
tonight?"
"Not
you!" I blurted out, realizing too late, that my answer had given me
away. I went
into a
lengthy and elaborate elucidation of, why I believed, I might find
there,
if not all of
them, then
at least one of the other young Women.
"They
will cross your path, when the time is right," Florinda said. "It isn't
up to you to
force an
encounter with them." Before I
knew, what I was saying, I found myself blaming her, as well, as Mariano Aureliano
and Isidore Baltazar, for my sneakiness. I told her, that it was
impractical (not to mention
impossible) for them to expect me to wait, until some unknown Women crossed my
path and to believe, that I would actually recognize them by something
so
inconceivable, as their Inner Glow. As usual, the more I complained,
the better I felt. Florinda
ignored me. "One, two spoonfuls, and one for the pot," she chanted in an exaggerated
British accent, as she measured out the tea.
182-183
Then in a most casual manner she remarked, that the only capricious and
impractical thing was for me:
to think of and treat Isidore Baltazar as a man.
"I
don't know, what you mean," I said defensively. She gazed at
me intently, until I blushed.
"You know exactly, what I mean," she stated, then poured
the tea into the mugs. With a quick
gesture of her chin she indicated, which of the two I should take. With
the
bag of cookies in her hand she sat on Isidore Baltazar's bed, the one
nearest to the kitchen.
Slowly, she sipped her tea. I sat beside her and did the same.
"You
haven't changed at all," she said all of a sudden.
"That's
pretty much, what Isidore Baltazar said to me some days ago," I
retorted. "I know, however,
that I've changed a great deal." I told her,
that my world had been turned upside down, since my return from Sonora.
At
great length I explained about finding a new apartment, about moving
and leaving
everything,
I owned, behind. She did not
so much as nod, but sat there silent and stiff like a stone. "Actually, I
can't take much credit for disrupting routines or becoming
inaccessible,"
I
conceded, laughing nervously and faltering on through her silence: "Anyone in
close contact with Isidore Baltazar will forget, that there are
boundaries
between
night and day, between weekdays and holidays." I glanced at
her sideways, pleased with my words. "Time just flows by and gives way
to
some..." but I couldn't finish the sentence: I had been hit by a
strange thought. Nobody, in
my memory, had ever told me about disrupting routines or becoming inaccessible. I regarded
Florinda intently, then my glance wavered involuntarily. Was it her
doing? I
asked
myself. Where did I get these ideas? And what was even more baffling, I
knew
exactly, what these ideas meant.
"This
should be a warning, that something is just about to pop out of you,"
Florinda said, as if she
had followed my train of thoughts. She went on
to say, that whatever I had done so far in dreams, hadn't imbued
(permeate, saturate, inspire) my waking hours with
the necessary hardness, the necessary self-discipline needed to fare
(travel) in the Sorcerers'
World.
"I've
never done anything like this in my life," I said. "Give me a break. I
am new at it."
"Of
course," she readily agreed. She reclined
her head against the pillows and closed her eyes. She was
silent for so long, I thought she had fallen asleep, and thus
I was startled, when she said, "A
real change is not a change of mood or attitude or outlook. A real
change
involves a
total transformation of the self." Seeing, that
I was about to interrupt her, she pressed her finders against my lips
and
added, "The kind of change, I'm talking about, cannot be accomplished
in three months or in a year or
in ten. It will take a lifetime." She said,
that it was extraordinarily difficult to become something different,
than what one was raised to be. "The
World of Sorcerers is a Dream; a myth: yet it is as real, as the
Everyday World," Florinda proceeded: "In order to perceive and to
function in the Sorcerers' World, we have to take off the everyday
mask, that has been strapped to our faces, since the day we were born,
and put on the second mask; the mask, that enables us to see ourselves
and our surroundings, for what they really are: breathtaking events,
that bloom into transitory existence once, and are never to be repeated
again. You'll have to make that mask
yourself." She settled more comfortably on the bed and, cupping her
hands around the mug, which I had refilled, took noisy little sips.
"How
do I make this mask?" I asked.
"By
Dreaming your Other Self," she murmured: "Certainly not by just having
a new address, new clothes, new books." She glanced at me sideways and
grinned mockingly. "And certainly not by believing you have a new Man."
Before
I could deny her brutal accusation, she said, that outwardly I was a
fluid person,
capable of
moving at great speed. But inside I was rigid and stiff. As Isidore
Baltazar had remarked already, she, too, maintained, that it was
fallacious for me to
believe, that moving into a new apartment and compulsively giving away
all,
I
possessed, was a change. I bowed my
head, accepting her criticism. I had always had an urge to get rid of
things.
And, as she
had pointed out, it was basically a compulsion.
184-185
To my parents' chagrin (embarrassment, humiliation, annoyance), I had periodically
disposed of my clothes and toys since early childhood. My joy at seeing
my
room and closets neatly arranged and nearly empty, surpassed the joy of
having things. Sometimes my
compulsion was so overpowering, that I thinned out my parents' and brothers'
closets as well. Hardly ever were these items missed, for I always made
sure to get
rid of
clothes, I hadn't seen anyone wear for a while. Quite a few times,
nevertheless,
the whole
household would explode in sudden and total confusion, as my father went from room to
room, opening wardrobes and yelling, searching for a specific shirt or
a pair of
pants.
Florinda
laughed, then got to her feet and moved to the window overlooking the
alley. She
stared
at the black-out curtain, as though she could see through it. Glancing
backward over her shoulder, she said, that for
a Woman it is a great deal easier, than
for a Man, to break ties with family and past. "Women," she maintained,
"are not accountable. This lack of accountability gives Women a great deal of fluidity. Unfortunately, Women
rarely, if ever, make use of this advantage." She
moved about the room, her hand trailing over the large metal filing
cabinet and over the folding
card table. "The
hardest thing to grasp about the Sorcerers' World is, that it offers
total Freedom. But Freedom is
not free. What does Freedom cost? Freedom will cost you the
mask you have on; the mask, that feels so comfortable and is so hard to
shed off, not because it fits so well, but because you have been
wearing it for so long. Do you know what Freedom is? Freedom is
the total absence of
concern about yourself," she said, sitting beside me on the bed. "And the best way to
quit being concerned with yourself is to be concerned about others."
"I
am," I assured her. "I constantly think of Isidore Baltazar and his
Women."
"I'm
sure you do," Florinda readily agreed. She shook
her head and yawned. "It's
time for you to begin to shape your new mask; the mask, that cannot
have anyone's imprint, but your own. It has to be carved in solitude.
Otherwise it won't fit properly. Otherwise there will always be times, when the mask will
feel too tight, too loose, too hot, too cold ..." Her
voice trailed off (lagged behind), as she went on enumerating the most
outlandish discomforts. A long silence ensued (followed), and then in
that same sleepy voice she said, "To choose the Sorcerers' World is not
just a matter of saying, you have. You have to act in that World. In
your case, you have to Dream. Have you Dreamt-Awake since your return?" In a
thoroughly morose (gloomy) mood, I admitted, that I hadn't.
"Then
you haven't made your decision yet," she observed severely. "You are
not carving your new mask. You are not Dreaming your Other Self.
Sorcerers are bound to their World solely through their impeccability."
A definite gleam appeared
in her eyes, as she added, "Sorcerers have no interest to convert anyone to their
views.
There are no gurus or wise men among Sorcerers, only Naguals. They are the Leaders, not
because they know more or because they are in any way better Sorcerers, but simply
because they have more Energy. I'm not necessarily
referring to physical strength," she qualified, "but to a certain configuration of their
Being, that permits them to help anyone break the parameters of perception."
"If Sorcerers are not interested in converting anyone to
their views, why then is Isidore Baltazar the
old Nagual's apprentice?" I interrupted her.
"Isidore
Baltazar appeared in the Sorcerers' World the same way, you did," she
said.
"Whatever it
was, that brought him, could not be ignored by Mariano Aureliano.
It was his
duty to
teach Isidore Baltazar all, he knew about the Sorcerers' World." She
explained, that noone had been looking for Isidore Baltazar or for me.
Whatever had
brought us
into their World had nothing to do with anyone's doing or volition. "There is
nothing anyone of us would do to keep you against your will in this
Magical
World," she
said, smiling: "And yet we
would do any imaginable or unimaginable thing to help you stay in it." Florinda
turned sideways, as if she wanted to hide her face from me. An instant
later she looked back over her shoulder. Something cold and detached
showed in
her eyes,
and the change of expression was altogether so remarkable, that I was frightened. Instinctively,
I moved away from her.
186-187
"The
only thing I cannot and will not do, and neither will Isidore Baltazar,
for that matter,
is to help you be your old ugly, greedy, indulgent self. That would be
a travesty (exaggerated imitation intended to ridicule)." As if to
soften the insult, she put her arm around my shoulders and hugged me. "I'll tell
you, what you need," she whispered; but then was silent for so long, I
thought, she
had
forgotten, what she was going to say. "You need a
good night's sleep," she finally murmured.
"I'm
not in the least tired," I retorted. My response
was automatic, and I realized, that most of my responses were
contradictions, of what was
being said. For me,
it was a matter of principle to be right. Florinda
laughed softly, then embraced me again. "Don't be so Germanic," she murmured.
"And don't expect everything to be spelled out clearly and precisely to
you." She
added,
that nothing in the Sorcerers' World was clear and precise. Instead,
things
unfolded
slowly and vaguely. "Isidore
Baltazar will help you," she assured me. "However, do remember, that he
won't help
you in
the way, you expect to be helped."
"What
do you mean?" I asked, disentangling myself from her arms, so I could
look at her. "He
will not tell you, what you want to hear. He will not tell you how to
behave, for, as you already know, there are neither rules, nor
regulations in the Sorcerers' World." She giggled gleefully, seemingly
enjoying my growing frustration. "Always remember, there are only
improvisations," she added, then, yawning widely, she stretched
out fully on the bed and reached for one of the neatly folded blankets
stacked on
the floor.
Before she
covered herself, she rose up on her elbow and looked at me closely.
There was
something
hypnotic about her sleepy voice, as she told me, that I should always
bear in
mind, that I
traveled on the same Warrior's Path, as Isidore Baltazar. She closed
her eyes, and in a voice, that was almost too faint to be heard, said, "Never lose sight of him.
His actions will guide you in so artful a manner, that you won't even
notice it. He's an impeccable
and peerless Warrior." I urgently
shook her arm. I was afraid, she would fall asleep, before she finished
talking.
Without
opening her eyes, Florinda said:
"If
you watch him carefully, you'll see, that
Isidore Baltazar doesn't seek love or approval. You'll see, that he
remains impassive under any conditions. He doesn't demand anything, yet
he is willing to give anything of himself. He avidly seeks a signal
from the Spirit in the form of a kind word; an appropriate gesture...
and when he gets it, he expresses his thanks by redoubling his efforts.
Isidore Baltazar doesn't judge. He fiercely reduces himself to nothing,
in order to listen, to watch, so that he can conquer and be humbled by
his conquest; or be defeated and enhanced by his defeat. If you watch
carefully, you'll see, that Isidore Baltazar doesn't surrender. He may
be vanquished (defeated, subjugated), but he'll never surrender. And
above all, Isidore Baltazar is free."
I was
dying to interrupt her, to cry out, that she had already told me all
that, but before I could ask
her anything else, Florinda was sound asleep. Afraid, I
might miss her in the morning, if I returned to my apartment, I sat
down on the
other bed.
Strange thoughts rushed into my awareness. I relaxed. I let myself go
completely, as
I
realized, that they were disconnected from the rest of my normal
thoughts. I saw them like Beams of Light, Flashes of Intuition.
Following one of those Flashes of Intuition, I decided to
feel with my
seat the bed, I was sitting on. And to my dumbfounded surprise, my
buttocks felt, as if they had sunk into the bed itself. For an instant,
I was the bed, and the bed was reaching out to touch my buttocks. I
relished (take pleasure, enjoy) this sensation for quite some time. I
knew then, that I was Dreaming, and I understood with complete clarity,
that I had just felt, what Esperanza had described, as 'my feeling
being
thrown back at me.' And then my whole being melted, or better yet, it
exploded. I wanted to laugh
out loud for the sheer joy of it, but I didn't want to wake Florinda.
I had
remembered
it all !
188-189
Now I had no difficulty whatsoever in recalling, what I had done in the
witches' house in those ten
lost days. I had Dreamt ! Under
Esperanza's watchful eye, I had Dreamt on and on of waking up in the
witches'
house or in
Esperanza's place or sometimes in other places, I couldn't quite see at
the
moment.
Clara had
insisted, that before any particular thing, I saw in dreams,
could be fixed permanently in my memory, I need to see it twice. I had
seen all the Women more, than twice; they
were permanently etched (cut, engrave) in my memory. As
I sat there on the bed watching Florinda sleep, I remembered the other
Women of the
Sorcerers'
party, with whom I had interacted in a dreamlike state during those
forgotten
days. I saw
them
clearly, as if they had conjured (summoned, called upon) themselves up
before me; or rather, as if I had been
transported, bodily, back to those events. The most
striking to me was Nelida, who looked so much like Florinda, that at
first
I
believed she was her twin. Not only was she as tall and thin, as
Florinda, but she had the same color
eyes, hair, and complexion. Even their expressions were the same.
Temperamentally, they were alike, too, except, that Nelida came across
as more subdued, less
forceful. She seemed to lack Florinda's wisdom and energetic force. And
yet, there
was a
patient, silent strength to Nelida, that was very reassuring. Hermelinda
could have easily passed as Carmela's younger sister. Her thin,
five-foot two inch body was
delicately rounded and so were her exquisite manners. She appeared to be less
self-assured, than Carmela. She was soft-spoken and moved in quick
jerks, that
somehow
meshed into gracefulness. Her companions told me, that her shyness and quietness
brought out the best in others and, that
she could not handle a group or even two people at
the same time. Clara and
Delia made a stupendous team of pranksters. They weren't really as big,
as they
first
appeared. It was their robustness, their vigor and energy, that made
one think, they were large,
indestructible Women. And they did play the most delightful competitive games. They
paraded their, outlandishly eccentric, outfits at the slightest
opportunity. Both played the
guitar very well and had beautiful voices to match. They sang, one
trying to
outdo the
other, not only in Spanish, but in English, German, French, and Italian
as well.
Their
repertoire included ballads, folk songs, every conceivable popular
song, including the latest
pop songs. I only had to hum or recite the first line of a song and
either Clara or Delia would
immediately finish the whole song for me. And then they had their poem writing
contests, writing verse (line of poetry) to the occasion. They had
written poems to me and slipped them under my door, unsigned. I had to
guess, who
had
written the poem. Each claimed, that if I truly loved her, as she loved
me, I would
intuitively know the author. What made
their competitiveness, delightfully appealing, was the fact, that there
was no edge
to it.
It was meant to entertain, not to put each other down. Needless to say,
Clara and
Delia
had as much fun, as their audience. If they took
a liking to someone, as they seemed to have done with me, there was no
limit to
their
affection and loyalty. Both of them defended me with an astonishing
perseverance, even when I was in the wrong. In their eyes, I was
perfect and could do no wrong. From
them
I learned, that it was a dual responsibility to uphold that trust. It
wasn't, that
I was
afraid of disappointing them and tried to live up to their
expectations, but rather,
it was the most natural thing for me to believe, that I was perfect and
to behave
with them in
an impeccable manner. The
strangest among all the Women Sorcerers was my Dreaming teacher,
Zuleica, who
never taught
me anything. She didn't even speak to me or perhaps hadn't noticed,
that I
existed.
Zuleica was,
just like Florinda, very beautiful; perhaps not as striking, but
beautiful in a more
ethereal way. She was petite. Her dark eyes with the winged eyebrows
and the
small,
perfect nose and mouth were framed by wavy dark hair, that was turning
grey. It
accentuated
her aura of Other-Worldliness.
Hers was not an average beauty, but a sublime (grand, majestic) one,
tempered (moderate, adjust, tune) by her relentless (persistent,
steady, pitiless) self-control. She was
keenly aware of the comic element of being beautiful and appealing in the eyes of
others.
190-191
She had learned to recognize it and used it, as if it were a prize she
had won. She was, therefore,
totally indifferent to anything or anyone. Zuleica had
learned to be a ventriloquist and had turned it into a superior art.
According
to her, words, voiced by moving the lips, become more confusing, than
they really are. I was delighted by Zuleica's habit of talking, as a
ventriloquist, to walls, tables, china, or any other object in front of
her, and so I kept on following her around, whenever she made an
appearance. She walked through the house without seeming to touch the
ground, without seeming to stir the air. When I asked the other
Sorcerers, whether this was an illusion, they explained, that Zuleica
abhorred (regard with horror, reject vehemently) leaving footprints.
After I had met and interacted with all the Women,
they
explained to me the difference between the Dreamers and the Stalkers.
They called it the two Planets. Florinda, Carmela, Zoila, and Delia
were Stalkers: forceful Beings with a great deal of physical energy;
go-getters; inexhaustible workers; specialists on that extravagant
State of Awareness, they called Dreaming-Awake. The other
Planet-
the Dreamers- was composed of the other four Women: Zuleica, Nelida,
Hermelinda, and Clara. They had a more ethereal quality. It was not,
that they were less forceful or less energetic. It was rather, that
their Energy was simply less apparent. They projected a sense of
Other-Worldliness, even when engaged in the most mundane activities.
They were the specialists on another peculiar State of Awareness, they
called 'Dreaming in Worlds other, than this World.'
I
was told, that this was the most complex State of Awareness Women could
reach. When the Dreamers and the Stalkers worked together, the Stalkers
were like a protective, hard, outer layer, that hid a deep Core. The
Dreamers were that deep Core. They were like a soft Matrix, that
cushioned the hard, outer layer.
During those days in the witches' house, I was taken care of, as if I
were their most precious
concern. They cossetted (pamper, spoil) and fussed over me, as if
I were a baby. They cooked me my
favorite foods. They made me the most elegant and well-fitting clothes,
I had ever
had. They
showered me with presents, outright silly things and valuable jewels,
which they
put
away, waiting for the day, I would wake up, they said. There were
two more Women in the Sorcerers' World. They were both Stalkers: two fat girls,
Martha and Teresa. Both were lovely to look at and had glorious
appetites to match. Not that
they fooled anyone, but they kept a cache of cookies, chocolates, and
assorted
candies,
hidden in a secret compartment in the pantry. To my great delight, they
made me
privy
(concealed, open secret) from the very beginning to their secret cache
and encouraged me to dip freely into it, which,
of course, I did. Martha was
the older of the two. She was in her mid-twenties, an exotic blend of
German and
Indian
blood. Her color, if not altogether white, was pale. Her luxurious
black hair
was soft and
wavy and framed a high-
cheeked, broad face. Her slanted eyes were a brilliant
green-blue, and her ears were small and delicate, like a cat's, soft
and almost
rosily
transparent.
Martha was
given to long, sorrowful sighs - Germanic, she claimed - and to moody silences, a
heritage of her Indian soul. She had recently begun to take lessons on
the
violin, which she would practice at any hour of the day. Instead of
anyone criticizing her or getting
angry, they unanimously (being in complete harmony) agreed, that Martha
had a great ear for music. Teresa was
barely five feet tall, but her bulk made her seem much taller. Rather,
than
looking Mexican, she looked like an Indian from India. Her flawless
skin was a rich, creamy light
brown. Her almond-shaped eyes, liquid and dark, were framed by long, curly
lashes, so heavy they kept her lids low, giving her a dreamy, far-away
expression.
Her
gentleness and sweet disposition made one want to protect her. Teresa was
artistic, too. She painted watercolors late in the afternoon. With her
easel (frame with tripod) before her,
her brushes and tray with paint and water at the ready, she would sit
for hours
in the yard,
waiting for the light and shadows to be just right. Then, with Zen-like
control and
fluidity, she would dash across the page with her paint-dipped brushes.
192
The bulk of my hidden memories had surfaced. I was exhausted. The
rhythm of
Florinda's
faint snoring, rising and falling across the room like a distant echo,
was
mesmerizing.
When I
opened my eyes, the first thing I did, was to call out her name. She
didn't answer. The bed was
empty. The yellow sheet, tucked tightly under the mattress, showed no evidence,
that anyone had sat, let alone slept, there. The two pillows were back
to their
usual
position - plopped against the wall - and the blanket, she had used,
was stacked with the others
on the floor.
Eagerly, I
searched the apartment for a clue, some indication, that she had indeed
been
there.
I found nothing, not even a long grey hair in the bathroom.
Whenever
I was fully awake, I didn't quite remember about those lost days,
except, that I knew, with
absolute certainty, that they were not lost. Something had happened to
me
during that time; something with an inward meaning, that escaped me. I didn't
make a conscious effort to recapture all those vague memories.
I simply knew,
they were
there half-hidden, like people, one knows slightly, but whose names one
can't
exactly
recall. I
have never
been a good sleeper, but from that night on - since Florinda's
appearance at
Isidore
Baltazar's studio - I went to sleep at all hours, just to Dream. I simply
passed out, every time I lay down, and slept for inordinately
(excessive) long stretches of time. I even
put on weight, which unfortunately didn't go to the right places. Yet I never
Dreamt with the Sorcerers. One
afternoon I awoke abruptly to a loud clatter (loud rattling sound,
commotion). Isidore Baltazar had dropped the kettle in the sink.
My head hurt, my eyes were blurred. I had the immediate memory of a terrible
Dream, that just as quickly escaped recall. I was sweating heavily. "It's all
your fault," I yelled at him. "If you would only help me, I wouldn't be
sleeping my
life
away." I wanted to rant (speak in violent manner), to give in to my
frustration and impatience. But it suddenly
flashed through my mind, that I couldn't do that, because I could no
longer enjoy
my
complaining, as I used to.
194-195
His face was radiant with pleasure, as though I had spoken my thoughts
out loud. He
grabbed his
chair, sat astride (with legs wide apart) it, and said, "You know, that
I cannot help you. Women have a different
Dreaming avenue. I can't even conceive (form in mind), what Women do to
Dream."
"You
ought to know, with so many Women in your World," I retorted churlishly
(rudely).
He laughed.
Nothing seemed to alter his good spirits.
"I
can't even begin to conceive what Women do to Dream," he went on:
"Males have to struggle incessantly to arrange their Attention in
Dreams. Women don't struggle, but they do have to acquire inner
discipline." His
smile was brilliant, as he added, "There is one thing, that might help
you. Don't
approach
Dreaming in your usual compulsive manner. Let it come to you." I opened and
closed my mouth, then quickly my astonishment turned to rage. My former insight
forgotten, I put on my shoes and stomped out in a huff (arrogantly),
making sure to bang the door behind
me. His laughter followed me all the way to my car in the parking lot
below.
Dejected,
feeling utterly unloved, alone, and above all, sorry for myself, I
drove to the
beach. It
was deserted. It was raining at the beach. There was no wind, and the
rain fell
very gently,
very straight. There was
something peaceful about the hushed sound of the lapping waves and the
rain
hitting the water. I took off my shoes, tucked up my pants, and walked,
until I was washed clean of my
indulgent moods. I knew, that
I was rid of them, because I heard from the whispering, lapping waves Florinda's
words, "It's a solitary fight." I wasn't
threatened. I simply accepted, that I was indeed alone; and it was this acquiescence
(accept without protest), that brought me the conviction, of what I had
to do. And since I am not one to wait, I
acted immediately. After
leaving a note under Isidore Baltazar's door - I didn't want him to
talk me out of it - I set out for
the witches' house. I drove all night, all the way to Tucson. I checked
in at a
motel, slept
most of the day, then late in the afternoon set out again, taking the
same route
Isidore
Baltazar had followed on our return trip. My sense of
direction is poor, yet that route is imprinted deep within me. With a
baffling
assurance, I
knew exactly what roads to take; where to turn. I reached the witches'
house in no
time
at all. I didn't bother to check my watch, for
I didn't want to lose the feeling, that no time
had elapsed between the time, I got into my car in Tucson, and my
arrival at
the witches'
house. That
there
was noone at the house didn't bother me in the least. I was aware, that
no
direct, formal invitation had been extended to me; but I remembered
clearly, that Nelida had told me,
as she hid in a drawer a small basket with the gifts, they had all
given me,
that I
should come back any time, I wished. Nelida's
words rang in my ears: "Day or night, this basket will pull you safely
in."
With an assurance, that ordinarily only comes from practice, I went
directly to the room, Esperanza
had given me. The white, flouncy hammock was ready, as if waiting for
me.
A vague uneasiness finally took hold of me, but I wasn't nearly as
scared, as I should have been. Not
quite relaxed, I lowered myself in the hammock, one leg outside to rock
myself back
and
forth. "To
hell with
my fears," I cried out, pulled my leg in and stretched out luxuriously like a cat,
until all my joints cracked.
"Oh,
you've made it back safely," a voice said to me from the corridor. I didn't see
her and I didn't necessarily recognize her voice, yet I knew, it was
Nelida. I
waited
expectantly for her to come in, but she didn't. "Your food is
in the kitchen," I heard her say. Her steps moved away from my door, down the
corridor. I
jumped up
and dashed after her. "Wait, wait, Nelida!" I shouted. There was
noone in the hall or in the rooms, I passed on my way to the kitchen.
There was
noone in
the whole house, for that matter. Yet, I was sure, they were there. I
heard their
voices, their laughter, the clatter of dishes, of pots and pans. I spent the
next few days in a perpetual state of anticipation, waiting for
something
significant
to occur. I
couldn't
imagine, what was supposed to happen, but I knew, that it had to be
connected
with the
Women.
196-197
For some unfathomable reason, the Women didn't want to be seen. Their
astoundingly
furtive
(sectret) behavior kept me in the corridors all hours, prowling
noiselessly, like a shadow. Regardless
of the ingeniously sneaky schemes I devised to surprise the Women, I
never
caught so
much, as a glimpse of them.
They glided in and out of their rooms, in and out of the house,
as if in between Worlds, leaving in their wake (becoming awake) the
sound of their voices and laughter. Sometimes I
wondered, whether the Women were indeed there; whether the sounds of footsteps,
of murmurs and giggles, were but figments of my imagination. Whenever I
was about to believe, it was my imagination, I would hear one of them tinkering
(clumsily fiddle with something, interfere) on the patio., Then, seized
by renewed fervor (passion, intense heat), expectation, and excitement,
I
would run to the back of the house, only to discover, that once again I
had been outwitted. At those
times I was convinced, that the Women, being real witches, had some
kind of a
bat-like
internal echo location system, that alerted them to my sounds. My
disappointment, at not being able to catch them in front of the stove,
always vanished at the sight
of the exotic little meals they left behind for me. The
deliciousness of the dishes amply
(largely, liberally, sufficiently) compensated for the meagerness of
the portions. With great gusto I ate their wonderful
food. Yet I was still hungry. One day,
just before twilight, I heard a Man's voice softly calling my name from
the back of
the
house. I jumped out of my hammock and ran down the corridor. I was so
glad to see
the
caretaker, I nearly jumped on him like a dog does. Unable to contain my
joy, I
kissed him
on the cheeks. "Watch out,
nibelunga." He said this in the same voice and manner of Isidore
Baltazar. I
sprang back,
my eyes wide with surprise. He winked at me and added, "Don't get
carried
away,
because the next thing you know, you'll be taking advantage of me." For an
instant I didn't know, what to make of his words. But then he laughed,
and patted
my back
reassuringly. I completely relaxed. "It's good
to see you," he said softly.
"It's
wonderful to see you!" I giggled self-consciously, then asked him,
where everybody else was.
"Oh,
they are around," he said vaguely. "At the moment they are mysteriously
inaccessible, but ever present." Seeing my disappointment he added,
"Have patience."
"I
know they are around," I murmured. "They leave
food for me." I glanced over my
shoulder to ham (overact) it up and confided, "But I'm still hungry.
The portions are too little." According to the caretaker, this was the
natural condition of Power Food. One could never get enough
of it. He said, that he cooked his own food- rice and
beans with either chunks of pork,
beef, or chicken- and ate only once a day, but never at the same hour. He took me
then to his quarters. He lived in the large, cluttered room behind the
kitchen,
amidst the
odd wood and iron sculptures, where the air, thick with the scents of
jasmine and
eucalyptus, hung heavy and motionless around the drawn curtains. He
slept on a cot, which he
kept folded in the armoire (protective covering), when it was not in
use, and ate his meal at a small chippendale
(elegant 18 century furniture) table with spindly (long, thin) legs. He confided,
that he, like the mysterious Women, disliked routines. Day or night,
morning
or afternoon, was all the same to him. He swept the
patios and raked the leaves outside the clearing, whenever he felt like
doing so.
Whether
there were blossoms or leaves on the ground was immaterial. In the days,
that followed, I had a hellish time, trying to adjust to this seemingly unstructured
way of life. Out of compulsion, rather than out of any desire to be
useful, I
helped the
caretaker with his chores. Also, I invariably (constant) accepted his
invitations to share his meals.
His food was as delicious, as his company. Convinced,
that he was more, than the caretaker, I did my best to get him
off-guard with my devious
questions; a useless technique, for I never got any satisfactory
answers. "Where
do you
come from?" I bluntly asked him one day, while we were eating. He looked up
from his plate, and as if he had been expecting an outright
interrogation, he dutifully
pointed to the mountains toward the east, framed by the open window
like a
painting.
198-199
"The
Bacatete Mountains?" My voice betrayed my disbelief. "But you're not an
Indian," I
mumbled
disconcertedly (upset, perturb, ruffle). "The way I see it, only the
Nagual Mariano Aureliano, Delia Flores, and
Genaro Flores are Indians." Emboldened
(encouraged) by the surprised, expectant look on his face, I added
that, in my opinion,
Esperanza transcended (pass beyond the limit, that humans can grasp)
racial categories. I leaned across the table and in a secretive tone confided to
him, what I had already told Florinda. "Esperanza wasn't born like a
Human
Being. She
was established by an act of witchcraft. She is the very devil."
Leaning
back in his chair, the caretaker shrieked with joy. "And what do you
have to say
about
Florinda? Did you know she's French? Or rather, her parents were
French. They
were from
the families, that came to Mexico with Maximilian and Carlota."
"She's
very beautiful," I murmured, trying to remember when, exactly, in the
eighteen
hundreds the
Austrian prince was sent by Napoleon to Mexico.
"You
haven't seen her, when she's all dolled up (dressed up)," the caretaker
gushed. "She's something else. Age
means nothing to her."
"Carmela
told me, that I am like Florinda," I said in a fit of vanity (false
pride) and wishful thinking. Propelled by
the laughter, bubbling up inside him, the caretaker sprang up from his
chair.
"That'll
be the day." He said the words with no particular feeling, as though he
didn't care
in the
least, how they would be received. Irritated by
his remark; his lack of feeling, I glared at him with ill-concealed
animosity (active hostility). Then, eager
to change the subject, I asked him about the Nagual Mariano Aureliano.
"Where
exactly does he come from?"
"Who
knows, where Naguals come from?" he muttered (speak in low indistinct
tones), moving toward the window. For a long
while he gazed at the distant mountains, then he turned toward me once
again and
said, "Some
people
say, that Naguals come from hell itself. I believe it. Some people say, that
Naguals are not even Human." Again he paused, and I
wondered, if the long silence was
to be repeated. As if
sensing my impatience, he came to sit beside me and added:
"If
you ask me, I'd say, that Naguals are Superhuman. That's the reason,
they know everything about human nature. You can't lie to a Nagual.
They see through you. They see through anything. They even see through
Space to other Worlds in this World, and to other Worlds out of this
World."
I
moved uneasily in my chair, wishing he would stop talking. I regretted,
engaging him in this
conversation. There was no doubt in my mind, that the Man was insane.
"No,
I'm not insane," he assured me, and I let out a loud shriek. "I'm saying
things, that you've never heard before, that's all."
Feeling oddly on the defensive, I blinked repeatedly. But my uneasiness
gave me a surge of courage,
and I asked him point blank: "Why are they hiding from me?"
"It's
obvious," he shot back, then seeing, that it wasn't at all obvious to
me, he added,
"You should
know it. You and your kind are the crew, not me. I'm not one of them.
I'm
merely the caretaker. I oil the machine."
"You're
getting me more confused, than I was," I muttered, irritated. Then a
momentary
flash of
insight hit me. "Who are the crew you are referring to?"
"All
the Women you met, the last time you were here. The Dreamers and the
Stalkers. They told me,
that the Stalkers are your kind, and you are one of them."
He
poured himself a glass of water and went with it to the window. He took
a few sips,
then
informed me, that the Nagual Mariano Aureliano had tried out my
stalking abilities in Tucson,
Arizona, when he sent me into the coffee shop to put a cockroach in my
food. The
caretaker turned his back to the window, looked straight into my face,
and added,
"You failed."
"I
don't want to hear about that nonsense," I cut him short. I had no
desire to hear the rest of the story. His face
crinkled
with mischief.
"But then, after your failure, you exonerated (free from
a burden, responsibility; declare blameless, exempt) yourself by kicking and
yelling at the Nagual Mariano Aureliano without shame or regard.
Stalkers,"
he stressed,
"are people, who have a knack for dealing with people." I opened my
mouth to say, that I didn't understand a word, he was saying, but
quickly shut
it again. "What
has
been baffling," he went on, "is, that you are a great Dreamer. If it
wouldn't be
for that,
you'd be like Florinda - less the height and the looks, of course." Smiling
venomously, I cursed the old creep silently.
200-201
"Do you remember, how many Women were there at the picnic?" he asked
all of a sudden. I closed my
eyes to better visualize the picnic. I clearly saw six Women, sitting
on the
canvas
cloth, spread out under the eucalyptus trees. Esperanza wasn't there,
but Carmela,
Zoila,
Delia, and Florinda were.
"Who were the other two?" I asked, more mystified, than ever. "Ah," he
murmured appreciatively, a brilliant smile creasing his face.
"Those two were
Dreamers from another World. You saw them clearly, but then they
disappeared, and your mind didn't acknowledge their vanishing, because
it was simply too outlandish (bizarre, absurd)." I
nodded absentmindedly, unable to conceive, that I had actually seen
only four Women, when I knew,
that there had been six. The thought
must have seeped through to him, for he said, that it was only natural
to have
focused on
the four. "The other
two are your source of
energy.
They are incorporeal (lacking material form, spiritual)
and not from this World." Lost and
bewildered, all, I could do, was stare at him: I had no more questions
to ask.
"Since
you are not in the Planet of the Dreamers," he clarified, "your Dreams
are nightmares, and your transitions between Dreams and Reality are
very unstable and dangerous to you and to the other Dreamers. So
Florinda has taken it upon herself to buffer and protect you." I
rose with such impetus (stimulus, impulse, impelling force), my chair
turned over. "I don't want to know anything else!" I cried out.
Just in time, I stopped myself from blurting out, that I was better
off, not
knowing
about their mad ways and rationales (logical basis). The
caretaker took me by the hand and walked with me outside, across the
clearing,
across the
chaparral to the back of the small house. "I need you
to help me with the generator," he said. "It needs fixing." I laughed
out loud and told him, that I didn't know anything about generators.
Only when
he opened
the trap door of a concrete encasement, did I realize, that the
electric current for the lights
in the house was generated there. I had completely taken for granted,
that the
electrical
lights and appliances of rural Mexico were like those, I was familiar
with. From
that
day on,
I tried not to ask him too many questions. I felt, that I was not
prepared
for his
answers. Our meetings acquired the nature of a ritual, in which I did
my best to
match the
old Man's exquisite (delightful beauty) usage of the Spanish language.
I spent hours pouring over the various
dictionaries in my room, searching for new and often archaic words, with which to
impress him.
One
afternoon, as I was waiting for the caretaker to bring in the food - it
was the first time, since I
discovered his room, that I was alone in it - I remembered the old,
strange mirror. I carefully
examined its spotty, misty surface. "You'll get
trapped in the mirror, if you look at yourself too much," a voice
behind me
said.
Expecting to
see the caretaker, I turned around, but there was noone in the room. In my
eagerness to reach the door,
I almost knocked over the wood and iron sculpture behind me.
Automatically, I reached out to steady it, but before I so much, as
touched it, the figure seemed to
spin away from me in an odd circular motion, then came to its original
position
with an
astonishingly human sigh. "What's the
matter?" the caretaker asked, stepping into the room. He placed a large
tray
on the rickety table and, looking up into my ashen face, asked once
more, what was wrong with me.
"Sometimes,
I've the feeling, that these monstrosities are alive, watching me," I
said,
gesturing
with my chin toward the nearby sculpture. Noticing his
grave, unsmiling face, I hastened to reassure him, that I didn't mean monstrous in
terms of ugliness, but rather in terms of being big. I took
several deep, shuddering breaths and repeated, that his sculptures gave
me the
impression
of being alive. Glancing
furtively (sectretly) around himself and lowering his voice to a barely
audible whisper, he said, "They
are alive."
I felt so
uncomfortable, that I began to babble about the afternoon, I first
discovered his room; how I
had been lured to it by an eerie-sounding murmur, that turned out to be
the
wind, pushing the curtain through a broken window.
"Yet
at the time I believed it to be a monster," I confided, giggling
nervously. "An alien presence,
feeding on the twilight shadows."
202-203
Chewing
his lower lip, the caretaker regarded me with keen eyes. Then his gaze
drifted
unfocused
around the room. "We better sit down to eat," he finally said.
"We don't want to let our
food get cold." He held out
the chair for me, and as soon, as I was comfortably seated, he added in
a
vibrant tone, "You're quite right to call them presences, for they are
not sculptures. They are
inventions."
He confided
(entrust) in a conspiratorial tone:"They were conceived from patterns
glimpsed at in another
World, by a great Nagual."
"By
Mariano Aureliano?" I asked.
He shook his head and said, "By a much older Nagual, named Elias."
"Why
are these inventions in your room?" I asked. "Did this great Nagual
make them for
you?"
"No,"
he said. "I only take care of them." Rising, he
reached into his pocket and pulled out a neatly folded white
handkerchief and proceeded to
dust the nearby invention with it. "Since I'm
the caretaker, it falls upon me to take care of them. One day, with the
help of all
these
Sorcerers, you've already met, I will deliver these inventions, where
they belong."
"And
where is that?"
"Infinity,
the Cosmos, the Vacuum."
"How
do you propose to take them there?"
"Through
the same Power, that got them here in the first place: the Power of
Dreaming-Awake."
"If
you Dream, like these Sorcerers Dream," I began cautiously, trying hard
to conceal the triumph in
my voice, "then you must also be a Sorcerer yourself."
"I
am, but I am not like them."
His
candid (open, without pretence, straight forward) admission confused
me. "What's the difference?"
"Ah!"
he exclaimed knowingly. "All the difference in the World. But I can't
explain it
now. If I
do, you'd get even more morose and angry. Someday, though, you'll know
all
about it by yourself, without anyone having to tell you." I could feel
the wheels churning (stir, agitate) in my head, as I desperately tried
to come up with something
else to say; another question to ask.
"Can
you tell me how the Nagual Elias came to have the inventions?"
"He
saw them in his Dreaming and captured them," the caretaker confided. "Some of
them are copies, done by him, of inventions, he couldn't cart away. Others are
the real thing; inventions, transported by that great Nagual all the
way to here."
I
didn't believe a word he said, yet I couldn't help, but add, "Why did
the Nagual Elias bring them?"
"Because
the inventions themselves asked him to."
"Why
did they?"
The
caretaker dismissed my probings with a wave of his hand and urged me to
eat my food. His
unwillingness to satisfy my curiosity only piqued my interest.
I couldn't imagine, why
he didn't want to talk about the contraptions (device, machine), when
he was so good at evasive (intentionally vague, foggy) answers.
He
could have told me anything. The instant
we finished our meal, he asked me to retrieve his cot from the armoire. Knowing his
preference, I unfolded it for him in front of the curtained French door. Sighing
contentedly, he lay down, resting his head on the rectangular little
pillow, that
was attached
to one end of the cot. It was filled with dried beans and maize kernels. According to
him, the pillow ensured sweet dreams. "I'm ready
for my nap now," he said, loosening the belt on his pants.
It was his polite way of
dismissing me. Peeved
(annoyed) by his refusal to talk about the inventions, I piled our
plates on the tray and stormed out
of the room. His snores followed me all the way to the kitchen. That night I
awoke to the strumming (play) of a guitar. Automatically, I reached for
the
flashlight, I kept beside my low-hanging hammock, and checked my watch.
It was a bit
past
midnight. I wrapped my blanket tightly around me and tiptoed out into
the corridor,
that led to
the inside patio. On the
patio, sitting on a rush chair, was a man, playing a guitar. I couldn't
see his face,
but I knew,
it was the same man Isidororo Baltazar and I had seen and heard the
first time,
I was there.
As he had
done then, the Man stopped playing, the moment he saw me. He got up
from his
chair and
went inside the hous
204-205
As soon, as I was back in my room, his plucking resumed. I was about to
doze off, when I heard him
sing in a clear, strong voice. He sang to the wind, beckoning (signal
or summon by waving) it to come
from
across miles of silence and emptiness. As if
responding to his haunting invocation (summon, appeal, call upon), the
wind gathered force. It whistled through the
chaparral. It tore the withered (dried up) leaves from the trees and
swept them into rustling heaps
against the walls of the house. On an
impulse, I opened the door to the patio. The wind filled the room with
an
unspeakable sadness, not the sadness of tears, but the melancholic
solitariness of the desert, of
dust and ancient shadows. The wind circled around the room like smoke. I inhaled it
with every breath. It sat heavy in my lungs, yet the deeper I breathed,
the
lighter I felt. I went
outside and, squeezing between the tall bushes, made my way to the back
of the
house. The
white-washed walls caught the moonlight and reflected it brightly onto
the
windswept ground of the wide clearing. Afraid, I
might be seen, I darted from fruit tree to fruit tree, hiding in the
dark shadows,
cast by the
moonlight, until I reached the two blooming orange trees outside the
wall
guarding the path to the little house. The wind
brought the sound of giggles and dim murmurings from across the
chaparral.
Daringly, I
dashed along the path, only to lose my nerve, once I reached the front
door of the
small,
dark house.
Quivering
(tremble, vibrate) with excitement, I inched my way to an open window.
I recognized
Delia's and
Florinda's
voices, but the window was too high for me to see, what the Women were doing. I listened,
expecting to hear something profound; to be transported by some
mind-shattering revelation,
that would help me resolve, what I had come there for - my inability to Dream. But I only
heard gossip. I became so engrossed in their malicious insinuations
(suggestion), that I laughed out
loud several times, forgetting, that I was eaves-dropping. At first
I thought, they were gossiping about outsiders, but then I realized,
they were
talking
about the Women Dreamers, and their most insidious (treacherous)
remarks were directed against
Nelida. They said, that she had so
far been unable, after so many years, to break away from the grip of the
World. Not only was she vain (fruitless, unsuccessful) - they claimed,
she spent all day in front of the mirror - but
she was lusty as well. She did everything in her power to be a sexually desirable
Woman, in order to entice (lure, attract) the Nagual Mariano Aureliano.
Someone pointed out, cattily (?),
that, after all, she was the only one, who could accommodate his
enormous,
intoxicating
(stimulating, exciting) organ (penis). Then they
talked about Clara. They called her a pompous elephant, who believed,
that it was
her duty
to bestow (present, as a gift of honour) blessings on everyone. The
recipient of her attention was, at the moment, the
Nagual Isidore Baltazar, and the treat was her naked body. He wasn't to
have
it, only to see it. Once in the morning and again once at night she
would regale (delight, entertain) him with the sight of
her nakedness. She was convinced, that by doing this, she would ensure
the
young Nagual's sexual prowess (outstanding courage, skill, daring,
strength).
The third
Woman, they talked about, was Zuleica. They said, that she had
delusions of
being a
saint and the Virgin Mary. Her, so-called, spirituality was nothing,
but craziness. Periodically
she would lose her marbles; and whenever she had one of her fits of
insanity,
she would
clean the house from top to bottom, even the rocks in the patio or
around the
grounds.
Then there
was Hermelinda. She was described, as being very sober, very proper, the paragon
(model of excellence, peerless example) of middle-class values. As
Nelida, she was incapable, after so many years, of stopping
herself from seeking to be the perfect Woman, the perfect homemaker.
Although
she couldn't
cook or sew or embroider or play the piano to entertain her guests, Hermelinda
wanted to be known, they said in between fits of giggles, as the
paragon of
good
femininity, just as Nelida wanted to be known as the paragon of naughty
femininity.
If the two
of them would only combine their talents, one voice remarked, then they
would have
the
perfect Woman to please the master; perfect in the kitchen and in the
living
room,
wearing an apron or an evening dress, and perfect in bed with her legs
up,
whenever the master wanted it. When they
grew silent, I ran back to the house, to my room and into my hammock,
but
hard as I tried, I could no longer go back to sleep.
206-207
I
felt, that some kind of a protective bubble had burst around me,
obliterating (destroy, wipe out) my sense of delight; of
enchantment at being at the witches' house. All, I could think of, was
that, by my
own
doings this time, I was stuck there in Sonora with a bunch of crazy old
Women, who
did
nothing else, but gossip, when
I could have been in Los Angeles, having fun. I had come
looking for advice. Instead, I was ignored; reduced to the company of a
senile old
Man, who
I believed to be a Woman. By the time
I sat down to eat with the caretaker in the morning, I had driven
myself into
such a state
of righteous indignation (anger), that I couldn't swallow a
bite. "What's
the
matter?" the old man asked, gazing at me intently. Normally, he avoided direct eye
contact. "Aren't you hungry?"
I
glared back at him. Giving up any attempt at self-control, I unburdened
all my pent-up (repressed,
not given expression) anger and frustration. As I went
on complaining, I had a flash of sobriety: I told myself,
that I shouldn't blame the old Man,
that I should be grateful, for he had shown me nothing, but kindness. But
it was too late to stop myself. My petty grievances (injustice) had
acquired a life of their own. My voice
became shriller (insistently nagging, sharp in tone) still, as
I magnified and deformed the events of the past few days. With
malicious satisfaction, I told him, that I had eavesdropped on the
Women.
"They
don't want
to help me in the least," I asserted (affirm, express positevely) with
resonant (resound) authority. "All they do is gossip.
They said horrible things about the Women Dreamers."
"What
did you hear them say?" With great
relish I told him everything. I surprised myself with my extraordinary
power to
recollect
every detail of the Women's wicked remarks. "Obviously,
they were talking about you," he declared, the moment I finished my
account.
"In a
symbolic fashion, of course." He waited for the words to sink in, and
before I could protest, he
asked innocently, "Aren't you quite a bit like all this?"
"Like
hell I am!" I exploded. "And don't give me any psychological shit. I
won't take this kind of
crap; not even from an educated Man, much the less from you, you
fucking peon (unskilled labourer, farm worker)." The
caretaker's eyes opened wide in bewilderment and his frail shoulders
sagged. I felt no sympathy for
him, only pity for myself. I had wasted my time, telling him, what I had heard. I was about
to say, what a mistake it had been for me to make that long, arduous
journey,
and all for
nothing, when the caretaker looked at me with such contempt (open
disrespect), that I felt ashamed of
my outburst.
"If
you hold your temper, you'll understand, that nothing, these Sorcerers
do, is just to entertain
themselves, or to impress someone; or to give way to their
compulsiveness," he said with
great equanimity (even tempered, composure). "Everything they do or say
has a reason - a purpose." He stared at
me with an intensity, that made me want to move away, but I couldn't.
"Don't go
around
thinking, that you're here on a vacation," he stressed. "For the
Sorcerers, you've fallen prey
to, there are no holidays."
"What
are you trying to tell me?" I demanded angrily. "Don't beat around the
bush, just
say it."
"How
can anyone be more clear?" His voice was deceptively mellow and loaded
with
more meaning, than I could fathom. "The witches already told you last
night, what you are. They used
the four Women of the Dreamers' Planet, as a false front, to describe
to you, the
eaves-dropper, what you really are: a slut, with delusions of grandeur." So great was
my shock, I was momentarily stunned. Then anger, hot as lava, shot
through my
whole
body.
"You miserable, insignificant piece of shit," I yelled and kicked him
in the groin. Before my kick had
landed, I already had a flash image of the little old bastard on the
ground,
wriggling
with pain, except that my kick never landed anywhere, but in the air.
With the
speed of a
prize fighter he had jumped out of the way.
He smiled with his mouth, but his eyes were flat and cold, as he
watched me puffing and groaning.
"You are playing on the Nagual Isidore Baltazar all those tricks, the
witches
talked
about. You were trained for it. Think about it. Don't just get angry." I opened my
mouth to say something, but no sound emerged. It wasn't so much his
words, that
had
left me speechless, as his devastatingly indifferent, icy tone.
208-209
I would have
preferred he
had yelled at me, for then I would have known how to react: I would have yelled
louder.
There was no
point in fighting him. He wasn't right,
I assured myself. He was simply a senile Man
with a bitter tongue. No, I wasn't going to get mad at him, but I
wasn't going
to take him
seriously either. "I hope
you're not going to weep," he warned me, before I recovered from my
shock.
Despite my
determination not to get mad at the senile bastard, my face grew red
with
anger. "Of course, I'm not," I snapped. Before I
tried another kick, I yelled at him, that since he was only a
chicken-shit servant, he
deserved to be beaten for his impudence
(impertinence, rudeness), but
the hard, relentless (persistent, steady, pitiless) expression in his eyes made me
lose my momentum. Without the
faintest change in his courteous, yet inexpressive tone, somehow he
managed to
convince
me, that I should apologize to him. "I'm sorry,"
I finally said, and truly meant it. "My bad temper and bad manners
always get the best of me."
"I
know it. They all warned me about you," he said seriously, then added,
smiling, "Eat your food."
I was
ill at ease
all through the meal. Chewing slowly, I watched him surreptitiously.
Although he didn't make the slightest effort to be friendly, I knew,
that he wasn't angry with me. I tried to comfort myself with that
thought, but I didn't find it very comforting. I sensed, that his lack
of concern wasn't deliberate or studied. He wasn't punishing me.
Nothing, of what I had said or done, would have had any effect on him.
I
swallowed the last bite and said the first thing, that entered into my
head with an assurance, that astonished me, "You're not the caretaker." He looked at
me
and asked.
"And who do you think I am?" His face relaxed into an amused
grin. His smile made me lose all caution. A tremendous recklessness
came over me. I blurted out - and naturally as an insult - that he was
a
Woman, that he was Esperanza. Relieved, that I had finally gotten it
off my chest, I sighed loudly
and added, "That's why you're the only one, who has a mirror: You need
to look convincing, as either a Man or a Woman."
"The
Sonoran air
must have affected you," he mused. "It's a known fact, that the thin
desert air affects people in the most peculiar manner." He reached
for my
wrist and held it in a tight grip, as he added, "Or it is perhaps your
nature to be mean and onerous (troublesome, burdensome, oppressive) and
blurt out, with an air of absolute authority, anything, that enters
your head?"
Chuckling,
the caretaker leaned closer toward me, and suggested, that I take a nap
with
him. "It'll do us a lot of good. We're both onerous," he said.
"So
that's it!" I exclaimed, uncertain whether I should take offense or
laugh at his
suggestion.
"You want me to sleep with you, eh?" I added, that Esperanza had already warned me
about him.
"Why
do you object to, taking a nap with me, if you believe me to be
Esperanza?" he asked,
rubbing the nape (back of the neck) of my neck.
His hand was warm and soothing. "I don't
object," I defended myself feebly. "I simply hate naps. I never take a
nap. I was
told, that
even as a baby I hated naps."
I
spoke rapidly and nervously, tripping over my words, repeating myself.
I wanted to get up and
leave, but the slight pressure of his hand on my neck kept me pinned
down to the
chair. "I
know, that
you're Esperanza," I insisted rashly. "I recognize her touch. It has
the same
soothing
effect, as yours." I could feel
my head sway, and my eyes closed against my will.
"So
it has," he agreed gently. "It'll do you good to lie down, even if only
for a moment." Taking my
silence for acquiescence (accept without protest), he went to the
armoire and pulled out his cot and two
blankets. He gave me one. It was a
time of endless surprises for me. Without knowing why, I lay down
without
protest. Through
half-closed lids, I watched him stretch, until all his joints cracked. He shook off
his boots, unfastened his belt, then lowered himself on the cot next to
me.
Under the
cover of his thin cotton blanket, he wiggled out of his pants, casually
dropping
them on the
floor, next to his boots.
210
He lifted his blanket and showed himself to me. Blushing, I
stared at him with wild curiosity and wonder. His naked
body, like Esperanza's, was the antithesis (direct contrast, exact
opposite) of what I had taken it to be. His body was supple
(flexible), hairless, and smooth. He was thin, as a reed and yet
muscular. And he was definitely a
male and young ! I didn't
even pause to think, but holding my breath, I gingerly (timidly,
carefully) lifted my blanket. The sound of
a Woman's faint giggle made me close my eyes and pretend I was asleep. But knowing,
that she wasn't going to come into the room, I relaxed. Putting my
arms behind my head, I became absorbed in an uncanny (weird, strange)
sense, that the caretaker
and the faint giggles, coming from the corridor, had restored a
balance; had
renewed the
magic bubble all around me. What exactly
I meant by this, I didn't know, except, that the more my body relaxed,
the
closer I was getting to an answer.
Chapter 14
211
After
my return from the witches' house, I never needed any more coaxing
(urge, persuade, plead) or
encouragement. The Women
Sorcerers had succeeded in giving me a strange coherence; a sort of emotional
stability, I never had before. It wasn't,
that I was suddenly a changed person, but rather there was a clear
purpose to my
existence.
My fate was delineated (depict, sketch out) for me. I had to
struggle to free my energy. And that was
that. Simplicity itself.
But I didn't remember, clearly or even vaguely, all that had transpired
(become known, perspire, come to light, turn out) in the three months I spent at
their house.
The task, of
remembering it, took me years; a task, into which I plunged with all my
might and
determination. The Nagual
Isidore Baltazar, nevertheless, warned me about the fallaciousness of
clearcut
goals and
emotionally charged realizations. He said,
that they were worthless, because the real arena of a Sorcerer is the
day-to-day life and in this
arena superficial (trivial, insignificant, not thorough) rationales
(logical basis) do not withstand pressure. The Women
Sorcerers had said more or less the same, but in a more harmonious way.
They explained, that since Women
are used to being manipulated,
they agreed easily. But a Woman's agreements are simply empty
adaptations to pressure. But if it is possible to convince, that Women
of the need to change her ways, then half the battle is won. Even if
they don't intellectually agree, their emotional realization is
infinitely more durable, than that of Men.
212-213
I had the two opinions to weigh. I thought, that both were right. From
time to time, all my Sorcery
rationales
(logical
basis)
crumbled
under the pressures of the Everyday World, but my original commitment
to the Sorcerers' World was never in need of revision (corrected new
version). Little
by
little I began to acquire enough Energy to Dream. This meant,
that I finally understood, what the Women had told me: Isidore Baltazar
was
the new Nagual; and he was no longer a Man. This
realization also gave me enough energy to return periodically to the
witches' house. That place,
known as the witches' house, belonged to all the Sorcerers of the Nagual Mariano
Aureliano's group. A big and massive house from the outside, it was
indistinguishable from other houses in the area; hardly noticeable, in
spite of the
exuberantly (abandonedly joyous, lavish, effusive, luxuriant,
overflowing) blooming bougainvillea, hanging over the wall, that
encircled the grounds.
What made people pass the house, without noticing it, the Sorcerers
said, was the tenuous (weak, flimsy) fog, that
covered it, thin as a veil, visible to the eye, but unnoticeable to the
mind. Once
inside
the house, however, one was acutely and inescapably aware of having stepped into
another World. The three patios, shaded by fruit trees, gave a
dreamlike light to the dark
corridors and the many rooms, that opened on these corridors. What was
most
arresting (seize, hold, capture) about the house were the brick and
tile floors, which were laid out in the most intricate
(complex arrangement, convoluted) designs. The witches'
house was not a warm place, yet it was friendly. It was not a home by
any
stretch of the imagination, for there was something crushing about its
impersonality; its
relentless (persistent, steady, pitiless) austerity (severely simple
conditions). It was the place, where the old Nagual Mariano Aureliano
and his
Sorcerers
conceived (form in mind) their Dreams and realized their purpose. Since the
concern of those Sorcerers had nothing to do with the Daily World,
their house
reflected
their otherworldly preoccupations. Their house was the true gauge of
their
individuality; not as persons, but as Sorcerers. At the
witches' house, I interacted with all the Sorcerers of the Nagual
Mariano
Aureliano's
party. They
didn't
teach me Sorcery or even Dreaming. According to them, there was nothing
to
teach. They
said,
that my task was to remember everything, that had transpired (come to
light, turn out) between all of them and me
during those initial times, that we were together.
In particular, I was to remember
everything, that Zuleica and Florinda did or said to me - but Zuleica
had never
talked to me.
Whenever I
tried to ask any of them for help, they outright refused to have
anything to do with me.
They all argued that, without the necessary energy on my part, all,
they would do, would be to
repeat themselves; and that they didn't have time for that. At first, I
found their refusal ungenerous and unfair. After a while, however, I
gave up
every
attempt to probe them, and I simply enjoyed their presence and their
company. I
realized,
that they were, of course, totally right in refusing to play our
favorite
intellectual
game; that of pretending to be interested, by asking, so-called,
soul-searching questions,
which usually have no meaning to us whatsoever. And the
reason, they have no meaning to us, is, that we don't have the energy
to do
anything
about the answer, we might hear, except to agree or disagree with it. Via our
daily interaction, however, I realized scores of things about their
World. The
Women
Dreamers and Stalkers embodied two modes of behavior among Women, as different,
as
they could be. Initially, I
wondered whether the group, that was described to me, as the Dreamers-
Nelida,
Hermelinda,
and Clara- were the actual Stalkers. For as far, as I could ascertain,
my
interaction with them was on a strictly everyday, worldly level. Only later
did I fully realize, that their mere presence elicited (bring out,
evoke) - without even any hint of it - a new modality
of behavior on my part. That is, I felt no need to reassert (express
positevely, affirm) myself with them. There
were no doubts, there were no questions on my part, whenever I was with them. They had the
singular ability to make me See - without ever having to state it
verbally - the absurdity of
my existence. And yet I felt no need to defend myself. Perhaps it
was this lack of forcefulness, of directness, that made me acquiesce
(accept without protest), accept them without
any resistance. It wasn't
long before I realized, that the Women-Dreamers, by interacting with me
on a
worldly level, were giving me the necessary model to rechannel my
Energies.
They wanted
me to change the manner, in which I focused on mundane matters such as cooking,
cleaning, laundering, staying in school, or earning a living.
From
Universal Dictionary - by Reader's Digest: Auspice
(protection, support, patronage,
augury-divination-portent-sign-indication-omen, especially when
observed in the actions of birds); Portent (an omen, indication of
something calamitous about to occur; prophetic or threatening
significance; miraculous).
214-215 (about Silvio Manuel)
These
were to be done, they told me, under different auspices
(omen). They were
not to be
mundane
chores, but artful endeavors (conscientious efforts); one as important,
as the other.
Above all,
it was their interaction with each other and with the Women-Stalkers,
that made
me aware of
how special they were. In their
humanness; their ordinariness (proper,
normal),
they were
devoid (completely lacking) of ordinary human failings. Their Total
Awareness coexisted easily with their individual characteristics; be it
short-temperedness (short temper), moodiness,
rude forcefulness, madness, or cloying (supply too much of something)
sweetness.
In the presence and company of any of those Sorceresses, I experienced
the most peculiar feeling,
that I was on a perpetual holiday. But that was, but a mirage.
They were on a perpetual warpath, and the enemy was the idea of the
Self. At
the
witches' house, I also met Vicente and Silvio Manuel, the other two
Sorcerers in
the
Nagual Mariano Aureliano's group. Vicente was
obviously of Spanish descent. I learned, that his parents had come from Catalonia.
He was a lean, aristocratic-
looking man with deceptively frail-looking hands and feet. He
shuffled around in slippers and preferred pajama tops, which hung open
over
his khaki pants, to shires (?). His cheeks were rosy, but otherwise he
was pale. His
beautifully
cared for goatee (small chin beard) added a touch of distinction to his
otherwise absent-minded demeanor. Not only did
he look like a scholar, but he was one. The books in the room, I slept
in, were
his; or
rather, it was he, who collected them, who read them, who cared for
them. What
made his
erudition (erudition- profound scholarly knowledge) so appealing -
there was
nothing, he
didn't know about - was, that he conducted himself, as though he was
always the
learner. I
felt sure, that this could seldom be the case, for it was obvious, that
he knew
more, than
the others.
It was his generous spirit, that made him give his knowledge away with
a magnificent
naturalness
and without ever shaming anyone for knowing less. Then there
was Silvio Manuel. He was of medium height, corpulent (fat, obese),
beardless, and brown
skinned. A mysterious, sinister-looking Indian, he was the perfect
image, of what I expected an
evil-looking brujo to look like. His apparent moodiness frightened me,
and
his sparse (meagre, distributed at widely spaced intervals) answers
revealed, what I believed to be a violent nature. Only upon
knowing him, did I realize, how much he enjoyed cultivating this image.
He
was the most open, and for me, delightful, of all the Sorcerers. Secrets and
gossip were his passion. Whether they were truths or falsehoods didn't
matter to
him. It
was his recounting of them, that was priceless to me, and to everyone
else, for
that matter.
He also had
an inexhaustible supply of jokes, most of them downright dirty. He was
the
only one, who enjoyed watching TV and thus was always up to date on
world news. He would report
it to the others with gross exaggerations, salting it with a great deal
of
malice.
Silvio
Manuel was a magnificent dancer. His expertise in the various
indigenous, sacred dances was
legendary. He moved with rapturous (ecstatically, with delight) abandon
and would often ask me to dance with
him. Whether it was a Venezuelan joropo, a cumbia, a samba, a tango, the twist, rock
and roll, or a cheek-to-cheek bolero, he knew them all. I also
interacted with John, the Indian, I had been introduced to, by the
Nagual Mariano Aureliano in
Tucson, Arizona. His round, easygoing, jovial appearance was, but a
facade. He
was the
most unapproachable of all the Sorcerers. He drove around in his pickup
truck on
errands
for everyone else. He also fixed whatever needed to be mended in and
around the
house. If I
didn't
bother him with questions or comments and kept silent, he would take me
with
him on his errands and show me how things were fixed. From him I
learned how to change
washers and adjust a leaking faucet or toilet tank; how to fix an iron,
a light
switch; how
to change the oil and spark plugs in my car. Under his guidance, the
proper use
of a
hammer, a screwdriver, a saw, and an electric drill became quite
natural to me. The only
thing, none of them did for me, was answer my questions and probes
about their
World.
Whenever I tried to engage them, they referred me to the Nagual Isidore
Baltazar.
Their
standard rebuff (refuse abruptly) was to say, "He's the new Nagual.
It's his duty to deal with you. We are merely
your aunties and uncles."
216-217
At the beginning, the
Nagual Isidore Baltazar was more, than a mystery to me. Where he actually lived was not
clear to me. Oblivious to schedules and routines, he appeared at and disappeared from
the studio at all hours. Day and night were all the same to him. He
slept, when he was tired - hardly ever - and ate when he was hungry-
almost always. Between his frantic comings and goings, he worked with a
concentration, that was astounding. His capacity to stretch or compress
Time (energy) was incomprehensible to me. I was certain, that I spent
hours, even entire days, with him, when in reality it could have been
only moments, snatched here and there either during the day or the
night from something else, he did - whatever it might have been. I
had always considered myself an energetic person. However, I could not
keep up with him. He was always in motion - or so it appeared; agile
and active; ever ready to undertake some project. His vigor was simply
incredible. It was much later, that I fully understood, that the source
of Isidore Baltazar's boundless Energy was his lack of concern with
himself. It was his unwavering support; his imperceptible, yet
masterful machinations (act of plotting, conspiracy), that helped me
stay on the right track. There was a lightheartedness in him, a pure
delight in his subtle, yet forceful influence, that made me change
without my noticing, that I was being led along a new path; a path, on
which I no longer had to play games or needed to pretend or use my
womanly wiles (deceitful trick, artifice) to get my way.
What made his guidance, so tremendously compelling (forceful), was,
that
he had no ulterior (lying beoynd, that is evident) motive. He wasn't in
the least possessive, and his guidance wasn't adulterated (make impure,
corrupt) with promises or
sentimentality. He didn't
push me in any particular direction. That is, he didn't advise me on,
what
courses I should take or what books I should read. That was left
entirely up to me. There was
only one condition he insisted upon: I was to work on no particular
goal other, than
the
edifying (enlighten) and pleasurable process of thinking. A startling
proposition! I had never considered
thinking in those terms or in any others. Although I didn't dislike
going to
school, I
had certainly never thought of schoolwork as particularly pleasurable.
It was
simply
something,
I had to do, usually in a hurry and with the least possible effort. I couldn't
help, but agree with what Florinda and her cohorts had so bluntly
pointed out to me the first
time, I met them: I went to school not to pursue knowledge, but to have
a good
time. That I
had good grades was more a matter of luck and loquaciousness
(talkative), than
studiousness. I had a fairly good memory, I knew how to talk, and I
knew how to
convince
others.
Once I got
past my initial embarrassment over having to admit and to accept the
fact, that
my intellectual pretensions were a sham (empty pretence, imitation, an
imposter, fake) and, that I didn't know how to think, except in the most shallow
manner, I felt relieved. I was ready to put myself under the Sorcerers' tutelage,
and to follow Isidore Baltazar's study plan. To my great
disappointment, he didn't have one.
All, he did, was insist, that I stop studying and reading outdoors. He believed, that the Thinking Process
was a private, almost secret rite (formal practice,
ceremonial act) and could not possibly occur outdoors in public view.
He compared the process of
thinking with leavened
(fermented with yeast, an element to enliven the whole) dough. It can
only rise inside a room. "The
best way to understand anything, of course, is in bed," he said to me
once. He stretched out on his bed, propped his head against several
pillows, and crossed the right leg over the left, resting the ankle on
the raised knee of the left leg. I didn't think much of this absurd
reading position, yet I practiced it, whenever I was by myself. With a
book propped on my chest, I would fall into the most profound sleep.
Keenly sensitive to my insomniac tendencies, I was more pleased with
sleep, than with knowledge. Sometimes, however, just prior to that
moment of losing consciousness, I would feel, as if hands were coiling
around my head, pressing ever so lightly against my temples. My eyes
would automatically scan the open page, before I was even conscious of
it and lift entire paragraphs off the paper. The words would dance
before my eyes, until clusters of meaning exploded in my brain like
revelations.
Eager to uncover this new possibility, opening up before me, I pushed
on, as if driven by some
relentless taskmaster. There were
times, however, when this cultivation of reason and method exhausted me, physically
as well, as mentally. At those times, I asked Isidore Baltazar about
intuitive
knowledge;
about that sudden flash of insight, of understanding, that Sorcerers are supposed to
cultivate above all else.
218-219
He always said to me at those times, that to know something only
intuitively is meaningless.
Flashes of insight need to be translated into some coherent thought, otherwise
they are purposeless. He compared flashes of insight to sightings of inexplicable
phenomena. Both wane (decline) as swiftly, as they come. If they are
not constantly reinforced,
doubt and forgetfulness will ensue (follow), for the mind has been
conditioned to be practical
and accept only that, which is verifiable and quantifiable.
He explained, that Sorcerers are Men of Knowledge rather, than Men of
Reason. As such,
they are a step ahead of Western intellectual men, who assume
(undertake responsibility, appropriate, usurp, adopt, affect), that
reality, which is often equated with truth, is knowable through reason.
A Sorcerer claims, that all, that is knowable through reason, is our
thought processes. But, that it is only by understanding our Total
Being, at its most sophisticated and intricate level,
can
we eventually erase the boundaries, with which reason defines (state
precise meaning, explain) reality. Isidore Baltazar explained to me,
that Sorcerers cultivate the Totality of their Being. That is,
Sorcerers don't necessarily make a distinction between our rational and
our intuitive sides. They use both to reach the Realm of Awareness,
they
call Silent Knowledge, which lies beyond language, beyond thought.
Again and again, Isidore Baltazar stressed, that for one to silence
one's rational side, one first has to understand his or her thought
process at its most sophisticated and intricate level.
He believed, that philosophy, beginning with classical Greek thought,
provided the
best way of
illuminating this thought process. He never tired of repeating that,
whether we
are
scholars or laymen, we are nonetheless members and inheritors of our
Western
intellectual
tradition. And that means, that regardless of our level of education and
sophistication, we are captives of that intellectual tradition and the
way it interprets, what reality is. Only
superficially (shallow, trivial, insignificant), Isidore Baltazar
claimed, are we willing to accept, that what we call reality, is
a culturally determined construct. And what we
need is to accept, at the deepest level possible, that culture is the
product of a
long,
cooperative, highly selective, highly developed, and last, but not
least, highly
coercive (coerce
is
force, which dominate, enforce, restrain) process,
that culminates in an agreement, that shields us from other
possibilities. Sorcerers
actively strive to unmask the fact, that reality is dictated and upheld
by our
reason; that
ideas and thoughts, stemming from reason, become regimes of knowledge,
that
ordain (decree-order, as a part of nature or Universe; predestine,
prearrange unalterably) how we see and act in the World.
And that
incredible
pressure is put on all of us to
make certain ideologies acceptable to ourselves.
He stressed, that Sorcerers are interested in perceiving the World in
ways, outside of what is culturally determined. What is culturally
determined is, that our personal experiences, plus a shared social
agreement on what our senses are capable of perceiving, dictate what we
perceive. Anything out of this sensorially agreed-upon perceptual Realm
is automatically encapsulated (summarise) and disregarded by the
rational mind. In this manner, the frail blanket of human assumptions
is never damaged. Sorcerers
teach, that perception takes place in a place outside the sensorial
Realm. Sorcerers know, that something more vast exists, than what we
have agreed our senses can perceive. Perception takes place at a point
outside the body, outside the senses, they say. But it isn't enough for
one merely to believe this premise (proposition, logic). It is not
simply a matter of reading or hearing about it from someone else. In
order for one to embody it, one has to experience it.
Isidore Baltazar said, that
Sorcerers continually and actively strive to break that frail
blanket of human assumptions. However, Sorcerers don't plunge into the
darkness blindly. They are prepared. They know, that whenever they leap
into the Unknown, they need to have a well-developed rational side.
Only then will they be able to explain and make sense of whatever they
might bring forth from their journeys into the Unknown.
He added, that I wasn't to understand Sorcery through reading the works
of philosophers. Rather, I
was to see, that both philosophy and Sorcery are highly sophisticated
forms of
Abstract
Knowledge. Both for Sorcerer and philosopher, the truth of our
Being-in-the World does not
remain unthought. A Sorcerer, however, goes a step further. He acts upon his
findings, which are, already by definition, outside our culturally
accepted possibilities. Isidore
Baltazar believed, that philosophers are intellectual Sorcerers.
However, their probings and
their pursuits always remain mental endeavors.
220
Philosophers cannot act upon the
World, they understand and explain so well, except in the culturally
agreed-upon
manner.
Philosophers add to an already existing body of Knowledge. They
interpret and
reinterpret
existing philosophical texts. New thoughts and ideas, resulting from
this
intense studying, don't change them, except perhaps in a psychological
sense. They might become
kinder, more understanding people or, perhaps, the opposite. However,
nothing, of what philosophers do philosophically, will change their
sensorial
perception
of the World, for they work from within the Social Order. Philosophers
uphold (support, stand by, raise) the Social Order, even if
intellectually they don't agree with it. Philosophers
are Sorcerers manque (manque - unfulfilled or frustrated in realizing an ambition).
Sorcerers
also build upon an existing body of Knowledge. However, they don't
build upon this Knowledge by accepting, what has already been
established and proven by other Sorcerers. Sorcerers have to prove to
themselves anew, that that, which already stands as accepted, does
indeed exist, does indeed yield (provide) to perceiving. To accomplish this monumental task, Sorcerers need an
extraordinary amount of Energy, which
they obtain by detaching themselves from the Social Order, without
retreating from the World. Sorcerers break the agreement, that has
defined Reality, without breaking up in the process themselves.
Uncertainty
took hold of me shortly after we crossed the border into Mexico at
Mexicali.
My
justification for going to Mexico with Isidore Baltazar, which had
seemed so brilliant to me
before, now seemed only a shady excuse for forcing him to take me along. I doubted
now, that I would be able to read sociological theory at the witches'
house, as I
said, I
would. I
knew, that
I would do there exactly, what I did on all previous occcasions: sleep
a great
deal, dream
weird dreams, and try desperately to figure out, what the people in the Sorcerers'
World wanted me to do.
"Any
regrets?" Isidore Baltazar's voice made me jump. He was loooking at me
sideways
and had
probably been watching me for a while.
"Of
course not," I hastened to assure him, wondering whether he was
referring to my general
feeling or to my quietness. I stammered
some inanities (remark) about the heat, then turned to look out the
window. I
didn't
speak anymore, mainly because I was scared and morose. I could feel
anxiety
crawling on
my skin like a swarm of ants. Isidore
Baltazar, on the other hand, warmed up to his ebullient (boiling with
excitement, enthusiasm) best. He was elated. He sang and
told me inane (foolish) jokes. He recited poetry in English, Spanish,
and Portuguese. Even tidbits
of spicy gossip, about people we both knew at UCLA, failed to dispel my gloom. That
I wasn't a responsive audience didn't mean a thing to him.
222-223
Even my yelling at him, to leave me alone, didn't dampen his high
spirits. "If
people
were watching us, they would believe, that we've been married for
years,"
he
commented in between fits of laughter. If Sorcerers
were watching us, I thought dejectedly (despair, depression), they
would know, that something is wrong. They
would know, that Isidore Baltazar and I are not equals. I am factual
and final about my actions and decisions.
For him actions and decisions are fluid, whatever their outcome, and
their finality is measured in that, he assumes, full responsibility for
them, regardless of how trivial or how significant they are.
We drove, straight south. We didn't meander (wander), as we usually
did, in order to get to the witches'
house. When we left Guaymas - never before had we been that far south
on our way
to the
witches' house - I asked him: "Where are you taking me?" He casually
responded.
"We are taking the long way. Don't worry." That was the
same answer he gave me, when I asked again during our dinner in Navojoa. We left
Navojoa behind and drove south, heading toward Mazatlan. I was beside
myself with
worry.
Around
midnight, Isidore Baltazar veered off the main highway and turned into
a narrow
dirt road.
The van swayed and rattled, as he drove over potholes and stones.
Behind us the
main highway
was visible only for an instant in the scant flicker of the
tail-lights, then it disappeared
altogether, swallowed by the bushes, that fringed the road. After an
excruciatingly long ride, we came to an abrupt halt, and
he switched off the headlights.
"Where
are we?" I asked, looking all around me. For a moment
I saw nothing. Then, as my eyes got accustomed to the darkness, I saw
tiny
white specks not too far ahead of us. Tiny stars, that appeared to have
fallen from the sky. The
exuberant fragrance of the jasmine bushes, climbing up the roof and
tumbling down
over the
ramada, had been so entirely blocked out of my mind, that, when I
suddenly
recognized
it, I felt, as though I had inhaled that perfumed air before only in a
dream.
I
began to giggle. It all gave me an almost childlike sense of wonder and
delight. We
were at
Esperanza's house. "It was here,
I first came with Delia Flores,"
I mumbled to myself. Then in one
instant I was nearly choking with anxiety, reached for Isidore
Baltazar's
hand and
asked, "But how can this be possible?"
"What?"
he asked in a bewildered tone. He was
agitated and ruffled. His hand, which usually was always warm, was icy
cold.
"This
house was in the outskirts of Ciudad Obregon, more than a hundred miles
north," I
yelled. "I
drove here myself. And I never left the paved road."
I looked all around me in the darkness, and I recalled, that I had also
driven from that house to
Tucson, and I had never been in or near Navojoa in my life. Isidore
Baltazar was silent for a few minutes. He seemed preoccupied; searching
in his mind
for an
answer. I
knew there
was none, that would have pleased me. Shrugging,
he turned to face me. There was a
force, an edge to him, much like there was to the Nagual Mariano
Aureliano, as
he said,
that to him there was no doubt, that I had been Dreaming-Awake, when,
together
with Delia,
I left Hermosillo for the healer's house. "I suggest, that you let it
go at that," he admonished
(caution, warn):
"I know from personal experience, how the mind can go in circles,
trying to arrange the
unarrangeable." I was about
to protest, when he cut me off and pointed to the light, moving toward
us. He
smiled in
anticipation, as though he knew exactly, to whom that enormous, swaying shadow, on
the ground, belonged.
"It's
the caretaker," I murmured in astonishment, as he came to stand in
front of us.
Impulsively,
I put my arms around his neck and kissed him on both cheeks.
"I never
expected to
see you here," I muttered. He smiled
sheepishly, but didn't talk to me. He embraced
Isidore Baltazar, patting him repeatedly on the back the way Latin men
are
wont (accustomed, used to) to do, when greeting each other, then
mumbled something to him. Hard, as I
tried to listen, I couldn't understand a single word. The
caretaker led us to the house. There was
something forbidding about the massive front door. It was closed. So were the
barred windows. No light, no sound escaped the thick walls. We circled
the house to the backyard, enclosed by a high fence; to the door, that
led
directly to a square room.
224-225
I felt reassured, upon recognizing the four doors. It was the same
room, I had been taken to by Delia
Flores. It
was as
sparsely furnished, as I remembered it: a narrow bed, a table, and
several chairs. The
caretaker placed the oil lamp on the table and then urged me to sit
down.
Turning to
Isidore Baltazar, he draped an arm around his shoulders and walked with
him
out into the dark corridor. The
suddenness of their departure left me stunned. Before I
fully recovered from my surprise and my indecision, as to whether I
should
follow them,
the caretaker reappeared. He handed me
a blanket, a pillow, a flashlight, and a chamber pot. "I would
rather use the outhouse," I said primly (excessively formal). The caretaker
shrugged his shoulders, then pushed the chamber pot under the bed.
"Just in case you have to go in the middle of the night." His eyes
glinted with emphatic glee, as he told me, that Esperanza kept a big,
black
watchdog
outside.
"He doesn't take kindly to strangers, wandering across the yard at night." As if on
cue, I heard a loud barking.
"I'm
not a stranger," I said casually, trying to ignore the ominous note in
the beast's
barking.
"I've been here before. I know the dog."
The
caretaker lifted his brows in surprise, then asked, "Does the dog know
you?" I
glared at
him.
He sighed, and reaching for the oil lamp on the table, he turned toward
the door.
"Don't
take away the light," I said, stepping quickly in front of him, to
block his way. I tried to
smile, but my lips stuck to my teeth. "Where is
everybody?" I finally managed to ask. "Where are Esperanza and
Florinda?"
"At
the moment, I'm the only person, who's here," he said.
"Where
is Isidore Baltazar?" I asked, panic-stricken. "He promised to take me
to the
witches'
house. I've to work on my paper." My thoughts;
my words were all jumbled and confused, as I talked about my reasons for accompanying
Isidore Baltazar to Mexico. I was close
to tears, as I told the caretaker, how important it was for me to
finish my work. He patted my
back most reassuringly and made soothing noises, as if he were talking
to a
child.
"Isidore
Baltazar is asleep. You know how he is. The instant his head hits the
pillow, he's
gone out of
the World."
He smiled
faintly and added, "I'll leave my door open, in case you need me. Just
call me, if
you have a
nightmare or something, and I'll come right away." Before I had
a chance to tell him, that I hadn't had one, since the last time I was
in Sonora,
the
caretaker disappeared down the dark corridor.
The oil lamp on the table began to sputter, and moments later it went
out.
It was pitch dark. I lay down
fully clothed and closed my eyes. All was
silent except for a soft, raspy breathing coming from far away.
Conscious of that breathing
sound, of the hardness and narrowness of my bed, I soon gave up the
effort to
sleep.
Flashlight
in hand, I crept down the corridor on noiseless feet, hoping to find
Isidore
Baltazar or
the caretaker. Softly, I
rapped on door after door. Noone
answered. No sound came from any of the rooms. An odd, almost oppressive silence had
settled over the house. Even the rustlings and chirpings outside had
ceased.
As I suspected, I had been left alone in the house. Rather than
worry about it, I decided to look into the rooms. They were
bedrooms; eight of them of the same size and disposition; rather small, perfectly
square, and furnished only with a bed and a night table. The walls
and the two windows in all of them were painted white, and the tile
floors were
of an
intricate design. I opened the
sliding doors of the closets, by gently pushing their bottom left
corners with
my foot. I
knew, without knowing how I knew, that a tap or gentle kick on that spot released a
mechanism, that opened the doors. I moved the
folded blankets, stacked up on the floor, in one of the closets and got
to a
small secret door. I released the concealed dead bolt, disguised as a
wall light socket. Since I was
beyond being surprised, I accepted my knowledge of the trap doors; a knowledge
that was, of course, inadmissible (not allowed) to my conscious mind. I opened the
small, secret door, crawled through the tiny opening, and found myself
in
the closet of the next room. With no great astonishment- since I
already knew it- I discovered,
that by squatting through these secret openings, I could go from one to
another of
the seven
rooms.
226-227
I swore under my breath, as my flashlight went out. Hoping to
revive the batteries, I took them out and screwed them back in again. It was no
use: they were dead. The darkness
was so intense in these rooms, that I couldn't see my own hands. Afraid
of
hitting myself against a door or a wall, I slowly felt my way into the
corridor.
The effort
was so great, that I was gasping and shaking, as I pulled myself
upright and
leaned
against the wall. I stood in
the corridor for a long time, wondering, in which direction to go to
find my own
room. From
the
distance came fragments of voices. I couldn't
tell, whether the sound came from inside the house or from the outside. I followed
the sound. It led me to the patio. I vividly
recalled that green, almost tropical patio past the stone archway, with
its ferns
and thick
foliage, its fragrance of orange blossoms, and honeysuckle vines.
I
hadn't taken, but a few steps, when I saw the enormous silhouette of a
dog, shadowed
against the wall. The beast growled. Its blazing eyes sent a chill
running up my spine. Instead of giving in to my fear, or perhaps
because of it, I felt the strangest thing happen. It was, as if I had
always been folded like a Japanese fan or like a folded cutout
figurine. Suddenly, I unfolded. The physical sensation was almost
painful. The dog watched me, confused. It began to whine like a puppy.
It flapped its ears and coiled on the ground. I stood there glued to
the spot. I wasn't afraid: I simply couldn't move. Then, as if it were
the most natural thing in the world, I folded back, turned around, and
left. This time I had no trouble, finding my room.
I awoke with a headache and that illusion of not having slept at all,
which, as an
insomniac, I
knew so well.
The muscles
of my body were disconnected. I groaned
out loud, as I heard a door open and light fell over my face. Feebly
(lacking strength, weak), I tried to turn on my other side, without
falling off the narrow bed.
"Good morning!" Esperanza exclaimed, stepping into the room in a sweep
of skirts and
petticoats.
"Actually, good afternoon," she corrected herself, pointing at the sun
through the
open
door. There
was a
wonderful gaiety in her, a delightful power in her voice, when she told
me, that it
was she,
who had thought of retrieving my books and papers from the van, before Isidoro
Baltazar left with the old Nagual. Abruptly, I
sat up. I was fully awake.
"Why
didn't the Nagual Mariano Aureliano come to say hello to me? Why didn't
Isidore
Baltazar
tell me, he was leaving?" I blurted out. I mentioned
to her, that now
I would never be able to finish my paper and enter graduate school. Esperanza
regarded me with a curious expression, and said, that if writing my
paper was
such a
mercenary (greedy, motivated for material gain) act, I would never be
able to bring it through. Before I had
a chance to tell her, that personally I didn't care, if never entered
graduate
school, she
added, "You don't do your paper to get into graduate school. You do it,
because you love doing it; because there's nothing else, at the moment,
you
would rather do."
"There
is plenty I would rather do."
"Like
what?" she challenged me. I thought
for a moment, but couldn't come up with anything specific. I had to
admit, if only to myself, that I had never enjoyed working on a paper
as much, as
I did on
this one.
For once, I
had started with the reading and research at the beginning of the term
instead of
waiting,
as I usually did, until a few days before the paper was due. It was the
knowledge, that it was my ticket into graduate school, that had spoiled
my
enjoyment.
Esperanza,
as if again privy to my thoughts, said, that I should forget about
graduate
school and
only think of writing a good paper. "Once you're
part of the Sorcerers' World and begin to grasp the nature of Dreams,
you are on
your way
to understanding, what Sorcery is all about; and that understanding
frees you." I looked at
her, puzzled.
I couldn't figure out, what she was trying to tell me. "It frees you
from wanting anything." Esperanza enunciated the sentence very
carefully,
as if I were
deaf.
She regarded me thoughtfully, then added, "Greed is your middle name,
and yet you don't need or want
anything..."
228-229
Her voice trailed off, as she began to arrange my books, papers, and
stacks of index cards on the table. Her face was
radiant, as she turned to look at me. In her
hands, she held several pencils. "I sharpened them for you with a razor
blade," she
said. "I'll
sharpen them for you, whenever they get dull." She placed
the pencils beside my legal-sized writing pad and then flung her arms
wide, as if
to
encompass the whole room. "This is a wonderful place for you to work.
Noone will
bother you
here."
"I'm
sure of that," I said. Seeing, that she was about to leave, I asked
her, where Isidore Baltazar had
slept last night.
"On
his straw mat. Where else?" Giggling softly, she gathered up her skirts
and petticoats, and stepped
out into the yard. I watched her, until she disappeared behind the
stone arch.
My eyes
hurt, dazzled from staring into the light. Moments
later, there was a loud knock on one of the doors, that opened into the
corridor.
"Are
you decent?" the caretaker asked, pushing the door open, before I had a
chance to
say, that I
was. "Nourishment for your brain," he said, placing a bamboo tray on
the table.
He poured me
a bowl of clear broth, then urged me to eat the machaca Sonorense. "I made it
myself," he informed me. The mixture
of scrambled eggs, shredded meat, onions and hot chilies was delicious.
"When
you finish, I'll take you to the movies," he said.
"When
I finish eating?" I asked excitedly, stuffing a whole tortilla in my
mouth.
"When
you finish with your paper," he clarified. As soon, as
I was done with the meal, he said, that I had to get acquainted with
the dog.
"Otherwise,
you won't be able to go outside. Not even to the outhouse." I was about
to tell him, that I had actually met the dog and had gone to the
outhouse last
night, when
with a swift gesture of his chin he motioned me to follow him into the
yard. The
big
black dog lay, curled up in the shade of the high fence of plaited
(length of interwoven strands, interweave) cane. The caretaker
squatted beside the animal and scratched it behind the ears. Bending
even
lower, he whispered something in the animal's ear. Abruptly,
the caretaker rose. Startled, I stepped backward, falling on my seat.
The dog
whined, and
the caretaker, with one incredible leap, cleared the high fence.
I scrambled to my feet and
was about to run out of there fast, when the dog stretched its forepaws
and
placed them on my feet. I could feel the pressure of the paws through
my shoes. The dog looked up at
me and opened its muzzle in a wide, drawn-out yawn. Its tongue and gums were
blue-black. "That's
a
sign of the finest pedigree (recorded ancestry, lineage)." I was so
startled to hear the caretaker behind me, that I wheeled around. I lost
my balance
again and
fell over the dog. I didn't dare move at first, then slowly I eased my
head to the
side. The
dog's amber-colored eyes were fixed on me. The dog bared its teeth, not
in a
growl, but in a most friendly, doggish smile. "Now you're
friends," the caretaker pronounced, helping me up. "And it's time for
you to
start on
your paper."
The
next three days were dominated entirely by my desire to finish my task.
I worked for
long
stretches, but somehow didn't feel the passing of time. It wasn't,
that
I was so engrossed in my work, that I lost track of the hours. Rather,
time
seemed to have transformed itself into a matter of space. That is, I
began to count time, as
interludes (short musical piece inserted between the parts of a longer
composition); interludes between my sightings of Esperanza. Every day
around midmorning, when I was eating my breakfast - whatever she had
left
for me in the kitchen - she would suddenly appear. Soundlessly, she
seemed to materialize out of the
perpetual bluish smoke, that hung about the kitchen like a cloud. Invariably,
she combed my hair with a coarse wooden comb, but never said a word. Neither did
I.
I would see her again in the afternoons. As soundlessly, as she
appeared in the kitchen, she would
abruptly materialize in the yard, and sit in her custom-made rocking
chair under
the
stone archway. For hours,
she would stare into space, as if she could see beyond the limits of
human
vision.
Other, than
a brief nod or a quick smile, there was no interaction between us at
that hour,
yet I knew,
that I was protected in her silence. The dog, as
if it had been directed by the caretaker, never left my side. It
followed me
around day
and night, even to the outhouse.
230-231
I particularly looked forward to our late afternoon outings, when the
dog and I would race across the
fields toward the row of trees, that divided the plots of
land.
There we
would sit in the shade, staring into space like Esperanza. It sometimes
seemed to me, that I could reach out and touch the distant mountains. I would
listen to the breeze, rustling through the branches, and wait, until
the yellow light of the
setting Sun turned the leaves into golden chimes (set of bells, tuned
to a scale).
I waited, until the leaves turned blue and
finally black. Then the dog
and I would race back to the house, to escape the faint voice of the
wind,
telling
about the loneliness of that arid (very dry, lifeless, dull, lacking
life) land.
On the
fourth day I awoke, startled. From beyond
the door, that opened to the yard, a voice called out, "Time to get up,
lazy
bones." The caretaker's voice was drowsily indifferent.
"Why
don't you come in?" I asked. "Where were you all these days?" There was no
answer. I
sat
wrapped in my blanket, waiting for him to appear, too tense and sleepy
to go out and
see for
myself, why he was hiding. After a
while I roused myself and went outside. The yard was
deserted.
In an effort
to chase my sleepiness away, I drew bucket after bucket of cold water
over
my head. My
breakfast
was different that morning: Esperanza didn't show up. It was only
after I settled down to work, that I realized, that the dog had also
vanished.
Listlessly,
I thumbed through my books. I had very little energy and even less
desire to
work. I just
sat at my table for hours, gazing at the distant mountains through my
opened door. The
transparent silence of the afternoon was broken now and then by the
faint clucking of hens
scratching the ground for seeds and by the penetrating cry of the
cicadas, vibrating in the blue,
cloudless light, as if it were still noon. I was about
to doze off, when I heard some noise in the yard. I looked up
quickly.
The
caretaker and the dog lay side by side on a straw mat in the shade of
the fence.
There was something odd about the way they lay, sprawled (spread out in
a straggling/disordered position) out on the straw mat. They were so
still, they appeared dead. With a
mixture of concern and curiosity, I tiptoed toward them. The
caretaker noticed my presence, before the dog did.
He opened his eyes wide in an exaggerated
fashion, then in one swift motion sat up crosslegged and asked, "Did you miss me?"
"I
did!" I exclaimed, then laughed nervously. It seemed an
odd question for him to ask. "Why didn't you come into my room this morning?" Seeing his
blank expression I added, "Where have you been for the past three days?" Instead of
answering, he asked in a harsh tone.
"How is your work coming along?" I was so
taken aback by his brusqueness (abrupt, blunt, gruff, fierce), I didn't
know, what to say. I didn't
know, whether I should tell him, that my paper was none of his business
or
whether I should confess, that I was stuck. "Don't upset
yourself, trying to think up an explanation," he said.
"Just tell me the truth. Tell me,
that you need my expert opinion on your term paper." Afraid I
would burst out laughing, I squatted beside the dog and scratched its
head. "Well?"
the
caretaker demanded. "Can't you admit, that without me you're lost?" Uncertain
about the state of his mind, I decided, it was better to humor him,
than to
contradict
him.
I said that, indeed, I hadn't written a single line the whole day; and
that I had been waiting for
him; knowing, that only he could rescue me.
I assured him, that it wasn't really up to my professors at school, but
up to him to decide my fate, as
a graduate student.
The caretaker beamed at me, then asked, that I bring him my paper. He
wanted to have a look at it. "It's in
English," I said pointedly. "You won't be able to read it." My impulse,
to add, that even, if it were in Spanish, he wouldn't be able to
understand it, was checked
by the certainty, that I wasn't that ill mannered after all. He insisted,
I bring him the paper. I did. He spread
out the pages all around him, some on the mat, others on the dusty
ground,
then
retrieved from his shirt pocket a pair of metal-rimmed glasses and put
them on.
232-233
"It's
important to look like an educated man," he whispered, leaning toward
the dog.
The animal
pricked up one ear, then made a soft growling sound, as if to agree
with him.
The dog
shifted positions, and the caretaker motioned me to sit between him and
the
animal. He
looked
like an owl: erudite and austere (strict, sombre, grave), as he pored
over the loose sheets on the ground. He made
disapproving, clucking sounds with his tongue, scratched his head, shuffled and
reshuffled the sheets, as if trying to find some order, that eluded
(avoid, escape from) him. The muscles
in my neck and shoulders ached from sitting in that position. Sighing with
impatience, I reclined against the fence and closed my eyes. In spite of
my growing irritation, I must have dozed off, for I was suddenly
startled by a
faint, yet
insistent buzz. I opened my
eyes. Sitting nearby, facing me, sat a gorgeously dressed,
beautiful-looking Woman. She
said something to me, but I couldn't hear, what it was. The buzzing in
my
ears rose.
The Woman
leaned forward, toward me, and in a loud, clear voice asked, "Aren't you going to say
hello to me?"
"Nelida! When did you get here? I was trying to shake off the buzzing in
my ears," I explained. She nodded,
then drew up her long, shapely legs under the skirt,
she was wearing, and wrapped her
arms around them.
"It's
good to see you," she said dreamily. With
frowning brows, the caretaker mumbled to himself, as he studied the
pages before
him.
"Your
scribbles are not only hard to read," he pronounced after a while, "but
they don't
make much
sense.
Nelida
stared at me with narrow, critical eyes, as if daring me to contradict
him.
I fidgeted (constantly moving nervously hands/feet), eager to get away,
to escape the scrutiny of her unnerving gaze. She leaned
forward and grabbed my arm in a firm grip. The
caretaker began to read from the pages with an exasperating (made
irritated, provoke) slowness. What he read
sounded familiar, but whether he actually followed the text, I couldn't
tell,
because I couldn't concentrate. I was too irritated by the capricious
manner, in which he cut the
sentences, the phrases, and sometimes even the words. "All in all,"
he stated upon finishing with the last page, "it's a badly written
paper." He
stacked
the loose sheets in a pile, then leaned against the fence. Very
deliberately he bent his knees up in the same position, Isidore
Baltazar had taught me (the
right leg crossed over with the ankle resting on the left thigh) and
closed his eyes. He was
silent for so long, I thought, he had fallen asleep, and was thus
startled, when, in a slow,
measured voice, he began to talk about anthropology, history and
philosophy.
His thoughts
seemed to come into being, while he was talking, and words flowed out of him clearly
and precisely, with a simplicity, that was easy to follow, easy to
understand.
I listened
to him attentively. Yet at the same time I couldn't help thinking:
"How could he
possibly
know so much about Western intellectual trends? How educated was he? Who was he
really? Could
you
repeat everything again?" I asked, the instant he finished speaking.
"I'd like to
take notes."
"Whatever,
I said, is all in your paper," the caretaker assured me. "It is buried
under too
many
footnotes, quotes, and undeveloped ideas." He leaned
closer, until his head almost touched mine.
"It's not enough to cite works in an effort to supply your paper with
the veracity (accuracy, precision, honesty, truth) it lacks."
Dumbfounded,
I could only stare at him. "Will you
help me write my paper?" I asked.
"No,
I can't do that," he said with a grave look in his eyes. "That's
something, you must do on your own."
"But
I can't," I protested. "You just pointed out, how badly written my
paper is. Believe me, that's
my best shot."
"It's
not!" He contradicted me forcefully, then gazed at me with an air of
astonishment, that was
mingled with a friendly warmth: "I'm sure
your professors will accept the paper, once it's neatly typed."
"But
I wouldn't. There is nothing original about it." I was too
stunned to be upset.
"You're
only paraphrasing, what you have read," the caretaker continued. "I
demand, that
you rely
more on your own opinions, even if they contradict, what is expected of
you."
234-235
"It's only a
term paper," I said defensively. "I know, it needs more work, but I
also need to
please my
professors. Whether I
agree with the expressed views is beside the point. I need to get
accepted into
graduate
school, and that entails, in part, pleasing my professors."
"If
you want to draw strength from the Sorcerers' World," he said, "you can
no longer work under such premises (logic). Ulterior (lying beoynd,
that is evident) motives are not acceptable in this Magical World of
ours. If you want be a graduate student, then you have to behave like a
Warrior, not like a Woman, who has been trained to please. You know,
even when you are beastially nasty, you strive (exert/spend much
effort/energy) to please. But from now, whenever you write, since you
were not trained to do writing, you can certainly adopt a new mood: the
Warriors' Mood."
"What
do you mean by the Warriors' Mood?" I asked. "Do I have to fight my
professors?"
"Not your
professors," he said. "You have to fight yourself; every inch of the
way.
And you have to do it so artfully and so cleverly, that noone will
notice your struggle." I wasn't quite
sure, what he meant, and I didn't want to know, either. Before he could say
anything else, I asked him, how he knew so much about anthropology, history, and
philosophy.
Smiling, he shook his head. "Didn't you notice,
how I did it?" he asked, then proceeded to answer his own question.
"I picked the thoughts out of thin air. I simply stretched my Energy Fibers and hooked
those thoughts, as one hooks fish with a fishing line, from the immeasurable ocean of
Thoughts and Ideas, that is out there."
He
made a wide gesture with his arms, as though to encompass the very air
around him. I argued, "To pick up thoughts, Isidore Baltazar told me,
one must know, which are the ones, that might be useful. So you must
have studied history, philosophy, and anthropology."
"Perhaps
I did at one time," he said undecidedly, scratching his head in
perplexity (bewilderment, puzzlement). "I must have."
"You
had to!" I stated sententiously (given to pompous moralising), as if I
had made a great discovery.
Sighing loudly, he leaned against the fence and closed his eyes. Nelida
asked, "Why do you insist on always being right?" Startled to
hear her speak, I stared at her open-mouthed. The corners
of her lips curled up into a mischievous, secret smile. Then she
motioned me
to close my
mouth. I
had been so
engrossed in listening, to what the caretaker had to say about my
paper, I had
forgotten
all about her, even though she had been sitting right in front of me. Or had she?
The thought, that she might have gone and returned without me noticing
it,
filled me with anxiety. "Don't let
that bother you," Nelida said softly, as if I had voiced my fears out
loud. "We
are in the
habit of coming and going, without anyone ever noticing us." Her tone
canceled the chilling effect of her statement. Gazing from
one to the other,
I wondered, whether they would actually vanish, unperceived,
before my very eyes. I tried to
make sure, they wouldn't. Stretching
like a cat, I lay flat on the straw mat and inched my foot toward the
hem of
Nelida's
dress, which trailed on the ground; my hand went to the caretaker's
jacket. He
must have
noticed the tug on his sleeve, for he sat up abruptly and stared at me. I closed my
eyes, but kept watching them through my lashes. They didn't
move. Their straight postures betrayed no trace of fatigue, whereas I
had to
fight to
keep my eyes open. A cool
breeze, fragrant with the scent of eucalyptus, sprang up. Streaks of
colored clouds trailed
across the sky, and the deep, transparent blue grew slowly more
diffused. It melted away so
languidly (tenderly), it was impossible to distinguish, what was cloud
and what was sky, what was day
and what was night. With my foot
on the hem of Nelida's dress and clutching onto the caretaker's jacket,
as if my
life
depended on it, I fell asleep. It seemed,
that only moments had passed, when I was awakened by a hand, touching my face.
"Florinda?"
I whispered, knowing instinctively, that the Woman, sitting beside me,
was
someone else. She was murmuring something. I had the
feeling, she had been murmuring for a long time and I had just awakened
to hear,
what she
was saying.
I wanted to
sit up, but the Woman prevented me from doing so with a gentle, but firm touch on my
shoulder. A
small
flame flickered somewhere unsteadily in the darkness. It shed a
gentle, wavering pallor (unnatural paleness) upon her face.
It made her look ghostlike. She seemed
to grow, as she moved closer. Her eyes, too, grew larger, as they
stared down
into mine.
The arch of her brows, like a curve drawn with a black marker, was concentrated
in a frown.
236-237
"Nelida!" I sighed with relief. Smiling
faintly, she nodded. I wanted to
ask her about the caretaker and about my term paper, but she pressed her fingers
against my lips and continued with her murmurings. The sound
grew fainter and fainter. It seemed to come from a great distance, and
then it
finally
faded away all together. Nelida rose
and motioned me to do the same. I did so and
noticed, that we were not outside in the yard, but in one of the empty bedrooms
along the corridor.
"Where
is my term paper?" I asked, alarmed at the possibility, that the wind
might have
scattered
the pages. The idea, that I might have to begin my work from scratch,
made me
feverish.
Nelida made
an imperious (domineering, dictatorial) gesture with her chin,
motioning me to follow her. She was much
taller, than I, and looked exactly like Florinda. Had it not
been, that she was so delicate, I wouldn't have been able to tell them
apart. At
that
moment, she appeared, as an infinished version of Florinda, as Florinda
must have
been, when
she was younger. There was
something so ethereal about Nelida, so frail, and yet so appealing. I
used to
joke with
Isidore Baltazar, that if I were a man, I would go for her. He had
retorted (I had hoped in jest), that that was perhaps the reason, why
Nelida hardly
ever talked
to me. We
headed
toward my room. I heard
steps all around me. It couldn't
be Nelida, I decided, for she walked so quietly, she seemed not to
touch the
ground. The
absurd notion, that I was hearing my own steps, made me tiptoe as
silently, as
a cat, yet I
still kept hearing the steps. Someone's
feet moved, like mine did; the same rhythm, echoing slightly on the
tile floor.
I glanced
backward several times, but there was, of course, noone behind me.
Hoping to
dispel
(dispense with, rid by scattering) my fear, I giggled out loud. Nelida
turned around abruptly. I thought, she was going to reprimand me, but
she, too,
began to
laugh. She
put her
arm around my shoulders. Her touch wasn't particularly warm or tender. I didn't
care. I liked her, and her touch was very reassuring to me. Still
giggling, and with the sound of footsteps, all around us, we entered my
room. A
strange
brilliance hung about the walls, as if a fog had seeped through the
four doors in
the room,
which at that moment I could not see. The fog had
changed the shape of the room, giving it strange contours, almost
making it
round.
Regardless
of how much I blinked and squinted, all, I could see, was the table, I
had been
working on
for the past three days. I stepped closer. To my
relief, I saw my paper arranged in a neat pile. Next to it were all my
pencils. They
had been
sharpened. "Nelida!"
I
cried out excitedly, wheeling around. I could no longer see her. The fog was
denser now. It closed around me with every breath, I drew. It seeped
inside me,
filling
me with a deep, excited feeling of lightness and lucidity (shining). Guided by
some invisible source, I sat at the table and spread out the pages all
around me. Right under
my watchful eyes the entire structure of my paper emerged, superimposing itself on my
original draft, like a double exposure on a frame of film. I lost
myself in admiration of the skilled development of the themes. As if
they were
being
maneuvered by some invisible hand, that thought and wrote, the
paragraphs
rearranged
themselves, imposinging a new order. It was all so gorgeously clear and simple, that
I laughed out of joy. "Write it
down." The
words
echoed softly in the room. Curious, I glanced all around me, but I saw
noone.
Knowing,
that whatever, I was experiencing, was definitely more, than a dream, I
reached for
my
notepad and a pencil, and began to write with a furious speed. Ideas came
to me with an incredible clarity and ease.
They pulsated in my head and in my body like
sound waves. I simultaneously heard and saw the words. Yet it
wasn't my eyes or my ears, that perceived, what was there before me.
Rather, it was some
filaments within me, that were chink out (strike) and, like some
noiseless vacuum cleaner, sucking up
the words, shining before me, like dust particles. After a
while, the order, superimposed on my paper, began to blur. One by one
the lines
faded away.
Desperately,
I tried to hold on to this splendid structure, knowing, that it would
all vanish
without a
trace. Only the memory of my awareness, of that magnificent lucidity,
remained.
And then
that, too, was extinguished, as if a candle had been blown out.
238
A curl of fog, as fine, as a thread, lingered (stay) in the room. Then
it withdrew in little ripples, and an
oppressive darkness closed in around me. I was so drained,
I knew, I was going to faint. "Lie down!" I didn't
even bother to look up, knowing, that I wouldn't be able to see anyone.
With great
effort, I
rose from my chair and staggered (move/stand unsteadily) to my bed.
Chapter
16
239
For
a moment, I just lay on my bed, vaguely aware of my amazing,
astonishing Dream, so unlike any
other Dream. For the first time ever, I was conscious of all, I had
done.
"Nelida?" I
whispered, as a soft, raspy, murmuring, coming from the other end of the room,
intruded on my reveries. I sat up only to lie back quickly, as the room
began to spin
around me.
I waited for
a few moments, then tried again. I stood and took a few hesitant steps.
I
collapsed on the floor and hit my head against the wall. "Shit!" I
cried out, when the room kept spinning around me. I'm fainting.
"Don't
be so dramatic," Florinda said, then giggled, as she saw my bewildered
face. She
touched
first my forehead, then my neck, as if she were afraid, I might be
running a
fever. "You
aren't fainting," she pronounced. "You need to replenish your Energy."
"Where
is Nelida?"
"Aren't
you happy to see me?" She took my arm and helped me back to the bed.
"You're
faint with
hunger."
"I'm
not." I contradicted her, more out of habit, than conviction. Although
I didn't feel
hungry, I
was certain, my dizziness was caused by a lack of food. Except for
breakfast, I
hadn't eaten
at all during the day.
240-241
"We
wondered, why you didn't," Florinda said, responding to my thoughts.
"We prepared
such a
delicious stew for you."
"When
did you get here?" I asked. "I have been silently calling you for days." Closing her
eyes, Florinda made a humming sound, as if the noise would help her remember.
"We have been here for several days, I think," she finally said.
"You
think!" I was completely taken aback, my temper getting the better of
me. I quickly
recovered.
"Why didn't you let me know, that you were here?" More, than
hurt, I was puzzled, that I had failed to notice their presence. "How
could I
have been so
unaware?" I mumbled, more to myself, than to her. Florinda
regarded me with a curious expression in her eyes. She seemed surprised
by my
bafflement.
"If
we had let you know, that we were here, you wouldn't have been able to
concentrate on your work," she remarked sagaciously (shrewd). "As you
well know, instead of writing your paper, you would have been pending
(awaiting) on our comings and goings. All your energy would have been
spent, in trying to find out, what we do, wouldn't it?" Her voice was
low
and raspy, and a strange, excited light made her eyes even more shiny,
than usual. "It was a deliberate act on our part, that you
should
work without distractions," she assured me. Then she went on to
explain, that the caretaker had helped me with my paper, only after he
was satisfied, with what I had done so far. She claimed, that in
Dreaming he found the inherent order of my notes.
"I,
too, saw the inherent order of my notes," I said smugly
(self-satisfied). "I, too, saw it in a Dream."
"Of
course you did," Florinda readily agreed. "We pulled you into Dreaming,
so you could work on your paper."
"You
pulled me into Dreaming?" I repeated. There was something startlingly
normal about her statement. Yet at the same time it made me feel
apprehensive. I had an uncanny sense, that I was finally close to
understanding, what Dreaming-Awake was, but somehow I couldn't quite
grasp it. In an effort to make sense, I told Florinda all,
that
had happened from the moment I saw the caretaker and the dog in the
yard. It was difficult to make it sound coherent, for I couldn't decide
myself, when I had been
awake and when I had been Dreaming. To my utter bewilderment, I could
recall the exact outline of my paper, as I had seen it, superimposed on
my original draft. "My concentration was far too keen for me to have
been Dreaming," I pointed out.
"That's
precisely, what Dreaming-Awake is," Florinda interrupted me. "That's
why, you remember it so well." Her
tone was, that of an impatient teacher, explaining a simple, but
fundamental point to a backward child. "I've already told you, that
Dreaming-Awake has nothing to do with falling asleep and having a
Dream."
"I
took notes," I said, as if that would invalidate her statement. Seeing
her nod, I asked her, if I would find, whatever I saw in
Dreaming-Awake,
jotted (write briefly and hastily) down in my own handwriting on my
pad.
"You will,"
she assured me. "But before you do, you'll have to eat
first." She
rose and,
holding out her hand, helped me to my feet. To put a semblance of order
to
my appearance, she tucked my shirt into my jeans and brushed off the
pieces of straw, sticking to
my sweater.
She held me
at arm's length and regarded me critically. Not satisfied with the
results, she
began to
fuss with my hair, tweaking (pinch/pluck/twist sharply) the unruly
strands this way and that. "You
look quite frightful with your hair sticking out all over the place,"
she pronounced.
"I'm
used to taking a hot shower upon awakening," I said, and followed her
out into the
corridor.
Seeing, that
she was heading toward the kitchen, I told her, that I had to go to the
outhouse
first.
"I'll
walk with you." Noticing my displeased face, she added, that she only
wanted to
make sure, I
didn't get dizzy and fall into the shit hole. Actually, I
was glad to hold on to her arm, as we made our way to the yard. I almost
fell, as we stepped outside, not so much from weakness, as from the
shock of
seeing how
late in the day it was. "What's the
matter?" Florinda asked. "Do you feel faint?" I pointed up
at the sky. A faint gleam was all, that remained of the Sun's light.
"I can't
possibly
have lost a day," I said. My voice had all, but vanished, even before I
finished
speaking.
I struggled to assimilate the idea, that indeed a whole night and the
whole day had passed, but my mind would not accept it. Not
being able to account for time, measured in the usual
manner, unhinged
(confused) me.
242-243
"Sorcerers
break Time's Flux (Flow)," Florinda answered my thoughts. "Time, in the
fashion we measure it, doesn't exist, when one Dreams, the way
Sorcerers Dream. Sorcerers stretch or compress Time at will. For
Sorcerers, Time is not a matter of minutes or hours or days, but an
altogether different matter. When Dreaming-Awake, our perceptual
faculties are heightened," she proceeded in a patient, measured tone:
"However, when it comes to perceiving Time, something altogether
different happens. The perception of Time does not become heightened,
but is canceled out completely." She added, that Time is always a
factor of Consciousness; that is, to be aware of Time is a
psychological state, that we automatically transform into physical
measurements. It is so ingrained in us, that we can hear it, even when
we are not consciously aware of it, a clock ticking inside us,
subliminally keeping track of Time. In Dreaming-Awake, that capacity is
absent," she emphasized. "A thoroughly new, unfamiliar structure, which
somehow is not to be understood or interpreted, as we normally do with
Time, takes over."
"Then all I will ever consciously know about Dreaming-Awake is, that
Time has either been stretched or compressed," I said, trying to come
to grips with her elucidation (explanation).
"You will understand a
great deal more, than that," she assured me emphatically: "Once you become adept
(proficient, highly skilled, expert) at entering Heightened Awareness,
as Mariano Aureliano calls it, you'll be aware then of
whatever you wish, because Sorcerers are not involved in measuring Time. They are
involved in using it; in stretching or compressing it at will."
"You mentioned
earlier, that you all helped me into Dreaming," I said. "Then some of
you
must know how long, that state lasted."
Florinda
said, that she and her companions were perennially (all the time) in a
state of Dreaming-Awake (not
visible to ordinary eyes, LM), that it was precisely
their joint effort, that pulled me into Dreaming-Awake, but that they never kept track of it.
"Are
you implying (hint), that I might be Dreaming-Awake now?" I asked,
knowing the answer before she responded. "If I
am, what did I do to reach this state? What steps did I take?"
"The
simplest step imaginable," Florinda said. "You didn't let yourself be
your Usual Self.
That is the Key, that opens doors. We have told you many
times and in many ways, that Sorcery is not at all, what you think it is. To say, that to stop
yourself from being your Usual Self, is Sorcery's most Complex Secret, sounds like idiocy, but
it isn't. It is the Key to Power, therefore the most difficult thing a Sorcerer does. And yet, it isn't
something complex or impossible to understand. It doesn't boggle
(baffle, elude) the Mind,
and for that reason
noone can even suspect its Importance or take it seriously.
Judging by the result of your latest Dreaming-Awake,
I can say, that
you have accumulated enough Energy, through preventing yourself from
being your Usual Self."
She
patted my shoulder and turned away. "I'll see you in the kitchen," she
whispered.
The kitchen
door was ajar (open), but no sound came from the inside.
"Florinda?" I whispered. A soft
laughter answered my call, but I couldn't see anyone. As soon, as
my eyes became accustomed to the penumbra (partly darkened fringe
around sunspot), I saw Florinda and Nelida sitting
around the table. Their faces were unnaturally vivid in that tenuous
(weak, flimsy) light. Their same hair,
their same eyes, their same noses and mouths, gleamed, as if lit by an
inner
light. It
was the most eerie thing to see two Beings so totally alike.
"You
two are so beautiful, that you're scary," I said and stepped closer. The two
Women gazed at each other, as if to validate my statement, then burst
into a most
disturbing
laughter. I felt a curious prickle running down my spine. Before I had
a chance to
comment
on their odd sounding laughter, they stopped. Nelida
beckoned me to sit on the empty chair beside her. I took a
deep breath. I had to stay calm, I told myself, as I sat down. There was a
tenseness and a crispness about Nelida, that unnerved me. She served me
a
plateful of a thick soup from the tureen (deep dish with lid for soups)
standing in the middle of the table.
"I
want you to eat everything," she said, pushing the butter and a basket
with warm
tortillas
toward me.
244-245
I was famished. I attacked my food, as if I had not eaten for days. It
tasted wonderful. I ate all there
was in the tureen and washed down the buttered tortillas with three
mugfuls of
hot
chocolate.
Satiated, I
slumped back in my chair. The door to the yard was wide open and a cool breeze
rearranged the shadows in room. Twilight
seemed to be lasting forever. The sky was still streaked with heavy
layers of
color:
vermilion (reddish-orange), deep blue, violet, and gold. The air had
that transparent quality, that brought
close the distant hills. As if
propelled by some inner force, the night seemed to shoot out of the
ground. The
shadowed
movements of the fruit trees in the wind, rhythmic and graceful, swept
the
darkness up into the sky. Esperanza
burst then into the room and placed a lit oil lamp on the table. She
regarded me
with
unblinking eyes, as if she had difficulty in focusing. She gave the
impression, that she was still concerned with some otherworldly
mystery, that
she
wasn't yet quite there. Then slowly her eyes thawed, and she smiled, as
if she knew
now,
that she had returned from a great distance.
"My
paper!" I cried out upon discovering the loose sheets and my notepad
under her arm. Grinning broadly, Esperanza handed me my notes. Eagerly,
I examined the sheets and laughed out loud upon seeing the pages on the
pad, filled with precise and detailed instructions (written half in
Spanish, half in English) on how to proceed with my term paper. The
handwriting was unmistakably mine. "It's
all there," I said excitedly. "That's, how I saw it in my Dream."
The thought, that I might be able to zoom through graduate, without
having to work so hard, made me forget all my former anxiety.
"There
are no shortcuts to writing good term papers," Esperanzaa said. "Not
even with the aid of Sorcery. You should know, that without the
preliminary reading, the note taking, and the writing and rewriting,
you would never have been able to recognize the structure and order of
your term paper in Dreaming."
I nodded wordlessly. She had spoken with such an incontestable
(unquestionable) authority, that I didn't know what
to say.
"What
about the caretaker?" I finally managed to ask. "Was he a professor in
his youth?" Nelida and Florinda turned to Esperanza, as if it were up
to her to answer.
"I
wouldn't know that," Esperanza said evasively (intentionally vague).
"Didn't he tell you, that he's a Sorcerer in love with ideas?" She was
silent for a moment, then added softly, "When he is not taking care of
our World, as befits (appropriate for) a caretaker, he reads."
"Besides
reading books," Nelida elucidated, "he reads a most extraordinary
number of scholarly journals. He speaks several languages, so he's
quite up to date with the latest of everything. Delia and Clara are his
assistants. He taught them to speak English and German."
"Is
the library in your house his?" I asked.
"It
belongs to all of us," Nelida said. "However, I'm sure, he's the only
one, beside Vicente, who has read every book on the shelves."
Noticing
my incredulous expression, she advised me, that I shouldn't be fooled
by appearances, regarding the people in the Sorcerers' World. "To reach
a degree of Knowledge, Sorcerers work twice as hard, as normal people,"
she assured me. "Sorcerers have to make sense of the Everyday World as
well, as the Magical World.
To accomplish that, they have to be highly skilled and sophisticated,
mentally as well, as physically." She
regarded me with narrowed, critical eyes, then chuckled softly. "For
three days, you worked on your paper," she explained. "You worked very
hard, didn't you?" She waited for my assent (expess agreement), then
added that, while Dreaming-Awake, I worked on my term paper even
harder, than I did while awake.
"Not
at all," I hastened to contradict her. "It was all quite simple and
effortless." I explained, that all, I did, was see a new version of my
paper, superimposed on my old draft, and then I copied, what I saw.
"To
do that, took all the strength you had," Nelida maintained. "While
Dreaming-Awake, you channeled all your Energy into a single purpose.
All your concern and effort went into finishing your paper. Nothing
else mattered to you at the moment. You had no other thoughts to
interfere with your endeavor."
246-247
"Was the caretaker Dreaming-Awake, when he looked at my paper?" I
asked. "Did I see, what he saw?" Nelida
rose and walked slowly to the door. For a long moment she peered out
into the darkness, then returned to the table. She whispered something
to Esperanza, which I didn't hear, and then sat down again. Esperanza
chuckled softly, then said, that what, the caretaker saw in my paper,
was
different from what, I saw and wrote down.
"Quite naturally so, for his
knowledge is by far more vast, than yours." Esperanza
stared at me with her quick, dark eyes, that somehow made the rest of
her face seem lifeless.
"Guided by his suggestions, and according to
your own capabilities, you saw, what your paper ought to read like.
That's, what you wrote down. While Dreaming-Awake, we have access to
hidden resources, which we never use ordinarily," Nelida said, going on
to explain that, the instant I saw my paper,
I remembered the clues, the
caretaker had given me. Noticing my incredulous expression, she
reminded me, what the caretaker had said about my paper:
"Too many
footnotes, too many notes and sloppily developed ideas." Her
eyes radiated sympathy and amusement, as she went on to say, that since
I was Dreaming and I am not as stupid, as I pretended to be, I
immediately saw all kinds of links and connections, that I hadn't
noticed before within my material. Nelida
leaned toward me, a half-smile playing over her lips, as she waited for
my reaction. "It's time, you know, what made you see a better version
of
your original paper."
Esperanza sat up straight
and gave me a wink, as if to emphasize, that she was about to reveal a major secret.
"When Dreaming-Awake, we have access to Direct Knowledge." I could see the
disappointment in her eyes, as she regarded me for a long moment.
"Don't be so
dense!" Nelida snapped impatiently: "Dreaming-Awake should
have made you realize, that you have, as all Women do, a unique capacity to receive
Knowledge directly." Esperanza
made a silencing gesture with her hand and said:
"Did
you know, that one of the basic differences
between Males and Females is how they approach Knowledge?" I had no
idea, what she
meant.
Slowly and deliberately, she tore off a clean sheet from my notepad and
drew two human
figures. One head she crowned with a cone and said, that it was a Man.
On the other head,
she drew the same cone, but upside down, and said, that it was a Woman.
"Men
build Knowledge step by step," she explained, her pencil poised on the
figure
crowned with a cone: "Men
reach up. They climb
toward Knowledge.
Sorcerers say, that Men cone toward the Spirit. They cone up toward
Knowledge.
This coning process limits Men on, how far they can reach." She retraced the cone on
the first figure. "As you can see, Men can only reach a certain height. Their path toward
Knowledge ends up in a narrow point: the tip of the cone." She looked at me sharply.
"Pay attention," she warned me and pointed her pencil to the second figure, the one
with the inverted cone on its head. "As you can see, the cone
is upside down, open like a funnel. Women are able to open themselves directly to the
Source
(the Source of All Suns, LM),
or rather, the Source reaches them directly, in the broad base of the cone.
Sorcerers say, that
Women's connection to Knowledge is expansive. On the other hand, Men's
connection is quite
restricted.
Men are close to the concrete," she proceeded, "and aim at the
Abstract. Women are close to the
Abstract, and yet try to indulge (satisfy personal wishes) themselves
with the concrete."
"Why are Women,
being so open to Knowledge or the Abstract, considered inferior?" I
interrupted her. Esperanza gazed at me with
rapt (deeply absorbed) fascination. She rose swiftly,
stretched like a cat, until all her joints cracked, then sat down
again.
"That Women are
considered inferior, or, at the very best, that female traits are
equated (regard as equal or as average) as complementary to the
male's, has to do with the manner, in which males and females approach
Knowledge," she
explained:
"Generally speaking, Women are more interested in Power over
themselves, than over others. Power over others is
clearly, what males want."
"Even among Sorcerers," Nelida interjected, and the Women all laughed.
Esperanza went on to say,
that she believed, that originally Women saw no need to exploit their
facility (ease in
doing) to link themselves broadly and directly to the Spirit.
248-249
She said, Women saw no necessity to talk about or to intellectualize
this natural capacity of theirs, because it was
enough for them to put their natural capacity in action, and to know,
that they had it. Men's incapacity, to link
themselves directly to the Spirit, was what drove them to talk about
the process of
reaching Knowledge," she stressed. "They haven't stopped talking about
it. And it is precisely this
insistence on, knowing how they strive toward the Spirit, this
insistence on analyzing
the process, that gave them the certainty, that being rational is a
typically male skill." Esperanza explained, that
the conceptualization of reason has been done exclusively by men, and
that this has
allowed men to belittle (speak of as unimportant) Women's gifts and
accomplishments. And even worse, it has allowed
men to exclude (reject, disregard) feminine traits from the formulation
of the
ideals of reason.
By now, of course, Women believe, what has been defined for them," she
emphasized:
"Women have been reared to believe, that only men can be rational and
coherent.
Now men carry with them a load of unearned (granted) assets, that makes
them automatically
superior, regardless of their preparation or capacity."
"How did Women lose
their direct link to Knowledge?" I asked.
"Women haven't lost
their connection," Esperanza corrected me. "Women still have a direct
link with the
Spirit.
They have only forgotten how to use it; or rather, they have copied
men's condition of
not having it at all. For thousands of years,
men have struggled to make sure, that Women forget it. Take the Holy
Inquisition,
for example. That was a systematic purge to eradicate the belief, that
Women have a
direct link to the Spirit. All organized religion is
nothing, but a very successful maneuver to put Women in a lower place.
Religions
invoke (to site in support of) a divine law, that says, that Women are
inferior."
I stared at her in amazement, wondering to myself, how she could
possibly be so erudite (erudite- having or showing
profound knowledge). "Men's need to dominate
others and Women's lack of interest, in expressing or formulating, what
they know and how
they know it, has been a most nefarious (evil) alliance (union based on
common interests)," Esperanza went on: "It has made it possible
for Women to be coerced (forced), from the moment they're born into
accepting, that
fulfillment lies in homemaking, in love, in marriage, in having
children,
and in self-denial. Women have been excluded
from the dominant forms of Abstract Thought and educated into
dependence. Women have been so
thoroughly trained in the belief, that men must think for them, that
Women have finally given
up thinking."
"Women are quite
capable of thinking." I interrupted her.
"Women are capable
of formulating, what they have learned," Esperanza corrected me, "but
what they have
learned, has been defined and manufactured, prepared
by men.
Men define the very nature of knowledge (not Higher Knowledge, LM),
and from that knowledge they have excluded that, which pertains
(relates) to the Feminine. Or if the Feminine is
included, it is always in a negative light. And Women have accepted
this."
"You are years
behind the times," I interjected. "Nowadays Women can do anything, they
set their hearts to do.
They pretty much have access to all the centers of learning, and to
almost anything men can
do."
"But this is
meaningless as long, as Women don't have a support system; a support
base,"
Esperanza argued:
"What good is it, that Women have access to what men have, when Women
are still
considered Inferior Beings, who have to adopt male attitudes and
behaviors, in order to succeed? The truly successful Women
are the perfect converts: they too look down on Women. According to
men, the womb
limits Women both: mentally and physically. This is the reason why
Women, although they have access to Knowledge, have not been allowed to
help determine,
what this Knowledge is. Take for instance,
philosophers," Esperanza proposed. "The pure thinkers. Some of
them are viciously
against Women.
Others are more subtle in that: they are willing to admit, that Women
might be as capable, as men were, if not for the
fact, that Women are not interested in rational pursuits. And if Women
are
interested in rational pursuits, they shouldn't be, because it is more
becoming for a
Woman to be true to her nature: a nurturing, dependent companion of the
male." Esperanza expressed all
this with unquestionable authority.
Within moments, however, I was assailed (attacked) by doubts. "If
knowledge (not Higher Knowledge, LM)
is but a male
construct (concept, formation), then why your insistence, that I go to
school," I asked.
250-251
"Because
you are a witch, and as such, you need to know, what impinges (strike,
encroach) on you and how
it impinges on you," she
replied:
"Before you refuse something, you must understand, why you refuse it. You see, the problem is,
that Knowledge, in our day, is derived purely from reasoning things out. But Women have a different
track, never, ever taken into consideration. That track can contribute
to Knowledge, but it would have to be a contribution, that has nothing to do with
reasoning things out."
"What would it deal
with, then?" I asked.
"That's for you to
decide after you master the tools of reasoning and understanding." I was very confused. "What Sorcerers propose,"
she explained, "is that, men can't have the exclusive right to reason. Men seem to have it now,
simply because the ground, where men apply reason, is a ground, where maleness
prevails.
Let us, then, apply reason to a ground, where Femaleness prevails; and
that ground is,
naturally, the inverted cone, I described to you. Women's connection
with the Spirit itself (Spirit
in this book means the Source of All Suns! LM)." She tilted her head
slightly to one side, considering what to say. "That connection has to be
faced with a different aspect of reasoning. An aspect never, ever used before: the
Feminine side of reasoning," she said.
"What is the
Feminine side of reason, Esperanza?"
"Many things. One
of them is definitely Dreaming." She regarded me questioningly, but I had nothing to say. Her deep chuckle caught me
by surprise. "I know, what you expect from Sorcerers. You want rituals,
incantations, odd, mysterious cults. You want to sing. You want to be 'One with Nature'. You
want to commune with water spirits. You want paganism. Some romantic view of what
Sorcerers do. Very Germanic. To jump into the Unknown,"
she went on, "you need guts and mind. Only with them will you be able to explain to
yourself and to others the treasures, you might find." She leaned toward me,
eager, it seemed, to confide something. She scratched her head and
sneezed repeatedly, five times, as the caretaker had. "You need to act on your
MAGICAL SIDE," she said.
"And what is that?"
"THE WOMB." She said this so distantly and calmly, as if she were not
interested in my
reaction, that I almost missed hearing it. Then suddenly, realizing
the absurdity of her remark, I straightened up and looked at the others. "THE WOMB !" Esperanza repeated. "THE WOMB is the Ultimate Feminine
Organ.
It is THE WOMB, that gives Women that
extra edge; that extra force to channel their Energy." She explained, that men,
in their quest for supremacy, have succeeded in reducing Woman's Mysterious Power,
HER WOMB, to a strictly biological organ, whose only function is to reproduce; "to carry
man's seed".
As if obeying a cue, Nelida rose, walked around the table, and came to
stand behind me. "Do
you know the story of the Annunciation (festival Lady Day)?"
she whispered in my ear.
Giggling, I turned to face
her. "I don't."
In that same confidential whisper, she proceeded to tell me, that in
the Judeo-Christian
tradition, men are the
only ones, who hear the voice of God. Women have been excluded
from that privilege, with the exception of the Virgin Mary. Nelida said, that an
angel, whispering to Mary, was, of course, natural. What wasn't natural, was
the fact, that all, the angel had to say to Mary, was, that she would bear the son of God. The womb did not receive
Knowledge, but rather the promise of God's seed. A male-god, who engendered
(produce, give rise to) another male-god in turn."
I wanted to think, to reflect on all, that I had heard, but my mind was
in a confused whirl. "What
about Male
Sorcerers?" I asked. "They don't have a womb, yet they are clearly connected to the Spirit."
Esperanza regarded
me with undisguised pleasure, then looked over her shoulder, as though she were afraid to
be overheard, and whispered: "Sorcerers are able
to align
themselves to Intent, to the Spirit, because they have given up, what
specifically defines
their masculinity, and
they are no longer males !"
Chapter 17
252-253
The manner, in which Isidore Baltazar was pacing about the room, was
different from the way he
usually covered the length of his rectangular studio. Before, I had
always been
soothed by
his pacing.
This time,
however, his steps rang with a disturbing, oddly menacing sound. The
image of a
tiger
prowling in the bushes (not ready to pounce on a victim, but sensing,
that
something was not quite right) came to mind. I turned
away from my paper and was about to ask him, what was the matter, when
he
said, "We are going to Mexico!" The way, he
said it, made me laugh. The gruffness and seriousness of his voice
warranted
my joking
question:
"Are you going to marry me there?" Glaring at
me, he came to an abrupt halt.
"This is no joke," he snapped angrily. "This is the real
thing." No
sooner
had he spoken, than he smiled and shook his head. "What am I doing?" he
said,
making a
humorous, helpless gesture. "I am getting angry at you, as if I had
time for that. What a
shame! The Nagual Juan Matus warned me, that we are crap to the very
end." He
hugged me
fiercely, as if I had been gone for a long time and had just returned. "I don't
think, it's such a good idea for me to go to Mexico," I said.
"Cancel
anything pending (not yet decided). There is no more time." He sounded
like a military man, giving
orders.
Since I was
in a festive mood, I couldn't help retorting, "Jawohl, mein
Gruppenfuehrer!" He lost his
tightness and laughed. As we drove
through Arizona, a most peculiar feeling suddenly flooded me. It was a
bodily sensation, something like a chill, that extended from my womb to
my entire
body and
brought goose bumps all over my skin; the knowledge, that something was wrong. There was in
that feeling a new element, I had not encountered before; absolute
certainty,
without a
tinge of being right or wrong. "I just had
an intuition. Something is wrong!" I said, my voice rising against my
will. Isidore
Baltazar nodded, then said in a matter-of-fact tone, "The Sorcerers are
leaving."
"When?"
My cry was quite involuntary.
"Maybe
tomorrow or the next day," he replied. "Or perhaps a month from now,
but their
departure is
imminent." (imminent - close in time; about to occur).
Sighing in relief, I slumped on my seat and consciously relaxed. "They have
been saying, that they're leaving, since the day I met them more, than
three years
ago,"
I murmured, but I didn't really feel right about saying it. Isidore
Baltazar turned to glance at me, his face a mask of sheer contempt. I could see
the effort, he was making to erase his dissatisfaction. He smiled,
then patted my knee and said softly, "In the Sorcerers' World, we can't
be that
factual. If
Sorcerers repeat something to you, until you're cynically bored with
it, it is,
because
they want to prepare you for it." He fixed me
momentarily with his hard, unsmiling eyes and added,
"Don't confuse their magical ways
with your dumbo (fool, idiot) ways." I nodded
wordlessly. His statement didn't anger me: I was too scared for that. I
kept quiet.
The journey didn't take any time at all, or so it seemed to me. We took
turns sleeping and driving, and
by noon of the following day we were at the witches' house. The instant
the car's engine had been shut off, we both jumped out of the car,
slammed the
doors
shut, and ran up to the witches' house.
254-255
"What's
the idea?" the caretaker said. He was
standing by the front door, seemingly bewildered by our abrupt and loud
arrival.
"Are you two
fighting or chasing each other?" He looked at
Isidore Baltazar and then at me. "Gee! Running like this."
"When
are you leaving? When are you leaving?" I repeated mechanically, unable
to
contain my growing anxiety and fear any longer.
Laughing, the caretaker patted my back reassuringly and said: "I'm not
going any place. You're not
going to get rid of me that easily." His words
sounded genuine enough, but they didn't relieve my anxiety. I searched
his face, his eyes, to see, if I could detect a lie. All I saw was
kindness and
sincerity.
Upon
realizing, that Isidore Baltazar was no longer standing beside
me, I tensed up again. He had
vanished, as noiselessly and swiftly, as a shadow. Sensing my
agitation, the caretaker pointed with his chin to the house. I heard
Isidore Baltazar's voice, rising, as if he were protesting, and then I
heard his
laughter.
"Is
everybody here?" I asked, trying to move past the caretaker.
"They
are inside," he said, blocking my way with his outstretched arms. "They
can't see
you at the
moment."
Seeing, that
I was about to protest, he added,
"They were not expecting you. They want me to talk
to you, before they do." He took my
hand and led me away from the door. "Let's go to the back and pick up
some
leaves," he proposed. "We'll burn them and leave the ashes for the
water fairies. Perhaps they'll turn
them into gold." We didn't
talk at all, as we gathered pile after pile of leaves, but the physical
activity and
the sound of
the rake, scratching the ground, soothed me. It seemed we
had been gathering and burning leaves for hours, when suddenly I knew,
that
there was someone else in the yard. I turned my
head quickly and saw Florinda. Dressed in
white pants and jacket, sitting on the bench under the zapote tree, she
was like an
apparition. Her face was shaded by a wide-brimmed straw hat, and in her
hand she
held a lace
fan. She seemed not quite human and so remote, that I just stood
motionless,
absolutely
amazed. Wondering,
whether she was going to acknowledge me, I took a few hesitant steps
toward her. Upon
noticing, that she didn't in any way register my presence, I waited,
undecided.
It wasn't,
that I was trying to protect myself against being refused or being
slighted (treat as unimportant) by her, but rather,
some undetermined, yet unconsciously understood, rule kept me from demanding,
that she pay attention to me. However,
when the caretaker joined Florinda on the bench, I reached for the rake, propped
against a tree and inched my way toward them. Grinning
absentmindedly, the caretaker looked up at me, but his attention was
on, what
Florinda was
saying.
They spoke
in a language I didn't understand, yet I listened to them, entranced. Whether it
was the language or her affection for the old man, I didn't know; but
her raspy
voice was
unusually soft and strange, and hauntingly tender. Abruptly,
she rose from the bench. As if she
were propelled by some hidden spring, she zigzagged across the clearing
like a
hummingbird;
pausing for an instant beside each tree; touching a leaf here and a
blossom
there. I
raised my
hand to call her attention, but I was distracted by a bright blue
butterfly,
weaving blue
shadows in the air. It flew
toward me and alighted (came down and settle) on my hand. The wide,
quivering (tremble, vibrate) wings fanned out and their shadow fell
darkly over my fingers. It rubbed its
head with its legs, and after opening and closing its wings several
times, it took off again,
leaving on my middle finger a ring in the shape of a triangular
butterfly.
Certain,
that it was, but an optical illusion, I shook my hand repeatedly. "It's
a trick, isn't it?" I asked
the caretaker in a shaky voice. "It's an optical illusion?" The
caretaker shook his head, and his face crinkled into a most radiant
smile.
"It's a
lovely
ring," he said, holding my hand in his. "It's a magnificent gift."
"A
gift," I repeated. I had the briefest flash of insight, but it
disappeared, leaving me lost and
bewildered. "Who
put the
ring on my finger?" I asked, staring at the jewel. The antennae and the
thin,
elongated
body, dividing the triangle, were fashioned in white gold filigree
(delicate, intricate ornament) and were studded with
tiny diamonds.
256-257
"Didn't you notice the ring before?" the caretaker asked.
"Before?"
I repeated, baffled. "Before what?"
"You've
been wearing that ring, since Florinda gave it to you," he replied.
"But
when?" I asked, then held my hand over my mouth to stifle (hold back)
my shock. "I can't remember
Florinda, giving me the ring," I said more to myself, than to him. "And
why
haven't I noticed the ring before?" The
caretaker shrugged, at a loss to explain my oversight, then suggested,
that perhaps I hadn't
noticed the ring, because it fit so perfectly on my finger. He seemed
about to say something else, but stopped himself, and instead
suggested, that we pick up
some more leaves.
"I
can't," I said. "I have to talk to Florinda."
"You
do?" he
mused, in the manner of one hearing a ridiculous and probably unsound
(not soundly based in logic; not in healthy condition) idea. But he
didn't persuade me to the contrary, and said, "She's gone for her
walk," pointing with his
chin toward the path, that led to the hills.
"I'll
catch up with her," I stated. I could see her white-clad figure,
weaving in and out of the high
chaparral in the distance.
"She
goes far," the caretaker warned me.
"That's
no problem," I assured him. I ran after
Florinda, then slowed down, before I caught up with her. She had the
most
beautiful walk. She moved with a vigorous, athletic motion,
effortlessly, her back erect. Sensing my
presence, she came to an abrupt halt, then turned and held out her
hands in a
gesture of
greeting.
"How are you, darling?" she said, gazing at me. Her raspy voice was light and
clear, and very soft. In my
eagerness to learn about the ring, I didn't even greet her properly.
Stumbling over my words, I
asked her, if she had put the ring on my finger. "Is it mine now?" I
said.
"Yes,"
she said. "It's yours by right." There was something in her tone; a
sense of
certainty,
that both thrilled and terrified me. Yet it didn't even occur to me to
refuse the, no doubt,
expensive gift.
"Does the ring have magical powers?" I asked, holding up my hand
against the light, so that each
stone sparkled with a dazzling radiance.
"No,"
she laughed. "It doesn't have powers of any sort. It is a
special ring, though. Not because of its value or because it belonged
to me, but
because the
person, who made this ring, was an extraordinary Nagual."
"Was
he a jeweler?" I inquired. "Was he the same person, who built the
odd-looking
figures in
the caretaker's room?"
"The
same one," she replied. "He wasn't a jeweler, though. He wasn't a
sculptor either. The mere
thought, that he might be considered an artist, made him laugh.
Yet anyone,
who saw his
work couldn't help, but see, that only an artist could have executed the
extraordinary things, he did." Florinda
moved a few steps away from me and let her eyes roam across the hills,
as if she
were
searching for memories in the distance. Then she
turned once more toward me and in a barely audible whisper said, that
whatever
this Nagual
made, whether it was a ring, a brick wall, tiles for the floor, the
mysterious
inventions,
or simply a cardboard box, it invariably turned out to be an exquisite
piece; not
only in
terms of its superb craftsmanship, but because it was imbued
(saturated) with something ineffable
(ineffable - defying expression or description).
"If
such an extraordinary individual made this ring, then it has to have
some kind of power," I insisted.
"The
ring in itself has no power, regardless of who made it," Florinda
assured me: "The Power was in the making. The Nagual, who made this
ring, was aligned so thoroughly with, what Sorcerers call, Intent, that
he was able to produce this lovely jewel without him being a jeweler.
The ring was an act of pure Intent."
Reluctant
to sound stupid, I didn't dare admit, that I had no inkling (vague
idea), what she meant by Intent. So I asked her, what had prompted her
to
make me such a marvelous gift. "I don't think I deserve it," I added.
"You
will use the ring to align yourself with Intent," she said. A wicked
grin spread across her face as she added, "But, of course, you already
know about aligning yourself with Intent."
258-259
"I
know nothing of the sort," I mumbled defensively, then confessed, I
didn't really know, what Intent was.
"You
might not know, what the word means," she said off-handedly, "but
something in you intuits, how to tap that Force." She
brought her head close to mine and whispered, that I had always used
Intent to move from Dream to Reality or to bring my Dream - whatever it
might have been - to Reality. She glanced at me, expecting no
doubt for
me to draw the obvious conclusions. Seeing my uncomprehending
expression, she added, "Both the inventions in the the caretaker's room
and the ring were made in Dreams."
I
still don't get it," I complained.
"The
inventions frighten you," she said equably (steady, uniform,
unvarying). "And the ring delights you. Since both are dreams, it can
easily be the reverse..."
"You
frighten me, Florinda. What do you mean?"
"This,
dear, is a World of Dreams. We are teaching you, how to bring them
about
all by yourself." Her dark, shiny eyes held mine for a moment, and then
she added,
"At the moment, all the Sorcerers of the Nagual Mariano
Aureliano's party help you enter into this World and are helping you to
stay in it now."
"Is
it a different World? Or is it, that I am different myself?"
"You
are the same,
but in a different World." She was silent for a moment, then conceded,
that I had more energy, than before. "Energy, that comes from your
savings and from the loan, all of us made you." Her banking metaphor
was very clear to me. What I still didn't grasp was, what she meant by
a different World.
"Look
around you!"
she exclaimed, holding her arms out wide. "This is not the World of
Everyday Life." She was silent for a long time, then in a voice, that
was, but
a
low, gentle murmur, added: "Can butterflies
turn into rings in the World of Daily Affairs; in a World, that has
been safely and rigorously structured by the roles assigned to all of
us?" I had no answer. I
looked around me; at the trees, at the bushes, at the distant
mountains. Whatever she meant, by a different World, still eluded
(escape
from) me. The difference had to be a purely subjective one, was the
thought, that finally occurred to me. "It isn't!" Florinda insisted,
reading my thoughts. "This is a Sorcerer's Dream. You got into it,
because you have the Energy."
She regarded me quite hopelessly and said: "There
is really no way to teach Dreaming to Women. All, that can be
done, is to prop them up, so as to make them realize the Enormous Potential they carry in
their organic disposition.
Since Dreaming for a Woman
is a matter of having Energy at her disposal, the important thing is to convince her of
the need to modify her deep socialization, in order to acquire that Energy. The act of making use of
this Energy is automatic; Women Dream Sorcerers' Dreams the instant, they have the
Energy."
She confided, that a serious consideration about Sorcerers' Dreams,
stemming from her
own shortcomings, was the difficulty of imbuing (permeate, saturate,
inspire) women with the courage to break new ground. Most Women - and she said
she was one of them - prefer their safe shackles to the Terror of the New. "Dreaming is only for
courageous Women," she whispered in my ear. Then she burst into loud
laughter and added, "Or for those Women, who have no other choice, because
their circumstances are unbearable, a category, to which most Women belong, without even
knowing it."
The sound of her raspy laughter had an odd effect on me. I felt, as if
I had suddenly awakened from a deep sleep and remembered something quite forgotten,
while I had slept.
"Isidoro Baltazar told me about your imminent departure. When are you
leaving?"
"I'm
not going anywhere yet." Her voice was firm, but it rang with a
devastating sadness: "Your
Dreaming teacher and I are staying behind. The rest are leaving."
I
didn't quite understand, what she meant, and to hide my confusion I
made a joking
comment. "My
Dreaming
teacher, Zuleica, hasn't said a single word to me in three years. In
fact, she
has never
even talked to me. You and Esperanza are the only ones, who have really guided me
and taught me." Florinda's
gales of laughter reverberated around us, a joyous sound, that brought
me
intense relief, and yet I felt puzzled. "Explain
something to me, Florinda," I began. "When did you give me this ring?
How
come I went from picking leaves with the caretaker to having this ring?"
260-261
Florinda's
face was full of enjoyment, as she explained, that it could easily be
said, that
picking
leaves is one of the doors into a Sorcerers' Dream, provided one has
enough energy
to cross
that threshold. She took my
hand in hers and added: "I gave you the ring, while you were crossing; therefore,
your mind didn't record the act. Suddenly,
when you were already in the Dream, you discovered the ring on your
finger." I
looked at
her curiously. There was something in her elucidation,
I couldn't grasp; something so
vague, so indistinct. "Let's return
to the house," she suggested, "and recross that threshold. Perhaps
you'll be
aware of it
this time."
Leisurely,
we retraced our steps, approaching the house from the back. I walked a
few steps ahead of Florinda, so I could be perfectly aware of
everything.
I
peered at the trees, the tiles, the walls; eager to detect the change
or anything, that might give me a
clue to the transition. I didn't
notice anything, except, that the caretaker was no longer there. I turned
around to tell Florinda, that I most definitely had missed the
transition, but she was not
behind me.
She was
nowhere in sight. She was gone and had left me all alone there. I walked
into the house. It was, as
had happened to me before, deserted. This feeling
of aloneness no longer frightened me; no longer gave me the sensation,
I had been
abandoned.
Automatically, I went to the kitchen and ate the chicken tamales, that
had been left in a basket. Then I went
to my hammock and tried to put my thoughts in order.
I woke up and found myself, lying on a cot, in a small, dark room. I looked
desperately about me, searching for some inkling (clue) of, what was
going on. I
sat bolt
(rigidly straight) upright, as I saw big, moving shadows, lurking
(sneaking) by the door. Eager to
find out, whether the door was open and the shadows were inside,
I reached
under the
cot for the chamber pot - which somehow I knew to be there - and threw
it at the
shadows. The
pot landed outside with an excessively loud clatter. The shadows
vanished.
Wondering,
whether I had simply imagined them, I went outside. Undecided, I
stared at the tall mesquite fence encircling the clearing, and then I
knew in a
flash, where
I was: I was standing in back of the small house. All this went
through my mind, as I searched for the chamber pot, which had rolled
all the way
to the
fence. As I
bent to
pick it up, I saw a coyote squeeze through the mesquite fence.
Automatically, I threw the pot at the animal, but the pot hit a rock
instead. Indifferent
to the loud bang and to my presence, the coyote crossed the clearing. It turned
its head audaciously (fearsly daring) several times to look at me. Its
fur shimmered like silver. Its bushy tail swept over the
various rocks like a magic wand. Each
rock it touched came to life. The rocks hopped about with shiny eyes and moved their
lips, asking peculiar questions in voices, too faint to be heard. I screamed;
the rocks moved appallingly (frightfully) fast toward me. I immediately
knew, that I was Dreaming: "This is one
of my usual nightmares," I mumbled to myself. "With monsters, fear and everything
else."
Convinced,
that once I had recognized and voiced the problem, I had neutralized its effects on
me, I was about to give in and settle down to live a nightmare
terror, when I heard a
voice say: "Test the track of Dreams." I wheeled
(turn around, revolve, rotate) around. Esperanza
was standing under the ramada, tending to a fire on a raised platform,
made of
cane,
heavily coated with mud. She looked strange and remote in the gleaming,
moving
light of the
fire, as if she were separated from me by a distance, that had nothing
to do with
space. "Don't
be
frightened," she ordered. Then she
lowered her voice to a murmur and said: "We all share one another's
Dreams, but
now you
are not Dreaming." Doubt must
have been written all over my face. "Believe me, you are not Dreaming,"
she
assured me.
I stepped a
bit closer.
Not only did
her voice sound unfamiliar, but she herself was different. From where I
was standing, she was Esperanza; nonetheless, she looked like Zuleica. I moved very close to
her. She was Zuleica ! Young, strong
and very beautiful. She couldn't have been more, than forty years old. Her oval
face was framed by curly, black hair, that was turning grey.
262-263
Hers was a smooth, pale face,
highlighted by liquid, dark eyes set wide apart. Her gaze was indrawn
(detached, reserved), enigmatic,
and very pure. Her short, thin upper lip hinted at severeness, while
the full,
almost
voluptuous (full and appealing in form) lower lip gave an indication of
gentleness and also passion. Fascinated
by the change in her, I simply stared at her, enthralled (captivated,
charmed). I
definitely
must be Dreaming, I thought. Her clear
laughter made me realize, that
she had read my thoughts. She took my
hand in hers and said softly, "You're not Dreaming, my dear. This is
the real me. I am your
Dreaming teacher. I am Zuleica. Esperanza is
my Other Self. Sorcerers call it the Dreaming Body (or Double-Energy Body. LM)." My heart
thumped (pound, throb audibly) so violently, it made my chest ache. I almost
choked with anxiety and excitement. I tried to pull my hand away, but
she was
holding me
with a firm grip, that I couldn't break. I pressed my
eyes tightly shut. More, than anything, I wanted her to be gone, when I opened them
again. She
was
there, of course, her lips parted in a radiant smile. I closed my
eyes again, then jumped up and down, and stomped on the ground, as if I
had
gone berserk. With my free hand, I slapped my face repeatedly, until it
burned with pain. All to no
avail: I couldn't wake up. Every time I opened my eyes, she was there. "I think
you've got enough," she laughed, and I commanded her to hit me.
She readily obliged, striking two sharp blows on my upper arms with a
long, hard
walking
stick. "It's
no use,
dear." She spoke slowly, as if she were very tired.
She took a deep breath and let go of my hand. Then she
spoke again. "You're not Dreaming. And I am Zuleica. But when I
Dream, I am Esperanza; and something else, too, but I am not going to go into that
now." I
wanted to
say something, anything, but I couldn't speak. My tongue was paralyzed
and
all, I managed to produce, was a whimpering (cry, sob), doglike sound. I tried to
relax with breathing, I had learned in a yoga class. She
chuckled, seemingly taken with my antics. It was a reassuring sound,
that had a
soothing
effect on me: it radiated so much warmth, such deep confidence, that my
body
relaxed instantaneously. "You're a
Stalker," she proceeded. "And you belong, by all rights, to Florinda." Her tone
brooked (brook - put up with something or somebody unpleasant) no argument, no
contradic-
tion. "You're also a somnambulist and a great natural Dreamer, and by virtue of
your ability, you also belong to me." One side of
me wanted to laugh out loud and tell her, that she was raving
(talking/behaving irrationally, wild) mad. But another
side of me was in complete agreement with her claim. I asked
hesitantly.
"By which name do you want me to call you?"
"By
which name?" she repeated, gazing at me, as if it should have been
self-evident. "I'm Zuleica.
What do you think this is? A game? We don't play games here."
Taken
aback by her vehemence (passion, emotion), I could only mumble: "No, I
don't think this is a game."
"When
I Dream, I am Esperanza," she continued, her voice sharp with intensity. Her face was
stern, but radiant and open without pity all at the same time. "When
I don't Dream, I am Zuleica. But whether
I am Zuleica or Esperanza or anything else, it shouldn't matter to you.
I am
still your Dreaming teacher." All, I could
do, was nod idiotically. Even if I had had something to say, I wouldn't
have
been able to do so. A cold,
clammy sweat of fear ran down my sides. My bowels were loose and my
bladder
about to
burst. I wanted to go to the bathroom, relieve myself and puke. I finally
couldn't hold it any longer. It was a matter of disgracing myself right
there or
running to
the outhouse.
I had enough
energy to opt for the latter. Zuleica's
laughter was the laughter of a young girl. It followed me all the way
to the
outhouse.
When I
returned to the clearing, she urged me to sit beside her on the nearby
bench. I
automatically obeyed her and sat down heavily on the edge; nervously
putting my hands over my
closed knees.
There was an
undeniable gleam of hardness, but also of kindness in her eyes. It came to
me in a flash, as if I had known it before, that her ruthlessness was
more, than
anything
else, an inner discipline. Her
relentless self-control had stamped her whole Being with a most
appealing
elusiveness
and secretiveness.
264-265
Not the secretiveness of covert (hidden) and furtive (surreptitious,
secret) behavior, but the
secretiveness of the Mysterious; the Unknown. That was the
reason,
I followed her around, whenever I saw her, like a puppy dog. "You've
had two transitions today," Zuleica explained. "One from being normally
awake to Dreaming-
Awake and the other from Dreaming-Awake to being
normally awake. The first was smooth and unnoticeable. The second was
nightmarish. That's the normal state of affairs. All of us experience
those transitions just like that." I forced a
smile.
"But
I still don't know, what I did," I said. "I am not aware of any steps. Things just
happen to me, and I find myself in a Dream, without knowing how I got there."
There was a glint in her eyes. "What
is ordinarily done," she said, "is to start Dreaming, by sleeping in a
hammock or in some kind of a strapping contraption (device) hanging
from a roof beam or a tree. Suspended in that fashion, we don't have
any contact with the ground. The ground grounds us: remember that. In
that suspended position, a beginning Dreamer can learn how Energy
shifts from being awake to Dreaming and from Dreaming a Dream to
Dreaming-Awake. All this, as Florinda already told you, is a matter of
Energy. The moment you have it, off you go. Your problem now is going
to be, whether you'll be able to save enough Energy yourself, since the
Sorcerers won't be able to lend it to you anymore." Zuleica
raised her brows in an exaggerated manner and added, "We'll see. I'll try to
remind you, the next time we share one another's Dreams." Seeing the
dismay (apprehension, disappoinment) on my face, she laughed with
childlike abandon.
"How do we share one
another's Dreams?" I asked, gazing into her astonishing eyes.
They
were dark and shiny with beams of light radiatingting from the
pupils.
Instead of answering, Zuleica dropped a few more sticks into the fire.
Embers (smoldering coal or ash of dying fire) burst and spilled, and
the light grew brighter.
For an instant she stood still, her eyes fixed on the flames, as if she
were gathering in the light. She
turned sharply and glanced briefly at me, then squatted and wrapped her
strong,
muscular
arms around her shins (front of the leg below knee, above ankle). Looking into
the darkness, listening to the crackling fire, she rocked from side to
side.
"How
do we share one another's dreams?" I asked again. Zuleica
stopped rocking. She shook her head, then looked up, startled, as if
suddenly
awakened.
"That's
something impossible for me to explain now," she stated. "Dreaming is
incomprehensible. One has to feel it, not discuss it. As in the
Everyday World, before one explains something and analyzes it, one has
to experience it." She spoke
slowly and deliberately. She admitted, that it was important to
explain, as one went along.
"Yet, explanations sometimes are premature. This is one of those times. One day it
will all make sense to you," Zuleica promised, seeing the
disappointment in my face. With a
quick, light motion, she rose to her feet and went to stare at the
flames, as if her eyes needed
to feed on the light. Her shadow,
thrown by the fire, grew enormous against the wall and the ceiling of
the
ramada.
Without so
much as a nod, she turned with a sweep of her long skirt and disappeared inside the
house.
Unable to
move, I stood rooted to the spot. I could
barely breathe, as the clatter of her sandals grew fainter and fainter.
"Don't
leave me here!" I yelled in a panic-stricken voice. "There are things I
need to
know."
Zuleica
materialized by the door instantly. "What do you need to know?" she
asked in a
detached,
almost distracted tone.
"I'm
sorry," I gabbled (speak/cackle rapidly meaningless utterances),
glancing into her shiny eyes. I examined
her, almost hypnotized. "I didn't mean to shout,"
I added apologetically. "I thought you
had gone into one of the rooms." I looked at
her beseechingly (beg for, urgent request to), hoping she would explain
something to me. She didn't.
All, she did, was ask me again, what it was I wanted to know. "Would you
talk to me, when I see you again?" I blurted (utter
suddenly/impulsively) out the first thing, that came into my head;
afraid she would leave, if I didn't keep on talking.
"When I see you again, we won't be in the same World, as before," she
said. "Who knows, what we'll
do there?"
266-267
"But
a while ago," I insisted, "you, yourself, told me, you are my Dreaming
teacher.
Don't leave
me in darkness. Explain things to me. The torment, I experience, is
more, than
I can bear.
I am split."
"You
are," she admitted casually. "You certainly are split." She looked
at me, her eyes brimming with kindness. "But that's only, because you
don't let
go of
your old ways. You're a
good Dreamer. Somnambulist brains have Formidable Potential. That is...
if you
would
cultivate your character." I hardly
heard, what she said. I tried to
put my thoughts in order, but I couldn't. A succession
of images of events, I didn't quite remember, went through my mind with incredible
speed. My
will
exercised no control upon their order or their nature. Those images
were transformed into sensations that, however precise, refused to be defined;
refused to be formulated into words, or even into thoughts. Obviously
aware of my incapacity, Zuleica's face lit up in an expansive grin.
"We have all helped the Nagual Mariano Aureliano to push you into the
Second Attention all along,"
she said slowly and softly: "In there,
we find fluency and continuity, as we do in the World of Everyday Life. In both
states, the practical is dominant. We act efficiently in both states. What we
can't do in the Second Attention, however, is to break, what we
experience, into pieces, so
we can handle it, so we can feel secure, so we can understand it." While she
talked, I was thinking to myself, 'She's wasting her time, telling me
all this.
Doesn't she
know, that I am too stupid to understand her explanations?' But she
continued to speak, smiling broadly, obviously knowing, that for me to
admit, that
I was not
too bright, meant, that I had changed somehow. Otherwise, I would never
admit such
a
notion, even to myself. "In
the Second Attention," she continued, "or, as I prefer to call it, when
Dreaming-Awake, one has to believe, that the Dream is as real, as the
Everyday World. In other words, one has to acquiesce (accept without
protest). For Sorcerers, all worldly or otherworldly pursuits are ruled
by irreproachable (perfect) acts, and in back of all irreproachable
acts lies acquiescence (accept without protest). And
acquiescence
is not acceptance. Acquiescence involves a dynamic element: it involves
action." Her voice was very soft, and there was a feverish gleam in her
eyes, as she finished. "The
moment one begins Dreaming-
Awake (Second Attention), a World of enticing (lure,
attractive), unexplored possibilities opens
up; a World, where the ultimate audacity (boldness, daring,
unrestrained impudence, presumption) becomes a reality; where the
unexpected is expected. That's the time, when human's definitive
adventure begins. The World becomes limitless with possibilities and
wonder." Zuleica
was silent for a long time. She seemed to be debating, what else to say. "With
the help of the Nagual Mariano Aureliano, you once even saw the Glow of
the
Surem," she began, and her soft voice, turning wistful, became softer
still: "The Surem are magical creatures, that exist only in Indian
legends; Beings, that Sorcerers can see only while Dreaming-Awake at
the deepest level. The Surem are Beings from another World.
They glow
like phosphorescent Human Beings."
She wished me good night, turned, and disappeared inside the house. For a second
I stood numbed, then I dashed after her. Before I
reached the threshold, I heard Florinda behind me say, "Don't follow
her!"
Florinda's
presence was so unexpected, that I had to lean against the wall, and
wait for my
heartbeat to
return to normal. "Come and
keep me company," Florinda said. She was sitting on the bench, feeding
the
fire. The
elusive
(tending to baffle perception) light in her eyes, and the ghostly
whiteness of her hair was more like a memory, than
a vision. I
stretched
out on the bench beside her, and, as if it were the most natural thing
to do, I
placed my
head in her lap. "Never follow
Zuleica, or any one of us for that matter, unless you're asked to do
so,"
Florinda said, combing her fingers through my hair: "As you know
now, Zuleica isn't, what she appears to be. She's always more, much
more, than
that. Never
try to
figure her out, because, when you think, you have covered all the
possibilities, she'll flatten you out by being more, than you can
imagine in your wildest fantasies."
"I
know," I sighed contentedly. I could feel
the tension draining from my face. I could feel it leaving my body. "Zuleica is
a Surem from the Bacatete Mountains,"
I said with absolute conviction. "I've known about
these creatures all along." Seeing the
astonishment in Florinda's face, I went on daringly, "Zuleica wasn't
born like
an ordinary
Human Being. She was established. She's Sorcery itself."
268
"No,"
Florinda contradicted me emphatically. "Zuleica was born. Esperanza
wasn't."
She smiled
and added, "This should be a worthy riddle for you."
"I
think, I understand," I murmured, "but I am too insensitive and can't
formulate, what I understand."
"You're
doing fine," she chuckled softly. "Being as insensitive, as you
normally are, you must wait,
until you are really, really awake, 100 percent, in order to
understand. Now you are only 50
percent awake. The trick is
to remain in Heightened Awareness. In Heightened Awareness, nothing is impossible
to comprehend for us." Feeling,
that I was about to interrupt her, she covered my lips with her hand
and added,
"Don't think
about it now.
Always
remember, that you're compulsive, even in Heightened Awareness, and your thinking is
not thorough." I heard
someone moving in the shadows behind the bushes.
"Who is there?" I asked, sitting up. I looked all
around me, but couldn't see anyone. Women's
laughter echoed across the yard.
"You
can't see them," Florinda said sleepily.
"And
why are they hiding from me?" I asked. Florinda
smiled.
"They
are not hiding from you," she explained. "It's just, that you can't see them
without the Nagual Mariano Aurliano's help." I didn't
know, what to say to that.
On one level, it made perfect sense, yet I found myself shaking my
head. "Can you help me see them?" Florinda
nodded.
"But
your eyes are tired : they are tired from seeing too much. You need to
sleep."
Purposefully, I kept my eyes wide open; afraid to miss, whoever was
going to come out of the bushes,
the moment my attention slackened. I stared at
the leaves and the shadows, no longer knowing, which was which, until I
fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Chapter 18
269
The caretaker was dozing on his favorite bench in the shade of the
zapote tree.
That's all
he had been doing for the past two days. He no longer
swept the patios or raked the leaves outside, but instead sat for hours
on that
bench,
dozing or staring into the distance, as if he had a secret
understanding with something,
that only
he could see.
Everything
had changed in the house. 'Did I do
wrong to come to see them?' I asked myself incessantly. I felt, as
usual, guilty
and
defensive. All
I did was
to sleep uninterrupted for hours on end. When awake,
however, I was disturbingly aware, that nothing was the same. Aimlessly, I
wandered about the house, but it was to no avail. Something seemed to
have
fled from the house. The
caretaker's long and loud sigh intruded on my thoughts. Unable to
contain my anxiety any longer, I pushed my book aside, rose to my feet,
and
covered the short distance between us. "Won't you
rake and burn some leaves today?" I asked. He looked
up, startled, but did not answer. He was
wearing sunglasses. I couldn't see the expression in his eyes through
the dark
lenses. I
didn't
know whether to stay or to leave or to wait for his reply. Afraid he
might doze off again, I asked in a loud, impatient tone, "Is there a
reason, why
you aren't
raking and burning leaves any longer?"
270-271
He parried (answered) my question with one of his own, "Have you seen
or heard a leaf fall for the past two
days?" His
eyes
seemed to drill through me, as he lifted his glasses. It was the
seriousness of his tone and demeanor, rather, than his statement, which
I found
ridiculous;
that compelled (force, constrain) me to answer.
"No," I said.
He beckoned
to me to sit beside him on the bench. Leaning
close to me, he whispered in my ear.
"These trees know exactly, when to let go of their
leaves." He
glanced
all around him, as if he were afraid, we might be overheard, then added
in that
same
confidential whisper, "And now the trees know, that there's no need for
their leaves
to fall."
"Leaves
wilt (weaken, flassid, droop, limp) and fall, regardless of anything,"
I pronounced pompously. "It's a law of nature."
"These
trees are utterly capricious," he maintained stubbornly. "They have a
mind of their
own. They
don't follow the laws of nature."
"What
has prompted (respond) the trees not to drop any leaves?" I asked,
trying to keep an earnest expression.
"That's
a good question," he mused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully: "I'm afraid,
I don't know the answer yet. The trees haven't told me." He smiled at
me inanely (foolishly) and added, "I've already told you, these trees
are
temperamental." Before I had
a chance to retort, he asked, out of the blue, "Did you make yourself
your
lunch?" His
abrupt
change of subject took me by surprise.
"I did," I admitted, then hesitated for a moment. An almost
defiant mood took hold of me. "I don't care all that much about food.
I'm quite
used to
eating the same food day in and day out. If it weren't for the fact,
that I get
pimples, I
would live on chocolates and nuts." Throwing all
caution to the winds, I began to complain. I told the
caretaker, that I wished the Women would talk to me. "I would
appreciate, if they'd let
me know, what is going on. Anxiety is taking its toll on me." After I had
said all, I wanted to say, I felt much better; much relieved. "Is it true,
that they are leaving forever?" I asked.
"They
have already left forever," the caretaker said. Seeing my
noncomprehending expression, he added, "But you knew that, didn't you? You're just
making conversation with me, aren't you?" Before I had
a chance to recover from my shock, he asked me in a genuinely puzzled tone: "Why
should this be shocking to you?" He paused
for a moment, as if to give me time to think, then answered the question himself.
"Ah, I've got it! You are
furious, because they took Isidore Baltazar with them." He patted me
repeatedly
on my back,
as though to emphasize each word. His gaze
told me, that he didn't care, if I gave in to either anger or tears. To know,
that I had no audience, gave me an instantaneous sense of equanimity
(even tempered, composure).
"I
didn't know that," I murmured. "I swear, I didn't know it." I stared at
him in mute despair. I felt all
the blood drain from my face. My knees ached. My chest was so tight, I
couldn't
breathe.
Knowing,
that I was about to faint, I held on to the bench with both hands. I heard the
caretaker's voice like a distant sound.
"Noone knows, if he'll ever be back. Not even I know
that."
Leaning
toward me, he added, "My personal opinion is, that he has gone with them temporarily,
but he'll come back; if not right away, some day. That's my opinion." I searched
his eyes, wondering, whether he was mocking me. His cheerful
face radiated sheer goodwill and honesty, and his eyes were as
guileless (simple, naive), as a child's. "However,
when he returns, he won't be Isidore Baltazar anymore," the caretaker
warned me.
"The
Isidore Baltazar you knew, I think is already gone. And do you
know, what's the saddest part?" He paused, then answered his own
question.
"You took
him so for granted, that you didn't even thank him for all his care;
his help, his
affection
for you.
Our great
tragedy is to be buffoons (fool, clown, jester), oblivious to anything
else, except our buffoonery." I was too
devastated to say a word. Abruptly,
the caretaker rose to his feet. Without
another word, as if he were too embarrassed to stay with me, he walked
toward the
path,
that led to the other house.
"You
can't
just leave me here by myself," I shouted after him.
272-273
He
turned, waved at me, and then began to laugh. It was a loud, joyful
sound, that raised echoes
across the chaparral. He waved
once again, then vanished, as if the bushes had swallowed him. Incapable of
following him, I waited for him to return or to appear suddenly in
front of me
and scare
me half to death. I was almost bracing myself for a fright, I intuited
in my body
more,
than I anticipated in my mind. As it had
happened before, I didn't see or hear Esperanza approach, but I sensed
her
presence. I
turned
around and there she was, sitting on the bench under the zapote tree.
I became elated just watching her. "I thought, I
was never going to see you again," I sighed. "I had nearly resigned
myself to
it. I
thought, you were gone."
"Goodness
gracious!" she chided me in mock consternation (sudden confusion,
amazement, frustration).
"Are
you really Zuleica?" I blurted out.
"Not
a chance," she retorted. "I am Esperanza. "What are
you doing? Driving yourself nuts with questions, noone can answer?" Never in my
life have I been so close to a total breakdown, as at that moment. I felt, that
my mind was not going to take in all that pressure. I was going to be
ripped
apart by my
anguish and turmoil.
"Brace
yourself, girl," Esperanza said harshly. "The worst is yet to come. But we can't
spare you. To stop the pressure now, because you're about to go bonkers
(mad, eccentric), is unthinkable
to Sorcerers.
It's your
challenge to be tested today. You either live or you die; and I don't
mean this
metaphorically."
"I'll
never see Isidore Baltazar?" I asked, hardly able to speak through my
tears.
"I
can't lie to you, to spare your feelings. No, he'll never be back.
Isidore Baltazar was only a moment of Sorcery. A Dream, that passed
after being Dreamed. Isidore Baltazar, as the Dream, is gone already."
A small, almost wistful (full of melancholy, longing) smile curved her
lips. "What I don't know yet," she continued, "is, if the Man, the new
Nagual, is gone forever as well.
You understand, of course, that even,
if he returns, he won't be Isidore Baltazar. He'll be someone else, you
have to meet all over again."
"Would he be
unknown to me?" I asked, not quite sure whether I wanted to know.
"I
don't know, my child," she said with the weariness of uncertainty. "I
simply don't know. I am a Dream myself; and so is the new Nagual.
Dreams, like us, are impermanent (not lasting or durable), for it is
our
impermanence, that allows us to exist. Nothing holds us, except the
Dream." Blinded
by my tears, I could barely see her. "To ease your
pain, sink deeper into yourself," she said softly: "Sit up with your
knees raised and grab your ankles with crossed arms, right ankle with
the left hand. Put your head on your knees and let the sadness go. Let
the Earth soothe your pain. Let the Earth's Healing Force come to you." I
sat on the ground in exactly the manner she prescribed. Within moments
my sadness vanished. A deep bodily sensation of well-being replaced my
anguish. I lost
sight of myself, in any context (background), except the context of the
moment at hand. Without my
subjective (essential) memory I had no pain. Esperanza
patted the place beside her on the bench. As soon, as
I was seated, she took my hand in hers and rubbed it for an instant, as
if she were
massaging it, then said, that it was quite a fleshy hand for being so
bony. She
turned
the palm up and studied it intently. She didn't say a word, but gently
curled my
hand into
a fist. We
sat in
silence for a long time. It was late afternoon. Nothing could be heard,
but the
rhythmic
sound of leaves, moved by the breeze. As I stared
at her, a most uncanny certainty possessed me. I knew, that
Esperanza and I had already
talked at length about my coming to the witches' house and the
Sorcerers'
departure.
"What
is it with me, Esperanza?" I asked. "Am I Dreaming?"
"Well,"
she began slowly. There was a gleam in her eyes, as she proposed, I
test the
Dream. "Sit
on the ground and test it." I did. All,
I felt, was the coldness of the rock, I had sat on. No feeling was sent
back to me.
"I'm not
Dreaming," I asserted. "Then why do I feel, that we've already talked?"
274-275
I
searched her face to see, if I could find a clue to my dilemma, stamped
on her features. "This is the
first time I've seen you, since my arrival, but I feel, we've been
together every day," I
mumbled, more to myself, than to be heard. "It's been seven days now."
"It's
been much longer. But you must resolve this puzzle yourself, with
minimal help," Esperanza
said. I
nodded in
agreement.
There was so
much I wanted to ask, but I knew and accepted, that it would be useless
to
talk. I knew without knowing, how I knew it, that we had already
covered all my questions. I
was saturated with answers. Esperanza
regarded me thoughtfully, as if she doubted my realization. Then, very
slowly, enunciating her words carefully, she said: "I want you to know,
that
the Awareness you have gotten here, no matter how deep and permanent it
may seem to
you, is only
temporary.
You'll get
back to your nonsense soon enough. That's our Women's fate; to be
especially
difficult."
"I
think, you are wrong," I protested. "You don't know me at all."
"It's
precisely, because I know you, that I'm saying this." She paused
for a moment, and when she spoke again, her voice was harsh and serious. Women are
very cagey (careful, unwilling to disclose information). Remember,
being reared to be a servant, makes you extremely shifty
(tricky, crafty) and clever." Her
explosive, resonant laughter erased any desire, I might have had to
protest.
"The best
thing you can do is not to say anything," she declared. Taking my
hand, she pulled me up and suggested, that we go to the small house for
a
long, much-needed talk. We didn't go
inside the house, but sat down on a bench by the front door. Silently,
we just sat there for nearly an hour. Then
Esperanza turned toward me. She didn't seem to see me. In fact, I
wondered, if she had
forgotten, that I had come with her, and was sitting beside her. Without
acknowledging my presence, she stood up, moved a few steps away from me and gazed at
the other house, nestled among a clump of trees. It was quite a while,
before she
said,
"I'm going far." I couldn't
tell, whether it was hope, excitement or apprehension, that gave me a
strangely
sickening sensation in the pit of my stomach. I knew, that she wasn't
referring to distance in terms of miles, but in terms of Other Worlds.
"I don't care, how far we're going," I said with a bravado, I was far
from feeling.
I
desperately wished to know, but didn't dare ask, what would be at the
end of our
journey.
Esperanza
smiled and opened her arms wide, as if to embrace the setting Sun. The sky in
the west was a fiery red; the distant mountains, a shadowy purple. A
light
breeze swept
through the trees. The leaves shimmered and rustled. A silent
hour went by, and then all was still. The spell of twilight immobilized
everything
around us.
Every sound and movement ceased. The contours of bushes, trees, and
hills were
so
precisely defined, they appeared to have been etched (cut, engrave)
against the sky.
I moved closer to Esperanza, as the shadows crawled up on us and
blackened the sky. The sight of
the other silent house, with its lights, twinkling like glowworms in
the dark,
aroused some
deeply buried emotion within me. The emotion
wasn't connected to any particular feeling of the moment, but to a
vaguely
sad,
nostalgic memory buried in childhood. I must have
been totally engrossed (absorb wholly) in my reveries. Suddenly I
found, myself walking alongside
Esperanza.
My tiredness, my former anxiety, had all vanished. Filled with
an overwhelming sense of vigor, I walked in a kind of ecstasy, a silent happiness,
my feet, drawn forward, but not by my volition alone. The path, we
were walking on, ended abruptly. The ground
rose and trees stretched high above us. Huge boulders were scattered
here
and there. From somewhere in the distance came the sound of running
water, like a soft, comforting
chant.
Sighing with
sudden fatigue, I leaned against one of the boulders and wished, that
this was
the end of
our journey. "We haven't
reached our destination yet!" Esperanza shouted. She was
already halfway up some rocks and she moved with the agility of a goat. She didn't
wait for me. She didn't even look back to see, if I was following her. My short
rest had robbed me of my last strength. Gasping for breath, I slipped
repeatedly
on the
stones, as I scrambled after her. Halfway up,
the trail continued around a huge boulder. The dry and brittle
vegetation
gave way to
luscious (pleasant smell/sight) growth, dark in the early evening
light. The air, too, was no longer the same.
276-277
It was humid and, for me, easier to breathe.
Esperanza moved unerringly (commiting no mistakes, consistently
accurate) along a narrow path. It was full of shadows, full of silences and
rustlings.
She knew
each of the night's mysterious sounds. She identified each of its
pulsating
croaks,
cries, calls, and hisses. The path
came to an end in front of some steps, cut into the rock. The steps led
to a
concealed mound of stones. "Pick one,"
she ordered, "and put it in your pocket." Worn as
smooth, as pebbles in a brook, the stones all looked the same at first. Upon closer
examination, however, I discovered, that they were all different. Some
were
so smooth and shiny, they appeared to have been polished in a tumbler. It took me
quite some time, until I found one, I liked. It was
heavy, yet it fit easily in my palm. Its light brown, bulky mass was
wedge-shaped
and
criss-crossed by almost translucent milky veins. Startled by
a noise, I almost dropped the stone.
"Someone is following us," I whispered.
"Nobody
is following us!" Esperanza exclaimed, with a look halfway between amusement
and incredulity. Seeing me
draw back behind a tree, she giggled softly and said, that it was
probably a toad jumping
through the underbrush. I wanted to
tell her, that toads don't jump in the darkness, but I wasn't sure, it
was true. It
surprised
me, that I hadn't just said it with the most absolute certainty; as was
my habit.
"Something
is wrong with me, Esperanza," I said in an alarmed tone of voice. "I'm
not
myself."
"There
is nothing wrong with you, dear," she assured me absentmindedly. "In
fact, you
are more
yourself, than ever."
"I
feel strange..." My voice trailed off. I had begun
to see a pattern, in what had been happening to me, since the first
time I
arrived at
the witches' house.
"It's
very hard to
teach something so unsubstantial (lacking firmness, strength, basis in
fact; flimsy), as Dreaming," Esperanza said. "Especially to Women.
We,
Women, are extremely coy (pretending shy/modesty) and clever. After
all, we've been slaves for all our lives. We, Women, know how to
precisely manipulate things, when we don't want anything to upset, what we have worked
so hard to obtain: our status quo (existing condition, state of
affair)."
"Do you mean, that men don't?"
"They certainly do, but
they (men) are more overt. Women fight underhandedly (secret,
deceitful, sneaky). Their
preferred fighting
technique is the slave's maneuver: to turn the mind off. They hear without paying
attention. They look without seeing." She added, that to
instruct Women was an accomplishment worthy of praise. "We like the Openness of
Your Fighting," she went on. "There is high hope for you. What we fear the most is
the agreeable Woman, who doesn't mind the new, and does
everything, you ask her to do; then turns around and denounces (condemn
openly, censure, criticise, accuse formally) you as soon, as she gets tired or bored with the
Newness."
"I
think, I am beginning to understand," I mused uncertainly.
"Of
course you have begun to understand!" Her assertion was so comically
triumphant, I
had to laugh:
"You have
even begun to understand, what Intent is."
"You
mean, I am beginning to be a Sorceress?" I asked. My whole
body shook, as I tried to suppress a fit of giggles.
"Since
you arrived here, you've been Dreaming-Awake on and off," Esperanza
stated.
"That's why,
you fall asleep so much." There was no
mockery; not even a trace of condescension (patronising
behaviour/manner) in her smiling face. We walked in
silence for a while, and then she said, that the
difference between a Sorcerer
and an ordinary person was, that the Sorcerer could enter into a state
of Dreaming-Awake at will. She
tapped my arm repeatedly, as if to emphasize her point, and in a
confidential tone added, "And
you are Dreaming-Awake because, in order to help you hone (sharpen,
give an edge to) your Energy, we
have created a bubble around you, since the first night you arrived." Esperanza
went on to say, that from the moment they first met me, they had
nicknamed
me
Fosforito, little match. "You burn too fast and uselessly." She gestured
for me to remain quiet and added, that I didn't know, how to focus my Energy.
"Your Energy is
deployed (bring into action) to protect and uphold the
Idea of Yourself." Again she motioned me to be silent, said, that what,
we think is our Personal Self, is, in actuality, only an idea. She
claimed, that the bulk of our Energy is consumed in defending that idea. Esperanza's
eyebrows lifted a little, an elated grin spreading across her
face. Esperanza explained:
278-279
"To
Reach a Point of Detachment, where the Self is just an idea, that can be changed at will, is
a true act of Sorcery; and the most difficult of all. When the idea of the Self
retreats, Sorcerers have the Energy to align themselves with Intent and be more, than
what we believe is normal.
Women, because they have a
WOMB, can focus their attention with great facility (ease) on something, outside their
Dreams, while Dreaming," she explained: "That's precisely, what
you have been doing all along, unbeknownst to yourself. That object becomes a bridge,
that connects you to Intent."
"And what object do
I use?"
There was a flicker of impatience in her eyes. Then she said, that it
was usually a window or a
light or even the
bed.
"You're
so good at it, that it is second nature with you," she assured me:
"That's, why you have nightmares. I told you all this, when you were in
a deep state of Dreaming-Awake, and you understood. As long, as you
refuse to focus your attention on any object prior to sleeping, you
don't have bad dreams. "You
are cured, aren't you?" she asked. My initial
reaction, of course, was to contradict her. However,
upon a moment's thought, I could only agree with her. After my meeting
with
them in Sonora, I had been fairly free from nightmares. "You'll never
be really free from them as long, as you persist in being Yourself," she pronounced: "What you
should do, of course, is to exploit your Dreaming talents deliberately
and
intelligently. That's why
you're here. And
the first lesson is, that a Woman must, through her WOMB,
focus her attention on an object. Not an object from the Dream itself,
but an independent one, one from the World prior to the Dream. Yet, it
isn't the object, that matters," she hastened to point out : "What's
important is the deliberate act of, focusing on it, at will, prior to
the Dream and while continuing the Dream." She warned me, that although
it sounded simple enough, it was a formidable task, that might take me
years to accomplish. "What normally happens is, that one awakens the
instant one focuses one's attention on the outside object," she said.
"What
does it mean to use the WOMB?" I interjected. "And how is it done?"
"You are a Woman," Esperanza said softly. "You know how to feel with
your WOMB." I wanted to contradict her, to explain, that I didn't know
anything. Before I could do so, however, she
went on to explain, that in a Woman, feelings originate in the WOMB. In Men," she claimed,
"feelings originate in the brain... a Woman is heartless,
except with her brood (children), because her feelings are coming from
her WOMB. In order to focus your
attention with your WOMB, get an object and put it
on your belly
or rub it on your genitalia." Esperanza
poked me in the stomach and added, "Think about it..." Esperanza
laughed uproariously at my look of dismay, then, in between fits of
laughter, chided me: "I wasn't
that bad. I could have said, that you
need to smear the object with your juices, but I didn't. Her tone
serious again, she continued, "Once you establish a deep familiarity
with the object, it will always be there to serve you, as a bridge."
We
walked in silence for a stretch, and Esperanza was seemingly deep in
thought. I
was
itching (restless desire, craving) to say something, yet knew, that I
didn't have anything to say. When
Esperanza finally spoke, her voice was stern, demanding. "There
is no more time for you to waste," she said: "It's very natural, that
in our stupidity we screw things up. Sorcerers know this better, than
anyone else. But Sorcerers also know, that there are no second chances.
You must learn control and discipline, because you have no more leeway
(margin of freedom and time) for mistakes. You screwed up, you know.
You didn't even know, that Isidore Baltazar had left."
My ethereal dike (barrier to prevent floods), that was holding the
avalanche of feelings, broke down. My memory
was restored and sadness overtook me. Sadness
became so intense, that I didn't even notice, I had sat and was sinking
into the
ground, as
if it were made out of sponge. Finally, the
ground swallowed me. It was not a
suffocating, claustrophobic experience, because the sensation of,
sitting on the surface,
coexisted simultaneously with the awareness of, being swallowed by the
Earth; a
dual
sensation, that made me yell, "I'm Dreaming now!" That loudly
spoken announcement triggered something within me. A new landslide of different
memories flooded in on top of me.
I knew, what was wrong with me: I had screwed up and had no Energy to
Dream.
280-281
Every night since my arrival, I
had Dreamt the same Dream, which I had forgotten about, until
that very moment.
I Dreamt, that all the Women-Sorcerers came to my room and drilled me
in the Sorcerers'
rationales (logic). They
told me, on and on,
that Dreaming is the Secondary Function of the WOMB - the primary being
reproduction and whatever is related to it. They told me, that
Dreaming is a natural function in Women; a pure corollary (natural
consequence or effect) of Energy. And given enough Energy,
the body of a Woman by itself will awake the WOMB'S secondary functions; and
the Woman will Dream inconceivable (unbelievable) Dreams. The Dreaming Energy
needed, however, is like an aid to an underdeveloped country: it never arrives. Something in the overall
order of our social structures prevents that Energy from being free, so Women can Dream. Were that Energy free, the
Women-Sorcerers told me, it would simply overthrow the 'civilized' order of
things.
But Women's Great Tragedy is, that their social conscience (feeling of
remorse/guilt, conformity to one's sense of right or wrong, in
fairness) completely dominates their individual conscience. Women fear being different
and don't want to stray too far from the comforts of the Known. The social
pressures, put upon them, not to deviate, are simply too overpowering.
And rather than change, Women acquiesce (accept without protest), to
what has been ordained (decree/law as a part of nature or Universe;
prearrange unalterably, predestine): 'Women exist to be at the service of men.' Thus, Women can never
Dream Sorcery Dreams, although they have the organic disposition (WOMB)
for it. Womanhood has destroyed
Women's chances. Whether it be tinted with a religious or a scientific slant (incline
direction), it still brands Women with the same seal: Women's main function is
to reproduce, and whether they have achieved a degree of political, social, or
economic equality is ultimately immaterial. The Women - Sorcerers told
me all this every night.
The more I remembered and
understood their words, the greater was my sorrow. My grief was no longer for
me alone, but for all of us; a Race of Schizoid Beings, trapped in a Social Order, that
has shackled us to our own incapacities. If we ever break free, it
is only momentarily; a short-lived clarity, before we plunge willingly or forced back
into the Darkness.
"Stop
this sentimental garbage," I heard a man's voice say. I looked up and
saw the
caretaker,
bending over, peering (look intently) at me.
"How
did you get here?" I asked. I was perplexed and a little flustered
(make nervous, confused, agitated): "You've been
following us?"
More than a question, it was accusation. "Yes, I've
been following you in particular," he leered (glance shyly or with
hostile intent) at me. I searched
his face. I didn't believe him.
I knew, he was poking (push, prod with a finger/arm, stick, stir, have
sex) at me, yet I was neither annoyed, nor frightened by the intense
glint in
his eyes.
"Where
is Esperanza?" I asked. She was nowhere in sight. "Where did she...?" I
stammered nervously, unable to get the words out.
"She's
around," he said, smiling: "Don't worry. I'm also your teacher. You are
in good hands." Hesitantly, I put my hand in his. Effortlessly, he
pulled me up to a flat boulder, overlooking a large, oval-shaped pool
of water. The pool was fed by a murmuring stream, trickling from
somewhere in the darkness. "And now, take off your clothes," he said.
"It's time for your cosmic bath!"
"My
what?" Certain, that he was joking, I began to laugh. But he was serious. He tapped me repeatedly on
the arm, just like Esperanza did, and urged me to take off my clothes. Before I knew, what he was
doing, he had already untied the laces on my sneakers.
"We don't have all
that much time," he admonished (warned), then pressed me to get on with
it.
The look, he gave me, was cold, clinical, impersonal: I might have been
the toad,
Esperanza had claimed, was jumping around. The sheer idea of getting
into that dark, cold water, infested, no doubt, with all sorts of slimy creatures, was
appalling (frightful, horrifying, very bad, terrible) to me.
Eager to put an end to that preposterous (contrary to common sense)
situation, I sidled (move in a nervous, furtive manner, sideways) down
the boulder and stuck my
toes into the water.
"I don't feel a
thing!" I cried out, shrinking (constrict from heat, moisture, cold;
contract, recoil) back in horror. "What's going on? This is not water!"
"Don't be
childish," the caretaker scolded me. "Of course it's water. You just
don't feel it,
that's all."
282-283
I
opened my mouth to let out an imprecation (curse), but controlled
myself in time. My horror
had vanished. "Why don't
I feel the
water?" I asked, trying hard to gain time. I knew, that stalling
(bring to a standstill) for time was a useless affair, because I had no
doubt, that I was going
to end up in the water,
whether I felt the water or not. However, I had no intention of giving in gracefully. "Is this waterless water
some kind of a purification liquid?" I asked. After a long silence,
charged with menacing possibilities, he said, that I might call it a purification liquid. He emphasized:
"However, I should warn you, that there isn't a ritual capable of
purifying
anyone.
Purification has to come from within. It's a private and lonely
struggle."
"Then why do you
want me to get into this water, which is slimy, even if I don't feel
it?" I
said with all the force, I could invoke (call for help).
His lips twitched (jerk), as if he were about to laugh, but seemingly
reluctant to give in, his face grew grave again, and he
said, "I'm going to dive into that pool with you." And without any further
hesitation he completely undressed. He stood in front of me,
barely five feet away, stark (blunt) naked. In that strange light,
that was neither day, nor night, I could see with utter clarity every inch of his body. He didn't make bashful
attempts to cover his nakedness. Quite the opposite; he
seemed to be more, than proud of his maleness and paraded it in front of me with defiant
(challenging) insolence (presumtious, insulting, arrogant in manner,
audaciously impudent). "Hurry
up and take off your
clothes," he urged me. "We don't have much time."
"I'm not going to
do that. It's insane!" I protested.
"You are going to
do that.
It's a decision, you'll make all by yourself." He spoke without vehemence
(passion, emotion), without anger, yet with quiet determination. "Tonight, in this strange
World, you will know, that there is only one way to behave: the Sorcerers' Way." He stared at me with a
curious mixture of compassion (pity, inclination to give support) and
amusement.
With a grin, that was meant to reassure me, but didn't, the caretaker
said, that jumping into
the pool would jolt me.
It would shift something within me. "This shift will serve you, at a
later time, to
understand, what we are and what we do." A fleeting smile lit up
his face, as
he hastened to point out, that jumping into the water, would not give me the
Energy to Dream-Awake on my own. He warned me, that it
would certainly take a long time to save and hone (sharpen, give an
edge to) my Energy, and
that I might never
succeed. "There
are no guarantees in the Sorcerers' World," he said.
Then he conceded (admit, acknowledge), that jumping into the pool might
shift my attention away from my everyday concerns: the
concerns, expected of a Woman of my age; of my time. "Is this a sacred pool?" I
asked. His
brows shot up in obvious surprise.
"It's a Sorcerers' Pool," he explained, gazing at me steadily. He must have seen, that my
decision had been made, for he unfastened the watch around my wrist.
"The pool is
neither holy, nor evil."
He shrugged his thin
shoulders and fastened my watch around his own wrist. "Now look at your watch,"
he ordered me.
"It's been yours for many years. Feel it on my wrist." He chuckled, as he started
to say something and decided against it. "Well, go on, take off your clothes."
"I think, I'll just
wade (walk through water) in with my clothes on," I mumbled. Although I wasn't prudish
(excessive regard for morality), I somehow resisted the idea of
standing naked in front of him. He pointed out, that I
would need dry clothes, when I got out of the water.
"I don't want
you to catch pneumonia."
A wicked smile dawned
(emerge) in his eyes. "This is real water, even though you don't feel
it," he
said.
Reluctantly, I took off my jeans and shirt. "Your panties too," he
said. I
walked around the grassy edge of the pool, wondering whether I should
just dive in and
get it over with or whether
I should get wet little by little, cupping water in my hands, letting it trickle down my
legs, my arms, my stomach, and, last, over my heart, as I remembered, old Women
doing in Venezuela, before wading into the sea.
284-285
"Here I go!" I cried out,
but instead of jumping in, I turned to look at the caretaker. His immobility frightened
me. He
seemed to have turned into stone, so still and erect did he sit on the
boulder.
Only his eyes seemed to have life. They shone in a curiously compelling
(force, constrain) way, without any source of light to
account for it. It
astounded more, than saddened me, to see tears trickling down his
cheeks.
Without knowing why, I, too, began to weep, silently. His tears made their way
down, I thought, into my watch on his wrist. I felt the eerie weight of
his conviction (act of proving guilty), and suddenly my fear and my
indecision were
gone, and
I dove into the pool. The
water was not slimy,
but transparent like silk; and green. I wasn't cold. As the
caretaker had claimed, I didn't feel the water. In fact, I didn't feel
anything: it was, as if I were a disembodied Awareness, swimming in the center of a pool of
water, that did feel liquid, but not wet. I noticed, that light
emanated from the depths of the water. I jumped up like a fish to
gather impetus (stimulus, impulse, impelling force), then dove in
search of the light. I
came up for air.
"How deep is this pool?"
"As deep, as the
center of the Earth." Esperanza's voice was clear and loud; it carried
such
certainty, that, just to be myself, I wanted to contradict her. But there was something
uneasy in the air, that stopped me; some unnatural stillness, some tension, that was
suddenly broken by a crisp, rustling sound all around us; a sort of warning whisper; a
rushing, ominous warning, that something was odd. Standing on the exact same
spot, where the caretaker had stood, was Esperanza. She was stark (blunt) naked. "Where is the caretaker?"
I shouted in a panic-stricken voice.
"I am the
caretaker," she said.
Convinced, that those two
were playing some horrendous trick on me, I propelled myself, with one great sidestroke,
toward the overhanging boulder, Esperanza was standing on.
"What's going on?"
I demanded to know in a voice, that was but a whisper, for I could hardly breathe. Gesturing for me to remain
still, she moved toward me with that boneless, uncoiling movement, so
characteristic of her.
She craned her neck to
look at me, then stepped closer and showed me my watch strapped around her wrist.
"I am the
caretaker," she repeated.
I nodded automatically.
But then, right there in
front of me, instead of Esperanza, was the caretaker, naked as he had been
before, pointing at my watch on his wrist. I didn't look at the
watch. All my attention was focused on his sexual organs. I reached out to touch him,
to see, if perhaps, he was a hermaphrodite. He wasn't. With my hand still
probing, I felt, more than saw, his body fold into itself, and I was touching a woman's vagina. I parted the lips to make
sure the penis was not hidden somewhere in there.
"Esperanza..." My voice faded, as something clamped around my neck. I was conscious of the
water parting, as something pulled me into the depths of the pool.
I felt cold. It wasn't a physical coldness, but rather the Awareness of
the absence of
warmth, of light, of sound; the absence of any human feeling in that
World, where that
pool existed. I
awoke to the faint sound of snoring: Zuleica was sleeping beside me on
a straw mat, laid
on the ground. She looked as beautiful, as ever, young and strong,
yet vulnerable (suffering from emotional insecurity) - unlike the other Women-Sorcerers
- in spite of the harmony and power she exuded (emitting, make felt). I watched her for a
moment, then sat up, as all the events of the night came flooding into my mind. I wanted to shake
her awake and demand, that she tell me, what had happened, when I noticed, that we
were not by the pool up in the hills, but in the exact same
spot, where
we had been sitting earlier, by the front door of the real witches'
house.
Wondering, whether it had all been a Dream, I gently shook her by the
shoulder.
"Ah, you finally
woke up," she murmured sleepily.
"What happened?" I
asked. "You have to tell me everything."
"Everything?" she
repeated, yawning noisily.
"Everything, that
happened at the pool," I snapped impatiently. Again she yawned, and then
she giggled. Studying my watch, which was on her wrist, she said, that something
in me had shifted more, than she had anticipated.
"The Sorcerers'
World has a natural barrier, that dissuades (discourage, deter) timid
Souls," she explained. "Sorcerers need tremendous strength to
handle it.
You see, it's populated by monsters, flying dragons, and demonic Beings, which, of
course, are nothing, but impersonal Energy. We, driven by our fears, make that
impersonal Energy into hellish creatures."
286
"But what about Esperanza and the caretaker?" I interrupted her. "I
Dreamt, that both were really you."
"They
are," she said, as if it were the most natural thing in the World.
"I've just told you. You shifted deeper, than I anticipated and entered
into, what Dreamers call, Dreaming in Worlds other, than this World.
You
and I were Dreaming in a different World. That's why, you didn't feel
the water. That's the World, where the Nagual Elias found all his
inventions. In that World, I can be either a man or a woman. And just
like the Nagual Elias brought his inventions to this World, I bring
either Esperanza or the caretaker. Or rather, my impersonal Energy does
that."
I
couldn't put my thoughts or feelings into words. An incredible urge to
run away, screaming, took hold of me, but I couldn't put it into
action. My motor control was no longer a volitional matter with me.
Trying to rise and scream, I collapsed on the ground. Zuleica wasn't in
the least concerned or moved by my condition. She went on talking, as
if
she hadn't seen my knees give, as if I weren't lying sprawled (spread
out in a straggling/disordered position) on the ground like a
rag
doll. "You're
a good Dreamer. After all, you've been Dreaming with monsters all your
life.
Now it's time, you acquired the Energy to Dream like Sorcerers do,
to Dream about impersonal Energy." I
wanted to interrupt her, to tell her, that there was nothing impersonal
about my Dream of Esperanza and the caretaker; that, in fact, it was
worse, than the monsters of my nightmares, but I couldn't speak. "Tonight,
your watch brought you back from the deepest Dream, you have ever had,"
Zuleica continued, indifferent to the weird sounds, emerging from my
throat. "And you even have a rock to prove it."
She came, to where I lay open-mouthed, staring at her. She felt in my
pocket. She was right. There it was; the rock, I had picked from the
pile of stones.
Chapter 19
287
A loud, shattering noise woke me. I sat up in
my hammock, peering into the darkness, and saw, that the wooden panels, covering the
windows, were down. A cold,
sucking wind swirled up around me. Leaves rustled across the patio
outside my
room. The
rustling
grew, then abruptly faded to a gentle swishing sound. A dim
brightness seeped into the room. Like mist, it clung to the bare walls.
"Nagual!"
I cried out.
For a moment, as if I were conjuring (cause/effect by magic, summon,
call upon, practise magic) him up, Isidore Baltazar stood at the foot
of my
hammock. He
looked
real, yet there was something undefined about him like an image, seen in water. I cleared my
throat to speak, but only a faint croak escaped my lips, as the image dissolved in
the mist.
Then the
mist moved, restless and abrupt like the wind outside. Too tense to
sleep, I sat wrapped in my blanket, pondering whether I had done the
right thing
to
come to the witches' house, looking for the Nagual Isidore Baltazar: I
had not
known
anywhere else to go. I had
patiently waited for three months, then my anxiety had become so acute,
that it
finally
prompted me to act. One morning
- seven days ago - I had driven nonstop to the witches' house. And there
had been no question in my mind then, about whether I had proceeded correctly -
not even after I had to climb over the wall at the back of the house
and let
myself in
through an unlocked window. However,
after seven days of waiting, my certainty had begun to falter
(hesitate).
288-289
I jumped out of my hammock onto the tiled floor, landing hard on the
heels of my bare feet.
Shaking myself that way had always helped me dispel (dispense with, rid
by scattering) my uncertainties. It didn't
work this time, and I lay down again in my hammock. If there is,
one thing I should have learned in the three years, I had spent in the
Sorcerers'
World, it
is, that Sorcerers' decisions are final; and my decision had been to
live and die in the
Sorcerers' World. Now it was
time for me to prove it. An unearthly
sounding laughter startled me out of my reveries. Eerily it
reverberated throughout the house, then all was silent again. I waited
tensely, but there was no other sound, except that of dry leaves, being
pushed by
the wind on
the patio. The leaves sounded like a faint, raspy whisper. Listening to
that sound not only lulled me to sleep, but pulled me into the same
Dream, I
had been
Dreaming for the past seven nights. I am
standing in the Sonoran desert. It is noon.
The Sun, a silvery disk, so brilliant, as to be almost invisible, has
come to a halt in the middle of
the sky.
There is not
a single sound, not a movement around. The tall
saguaros, with their prickly arms, reaching toward that immobile Sun,
stand like
sentries
(guard, usually a soldier, watch), guarding the silence and the
stillness.
The wind, as if it has followed me through the Dream, begins to blow
with tremendous force. It whistles
between the branches of the mesquite trees and shakes them with
systematic
fury. Red
dust
devils well up in powdery swirls all around me. A flock of
crows scatter like dots through the air, then fall to the ground a bit
farther
away,
softly, like bits of black veil. As abruptly,
as it has begun, the wind dies down. I head
toward the hills in the distance. It seems, I
walk for hours, before
I see a huge, dark shadow on the ground. I look up. A
gigantic bird hangs in the air with outstretched wings, motionless, as
though it
were
nailed to the sky. It is only
when I gaze again at its dark shadow on the ground, that I know, that
the bird is
moving.
Slowly, imperceptibly, its shadow glides ahead of me. Driven by
some inexplicable urge, I try to catch up with the shadow; but
regardless of
how fast I
run, the shadow moves farther and farther away from me. Dizzy with
exhaustion,
I stumble over my own feet and fall flat on the ground. As I rise to
dust off my clothes, I discover the bird perched on a nearby boulder. Its head is
slightly turned toward me, as though beckoning me. Cautiously,
I approach it.
It is enormous and tawny (light-brown or brownish-orange), with
feathers, that glisten like burnished (polish, smooth) copper.
Its
amber-colored
eyes are
hard and implacable (non placable, intolerant, not easily calmed of
pacified) and as final, as death itself. I step back,
as the bird opens its wide wings and takes off. It flies
high up, until it is only a dot in the sky. Yet its
shadow on the ground is a straight dark line, that stretches into
infinity and holds together the
desert and the sky. Confident,
that if I summon the wind, I will catch up with the bird, I invoke an
incantation. But there is
no force; no power in my chant. My voice breaks into a thousand
whispers, that are
quickly absorbed by the silence. The desert
regains its eerie calm. It begins to
crumble at the edges, then slowly fades all around me...Gradually I
became conscious of my body lying in the hammock. I discerned
(perceive, detect, see), through a shifting haze, the book-lined walls
of the room.
Then I was
fully awake, as the realization hit me, as it had hit me every time
during the
past week,
that this had not been an ordinary Dream; and that I knew, what it
meant. The
Nagual
Mariano Aureliano had once told me, that Sorcerers,
when they talk among
themselves, speak of Sorcery, as a bird. They call it the Bird of
Freedom. They
say, that the Bird of Freedom only flies in a straight line and never
comes around twice. They also say, that it is the Nagual, who lures the
Bird of Freedom. It is he, who entices (lure) the Bird to shed its
shadow on the Warrior's Path. Without that shadow, there is no
direction. The meaning of my Dream was, that I had lost the Bird of
Freedom. I had lost the Nagual and, without him, all hope and purpose.
290-291
What weighed, the most on my heart, was, that the Bird of Freedom -
flew away so fast, it didn't give me time
to thank them properly, didn't give me time to express my endless admiration. I had
assured the Sorcerers all along, that I never took their World or their
persons for
granted, but
I did; in particular Isidore Baltazar's.
He surely was going to be with me forever, I thought. Suddenly,
they were gone, all of them, like puffs of air, like shooting stars;
and they took
Isidore
Baltazar with them. I had sat for
weeks on end in my room, asking myself the same question. How can it be possible,
that they vanished like that? A
meaningless, superfluous (unnecessary) question, considering,
what I had experienced and witnessed in their
World. All,
it
revealed, was my true nature: meek (submissive) and doubting.
For
the Sorcerers had told me for years, that their ultimate purpose was to
burn; to
disappear, swallowed by the Force of Awareness. The old Nagual and his
party of Sorcerers were ready, but I didn't know it.
They had been preparing themselves nearly all their lives for the
ultimate audacity (fearsly daring, bold, brave; lacking restrain, tact;
arrogantly insolent, reckless): to Dream-Awake, that they sneak past
death - as we ordinarily know death to be - and cross over into the
Unknown; enhancing and without breaking the unity of their total Energy. My
regret was most intense upon recalling, how my usual doubting Self
would emerge,
when I least
expected it. It was not,
that I didn't believe their stupendous, otherworldly, yet so practical
aim and
purpose.
Rather, I
would explain them away; integrate them; make them fit into the Everyday World of
common sense - not quite, perhaps, but certainly, coexisting with, what
was
normal and familiar to me.
The Sorcerers certainly tried to prepare me to witness their definitive
(explicit, conclusive, decisive, determining finally) journey; that they would one
day vanish, was something
I was almost aware of. But nothing
could have prepared me for the anguish (extreme mental pain, torture)
and despair, that followed. I sank into
a well of sadness, from which, I knew, I would never come out. That part
was for me alone to deal with. Afraid, I
would only give in to more despair, if I stayed a moment longer in my
hammock, I
got up and
made breakfast. Or rather, I
warmed up last night's leftovers: tortillas, rice, and beans - my
standard meal
of the last
seven days, except, that for lunch I would add a can of Norwegian
sardines. I
had found
the sardines at a grocery store in the nearest town. I had bought all
the cans,
they had.
The beans
were also canned. I washed the
dishes and mopped the floor. Then, with
broom in hand, I went from room to room looking for some new dirt, a
spider web
in some
forgotten corner. From the day
I had arrived, I had done nothing else, but scrub floors, wash windows
and
walls, sweep patios and corridors. Cleaning
tasks had always distracted me from my problems; had always given me
solace. Not
this
time.
Regardless
of how eagerly I went about my chores, I couldn't still the anguish;
the aching
void (empty
space) within me. A quick
rustling of leaves interrupted my cleaning chores. I went
outside to look. There was a
strong wind blowing through the trees. Its force startled me. I was ready
to close the windows, when the wind abruptly died out. A profound
melancholy settled over the yard, over the bushes and trees, over the
flower and
vegetable patches. Even the bright purple bougainvillea, hanging over
the wall, added to the
sadness.
I walked over to the Spanish colonial-motif fountain, built in the
middle of the yard, and knelt on the
wide stone ledge.
Absent-mindedly, I picked out the leaves and the
blossoms, that had fallen in the water. Then,
bending over, I searched for my image on the smooth surface. Next to my
face appeared the very beautiful, stark (blunt), and angular face of
Florinda.
Dumbfounded,
I watched her reflection, mesmerized by her large, dark, luminous eyes, which
contrasted dazzlingly with her braided white hair. Slowly, she
smiled. I smiled back. "I didn't
hear you come," I whispered, afraid, that her image might vanish;
afraid, that she might be
only a Dream.
She let her
hand rest on my shoulder, then sat beside me on the stone ledge.
"I'm
going to be with you only for a moment," she said. "I'll come back
later, though." I turned
around and poured out all the anguish and despair, that had accumulated
in me.
Florinda
stared at me.
Her face
reflected an immeasurable sadness. There were
sudden tears in her eyes; tears, that were gone as fast, as they had
come.
292-293
Where
is Isidoro Baltazar?" I asked her. I averted
(turn away) my face and gave free rein (release from restrain) to my
pent-up (repressed) tears. It wasn't
self-pity or even sorrow, that made me weep, but a deep sense of
failure; of guilt and loss. It
was drowning me.
Florinda had certainly warned me in the past about such feelings. "Tears are
meaningless for Sorcerers," she said in her deep, husky voice: "When you
joined the Sorcerers' World, you were made to understand, that the
designs of
fate, no
matter what they are, are merely challenges, that a Sorcerer must face
without
resentment
or self-pity." She paused
for a moment, then in her familiar, relentless manner she repeated,
what she
had said to
me on previous occasions.
"Isidoro Baltazar is no longer a Man, but a Nagual. He may have
accompanied the old Nagual; in which case he'll never return. But then,
he
may not have."
"But
why did he..." My voice died away before I had asked the question.
"I
really don't know at this time," Florinda said, raising her hand to
forestall (prevent) my protest: "It is your
challenge to rise above this; and, as you know, challenges are
not discussed or resented. Challenges
are actively met. Sorcerers
either succeed, in meeting their challenges, or they fail at it. And it
doesn't really matter which, as long, as they are in command." Irked
(irritate,
annoy) by the prosaicness (ordinary, lacking in spirit) of her feelings
and attitudes, I said resentfully: "How do you expect me to
be in command, when the sadness is killing me? Isidoro Baltazar is gone forever."
She
retorted sternly, "Why don't you heed (listen to) my suggestion; and
behave impeccably, regardless
of your feelings?"
Her
temper was as quick, as her brilliant smile. "How can I possibly do
that? I know, that if the Nagual is gone, the game is over."
"You
don't need the Nagual
to be an impeccable Sorceress," she remarked: "Your impeccability should
lead you to him, even if he's no longer in the World. To
live impeccably within your circumstances is your challenge. Whether
you see Isidore Baltazar tomorrow, in a year, or at the end of your
life should make no difference
to you." Florinda
turned her back to me. She was
silent for a long time. When she
faced me again, her face was calm and oddly bland, like a mask, as
though
she
were making a great effort to control her emotions. There was something
so sad about her eyes, it
made me forget my own anguish (mental torment).
"Let
me tell you a story, young Woman," she said in an unusually harsh
voice, as if her tone was meant to cancel the pain in her eyes: "I
didn't go with the Nagual Mariano Aureliano and his party;
and
neither did Zuleica. Do you know why?"
Numb with
anticipation and fear, I stared at her, open-mouthed.
"No, Florinda. I
don't," I finally managed to say. Her voice now low and soft, she said:
"We are here, because we don't belong to that party of Sorcercers.
We do, but then we don't really. Our feelings are with another Nagual,
the Nagual Julian, our teacher. The Nagual Mariano Aureliano
is
our cohort, and the Nagual Isidore Baltazar, our pupil. Like yourself,
we've been left behind. You, because you were not ready to go with
them. We, because we need more Energy to take a Greater Jump; and join
perhaps another Band of Warriors; a much older Band. The Nagual
Julian's." I
could feel Florinda's aloneness and solitude (isolation) like a fine
mist, settling all around me. I barely dared
to breathe, lest she stop talking. At
great length she told me about her teacher, the Nagual Julian; famous
by all accounts.
Her descriptions of him were compressed, yet so evocative (having power
to: summon, call forth, reawaken), I could see him before my very eyes:
the most dashing Being, that ever lived.
Funny, sharp-witted, and fast-thinking; an incorrigible (not
correctable or reformed, firmly rooted) prankster (one, who plays
tricks of pranks). A storyteller.
A magician, who handled perception, as a master baker handles dough,
kneading (mix a dough into uniform mass, squize, press, roll with
hands) it into any shape or form without ever losing sight of it. To be
with the Nagual Julian, Florinda assured me, was something
unforgettable. She confessed, that she loved him beyond words, beyond
feelings. And so did Zuleica. Florinda was
silent for a long time, her gaze fixed on the distant mountains, as if
drawing
strength
from those sharp-edged peaks. When she
spoke again, her voice was a barely audible whisper.
294-295
"The
World of Sorcerers is
a World of Solitariness (single, alone), yet in it, Love is forever.
Like my Love for the Nagual Julian. We move in the World of Sorcerers
all by ourselves, accounting only for our acts, our feelings, and our
impeccability." She nodded, as if to underline her words: "I've no
longer any feelings. Whatever
I had, went away with the Nagual Julian.
All, I have left, is my sense of will, of duty, and of purpose. Perhaps
you and I are in the same boat." She said this so smoothly, that it
passed, before I realized, what she had said. I stared at her, and as
always, I was dazzled by her splendid beauty and
youthfulness, which the years had left bewitchingly
(captivate, fascinate) intact.
"Not
me, Florinda," I finally said: "You had the
Nagual Isidore Baltazar and me and all the other disciples, I've heard
about. I
have
nothing. I don't even have my old World." There was no
self-pity in me, only a devastating knowledge, that my life, as I had
known it
until
now, had ended. I said, "The
Nagual Isidore Baltazar is mine, by right of my Power. I'll wait,
dutifully, a
bit longer,
but if he's not here in this World anymore, neither am I. I know, what
to do!" My
voice
trailed off (lagged behind), as I realized, that Florinda was no
longer, listening to me. She was
absorbed, in watching a small crow, making its way toward us along the
fountain
ledge.
"That's Dionysus," I said, reaching into my pocket for his pieces of
tortilla. I
had none
with me. I
looked up
at the marvelously clear sky. I had been
so engrossed in my sadness, I hadn't noticed, that it was already past
noon, the
time this
little crow usually came for its food. Florinda
said:
"That fellow is quite upset."
She laughed at the bird's outraged caws (hoarse, raucous, rough, harsh
crow's sound), then looked me in the eye and said, "You and the crow are
quite alike. You get easily upset; and you're both quite loud about it." I could
barely contain myself from blurting out, that the same could be said
about her.
Florinda
chuckled, as though she knew the effort, I was making not to weep. The crow had
perched on my empty hand and stared at me sidelong with its shiny, pebblelike
eyes. The
bird
opened its wings, but didn't fly away. Its black feathers sparkled blue
in the Sun.
I calmly
told Florinda, that the pressures of the Sorcerers' World were
unbearable. "Nonsense!"
she chided (scold, reprimand), as if she were talking to a spoiled
child:
"Look, we
scared Dionysus away." Enraptured, Florinda watched the crow circle
over our
heads; then
she fixed her attention back on me. I averted
(turn away) my face. I didn't
know why, for there was nothing unkind in the gaze of those shiny, dark
eyes.
Florinda's
eyes were calm and utterly indifferent, as she said: "If you
can't catch up with
Isidore Baltazar, then I and the rest of the Sorcerers, who taught you,
would have failed to impress you. We would have failed to challenge
you. It's not a final loss for us, but it certainly will be a final
loss for you." Seeing, that I was about to weep again, she challenged
me, "Where is your Impeccable Purpose? What happened to all the things,
you've learned with us?"
"What
if I never catch up with Isidore Baltazar?" I asked tearfully.
"Can
you go on living in the Sorcerers' World, if you don't make an effort
to find out?" she asked sharply.
"This
is a time, when I need kindness," I mumbled, closing my eyes to prevent
my tears
from
spilling. "I need my mother. If I could only go to her."
I was
surprised at my own words, yet I really meant them. Unable to
hold back my tears any longer, I began to weep. Florinda
laughed: she wasn't mocking me. There was a
note of kindness, of sympathy in her laughter. "You're so
far away from your mother," she said softly, with a pensive, distant
look in her
eyes,
"that you'll never find her again." Her voice
was but a soft whisper, as she went on to say, that the
Sorcerers' life builds
impassable barriers around us. Sorcerers, she reminded me, don't find
solace (comfort in distress) in the sympathy of others or in self-pity.
"You
think, that all my torment is caused by self-pity, don't you, Florinda?"
"No.
Not just self-pity, but morbidity (gruesome, melancholic), too." She put her
arms around my shoulders and hugged me, as if I were a small child. "Most Women
are damn morbid, you know," she murmured. "You and I are among them." I didn't
agree with her, yet I had no desire to contradict her. I was far
too happy with her arms around me. In spite of
my somber (gloomy) mood, I had to smile.
296-297
Florinda, like all the other Women in the Sorcerers'
World, lacked the facility to express maternal feelings. And, although
I liked to
kiss and hug
the people, I loved,
I couldn't bear to be in someone's arms for more, than an instant.
Florinda's embrace was not as warm and soothing, as my mother's, but it
was all, I
could hope
to get.
Then she
went into the house. I came
suddenly awake. For a moment
I simply lay there - on the ground at the foot of the fountain - trying
to
remember something, Florinda had said, before I fell asleep in the
leaf-spotted sunlight. I had
obviously slept for hours. Although the sky was still bright, the
evening shadows had already
stolen into the yard. I was about
to look for Florinda in the house, when an unearthly sounding laughter
echoed
across the
yard. It was the same laughter I had heard during the night. I waited and
listened.
The silence
around me was unsettling. Nothing chirped; nothing hummed; nothing moved. Yet, still
as it was,
I could sense noiseless footsteps, silent as shadows, behind me. I wheeled
around. At the far edge of the yard, almost concealed by the blooming
bougainvillea,
I saw somebody sitting on a wooden bench. Her back was turned to me, but I
immediately recognized her.
"Zuleica?"
I whispered uncertainly, afraid that the sound of my voice might scare
her
away.
"How happy I am to see you again," she said, beckoning me to sit beside
her.
Her deep, clear voice, vibrant with the briskness of the desert air,
didn't seem to come from her
body, but from far away. I wanted to
embrace her, but I knew better. Zuleica never liked to be touched (because usually she was in
her Energy Body! LM), so I just sat beside her
and told her, that I, too, was happy to see her again. To my utter
surprise, she clasped my hand in hers; a small, delicate hand. Her pale,
copperish-pink, beautiful face was oddly blank. All the life was
concentrated in her
incredible eyes: neither black, nor brown, but strangely in between;
and oddly clear. She fixed
her eyes on me in a prolonged stare.
"When did you get here?" I asked.
"Just
this moment," Zuleica replied, her lips curling into an angelic smile.
"How
did you get here? Did Florinda come with you?"
"Oh,
you know," Zuleica said vaguely, "Women-Sorcerers come and go
unnoticed: "Nobody pays attention to a Woman, especially, if she's old.
Now, a beautiful young Woman, on the other hand, attracts everybody's
attention. That's why Women-Sorcerers should always be disguised, if
they are handsome. If they are averagely homely, they have nothing to
worry about."
Zuleica's
sudden light tap on my shoulder jolted me. She clasped
my hand again, as though to dispel my doubts, then gazed at me calmly
and
keenly (penetrating, sharp, strong, piercing) and said: "To be in the Sorcerers'
World one has to Dream superbly." She looked
away. An
almost
full moon hung over the distant mountains. "Most
people don't have the wits (natural ability to perceive or know,
ingenuity, resourcefulness), nor the size of Spirit to Dream. They cannot help, but see
the World, as ordinary and repetitious. And do you know why?" she asked, fixing me with
her keen gaze:
"Because, if you don't fight to avoid it, the World is indeed ordinary
and repetitious.
Most people are so involved with themselves, that they have become
idiotic.
Idiots have no desire to fight to avoid ordinariness and
repetitiousness." Zuleica
rose from the bench and put on her sandals. She tied her shawl around
her waist, so her long skirt wouldn't drag, and walked to the middle of the patio. I knew, what she was going
to do, before she even started. She was going to spin. She
was
going to perform a dance, in order to gather Cosmic Energy.
Women-Sorcerers believe, that by moving their bodies,
they can get the strength, necessary to Dream. With a barely perceptible
gesture of her chin, she motioned me to follow her and imitate her movements. She glided on the dark
brown Mexican tiles and brown bricks, that had been laid out in an ancient Toltec pattern by
Isidore Baltazar himself, a Sorceric design, binding generations of Sorcerers and Dreamers
throughout the ages in webs of secrets and feats of Power - a
design, into which he had put himself, around and inside it, with all
his strength, all his Intent, willing myth and Dream into Reality
(World).
298-299
Zuleica
moved with the certainty and agility of a young dancer. Her
movements were simple, yet they required so much speed, balance and
concentration, that
they left me exhausted. With uncanny
agility and swiftness, she spun around, away from me.
For an instant she vacillated (hesitate, sway from one side to another)
amidst the shadows of the trees, as though to make sure I was
following her. Then she
headed toward the recessed, arched doorway, built into the wall,
encircling the grounds
behind the house. She
paused momentarily by the two citrus trees, growing outside
the walls; the ones, that stood like
two sentries (soldiers) on either side of the path, leading to the
small house across the chaparral. Afraid of
losing sight of her, I dashed along the narrow, dark trail. Then,
curious and eager,
I followed her inside the house, all the way to the back room. Instead of
turning on the light, she reached for an oil lamp, hanging from one of
the
rafters (sloping beam, supporting pitched roof). She lit it.
The lamp cast a flickering glow all around us, but left the
corners of the room in shadows. Kneeling in
front of the only piece of furniture in the room; a wooden chest,
sitting under
the window,
she pulled out a mat and a blanket. "Lie down, on
your stomach," she said softly, spreading the mat on the tiled floor. I heaved
(breathe) a deep sigh and gave in to a pleasant sense of helplessness,
as I lay, face down, on the mat. A feeling of
peace and well-being spread through my body. I felt her
hands on my back. She wasn't massaging me, but tapping my back lightly. Although I
had often been in the small house, I still didn't know, how many rooms
it had or
how it
was furnished. Florinda had
once told me, that that house was the center of their adventure.
It
was there, she said, where the old Nagual and his Sorcerers wove their
magic web.
Like a spider's web, invisible and resilient, it held them, when they
plunged into the Unknown, into the Darkness and the Light, as Sorcerers
do routinely. She had also said, that the house was a
symbol. The
Sorcerers of her group didn't have to be in the house or even in its
vicinity, when they plunged into the Unknown through Dreaming.
Everywhere they went, they carried the feeling; the mood of the house
in their hearts. And that feeling and mood, whatever they were for each
of them, gave them the strength to face the Everyday World with wonder
and delight.
Zuleica's sharp tap on my shoulder startled me. "Turn on your back,"
she commanded. I did so. Her face, as
she bent down, was radiant with Energy and purpose.
"Myths
are Dreams of extraordinary Dreamers," she said: "You need a great deal
of courage and concentration, in order to maintain them. And above all,
you need a great deal of imagination. You are living a myth, a myth,
that has been handed down to you for safekeeping." She spoke in a tone,
that was almost reverent (feeling of profound awe). "You cannot be the
recipient of this myth, unless you are irreproachable
(perfect).
If you are not, the myth will simply move away from you."
I
opened my mouth to speak, to say, that I understood all that, but I saw
the hardness in her eyes. She was not
there to have a dialogue with me. The
repetitive sound of branches, brushing against the wall outside, died
out and turned into a
throb (vibrate, pulsate, pound, beat violently) in the air; a
pulsating sound, that I felt, rather than heard. I was on the
verge (just about) of falling asleep, when Zuleica said, that I should
follow the commands of the
repetitive Dream, I had had.
"How
did you know I've been having that Dream?" I asked, alarmed, trying to
sit up.
"Don't
you remember, that we share one another's Dreams?" she whispered,
pushing me
back onto
the mat:
"I'm the
one, who brings you Dreams."
"It
was just a dream, Zuleica." My voice trembled, because I was seized by
a desperate
desire to
weep. I
knew, it
wasn't just a dream, but I wanted her to lie to me. Shaking her
head, she looked at me. "No. It wasn't just a dream," she said quietly.
"It was a
Sorcerers'
Dream, a Vision."
"What
should I do?"
"Didn't
the Dream tell you, what to do?" she asked in a challenging tone.
"Didn't
Florinda?"
She watched
me with an inscrutable (inpenetrable, enigmatic) expression on her face. Then she
smiled, a shy, childlike smile. "You have to
understand, that you cannot run after Isidore Baltazar. He's no longer
in the
World.
There is
nothing you can give him or do for him anymore. You cannot
be attached to the Nagual as a person, but only, as a mythical Being." Her voice
was soft yet commanding, as she repeated, that I was living a myth.
300-301
"The
Sorcerers' World is a mythical World, separated from the Everyday One
by a mysterious barrier, made out of dreams and commitments. Only if
the Nagual is supported and upheld by his fellow Dreamers, can he lead
them into other viable (practicable, possible) Worlds, from which he
can entice (lure) the Bird of Freedom." Her
words faded in the shadows of the room, as she added, that the support Isidore
Baltazar needed, was Dreaming Energy, not worldly feelings and actions. After a
long silence, she spoke again. "You
have witnessed how the old Nagual, as well, as Isidore Baltazar, by
their mere presence, affect whoever is around them; be it their fellow
Sorcerers or just bystanders; making them aware, that the World is a
mystery, where nothing can be taken for granted under any
circumstances." I
nodded in agreement. For a long time I had been at a loss to
understand,
how Naguals could, by their mere presence, make such a difference.
After careful observation, comparing opinions with others, and endless
introspection (self-examination), I concluded, that their influence
stemmed from their renunciation (give up, reject, disown) of worldly
concerns.
In our Daily World,
we also have examples of Men and Women, who have left worldly
concerns behind. We call them mystics, saints, religious people.
But Naguals are neither mystics, nor saints and are certainly not
religious men. Naguals are worldly Men without a shred of worldly
concerns. At a
subliminal level, this contradiction has the most tremendous effect on
whoever is around them.
The minds of those, who
are around a Nagual, can't grasp, what is affecting them, yet they feel the impact in their
bodies, as a strange anxiety, an urge to break loose, or as a sense of inadequacy, as if
something transcendental is taking place somewhere else, and they can't get to it. But the Naguals' built-in
capacity to affect others, doesn't only depend on their lack of worldly concerns or on the
force of their personalities; but rather on the force of their unreproachful (not
criticizing) behavior.
Naguals are unreproachful
in their actions and feelings;
regardless of the ambushes (hidden trap, suprise attack) - worldly or
otherworldly- placed on their interminable (continual, endless) path.
It isn't, that Naguals follow a prescribed pattern of rules and
regulations, in order to have unreproachful behavior,
for there are no rules and regulations. Rather,
they use their imaginations for adopting or adapting to, whatever it
takes to make
their actions fluid. For
their deeds, Naguals,
unlike average men, don't seek approval, respect, praise, or any kind of acknowledgment
from anyone, including their fellow Sorcerers. All they seek is their own
sense of flawlessness; of innocence, of integrity (honesty). It is this, that makes a
Nagual's company addictive.
Others become dependent on
his freedom, as one would to a drug.
To a Nagual, the World is always brand new. In his company, one begins
to look at the World, as if it had never happened before.
"That's because
Naguals have broken the mirror of self-reflection," Zuleica said, as if
she
had followed my train of thoughts. "Naguals are able to see
themselves in the mirror of fog, which reflects only the Unknown. It is a mirror, that no
longer reflects our normal humanity, expressed in repetition; but reveals the face of
Infinity.
Sorcerers
believe, that when the face of Self-reflection and the face of Infinity
merge, a Nagual is totally ready to break the boundaries of reality and
disappear, as though he wasn't made of solid matter. Isidore Baltazar
had been ready for a long time."
"He
can't leave me behind !" I cried out. "That would be too unfair."
"It's
downright foolish to think in terms of fairness and unfairness,"
Zuleica said: "In the Sorcerers' World, there is only Power. Didn't
every one of us teach you that?"
"There
are many things I learned," I conceded (admit, acknowledge) gloomily.
After a few moments, I mumbled under my breath, "But they are not worth
anything at the moment."
"They
are worth the most now," she contradicted me: "If you have learned one
thing, it's, that at the bleakest (harsh) moments Warriors rally
(gather, assemble) their Power to carry on. A Warrior doesn't succumb
(give in, give up) to despair."
"Nothing,
of what I've learned and experienced, can alleviate my sadness and
despair," I said softly: "I've even tried the spiritual chants, I
learned from my nanny, and Florinda laughed at me. She thinks am an
idiot."
"Florinda
is right," Zuleica pronounced: "Our Magical World has nothing to do
with chants and incantations; with rituals and bizarre behavior.
302-303
"Our Magical
World, which is a Dream, is willed into being by the concentrated
desire of those, who participate in it.
It is held intact at every moment by the Sorcerers' tenacious
(persistent, cohesive, stubborn) wills; the same way the Everyday World
is held together by everybody's tenacious will." She
stopped abruptly. She seemed to have caught herself in the middle of a
thought, that she didn't wish to express. Then she smiled. Making a
humorous, helpless gesture, she added: "To Dream
our Dream, you have to
be dead."
"Does
that mean, I have to drop dead right here and now?" I asked in a voice,
that was getting hoarse. "You know, that I am ready for that, at a drop
of a hat."
Zuleica's
face lit up, and she laughed, as though I had told the best of jokes.
Seeing, that I was as serious, as I could be, she hastened to clarify,
"No, no. To die means to cancel all your holdings; to drop everything
you have, everything you are."
"That's
nothing new," I said. "I did that, the moment I joined your World."
"Obviously
you didn't. Otherwise you wouldn't be in such a mess. If you had died
the way Sorcery demands, you would feel no anguish now."
"What
would I feel, then?"
"Duty!
Purpose!"
"My
anguish has nothing to do with my sense of purpose," I shouted. "It's
apart, independent. I am alive and feel sadness and love. How can I
avoid that?"
Zuleica
clarified, "You're not supposed to avoid it, but to overcome it. If
Warriors have nothing, they feel nothing."
"What
kind of an empty World is that?" I asked defiantly.
"Empty
is the World of indulging, because Indulging cuts off everything else,
except Indulging." She gazed at me eagerly, as if expecting me to agree
with her statement. "So it's a lopsided World; boring, repetitious. For
Sorcerers, the antidote (counteracting unwanted condition) of indulging
is dying. And they don't just think about it, they do it." A
cold shiver went up my back. I swallowed and remained silent, looking
at the splendid sight of the moon shining through the window.
"I really
don't understand what you're saying, Zuleica."
"You understand me perfectly well," she maintained. "Your Dream began,
when you met me. Now it's time for another Dream. But this time, Dream
dead. Your error was to Dream alive."
"What
does that mean?" I asked restlessly: "Don't torment me with riddles.
You, yourself, told me, that only Male-Sorcerers drive themselves nuts
with riddles. You're doing the same to me now." Zuleica's
laughter echoed from wall to wall. It rustled like dry leaves, pushed
by the wind.
"To
Dream alive means: to have hope. It means, that you hold on to your
Dream for dear life. To Dream dead means, that you Dream without hope.
You Dream without holding on to your Dream."
Not
trusting myself to speak, all I could do was to nod. Florinda had told
me, that freedom is a total absence of concern about oneself; a lack of
concern achieved, when the imprisoned bulk of Energy, within ourselves,
is
untied. She had said, that this Energy is released only, when we can
arrest (seize, hold, capture) the exalted (elevated) conception we have
of ourselves; of our importance; an importance, we feel, must not be
violated or mocked. Zuleica's
voice was clear, but seemed to come from a great distance, as she
added, "The price of Freedom is very high. Freedom can only be attained
(accomplished) by Dreaming without hope; by being willing to lose all,
even the Dream. For some of us, to Dream without hope; to struggle with
no goal in mind, is the only way to keep up with the Bird of Freedom."
http://www.federaljack.com/ebooks/Castenada/books/Florinda%20Donner%20-%20Being%20in%20Dreaming.pdf
"Находясь
в Полёте" - Флоринда Доннер
Большая часть книги "Находясь
в Полёте" - Флоринда Доннер (информация касается в основном Женщин -
мой перевод с английского).
От автора
"Моё
первое знакомство с миром Колдунов не было то, что я планировала или
искала. Это произошло случайно (но только для меня). Я встретила группу
людей в Северной Мексике в июле 1970 года, и они оказались серьёзные
последователи традиций Колдунов, принадлежащих к мексиканским индейцам
до появления Колумба в Мексике. Эта первая встреча сильно и надолго
повлияла на меня. Встреча показала мне другой мир, который существует
рядом с нашим. Я посвятила этому миру 20 лет своей жизни. И ниже
описание как мой контакт начался, как он стимулировался и направлялся
Колдунами, кто взял на себя ответственность за мою роль в их мире.
Самой выдающейся из Колдуний была Женщина, которую звали Флоринда Матус
(Florinda Matus). Она была моим учителем и путеводителем. Она также
дала мне своё имя, в знак Любви и Могущества. Я не называла их
Колдунами, Brujo or bruja, по-испански означает Колдун или Колдунья и
так они сами себя называют. Мне всегда не нравилось негативное
отношение людей к этим словам (происходит
от рептоидов! ЛМ),
но Колдуны сами облегчили мою задачу, объяснив раз и навсегда:
Колдовство означает что-то довольно абстрактное, способность, которую
некоторые люди развивают, чтобы расширить границы нашего обычного
восприятия...Расширить границы нашего обычного восприятия, которое
базируется на факте, что наш выбор в жизни очень ограничен, так как
лимитируется Социальным Порядком. Колдуны верят, что Социальный Порядок
даёт нам небольшой список выборов, а остальное зависит от нас. Но,
соглашаясь только с этими выборами, мы лимитируем наши, почти
неограниченные, возможности. Они говорят, что к счастью, эти
ограничения применяются только к нашей социальной стороне, а не к нашей
другой стороне, практически недосягаемой стороне, потому что она не в
области нашего обычного сознания
(эта сторона вибрацией
выше! ЛМ).
Главная цель Колдунов: открыть для нас эту другую сторону. Они делают
это, ломая хрупкий, но всё же сопротивляющийся, щит (стену)
человеческих понятий: кто мы сейчас и кем мы можем стать. Колдуны дают
понять, что в нашем Повседневном мире есть люди, которые стараются
исследовать Неизвестность Вселенной, в поисках других миров. Колдуны
уверены, что идеальным следствием таких поисков будет возможность
вытянуть из результатов необходимую энергию к полной перемене, и
отстранить себя от нашего обычного представления действительности.
Колдуны знают, что к сожалению, эти поиски, в сущности, ментальные
поиски, попытки. Новые мысли и новые идеи почти не меняют нас. Одной из
вещей я научилась в мире Колдунов было то, что, не покидая нашего мира
и не нанося вред себе в этом процессе, Колдуны достигали невероятной
цели: ломку "соглашения", которое определяет наш голографический мир.
Часть 1
1
Экспромтом,
после крестин ребёнка моей подруги в городе Nogales, штата Arizona, я
решила поехать через границу в Мексику. Собираясь покинуть дом подруги,
одна из её гостей, Женщина по имени Дэлия Флорес, попросила меня
проехаться в Hermosillo. Она была тёмно-кожей Женщиной, возраста,
наверно, 40 с лишним, среднего роста, очень крепкого сложения, с
прямыми чёрными волосами, заплетёнными в толстую косу. Её тёмные
блестящие глаза дополняли её опытное, и немного девичье, круглое лицо.
Думая, что она мексиканка, рождённая в Аризоне, я спросила её нужно ли
ей удостверение туриста, чтобы въехать в Мексику.
"Зачем мне удостоверение, чтобы въехать в мою собственную страну?"
ответила она, округлив глаза в притворном удивлении.
"Ваши манеры и изменения тона в речи, дают мне понять, что вы из
Аризоны," сказала я.
"Мои родители - индейцы из Oaxaca," объяснила она, "но я - ladina."
"Что такое ladina?"
"Ладинос
- видавшие виды индейцы, выросшие в городе," объяснила она. Было
странное волнение в её голосе. Я не могла понять, тогда она добавила,
"Они подражают белому человеку и они так хорошо это делают, что могут
незаметно влезть во что угодно."
"Нашли чем гордиться," сказала я с упрёком. "Это определённо вас не
красит миссис Флорес."
2
Она
улыбнулась:"Наверно не красит обычного индейца или обычного белого
человека," сказала она озорливо, "но я вполне собой удовлетворена."
Она наклонилась ко мне и добавила: "Зови меня просто Дэлия, у меня
такое чувство, что мы будем прекрасными друзьями."
Не
зная, что сказать, я концентрировалась на дороге. Мы ехали молча до
пограничного пункта, пограничник попросил у меня удостверение, но не
попросил его у Дэлии. Казалось он не замечал её: они не обменялись ни
взглядами, ни словами. Когда я попробовала говорить с Дэлией, она
властно остановила меня жестом руки. Тогда пограничник вопросительно
посмотрел на меня, и, так как я ничего не сказала, он пожал плечами и
махнул мне проезжать.
"Как это так, пограничник не спросил твоё удостверение?" спросила я,
когда мы отъехали подальше.
"Ооо, он меня знает," наврала она, и зная, что я догадываюсь, она
засмеялась без всякого стыда.
"Я
думаю, я его напугала, и он не посмел разговаривать со мной," она снова
лгала и снова смеялась. Я решила сменить тему разговора, хотя бы для
того, чтобы она больше не врала. Я начала темы текущих новостей, но
большую часть времени мы молчали. Это не было напряжённым молчанием,
это было похоже на пустыню вокруг нас: широкая и голая, но к удивлению
- обнадёживающая.
"Где мне вас сбросить?" спросила я когда мы въехали в Hermosillo.
"В
центре города," сказала она. "Я всегда останавливаюсь в одном и том же
отеле когда бываю в этом городе. Я хорошо знаю владельцев и я уверена,
что смогу устроить вам тот же самый тариф, по которому плачу я."
Я с
благодарностью приняла её предложение. Отель был старый и неухоженный.
Комната, которую мне дали открывалась на пыльный внутренний двор.
Большая постель с 4мя колоннами и массивный старомодный комод намного
сузили комнату. Маленькая ванная была добавлена, хотя был и ночной
горшок под кроватью. Первая ночь была ужасной: я спала с перерывами и
во сне я осознавала шёпот и тени, двигающиеся по стенам. Силуэты вещей
и монстров поднимались из-за мебели. Люди материализовались из углов;
бледные, похожие на духов.
3
На
следующий день я ездила по городу и осматривала его окрестности. В ту
ночь, хотя я и была измучена, я не спала. Когда я, наконец, заснула,
мне приснился жуткий кошмар: я видела тёмные существа, похожие на
амёбы, стоящие в ногах моей постели. Их радужные щупальцы свисали из
узких щелей тела. Когда существо наклонялось надо мной, оно дышало,
создавая короткие хрипящие звуки, которые заканчивались громким
свистящим звуком. Мои крики заглушались их радужными щупальцами,
обвязанными вокруг моей шеи. Потом всё потемнело, так как существо,
которое я чувствовала было женским, сокрушило меня, улёгшись сверху
меня.
Тот безвременный момент между сном и бодрствованием был,
наконец, разбит несмолкающими ударами об мою дверь, и озабоченными
голосами постояльцев отеля из зала. Я включила свет и пробормотала
извинения и объяснения через дверь. С кошмаром, который приклеился к
моей коже как пот, я пошла в ванную. Я задохнулась от крика, посмотрев
в зеркало. Красные линии поперёк горла и красные точки, сползающие вниз
на грудь, выглядели как незаконченная татуировка. В ужасе я упаковала
свои вещи, было 3 часа утра когда я вошла в зал оплатить счёт.
"Куда
ты собралась в такую рань?" спросила Дэлия Флорес, появляясь из двери
за прилавком : "Я слышала о твоём кошмаре: ты весь отель взбудоражила!"
Я была так рада увидеть её, обнимая её, я стала всхлипывать.
"Ну,
ну!" приговаривала она, успокаивая и поглаживая мои волосы: "если
хочешь, ты можешь спать в моей комнате, я буду смотреть за тобой."
"Ничто не заставит меня остаться в этом отеле," сказала я. "Я
возвращаюсь в Лос Анжелес прямо сейчас."
"У тебя часто бывают кошмары?" спросила она как бы случайно, ведя меня
к старому скрипящему дивану в углу.
"Периодически."
сказала я. "Я страдала от кошмаров всю свою жизнь. Я вроде к ним
привыкла, но вчера ночью это было уже другое: это было самое живое,
самый ужасный кошмар, какой я когда-либо испытывала."
Она оценивающе и долго смотрела на меня и потом, медленно протягивая
слова, сказала: "Ты хочешь совсем избавиться от кошмаров?"
4
Пока
она говорила, она бросала взгляды через плечо, к двери, как-будто
боясь, что кто-то может подслушивать. "Я знаю кое-кого, кто
действительно может помочь тебе."
"Мне так бы хотелось," прошептала
я, развязывая шарф вокруг шеи чтобы показать следы кошмара. Я
рассказала ей всё до мелочей о моём ночном кошмаре и спросила:
"Ты что-нибудь такое видела?"
"Выглядит
очень серьёзно," произнесла она, тщательно осматривая линии на шее.
"Тебе действительно не нужно уезжать в Лос Анжелес, не повидав
знахарку, которую я знаю. Она живёт около 100 миль отсюда, на юг; около
2х часов езды."
Возможность увидеть знахарку для меня было очень
желательно. Меня они лечили с рождения в Венесуэле. Когда я болела, мои
родители звали семейного доктора и, как только он уходил, наша
венесуэльская домработница завёртывала меня и несла к местной
ведьме-знахарке. Повзрослев, я больше не хотела, чтобы меня лечила
ведьма - никто из моих друзей с ведьмами не общались. Наша тёмнокожая
домработница убедила меня, что это не повредит когда лечат два разных
человека. Привычка настолько въелась в меня, что переехав в Лос
Анжелес, я видела и доктора, и знахарку, когда заболевала.
"Ты
думаешь она примет меня сегодня?" поинтересовалась я. Видя её
непонимающий взгляд, я напомнила ей, что сегодня - воскресенье.
Она
примет тебя в любой день," заверила меня Дэлия. "Ты только подожди меня
здесь, я помогу тебе найти её. Это возьмёт не больше минуты, чтобы
собрать мои вещи."
"Чтобы помочь мне, тебе придётся оставить свои
дела, почему?" спросила я, вдруг обеспокоенная её предложением. "Ведь я
с тобой почти незнакома."
"Точно!" воскликнула она, поднимаясь с
дивана. Она внимательно посмотрела на меня, как-будто чувствовала
надоедливые сомнения, возрастающие во мне.
"Что может быть лучше,
чем помочь абсолютному незнакомцу. Это или глупый поступок или поступок
полного контроля. В моём случае: поступок полного контроля."
Я ничего не могла сказать, только уставилась ей в глаза, которые,
казалось, принимали мир с удивлением и любопытством.
5
Я
не только верила ей, но и чувствовала, что знала её всю свою жизнь. Я
ощущала связь между нами: близость. И всё-таки, наблюдая как она
исчезла за дверью, чтобы взять свои вещи, я подумала схватить свои
сумки и бежать к машине. Мне не хотелось из-за своей смелости закончить
в постыдной ситуации, как это уже случалось много раз. Но какое-то
необъяснимое любопытство сдерживало меня, несмотря на знакомое
надоедливое чувство тревоги. Я подождала почти 20 минут, когда Женщина
в красном трико и в туфлях на платформе вышла из-за двери. Она
задержалась под лампой и рассчитанным жестом откинула голову назад,
чтобы кудри её блондинистого парика засверкали при свете.
"Ты не узнала меня?" весело засмеялась она.
"Неужели это ты, Дэлия," вскрикнула я, уставившись на неё с открытым
ртом.
"А
ты что думаешь?" всё ещё смеясь, она вышла со мной на тротуар по
направлению к машине, припаркованной перед отелем. Она беспечно бросила
свою корзину и вещевой мешок на заднее сидение моей маленькой открытой
машины и затем села рядом со мной. Дэлия сказала: "Знахарка, к которой
я тебя беру, говорит, что только молодые и очень старые могут позволить
себе выглядеть нелепо."
Ещё до того как сказать ей, что она в это
число не входит, она поделилась со мной, что она намного старше, чем
выглядит. Её лицо было ослепительным когда она повернулась ко мне и
высказалась: "Я так одеваюсь когда хочу ослепить моих друзей!"
Она
не сказала кого именно: меня или знахарку, но меня она точно ослепила.
Не только одежда была другой, но и манеры: уже не было той строгой
критикующей Женщины, которая ехала со мной из Nogales в Hermosillo.
"Это
будет самая увлекательная поездка," воскликнула она, "особенно если мы
будем ехать в открытой машине. Голос у неё был мечтательный и
счастливый.
"Я обожаю путешествовать ночью в открытой (без крыши) машине."
Я
с готовностью согласилась. Было почти 4 часа утра когда мы оставили
Hermosillo. Небо было тихое и чёрное, усыпанное звёздами, и казалось
выше, чем небо, которое я видела раньше.
6
Я
ехала быстро, но казалось, мы совсем не двигались. Бесформенные силуэты
кактусов и деревьев бесконечно появлялись и исчезали в свете фар. Они
все, похоже, были одной формы и одного размера.
"Я взяла для нас
несколько сладких пирожков и термос горячего шоколада (champurrado),"
сказала Дэлия, доставая свою корзину с заднего сиденья.
"Будет утро к тому времени когда мы достигнем дом знахарки."
Она
налила мне полчашки густого горячего шоколада, приготовленного с
кукурузной мукой, и накормила меня пирогом, кусок за куском.
"Мы едем через магическую землю," сказала она, попивая превосходный
шоколад. "Магическая земля населена воинствующими людьми."
"Какие они, эти воинствующие люди?" спросила я, стараясь не выглядеть
покровительственно.
"Яки
индейцы Соноры (Sonora)," ответила она и замолчала, наверно оценивая
мою реакцию. "Я восхищаюсь индейцами Яки, потому что они постоянно
воевали," продолжала она, "Сначала испанцы; потом совсем недавно, в
1934 мексиканцы почувствовали жестокость, хитрость и беспощадность Яки
воинов."
"Я не восхищаюсь войнами и воинственными людьми," сказала
я. Затем, извиняющим тоном объяснила, что я родом из немецкой
семьи,
которую разорвали войной.
"У тебя - другое дело, у тебя нет идеалов Свободы!" продолжала она.
"Подожди!" запротестовала я. "Это как раз потому, что я и поддерживаю
идеалы Свободы, я нахожу войны отвратительными."
"Мы говорим о разных видах войн," настаивала она.
"Война - всегда война!" вставила я.
"Твой
род войны," продолжала она, игнорируя мои выпады, "это - между двумя
братьями, кто оба - владыки и кто воюет за свою абсолютную власть друг
против друга." Она наклонилась ко мне и торопливым шёпотом добавила,
"Род войны, о котором я говорю, это между рабом и хозяином. Видишь
разницу?"
"Нет, я не вижу." настаивала я упрямо и повторила, что война всё равно
война, неважно какая причина.
"Я
не могу согласиться с тобой," сказала она и, вздохнув, откинулась на
сиденье. "Возможно причина нашего филосовского разногласия в том, что
мы происходим из разных социальных групп." заключила она.
7
Поражённая
её выбором слов, я машинально приостановила машину. Я не имела ввиду
грубить, но слышать как она выдавала академические термины было
настолько невероятно и неожиданно, что я не могла не засмеяться. Дэлия
не обиделась, она улыбаясь наблюдала за мной, очень довольная собой,
потом сказала,"Когда ты узнаешь мою точку зрения, тогда ты может быть
поменяешь своё мнение." сказала она на полном серьёзе и с такой
добротой, что мне стало стыдно, что я над ней смеялась. "Ты может быть
даже извинишься, что смеялась надо мной," добавила она, как-будто она
читала мои мысли.
"Я извиняюсь, Дэлия!" сказала я то, что
чувствовала. "Мне очень жаль, что я была груба. Я настолько была
поражена твоими заявлениями, что не знала как поступить." Я быстро
посмотрела на неё и добавила, чувствуя угрызения совести, "поэтому я
расмеялась."
"Я не имею ввиду социальные извинения за своё
поведение," сказала она, разочарованно мотая головой. "Я имею ввиду
извинения за непонимание положения человека."
"Я не понимаю, о чём ты говоришь," ответила я неохотно, чувствуя как её
глаза сверлили меня.
"...Как
Женщина ты должна понять эту трудную ситуацию очень хорошо," сказала
она. "Ты была рабом всю свою жизнь."
"Что
ты такое говоришь, Дэлия?" спросила я, раздражённая её дерзостью. Затем
я быстро успокоилась, уверенная, что бедная аборигенка явно имела
жестого, невыносимого мужа. "Поверь мне, Дэлия, я совершенно свободна,
я делаю всё, что мне нравится!"
"Ты можешь делать, что тебе
нравится, но ты - не свободна," настаивала она. "Ты - Женщина и это
автоматически означает, что ты зависишь от капризов мужчин."
"Я не
зависима ни от чьих капризов!" заорала я. Я не могла сказать было ли
это моё заявление или тон моего голоса, что заставило Дэлию рассмеяться
задорным громким смехом. Она смеялась надо мной также долго, как я до
этого смеялась над ней.
"Ты кажется получаешь
удовольствие мне отомстить," сказала я раздражённо. "Теперь твоя
очередь смеяться, не так ли?"
Вдруг,
став серьёзной, она сказала,"Это совсем не то же самое: ты смеялась
надо мной, потому что чувствовала себя выше меня. Раб, который
разговаривает как хозяин, всегда умиляет хозяина на момент."
Я
пыталась перебить её и сказать ей, что у меня и в мыслях не было
считать её рабом или считать себя хозяином, но она проигнорировала мои
старания.
8
Таким же торжественным тоном она сказала, что причина, почему
она смеялась надо мной, было то, что меня сделали тупой и слепой к моей
собственной женственности.
"Что с тобой, Дэлия?" спросила я
в изумлении. "Ты нарочно оскорбляешь меня!"
"Конечно,"
согласилась она с готовностью и хихикнула, абсолютно безразличная к
моей возрастающей злости. Она хлопнула меня по коленке звонким шлепком.
"Что огорчает меня," продолжала
она, "это то, что ты даже не
знаешь, что просто тот факт, что ты - Женщина, делает тебя рабыней."
Собрав всё своё терпение, я
сказала Дэлии, что она неправа:"Рабов в наше время - нет!"
"Женщины
- рабыни," настаивала Дэлия. "Мужчины поработили Женщин. Мужчины
запутали Женщин. Желание мужчин сделать Женщин своей собственностью
затуманивает нам глаза," объявила она. "Этот туман висит вокруг наших
шей как желток!"
Мой обалделый вид заставил её
улыбнуться. Она
откинулась на сиденье, сжимая руки на груди: "Секс затуманивает
Женщин," добавила она тихо, но выразительно, "Женщины настолько сильно
затуманены, что даже не рассматривают возможость, что их низкое
положение в обществе - это конечный результат того, что с ними делают
сексуально."
"Это - самая абсурдная вещь,
которую я когда-либо
слышала," пробормотала я. Затем, довольно осторожно, я начала выдавать
социальные, экономические и политические причины низкого положения
Женщин в жизни. Я долго говорила о переменах, которые произошли в
последние десятилетия; как Женщины стали довольно успешными в своей
борьбе против мужского доминирования. Раздражённая её высмеивающей
мимикой, я не могла удержаться от замечания, что у неё несомненно
появились предрассудки в силу собственных переживаний...Всё тело Дэлии
тряслось от подавленного смеха, она сделала усилие над собой и сказала:
"В действительности - ничего не
изменилось: Женщины остались
рабынями. Нас выращивают, чтобы быть рабынями. Рабыни, те кто
образован, сейчас заняты тем, что объявляют о социальных и политических
оскорблениях и о плохом обращении с Женщинами. Хотя никто из рабынь не
фокусирует внимание на корень их рабства: СЕКС - если только это не
изнасилование или не имеет отношение к какой-то другой форме
физического надругательства."
С высмеивающей улыбкой она
сказала,
что религиозные мужчины, философы и деятели науки веками проповедовали
- и конечно до сегодняшнего дня -
что Женщины и мужчины должны
следовать биологическим, "богом данным" важным потребностям, имеющим
прямое отношение к сексуальным органам, т.е. к сексу, к размножению.
9
Нас
заставили верить, что секс - это полезно для нас," подчеркнула она.
"Это привитое нам понятие и принятие этого лишило нас сил задавать
правильный вопрос."
"И что это за вопрос?" спросила
я, с трудом
сдерживаясь, чтобы не рассмеяться над её ошибочными представлениями.
Дэлия похоже не слышала меня, она так долго молчала, что я подумала :
она заснула. Я поразилась когда она сказала: "Вопрос, который никто не
смеет спросить, это: что это делает с нами, с Женщинами: секс с
мужчинами?"
"Ну действительно, Дэлия,"
бранила я в притворном замешательстве.
"Затуманивание
Женщин настолько продуманное, что мы будем фокусироваться на любой
другой теме нашего низкого статуса, но не на том, что причина всей
драмы," заключила она.
"Но Дэлия, без секса нельзя,"
сказала я, смеясь. "Что будет с человеческой расой, если мы..."
Она
ответила на мой вопрос и на мой смех важным жестом своей руки: "В наше
время Женщины как ты, в своём энтузиазме за равенство, имитируют
мужчин," отметила она, "Женщины подражают мужчинам до такого абсурда,
что секс, который им интересен, ничего не имеет общего с размножением.
Женщины приравнивают секс к Свободе, даже не видя, что делает секс их
физическому и эмоциональному состоянию. Нас настолько запрограмировали,
что мы твёрдо верим, что секс полезен для нас."
Она слегка толкнула
меня локтём и затем начала рекламироваь в песенном тоне:"Секс - хорош
для нас, он приятен, он необходим, он снимает депрессию, угнетение и
огорчения. Помогает от головной боли, высокого и низкого давления.
Убирает прыщи, заставляет груди и зад расти, регулирует менструацию.
Короче говоря, фантастично! Прекрасно для Женщин, все так говорят, все
это рекоммендуют."
Она остановилась на момент и
затем произнесла с драматическим финалом, "Трах в день и нужда в
докторе: просто - хрень!"
Я
нашла её выражение ужасно смешным, но потом, быстро одумавшись, я
вспомнила как моя семья и друзья, включая нашего семейного доктора, кто
предложил - не так осторожно, что секс - это лечение от всех болезней
молодых девушек, и что я росла в строгом связывающем окружении.
10
Доктор сказал, что как только я
выйду замуж, у меня будет регулярная менструация (менструация
- это месячные аборты, сделаные инопланетянами раз-два в месяц
большинству Земных Женщин в течении многих лет ! Так Женщину регулярно
лишают её энергии, помимо других методов! ЛМ).
Я потолстею, буду спать лучше и
у меня будет более покладистый характер.
"Я
не вижу ничего плохого в том, чтобы иметь секс и любовь," ответила я в
свою защиту. "То, что я уже испытала, мне доставило большое
удовольствие.
И никто не затуманивает мне
мозги, я - свободна! Я выбираю с кем и когда иметь секс."
В
тёмных глазах Дэлии промелькнула искра удовольствия, когда она сказала
мне: "Выбор партнёров ни в коей мере не меняет тот факт, что тебя
поимели."
Затем, с улыбкой, как бы
смягчить суровость своего тона,
она добавила: "Сравнивать Свободу с сексом это - жуткая ирония.
Затуманивание Женщин мужчинами до такой степени совершенно,
настолько тотально, оно лишило нас, нужной нам, энергии и потребности
фокусироваться на настоящей причине нашего рабства."
Она
подчеркнула: "Чтобы хотеть мужчину сексуально или романтически
влюбиться в него - есть только два выбора, данные рабыням. И все те
вещи, которые нам говорили об этих выборах, ничто не значат, это -
сказки, которые втягивают нас в сложности, в неведение и в путаницу."
Она
меня разозлила. Я не могла не думать, что она была своего рода
подавленная мужчино-ненавистница. Циничным тоном я спросила её:
"Почему ты так сильно ненавидишь
мужчин, Дэлия?"
"Не
то, что я их ненавижу," заверила она меня. "Против чего я сильно
возражаю это - наше нежелание, наше сопротивление проанализировать
насколько нас запрограмировали. Давление, которое на нас оказывается,
настолько бесконечное и беспощадное, что сделало нас сговорчивыми
партнёрами. А кто смеет отличаться от остальных, высмеивается и
отвергается как ненормальная или мужчино-ненавистница."
Покраснев,
я
тайком взглянула на неё и подумала, что она может говорить так
неуважительно о любви и сексе, потому что она старая. Физические
желания ей уже не нужны. Смеясь втихомолку, Дэлия сложила руки за
голову и сказала: "Не потому, что я - старая: мои физические желания -
при мне, а потому, что мне дали шанс использовать мою энергию и
воображение, чтобы стать больше, чем рабыней, которую для этого
вырастили."
11
Если ты не считаешь себя
рабыней, тогда почему твои
родители вырастили тебя, чтобы стать Hausfrau (домохозяйкой)?" спросила
она. "И почему
ты только и думаешь о том, чтобы heiraten (выйти замуж)
и о твоём будущем Herr Gemahl (муже), который Dich mitnehmen (даст тебе
своё имя)?"
Я
так расхохоталась над её произношением немецкого, что пришлось
остановить машину, чтобы избежать аварии. Мне больше было интересно,
где
она выучила немецкий так хорошо, что я забыла защитить себя от её
нелестных замечаний: вроде того, что всё, о чём я мечтаю в жизни, это
найти хорошего мужа, кто увезёт меня отсюда. Однако, несмотря на все
мои просьбы, она равнодушно игнорировала мой
интерес в её немецком.
"У
нас с тобой будет много времени говорить о немецком позже," заверила
она меня и, передразнивая, добавила, "Или о тебе как о рабыне."
До того как у меня был шанс ответить, она предложила поговорить о
чём-то не личном.
"Как
что, например?" спросила я, снова заводя машину. Отрегулировав сиденье
в почти горизонтальное положение, Дэлия закрыла глаза.
"Давай я
расскажу тебе о 4х самых известных лидерах индейцев Яки," сказала она
тихо, "Мне интересны лидеры; их успехи и их поражения."
До того как
у меня был шанс поворчать, что мне не интересны военные истории, Дэлия
сказала, что Calixto Muni был первый индеец Яки - лидер, кто привлёк её
внимание. Она не была талантливым рассказчиком, её повествование было
прямым, почти академическим, и всё же я слушала её каждое слово.
Calixto Muni был индейцем, кто
годами плавал в Карибском море под
пиратским флагом. После возвращения в свою родную Сонору,
он руководил
военными восстаниями против испанцев в 1730х. Его предали, он был
схвачен и казнён испанцами. Затем Дэлия дала мне долгое и обширное
объяснение как в течение 1820х, после того, как была достигнута
Мексиканская независимость и Мексиканское правительство пыталось отнять
земли у индейцев Яки, движение сопротивления превратилось в широкое
восстание. . Она сказала, что это был Хуан Бандера (Juan Bandera), кого
вёл сам Дух, кто организовал военные части среди индейцев Яки. Часто,
имея только лук и стрелы, воины Бандера боролись с мексиканскими
войсками почти 10 лет. В 1832 году Хуан Бандера был сражён и казнён.
Дэлия сказала, что следующим лидером был известный Jose Maria Leyva,
которого больше знали как Cajemethe (тот, кто не пьёт).
12-13
Он
был Яки из Hermosillo. Он был образован и обрёл огромный военный опыт,
сражаясь в Мексиканской армии. Благодаря этому опыту, ему удалось
объединить города индейцев Яки. С момента его первого восстания в
1870х, Cajeme держал свою армию в активном революционном состоянии. Он
был разгромлен Мексиканской армией в 1887 году в Buatachive; усиленная
горная позиция (скорее
всего там старая секретная негативная подземная инопланетная база,
потому он и проиграл! ЛМ). Хотя Cajeme удалось бежать и
прятаться в Guay-mas, его в конце концов предали и казнили.
Последним
из великих героев Яки был Juan Maldonado, которого также называли
Tetabiate - катящийся камень. Он реорганизовал остатки войск Яки в
горах Bacatete, откуда он вёл жестокую и отчаянную партизанскую войну
против Мексиканских войск больше 10 лет.
"К концу столетия,
диктатор Porfirio Diaz официально начал исстребление индейцев Яки.
Индейцев убивали, работающими на полях, тысячи были скучны и отправлены
в Yucatan работать на плантациях или в Oaxaca, работать на плантациях
сахарного тростника."
Я была под большим впечатлением от её знаний,
хотя я до сих пор не могла понять почему она мне всё это рассказала. Я
с восхищением добавила:
"Ты похожа на учёного - историка жизни Яки индейцев. Кто ты на самом
деле?"
На момент мой вопрос, казалось, застал её врасплох, вопрос
был просто вежливым, затем она быстро опомнилась и сказала: "Я тебе уже
сказала, кто я. Просто я знаю много о Яки, я живу вокруг них, ты
знаешь." Какой-то момент она молчала, потом кивнула, как бы достигнув
какого-то умозаключения, и добавила: "Причина, почему я рассказала
тебе о лидерах Яки, потому что это зависит от нас, Женщин, знать силу и
слабость лидера."
"Зачем?" удивилась я. "Кому нужны лидеры? Они все - дураки, насколько я
знаю."
Дэлия почесала голову под париком, потом несколько раз чихнула и
сказала колебаясь:
"К сожалению, Женщины
должны собираться вокруг мужчин, если не хотят сами себя вести."
"Кого
они собираются вести?" спросила я с сарказмом. Она посмотрела на меня,
поражённая, затем потёрла руку детским жестом, как и её лицо.
"Это довольно трудно объяснить," пробормотала она.
Необычная мягкость
окрасила её голос: частично нежность, частично
неуверенность,
частично отсуствие интереса. "Я лучше не буду, а то тебя совсем
запутаю. Всё, что я пока могу сказать, это что я - не студент и не
историк. Я - рассказчик и я ещё не сказала тебе самую важную часть
своей истории."
"И что бы это
могло быть?" спросила я, заинтригованная её желанием сменить тему.
"Всё,
что я до сих пор говорила, фактически информация," сказала она. "О чём
я не говорила это - Мир Магии, из которого те Яки лидеры оперировали.
Для них действия ветра и теней, животных и растений были такими же
важными, как и действия людей. И эта часть мне наиболее интересна."
"Действия
ветра и теней, животных и растений?" повторила я, передразнивая её. Не
обращая внимания на мой тон, Делия кивнула. Она приподнялась на
сиденье, стащила с головы курчавый блондинистый парик и предоставила
ветру развевать её прямые чёрные волосы. "Название тех гор - Bacatete," сказала она, указывая
на горы слева от нас, едва различимый в полутёмном небе сумерков.
"Это туда мы
направляемся?" спросила я.
"Не в этот раз," ответила она, соскользнув опять в своё сиденье.
Таинственная улыбка играла на её губах, когда она повернулась ко мне.
"Может быть когда-нибудь у тебя будет шанс посетить эти горы,"
прошептала она, закрыв глаза. "Bacatetes населяют
существа другого мира; другого времени (другая линия времени, ЛМ)."
"Существа
другого мира; другого времени?" я отозвалась эхом с притворной
серьёзностью. "Кто или что они?"
"Существа," сказала она неопределённо. "Существа, которые не
принадлежат ни нашему времени, ни нашему миру."
"Ну,
ну Делия. Ты что - хочешь меня напугать?" я не могла удержаться от
смеха, когда повернулась посмотреть на неё. Даже в темноте её лицо
светилось. Она выглядела необычайно молодой, кожа без морщин обтягивала
её изогнутые щёки, подбородок и нос.
"Нет. Я и не думаю пугать тебя," сказала она в порядке вещей, заправляя
прядь волос за ухо. Я просто говорю тебе то, что все здесь вокруг
знают."
"Интересно. И что это за Существа?" спросила я, покусывая губу, чтобы
подавить свой смех. "Ты их видела?"
14-15
"Конечно я их видела," сказала она задумчиво. "Я бы о них не говорила,
если бы не видела их." Она мягко улыбнулась без всякого следа
неприязни.
"Это
Существа, которые населяли Землю в другое время, а сейчас ушли в
отдалённые места." Тут я не могла удержаться от смеха над её
доверчивостью.
Но потом,
глядя насколько серьёзна и убедительна она была, что эти существа
действительно существуют, я решила, что будет лучше смириться с её доверчивостью, чем
смеяться над ней. Всё-таки она вела меня к знахарке и я не хотела злить
её своими рациональными тестами.
"Те существа
- Духи Яки воинов, кто потерял жизни в битвах?" спросила я.
Она замотала головой, затем, как-будто боясь, что кто-то подслушает,
наклонилась ближе и прошептала мне в ухо: "Это - известный факт, что в
тех горах живут таинственные Существа: говорящие птицы, поющие кусты,
танцующие камни. Эти Существа могут по желанию принять любую форму."
Она откинулась назад и с ожиданием осматривала меня: "Яки называли эти
существа - Surem. Они верили, что
Surem - древние Яки, кто отказался быть превращёнными в бабтистов
первыми Иезуитами, кто пришёл распространить христианство на индейцев." сказала она, с
чувством хлопая меня по руке.
"Берегись. Говорят, что
Surem
нравятся блондинки." прокудахтала она с удовольствием. "Может быть это
то, о чём был твой кошмар. Surem пытались украсть
тебя."
"Ты ведь не веришь в то, что говоришь, не так ли?" спросила я, не
способная скрыть своё раздражение.
"Нет. Я придумала, что Surem любит блондинок," сказала она
миролюбиво. "Блодинки им вообще не нравятся."
Хоть я и не повернулась, чтобы посмотреть на неё, я чувствовала её
улыбку и смешинки в её глазах. Это было последней каплей. Я подумала,
что она была или очень открытой, или очень застенчивой, или ещё хуже -
просто сумасшедшей.
"Ведь ты правда не веришь, что существа из другого мира
действительно существуют?" глупо
отпарировала я. Тогда, боясь, что оскорбила её,
я смотрела на неё, готовая извиниться. Но до того, как я могла
что-нибудь сказать, она ответила тем же громким, раздражённым тоном,
которым говорила я. "Конечно я верю, что они существуют. А почему они
не должны существовать?"
"Они просто не могут!" отрезала я авторитетно и быстро извинилась. Я
рассказала ей о моём прагматическом воспитании и как мой отец влиял на
меня, чтобы я думала, что монстры в моих снах и друзья, с которыми я
играла ребёнком, невидимые конечно никому кроме меня, были ничто более,
чем продукт моего черезчур активного воображения. "Меня с детства
приучили быть объективной и всё оценивать," подчеркнула я. "В моём мире
существуют только факты."
"Это проблема с людьми, они настолько объективны, что просто слушать
это снижает мою жизнеспособность." заметила Делия.
"В моём мире," продолжала я, игнорируя её замечание, и подчеркнула,
"нигде нет фактов о существах из другого мира, только гипотезы,
предположения и фантазии нездорового ума."
"Как ты можешь быть такой толстокожей!" игриво крикнула она между
взрывами смеха, как-будто моё объяснение превзошло все её ожидания.
"Может
это быть доказанным, что эти существа существуют?" бросила я ей вызов.
"Каким должно быть доказательство?" спросила она с видом притворного
безразличия.
"Если кто-то ещё их может видеть, это и будет доказательством," сказала
я.
"Ты имеешь ввиду, что если ты, например, сможешь увидеть их, это и
будет доказательство их существования?" поинтересовалась она, подвигая
свою голову ближе к моей. "Мы определённо можем начать здесь." Вздыхая,
Делия откинула голову на спинку сиденья и закрыла глаза. Она так долго
молчала, что я подумала: она заснула, и конечно была поражена, когда
она вдруг резко выпрямилась и попросила меня подъехать к обочине
дороги. Она сказала, что хочет в туалет. Чтобы использовать остановку я
тоже пошла в кусты. Только я собралась натянуть мои джинсы, как
услышала громкий мужской голос сказал "Как приятно!" и вздох прямо за
моей спиной. С растёгнутыми штанами я поскакала туда, где была Делия.
"Нам лучше скорее драпать отсюда!" крикнула я. "В кустах прячется
мужчина."
"Чепуха," она отмахнулась от моих слов. "За кустами только одна вещь
это - осёл."
16-17
"Ослы не
вздыхают как сексуально-озабоченные мужчины," пояснила я и потом
повторила то, что слышала говорил мужчина. Делия беспомощно свалилась
от смеха, затем, видя насколько испуганной я была, она подняла руку,
жестом показывая спокойствие.
"Ты
и впрямь видела мужчину?"
"Мне этого не нужно было, достаточно было его услышать." ответила я.
На момент она остановилась и потом направилась к машине. До того как мы
забрались на стену у дороги, она вдруг остановилась, повернулась ко мне
и прошептала: "Произошло что-то мистическое. Я должна заставить тебя
это осознать." Она повела меня за руку назад к тому месту, где я сидела
на корточках, и прямо там, сзади кустов я увидела осла.
"Его до этого там
не было," настаивала я. Делия смотрела на меня с явным удовольствием,
потом вскинула плечами и повернулась к животному.
"Малыш-ослёнок," заворковала она детским голосом, "ты смотрел на её
задницу?" Она - ventriloquist (человек
говорящий из своего живота), подумала я.
Она собирается заставить животное говорить. Однако всё, что осёл
сделал, было: закричал как осёл, громко и много раз.
"Пошли
отсюда," просила я, тянув её за рукав. "Это должно быть его владелец,
кто прячется в кустах."
"Но у этого малыша владельца нет," заворковала она тем же глупым
детским голосом и почесала длинные мягкие уши животного.
"У него определённо есть владелец," отрубила я. "Разве ты не видишь,
что он хорошо накормлен и ухожен?" Голосом, который уже становился
хриплым от нервозности и нетерпения, я подчеркнула опять как опасно
двум женщинам быть одними на пустынной дороге в Соноре. Делия молча
посмотрела на меня, и казалась озабоченной. Затем она кивнула,
как-будто согласившись, и дала мне знак следовать за ней. Осёл шёл
прямо за мной, постоянно толкая своей мордой мою попу. Бормоча
проклятья, я обернулась, но осёл исчез. "Делия!" закричала я, внезапно
испугавшись. "Что случилось с ослом?"
Испуганные моим криком, стая птиц поднялась в стремительном полёте.
Птицы кружили вокруг нас, потом полетели на восток, прямо в еле заметную
трещину в небе, которая означала конец ночи и начало дня.
"Где осёл?"
снова спросила я еле слышным шёпотом.
"Прямо здесь, перед тобой," мягко сказала она, указывая на
исковерканное голое дерево.
"Я его не вижу."
"Тебе нужны очки."
"У меня с
глазами проблем нет," отрезала я. "Я даже вижу красивые цветы на
дереве." изумлённая красотой сияющих белоснежных цветов формы "утренней
славы", я подошла ближе. "Что это за дерево?"
"Palo
Santo,"
в какой-то момент я подумала, что осёл, который появился из-за
светящегося, серебристо-серого ствола, заговорил. Я повернулась к
Делии.
"Palo
Santo!" смеялась она. Потом мне в голову пришла мысль, что Делия
разыгрывала меня. Осёл наверно принадлежал знахарке, кто несомненно,
жила где-то рядом.
"Что смешного?" спросила Делия, поймав всё-понимающую усмешку на моём
лице.
"Я чувствую ужасную спазму" соврала я. Держа руки на животе, я присела
на корточки и сказала: "Пожалуйста подожди меня в машине."
Как
только она повернулась чтобы идти, я сняла свой шарф и привязала его на
шею осла. Я предвкушала как удивится Делия у знахарки, когда обнаружит,
что я знала всю дорогу о её шутке. Однако надежда снова увидеть осла
или свой шарф вскоре угасла. Нам взяло почти 2 часа достигнуть наконец
дом знахарки.
Часть 2
18-19
Было около 8ми утра когда мы прибыли в дом знахарки на окраине Ciudad Obregon.
Это был массивный старый дом с белоснежными стенами и черепичной
крышей, серой от старости. У него были железные ажурные окна и дверь
аркой. Тяжёлая дверь на улицу была открыта. С уверенностью человека,
знакомого со всем окружающим, Делия Flores
провела меня через тёмный зал, вниз по длинному коридору, в заднюю
часть дома, в почти пустую комнату с узкой кроватью, столом и
несколькими креслами. Что было странным в этой комнате это то, что она
имела дверь в каждой из 4х стен.
"Подожди здесь," приказала Делия и, подбородком указывая на кровать,
сказала: "Поспи немного, пока я буду искать знахарку. Это может занять
какое-то время," добавила она, закрывая за собой дверь. Я подождала
пока её шаги затихли в коридоре, осматривая, совершенно не похожую
на кабинет, комнату, какую я когда-либо видела. На белых стенах ничего
не было. Светло-коричневые плитки пола сверкали как зеркало. Не было ни
алтаря, ни обликов или статуэток святых, непорочной Марии или Иесуса,
которые, я всегда думала, были обычными в таких комнатах. Я просунула
свою голову через каждую из 4х дверей. Две из них открывались в тёмные
коридоры, две другие вели во двор, отгороженный высоким забором.
Когда я на цыпочках шла по тёмному коридору к другой комнате, то
услышала угрожающее рычание сзади. Я медленно обернулась. На расстоянии
меньше метра от меня стояла чёрная, огромная, свирепого вида, собака.
Она не бросилась на меня, а стояла как вкопанная, рыча и показывая свои
клыки. Не смотря в глаза животного, но не упуская его из вида, я
попятилась обратно в кабинет. Собака шла за мной всю дорогу прямо к
двери. Я тихо закрыла дверь прямо перед носом животного и облокотилась
на стену, пока моё сердце не успокоилось.
Tогда я легла на кровать и через несколько минут, без всякого на то
желания, я заснула крепким сном. Меня разбудило лёгкое прикосновение к
плечу.
Я открыла глаза и взглянула на розовое морщинистое лицо женщины. "Ты -
в полёте и я - часть твоего полёта," сказала она. Машинально, я кивнула
в ответ, хотя и не была убеждена, что я летаю. Женщина была крошечной.
Она не была карликом или очень маленького размера. Скорее она была
размером с ребёнка, с худенькими ручками и узкими хрупкими плечами.
"Вы - знахарка?" спросила я.
"Я - Esperanza,"
сказала она. "Я та, кто устраивает полёты." Её голос был ровным и
необычно низким. Он имел необычное экзотическое качество, хотя и
был испнским, которым она хорошо владела, но был языком, к
которому мускулы её верхней губы не были привычны. Постепенно звук её
голоса повышался, пока не стал бестелесной силой, заполняющей комнату.
Этот звук напоминал мне звук текущей воды в глубинах пещеры.
"Это - не женщина, это - звук темноты." пробормотала я самой себе.
"Сейчас я ликвидирую причину твоих ночных кошмаров," сказала она,
зафиксировав меня диктаторским взглядом, в то время как её пальцы
слегка сжали мою шею, "Я вытащу их один за другим," пообещала она. Её
руки двигались по моей груди как мягкая волна. Она победоносно
улыбалась, затем указала мне осмотреть её открытые ладони. "Видишь? Они
так легко выскочили." Она глядела на меня с выражением такого
достижения и изумления, что я не могла заставить себя сказать ей, что
ничего не вижу в её руках. Поняв, что сессия лечения была закончена, я
поблагодарила её и встала. Она укоризненно покачала головой и мягко
толкнула меня обратно на кровать.
20-21
"Ты всё ещё спишь,"
напомнила она мне. "Я та, кто устраивает
полёты, ты
забыла?" Мне бы очень хотелось настаивать, что я уже давно проснулась,
но всё, что мне удалось сделать - это глупо улыбаться, так как сон
втягивал меня в приятную дремоту. Смех и шёпот собирались вокруг меня
как тени.
Я старалась пробудить себя. Больших усилий стоило открыть глаза, сесть
и посмотреть на людей, собравшихся вокруг стола. Из-за странного тумана
в комнате их трудно было ясно видеть. Делия была среди них. Я уже было
собралась позвать её по имени, но назойливый царапывающий звук сзади
заставил меня обернуться. Мужчина, шатаясь, сидел на корточках на
высоком стуле и с шумом раскалывал орехи. Сначала он мне показался
молодым человеком, но каким-то образом я знала, что он был старым. Он
был худым с гладким безбородым лицом. Его улыбка была смесью хитрости и
невинности.
"Хочешь немного?" спросил он. Не успела я кивнуть, как мой рот широко
открылся. Всё, что я могла сделать, это уставиться на него, пока он
перекладывал свой вес на одну руку и без труда поднял своё лёгкое тело.
Из этого положения он бросил земляным орехом в меня, и он проскочил
прямо в мой открытый рот. Я им
подавилась. Неожиданный хлопок между моими лопатками восстановил моё
дыхание. С благодарностью я повернулась, пытаясь понять, кто из этих
людей, стоящих рядом, мог среагировать так быстро.
"Я - Mariano
Aureliano (Дон Хуан)," сказал мужчина, кто похлопал меня по спине. Он
пожал мою руку. Его джентельменский тон и очаровательная формальность
его жестов сглаживала свирепое, лютое, неистовое выражение его глаз и
суровость его орлиных черт. Острый угол
его тёмных бровей делал его похожим на хищную птицу. Его седые волосы и
обветренное коричневое лицо выдавало возраст, хотя его мускулистое тело
излучало энергию молодости. В группе было шесть женщин, включая Делию.
Они все пожали мне руку в той же самой грациозной манере, но имён не
сказали. Они просто сказали, что рады меня
видеть. Физически они не были похожи, и всё-таки чем-то они
поразительно походили друг на друга. Противоречивая смесь молодости и
возраста, смесь силы и деликантности были невероятно неожиданными для
меня, привыкшей, насколько я была, к прямолинейности и к грубости моей
патриархальной немецкой семьи. Также как у Mariano
Aureliano и у акробата на стуле, я не могла определить возраст этих
женщин. Им могло быть или 40 лет, или 60. Я почувствовала мимолётное
беспокойство, так как женщины уставились на меня. Было такое
впечатление, что они могли видеть мои внутренности и отражали то, что
видели. Довольные и задумчивые улыбки на их лицах особо не помогали
дать мне уверенность. С целью нарушить это неприятное молчание любым
приемлемым путём, я отвернулась от них и оказалась лицом с мужчиной на
стуле. Я спросила его был ли он акробатом.
"Я - мистер Flores,"
сказал он, без труда со стула сделал сальто назад и приземлился со
скрещенными ногами на полу. "Я - не акробат,"
произнёс он.
"Я - волшебник." На его лице была улыбка несомненного удовлетворения,
когда он залез в свой карман и вытащил из него мой шёлковый шарф; тот,
которым я обвязала шею осла.
"Я знаю кто вы. Вы - её
муж!" воскликнула я, указывая пальцем на Делию. "Вы оба сыграли со мной
неглупую шутку."
Мистер
Flores ничего не сказал, он просто молча смотрел на меня. "Никому я не
муж," наконец произнёс он, потом тележкой
выкатился из комнаты сквозь одну из дверей, которая вела во двор. Не
долго думая, я спрыгнула с кровати и последовала за ним. Яркий
солнечный свет на момент ослепил меня и
несколько секунд я стояла, завороженная этим сиянием, затем пересекла
двор и побежала по просёлочной дороге на свеже обработанные поля,
разделённые высокими эквалиптами. Было жарко, Солнце жгло как языками
пламени. Борозды двигались в этой жаре как пузыри гигантских змей.
"Мистер
Flores," позвала я, но ответа не было. Уверенная, что он прятался за
одним из деревьев, я бегом пересекла поле.
"Осторожнее с босыми ногами!" предупредил голос надо мной. Поражённая,
я посмотрела вверх на перевёрнутое лицо мистера Flores. Он свисал с
ветки, болтая ногами.
22-23
"Это опасно
и вообще непростительно глупо бегать без туфлей," строго укорял он
меня, раскачиваясь туда-сюда как цирковой артист. "Это место кишит
гремучими змеями. Тебе лучше залезть сюда ко мне. Здесь прохладнее и
безопаснее." Зная, что ветви слишком высоко, чтобы их достигнуть, я,
тем не менее, протянула руки с детским доверием. Не успела я подумать,
что он собирался делать, как мистер Flores
схватил мои запястья и подтянул меня на дерево без малейшего усилия,
как-будто я была куклой. Поражённая, я села рядом с ним, глядя на
шелестящие листья. Они отсвечивали солнечным светом, как острые куски
золота. "Ты слышишь что ветер тебе говорит?" спросил мистер Flores
после долгого молчания. Он поворачивал свою голову из стороны в
сторону, чтобы я могла полностью оценить его невероятную способность
шевелить ушами.
"Zamurito!"
вскрикнула я шёпотом, так как воспоминаниями заполнилась вся моя
голова. 'Zamurito',
маленький орлёнок было прозвище моего друга детства из Венесуэлы. У
мистера Flores
были такие же деликатные, похожие на птицу, черты лица, чёрные волосы и
горчичного цвета глаза. А его самой необыкновенной чертой было то, что
он мог двигать одним ухом или обоими. Я рассказала мистеру Flores о своём друге,
которого я знала с детского сада.
Во втором классе мы делили одну парту. На долгих переменах вместо того,
чтобы есть нашу еду на школьной территории, мы обычно сбегали наружу и
залезали на вершину ближайшего холма, чтобы есть в тени, что мы верили,
было самым большим манговым деревом в мире. Его нижние ветви касались
земли, а верхние касались облаков. Во время урожая мы бывало объедались
плодами манго.
Вершина холма была нашим любимым местом, пока однажды мы не нашли тело
школьного уборщика, висящего на высокой ветке. Мы не посмели двигаться
или плакать. Никто из нас не хотел опозориться друг перед другом. В тот
день мы на ветки не залезали, а попробовали есть нашу еду на земле,
практически под висячим мёртвым мужчиной, ожидая кто первый из нас
сломается. Первой была я, Zamurito
спросил меня шёпотом, "Ты когда-нибудь думала о смерти?" Я посмотрела
вверх на висельника и в этот момент ветер зашелестел ветками с с
незнакомой настойчивостью.
23
В шелесте
листьев я отчётливо слышала как мёртвый мужчина шептал мне, что смерть
успокаивала. Это было так неожиданно, что я встала и убежала с криком,
безразличная к тому, что Zamurito думает обо мне. "Ветер
заставил те ветки и листья говорить с тобой," сказал мистер Flores,
когда я закончила рассказ. Его голос был мягким и низким. Его золотые
глаза сверкали лихорадочным светом, когда он начал объяснять, что в
момент его смерти, в мгновенной вспышке воспоминания, чувства, эмоции
старого уборщика освободились и были поглощены манговым деревом. "Ветер заставил те
ветки и листья говорить с тобой," повторил мистер Flores. "Потому что
ветер - твой по праву."
Он мечтательно смотрел сквозь листья, его глаза искали что-то за полем,
растянувшимся далеко на Солнце. "Рождение женщиной даёт тебе право
командовать ветром," продолжал он. "Женщины этого не знают, но они
могут иметь диалог с ветром в любое время."
Ничего не понимая, я качала головой. "Я действительно не понимаю, о чём
вы говорите," сказала я и мой тон передал моё возрастающее
беспокойство.
"Это как сон. Если бы он не длился бесконечно, я могла бы поклясться,
что это один из моих кошмаров." Его долгое молчание раздражало меня и
я чувствовала, что моё лицо покраснело от раздражения. Что я здесь
делаю, сидя на дереве с этим сумасшедшим стариком, удивлялась я. И в то
же время
я была обеспокоена тем, что могу обидеть его. Я решила извиниться за
свою прямоту.
"Я
понимаю, что мои слова не имеют смысла для тебя," признался он. "Это
потому, что на тебе слишком много корки. Она не даёт тебе слышать, что
ветер говорит."
"Слишком
много корки?" спросила я озадаченно
и с подозрением спросила, "Вы имеете ввиду, что я грязная?"
"И это тоже," сказал он, заставив меня покраснеть. Он улыбнулся и
повторил, что я завёрнута в слишком толстую корку и что эту корку не
смоешь водой с мылом, неважно сколько ванн я приму. "Ты наполнена
осуждениями," объяснил он. "Они мешают тебе понять, что я тебе говорю и
что ветер - твой, чтобы повелевать им." Он оценивал меня узкими
критическими глазами. "Ну?" нетерпеливо требовал он.
24-25
Не успела я
понять, что происходит, как он взял мои руки и одним быстрым и плавным
движением крутанул меня и поставил на землю. Я подумала, что видела как
его руки и ноги растянулись как резиновые ленты. Это был мимолётный
образ, который я сразу же объяснила самой себе как зрительное искажение
из-за жары. Я не задумывалась над этим, так как в этот самый момент
меня отвлёк вид Делии Flores
и её друзей, раскидывающих на траве под деревом большую скатерть.
"Когда вы сюда пришли?" спросила я Делию, изумлённая, что не видела и
не слышала приближение группы.
"Мы собираемся устроить пикник в твою честь," сказала она. "Потому что
ты присоединилась к нам сегодня," добавила другая женщина.
"Как я к вам присоединилась?" спросила я испуганно. Я не видела кто
говорил и смотрела то на одну, то на другую, ожидая, что кто-нибудь
объяснит мне эти слова.
Равнодушные
к моему растущему беспокойству, женщины занимались скатертью, стараясь
хорошенько расправить её на траве. Чем дольше я наблюдала за ними, тем
больше беспокоилась. Я легко могла объяснить, почему я приняла
приглашение Делии посетить знахарку, но я совсем не могла понять все
мои последующие действия. Это как-будто кто-то ещё взял в свои руки мои
рациональные решения и способности, заставив меня остаться здесь,
действовать, говорить то, что я и не думала. А сейчас они они
собираются праздновать в мою честь. Это было, по меньшей мере,
подозрительно. Сколько
бы я об этом не думала, я не могла понять, что я здесь делаю. "Я
определённо не заслуживаю ничего такого," пробормотала я, моё немецкое
воспитание дало себя знать. "Обычно люди не делают ничего для других
просто так." Только после того, как я услышала весёлый смех
Mariano Aureliano, я поняла, что они все уставились на меня.
"Нет
причины так ломать голову над тем, что происходит с тобой сегодня,"
сказал он, мягко постукивая меня по плечу. "Мы устраиваем пикник,
потому что мы любим делать вещи в самый последний момент. И так как
тебя сегодня вылечила Esperanza, моим друзьям
нравиться назвать пикник в твою честь."
Он говорил расслабленно, почти равнодушно, как-будто он говорил о
чём-то тривиальном. Но его глаза говорили о чём-то другом: они были
серьёзными и решительными, как-будто это было жизненно-необходимым,
чтобы я внимательно его слушала. "Моим друзьям это в радость, что
пикник в твою честь," продолжал он. "Прими это так как они его
называют, просто и без предварительной подготовки." Его глаза
смягчились, когда он посмотрел на женщин, затем он повернулся ко мне и
добавил задумчиво, "Уверяю тебя, что пикник вовсе не в твою честь. И
всё-таки, он в твою честь. Это противоречие, которое возьмёт время,
чтобы понять."
"Я никого не просила что-то делать для меня," ответила я мрачным тоном.
Я становилась слишком грубой, и так было всегда, когда чувствовала
угрозу.
"Делия привезла меня сюда и я ей благодарна." тут я почувствовала
желание добавить, "и я хочу заплатить за все услуги, сделанные мне."
Я не сомневалась, что оскорбила их, и знала, что в любую минуту меня
попросят уйти. Кроме как задеть моё достоинство, это меня беспокоить не
будет.
Я была напугана и с меня их всех было достаточно. К моему полному
удивлению и досаде, они не приняли меня всерьёз. Они смеялись надо
мной, и чем злее я становилась, тем круче было их веселье. Их
сверкающие, смеющиеся глаза были зафиксированны на мне, как-будто я
была незнакомый организм.
Гнев заставил меня забыть мой страх. Я накинулась на них, обвиняя их в
том, что они принимали меня за дуру. Я кричала, что Делия и её муж - не
знаю почему я настаивала на их союзе - сыграли надо мной злую шутку.
"Это ты меня привезла сюда," сказала я, повернувшись к Делии, "чтобы ты
и твои друзья могли смеяться надо мной как над клоуном." И чем больше я
вопила, тем больше они смеялись. Я чуть не расплакалась от жалости к
себе, от злости и досады, когда Mariano
Aureliano
подошёл и встал рядом со мной. Он начал разговаривать со мной как с
ребёнком. Я хотела сказать ему, что могу о себе позаботиться сама, что
мне его симпатии не нужны и что я хочу домой, когда что-то в его тоне и
в его глазах успокоило меня так сильно. Я была уверена, что он меня
гипнотезирует. И всё-таки у меня было чувство, что он этого не делал.
Что было незнакомым и раздражительным для меня так это внезапность и
полнота моей перемены. То что обычно могло взять дни, произошло за
секунду: всю свою жизнь я потакала своим прихотям типа - оскорбления
моего достоинства или внешности (настоящие или воображаемые) и от этого
страдала. С систематической тщательностью я рассматривала проблемы,
пока каждая деталь не будет иметь хорошего объяснения к моему полному
удовлетворению.
26-27
Когда я смотрела на Mariano
Aureliano, то хотелось смеяться над моей предыдущей выходкой. Я с
трудом могла вспомнить, что это было, что взбесило меня и почти довело
до слёз. Делия потянула меня за руку и попросила помочь остальным
женщинам распаковать фарфоровые тарелки, хрустальные бокалы и ажурные
серебрянные приборы из разных корзин, которые они принесли. Женщины не
разговаривали ни со мной, ни между собой. Только небольшие вздохи
удовольствия соскальзывали с их губ, когда Mariano Aureliano
открывал блюда с едой. Там были tamales, enchiladas, острый
чили соус и руками сделанные tortillas - не мучные,
как обычно пекли в Северной Мексике и к которым я была
равнодушна, а кукурузные
tortillas. Делия протянула мне тарелку с небольшим количеством всего. Я
с жадностью всё съела и закончила раньше всех. "Это самая вкусная еда,
которую я когда-либо пробовала," вывалила я, надеясь получить добавки,
но никто не предложил. Чтобы спрятать своё разочарование, я похвалила
красоту старинных кружав на краях скатерти, на которой мы сидели.
"Я их
связала," сказала женщина, сидящая слева от Mariano Aureliano.
Она выглядела старой с неопрятными серыми волосами, которые прятали её
лицо. Несмотря на жару на ней была длинная юбка, блузка и свитер. "Это
настоящее бельгийское кружево," объяснила она мне мягким, мечтательным
голосом. Её длинные тонкие руки, сверкающие экзотическими ювелирными
кольцами, покоились на широкой оборке. В подробных деталях она
объяснила мне свою ручную работу, показывая типы стежков и ниток,
которые она использовала на оборке. Время от времени я ловила
мимолётный образ её лица через всю эту копну волос, но так и не смогла
понять как она выглядела. "Это настоящее
бельгийское кружево," повторила она. "Это часть моего
особого гардероба для невесты: это - Baccarat."
Я не сомневалась, что кружева такими и были. Красивые тарелки - все
разные - были из лучшего фарфора. Мне было интересно, если мой
незаметный взгляд под тарелки заметят, и тут женщина, сидевшая справа
от Mariano
Aureliano посоветовала мне это сделать. "Не стесняйся, смотри,"
подбадривала она меня. "Ты среди друзей." Посмеиваясь она подняла свою
собственную тарелку. "Limoges (fine porcelain
made in
France, Limoges ware)," произнесла она, затем
ненадолго подняла мою тарелку и заметила, что тарелка была марки Rosenthal.
У этой женщины были детские, деликатные черты лица. Она была маленькой
с круглыми чёрными глазами и густыми ресницами. Волосы тоже были
чёрными, кроме макушки, которая поседела, они были причёсаны назад в
маленький пучок. В ней была сила, острота, что было довольно неприятно,
так как она пугала меня своими прямыми личными вопросами. Я не
возражала против её инквизиторского тона. Я привыкла к бомбардировке
вопросами со стороны моего отца и моих братьев, когда я ходила на
свидания или отчитывалась о любой моей собственной деятельности. Я
ненавидела это, но это было нормально дома. Таким образом я никогда не
научилась как разговаривать. Разговором для меня была обмена вербальных
атак, и защитой себя во что бы то ни стало. Меня удивило, когда
насильный допрос этой женщины сразу же не заставил меня защищаться.
"Ты замужем?" спросила женщина.
"Нет," сказала я тихо, но твёрдо желая, чтобы она сменила тему
разговора.
"У тебя есть парень?" настаивала она.
"Нет," ответила я, начиная чувствовать пробуждение моей старой,
постоянно защищающей себя, персоны.
"У тебя есть парень, к которму ты неравнодушна?" продолжала она. "Какие
черты характера ты предпочитаешь в мужчине?"
На момент я подумала, что она смеётся надо мной, но она казалась
действительно заинтересованной, также как и её подруги. Их
любознательные, ждущие лица расслабили меня. Забыв свою воинственную
натуру и что эти женщины мне годились в бабушки, я болтала с ними
как-будто они были подругами моего возраста, мы обсуждали мужчин. "Он
должен быть высоким и красивым," начала я. "У него должно быть чувство
юмора. Он должен быть чувствительным, но не слабым и нестабильным. Он
должен быть умным, но не интелликтуалом." Я снизила голос и
доверительно добавила, "Мой отец бывало говорил, что интелликтуалы
слабы до предела, и предатели - все они."
"Это всё, что ты бы хотела в мужчине?" спросила женщина.
"Нет," спешила я ответить. "Но прежде всего, мужчина моей мечты должен
быть атлетом."
28-29
"Как твой
отец," вставила одна из женщин.
"Естественно," сказала я в свою защиту. "Мой отец был великим атлетом;
легендарный лыжник и пловец."
"Ты с ним ладила?" спросила она.
"Прекрасно," с энтузиазмом ответила я. "Я его обожаю. Даже мысль о нём
наворачивает слёзы на глаза."
"Почему ты не с ним?"
"Я очень похожа на него," объяснила я. "Есть во мне что-то, что я не
понимаю и не контролирую, это толкает меня прочь."
"А как насчёт твоей матери?"
"Моя мать," вздохнула я и остановилась на момент подыскать слова,
чтобы лучше описать её. "Она очень сильная. Она - трезвая часть
меня, молчаливая часть, которая не нуждается в поддержке."
"Ты очень близка к своим родителям?"
"В душе, да," тихо сказала я. "Но на практике, я - одиночка. У меня нет
много связей." Затем, как-будто что-то внутри меня рвалось наружу, я
открыла проблему своей персоны, о которой я не могла, даже в моменты
критического личного самоанализа, признаться
самой себе. "Я скорее использую людей, чем забочусь и ценю их," сказала
я, потом сразу же поправила себя, произнеся, "Но я вполне способна
чувствовать симпатию." Я переводила взгляд с одной, на другую,
чувствуя то разочарование, то облегчение. Никто из них казалось, не
придавал значения моим откровениям. Женщины продолжали спрашивать, могу
ли я описать себя храбрым человеком или трусом. "Я - закоренелый трус,"
объявила я. "Но, к сожалению, моя трусость меня никогда не
останавливает."
"Останавливает от чего?" поинтересовалась женщина, которая спрашивала
меня. Её чёрные глаза были серьёзными и широкий разлёт её бровей как
одна линия, нарисованная куском угля, нахмурился.
"От совершения опасных вещей," ответила я. Довольная от того, что они,
казалось, внимательно слушали каждое моё слово, я объяснила, другой
моей серьёзной проблемой была огромная лёгкость попадать в беду.
"В какую беду ты попала, о которой ты можешь нам рассказать?" спросила
она. Её лицо, которое было очень серьёзным всё это время, расплылось в
сверкающую, почти злобную улыбку.
"А как насчёт беды, в которой я нахожусь сейчас?" отпарировала я
полу-шутя, и всё-таки думая, что они могут не так меня понять. К моему
удивлению и облегчению они все засмеялись и закричали, как сельчане
привыкли это делать, когда что-то смешное или смелое удивляет их.
"Как ты оказалась в США?" спросила женщина, когда
они все успокоились. Я вскинула плечи, точно не зная, что ответить.
"Я хотела пойти в школу," наконец пробормотала я. "Сначала я поехала в
Англию, но там я ничего особенного не делала, кроме как хорошо провела
время. Я и в правду не знаю, что я хочу изучать. Думаю, что я в поисках
чего-то, хотя точно не знаю чего."
"Это ведёт нас обратно к моему первому вопросу," сказала женщина. Её
тонкое живое лицо и, как у животного, тёмные выразительные глаза
пронзили меня. "Ты ищешь мужчину?"
"Может быть ищу," призналась я, затем нетерпеливо добавила, "Какая
женщина не ищет? И почему вы меня допрашиваете об этом так настойчиво?
У вас кто-то на уме? Или это какой-то тест?"
"У нас есть кое-кто в голове," вмешалась Делия
Flores. "Но это - не мужчина." Она и другие засмеялись и завизжали с
таким детским задором, что я не устояла и тоже стала посмеиваться.
"Это определённо тест," заверила меня любопытная женщина, как только
все успокоились. Она замолчала на момент, глаза наблюдали и оценивали.
"Из того, что ты мне сказала, я могу сделать вывод, что ты - типичный
средний класс," продолжала она. Она широко раскинула руки, жестом
показывая согласие под давлением. "Но тогда, кем ещё немецкая женщина,
рождённая в Новом Мире, может быть (в Венесуэле)?" Она увидела гнев на
моём лице и, с едва заметной скрытой усмешкой на губах, добавила. "У
людей среднего класса - мечты среднего класса."
Видя, что я вот-вот взорвусь, Mariano Aureliano
объяснил,
что она задавала мне все эти вопросы просто потому, что им интересно
знать обо мне. Очень редко у них появляются визитёры, а ещё реже -
молодые.
"Это не значит, что меня нужно оскорблять," пожаловалась я. Игнорируя
мои слова,
Mariano Aureliano продолжал извиняться за женщин. Его мягкий тон и
обезаруживающее похлопывание по спине погасило мой гнев, также как и до
этого.
30-31
Его улыбка была такой трогательной, что я ни на минуту не сомневалась в
его искренности, когда он начал льстить мне. Он сказал, что я была
одной из самых экстра-ординарных, замечательных людей, которых они
когда-либо встречали. На меня это произвело такое огромное впечатление,
что я воодушивила его спрашивать что-угодно обо мне.
"Ты чувствуешь себя важной?" спросил он и я кивнула.
"Мы все чувствуем себя важными," заявила я. "Да, я чувствую себя важной
не в обычном понимании, а только для себя самой." Я долго
разглагольствовала о позитивном самоутверждении, о ценности своего образа и как
жизненно необходимо было подкреплять этот образ, чтобы быть физически
здоровыми индивидуами.
"А что ты думаешь о женщинах?" спросил он. "Как ты думаешь: они более
или менее важны, чем мужчины?"
"Вполне очевидно, что мужчины более важны," заявила я. "У женщин нет
выбора. Им приходится быть менее важными, чтобы семейная жизнь текла
гладко, как говорится."
"Но правильно ли это?" настаивал Mariano
Aureliano.
"Ну конечно правильно," объявила я. "Мужчины по рождению превосходят
женщин, поэтому они властвуют миром. Меня воспитал властный отец, кто,
хотя и воспитал меня также свободно как и моих братьев, тем не менее
дал мне понять, что определённые вещи не так важны для женщины. Вот
поэтому я не знаю, что делать в школе и что я хочу от жизни." Я
посмотрела на Mariano
Aureliano, затем побеждённым, беспомощным тоном добавила, "Наверно я
ищу мужчину, кто также уверен в себе, как мой отец."
"Она - пустышка !" вставила одна из женщин.
"Нет, нет, она не пустышка," заверил всех Mariano Aureliano. "Она
просто смущена и имеет своё мнение, как и её отец."
"Её немецкий отец," мистер Flores
смело поправил его, подчеркнув слово - немецкий. Он спустился с дерева
как лист, мягко и безвучно, и положил себе в тарелку приличное
количество еды.
"Как же ты прав," согласился
Mariano Aureliano и улыбнулся. "Быть такого высокого мнения о себе, как
её отец, ей просто приходится повторять, что она слышала всю свою
жизнь."
Мой гнев, который то поднимался, то угасал как какая-то мистическая
лихорадка, был как раз кстати, потому что они говорили обо мне,
как-будто я не присуствовала.
"Её невозможно спасти," сказала другая женщина.
"Она подойдёт на всякий случай," убеждённо защищал меня
Mariano Aureliano. Мистер Flores
поддержал Mariano
Aureliano. И только женщина, которая до сих пор молчала, ответила
низким сильным голосом, что она согласна с мужчинами; что я подойду на всякий
случай. Она была высокой и тонкой.
Её бледное лицо, удлинённое и суровое, было окаймлено седыми косами и
светилось большими яркими глазами. Несмотря на её поношенные одежды, в
ней была врождённая элегантность.
"Что вы все делаете со мной?"
выкрикнула я, не в силах больше сдерживать себя. "Вы что, не понимаете
как ужасно для меня слышать, как вы обсуждаете меня в моём присуствии?"
Mariano
Aureliano остановил свои свирепые глаза на мне, "Тебя здесь нет,"
сказал он тоном, в котором отсуствовали всякие чувства. "По
крайней мере пока. И что самое важное: ты - не считаешься. Ни сейчас,
ни когда-либо."
Я почти потеряла сознание от гнева. Со мной так грубо и с таким
безразличием к моим чувствам, никто никогда не разговаривал. "Я писию и
какаю на всех вас, проклятые пердуны!" орала я.
"Боже! Немецкая тыква!" воскликнул Mariano
Aureliano, и они все засмеялись. Я уже собралась было подпрыгнуть и
убежать, когда
Mariano
Aureliano похлопал меня по спине несколько раз. "Ну, ну," бормотал он,
как-будто помогая ребёнку отрыгнуться. И как прежде, вместо
негодования, что ко мне относились как к ребёнку, мой гнев испарился. Я
себя чувствовала лёгкой и счастливой. Недоумённо раскачивая головой, я
смотрела на них и хихикала.
Я
научилась говорить на испанском," сказала я, "на улицах Каракаса с
уличными бандами. Я могу ужасно ругаться."
"Разве ты не любишь сладкие tamales?" спросила Делия,
закрыв глаза в деликатном предвкушении. Её вопрос казался знаком:
допрос закончился.
32-33
"Конечно она
хочет (tamales)!" ответил мистер Flores за меня. "Она
только и хочет, чтобы ей дали больше. У неё ненасытный апетит." Он
подошёл и сел рядом со мной. "Mariano Aureliano
превзошёл себя и приготовил шедевр."
"Вы имеете ввиду, что он готовит еду?" спросила я в недоумении. "У него
есть все эти женщины и он готовит?" Испугавшись, что мои слова
неправильно поймут, я поторопилась извиниться. Я объяснила, что меня
очень удивило, что мексиканский мужчина готовит дома, когда есть
женщины. Их смех заставил меня понять, что я также не имела это ввиду.
"Особенно если эти женщины - его женщины?" спросил мистер Flores и
его слова раскидал общий смех. "Ты совершенно права," продолжал он,
"Все они - женщины Mariano. Или
точнее, Mariano принадлежит им." Он воодушевлённо
хлопнул себя по коленке, затем повернулся к самой высокой женщине, той,
кто говорила только раз, и сказал, "Почему ты не расскажешь ей о нас?"
"Несомненно у мистера Aureliano нет столько жён," начала я, всё ещё
напуганная своим неприятным публичным выступлением.
"Почему нет?" отпарировала женщина и все снова рассмеялись. Это был
радостный молодой смех и всё-таки мне стало неловко. "Мы все здесь
связаны вместе нашей борьбой, нашей глубокой привязанностью друг к
другу, и идеей, что друг без друга ничего невозможно," сказала она.
"Вы, случайно, не религиозная группа?" спросила я голосом, выдававшим
мою растущую настороженность. "Может вы принадлежите какому-нибудь
сообществу?"
"Мы
принадлежим Могуществу," ответила женщина. "мои друзья и я - наследники
древней традиции. Мы - часть мифа." Я ничего не поняла, что она
сказала, и смущённо смотрела на всех. Их глаза уставились на меня. Они
наблюдали за мной со странной смесью ожидания и развлечения. Я перевела
своё внимание снова на высокую женщину. Она тоже наблюдала за мной с
тем же странным выражением. Её глаза были такими яркими, что искрились.
Она наклонилась над своим хрустальным бокалом и со вкусом попивала
воду. "Мы, в сущности, бестелесные путешественники," мягко объяснила
она.
"Все мы сейчас - в полёте и из-за того, что ты к нам попала, ты тоже в
полёте с нами." Она так гладко выразилась, что я и в правду не поняла,
что она сказала.
"Вы имеете ввиду, что я сплю и во сне с вами?" спросила я в притворном
недоумении. Я закусила губу, чтобы подавить смех, бурливший во мне.
"Это не совсем то, что ты делаешь, но достаточно близко," призналась
она, не обращая внимания на мой нервный смешок, и продолжила объяснять,
что то, что случилось со мной, было больше похоже на экстра-ординарный
сон, где все они помогали мне своей помощью (Dreaming my
Dream).
"Но это идиот---," начала я, но она, взмахом руки, заставила меня
замолчать.
"Мы все в одном и том
же полёте," заверила она меня. Казалось её несла радость, что я не
смогла понять.
"А
как насчёт вкусной еды, которую я только что съела?" спросила я,
ища чили соус, который попал на мою блузку. Я показала ей пятна от
него. "Это не может быть сном, эту еду я ела!" настаивала я громким
нервным тоном. "Я сама это ела."
Она холодно взирала на меня, как-будто она ждала такого выступления, и
таким же тоном спросила. "А как насчёт того, что мистер Flores поднял тебя на
вершину эквалиптового дерева?" Я уже собиралась сказать ей, что мистер Flores не поднял меня на вершину эквалиптового
дерева, а только на ветку, как она прошептала, "Ты об этом подумала?"
"Нет, не подумала," трусливо ответила я.
"Конечно, не подумала,"
согласилась она, кивая головой со знанием дела, как-будто она
осознавала, что в тот момент я вспомнила, что даже самую низкую ветвь
любого из окружающих деревьев невозможно было достичь с земли. Затем
она сказала, что причина почему я не подумала об этом, была в том, что
в полёте у нас логика отсуствует. "В полёте мы можем только
действовать," подчеркнула она.
"Подожди минутку," перебила я её. "Признаюсь, у меня может быть немного
кружится голова. Всё-таки, вы и ваши друзья - самые странные люди,
каких
я когда-либо встречала. И я в полном бодрствовании, в каком только
можно быть." Видя, что она смеётся надо мной, я крикнула, "Это - не
сон!"
34-35
Незаметным кивком головы она дала понять мистеру Flores, кто одним
быстрым движением достиг моей руки и пропеллером взлетел со мной на
ветку ближайшего эквалиптового
дерева. На момент мы присели там и до того, как я успела что-то
сказать, он стащил меня обратно на землю, на то же место, где мы
сидели. "Ты видишь, что я имею ввиду?" спросила высокая женщина.
"Нет, я не
вижу," вскрикнула я, зная, что у меня галюцинация. Мой страх перешёл в
гнев и я выкрикнула поток самых грязных проклятий. Мой гнев иссяк, меня
обуяла волна жалости к себе и я начала плакать. "Что вы люди делаете со
мной?" спрашивала я между всхлипованиями. "Вы что-то положили в еду или
в воду?"
"Мы ничего
подобного не сделали," мягко ответила высокая женщина. "Тебе ничего не
нужно..." я с трудом могла её слышать: слёзы были как какая-то тёмная
полупрозрачная тюль, которая затуманивала её лицо и также её слова.
"Держись," услышала я её слова, хотя больше не видела ни её, ни её
друзей.
"Подожди, не просыпайся ещё!" Было что-то такое сильное в её тоне, я
знала, что моя жизнь зависила от того, увижу ли я её снова. С какой-то
неведомой и совершенно неожиданной силой я прорвалась через пелену
своих слёз и услышала звук мягкого хлопка. И тогда я их увидела, они
улыбались, их глаза сверкали так ярко, их зрачки какзалось горели
каким-то внутренним огнём. Я извинилась за свой ужасный выпад сначала
перед женщинами и потом перед двумя мужчинами, но они как-будто и не
слышали. Они только сказали, что я прекрасно всё исполнила.
Мы - живые части мифа,"
сказал Mariano Aureliano. Он
поджал губы и стал дуть в воздух. "Я унесу тебя к человеку, который
держит миф в своих руках.
Он поможет тебе объяснить всё это."
"И кто это мог бы быть?" спросила я с сарказмом. Я собиралась спросить
будет ли он таким же властным, как и мой отец, но Mariano
Aureliano помешал мне.
Он всё ещё дул в воздух, его белые волосы встали дыбом, щёки покраснели
и расширились. Как-будто в ответ его стараниям, лёгкийерок стал веять в
эквалиптовых
деревьях. Он кивнул, возможно осознавая мои молчаливые мысли и
смущение. Деликатно, он повернул меня лицом к горам
Bacatete. Ветерок превратился в ветер, такой холодный и свирепый,
что трудно было дышать. Казалось пластичным раскрученным движением
высокая женщина поднялась, схватила мою руку и потащила меня с собой по
вспаханным бороздам. Мы пришли к неожиданной остановке посреди поля. Я
могла поклясться, что своими вытянутыми руками она создавала спираль из
пыли и упавших листьев, крутящихся вдали.
"В
полёте всё возможно," прошептала она. Смеясь, я раскрыла свои руки,
сигналя ветру. Пыль и листья танцевали вокруг нас с такой силой, что
всё смешалось перед глазами. Высокая женщина вдруг оказалась далеко, её
тело растворялось в красноватом свете, пока оно совершенно не исчезло
из поля зрения. И затем темнота заполнила мою голову.
Часть
3
36-37
Для
меня в тот момент было невозможно определить был ли пикник сном или он
действительно произошёл. Я не могла вспомнить все события, в которых я
учавствовала, в полной последовательности с того момента, когда заснула
на кровати в приёмной. Моим другим ясным воспоминанием было то, что
я обнаружила себя разговаривающей за столом с Делией в той же самой
комнате. Знакомая с подобными провалами в памяти, которые случались в
моём детстве, я сначала не заметила разницы. Ребёнком, жаждущим
поиграть, я часто полуспящей вылезала из постели и незаметно исчезала
из дома через металлическую решётку окна. Много раз я и в самом деле
просыпалась на площади и играла с другими детьми, кого так рано не
клали в постель как меня.
У меня не было сомнения, что пикник был настоящим, хотя я и не могла
сразу найти ему место во временной последовательности. Я старалась
размышлять, восстанавливать события, но меня пугала мысль исследовать
мои провалы в памяти. Что-то во мне останавливало распросить Делию о её
друзьях, и она также не предлагала никакой информации. Однако я
спросила её о лечебных сеансах, которые я знала, были в полёте.
"У меня был такой оригинальный сон о знахарке," начала я осторожно.
"Она не только сказала мне своё имя, но и заверила меня, что она
заставила все мои кошмары улетучиться."
"Это не был сон," заявила
Делия, её тон явно указывал на её недовольство. Она уставилась на меня
так пристально, что это заставило меня нервно двигаться и вообще
сбежать. "Знахарка сказала тебе своё имя," продолжала она. "И она
естественно вылечила тебя от твоих ночных страданий."
"Но это был сон," настаивала я. "В моём сне знахарка была ростом с
ребёнка. Она не могла быть реальной."
Делия достигла стакана с водой на столе, но пить не стала. Она крутила
его вокруг, не проронив ни одной капли, потом посмотрела на меня
светящимися глазами. "Знахарка просто создала впечатление, что она
маленькая, вот и всё," сказала она, кивая самой себе, как-будто эта
идея только что пришла к ней в голову и она нашла её
удовлетворительной. Она попивала свою воду медленными шумными глотками
и её глаза становились мягче и отражались.
"Ей пришлось стать маленькой, чтобы вылечить тебя."
"Ей пришлось
стать маленькой? Вы имеете ввиду, что я только её
видела маленькой?" Делия закивала, потом нагнулась ко мне и прошептала,
"Понимаешь, ты была в полёте. И всё же это не был полёт. Знахарка
правда пришла к тебе и вылечила тебя, но ты не была здесь, где ты
сейчас."
"Да ладно, Делия," возразила я. "О чём ты говоришь? Я знаю, что это был
сон. Я всегда полностью осознаю, что я в полёте, даже если полёты
абсолютно реальные для меня. В этом моя болезнь, помнишь?"
"Может быть сейчас, после того как она тебя вылечила, это уже не твоя
болезнь, а твой талант," предположила Делия, улыбаясь. "Но вернёмся к
твоему вопросу, знахарке пришлось стать маленькой как ребенок, потому
что ты была совсем маленькой когда твои кошмары начались." Её заявление
было настолько абсурдным, что я даже не могла смеяться.
"И сейчас я здорова?" спросила я пренебрежительно.
"Да," заверила она меня.
"Во время полёта
без тела лечение достигается с
лёгкостью, почти без усилий. Но что трудно так это - заставить людей
летать без тела.
"Трудно?" спросила я грубым
тоном, что я не ожидала. "Все видят сны. Мы все должны спать, не так
ли?"
Делия, передразнивая меня, закатила глаза к потолку, потом уставилась
на меня и сказала, "Те сны - не те полёты, о которых я толкую. Те -
обычные сны,
полёты имют цель, а обычные сны цели не имеют."
38-39
"Нет, они имеют!" я
страстно не соглашалась с ней, затем начала длинную и обвинительную
критику психологической важности снов. Упомянула работы по психологии,
философии и искусству. На Делию мои знания не произвели никакого
впечатления. Она согласилась со мной, что обычные сны должно быть
помогают человеку сохранить умственные способности, но настаивала на
том, что это в данный момент её не интересует.
"Полёты имеют цель, а обычные сны
цели не имеют," повторила
она.
"Какую цель, Делия?" сказала я покровительно. Она поворачивала свою
голову в стороны, как-будто она хотела спрятать своё лицо от меня.
Через мгновение она снова взглянула на меня. Что-то холодное и
безразличное показалось в её глазах и смена выражения лица стало таким
беспощадным, что
я испугалась.
"Полёты (Dreaming) всегда имеет практическую цель," объявила она. "Он
служит человеку простыми и замысловатыми путями. Он (Dreaming -
самогипноз) имеет цель, (Dreaming) помог тебе избавиться от проблем со
сном. (Dreaming) помог Колдуньям на пикнике узнать твою сущность.
Полёт (Dreaming) помог мне закрыть себя от взоров патруля
иммиграционной охраны, которая требовала от тебя твою туристическую
карту."
"Я пытаюсь понять что ты говоришь, Дэлия," пробормотала я,
затем уверенно спросила: "Ты имеешь ввиду, что вы, люди, можете
гипнотизировать других против их воли?"
"Ты можешь это так называть,
если хочешь," сказала она. Лицо её выражало спокойное безразличие и
почти никакой симпатии. "Ты пока не видишь, что ты сама можешь
совершенно без усилий войти в то, что ты называешь гипнотическим
состоянием. Мы называем это Dreaming - самогипноз; Dreaming -
самогипноз - это не сон
(где ты не участвуешь! ЛМ); Dreaming это -
самогипноз, в котором мы можем делать почти всё, что пожелаем."
Делия почти
убедила меня, но у меня не было слов, которыми я могла бы выразить свои
мысли, свои чувства. Я уставилась на неё, поражённая. Вдруг
я вспомнила событие из своей юности. Когда мне наконец разрешили уроки
вождения в джипе моего отца, я удивила мою семью, показывая им, что я
уже знаю как переводить скорости. Я это делала годами в своих снах. С
уверенностью, которая изумляла даже меня саму, во время моей первой
вылазки
я поехала на джипе по старой дороге из Каракаса в La Guayra, порт у моря.
Я засомневалась: рассказать ли Делия об этом эпизоде, и вместо этого
спросила её о росте знахарки.
"Она
невысокая женщина, но и не маленькая, как ты видела. В её лечебном
полёте, она проэктировала свой маленький размер ради тебя и пока она
делала, она была маленькой. Это - свойство магии. Тебе приходится быть
кем ты захотела, чтобы создать впечатление."
"Она - маг?" спросила я. Мысль, что все они работают в цирке, что они
часть какого-то магического шоу, проносилась у меня в голове в разное
время.
Это объяснило бы так много вещей о них, думала я.
"Нет, она - не маг," сказала Дэлия. "Она - Колдунья." Делия взглянула на меня с таким
негодованием, что я постыдилась своего вопроса. "Маги, фокусники в
шоу," объяснила она, глядя пронзительно на меня. "Колдуны находятся в мире, не являясь
частью мира." Она долго молчала, потом вздохнула. "Ты хочешь сейчас
увидеть Esperanza?" спросила она.
"Да," с радостью ответила я. "Я бы очень этого хотела." Возможность,
что знахарка была реальной, а не сном, вскружила мне голову. Я не
совсем доверяла Делии и и всё-таки мне очень хотелось верить ей. Мои
мысли дико неслись. Неожиданно я поняла, что не сказала Делии, что
знахарку в моём сне звали Esperanza. Я настолько углубилась
в свои мысли, что не заметила как Делия сказала, "Извини, что ты
сказала?"
"Единственно
как ты можешь разобраться во всём этом, это вернуть полёт (Dreaming) обратно," продолжала она. Тихо
смеясь, она помахала рукой, как-
будто она сигналила кому-то придти. Её слова не имели никакого смысла
для меня, у меня уже были другие мысли. Esperanza
была настоящей и я была уверена, что она мне всё объяснит.
Кроме этого, её на пикнике не было. Она не относилась ко мне так плохо,
как другие женщины. У меня была смутная надежда, что я нравилась Esperanza
и эта мысль как-то усилила моё доверие. Чтобы скрыть свои чувства от
Делии, я ей сказала, что мне ужасно хочется увидеть знахарку. "Мне
хочется поблагодарить её и конечно заплатить ей за всё, что она для
меня сделала."
"Уже
заплачено," заявила Делия. Насмешка в её глазах показала, что она знала
все мои мысли.
40-41
"Что ты имеешь ввиду, уже заплачено," спросила я,
неожиданно вырвавшимся тонким голосом. "Кто это оплатил?"
"Это
трудно объяснить," осторожно начала Делия, что моментально расслабило
меня. "Это всё началось на вечеринке твоих друзей в Nogales, где я быстро
тебя заметила."
"Неужели?" сказала я, ожидая услышать какой-нибудь комплимент на мой,
со вкусом выбранный, гардероб. Наступило неловкое молчание. Глаза
Делии, закрытые полуопущенными веками, мне не были видны. Но было
что-то спокойное, правда странное и раздражительное, в её голосе, когда
она сказала, что заметила в отношении меня. Каждый раз, когда мне
приходилось разговаривать с бабушкой моей подруги, я казалась
рассеянной, как-будто спящей.
"Рассеянной
- это ещё мягко сказано,"
ответила я. "Ты понятия не имеешь через чего мне пришлось пройти; что
только мне не пришлось делать, чтобы убедить эту старуху, что я не
исчадие ада." Казалось Делия не слышала меня.
"Я тут же поняла, что тебе даются полёты с невероятной лёгкостью,"
продолжала она. "Поэтому я следовала за тобой по всему дому и наблюдала
за тобой в действии. Ты не совсем осознавала, что делала и что
говорила. Тем не менее ты прекрасно справлялась: болтала, смеялась,
врала напропалую, только чтобы всем понравиться."
"Ты обзываешь меня вруньей?" спросила я в шутку, не скрывая обиду, и
ощутила желание разозлиться. Стала смотреть на кувшин с водой на столе,
пока это желание не исчезло.
"Я бы не посмела назвать тебя лгуньей," произнесла Делия довольно
драматично. "Я бы назвала тебя - Dreamer (внетелесная
путешественница)."
В её голосе слышалась увесистая серьёзность, а в глазах сверкали
весёлые смешинки с дружественным желанием натворить бед, когда она
сказала, "Колдуны, кто вырастил
меня, говорили мне: неважно, что говорят, важно, что тот, кто говорит,
имеет достаточно силы сказать это." Её голос передавал такой
энтузиазм и одобрение, что я была уверена: кто-то за дверью явно
подслушивает нас. "И способ заполучить эту силу," сказала она. "идёт из
полётов (Dreaming). Ты этого не знаешь,
потому что делаешь это естественно, когда ты в трудном положении, твой
разум направляется в полёт."
Чтобы поменять тему, я спросила, "Делия, тебя воспитали Колдуны?"
"Конечно," объявила она как-будто это было вполне естественно в нашем
мире.
"Твои родители были Колдунами?"
"Нет," ответила она и хихикнула. "Колдуны однажды нашли меня и с тех
пор воспитали меня."
"Сколько лет тебе было, ты была ребёнком?" Делия засмеялась, как-будто
своим вопросом я достигла пика в юморе.
"Нет, я не была ребёнком, я наверно была твоего возраста, когда они
нашли меня и начали воспитывать."
"Что ты имеешь ввиду: они начали воспитывать тебя?" Делия смотрела на
меня, но её глаза на мне не фокусировались. Какой-то момент я думала,
что она меня не слышала, а если и слышала, то не хочет отвечать. Я
повторила вопрос, но она только встряхнула плечами и улыбнулась.
"Они воспитывали меня также, как
воспитывают ребёнка," наконец выдала она. "Неважно какой у тебя
возраст: в их мире ты - ребёнок!"
Вдруг испугавшись, что нас могут подслушать, я посмотрела через плечо и
прошептала, "Делия, кто они, эти Колдуны?"
"Это очень трудный вопрос. Сейчас я даже не могу начать отвечать на
него. Всё, что я могу тебе сказать о них, это то, что они сказали мне:
никогда не лги, чтобы тебе верили."
"Тогда почему нужно врать?" спросила я.
"Просто ради удовольствия," быстро отпарировала Делия, затем встала со
стула и пошла к двери, ведущей во двор. Прежде чем выйти наружу,
она повернулась и ухмыляясь спросила, "Тебе известно такое выражение:
если ты не лжёшь, чтобы тебе верили, ты можешь сказать всё, что угодно,
независимо от того, что о тебе подумают."
"Я такое выражение никогда не слышала." Я подозревала, что она его сама
выдумала: это было похоже на неё. "Прежде всего, я не понимаю, что ты
стараешься сказать," отчеканила я официально.
"Уверена, что ты понимаешь," сказала она, глядя на меня сквозь пряди
своих чёрных волос. Указывая подбородком, она попросила меня следовать
за ней. "Пошли, сейчас увидим
Esperanza."
Я подпрыгнула и поспешила за ней и тут же резко остановилась у двери.
Яркость Солнца снаружи на момент ослепила меня, я стояла там и
удивлялась тому, что случилось. Казалось, что время остановилось с тех
пор, как я бежала через поле за мистером Flores. Солнце, как и
тогда, было всё ещё в зените.
42-43
Я заметила красную юбку Делии, когда она заворачивала за угол и
поспешила за ней сквозь каменную арку, которая вела на великолепное
патио. Сначала
я ничего не видела на патио: таким сильным был контраст
между сияющим солнечным светом и тёмными тенями. Затаив дыхание, я
просто стояла там совершенно неподвижно, вдыхая влажный воздух. Он был
ароматным с запахом цветов апельсина, цветного горошка и honeysuckle.
Ползущие побеги, казалось, спускались с неба, цветной горошек выглядел
как разноцветная вышивка среди зелёной листвы деревьев, кустов и
папортников. Знахарка, которую
я до этого видела в своём полёте, сидела на кресле-качалке в
середине патио. Она выглядела намного старше, чем Делия и женщины на
пикнике; хотя как я это знала, я не могла сказать. Она раскачивалась
туда-сюда с мечтательным видом. Я почувствовала сокрушающую боль,
охватившую всё моё существо, так как у меня была дурацкая уверенность,
что её раскачивающиеся движения уводят её всё дальше и дальше от меня.
Волна агонии непередоваемого одиночества наполнила меня, когда я
смотрела на неё. Мне хотелось пересечь патио и обнять её, что-то в
тёмных плитках патио, приклееных немыслимо искусным рисунком,
удерживало мои ноги на месте. "Esperanza,"
мне наконец удалось прошептать таким слабым голосом, который даже мне
еле был слышен.
Она открыла глаза и, не удивившись, улыбнулась; как-будто она ожидала
меня. Она поднялась и подошла ко мне. Она не была ростом с ребёнка, а
приблизительно моего роста: пять футов, два инча. Она была тоненькой и
хрупкой, но настолько пышила жизненной энергией, что
я почувствовала себя слабой и иссушенной. "Я
так рада тебя снова увидеть." Её голос звучал искренне. Она дала мне
знак взять одно из плетёных кресел и сесть рядом с ней. Оглядываясь
вокруг, я заметила других женщин, включая Делию. Они сидели на плетёных
креслах, наполовину спрятанные кустами и деревьями. Они тоже наблюдали за мной с
любопытством. Некоторые из них улыбались, тогда как другие продолжали
есть tamales с тарелок на
своих коленях.
В тенистом зелёном свете на патио - несмотря на тривиальное занятие как
поглощение еды - женщины казались феерическими, воображаемыми, не
имеющими твёрдости. Каждая из них была неестественно живой и
ничем не отличалась. Казалось, они поглощали зелёный свет патио,
который заполнил всё вокруг нас как прозрачный туман. Мимолётная, но
весомая мысль, что я нахожусь в доме, населённым призраками, пришла мне
в голову.
"Ты хочешь что-нибудь поесть?"спросила Esperanza меня. "Делия приготовила самую
вкусную еду, какую ты только можешь себе представить."
"Нет,
благодарю тебя," пробормотала я голосом, который не звучал как мой
собственный. Видя вопрос на её лице, я добавила, "Я не голодна."
Я так нервничала, волновалась, что даже если бы была голодная, то не
могла бы проглотить ни куска. Esperanza должно быть
чувствовала мой страх.
Она нагнулась ко мне и успокающе потрепала мою руку. "Что ты хочешь
знать?"
"Я
думала, что видела тебя в моих полётах,"
выскочило у меня, затем, заметив смех в её глазах, добавила: "Что я и
сейчас Dreaming (в полёте)?"
"Да, но ты не спишь," ответила она, произнося свои слова медленно и
чётко.
"Как я могу Dreaming (летать) и не спать?"
"Некоторые
Женщины могут это делать с большой лёгкостью," заключила она. "Они
могут Dreaming (быть в полёте) и не спать. Ты - одна из таких
Женщин, другим приходится всю жизнь работать, чтобы достичь этого."
Я почувсвовала нотку восхищения в её голосе, но мне это не льстило, а
наоборот: я ещё больше забеспокоилась.
"Но как это возможно Dreaming и не спать?"
настаивала я.
"Если
я сейчас стану объяснять тебе, как это возможно, то ты ничего не
поймёшь," объяснила она. "Поверь на слово: было бы неплохо отложить
объяснение до лучших времён."
Я спросила её: "Я не спала, когда ты
вылечила меня от моих ночных кошмаров? И ещё, была я в
состоянии Dreaming, когда я сидела в поле с Дэлией и всеми
остальными Колдуньями?"
Эсперанца долго смотрела на меня, потом
мудро кивнула, как-будто решила поведать мне какую-то монументальную
правду. "Ты слишком глупа, чтобы видеть тайны того, что мы делаем." Она
сказала это так - между прочим - вроде житейского наблюдения, без
всякой критики. Я и не подумала обидиться или попытаться доказать, что
это не так.
"Но ты ведь можешь помочь мне понять эти тайны, не так ли?" спросила я.
44-45
Другие
Женщины-Колдуньи подсмеивались: это не было высмеивание, а что-то вроде
шёпота, который эхом раздавался вокруг меня как приглушёный хор.
Казалось, звук не исходил от Женщин, а от теней на патио (веранда). Не
хихикание, а шёпот, деликатное предупреждение, которое не только
заставило меня потерять мою напористость, но также стёрло мои бредовые
сомнения; моё желание знать. И тогда я поняла без всякого сомнения, что
я была Dreaming и Awake (осозновала и летала) - оба раза. Это было
осинение, которое я однако
не могла объяснить, что-то такое, что словами не передашь.
И всё же, после
нескольких секунд, я почувствовала желание разрушить это осинение,
уложить всё это в своего рода логическую конструкцию
(это идёт от
Рептоидной Вставки в наш мозг! ЛМ). Эсперанца разглядывала меня
с явным
удовольствием, затем сказала:
"Я собираюсь объяснить тебе кто мы и что
мы делаем." Она
снабдила своё объяснение предупреждением, что чтобы она не сказала, в
это трудно будет поверить. Поэтому я не должна критиковать, а слушать
её, не прерывая, не задавая вопросов: "Ты можешь это сделать?"
"Конечно!"
выстрелила я. Она на минуту остановилась: её глаза вдумчиво
одобрили меня. Она должно быть ощущала мою неопределённость и вопрос,
который почти слетал с моих губ.
"Не то, чтобы я не хотела
отвечать на твои вопросы," заключила она. "Скорее, в это время тебе
будет невозможно понять мои ответы."
Я кивнула, но не в знак
согласия, а из-за страха, что если я только пикну, то она больше не
будет со мной разговаривать. Голосом, напоминающим тихий говор, она
рассказала мне то, что было превосходным и невероятным. Она сказала,
что была духовным предком древних Колдунов, кто жил в долине Оксаки
тысячи лет до нашествия испанских завоевателей на Мексику. Эсперанца
долго молчала. Её глаза остановились на цветах яркого многоцветного
душистого
горошка и казалось с ностальгией достигли прошлого.
Эсперанца
продолжала: "Что касается меня, то часть действий тех Колдунов,
относящихся к тебе, называется Dreaming. Те Колдуны
были и Женщинами и
Мужчинами, кто владел экстра-ординарным Могуществом Самогипноза к
полётам и
выполнял действия, неподвластные воображению."
Я слушала её, обняв
коленки. Эсперанца была блестящим рассказчиком и одарённым мимиком. Её
лицо менялось в зависимости от её объяснения. То это было
лицо молодой девушки, то старой женщины; иногда лицо мужчины или
невинного, озорного ребёнка. Она
сказала, что тысячи лет тому назад
Женщины и Мужчины обладали Высшими Знаниями, которые давали им
возможность влетать и вылетать из нашего обычного Повседневного Мира.
И таким образом, они разделили свои жизни на две части: День и Ночь. В
течение
дня они занимались своими обычными делами, как все остальные, и
поведение их было нормальным, которое от них ожидали. Однако в
течение ночи они становились Dreamers (летали). Они систематически
вводили себя
в гипноз полёта, попадая в миры других вибраций, или создавали в
своём
воображении новые миры. Это сломало границы того, что мы называем
реальностью. И снова она
остановилась, как бы давая время её словам
проникнуть в меня. "Используя темноту как покрывало," продолжала
она.
"они достигли немыслимых вещей. Они стали способны входить в
самогипноз, летать не засыпая, то есть оставаясь в полном сознании -
Dreaming-Awake."
(В
отличии от сна-полёта, который мы не помним, когда утром
возвращаемся к своему телу ! ЛМ).
Esperanza
объяснила, что быть в полёте в полном сознании - означает, что они
могли погрузить себя в гипнотический полёт на более высокой вибрации,
что давало им энергию, необходимую для исполнения баснословных
достижений, поражающих всякое воображение, и всё прекрасно осознавая.
(В
отличие от людей, загипнотизированных инопланетянами или гипнотизёрами,
людей, которые не помнят, что они делают в этом состоянии! ЛМ).
Из-за
агрессивных стычек дома, я никогда не развила способность слушать
подолгу. Если у меня не было возможности вставить прямые и воинственные
вопросы, то любой вербальный обмен, неважно насколько он был интересен,
не имел для меня никакого значения. А сейчас, потеряв способность
отспаривать, покой меня покинул, я так хотела перебить Esperanza. На мгновенье Esperanza уставилась на меня и затем дала мне
знак говорить или
я только подумала, что она дала мне знак. Я открыла рот, чтобы, как
обычно, выпалить всё, что придёт мне в голову, даже если это к делу не
относилось.
Ноя не смогла сказать ни слова, я старалась говорить, но только звуки
прополаскивания горла вылетали наружу, к великому удовольствию женщин
на заднем плане. Esperanza опять начала
говорить, как бы не замечая мои беспомощные усилия. Меня настолько
удивило, что она владела моим полным вниманием.
46-47
Esperanza сказала, что сейчас
источник Знаний Колдунов может быть понят только как легенда. Высшие
Существа выразили печаль, видя ужасную ситуацию людей - загнанных как
животных поисками еды и размножением - они дали людям Силу
Самогипноза-Dreaming и научили людей использовать Dreaming. (Чтобы
регулярно
улетать на более высокую вибрацию без тела, многое
исследовать и
восстанавливать там
своё здоровье! ЛМ).
"Конечно
легенды открывают правду, но только в завуалированной форме," объясняла
она. "Успех легенд в завуалировании правды базируется на убеждении
человека, что легенды - просто сказки. Легенды людей, превращающихся в
птиц
или ангелов, доказательства скрытой правды, которую нам приподносят как
фантазии или просто как обман/ошибка примитивных или ненормальных умов.
Поэтому, в течение тысяч лет, заданием Колдунов было: создавать новые
легенды и открывать правду в старых легендах. Как раз здесь
понадобились Dreamers
(те, кто талантлив в самогипнозе! ЛМ).
Женщины
- самые талантливые Dreamers, они умеют легко войти в самогипноз;
лёгкость в отрешённости, пуститься туда, куда глаза глядят. Женщина,
которая
учила меня самогипнозу для полёта без тела в миры своих воспоминаний,
она держала в памяти 200 своих разных воспоминаний (Dreams)."
Эсперанца
внимательно посмотрела на меня, как бы оценивая мою реакцию, что было
для меня огромным удивлением, т.к. я понятия не имела, что
она имеет
ввиду. Она
объяснила, что удержать Dream означало, что можно думать о чём-то
особенном из своей жизни и можно войти в полёт-воспоминание по желанию.
Её учитель могла войти по желанию в 200 особенных Dreams о себе
(воспоминаний, воображаемых образов или других миров).
"Женщины
- ни с кем не сравнимые, Dreamers," заверила меня Эсперанца, "Женщины -
очень практичны. Чтобы удержать Dream, человек должен быть практичным,
потому что DREAMING должен иметь связь с практической стороной
человека.
Любимая Dream моего учителя было вообразить себя ястребом. Другой полёт (Dream)
: вообразить себя совой. Поэтому в зависимости от времени дня она могла
самогипнозом стать или ястребом или совой.
И так
как она дремала (от
слова Dream), находясь в полном сознании, то и в самом
деле становилась
настоящим ястребом или совой."
В
её тоне и в её глазах была такая искренность и убеждённость, что я была
полностью под её влиянием. Ни одной минуты я не сомневалась в ней,
чтобы
она не сказала, не казалось мне абсурдным в тот момент. Она поведала
дальше, что чтобы достичь такого полёта, женщинам нужно иметь железную
дисциплину. Она нагнулась ко мне и доверительным шёпотом, как-будто не
хотела, чтобы её подслушали, сказала, "Под железной дисциплиной
я подразумеваю не непосильный труд, а чтобы женщины
сломали рутину того, что от них ожидают. И они должны сделать это в
своей молодости и,
что самое важное, не потерять свою силу (через секс). Часто, когда
женщины становятся уже достточно старыми, чтобы заниматься обычными
женскими делами, они решают, что пришло время заняться делами более
высоких сфер, а не мирских. Только они не знают, что изнурённые
сексуальной жизнью, женщины, в более высоких сферах вряд ли добьются
успеха." Она легонько похлопала меня по животу, как-будто стучала по
барабану.
"Сила женщины в её МАТКЕ!" Эсперанца
убеждённо кивнула, как-будто действительно услышала глупый вопрос,
который вертелся у меня в голове.
"Её Матке?"
"Женщины," продолжала
она, "должны начать сжигать свой дизайн, свою
Матрицу. Они не могут быть больше плодородной почвой, которую осеменяют
мужчины, следуемые командам какого-то "бога". Всё ещё пристально следя
за мной, она улыбнулась и спросила, "Ты,
случайно, не религиозна?"
Я
замотала головой (нет)! Я не могла говорить, моё горло так пересохло,
что я едва могла дышать. Я была шокирована, наполнена страхом и
удивлением, не столько тем, что она сказала, сколько её изменениями.
Если бы меня спросили, то я бы не смогла ответить, когда она
изменилась,
но вдруг её лицо стало молодым и ослепляющим. Внутренняя сила,
казалось, зажглась в ней.
"Это
- хорошо!" воскликнула Эсперанца и
подчеркнула. "Тогда тебе не придётся бороться с суеверьями. Их очень
трудно победить: меня с детства воспитывали посвящённой католичкой. Я
чуть не умерла, когда мне пришлось проанализировать своё отношение к
религии." Она вздохнула, голос притих и она добавила, "Но это было
ничто по сравнению с борьбой, которую мне пришлось выдержать до того,
как стать настоящей Dreamer-Колдуньей."
Я ждала едва дыша, пока довольно приятное ощущение не разолилось
по всему моему телу как
слабый электрический ток.
48-49
Я
ожидала историю о страшом сражении между ней и ужасными существами. Мне
едва удалось скрыть своё разочарование, когда она сказала, что ей
пришлось сражаться с самой собой (точнее
с Рептоидной
вставкой в её мозгу! ЛМ).
"Чтобы
стать Dreamer, мне пришлось покорить себя," объяснила Эсперанца.
"Ничто, совершенно ничто не может быть труднее этого. Мы, Женщины,
самые несчастные заключённые собственного Я. Я - это наша тюрьма, она
сделана из команд и ожиданий, вылитых на нас со дня нашего рождения. Ты
всё знаешь: если первый ребёнок - мальчик, то это - праздник; если -
девочка, плечами вздрагивают и произносят 'Ничего, я всё равно буду
любить и делать всё для неё'."
Из уважения к старой Женщине я не
засмеялась громко. Никогда в жизни я не слышала подобные заявления. Я
считала себя независимой Женщиной,
но явно, в свете услышанного
от
Эсперанцы, моё положение было не лучше, чем у любой другой Женщины. И
наперекор манере, в которой я обычно бы реагировала на такие заявления,
я полностью соглашалась с ней. Мне всегда давали понять, что моё
положение Женщины - быть зависимой. Меня учили, что Женщина в самом
деле счастливая, т.е. ей везёт, если её хотят, поэтому мужчины всё
будут
делать для неё. Мне говорили, что сознательно делать всё самой, очень
деградирует мою женственность, лучше если это сделают за меня или
просто дадут то, что мне нужно. В меня сверлили, что место Женщины дома
с
мужем и со своими детьми.
"Также как и тебя, меня воспитал властный,
но в то же время понимающий, добрый и мягкий отец," продолжала
Эсперанца. "Я тоже думала как и ты, что
я - свободна. Для меня понять
Путь Колдуна, что Свобода не означает быть самой собой (с
Рептоидной
вставкой в мозгу! ЛМ),
чуть не убила меня.
Быть самой
собой утверждает
мою женскую роль. Понять Путь Колдуна взяло всё моё время, все усилия и
всю Энергию. Колдуны, например, понимают Свободу как способность делать
невозможное, неожиданное - представлять то, что не имеет основы,
реальности в нашем Повседневном Мире."
Её голос снова превратился в
шёпот, когда она добавила, "Знания Колдунов, вот что новое и
восхитительное. Женщина должна поменять себя, стать Dreamer и
использовать своё воображение."
Эсперанца сказала, что если бы она
не победила себя, то она бы вела жизнь обыкновенной Женщины; жизнь,
которую её родители уготовили для неё; жизнь поражения и стыда; жизнь,
лишённую тайн; жизнь, которую запрограмировали обычаями и традициями.
Esperanza
ущипнула меня за руку. "Ты лучше слушай," бранила она меня.
"Я слушаю," пробормотала я в свою защиту, потирая руку: я была уверена,
что никто не заметит мой увядающий интерес.
"Тебя никто не заманит и не обманет в Мир Колдунов," предупредила она
меня. "Ты сама должна выбрать, зная, что ждёт тебя."
Я была ошарашена переменами моего настроения, они были
феноменальными и непредсказуемыми. Мне следовало бояться, однако я была
спокойна, как-будто находиться среди них - была самая естественная вещь
в мире.
Секрет
Женской Силы в её Матке." сказала Эсперанца и хлопнула меня по
животу ещё раз. Она сказала, что Женщинам летать помогают их Матки или
скорее они улетают из своих Маток. Тот факт, что у них имеется Матка
делает их совершенными в полёте (perfect Dreamers). Ещё до того, как я
подумала 'почему Матка так важна?' Эсперанца ответила мне : "Матка -
Центр Созидательной Силы Источника Всех Солнц, вплоть до того, что даже
если в мире совсем не останется мужчин, Женщины смогут продолжать
размножаться. И тогда мир будет заселён только Женщинами." Она
добавила, что Женщины размножаются однозначно и могут только
произвести на свет клонов самих себя. ! ЛМ).
Я искренне удивилась этой
необычной информации. Мне пришлось перебить Эсперанцу, чтобы сказать
ей, что я читала о патогеническом и не сексуальном размножении в классе
биологии. Она вскинула плечами и продолжала своё объяснение.
"Женщины,
имея способность и органы размножаться, имеют также способность
создавать полёты (Dreams) с теми же органами," сказала она. Видя
сомнение в моих глазах, она предупредила меня, "не вдавайся в
подробности как это делается, объяснение очень простое, и потому что
оно очень простое, его очень трудно понять. У меня самой ещё
проблема это понять. Поэтому я действую в типично
женской манере: я
улетаю (Dream) и оставляю объяснения Мужчинам." Эсперанца
доказывала, что вначале Колдуны, о которых она мне говорила,
передавали свои Знания своим биологическим родственникам или людям по
своему выбору, но результаты получились катастрофическими.
50-51
Вместо
того, чтобы расширить, увеличить эти Знания, эти новые Колдуны, кого
выбрали случайно или по блату, попросту выражаясь, возвеличивали себя.
В конце концов их разгромили Рептоиды и их разгром чуть не стёр все
накопленные
Знания. Несколько Колдунов, кто ещё остался, решили, что их Знания не
должны снова попасть в руки родственников или людям, которые им
нравятся, а тем, кого выберет Нейтральная Сила, которую они называли -
Великий Дух (означает
наши Высшие
Существа - Солнца! ЛМ).
И сейчас всё это привело нас к тебе," произнесла Эсперанца. "Древние
Колдуны решили, что только те, на кого указывает Великий Дух, им
подойдёт. На тебя указал Дух, и ты здесь! Ты - натуральный
Dreamer. Всё зависит от наших Высших Существ-Солнц, кто правит нами и
решает куда ты пойдёшь отсюда. Ни от тебя, ни от нас это не зависит. Ты
можешь только согласиться без протеста или отказаться."
Её голос
намекал на срочность, в глазах - свет большой силы, было ясно, что она
на полном серьёзе дала это объяснение. Было такое откровение, что
вместо того, чтобы громко смеяться над этим, я заткнулась. Помимо этого
я была слишком измучена: умственная концентрация нужная, чтобы
следовать за ней, была слишком напряжённой. Я хотела спать и она
настояла на том, чтобы я вытянула ноги, легла и отдохнула. Я так
тщательно это проделала, что заснула, а когда открыла глаза, понятия не
имела сколько я спала. Я стала искать обнадёживающее присуствие
Эсперанцы или других Женщин, но никого на патио не было, хотя я не
чувствовала себя одна.
Каким-то образом их присуствие было среди зелени
вокруг меня и я чувствовала себя защищённой. Ветер шелестел листьями, я
чувствовала его на ресницах, тёплый и мягкий. Он вертелся вокруг меня,
затем пролетел надо мной, также как он пролетает через пустыню, быстро
и бесшумно. Смотря на плитки, я разгуливала вокруг патио, стараясь
разобраться в их замысловатом дизайне. К моему удовольствию, линии на
плитках вели меня от одного бамбукового кресла к другому. Я старалась
припомнить кто сидел в каком кресле, но как ни старалась, не могла
вспомнить. Меня отвлёк приятный запах пищи, заправленной луком и
чесноком. По запаху я нашла свой путь на кухню: огромную, прямоугольную
комнату: там тоже никого не было. Плитки
такого же дизайна были на
стенах. На
этом мои исследования закончились, так как я обнаружила еду,
оставленную на прочном деревянном столе,
стоящим посреди комнаты. Понимая, что еда была для меня, я села и съела
всё: это был тот же самый, заправленный пряностями, густой
суп, который я ела на пикнике, разогретый, он был только вкуснее. Пока
собирала тарелки, чтобы взять их в
раковину, обнаружила записку и нарисованную карту под ними:
она была
от Дэлии. Она хотела, чтобы я поехала обратно в Лос Анжелес через
Тucson, где она меня встретит в определённом кафе, указанном на карте.
Она писала, что только там она сможет рассказать мне больше о себе и о
своих друзьях.
Часть 4
52-53
От
радости, услышать от Дэлии больше о её друзьях, я помчалась сначала в
Tucson, на моём пути в Лос Анжелес. В Tucson я нашла нужное кафе почти
к вечеру. Старый человек направил меня к вакантному месту на парковке.
Только когда он открыл мою дверь я поняла кто он был.
"Мариано Орелиано
(Mariano Aureliano - Дон Хуан)!" вскрикнула я, "Какой
сюрприз, я так рада видеть вас! Что вы здесь делаете?"
"Я ждал вас," сказал он. "Поэтому мой друг и я сохранили для вашей
машины место."
Я
увидела взгляд мускулистого индейца, за рулём старого, красного
грузовика. Он выехал с парковки, чтобы мне заехать на его место.
"Дэлия
не смогла приехать," сказал Mariano Aureliano извиняющимся тоном. "Ей
неожиданно пришлось вернуться в Oaxaca." Он широко улыбнулся и добавил,
"Я - за неё, надеюсь подойду."
"Вы не можете себе представить как я
рада вас видеть," сказала я откровенно: я была уверена, что он, лучше
чем Дэлия, поможет мне разобраться во всём том, что случилось со мной
последние несколько дней. "Эсперанца объяснила мне, что я была в
каком-то трансе когда я встретила всех вас."
"Она так сказала?"
спросил он почти рассеянно. Его голос, его отношение и весь его вид был
таким другим по сравнению с тем человеком, которого я помнила, что я
уставилась на него, надеясь обнаружить что же изменилось. Его резко
вырезанное лицо, потеряло всю свою резкость.
Правда мысли
были заняты своим собственным положением вещей и я перестала об этом
думать. "Эсперанца оставила меня одну в доме," продолжала я. "Она и
другие Женщины ушли не попрощавшись, но меня это не смутило, хотя я
обычно не в своей тарелке когда люди - невежливы."
"О,
действительно?!" воскликнул он, как-будто я сказала что-то очень
значительное. Боясь, что он обидится на то, что я говорила о его
друзьях, я сразу начала объяснять, что не имела ввиду, что Эсперанца и
другие Женщины были неприветливы.
"Как раз наоборот: они были
очень приветливы и добры," заверила я его. Я только собралась поведать,
что Эсперанца сказала мне, но его твёрдый взгляд остановил меня. Это не
был угрожающий или злобный взгляд: это был пронизывающий взгляд,
который врезался во всю мою защиту. Я была уверена, что он видит всю
неразбериху в моей голове. Я отвернулась, чтобы спрятать мою
нервозность, потом полушутливым тоном сказала, что меня не волновало
быть одной во всём доме.
"Меня заинтриговало, что я знаю каждый
угол этого места," доверительно сказала я ему...думая как отразятся на
нём мои слова. Но он продолжал смотреть на меня.
"Я пошла в туалет
и поняла, что я уже была в этой ванной комнате раньше (хотя я в этом
доме впервые)," продолжала я. "В ней не было зеркал, я помнила эту
деталь до того, как вошла в неё. Потом я вспомнила, что зеркал не было
во всём доме. Поэтому я зашла в каждую комнату и правда не могла найти
ни одного."
От него не было никакой реакции, поэтому я продолжала
говорить, что , слушая радио по пути в Tucson, я поняла, что я
вернулась на день позже чем ожидала.
"Я наверно спала целый день," закончила я натянуто.
"Не
то, чтобы ты спала весь день," заметил равнодушно Mariano Aureliano.
"Ты прошла через дом и много разговаривала со всеми нами до того, как
заснуть как полено."
Я начала смеяться, мой смех скорее был похож на
истерику, но он казалось, не замечал этого. Он тоже засмеялся и у меня
отлегло на сердце.
54-55
"Я никогда не сплю как полено," я чувствовала, что должна объяснить. "Я
очень плохо сплю."
Он
молчал и когда, наконец, заговорил, то серьёзно и требовательно: "Разве
ты не помнишь, тебе было любопытно как Женщины Запада одеваются и
причёсываются не смотря в зеркала?" Я не знала что ответить, а он
продолжал: "Разве ты не помнишь, что нашла очень странным отсуствие
картин на стенах, не было..."
"Я не помню, чтобы я с кем-то
разговаривала," оборвала я его на полуслове, затем посмотрела на него
осторожно, думая, что наверно, чтобы запутать меня, он сказал, что я
контактировала со всеми в доме. Когда на самом деле, ничего такого не
произошло.
"Если ты не можешь вспомнить, это не значит, что это не
произошло," отрезал он. Мой живот почему-то вибрировал (не кстати): это
не был его тон, а скорее тот факт, что он ответил на мои тайные мысли.
Уверенная в том, что болтая, что-нибудь выдаст моё возрастающее
недоверие, я вдалась в длинное и запутанное объяснение как я себя
чувствовала и что случилось. Были пропуски в последовательности
событий, когда я старалась связать вместе всё, что произошло между
оздоровительной процедурой и моей поездкой в Tucson, в течение которой
я знала, что потеряла день из своей памяти.
"Вы, все, что-то делаете со мной, что-то странное и угрожающее,"
закончила я, чувствуя свою правоту.
"Сейчас
ты ведёшь себя глупо," произнёс Mariano Aureliano и улыбнулся в первый
раз, "Если это и было странным и угрожающим, то только потому, что для
тебя это - ново. Ты - крепкая Женщина и это тебе будет понятно рано или
поздно."
Меня разражало как он произнёс слово 'женщина', я бы
предпочла 'девушка', т.к. я привыкла к тому, что у меня постоянно
требовали показывать документы, доказывающие, что мне было больше 16. А
тут я вдруг почувствовала себя старой.
"Молодость должна быть
только в глазах смотрящего," сказал он, как-будто опять отвечая на мои
мысли. "Кто смотрит на тебя, должен видеть твою молодость, твой задор;
а тебе, чувствовать, что ты - ребёнок, это - неправильно. Ты должна
быть невинной, но не незрелой."
По какой-то необъяснимой
причине его слова стали больше, чем я могла выдержать. Мне хотелось
плакать, не от обиды, а от отчаяния. Не зная что делать дальше, я
предложила что-нибудь поесть. "Я - голодна," сказала я, стараясь
выглядеть бодро.
"Нет, ты не голодна," авторитетно сказал он. "Ты просто стараешься
сменить тему."
Поражённая
его тоном и словами, я посмотрела на него со страхом. Моё удивление тут
же сменилось на злость. Я не только была голодна, но и уставшая до
изнеможения от долгой поездки. Я хотела кричать и атаковать его своим
гневом и отчаянием, но его глаза остановили меня. Было что-то
рептоидное в тех немигающих, горящих глазах: в какой-то момент я
подумала, что он может проглотить меня как змея проглатывает
загипнотизированную, беззащитную птицу. Смесь страха и злобы поднялась
до таких высот, что моё лицо побагровело от прилива крови. И я знала по
изгибу его бровей, что моё лицо окрасилось в фиолетовый. С раннего
детства я была предрасположена к жутким вспышкам гнева. Кроме того,
чтобы успокоить, никто никогда не старался остановить меня от потакания
моим прихотям, то есть моего потакания этим атакам. Это позволило мне
усовершенствовать их до королевского размера вспышек ярости. Эти
вспышки никогда не происходили в результате моего желания что-то иметь
или что-то делать, а в результате оскорблений моей личности, настоящих
или воображаемых. Каким-то образом обстоятельства в тот момент
заставили меня стыдиться этой привычки. Я сделала сознательное усилие
контролировать себя, на что ушла почти вся моя энергия, но я
успокоилась.
"Ты целый день была с нами в тот день, который ты
сейчас не можешь вспомнить," продолжал Mariano Aureliano, казалось,
равнодушный моему меняющемуся настроению.
"В тот день ты была
очень коммуникабельной и общительной: вещь, которую мы очень ценим.
Когда ты в самогипнозе (Dreaming), ты - намного лучше как человек,
более привлекательная, обладаешь большими ресурсами. Ты позволила нам
узнать твою глубину."
Его слова бросили меня в вихрь эмоций. С
возрастом и с моей манерой поведения, я приобрела хороший опыт
обнаруживать настоящий, скрытый смысл за словами.
'Узнать меня
глубоко' страшно беспокоило меня, это могло означать только одно,
думала я, и тут же отбросила эту мысль как абсурдную.
56-57
Я
настолько углубилась в свои размышления, что больше не обращала
внимания на то, что он говорил. Он продолжал объяснение о дне, который
я потеряла, но я только схватывала там и сям. Я должно быть тупо
смотрела на него, потому что он вдруг перестал говорить.
"Ты не слушаешь,"сказал он сердито.
"Что
вы сделали со мной когда я была в трансе?" выпалила я в ответ. Это был
не вопрос, а обвинение: я поразилась собственным словам. Это не было
продуманное заявление: слова просто сами выскочили из меня. Mariano
Aureliano был ещё больше удивлён: глаза округлились от шока и он чуть
не задохнулся от взрыва смеха.
"Мы не бродим вокруг и не стараемся
использовать маленьких девочек," заверил он меня. Он не только был
искренним, но и чувствовалось, что это обвинение его задело. "Эсперанца
сказала тебе кто мы. Мы - очень серьёзные люди," подчеркнул он, а потом
дразнящим тоном добавил, "мы делаем дело."
"Какое дело?" требовала я воинственно. "Эсперанца не сказала мне, что
вы хотите от меня."
"Она
определённо сказала," ввернул он с такой уверенностью, что я на момент
подумала: может быть он спрятался и слушал наш разговор на патио...
Эсперанца
сказала тебе, что нам на тебя указал Дух," продолжал он. "И сейчас мы -
во власти этого, также как ты - во власти страха."
"Я - не во
власти чего-то или кого-то," орала я, совершенно забывая, что он мне
так и не сказал: что они хотят от меня. Абсолютно не тронутый моим
выпадом, он сказал, что Эсперанца дала мне ясно понять, что с
сегодняшнего дня в их обязанности входило вырастить меня.
"Вырастить меня!" орала я. "Вы - ненормальные, мне уже дали достаточно
воспитания!"
Игнорируя мою вспышку, он продолжал объяснять, что их долг был
абсолютным, и поняла я это или нет, для них уже не важно.
"Ты слышишь? Мы обязаны воспитывать тебя."
"Но почему?" спросила я со страхом и с любопытством одновременно.
"Разве вы не видите, что мне не нужна никакая опёка..."
Мои
слова утонули в радостном смехе Mariano Aureliano. "Тебя определённо
нужно воспитывать, Эсперанца тебе уже показала как бессмысленна твоя
жизнь." Ожидая мой следующий вопрос, он сделал мне знак замолчать.
"Она объяснила тебе почему ты, а не кто-нибудь другой, и что Дух указал
нам на тебя."
"Одну минуту мистер Aureliano," протестовала я. "Мне
не хочется быть грубой или неблагодарной, но вы должны понять, что я
помощи не ищу и я не хочу, чтобы кто-то вёл меня по жизни, даже если
меня может быть нужно вести. Сама мысль мне неприятна, вы поняли что я
имею ввиду? Я ясно объяснила?"
"Я понял, что ты имеешь ввиду,"
прозвучал он эхом, отодвигаясь от моего вытянутого пальца. "Но, как раз
потому, что тебе ничего не нужно, ты - самый подходящий кандидат."
"Кандидат?"
вскипела я, раздражённая его настойчивостью. Я посмотрела вокруг,
думая, слышат ли меня посетители, входящие и выходящие из кафе.
"Что
это такое" взревела я. "Вы и ваши компаньоны - банда сумасшедших.
Оставьте меня в покое, слышите? Мне ни вы, ни кто другой - не нужны!"
К
моему удивлению и мрачному удовольствию, Mariano Aureliano наконец,
потерял терпение и начал ругать меня как это делали мой отец и мои
братья. Контролируя свой голос, чтобы его никто не услышал кроме нас,
он оскорбил меня, он назвал меня избалованной дурой и потом, набирая
скорость,
он сказал что-то непростительное.
58-59
Он кричал, что
единственное приемущество, какое мне выпало, это быть рождённой
блондинкой с голубыми глазами там, где это очень ценится и вызывает
восхищение и уважение. "Тебе ни за что не приходилось бороться,"
заключил он. "Колониальный менталитет людей твоей страны заставил их
относиться к тебе как-будто ты действительно заслуживаешь особого
отношения. Привилегии, которые базируются только на светлые волосы и
голубые глаза, самые незаслуженные привилегии, которые только
существуют."
Я вся бурлила, я никогда не прощала оскоблений. Годы
моей тренировки в словесных матчах дома и экстра-ординарные неписанные
вульгарности, которым я научилась в детстве (и никогда не
забывала) на улицах Каракаса, послужили мне сполна в тот день. Я такое
выдала Mariano Aureliano, что мне стыдно по сей день. Я так увлеклась,
что не заметила как мускулистый индеец, кто драйверил красный грузовик,
присоединился к нам. Я только осознала его присуствие когда услышала
его громкий смех. Он и Mariano Aureliano были практически на земле,
визжа от удовольствия и хлопая себя по животам !
"Что смешного?" взревела я, поворачиваясь к мускулистому индеецу и,
заодно, оскорбив его тоже.
"Какой
грязный рот у этой женщины!" сказал он на прекрасном английском. "Если
бы я был твоим отцом, я бы вымыл твой рот с мылом."
"Кто просил тебя
вмешиваться, ты, кусок дерьма?" и в слепой ярости я ударила его в
коленку. Он взвыл от боли и выкрикнул проклятье. Я уже собралась
схватить его за руку и укусить, но Mariano Aureliano схватил меня сзади
и подкинул вверх. Время остановилось, моё падение было таким медленным,
таким незаметным, казалось, что я висела в воздухе бесконечно. Я не
оказалась на земле со сломанными костями, как я ожидала, а на руках
мускулистого индееца. Он даже не шелохнулся, и держал меня как-будто я
была весом с подушку, 45 кг подушка. Уловив недоброжелательный блеск в
его глазах, я была уверена, что он подбросит меня опять. Он, должно
быть, почувствовал мой страх, поэтому он улыбнулся и мягко
поставил меня на землю. Весь мой гнев и вся моя энергия иссякли, я
облокотилась на машину и заплакала.
Mariano Aureliano обнял меня и
погладил мои волосы и плечи, как бывало делал мой отец, когда я была
ребёнком. Успокающим
бормотаньем, он заверил меня, что он
совсем не был огорчён оскорблениями, которые я ему выдала. Вина и
жалость к себе заставили меня рыдать ещё сильнее. Он покачал головой в
знак пассивного согласия, хотя его глаза сверкали весельем. Затем, в
явном усилии заставить меня тоже смеяться, он признался, что до сих пор
не может поверить, что я знаю и даже использую такой жуткий язык.
"Ну,
я полагаю, язык существует, чтобы им пользоваться!" думал он вслух,
"скверный язык нужно использовать когда подсказывают обстоятельства."
Меня
это не тронуло и, как-только атака жалости к себе прошла, я начала, в
своей обычной манере, рассматривать проблему глубже: он сказал, что
всё, что у меня есть это - светлые волосы и голубые глаза. Мои чувства
должно быть передались Mariano Aureliano, так как он заверил меня, что
сказал это, только чтобы огорчить меня и что во всём этом нет ни капли
правды. Я знала, что он врёт и мгновенно почувствовала дважды
оскоблённой. Затем, поражённая, я поняла, что моя защита разлетается на
куски. Я согласилась с ним. Он был так точен во всём, что сказал. Одним
ударом он скинул маску с меня; прорезал мой щит, как говорится. Никто,
даже мой злейший враг, не мог ударить меня таким аккуратным
ударом. И всё-таки, что бы я не думала о Mariano Aureliano, я знала,
что он не был моим врагом. От этой мысли у меня закружилась голова.
Как-будто невидимая сила рушила что-то внутри меня: представление о
себе. То, что давало мне силу, сейчас высасывало её. Mariano Aureliano
взял меня за руку и повёл к кафе.
"Давай подпишем договор о перемирии," сказал он в шутку. "Мне нужно,
чтобы ты мне сделала одолжение."
"Тебе только нужно попросить," ответила я, стараясь тоном подражать ему.
"До
того, как ты сюда приехала, я пошёл в это кафе, чтобы заказать
бутерброд, и они отказались обслуживать меня. Когда я пожаловался,
повар выкинул меня из кафе."
Mariano Aureliano смотрел на меня с отчаянием и добавил, "Это бывает
когда ты - индеец."
"Доложи
на повара управляющему," закричала я, уверенная в своей правоте; моя
собственная потасовка была тут же таинственно забыта.
"Это мне никак не поможет," откровенно сказал Mariano Aureliano.
60-61
Единственный способ помочь ему, уверял он меня, это - пойти в сафе
самой, сесть за стол, заказать искусное блюдо и бросить в него дохлую
муху.
"И во всём обвинить повара," закончила я за него. Весь план показался
таким абсурдным, что я рассмеялась, но когда заметила его искреннее
ожидание, пообещала сделать то, что он меня просил.
"Подожди
здесь," сказал Mariano
Aureliano, затем вместе с мускулистым индейцем - кого мне ещё не
представили - направились к старому красному пикапу, припаркованному
на улице. Через несколько минут они вернулись. "Между прочим,"
сказал Mariano
Aureliano, "Этого человека зовут Джон. Он - Юма-индеец из Аризоны." Я
хотела спросить его, Джон - Колдун или
нет, но Mariano
Aureliano опередил меня. "Он - самый молодой член нашей группы." признался
он. Нервно хихикая, я протянула руку и сказала:"Рада с вами
познакомиться."
"Я тоже," ответил Джон глубоким резонирующим голосом и сжал тепло мою
руку в своей. "Надеюсь нам никогда больше не придётся драться,"
усмехнулся он. Хоть он и не был высоким, но своей жизненной силой
производил впечатление гиганта. Даже его большие, белые зубы казались
несокрушимыми. В шутливой манере Джон потрогал бицепсы моих рук.
"Держу пари, что ты сможешь одним ударом наповал сразить мужика,"
сказал он. Ещё не успев извиниться перед ним за свои пинки и
оскорбления, как
Mariano Aureliano вдавил мне в руку маленький коробок.
"Муха," прошептал он. "Джон думает, что тебе лучше одеть это," добавил
он, вытаскивая чёрный, кудрявый парик из сумки. "Не беспокойся: он -
новый," заверил он меня, надевая парик мне на голову. Затем, держа меня
на расстоянии руки, он критически осмотрел меня. "Не так плохо," оценил
он, тщательно заталкивая мою длинную, светлую косу под парик. "Я не
хочу, чтобы кто-нибудь узнал тебя."
"В этой маскировке нет нужды," возражала я. "Верь мне, я никого
в Tucson не
знаю."
Я повернулась к боковому зеркалу моей машины и посмотрела на себя. "Я
не могу идти туда и так выглядеть," запротестовала я. "Я похожа на
пуделя."
Mariano
Aureliano оглядывал меня с провоцирующим видом удовольствия, прибирая
кое-какие выбившиеся соломенные кудри. "А сейчас не забудь, что ты
должна сидеть за столом и орать в три горла, когда обнаружишь муху в
своей еде."
"Почему?" он посмотрел на меня, как-будто я была дурой.
"Тебе нужно привлечь внимание и оскорбить повара," разъяснил он.
Кафе
заполнила ранняя вечерняя толпа. Однако мне это долго не взяло найти
место и ждать, внушающего страх, но дружественного, старого официанта.
Наполовину спрятанные за стойкой, находились часы. Также как и
его два помощника, он похож был на Мексиканца или на
Американского Мексиканца. Он относился
к своей работе так весело, и я была уверена, что он -
безвредный; неспособный навредить. Но когда я подумала о старом
индейце, ждущем меня на парковке, какой-либо стыд исчез, и я опорожнила
маленький спичечный коробок на, заказанный мной, прекрасно
приготовленный, антрекот с такой скоростью и
так скрытно, что даже ни
один из мужчин на каждой стороне от меня этого не заметил. Мой вопль отвращения
при виде большого мёртвого таракана на еде был
совершенно естественным.
"В чём дело, дорогая?" спросила официантка с сочуствием.
"И как повар думает я это буду есть?" жаловалась я на полном серьёзе. Я
была в бешенстве, но не на повара, а на Mariano Aureliano (Дон
Хуан).
"Как он мог такое мне сделать?" спросила я громко.
"Это какой-то невероятный случай," объясняла официантка двоим
любопытным и озабоченным заказчикам по обеим сторонам от меня. Она
показала мою тарелку повару.
"Восхитительно!"
воскликнул повар громким и чётким голосом. Задумчиво потирая свой
подбородок, он изучал содержимое тарелки. Он вовсе не был огрчён. У
меня даже вкрадывалось подозрение, что он смеялся надо мной. "Этот
таракан должно быть свалился с потолка," рассуждал он, уставившись на
мою голову с нескрываемым интересом, "или может быть с вашего парика."
Ещё не успев зло ответить ему и поставить повара на своё место, как
он предложил мне любое блюдо из их меню. "Это будет за наш счёт,"
пообещал он. Я заказала антрекот и запечёный картофель, что почти
молнеиносно было мне доставлено.
62-63
Поливая соус на салат (салат я всегда ем последним), я обнаружила как
здоровенный паук вылезает из под листа салата. Я настолько растерялась,
что даже не смогла завопить, только посмотрела вверх. Из-за стойки мне махал повар (Карлос
Кастанэда), а на его лице сверкала улыбка. Mariano Aureliano ждал меня с
нетерпением:"Что произошло?" спросил он.
"Вы и ваш отвратительный таракан!" выдала я, затем добавила с
негодованием, "Ничего не произошло. Повар не расстроился. Он получил
огромное удовольствие, конечно, за мой счёт. Единственный, кто
расстроился, была я."
По его наставлению я дала Mariano Aureliano
детальное описание того, что произошло. Чем больше я говорила, тем
довольнее он становился. Недовольная его реакцией, я грубо обратилась к
нему:"Что смешного?" потребовала я, а он старался сохранять серьёзное
выражение, хотя его губы дёргались.
Его тихое хихикание перешло во взрыв громкого довольного смеха. "Ты не
можешь брать это всерьёз," отчитывал он меня. "Ты превосходный Dreamer (внетелесный
путешественник), но определённо не
актриса."
"Я не играю сейчас, и конечно не играла там тоже," сказала я в свою
защиту писклявым голосом.
"Я имею ввиду, что я полагался на твою способность быть убедительной,"
сказал он. "Тебе нужно было, чтобы повар поверил в то, что не было
правдой. Я-то думал, что ты можешь."
"Как вы смеете меня критиковать!" заорала я. "Мне пришлось сделать из
себя дурочку по вашей милости, и всё, что вы можете сказать это то, что
я не умею вжиться в роль!" я стащила с головы парик и бросила в него.
"Я уверена, что у меня теперь из-за вашего парика появились вши."
Игнорируя мой взрыв эмоций, Mariano Aureliano
продолжал говорить то, что Флоринда уже ему
сказала, что я была не способна притворяться.
"Нам это необходимо было знать, чтобы поставить тебя в нужное место,"
добавил он. Колдуны или Внетелесные Путешественники (Dreamers), или Маскировщики (Stalkers). Некоторые и то, и
другое."
"Что вы такое говорите? Какую-то чепуху о Внетелесных
Путешественниках и Маскировщиках?"
"Внетелесные
Путешественники заняты космическими путешествиями," мягко объяснял он.
"Они получают свою силу и свою мудрость от этих путешествий. Маскировщики, с другой
стороны, имеют дело с людьми, с
Повседневным Миром. Они приобретают свою мудрость и силу общаясь с
людьми."
"Вы явно меня совсем не знаете," сказала я с насмешкой. "Я очень хорошо
контактирую с людьми."
"Нет," перечил он мне. "Ты сама сказала, что не знаешь как
разговаривать. Ты - отличная врунья, но врёшь только когда хочешь
что-то получить. Твои трюки слишком
специфичные, слишком личные.
И ты знаешь почему?" он остановился на момент, как бы дав мне время
ответить. Но до того, как я могла даже подумать что ответить, он
добавил: "Потому, что для тебя вещи или чёрные, или белые, без
каких-либо других цветов между ними. Я не имею ввиду в смысле поучения,
а в смысле удобства." Mariano
Aureliano и Джон обменялись взглядами, потом оба плечами образовали
правильный угол, щёлкнули каблуками и сделали мне что-то
непростительное. Они подняли свои руки в фашистском салюте-приветствии
и крикнули: "Mein Fuehrer!"
Чем больше
они смеялись, тем больше был мой гнев. Я чувствовала, как кровь звенит
в моих ушах, как краснеет моё лицо. Но в этот раз я ничего не делала,
чтобы успокоить себя. Я ногой ударила в свою машину, и руками
забарабанила по крыше. Эти двое вместо того, чтобы успокоить меня, как
это делали мои родители или мои друзья, стояли там и смеялись,
как-будто я доставляла им невероятно смешное развлечение. Их
равнодушие, их полное отсуствие сочувствия ко мне было таким шоком для
меня, что мой гнев испарился сам по себе. Никогда в жизни я не была
настолько спровоцирована. Я растерялась и тогда поняла, что истощилась
в приёмах. До того дня я никогда не понимала, что если свидетели моих
выкрутасов не показывали никакого сочувствия, то
я не знала мне что делать дальше.
"Я думаю, что сейчас она растерялась," сказал
Mariano Aureliano Джону. "Она не знает, что делать дальше." Он положил
свою руку на плечи мускулистого индейца и тихо добавил, но так чтобы я
слышала, "Сейчас она начнёт плакать, и когда она это сделает, то просто
будет реветь как корова, пока мы её не успокоим. Ничего нет более
нудного, как испорченная блядь."
Это было последней каплей. Как раненный бык, я нагула свою голову и
устремилась в Mariano
Aureliano.
64-65
Он
был так поражён моей неожиданной и свирепой атакой, что
почти потерял баланс. Это дало мне достаточно времени вонзить свои зубы
в его живот.
Он издал крик: смесь боли и смеха. Джон схватил меня за
талию и оторвал от него. Я не отпускала свою жертву из зубов, пока мой
искусственный зубной мост не вывалился изо рта. Когда мне было 13, в
потасовке между венесуэльскими и немецкими школьниками в немецкой
школе для старшекласников в Каракасе, мне выбили два верхних зуба. Оба
мужчин от смеха почти падали. Джон согнулся над багажноком моего Volkswagen,
держась за живот, стуча по машине. "У неё дыра в зубах как у
футболистов," кричал он между взрывами смеха. Моё смущение не имело
границ. Я была настолько зла, что мои колени согнулись и я свалилась на
тротуар как тряпочная кукла и потеряла сознание. Когда я пришла в себя,
то обнаружила, что сижу в пикапе. Mariano
Aureliano нажимал на мою спину, улыбаясь он постоянно гладил мою голову
и потом обнял меня. Меня удивило отсуствие эмоций во мне: меня это не
смущало и не беспокоило. Я просто отдыхала. Это была тишина,
спокойствие, которое я никогда не испытывала. В первый
раз в жизни я поняла, что я никогда не была в мире сама с собой или с
другими.
"Ты нам
невероятно нравишься," сказал
Mariano Aureliano. "Но тебе придётся побороть свои эмоциональные,
капризные сцены. Если ты этого не сделаешь, то это убьёт тебя. В этот
раз была моя вина и я должен извиниться перед тобой. Я нарочно
спровоцировал тебя."
Я была слишком спокойна, чтобы что-то говорить и вылезла из пикапа,
чтобы размять свои руки и ноги, чувствуя болезненные судороги в
коленях. После нескольких минут молчания я извинилась перед обоими
мужчинами. Сказала, что мой характер стал хуже с тех пор как я безмерно
стала пить кока-кола.
"Прекрати её пить," посоветовал
Mariano Aureliano. Затем совсем поменял тему разговора и начал болтать,
как-будто ничего не случилось. Он сказал, что очень доволен, что я к
ним присоединилась.
"Вы довольны?" спросила я, ничего не понимая. "Разве я к вам
присоединилась?"
Он
указал на стаю ворон, каркающих над нами. "Вороны - хороший знак,
посмотри какие они красивые. Они - как картина на небе, их видеть в
этот момент - знак, что мы увидим друг друга опять." Я смотрела на птиц
пока они не исчезли из вида, а когда повернулась посмотреть на Mariano Aureliano, его
там больше не было. Пикап уехал, не издав не единого звука."
Часть 5
66-67
Не обращая внимания на царапающие кусты, я спешила за собакой, которая
мчалась лёгкими прыжками через полынь с ошеломляющей
скоростью. Скоро я потеряла
вид его золотого меха, переливающегося среди диких душистых кустов,
бежала на звук его лая, становившегося тише и тише вдали. С трудом я
взглянула на плотный туман, надвигающийся на меня. Он заканчивался
вокруг места, где я стояла и через несколько мгновений небо исчезло. Позднее
полуденное Солнце, как нависающий шар огня, было едва различимым. И
прекрасный вид залива Санта Моника, сейчас скорее воображаемый, чем
видимый с гор Санта Сюзанна, исчез с невероятной быстротой. Я не
беспокоилась что собака потеряется. Однако, я понятия не имела, где
найти тот укромный уголок, выбранный моими друзьями для пикника. Или
где была тропинка, по которой я гналась за собакой. Я прошла несколько
неуверенных шагов в том же направлении, когда что-то заставило меня
остановиться. Я увидела, пробивающийся
свысока через какую-то трещину, маленький луч света, спускающийся прямо
ко мне. Другой последовал, потом другой, как маленькие языки пламени,
привязанные к струне. Огни дрожали и вибрировали в воздухе, затем, как
раз перед тем как они достигли меня, они исчезли, как-будто туман
вокруг меня их проглотил. Так как они исчезли только в нескольких шагах
от меня, я двинулась ближе к месту, намереваясь осмотреть
необычное зрелище. Когда я всматривалась в туман, я увидела тёмные
человеческие силуэты, скользящие по воздуху 2-3 фута над землёй,
как-будто они двигались по облакам на цыпочках. Один за
другим
человеческие силуэты присели, образовывая круг.
Я сделала несколько
неуверенных шагов, потом остановилась, так как туман усилился и
поглотил их. Я остановилась, не зная что делать. Я почувствовала очень
необычный страх. Но не страх, с которым я знакома, а в моём теле, в
моём животе; вроде того, какой животные должно быть ощущают. Я не знала
как долго я там стояла. Когда туман достаточно рассеялся, чтобы видеть,
я заметила слева, на расстоянии
около 50 футов, двух мужчин, сидящих на земле, скрестив ноги. Они
шептали друг другу и звуки их голосов, казалось, были везде вокруг
меня, захваченные мелкими частичками тумана, они были как плотные кусочки хлопка. Я не понимала, о чём
они разговаривали, но чувствовала себя уверенно, так как ловила
некоторые слова. Они говорили на испанском. "Я - потерялась!" закричала
я на испанском.
Оба мужчины медленно обернулись, колебаясь и не веря, как-будто они
увидели привидение. Я повернулась кругом, проверяя есть ли что-то сзади
меня,
что создавало такой драматический эффект; но никого не было. Ухмыляясь,
один из мужчин встал, потянул свои суставы, пока они не хрустнули,
затем покрыл дистанцию между нами длинными, быстрыми шагами. Он был
молод, небольшого роста, с хорошей мускулатурой, с большой головой и
массивными плечами. Его тёмные глаза сияли удовольствием и
любопытством. Я сказала ему, что шла с друзьями и потерялась, преследуя
их собаку. "Я
понятия не имею как вернуться к ним," закончила я.
"Вы не можете дальше идти этим путём," предупредил меня мужчина. "Мы
стоим на утёсе." Он доверительно взял меня за руку и повёл к краю
обрыва, на расстоянии не больше 10 футов от того места, где я стояла.
"Это - мой друг," сказал он, указывая на другого мужчину, уставившегося
на меня и продолжающего сидеть, "только закончил рассказывать мне, что
внизу существует древнее индийское захоронение, когда вы появились и
чуть не испугали нас до смерти." Он изучал моё лицо, мои длинные
светлые волосы и спросил, "Вы - шведка?"
68-69
Всё ещё под впечатлением того, что молодой человек сказал о
захоронении, я уставилась в туман. При обычных обстоятельствах, как
студент антропологии, я была бы счастлива узнать о древнем индийском
захоронении. Однако в тот момент, мне было всё равно, если и в самом
деле такое было внизу в этой туманной пустоте. Всё, о чём я могла
думать, это то, что
если бы меня не отвлекли те огни, моим концом было бы моё собственное
захоронение.
"Вы -
шведка?" повторил молодой человек снова.
"Да," соврала я и тут же пожалела. Я не могла придумать как исправить
это, не роняя достоинства.
"Вы прекрасно говорите на испанском," похвалил мужчина. "У шведов
необыкновенные способности к языкам."
Хотя я чувствовала себя ужасно виноватой, я не могла не добавить, что
это не способности, а необходимость для скандинавцев учить разные
языки, если они хотят коммуникации с остальной частью мира. "Помимо
этого, я выросла в Южной Америке." По какой-то странной причине, эта
часть информации, казалось, изумила молодого человека. Он потряс
головой, как бы не веря и надолго замолчал, углубившись в себя. Затем,
как-будто он пришёл к какому-то решению, он неожиданно взял меня за
руку и повёл меня туда, где сидел другой человек. У меня не было
намерения знакомиться: мне хотелось вернуться к своим друзьям как можно
скорее, но с молодым человеком мне было так легко, что вместо того,
чтобы просить их вывести меня обратно на тропу, я дала им детальное
описание огней и человеческих силуетов, которые я видела.
"Как странно, что Дух предохранит её," пробормотал сидящий человек
как-бы самому себе, нахмурившись, его тёмные брови соединились вместе.
Но, очевидно, он разговаривал со своим другом, кто бормотал что-то в
ответ, а я не могла уловить. Они обменивались взглядами заговорщиков,
усиливая моё беспокойство.
"Извините?" сказала я, поворачиваясь к сидящему человеку. "Я не поняла,
что вы сказали." Он агрессивно и раздражительно уставился на меня.
"Вас предупредили об опасности," заключил он глубоким, резонирующим
голосом. "'Эмисары Cмерти' пришли вам помочь."
"Кто?" я чувствовала непреодолимое желание спросить, хотя прекрасно его
поняла. Осмотрела его внимательно. На мгновенье, я была уверена, что
знаю его, но продолжая смотреть, поняла, что его никогда не видела. И
всё-таки не могла отделаться от чувства, что знаю его. Он не был таким
же молодым, как
другой мужчина, но и старым он не был. Он определённо был индейцем: его
кожа была тёмно-коричневой, волосы - иссиня-чёрные, прямые и густые,
как щётка. Но не только его внешность, которая напоминала мне кого-то.
Он был мрачен и угрюмен, как только я могла быть. Моё пристальное
внимание, казалось, беспокоило его и он резко встал.
"Я отведу вас к вашим друзьям," проворчал он. "Следуйте за мной и не
смейте падать. "Вы упадёте на меня и убьёте нас обоих," добавил он
ворчливым тоном. Не успела я ответить, что я не дура, как он стал
спускаться по очень крутой стороне горы в противоположном направлении
от утёса.
"Вы знаете куда идёте?" кричала я вслед ему нервным голосом. Я не могла
соорентироваться, не то чтобы я в этом обычно хорошо разбиралась, но я
не была уверена, что залезала на эту гору, когда гналась за собакой.
Мужчина повернулся и довольная усмешка быстро промелькнула на его лице,
хотяего глаза не улыбались. Он смотрел на меня каменным взглядом.
"Я поведу вас к вашим друзьям," всё, что сказал он. Мне он не нравился,
но я ему верила. Он не был слишком высоким и с маленькими костями, и
всё же его тело излучало массивность и компактность тучного мужчины. Он
двигался в тумане с экстра-ординарной уверенностью, опускаясь с
лёгкостью и грацией с, что я думала, был вертикальный спуск. Мужчина
помоложе спускался сзади меня, каждый раз помогая мне, когда мне было
трудно. У него были предупредительные манеры старомодного
джентельмена.: руки сильные и красивые, невероятно мягкие, если
потрогать. Его сила была феноменальной: он несколько раз легко поднял
меня вверх через голову: возможно не
экстра-ординарное достижение, принимая во внимание мой небольшой вес,
но всё же впечатляющее, если учесть, что он стоял на краю скалы и был
не выше 4 см, чем я.
70-71
"Вы
должны благодарить 'Эмисаров Смерти'," настаивал мужчина,
кто вёл нас, как только мы достигли подножья горы.
"Я должна?" спросила я насмешливо. Мысль благодарить 'Эмисаров Смерти'
показалась мне нелепой. "Я что? Должна встать на колени?" спросила я
между взрывами смеха. Мужчина не подумал, что я смешная, он заложил
руки в боки и посмотрел мне прямо в глаза, его узкое, скуластое лицо
было серьёзным. Было
что-то угрожающее в его спортивной позе; в его тёмных раскосых глазах
под короткими бровями, соединяющимися на переносице выточенного носа.
Он резко повернулся ко мне спиной и отодвинулся, чтобы сесть на
близлежащий камень.
"Мы не можем покинуть это место пока вы не поблагодарите 'Эмисаров Смерти',"
произнёс он. Тут мысль, что я одна в этом, забытом богом, месте,
пронзила меня. Туман окутал меня с этими двумя странными мужчинами; и
один из них возможно опасный. Я знала, что он не сдвинется с места,
если я не выполню его глупое требование. К моему полному удивлению,
вместо страха, мне хотелось смеяться. Понимающая улыбка на лице
молодого человека ясно показала, что он знал как я себя чувствовала, и
был доволен этим.
"Вставать на колени не нужно," сказал он мне, и затем, не в силах
сдерживать свой смех, стал хохотать. Это был яркий, хрипловатый звук;
напоминающий
двигающуюся, вокруг меня, гальку. У него были белоснежные и ровные,
как у ребёнка, зубы, взгляд - озорной и, в то же время, мягкий.
"Достаточно сказать спасибо," поспешил ответить мне. "Скажите
так. Вы ничего не потеряете."
"Я чувствую себя глупой" призналась я, стараясь покорить его. "Я этого
делать не буду."
"Почему?"
спросил он, не укоряя меня. "На это уйдёт мгновенье, и не причинит
боли," подчеркнул он улыбаясь. Не взирая ни на что, я хихикала.
"Извините,
но я этого делать не буду. Со мной так: если
кто-то настаивает, чтобы я что-то сделала, я не хочу этого делать,
делаюсь вся напряжённая и злая."
Глаза - на земле, подбородок - на кулаках, молодой человек задумчиво
кивнул головой. После долгой паузы он сказал, "Совершенно ясно, что
что-то уберегло вас от увечья, может быть даже от смерти. Что-то
необъяснимое." Я с ним согласилась, даже призналась, что всё это было
просто поразительным. Я пыталась объяснить этот феноменон случайностью,
случившемуся в правильное время, в правильном месте. "Всё это
подходит," сказал он, потом усмехнулся и смело нажал на мой подбородок.
"Но это не объясняет этот ваш случай. Вы получили подарок, называйте
дающего вам - совпадение, обстоятельства, цепочка событий, как угодно.
Фактом остаётся, что вы избежали боль, ранение."
"Возможно вы правы, что я должна быть более благодарна," согласилась я.
"Не более благодарной, а более гибкой, пластичной, текучей," сказал он
и засмеялся. Видя, что я начинаю злиться, он широко раскрыл руки,
как-будто хотел охватить все кусты вокруг нас.
"Я не вижу захоронение," пожаловалась я.
"Его трудно увидеть," объяснил он, сощурившись, как-будто у него
проблема с глазами. "И это не из-за тумана, который мешает видеть его.
Даже в солнечный день никто ничего не видит кроме части кустов." Он
встал на колени и ухмыльнулся, глядя вверх на меня. "Однако для
знающего глаза это необычной формы кусок полыни." Он улёгся на живот на
земле, голову повернул влево и дал мне знак делать то же самое. "Это
единственный способ ясно увидеть это," объяснил он, когда я улеглась
рядом с ним на землю. "Я не знал бы этого, если бы не мой друг здесь,
он знает всякие интересные, волнующие вещи."
Сначала
я ничего не видела, затем один за другим я обнаружила камни в густых
кустах. Тёмные и блестящие, как-будто их вымыл туман, они сидели
кружком, больше похожие на существ, чем на камни. Я с криком откинулась
назад, осознавая, что круг камней был точно как круг человеческих
фигур, который я видела раньше в тумане. "Теперь я действительно
боюсь," пробормотала я, устраиваясь поудобнее. "Я говорю вам, что
видела человеческие фигуры, сидящие в кругу." Я посмотрела на него,
чтобы увидеть выдаст
ли его лицо неодобрение или обман до того, как добавить, "Это абсурдно,
но я могу поклясться, что те камни были людьми и я их видела."
72-73
"Я
знаю," прошептал он так тихо, что мне пришлось двинуться к нему ближе.
"всё это так таинственно. Мой друг, которого вы длжно быть заметили,
индеец, говорит, что некоторые индийские захоронения, как это,
например, имеют ряд или круг камней. Камни - это 'Эмисары Смерти'." Он посмотрел на меня
внимательно, как-будто хотел быть уверенным, что я его слушаю, и
открылся, "Они - 'Эмисары',
не представляют эмисаров." Я продолжала глядеть на человека, не только
потому что я не знала, как понять такое заявление, но и потому что его
лицо всё время менялось, пока он говорил и улыбался. Не то, чтобы
его черты менялась, но его лицо временами напоминало то 6-летнего
ребёнка, то 17-летнего парня, то старика. "Это старые поверья,"
продолжал он, казалось не замечающему моего взгляда. "Я не обращал на
них особого внимания до того момента, пока вы не появились ниоткуда, а
мой друг рассказывал мне об 'Эмисарах Смерти',
а потом вы рассказали нам, что видели их. Если бы я сомневался,"
продолжал он, его тон вдруг стал угрожающим, "Я бы подумал, что он и вы
сговорились."
"Я не знаю его!" оправдывалась я, рассердившись от
этого намёка, потом тихо прошептала так, чтобы только он мог слышать,
"Если честно, то я боюсь вашего друга."
"Если
бы я сомневался," повторил молодой человек, игнорируя мои слова, "Я бы
подумал, что вы оба стараетесь напугать меня. Но я не сомневаюсь.
Поэтому, единственно, что я могу сделать, это не критиковать, а
побеспокоиться о вас."
"Итак, обо мне беспокоиться не нужно,"
сказала я с раздражением. "Я не понимаю, в любом случае мне непонятно о
чём вы говорите." Я злобно посмотрела на него и никакой симпатии к его
проблеме у меня не было. Он тоже пугал меня.
"Он говорит о том, чтобы поблагодарить 'Эмисаров Смерти'," старый мужчина
сказал и ушёл туда, где я лежала. Он как-то странно уставился на меня.
Хотелось скорее сбежать из этого места и от этих двух сумасшедших,
поэтому я встала и громко прокричала слова благодарности. Мой голос
отозвался эхом, как-будто кусты превратились в скалы. Я слушала пока
звук не затих, затем, как заколдованная, и против моей воли, я опять и
опять прокричала слова
благодарности.
"Уверен,
что 'Эмисары больше, чем
удовлетворены,"
сказал молодой человек, толкнув моё колено. Смеясь, он завалился на
спину, в глазах - удивительная сила, а в смехе - невероятное
могущество. Я ни на секунду не сомневалась, несмотря на фривольность,
что и в самом деле поблагодарила 'Эмисаров Смерти'. И,
что самое странное, я почувствовала себя, защищённой ими.
"Вы оба - кто?" я направила свой вопрос молодому челоеку. Быстрым и
лёгким движением он встал на ноги.
"Я - Jose Luis
Cortez; друзья называют меня - Joe," сказал он, протягивая
руку для пожатия. "А это - мой друг Gumersindo
Evans-Pritchard."
Боясь, что буду смеяться над именем, я прикусила губу и нагнулась,
чтобы почесать несуществующий укус на колене. "Думаю это - комар,"
сказала я, осматривая то одного из них, то другого. А оба из них
уставились на меня, как бы подбадривая меня высмеять такое имя. На их
лицах было такое серьёзное выражение, что мой смех улетучился. Gumersindo
Evans-Pritchard нашёл мою руку, безучастно висящей вдоль тела, и
энергично потряс её.
"Мне приятно познакомиться с вами," сказал он на прекрасном английском
с британским акцентом высшего класса. "На момент я подумал, что вы -
одна из тех застрявших cunts."
74-75
В тот же
момент мои глаза округлились и мой рот открылся. Хотя что-то во мне
говорило, что его слова скорее означали комплимент, чем оскорбление,
тем не менее мой шок был такой силы, что я стояла там как
парализованная. Мораль не слишком доминировала во мне - в подходящем
случае я могла переплюнуть любого в способности ругаться - но в этом
случае для меня было что-то настолько ужасно оскорбительным в слове
cunt, что я онемела. Joe пришёл мне на
помощь, он извинился за товарища, объяснив, что Gumersindo был чрезвычайным гражданским бунтарём.
Я не успела сказать, что Gumersindo определённо
потряс моё достоинство, как Joe добавил, что
непреодолимое желание Gumersindo быть бунтарём связано с его фамилией -
Evans-Pritchard.
"Это не должно никого удивлять," заметил Joe.
"Его отец - англичанин, кто бросил его мать-индианку из Jalisco, до того как
родился Gumersindo."
"Evans-Pritchard?"
повторила я, затем повернулась к Gumersindo и спросила
его, было ли правильно для Joe рассказывать
незнакомцу его фамильные секреты.
"Никаких секретов - нет," ответил
Joe за своего друга. "И вы знаете почему?" Он уставился на меня своими
сверкающими тёмными глазами, которые не были ни коричневыми, ни
чёрными, а цвета спелых вишен. Беспомощно мотала я своей головой,
говоря нет, моё внимание привлёк его сильный взгляд.
Один глаз, казалось, смеялся надо мной. Другой был абсолютно серьёзным
и угрожающим. "Потому что то, что вы называете фамильными секретами,
есть источник Силы Gumersindo." продолжал
Joe. "А вы знаете, что его отец сейчас знаменитый английский антрополог? Gumersindo его
смертельно ненавидит."
Gumersindo незаметно кивнул головой, как будто он гордился своей
ненавистью. Я не могла поверить в свою удачу. Они имели ввиду не кого
иного как E.
E. Evans-Pritchard, одного из самых важных социальных антропологов
двацатого столетия. И как раз сейчас, в течение этого семестра в UCLA
(University of Los Angeles), я исследовала материалы по истории
социальной антропологии и наиболее выдающихся последователей в этой
области. Какая сенсационная история! Я сделала над собой усилие, чтобы
громко не закричать, не запрыгать вверх и вниз, от волнения. Вернуться
с таким ужасным секретом: великий антрополог сооблазняет и бросает
индианку. Меня совсем не волновало, что Evans-Pritchard
не провёл никаких раскопок в Мексике -
он, в основном, был известен своими исследованиями в Африке - я была
уверена, что обнаружу, что в один из его визитов в США, он ездил в
Мексику.
Доказательство стояло прямо передо мной. Приятно улыбаясь, я уставилась
на Gumersindo
и молча обещала себе конечно, что не выдам никаких сведений о нём без
его разрешения. Ну может только, подумала я, просто скажу кое-что
одному из моих профессоров. Всё-таки не каждый день наталкиваешься на
такую информацию: голову вскружило от многих возможностей. Может быть
небольшая лекция с несколькими студентами по выбору в доме одного
из профессоров.
Профессора я уже выбрала, мне он особо не нравился, но ценила его
довольно детскую манеру, которой он старался произвести впечатление на
студентов. Периодически, мы встречались в его доме. Каждый раз когда я
там бывала, я обнаруживала на его столе записку, как бы по ошибке,
написанную ему знаменитым антропологом Claude
Levi-Strauss.
"Вы не
сказали нам ваше имя," сказал Joe вежливо, мягко
потянув меня за рукав.
"Carmen
Gebauer," не колебаясь, ответила я, дав ему имя одной из моих подруг
детства. Чтобы облегчить моё чувство вины и дискомфорта, что пришлось
снова наврать с такой лёгкостью, я спросила
Joe
был ли он родом из Аргентины. Видя его удивлённое лицо, я поспешила
добавить, что его акцент определённо был аргентинский. "Хотя вы и не
выглядите как аргентинец," заметила я.
"Я - мексиканец," сказал он. "Судя по вашему акценту, вы выросли на
Кубе или на Венесуэле."
У меня не было желания продолжать эту тему разговора и я быстро сменила
предмет. "Вы знаете как вернуться назад на тропу?" спросила я, вдруг
встревоженная, что мои друзья могут быть уже обеспокоены.
"Нет, не знаю," сознался Joe с детским задором. "А Gumersindo
Evans-Pritchard знает." Gumersindo
вёл через кусты по узкой тропе на другой стороне горы.
Прошло
немного времени как мы услышали голоса моих друзей и лай их собак. Я
чувствовала невероятное облегчение и в то же время я была разочарована
и удивлена, что ни один из этих мужчин не пытался выяснить как меня
найти в будущем. "Я уверен, что мы опять встретимся," сказал Joe машинально как бы
прощаясь. Gumersindo
Evans-Pritchard удивил меня, галантно поцеловав мою руку. "Это - в его
генах," объяснил Joe. "Хотя он
только наполовину англичанин, его безукоризненные манеры выше
всяких похвал. Он такой галантный!"
76
Не говоря ни слова и не обернувшись, они оба исчезли в тумане. Я очень
сомневалась, что когда-нибудь увижу их опять. Чувствуя виноватой, что
наврала своё имя, я чуть было не побежала за ними, но тут собака друзей
чуть не сшибла меня на землю, прыгая на меня и стараясь облизать моё
лицо.
Часть
6
77
С
удивлением я уставилась на прибывшего докладчика. В своём костюме,
короткие, курчавые волосы и тщательно выбритое лицо,
Joe Cortez выглядел как кто-то из другого времени среди длинно-волосых,
бородатых, неряшливо одетых, но проницательных студентов в одной из
самых больших аудиторий университета Калифорнии в Лос Анжелесе.
Торопясь, я проскользнула в пустое кресло на заднем ряду заполненной
аудитории, место, занятое для меня, тем же другом, с которым я ходила в
поход в горы Santa
Susana.
"Кто он?" спросила я её. Качая головой в удивлении, она нетерпеливо
посмотрела на меня, затем написала на листке бумаги 'Карлос Кастанэда'.
"Кто этот 'Карлос Кастанэда'?" спросила я и невольно
усмехнулась.
"Я тебе давала его книжку," прошипела она, затем добавила, что он был
известный антрополог, кто сделал обширные изыскания в Мексике. Я уже
было собралась открыть подруге, что докладчик был тот же человек,
которого я встретила в горах в тот когда потерялась. Однако подумав, я
ничего не сказала. Этот человек был ответственный за почти полное
разрушение нашей дружбы,
которую я высоко ценила. Подруга была непоколебима в своём мнении, что
история с сыном Evans-Pritchard
была хрень собачья. Я настаивала, что оба мужчины ничего не
выигрывали от выдуманной
истории.
78-79
Я только знала, что они открыто говорили правду. Подруга называла меня
доверчивой дурой и злилась на меня зато, что я верила им. Так как никто
из нас не хотел сдаваться, наш спор накалился до предела. Её муж,
надеясь помирить нас, предложил, что наверно мне сказали правду.
Раздражённая недостатком солидарности с ней, подруга крикнула на него,
чтобы он заткнулся. Мы ехали домой в подавленном настроении, наша
дружба разваливалась. Взяло недели две плохому настроению рассосаться.
А тем временем я протестировала мою информацию о сыне Evans-Pritchard на
нескольких людях, кто был больше осведомлён о делах в антропологии и в
антропологах, чем я или моя подруга. Что и говорить, мне дали
почувствовать, что я - идиотка. Но из-за упрямства я всё ещё слепо
цеплялась за то, что считала правдой, которую знала только я одна. Меня
воспитали быть практичной: если уж врать, то из этого нужно извлечь то,
что нельзя получить никаким другим способом. И я не могла понять, что
те двое мужчин могли выиграть из всего. Я мало обращала внимания на
лекцию Карлос Кастанэда (Carlos
Castaneda). Я была слишком поглощена обдумыванием его причин назваться
другим именем. Обладая способностью отрицать мотивы других людей из
обычного заявления или наблюдения, я практически, старалась весь день
найти доказательство его мотивации. Но потом я вспомнила, что я тоже
дала ему своё неправильное имя, и я не могла понять, почему я так
сделала. После долгой умственной гимнастики, я пришла к заключению, что
соврала, потому что, естественно, я ему не доверяла. Он был слишком
самонадеян, слишком независимый, чтобы у меня вызвать доверие. Моя мама
воспитала меня не доверять южно-американским мужчинам, особенно если
они не были в услужении. Она бывало поговаривала, что Latin machos
(мужчины-латиноамериканцы) напоминали петухов,
которым интересно только драться, есть и заниматься сексом.
И, полагаю, я верила ей, абсолютно не думая об этом. Наконец я
взглянула на Carlos
Castaneda, но не могла понять , чём он говорит. Но я восхищалась его
движениями. Казалось, он говорил всем своим телом и его слова, скорее,
выплывали из его рук, а не из его рта, он как маг, легко и грациозно
двигал руками. После лекции я смело подошла к нему, но он был окружён
студентами. Он был так внимателен с окружающими женщинами, что я
автоматически уже презирала его. "Ты наврал мне своё имя, Joe Cortez,"
сказала я по испански, обличительно указывая на него пальцем. Держа
руку на животе, как-будто он получил удар, он уставился на меня с тем
же самым неуверенным, недоумевающим выражением, которое у него было,
когда он в первый раз увидел меня в горах. "Также враньё, что твой друг Gumersindo - сын Evans-Pritchard," добавила я, до того
как он оправился от шока при виде меня. "Не так ли?"
Он сделал умоляющий жест, чтобы я больше ничего не говорила. Похоже,
что он совершенно не был смущён. В его глазах было просто такое
удивление, что мой праведный гнев был тут же остановлен. Он мягко взял
меня за запястье, как-будто боялся, что я исчезну. После того, как он
закончил разговаривать со студентами, он молча повёл меня к, скрытой от
глаз, скамейке, в тени гигантской ели на севере университетского
городка.
"Всё
это так странно, что я действительно не нахожу слова," сказал он на
английском, когда мы садились. Он уставился на меня, как-будто он всё
ещё не верил, что я сижу рядом. "Я никогда не думал, что опять тебя
найду," задумчиво протянул он. "После того как мы ушли, мой друг,
кстати его имя Нестор, и я говорили много о тебе. Мы пришли к выводу,
что ты была
полупризрак." Он резко перешёл на испанский и сказал, что они даже
вернулись на то же место, где я осталась, в надежде найти меня.
"Почему вы хотели найти меня?" спросила я по английски; уверенная, что
он ответит на английском, что искал меня потому, что я ему понравилась.
На испанском нельзя сказать, что кому-то нравится кто-то ещё. Ответ
должен быть более витеиватый и в тоже время более точный. На испанском
можно или вызвать приятное чувство - me caes bien -
или вызвать пожирающую страсть - me gustos. Мой прямой вопрос
перешёл в долгое молчание. Казалось, он не решался сказать ему или нет.
Наконец он сказал, что наткнувшись
на меня в тумане в тот полдень, возымело на него глубокое действие. Его
лицо было зачарованным, когда он открыл всё это, в его голосе слышалось
глубочайшее восхищение, когда он добавил, что найти меня в аудитории
почти было его концом.
"Почему?" спросила я, пронзённая своей ложной гордостью. Я тут же
пожалела об этом, потому что была убеждена: он собирался сказать мне,
что он без ума от меня, и что всё это было слишком болезненным. Я не
знала как реагировать.
80-81
"Это - очень долгая история," сказал он, всё ещё в глубоком раздумье.
Он кусал губы, как-будто он говорил сам с собой, репетируя, что ему
следующее нужно сказать. Я знала знаки мужчины, который готовится
нанести оскорбление. "Твоей книги я не читала," сказала я, чтобы
разговор принял другое направление. "О чём она?"
"Я написал пару книг о Колдовстве," ответил он.
"О каком колдовстве? Voodoo, спиритолизм
или что-то ещё?"
"Ты что-нибудь знаешь о Колдовстве?" спросил он с ноткой ожидания в
голосе.
"Конечно знаю. Я выросла с этим. Я провела долгое время на берегах
Венесуэлы. Это район знаменитый своими колдунами. Много летних месяцев
моего детства проведены с семьёй колдунь."
"Колдунь?"
"Да," сказала я, довольная
его реакцией. "У меня была няня - колдунья. Она была негритянкой из Puerto Cabello. Она
заботилась обо мне до моего совершенолетия. Оба моих родителей работали
и, когда я была ребёнком, они
были вполне довольны осталять меня на её попечение. Она могла совладать
со мной лучше, чем мои родители. Она разрешала мне делать что я хочу.
Конечно мои родители разрешали ей брать меня куда угодно. Во время
школьных каникул она брала меня с собой к своей семье. Это не была её
настоящая семья, а группа колдунь. Хоть мне не разрешалось участвовать
в их ритуалах и в cессиях транса, мне удалось увидеть многое."
Он с любопытством осмотрел меня, как-будто он мне не верил. Затем
спросил со смущённой улыбкой, "Что делало её колдуньей?"
"Всякие вещи. Она убивала курей и предлагала их богам в обмен на их
услуги. Она и её друзья-колдуны - мужчины и женщины - танцевали пока не
входили в транс. она повторяла секретные заклинания, которые имели силу
лечить её друзей и ранить её врагов. Её особым занятием были 'порции
любви'.
Она приготавливала их из медицинских трав и разного рода телесных
отходов, таких как менструальной крови, остатки ногтей, волос,
предпочтительно с генеталий. Она делала омулеты для хорошей удачи в
азартных играх и в любовных делах."
"И твои родители разрешали всё это?" спросил он поражённый.
"В доме никто об этом не знал кроме меня и клиентов моей няни,
конечно," объяснила я. "Она совершала домашние визиты, как любой доктор
это делает. Всё, что она делала дома было, сжигать свечи за унитазом,
когда у меня были ночные кошмары. Так как это, казалось, помогало мне и
опасности не было, что что-нибудь загорится за унитазом, моя мать
открыто разрешала ей это делать." Он вдруг встал и начал смеяться. "Что
смешного?" спросила я, думая, что он наверно, полагает : я всё
выдумала. "Это - правда, уверяю тебя."
"Ты доказываешь что-то себе, и, насколько это тебя касается, как-только
ты утверждаешь, тогда это становится правдой," сказал он с серьёзным
лицом.
"Но я тебе сказала правду," настаивала я, уверенная, что он ссылается
на мою няню.
"Я могу видеть людей насквозь," спокойно сказал он. "К примеру, я вижу
ты убеждена, что я за тобой приударю. Ты убедила себя насчёт этого и
сейчас это стало правдой. Вот об этом я и говорю."
Я попробовала сказать что-то, но от гнева перехватило дыхание. Я хотела
убежать, но это было бы слишком оскорбительным. Он слегка нахмурился и
у меня появилось неприятное чувство, что он знает как я себя чувствую.
Я покраснела и дрожала от подавляющего гнева. Тем не менее, скоро я
почувство-
вала экстра-ординарное спокойствие. Это не было результатом каких-то
осознанных усилий с моей стороны; и всё-таки у меня было смутное
чувство, что что-то во мне сдвинулось. Я отдалённо помнила, что до
этого испытала что-то похожее, но моё воспоминание исчезло также
быстро, как и появилось.
"Что ты со мной делаешь?" прошептала я.
"Я просто могу видеть людей насквозь," сказал он виноватым тоном. "Не
всё время и явно не всех, а только с людей, с которыми я в близкой
связи. Я не знаю почему я могу видеть тебя насквозь." Его искренность
была налицо. Он казался даже больше изумлён, чем я. Он снова сел и
придвинулся ближе ко мне на скамейке. Какое-то время мы оставались в
полном молчании.
82-83
Было приятно отбросить все усилия продолжать разговор и не чувствовать,
что себя дурой. Я взглянула на небо: оно было безоблачным и прозрачным
как голубое стекло. Через ветви ели дул лёгкий ветерок и иголки
сыпались на нас как мягкий дождь. Затем ветерок превратился в ветер и
сухие жёлтые падающие листья ближайшего
дерева-sycamore полетели к нам. Они кружились вокруг нас с тихим
ритмичным звуком. Одним резким рывком ветер поднял листья вверх. "Это
был красивый знак Духа," прошептал он. "Это было для тебя; ветер,
листья, вихрь в воздухе прямо перед нами. Колдун, с которым я работаю,
сказал бы, что это был омен (Omen). Что-то указало мне
на тебя как раз в тот момент когда я думал, что мне лучше всё оставить.
Сейчас я не могу уйти."
Думая только о его последних словах, я почувствовала себя невероятно
счастливой. Это не был триумф, не чувство удовлетворённого восторга,
когда получилось по твоему. Скорее это было чувство глубокой
жизнерадости, которая не длилась долго. Моё осторожное я вдруг взяло
всё в свои руки и потребывало, чтобы я избавилась от тех мыслей и
чувств. Мне здесь нечего было делать. Я пропустила класс, пропустила
обед с моими настоящими друзьями, пропустила моё ежедневное плавание в
бассейне в гимнастическом зале для женщин.
"Наверно мне лучше уйти," сказала я. Я имела это ввиду как облегчение,
но когда я это сказала, это звучало как-будто я жалела себя, что в
какой-то степени было правдой. Но вместо того, чтобы уйти, я спросила
его как можно беспечнее, мог ли он всегда видеть сквозь людей.
"Нет, не всегда." Его мягкий тон ясно говорил, что он знал о моём
внутреннем замешательстве. "Старый Колдун, с которым я работаю, недавно
научил меня."
"Думаете он мог бы научить меня тоже?"
"Я думаю он сможет." Казалось он удивился собственным словам. "Если он
почувствует вас как я, то он определённо попробует."
"Вы раньше знали что-нибудь о Колдовстве?" застенчиво спросила я,
понемногу выходя из состояния волнения.
"В Латинской Америке все думают, что они об этом знают, и я думал, что
знаю. В этом смысле вы напоминаете мне меня. Как и вы, я был убеждён,
что знаю в чём заключается Колдовство. Но потом, когда я
действительно столкнулся с этим, это было совсем не то, что я думал."
"А как оно было?"
"Просто, до такой степени просто, что можно испугаться,"
разоткровенчился он. "Мы думаем, что Колдовство пугает, так как несёт в
себе зло. Колдовство,
с которым я столкнулся, зла в себе совсем не несёт, и поэтому это -
самая пугающая вещь в жизни." Я перебила его и прокоментировала, что он
должно быть говорит о белом Колдовстве, а не чёрном. "Не говори чепухи,
проклятье!" Он с нетерпением набросился на меня. Я была настолько
шокирована услышать, что он говорит со мной в подобной манере, что у
меня перехватило дыхание. Меня тут-же отбросило назад в состояние
гнева. Он отвернулся, чтобы не видеть моего взгляда. Он осмелился
кричать на меня. Я стала настолько злой, что думала у меня будет
приступ. В ушах жужжало, я видела чёрные пятна перед глазами. Я бы
ударила его, если бы он вовремя быстро не отпрыгнул в сторону. "Ты
ужасно недисциплинированная," сказал он и снова сел. "И довольно
свирепа. Твоя няня должно быть потакала всем твоим капризам и
обращалась с тобой как с хрустальной вазой." Видя мои гневные брови, он
продолжал говорить, что он на самом деле не кричал на меня из злости
или нетерпения. "Мне безразлично слушаешь ты или нет, но это важно
кому-то ещё, в пользу которого я на тебя кричал. Тот, кто наблюдает за
нами." Сначала я ничего не поняла и смутилась. Осмотрелась вокруг себя,
может его Колдун-учитель наблюдает за нами. Он игнорировал меня и
продолжал, "Мой отец мне никогда не говорил, что мы имеем постоянного
свидетеля, он об этом не упоминал, потому что не знал. Точно как ты
сама этого не знаешь."
"Что за ерунду ты болтаешь?" Мой хриплый сердитый голос отражал мои
чувства в этот момент. Он кричал на меня, он оскорбил меня, я
негодовала, что он продолжает свою речь, как-будто ничего не произошло.
Если он думает,
что я не буду обращать внимание, то его ждёт сюрприз.
"Ты так просто не отделаешься," думала я, злобно улыбаясь. "Только не
со мной, приятель!"
"Я говорю о силе, , о существе, о присуствии того, что в общем-то не
является ни силой, ни существом, ни присуствием," объяснял он с
ангельской улыбкой. Похоже он был совершенно далёк от моего
воинственного настроя. "Звучит как абра-кадабра, но это не так. я
говорю о том, что только знают Колдуны. Они называют это - Дух. Наш
личный наблюдатель, наш многолетний свидетель."
84-85
Я точно не знала как или какое
слово могло подействовать, но неожиданно он полностью овладел моим
вниманием. Он продолжал говорить об этой силе и сказал, что это - не
бог или что-то связанное с религией или моралью, а независимая Сила,
Могущество, которое предназначалось нам, чтобы пользоваться, если
мы только научимся уничтожить своё Я и стать просто Идеей. Он даже
держал мою руку и я не возражала, собственно говоря, мне даже
нравилось чувствовать его сильное и мягкое прикосновение. Я была ужасно
очарована тем странным притяжением, которое он оказывал на меня. Я была
шокирована тем, что мне хотелось бесконечно сидеть с ним на той
скамейке с моей рукой в его руке. Он продолжал говорить и я продолжала
слушать каждое его слово. И в то же время я ждала, когда он
заграбастает мою ногу, так как знала, что одной моей руки ему будет
мало, и я ничего не смогу сделать, чтобы остановить его. Или скорее,
что я не хотела ничего делать, чтобы остановить его? Он признался, что
сам когда-то был недисциплинированным и беззаботным, каким
только можно быть, но он не видел разницы, потому что настрой времени
опутал его.
"Что такое настрой времени?" спросила я грубым, недружелюбным тоном,
чтобы он не думал, что мне нравится быть с ним.
"Колдуны называют это - модой времени," ответил он. "В наши дни это
касается среднего класса. Я - человек среднего класса, также как и ты -
женщина среднего класса..."
"Такого рода классификации не имеют под собой почвы," грубо перебила я
его, выдернув свою руку из его. "Это просто обобщения." Я с подозрением
смотрела на него. Было что-то удивительно знакомое в его словах, но я
не могла вспомнить, где я слышала их до этого и какое значение я
придавала им.
И всё-таки, я была уверена: эти слова имели жизненное значение для
меня, только если бы я могла вспомнить, что я уже знала о них.
"Не давай мне этот научный вздор," весело отпарировал он. "Мне это
знакомо, также как и тебе." Я так расстроилась, что схватила его руку и
укусила её.
"Я дико извиняюсь," тут же пробормотала я, ещё до того как он пришёл в
себя от удивления. "Не знаю почему я это сделала. Я никого не кусала с
тех пор, как была ребёнком." И отодвинулась на дальний конец скамейки,
готовая к сдачи. Но этого не произошло.
"Ты абсолютно примитивна" это всё, что он сказал с отстранённым взглядом, потирая руку. Я облегчённо
вздохнула: его власть надо мной пошатнулось. Я вспомнила, что у меня с
ним старые счёты: он превратил меня в
посмешище моих друзей, студентов-антропологов. "Давай вернёмся к нашей
предыдущей проблеме," сказала я, стараясь вызвать в себе злость. "Почему ты наговорил
мне всю эту чепуху о сыне Evans-Pritchard? Ты
наверно ожидал, что я превращусь в дуру." Я внимательно
наблюдала за ним, уверенная, что набрасываясь на него вот так, после
укуса, наконец разрушит его само-контроль или во всяком случае выведит
его из себя. Я ожидала, что он
будет орать, потеряет терпение и нахальство. Но он оставался
невозмутимым, глубоко вздохнул и принял серьёзное выражение.
"Я знаю, что это выглядит просто как обычный случай людей,
рассказывающих басни для своего удовольствия," начал он обычным лёгким
тоном.
"Но это намного сложнее." Он слегка ухмыльнулся, потом напомнил мне,
что в то время не знал, что я была студенткой антропологии и что я из
себя сделаю дуру. Он остановился на момент как бы ища подходящие слова,
потом беспомощно пожал плечами и добавил, "Сейчас я правда не могу
объяснить, почему я представил тебе своего друга как сына Evans-Pritchard, если
только я не расскажу тебе больше о себе и о своих целях; и это - бессмысленно."
"Почему?"
"Потому что, чем больше ты знаешь, тем больше ты будешь связана." Он
задумчиво посмотрел на меня и в его глазах виднелась искренность. "Я не
имею ввиду ментальную связь, я имею ввиду сексуальную связь со мной." Нахальство было таким явным и
оскорбительным, что мне еле удалось сдержаться. Я вернулась к своему
натренерованному саркастическому смеху и отрезала,
"Ты просто отвратителен. Я таких знаю. Ты типичный экземпляр
латинского мачо высокого мнения о себе, с которыми я боролась всю
жизнь." Видя удивление на его лице, я вбила клин поглубже в моей,
наиболее
неприятной, манере, "Как ты смеешь думать, что я свяжусь с тобой?"
86-87
Он не покраснел, как я ожидала, просто хлопнул себя по колену и громко
рассмеялся, как-будто это была самая смешная шутка, которую он
когда-либо слышал. И, к моему полному разочарованию,
он начал щекотать
меня между рёбрами, как-будто я была ребёноком. Боясь засмеяться - я
боялась щекотки - я вскрикнула от злости. "Как ты смеешь трогать меня!"
И встала, чтобы
уйти.
Я вся тряслась и затем шокировала саму себя, снова сев на
скамейку. Видя, что он собирается снова щекотать меня, я сжала кулаки и
подняла их перед собой. "Я разобью тебе нос, если ты снова тронешь
меня," предупредила я его. Абсолютно не придавая значения моим угрозам,
он закинул голову на
спинку скамейки и закрыл глаза. Смеялся он весело глубоким радостным
смехом, что заставляло его всего трястись. "Ты типичная немецкая
девушка, выросшая окружённая неграми," сказал он, поворачиваясь боком
ко мне.
"Откуда ты знаешь, что я - немка, я никогда тебе этого не говорила?"
Сказала я заикающимся голосом, я намеревалась быть в меру угрожающей.
"Я знал, что ты была немкой, как только тебя увидел," сказал он. "Ты
доказала это, когда наврала, что была шведка. Только немцы, рождённые в
Новом Мире после Второй Мировой Войны, врут вот так. Это конечно, если
они живут в США."
Хотя я и не
собиралась признать это, но он был прав. Я часто чувствовала людскую
ненависть как только они узнавали, что мои родители были немцы;
в их глазах это автоматически делало нас нацистами. Это не имело
никакого значения, когда я говорила им, что мои родители были
идеалистами. Конечно мне пришлось самой признать, что как положительные
немцы они верили, что их род был намного лучше: но в общем они были
мягкие души, кто не интересовался политикой всю свою жизнь. "Всё, что я
сделала это - согласилась с тобой," едко указала я. "Ты увидел светлые
волосы, голубые глаза, высокие скулы и всё, что ты подумал было -
шведка. Ты особым воображением не обладаешь, не так ли?" я забивала
клин дальше. "Тебе самому не нужно было врать, может быть ты
прирождённый лгун?" я продолжала, мой голос становился громче против
моей воли. Тыкая пальцем в его грудь, я насмешливо добавила "'Joe Cortez' , да?"
"А твоё имя действительно Cristina Gebauer?" выстрелил он в ответ,
имитируя мой громкий злой голос.
"Carmen
Gebauer!" крикнула я, оскорблённая, что он не помнил имя правильно.
Потом вдруг, постыдившись своей выходки, я встала на свою собственную
защиту. Через какое-то время я поняла, что не знала что говорила, я
резко остановилась и призналась, что на самом деле была немкой и что Carmen Gebauer было
имя моей подруги детства.
"Мне это нравится," тихо сказал он, с трудом сдерживая усмешку на
губах. Я не могла определить к чему это относилось: к моей лжи или к
моему признанию. В его глазах светилась доброта и удовлетворение.
Тихим, нежным голосом он продолжал рассказывать мне историю его подруги
детства Fabiola Kunze. Смущённая его
реакцией, я отвернулась и уставилась на, рядом стоящие деревья,
sycamore и ель подальше. Затем начала осматривать ногти, чтобы скрыть
свой интерес к истории, методически снимая с них лак и сухую кожу.
История
Fabiola Kunze была так похожа на мою собственную жизнь, что через
какое-то время я забыла притворяться равнодушной и внимательно слушала
его. У меня было подозрение, что он эту историю придумал и, всё-таки я
дала ему должное за детали, которые только дочь в немецкой семье в
Новом Мире может знать.
Fabiola предположительно страшно боялась смуглых латинских ребят, но
она также боялась немцев. Латино парни пугали её безответственностью; а
немецкие парни - своей предсказуемостью. Мне приходилось сжерживаться,
чтобы громко не рассмеяться, когда он
описывал сцены в доме Fabiola Kunze в
воскресный день, когда пару дюжин немцев усаживались за столом,
прекрасно сервированным лучшим фарфором, серебрянными приборами и
хрустальными бокалами. А ей приходилось выслушивать пару дюжин
монологов, которые считали разговорами. По мере того, как он описывал
специфические детали тех воскресных сборищ, я начала себя чувствовать
более и более не в своей тарелке. Там был
отец Fabiola,
запрещающий политические дебаты в его доме, но придумывающий чертовские
пути рассказывать похабные анегдоты в адрес католических священников.
Или её матери смертельный страх, что её великолепный фарфор находился в
руках неуклюжих оболтусов.
88-89
Его слова были намёками, на которые я автоматически реагировала. Я
начала видеть сцены моих воскресных дней как картинки, мелькающие на
стене для моего обозрения. Я была настоящий комок нервов: мне хотелось
топать ногами. Мне хотелось ненавидеть этого человека, доминировать
его, но я не могла. Мне хотелось признания, извинений от него, но
ничего не могла от него получить. Мне хотелось, чтобы он влюбился в
меня, чтобы я могла отвергнуть его. Постыдившись своих незрелых чувств,
я сделала над собой огромное усилие, чтобы собраться. Притворившись,
что скучаю, я наклонилась к нему и спросила, "Ты почему наврал своё
имя?"
"Я не врал," произнёс он. "Это - моё имя, у меня несколько имён.
Колдуны имеют разные имена для разных случаев."
"Как удобно !" с сарказмом ответила я.
"Очень удобно," эхом отозвался он и слегка подмигнул, что страшно
разозлило меня. И затем он сделал что-то совершенно неподобающее и
неожиданное. Он
обнял меня, но в его объятии я не почувствовала от него полового
желания. Это
был спонтанный, простой и приятный жест ребёнка, который захотел
приласкать друга. Его прикосновение моментально и настолько успокоило
меня, что я начала бесконтрольно всхлиповать.
"Я такая дура," призналась я. "Я хотела покорить тебя и посмотри на
меня: я - в твоих объятьях!" Я уже собиралась добавить, что мне это
доставляет удовольствие, как вдруг прилив энергии пронёсся через меня.
Я как-будто проснулась ото сна и оттолкнула его от себя. "Отстань,"
прошипела я и выскочила прочь. Я слышала как он задохнулся от смеха.
Меня совсем не беспокоили его усмешки: мои эмоции моментально исчезли.
Вся дрожа,
я
встала как вкопанная, не в состоянии уйти. И затем, как-будто огромная
резиновая верёвка, прикреплённая ко мне, вернула меня на скамейку.
"Не беспокойся," мягко сказал он. Казалось он точно знал, что это было,
что притащило меня обратно на скамейку (действия невидимого Духа! ЛМ).
Он похлопал меня по спине, как хлопают младенца после еды (выбить мешающих Неорганических
Существ из его организма! ЛМ). "Это не то, что ты или
я делаем," продолжал он. "Это то, что
за пределами нас двоих, действует на нас. Это действовало на меня
долгое время. Сейчас я к этому привык, но не могу понять почему это
действует также и на тебя. Не спрашивай меня что это такое," сказал он,
опережая мой вопрос. "В данный момент я не могу тебе это объяснить." Я
и так не собиралась его спрашивать: мой мозг перестал работать. Я
просто чувствовала как-будто я сплю и вижу сон, что разговариваю.
Вскоре моё онемение прошло. Я чувствовала себя более живой, но всё-таки
не такой как обычно.
"Что со мной происходит?" спросила я.
"Что-то
сфокусировалось на тебе и толкнуло тебя, то, что не исходит от тебя,"
сказал он. "То, что толкает тебя, использует меня как инструмент.
Что-то наслаивает другое мерило на твои убеждения среднего класса."
"Не
начинай этот средний класс идиотизм," с трудом возразила я. Скорее это
было похоже, что я умаляла его. Беспомощно улыбаясь, я подумала, что
потеряла своё обычное нахальство.
"Это, между прочим, не моё
личное мнение или идея," сказал он. "Я, также как и ты, строго говоря,
продукт идеологии среднего класса. Представь мой ужас, когда я оказался
лицом к лицу с другой, более распространённой, идеологией. Это
разорвало меня на части."
"Какая это идеология?" слабо спросила я, мой голос едва был слышен.
"Один
мужчина познакомил меня с этой идеологией," объяснил он. "Или скорее
Дух говорил и действовал на меня через него. Этот мужчина - Колдун, я
о нём писал, его зовут Хуан Матус. Это он, кто заставил меня встать
лицом к лицу со своим менталитетом среднего класса. Однажды Хуан Матус
задал мне необычный вопрос: "Как ты думаешь, что такое университет?" Я
конечно ответил ему как учёный социальных наук: "Центр по изучению
Высших Знаний." Он поправил меня, объявив, что университет следовало бы
назвать "Институт Среднего Класса", потому что мы посещаем этот
Институт, чтобы дальше усовершенствовать наши привычки среднего класса.
90-91
Мы
посещаем Институт, чтобы стать профессионалами, сказал он. Идеология
нашего социального класса говорит нам, что мы должны приготовить себя
занять позиции руководителей. Хуан Матус
сказал, что мужчины идут в Институт Среднего Класса, чтобы стать
инженерами, адвокатами, докторами и т.д., а женщины идут туда, чтобы
найти подходящего мужа, снабженца и отца их детей. Подходящий,
естественно определяется понятиями Среднего Класса."
Я хотела спорить с ним, кричать на него, сказать, что знаю людей,
которые не особо заинтересованы в карьере или ищут мужа; что я знаю
людей, кому было интересно изучать сами идеи. Но таких людей я не
знала. Я чувствовала на груди ужасное давление и была атакована сухим
кашлем. Это не был кашель или физическое неудобство, что заставило меня
дёргаться на месте и остановило меня от спора с ним. Это была
убеждённость, что он говорил именно обо мне: я ходила в университет как
раз для того, чтобы найти подходящего мужчину. И снова я встала,
готовая уйти, я даже протянула руку, чтобы пожать на прощанье, как я
почувствовала мощную хватку на спине. Она была настолько сильной, что
мне пришлось сесть, чтобы не упасть. Я знала, что он меня не касался :
я всё время смотрела на него. Мысли о людях,
которых я не совсем помнила; о снах, которые я не совсем забыла, разом
пришли мне в голову, сформировав интригующий рисунок, из которого я не
могла себя извлечь. Незнакомые лица, наполовину слышные слова, тёмные
картины мест и мутные образы людей моментально вовлекли меня в своего
рода неподвижное состояние. Я была близко к тому, чтобы вспомнить
что-то об этом каледоскопе видений и звуков; но воспоминание
ускользнуло прочь и чувство спокойствия и лёгкости овладело мной; покой
настолько глубокий, что я стёрла все мои желания анализировать себя. Я
вытянула ноги перед
собой, как-будто мне всё в мире было безразлично - в эту секунду так и
было - и тут я начала говорить. Я не могла вспомнить, чтобы когда-либо
о себе говорила так откровенно, и я не могла понять, почему вдруг я с
ним стала настолько неосторожной. Я рассказала ему о Венесуэле, о моём
детстве, моих родителях, моих тревогах и о моей бессмысленной жизни. Я
рассказала ему вещи, в которых не признавалась даже себе.
"Я изучала антропологию с прошлого года и даже не знаю почему," сказала
я, уже начиная чувствовать себя неловко из-за своих откровений. Я
беспокойно вертелась на скамейке, но не могла не остановиться, чтобы
добавить, "Два предмета, которые меня больше всего интересуют - это
испанская и немецкая литература и оказаться в оказаться в отделе
антропологии, немыслимо, насколько я себя знаю."
"Эта деталь меня страшно интригует," сказал он. "Сейчас я в этом не
могу разобраться, но похоже, что меня позвали сюда, чтобы ты нашла
меня, или наоборот."
"Что всё это значит?" спросила я, потом покраснела, осознав, что
понимаю и фокусирую всё, используя женскую логику. Казалось, он
прекрасно понимал, в каком состоянии мой ум. Он достиг моей руки и
прижал её к своему сердцу.
"Me gustas, nibelunga," с чувством воскликнул он и довольно долго
переводил слова на английский, "Я страстно привлечён к тебе, Nibelung."
Он посмотрел на меня глазами латинского поклонника и потом закатился
раскатистым смехом. "Ты убеждена, что рано или поздно я это тебе скажу,
тогда почему не сейчас."
Вместо того, чтобы обидиться, что меня дразнят, я засмеялась. Его юмор
доставлял мне большое удовольствие. Единственную Nibelungen я знала из
книг мифов моего отца - Siegfried and the
Nibelungen. Насколько я помнила,
они были магическими подземными гномами.
"Ты считаешь меня гномом?" спросила я в шутку.
"Упаси господь!" запротестовал он. "Я называю тебя немецким мифическим
существом."
Вскоре, как-будто это была единственная вещь, которую мы могли сделать,
мы поехали к горам Santa
Susana, к тому месту, где мы встретились. Никто из нас не произнёс ни
слова, когда мы сели на выступе, с которого было видно индейское
захоронение. Нами двигало спонтанное чувство дружбы, мы молча сидели
там, не заметив как день сменился ночью.
Chapter
7
92-93
Joe
Cortez припарковал свой мини автобус у подножья холма. Он обошёл
вокруг, чтобы открыть мне дверь и галантно помог мне сойти вниз с
машины.
Я чувствовала
облегчение, что мы наконец остановились, хотя не понимала почему: мы
неизвестно где оказались, а ехали с раннего утра. Дневная жара, плоская
пустыня, безжалостное Солнце и пыль на дороге ещё оставались в памяти,
когда я вдыхала холодный и тяжёлый ночной воздух. Двигаемый ветром,
воздух кружился вокруг нас как что-то вещественное, что-то живое. Луны
не было и звёзды, невероятные по своему количеству и блеску, казалось
только подчёркивали нашу изолированность. Холмы и пустыня растянулись
вокруг нас во всей своей красе, почти невидимые, полные теней и едва
слышных звуков. Я пыталась сорентироваться, глядя на небо, но не знала
как распознать созвездия.
"Мы глядим на восток," прошептал Joe Cortez, как-будто
я говорила вслух; затем он терпеливо старался
учить меня главным созвездиям в летнем небе.
Я только могла вспомнить звезду Vega, потому
что это имя напоминало мне имя испанского писателя 18 века, Lope de Vega.
Пока мы сидели молча на крыше его микроавтобуса смотря на небо,
мой ум просеивал события нашего путешествия. Меньше, чем 24 часа тому
назад, пока мы ели в японском ресторане в центре Лос Анжелеса, он
спросил меня невзначай, поеду ли я с ним в Сонору на несколько дней."
"Мне хотелось бы поехать," сразу согласилась я. "Четверть закончена, я
свободна, когда ты планируешь отправиться?"
"Сегодня
вечером!" сказал он. "Собственно говоря, сразу после того, как покончим
с едой." я засмеялась, уверенная, что его приглашение было шуткой.
"Я не могу так быстро поехать," объяснила я. "А как насчёт завтра?"
"Сегодня
вечером!" мягко настоял он, потом протянул руку, чтобы пожать мою
крепким официальным рукопожатием. Только когда я заметила удовольствие
и озорство в его глазах, то поняла, что он не прощался, а скреплял
соглашение. "Когда соглашение достигнуто, люди должны сразу
действовать," произнёс он, оставив слова висеть в воздухе перед моим
носом. Мы оба уставились на них, как-будто мы действительно могли
видеть их размер и форму. Я кивнула, едва понимая, что приняла решение.
Там был шанс, снаружи меня, ожидающее меня и неизбежное. Мне ничего не
нужно было делать, чтобы его достигнуть. Вдруг с потрясающей чёткостью
я вспомнила свою другую поездку в Сонору год назад. Моё тело напряглось
от страха и шока, когда образы - без всякой последовательности -
взбудоражило глубоко во мне. События той странной поездки настолько
стёрлись из моего сознания, что только секунду до этого у меня было
впечатление, что их никогда и не было. Но сейчас события были также
ясны в моей памяти, как и в тот день, когда они произошли. Дрожа не от
холода, а от непонятного ужаса, я повернулась лицом к Joe
Cortez; готовая рассказать ему об этой поездке. Он уставился на меня со
странной напряжённостью. Его глаза были глубокими и тёмными как
туннели, они впитывали мой ужас. Но они также заставили образы этой
поездки исчезнуть. Как только образы потеряли свою силу, в мозгу
остались обычные пустые мысли. В тот момент я полагала в своей обычной
положительной манере, что не могла ничего сказать Joe Cortez,
потому что настоящее приключение диктует свой собственный путь. И самые впечатляющие
и волнующие события в моей жизни всегда были те, пути которого я
не мешала.
94-95
"Как ты
хочешь, чтобы я называла тебя? Joe Cortez или Carlos
Castaneda?" спросила я в
тошнотворной женской манере.
Его, отливающее медью, лицо сморщилось в улыбке. "Я - твой друг
детства, дай мне имя. Я буду звать тебя nibelunga."
Я не могла найти
подходящего имени и спросила его, "Есть ли какой-то порядок в твоих
именах?"
"Ну," протянул он, "Joe Cortez - повар,
садовник, мастер на все руки; вдумчивый и озабоченный мужчина. Carlos Castaneda -
человек академического мира,
но я не думаю, что ты его уже встретила." он пристально
посмотрел на меня и улыбнулся. Было что-то детское и невероятно
доверчивое в его улыбке. Я решила
называть его Joe Cortez.
Мы провели ночь в отдельных комнатах в мотеле в Yuma, Arizona.
После отъезда из Лос Анжелеса, во время долгого переезда я страшно
беспокоилась о том, как мы будем спать. Временами я боялась, что он
бросится на меня ещё до того, как мы достигнем мотеля. Всё-таки он был
сильный, молодой мужчина, слишком уверенный в себе и агрессивный. Я бы
так не беспокоилась, если бы он был американцем или европейцем. Но так
как он был Latin
(южно-американцем),
я просто не знала, какая у него была логика. Приняв его приглашение
провести несколько дней с ним, означало что я была согласна разделить с
ним кровать.
Его внимание и обнадёживающее поведение по отношению ко мне весь этот
долгий переезд, было деталью, которая отлично подходила тому, что я
думала и ожидала от него. Он подготавливал почву.
Было
поздно когда мы попали в мотель. Он пошёл к управляющему в гостиную
заказать комнаты. Я оставалась в машине, представляя в голове один
жуткий сценарий за другим. Я настолько углубилась в свои фантазии, что
не заметила как он вернулся. Слыша как он позвякиал ключами передо
мной,
я вскочила со своего кресла и уронила коричневый бумажный
пакет, который я неосознанно держала прижатым к груди. В нём были все
мои салфетки, которые мы купили по дороге. "Я заказал тебе комнату в
конце мотеля," сказал он. "Он вдали от магистрали." Он указал на дверь
в нескольких шагах от нас и добавил "Я буду спать в этой комнате, ближе
к улице. Я привык спать с любым шумом." Он тихо посмеялся над самим
собой. "Оставались только эти две комнаты."
Разочарованная, я взяла
ключи из его руки: все мои сценарии развалились. У меня исчезла
возможность отказать ему, хотя и не очень хотелось этого.
И
всё-таки моя душа требовала возмездия, пусть и небольшого. "Я не
понимаю, почему у нас должны быть две комнаты," заявила я с притворной
беспечностью. Моя рука дрожала, когда я поднимала салфетки с пола и
запихивала их обратно в коричневый пакет. То, что я сказала следующим,
звучало невероятным для меня, однако я не могла себя остановить.
"Движение не даст тебе отдохнуть, а тебе нужен сон, также как и мне."
Я
нисколько не сомневалась, что кто-то может спать с шумом,
доносящимся с
магистрали. Не глядя на него, я вылезла из машины и услышала как
я
предложила, "Мы можем спать в одной комнате на разных кроватях." Я
постояла там минутку, шокированная и онемевшая. Никогда до этого я ни
такой вещи не делала, ни такую шизоидную реакцию не ощущала . Я говорила вещи,
которые не планировала, или я их имела ввиду, но не знала, что ожидать?
Его
весёлость остановила моё смущение. Он так сильно смеялся, что люди
включили свет в одной из комнат и крикнули нам заткнуться.
"Оставаться
с тобой в одной комнате и в середине ночи ждать когда ты доберёшься до
меня?" сказал он в перерывах между волнами хохота. "Сразу после моего
душа? Ни за что !"
Я страшно покраснела, мои уши горели, мне
хотелось умереть от стыда. Это не был один из моих сценарий. Я опять
залезла в машину и хлопнула дверью.
"Отвези меня к остановке Greyhound автобуса," с
подавленным гневом зашипела я на него. "Какого чёрта я поехала с тобой?
Мне нужен психиатр!"
Всё
ещё смеясь, он открыл дверь и деликатно вытащил меня оттуда. "Давай
спать не только в одной и той же комнате, но и в одной постели." Он
боязливо посмотрел на меня. "Пожалуйста, дай мне заняться с тобой
любовью!" умолял он, как-будто действительно хотел этого. Шокированая,
я освободилась из его рук и крикнула "Никогда тебе этого не видать в
твоей жизни!"
96-97
"Ну
вот," сказал он. "Это такой жестокий отказ, что я не смею настаивать."
Он поймал мою руку и поцеловал её. "Ты отказала мне и поставила меня на
моё место, проблем больше нет. Ты не виновна."
Я отвернулась от
него, готовая зарыдать. Мой стыд не был от его нежелании провести ночь
со мной - даже если он этого ожидал, я правда не знала, что в таких
случаях делать - а факта, что он знал меня даже лучше, чем я знала
себя. Я отказалась дать ему должное тому, что я думала было его манерой
расхваливать себя. Он смог видеть сквозь меня и это вдруг испугало
меня. Он придвинулся ближе и обнял меня, это было простое доброе
объятие. И как это уже случалось, моё смущение совершенно исчезло,
как-будто его никогда и не было. Я тоже его обняла и сказала ещё более
невероятную вещь, "Это - самое волнующее приключение в моей
жизни." И тут же немедленно захотела вернуть свои слова обратно, потому
что эти слова были - не мои.
Я даже не знаю, что они значили (работа
Дон Хуана! ЛМ).
Это не было самым волнующим приключением в моей жизни. У меня было
много восхитительных поездок: я путешествовала вокруг света. Моё
раздражение достигло пика, когда он поцеловал меня на ночь, слегка и
быстро, как целуют ребёнка, и мне это понравилось против моей воли. Моя
воля исчезла. Он толкнул меня в коридор к моей комнате.
Злясь
на себя, я села на кровать и в полном расстройстве всхлиповала от гнева
и от жалости к себе. Так как, насколько я помню в своей жизни, всё
всегда было по-моему и я привыкла к этому. Быть в смущении и не знать
что делать, было вновинку для меня и наиболее нежелательным. Я
беспокойно спала полностью одетой, пока он не забарабанил по двери рано
утром, чтобы меня разбудить.
Мы ехали весь день по извилистым просёлочным дорогам. Как он и описал
мне, Joe Cortez и в самом
деле был замкнутым человеком.
В течение всей долгой поездки он был самым добрым, самым внимательным и
самым развлекательным попутчиком, какого можно только пожелать. Он
баловал меня едой, песнями и историями. У него был удивительно
глубокий, но чистый баритон, и он знал все мои любимые песни.
Сентиментальные песни любви из каждой Южно-Американской страны, все их
национальные гимны, старые баллады и даже колыбельные. Его истории
заставляли меня смеяться до коликов в животе. Как рассказчик, он держал
меня зачарованной каждым поворотом своей истории. Он был прирождённый
юморист. Его бесподобная имитация каждого мыслимого Южно-Американского акцента - включая
отличительного португальского Бразилии - было более, чем имитация, это
была магия.
"Нам лучше слезь с крыши машины." Голос Joe Cortez (Джо
Кортез) остановил мои мысли. "В пустыне ночью холодно."
"Это
тяжёлый климат," сказала я, с желанием влезть обратно в машину и
уехать, неохотно наблюдая как он вытаскивал какие-то мешки из машины.
Он накупил всевозможных подарков для людей, которых мы собирались
увидеть. "Почему ты припарковал здесь неизвестно где?"
"Ты задаёшь нелепые вопросы, nibelunga," ответил он. "Я
остановился здесь, потому что здесь заканчивается наше путешествие на
машине."
"А
что, мы уже прибыли к нашей таинственной цели, о которой ты не можешь
говорить?" с сарказмом спросила я. Единственной вещью, которая портила
чарующую поездку, был его отказ сказать мне, куда точно мы двигались.
Моментально моей злости на него не было предела: я готова была разбить
ему нос. Мысль, что моя внезапная раздражительность была просто
результатом длительного изнуряющего дня, принесла мне необходимое
чувство облегчения. "Я становлюсь вредной, хотя этого и не хочу,"
сказала я ободряющим тоном, который чувствовался притворным даже мне.
Мой голос был настолько напряжённым, это только доказывало каких усилий
мне стоило сдерживать свой характер. Меня беспокоило, что я так быстро
и легко могу сделаться сумасшедшей из-за него.
"Ты и в самом деле не знаешь как разговаривать," сказал он, широко
улыбаясь. "Ты только знаешь как ругаться."
"Ааа, я вижу что Joe Cortez исчез,
а Carlos Castaneda начинает меня снова
оскорблять?"
Он весело усмехнулся над моим замечанием, которое не было сказано для
смеха. "Это место - не неизвестно где, недалеко город Arizpe."
"И граница США к северу," громко протянула я. "И
Chihuahua к востоку. И Лос
Анжелес где-то к северо-западу отсюда."
98-99
Он
пренебрежительно потряс головой и пошёл вперёд. Мы молча шли вдоль
извивающейся узкой тропинки через кусты, которые я больше чувствовала,
чем видела. Тропинка расширилась, когда мы достигли огромной поляны,
огороженной низкими деревьями mesquite. Силуэты двух
домов можно было различить в темноте, у
того, что побольше, внутри горел свет. Небольшой тёмный дом стоял в
стороне. Мы шли к дому побольше. Бледные мотыльки порхали на
свету,
протискиваясь через ставни.
"Я
должен тебя предупредить, что люди, которых ты собираешься встретить,
немного странные," прошептал он. "Ничего не говори. Дай мне говорить."
"Я
всегда говорю что хочу," отрезала я. "И мне не нравится, когда мне
говорят, как себя вести. Я не ребёнок. К тому же к моим манерам не
подкопаешься, уверяю тебя, за меня тебе стыдиться не придётся."
"Чёрт возьми, оставь ты, наконец, своё высокомерие !" прошипел он
твёрдо контролируемым тоном.
"Не веди себя со мной, как-будто я - твоя жена, Carlos Castaneda,"
заорала я изо всех сил, произнося его имя так, как чувствовала оно
должно быть произнесено: как я знала, ему не нравилось. Но он не
разозлился, его это рассмешило, как это часто происходило, когда я
ждала, что он взорвётся от гнева.
И он никогда не взрывается,
подумала я и в отчаянии вздохнула. Он обладал экстро-ординарной
выдержкой. Казалось, ничего не могло вывести его из себя или
обеспокоить его. Даже когда он кричал, это выглядело как-то
неубедительно. Как раз в тот момент, когда он собрался постучать, дверь
открылась.
Худощавый мужчина образовал чёрную тень в прямоугольнике света.
Нетерпеливым жестом руки он приказал нам войти. Мы
вошли в, заполненный растениями, вестибюль. Мгновенно, как бы боясь
показать лицо, мужчина двинулся впереди нас и, не произнося никакого
приветствия, открыл внутреннюю дверь с потрёпанными стеклянными
панелями.
Мы
последовали за ним по тёмному коридору и через внутреннее патио, где
молодой человек, сидящий на плетёном кресле, играл на гитаре и пел
тихим горестным голосом. Он на мгновенье остановился, увидев нас, он не
ответил на моё приветствие и продолжал играть когда мы заворачивали за
угол и пошли по другому, такому же тёмному, коридору.
"Почему все настолько невежливые?" прошептала я в ухо Joe Cortez. "Ты уверен,
что это тот дом?"
Он тихо усмехнулся. "Я же сказал тебе, что они - эксцентрики,"
пробормотал он.
"А ты уверен, что знаешь этих людей?" настаивала я.
"Что
это за вопрос?" отрезал он спокойным, но в то же время угрожающим
тоном. "Конечно я их знаю." Мы достигли освещённый дверной проём.
Его зрачки засверкали.
"Мы
что? Останемся здесь на ночь?" спросила я с беспокойством.
"Понятия
не имею," прошептал он мне в ухо и затем поцеловал в щёку. "И
пожалуйста, не задавай мне больше вопросов. Я стараюсь изо всех сил
совершить почти невозможный манёвр."
"Какой манёвр?" прошептала я в
ответ. Неожиданное открытие сделало меня беспокойной, но также
взволнованной. Слово манёвр был сигналом. Казалось осознавая мои
внутренние чувства, он перекинул сумки, которые он нёс, в одну руку,
элегантно взял мою руку и поцеловал её - его прикосновение послало
приятные волны по всему моему телу - и повёл меня через порог. Мы вошли
в большую, едва освещённую, почти свободную от мебели, гостиную. Это не
было то, что я ожидала видеть в провинциальной мексиканской гостиной.
Стены и низкий потолок были абсолютно белыми. Не было никаких картин
или настенных украшений, чтобы испортить эту белизну. У стены напротив
двери стоял большой диван и на нём сидели три пожилые, элегантно
одетые, женщины. Я не совсем могла видеть их лица, но в полумраке
они
выглядели удивительно одинаковыми - но не похожими друг на друга - и
едва знакомыми.
Я была настолько поражена этим, что с трудом заметила двоих людей,
сидящих рядом в просторных креслах. В спешке достигнуть трёх женщин,
я
невольно сделала гигантский шаг, не заметив, что комната с каменным
полом была ниже. Устояв на ногах, я заметила красивый восточный ковёр и
женщину, сидящую в одном из кресел.
"Delia
Flores!" воскликнула я. "О, боже! Я не верю своим глазам!" я потрогала
её, мне нужно было удостовериться, что она не была плодом моей
фантазии. "Что происходит?" спросила я, вместо приветствия. В ту же
минуту я поняла, что женщины на диване были теми же женщинами, которых
я встретила в прошлом году в доме знахарки.
100-101
Я
стояла с открытым ртом, как вкопанная, я была шокирована. Быстрая,
лёгкая улыбка пробежала по углам их ртов, когда они повернулись в
сторону седовласого старого мужчины, сидящего в другом кресле. "Mariano
Aureliano." Мой голос превратился в дрожащий шёпот. Вся энергия
покинула меня.
Я повернулась
к
Joe Cortez и тем же голосом обвинила его в трюкачестве. Мне хотелось
кричать на него, оскорблять его, причинить ему боль, но сил во мне не
осталось даже поднять руку. Я с трудом поняла, что он, как и я, стоял
прикованный к полу, лицо побледнело от шока и удивления.
Mariano Aureliano поднялся с кресла и двинулся мне навстречу, протянув
руки, чтобы обнять меня.
"Как
я рад снова увидеть тебя." его голос был тихим, а глаза ярко сверкали
от волнения и радости. Он поднял меня с земли медвежьей хваткой. Моё
тело ослабло: у меня не осталось сил - или желания - ответить на его
тёплое объятие, я не могла сказать ни слова. Он опустил меня и пошёл
поприветствовать Joe Cortez тем же
демонстративным жестом.
Delia Flores и её подруги подошли туда, где я стояла. Один за другим,
они обняли меня и прошептали что-то мне в ухо. Я чувствовала
успокоенной ихними
эмоциональными
прикосновениями и их тихими голосами, хотя и не понимала, что они
говорили. Мой разум отсуствовал. Я могла слышать и чувствовать, но не
могла определить, что я слышала и чувствовала. Mariano
Aureliano уставился на меня и сказал чистым голосом, который проделал
дыру в тумане в моей голове. "Никакого трюка с
тобой не сделали. Я же сказал тебе с самого начала, что я пошлю тебя к
нему."
"Так значит вы..." я замотала головой, не в силах закончить
предложение, когда наконец до меня дошло, что Mariano
Aureliano и был тот человек, о котором Joe Cortez так много
мне говорил: Juan Matus, Колдун, который
изменил направление его жизни. Я открыла рот, чтобы сказать что-то, и
закрыла его опять, было
ощущение, что меня отрезали от моего собственного тела. Мой разум не
мог воспринимать ещё большее изумление; и вдруг я увидела как мистер Flores
появился из теней. Осознав, что это и был тот мужчина, который впустил
нас в дом, я просто потеряла сознание. Когда я очнулась, то лежала уже
на софе, чувствовала себя удивительно хорошо отдохнувшей и не следа
беспокойства. Хотелось знать как долго длился обморок и я села, подняла
руку и посмотрела на свои часы.
"Ты отсуствовала 2 минуты и 20 секунд если точно," объявил мистер Flores
(Don Genaro), изучая свою руку без наручных часов. Он сидел на кожанной
подушке рядом с софой. В сидячем положении он выглядел выше, чем стоя,
так как его ноги были короткими, туловище длинным. "Какая ужасная драма
- потерять сознание," сказал он, подойдя ко мне и усаживаясь со мной на
софе. "Я сожалею, что мы напугали тебя." Его янтарного цвета глаза,
блестящие от смеха, затушили его явно озабоченный голос. "И я
извиняюсь, что не поприветствовал вас у двери." Его лицо отражало
ошеломлённость, граничащее с восхищением, когда он потянул меня за
косу. "С твоими волосами, спрятанными под шляпой, и в этом тяжёлом
кожанном жакете, я принял тебя за мальчика." Я встала, но пришлось
держаться за софу: у меня всё ещё кружилась голова. С недоумением я
смотрела вокруг себя. Женщин в комнате больше не было и также Joe Cortez.
Mariano Aureliano сидел в одном из кресел, пристально смотря впереди
себя. Может он спал с открытыми глазами.
"Когда я увидел вас обоих, держащихся за руки," продолжал мистер Flores, "Я испугался,
что от Charlie Spider
такого нельзя было ожидать."
Всё предложение было сказано на английском и произнёс он их прекрасно,
точно и с удовольствием.
"Charlie
Spider?" и имя, и формальное английское произношение рассмешили меня. "Кто это?"
"Разве ты не знаешь?" спросил он, его глаза округлились от
непритворного удивления.
"Нет, не знаю. А что, я это должна знать?"
Он почесал голову, обескураженный моим ответом, затем добавил, "С кем
ты держалась за руки?"
"Карлос держал мою руку, когда мы входили в эту комнату."
"Ну вот," сказал
мистер Flores, уставившись на меня со знанием исполненного долга,
как-будто я разгадала особо трудную загадку. Потом, всё ещё видя на моём лице вопрос, он добавил, "Carlos Castaneda не
только - Joe
Cortez, но также и Charlie Spider."
102-103
"Charlie Spider," пробормотала я тихо. "Это - очень цепкое имя." Из
трёх имён оно несомненно мне больше всего нравилось, потому что мне
пауки очень нравились. Они совсем не пугали меня, даже большие
тропические, углы моей квартиры всегда были забиты их паутиной. Когда я
чистила квартиру, я не могла заставить себя разрушать те полупрозрачные
паутины. "Почему он называет себя Charlie Spider?" спросила я с
любопытством.
"Разные имена - для разных случаев." прорекламировал в ответ мистер Flores. Кто должен всё
это объяснить тебе, так это Mariano
Aureliano."
"Имя
мистера Aureliano также Juan Matus?" спросила я и мистер Flores
без слов закивал головой.
"Это
уж точно," сказал он, широко и задорно улыбаясь. "У него тоже разные
имена для разных ситуаций."
"А как насчёт тебя, мистер Flores? У тебя тоже
разные имена?"
"Flores
- это моё единственное имя. Genaro Flores." Его
тон был флиртующим. Он нагнулся ко мне и вкрадчивым шёпотом предложил,
"Ты можешь называть меня Genarito." Я невольно отпрянула:
в нём было что-то такое, что испугало меня больше, чем в Mariano Aureliano. Логически, я не могла
решить, что заставило меня так чувствовать, потому что внешне мистер Flores казался более простым, чем Mariano Aureliano.
Он был похож на игривого ребёнка с покладистым характером и всё-таки я
с ним свободно не чувствовала. "Причина, почему у меня только одно имя,
это то, что я - не Нагуал."
"Я кто такой Нагуал?"
"Ооо, это ужасно трудно объяснить." У него на лице появилась безоружная
улыбка. "Только Mariano Aureliano или
Isidore Baltazar могут объяснить это."
"А кто - Isidore Baltazar?"
"Isidore
Baltazar - новый Нагуал."
"Пожалуйста,
не говори мне больше ничего," сказала я взволнованно. Я села опять на
софу, держа руку на лбу. "Вы меня совсем запутали мистер Flores, а я всё ещё слаба." Я умоляюще
посмотрела на него и спросила, "Где Карлос?"
"Charlie Spider (паук) плетёт паутину для полёта!" мистер
Flores произнёс всё предложение на своём экстравагантном английском,
затем довольно усмехнулся, как бы пробуя на вкус эту особо умную шутку.
Затем лукаво глянул на
Mariano Aureliano, кто всё ещё смотрел на стену, потом опять на меня, и
обратно на своего друга.
Он должно быть заметил мою возрастающую тревогу, затем беспомощно
встряхнул плечами, поднял руки и добавил "Карлос также известеный как Isidore Baltazar,
пошёл навестить..."
"Он ушёл?" Мой крик заставил Mariano Aureliano
повернуться и посмотреть на меня. Меня больше
разволновало то, что меня оставили одну с двумя старыми мужчинами, чем
то, что у Carlos
Castaneda было ещё одно имя и что существовал новый Нагуал, что бы это
не означало.
Mariano
Aureliano поднялся с кресла, низко поклонился, протянул руку, чтобы
помочь мне встать. и сказал, "Что может быть более приятным и
заслуживающим для двух стариков, чем охранять тебя, пока ты не очнёшься
от своих снов?" Перед его притягивающей улыбкой и старомодной
вежливостью невозможно было устоять. Я моментально ощутила покой.
"Не
думаю, что существет что-то более приятное," весело согласилась я и
позволила ему вести меня по коридору в ярко освещённую столовую к
овальному mahogany
столу в дальнем конце комнаты. Галантно пододвинув мне кресло и
подождав пока я устроюсь поудобнее, он сказал, что для ужина не так
поздно и что он сам пойдёт на кухню и принесёт мне попробовать
деликотесов. Моя помощь была грациозно отвергнута. Мистер
Flores,
вместо того, чтобы подойти к столу, вкатил себя к нему, как на коляске,
через всю комнату, чётко расчитав дистанцию, и приземлился в несколькиз
см от стола. Ухмыляясь, он сел рядом со мной. На его лице не было
следов каких-то усилий, он даже не задохнулся.
"Несмотря
на то, что вы не признаёте себя акробатом, я думаю, что вы и ваш друг -
часть какого-то магического шоу," сказала я и тут мистер Flores
спрыгнул со своего кресла, его лицо лукаво сморщилось.
"Ты совершенно права. Мы -
часть магического шоу!"
воскликнул он, дотягиваясь до одной из двух глинянных кружек, стоящих
на длинной полке. Он налил мне в чашку горячий шоколад. "Я из этого
делаю блюдо когда закусываю это сыром Manchego." Он отрезал мне кусок
этого сыра и вместе, это великолепно сочеталось.
104-105
Я
хотела добавки, но он мне не предложил. Я думала, что полчашки шоколада
было недостаточно. Я всегда была неравнодушна к шоколаду и могла съесть
огромные количества его без проблем для себя. Я была
убеждена, что если сфокусируюсь на своём желании иметь добавки, он
будет обязан налить мне ещё одну чашку, ьез того чтобы просить его.
Ребёнком я могла делать это, когда очень чего-то хотела. С жадностью я
наблюдала как
он
вытащил два блюдца из высокого шкафа для фарфора. Я заметила, что среди
бокалов, фарфора и серебрянных приборов стояли странные глинянные
фигурки и пластиковые доисторические монстры.
"Это дом Колдунь," сказал мистер Flores тоном
заговорщика, как-будто объяснял необыкновенный дизайн шкафа для фарфора.
"Жён Mariano
Aureliano?" смело спросила я. Он
не ответил, но жестом показал мне повернуться. Mariano
Aureliano стоял прямо за моей спиной.
"Те же самые," весело
сказал Mariano
Aureliano, ставя фарфоровую супницу на стол. "Те самые Колдуньи, кто
приготовил этот всукснй суп из бычьего хвоста." Серебрянным половником
он он налил мне полную тарелку и посоветовал добавить дольку лимона и
авокадо. Я так и сделала и потом проглотила всё это несколькими
глотками. Я съела несколько тарелок, пока не почувствовала, что сыта,
почти переела. Мы сидели за столом долгое время. Этот суп произвёл на
меня невероятно успокающий эффект. Я обрела покой: то, что обычно было
очень неприятным во мне, было отключено. Всё моё существо, и тело, и
Дух, были благодарны, что мне не нужно было использовать свою энергию,
чтобы защитить себя. Кивая головой, как-будто молча соглашаясь с каждой
моей мыслью, Mariano
Aureliano
наблюдал за мной своими умными и довольными глазами. Я было собралась
обратиться к нему как к Juan Matus, как вдруг он опередил моё
намерение и сказал, "Я - Juan Matus, для Isidore Baltazar. Для тебя же, я - Нагуал Mariano Aureliano." Улыбаясь, он
наклонился ближе и прошептал доверительным тоном, "Мужчина, который вёз
тебя сюда, новый Нагуал, Нагуал - Isidore
Baltazar. Это имя ты должна
использовать, когда с ним разговариваешь или о
нём. Ты ещё не совсем заснула, но и не совсем проснулась," Mariano Aureliano
продолжал объяснять,
"поэтому ты будешь способна понять и запомнить всё, что мы тебе
скажем." Видя, что я собираюсь перебить его, он твёрдо добавил, "И
сегодня ты не будешь задавать глупых вопросов." Не столько его тон, как
его сила, была настолько леденящей. Она парализовала мой язык; однако
моя голова, по своей собственной воле, закивала в знак согласия.
"Тебе необходимо проверить её," напомнил своему другу мистер Flores. Явно
неприятный блеск появился в глазах мистера Flores, когда он
добавил,
"Или лучше я сам это сделаю." Mariano
Aureliano сделал долгую намеренную паузу, заряженную негативными
возможностями, и критически осмотрел меня, как-будто мои черты откроют
дорогу к какому-то важному секрету.
Загипнотезированная его умными, проницательными глазами, я моргнула. Он
задумчиво кивнул и мистер Flores спросил меня
глубоким загробным голосом: "Ты влюблена в Isidore
Baltazar?" И будь я проклята,
если не ответила "Да" механическим, неживым голосом. Мистер
Flores подвинулся ближе, пока наши головы почти не коснулись, и
шёпотом, который дрожал от сдавленного смеха, спросил, "Ты
действительно с ума сходишь от любви к нему?" И я снова сказала "Да", тут они оба
взорвались от смеха. Звуки их смеха отпрыгивали от стен как шарики для
пин-понга и в конце концов я зацепилась за звук и
вытащила себя из этого транса.
"Какого
чёрта!" орала я самым громким голосом, на который только была способна.
Поражённые, оба мужчины свалились со своих кресел. Они посмотрели на
меня, потом друг на друга, и опять начали хохотать с детской
непринуждённостью. И чем изысканнее были мои ругательства, тем больше
они веселились. Было что-то такое заразительное в их смехе, что я
невольно захихикала. Как только мы успокоились,
Mariano Aureliano и мистер Flores обрушили на меня ворох вопросов. Им
особенно было интересно знать когда и как я впервые встретила Isidore Baltazar.
Каждая, абсурдно маленькая, деталь доставляла им огромную радость. К
тому времени когда я описала события в четвёртый и пятый раз, я или
улучшила и расширила свою историю с каждым пересказом, или я просто
больше вспоминала деталей, которые я и не мечтала, что вспомню.
106-107
"Isidore Baltazar видел сквозь тебя и сквозь всю
ситуацию,"
сделал вывод Mariano Aureliano, когда я, наконец, закончила с моими
пересказами. "Но он всё ещё недостаточно хорошо ВИДИТ. Он даже
не мог
вообразить, что я послал тебя к нему." Он с неприязнью
оглядел меня
и поправил себя, "На самом деле, это был не я, кто послал тебя к нему.
Это был Дух. Просто Дух выбрал меня, чтобы исполнить его желание, и я,
дуя, послал тебя к нему, когда ты была наиболее могущественной: во
время твоего Полёта (Dreaming-Awake)."
Он говорил без эмоций, почти равнодушно, и только глаза передавали
безотлагательность его послания.
"Скорее всего
могущество твоего Полёта (Dreaming-Awake) было причиной, что Isidore Baltazar не понял, кто ты
была, несмотря на то, что он мог ВИДЕТЬ; даже если Дух и дал ему знать в тот день, когда он встретил тебя.
Показ огней в тумане - это совершенный Дар.
Как глупо было со стороны
Isidore Baltazar не видеть явного." Он тихо усмехнулся, а я кивнула в
знак согласия, не понимая с чем я соглашаюсь.
"Это показывает тебе, что быть Колдуном не так уж сложно. Isidore
Baltazar - Колдун. Быть Человеком Знаний - это что-то ещё. Для этого
Колдуны иногда должны ждать всю жизнь."
"Какая разница?" спросила я.
"Мужчина
или Женщина Знаний - Лидер," объяснил он низким и немного таинственным
голосом: "Колдунам нужны Лидеры вести нас к и в Неизвестность.
Лидера определяют по его/её действиям. У Лидеров нет ценника на
головах, имеется ввиду, что их нельзя купить, подкупить, одурманить или льстить им."
Он
поудобнее уселся в кресле и продолжал говорить, что все члены его
группы заострили своё внимание на изучение Лидеров во все века, чтобы
видеть, что кто-то из них выполнил все требования.
"Ну и нашли кого-нибудь?"
"Некоторых,"
признался он. "Те, кого мы нашли, могли быть Нагуалами." Он прижал свой
палец к моим губам и добавил, "В таких случаях Нагуалы - натуральные
Лидеры; мужчины и женщины невероятной энергии, кто становятся
Колдунами, добавляя ещё одну роль в свой репертуар: НЕИЗВЕСТНОЕ.
Если
таким Колдунам удаётся стать Мужчиной или Женщиной Знаний, тогда
практически нет границ тому, что они могут сделать."
"Могут женщины...," он не дал мне закончить.
"Женщины, как ты когда-нибудь
узнаешь, могут сделать бесконечно более сложные вещи, чем это," заверил
он."
"Isidore Baltazar
случайно не напомнает тебе кого-то, кого ты раньше встречала?" перебил мистер
Flores.
"Нууу,"
протянула я, "С ним я легко себя чувствовала. У меня было чувство, что
я его знала всю свою жизнь. Он скорее напоминал мне кое-кого в моём
детстве; забытый друг детства."
"Так ты действительно не помнишь, что встречала его раньше?" вставил мистер
Flores.
"Вы имеете ввиду в доме Esperanza?" спросила я,
удивляясь, могла ли я встретить его у знахарки и не помнить этого. Он
разочарованно замотал головой.
Затем, явно больше не заинтересованный моим ответом, он спросил видела
ли я как кто-то махал нам на пути к дому.
"Нет," ответила я. "Я никого не видела, кто бы нам махал."
"Подумай хорошенько," настаивал он. Я сказала обоим мужчинам, что после Yuma, вместо того,
чтобы ехать на восток к Nogales на шоссе № 8 - Isidore Baltazar
поехал на юг в Мексику, потом на восток через пустыню "El Gran Desierto", потом снова на север
в США через Sonoyta, в Ajo,
Arizona, и назад в Мексику, в Caborca, где мы ели
самый вкусный обед из бычьего языка и зелёного чили соуса.
"После
того, как я влезла в машину с полным желудком, я едва обращала внимания
на дорогу," призналась я. "Я знаю, что мы проехали Santa Ana и потом мы
направились на север снова к Cananea, и потом снова на юг.
Настоящая чехарда, если разобраться."
"Ты всё ещё не помнишь, что видела кого-то на дороге?" настаивал мистер
Flores. "Кто махал тебе?"
Я
крепко закрыла глаза в попытке представить кого-нибудь, махающего нам,
но в памяти от моей поездки были только истории, песни и физическая
измождённость. И вдруг, когда я уже было открыла глаза, образ человека
мелькнул передо мной. Я им сказала, что едва вспомнила молодого
человека на окраине одного из тех городков, кто, я думала, старался
голосовать машинам. "Он должно быть махал нам," сказала я. "Но я не
уверена."
Оба мужчины хихикали как дети, с трудом удерживаясь чтобы не раскрыть
секрет.
108-109
"Isidore
Baltazar был не вполне уверен, что найдёт нас," довольно
заметил Mariano Aureliano. "Вот почему он следовал такому странному
маршруту.
Он следовал тропе Колдуна; тропе койота (coyote)."
"Почему он не был уверен, что найдёт вас?" перебила я.
"Он не знал, найдёт ли он нас, пока не увидел молодого человека,
махающего ему,"
объяснил Mariano Aureliano. "Тот молодой человек - это охрана из
другого мира. Его взмахи были знаком, что можно было продолжать. Тогда Isidore
Baltazar должно
быть узнал, кто ты в действительности была, но он - очень похож на
тебя; чрезвычайно осторожен. А когда он неосторожен, то ужасно
неконтролируемый."
Он остановился на момент, чтобы дать словам дойти до меня, и потом
значительно добавил, "Двигаться между теми двумя точками - самый точный
путь пропустить лодку. Осторожность ослепляет точно также, как и
безрассудство."
"Не пойму где логика во всём этом?" пробормотала я устало.
Mariano
Aureliano пояснил, "Когда Isidore Baltazar
приводит
гостя к нам, он должен обращать внимание на сигнал охраны, прежде чем
продолжать путешествие. Однажды он хотел привезти девушку, в которую
был влюблён." Мистер
Flores усмехнулся, закрыл глаза, как-будто унесённый личным
воспоминанием о девушке. "Высокая, тёмно-волосая, сильная девушка с
большими ногами. Приятное лицо. Он проехал всю Baja California
и охрана так и не пропустила его."
"Вы имеете ввиду, что он приводит своих подруг?" с угрозой в
голосе спросила я. "Сколько он привёл?"
"Достаточно много," разоткровеничался
мистер Flores. "Конечно он делал это по своему собстенному усмотрению.
Твой случай - другой. Ты - не его подруга. Ты просто возвратилась. Isidore
Baltazar чуть не умер, когда понял каким был дураком, что пропустил
все знаки Духа. Он просто был твой шофёр. Мы ждали тебя."
"Что бы произошло, если бы охраны там не было?"
"То, что всегда происходит, когда Isidore Baltazar
приезжает с гостем," ответил Mariano
Aureliano. "Он бы нас не нашёл, потому что не ему решать, кого привезти
в Мир Колдунов."
Его голос был привлекательно мягким, когда он добавил, "Только те, на
кого укажет Дух, могут постучаться в нашу дверь, после того как их к
нам привёл один из нас." Я уже было хотела перебить его и тут, вспомнив
его предупреждение, что я не должна задавать глупые вопросы,
я быстро прижала руку ко рту. Оценив мой жест, Mariano
Aureliano продолжал говорить, что в моём случае это была Делия, кто
привела меня в их Мир.
"Она - одна из двух колон, как говорится, которые составляют вход к
нам. Другая колонна - Клара, ты скоро её встретишь." В его глазах и в
голосе было настоящее восхищение, когда он говорил, "Делия пересекла
границу только для того, чтобы привезти тебя домой. Граница - это факт,
но Колдуны используют это символически. Ты была на другой стороне и
тебя нужно было привезти сюда, на эту сторону. На той стороне -
Повседневный Мир, а здесь, на этой стороне - Мир Колдунов. Делия гладко
вела тебя: по настоящему профессиональная работа. Это был безупречный
манёвр, который ты со временем будешь ценить больше и больше." Mariano
Aureliano наполовину привстал со своего кресла, дотянулся до компота на
полке и поставил его прямо передо мной. "Угощайся, очень вкусно."
Как завороженная, я смотрела на тарелку ручной работы с влажной массой
засушенных персиков, затем попробовала один. Они были восхитительны !
Я положила сразу три в рот, мистер Flores
подмигнул мне. "Давай," подбадривал он меня. "Положи все себе в рот,
пока мы тарелку не унесли."
Я покраснела и попыталась извиниться с полным ртом.
"Не извиняйся!" попросил Mariano
Aureliano. "Будь сама собой, но но держи себя в кулаке. Если хочешь
съесть персики, ну и съешь их и на этом точка. Что тебе не нужно делать
это, съесть их, а потом сожалеть, что съела."
"Ну тогда, я съем их," ответила я и это их рассмешило.
"Знаешь ли ты, что встретила Isidore Baltazar в
прошлом году?" спросил мистер Flores. Он
балансировал на наклонном кресле и настолько неловко, что
я боялась он грохнется на шкаф с фарфором. Дерзкий огонёк удовольствия
появился в глазах мистера
Flores, когда он начал напевать хорошо известную ковбойскую песню.
Вместо слов, которые сопровождают её, он сделал небольшую композицию, в
которой описывалась история Isidore Baltazar,
знаменитого повара в Tucson. Повар, кто
никогда не терял самообладание, даже когда его обвиняли в подкладывании
в пищу мёртвого таракана.
110-111
"Ааа !" воскликнула я. "Повар! Повар в кафе был Isidore
Baltazar! Но этого не может быть, я не думаю, он бы..."
я остановилась на полуслове. Я уставилась на Mariano
Aureliano в надежде заметить что-нибудь на его лице, в этих
пронизывающих глазах и орлином носу. Я невольно затряслась, как-будто
мне стало холодно. Было что-то дикое в его холодных глазах.
"Да?"
был его мгновенный ответ. "Ты не думаешь, что он мог быть...?"
кивком головы он давал мне возможность закончить предложение. Я
собиралась сказать глупость, что не думала Isidore
Baltazar мог так солгать мне. Но не могла заставить себя сказать это. Глаза
Mariano
Aureliano смотрели ещё упорнее, но я была слишком огорчена; слишком
жалела себя, чтобы быть испуганной. "Так значит, меня всё-таки
разыграли," у меня наконец вылетело изо рта. "Isidore Baltazar знал всю дорогу, кто я
была. Это всё была игра."
"Это
всё была игра," с готовностью согласился
Mariano Aureliano. "Хотя и необычная игра. Единственная игра, в которую
стоит играть." Он остановился, как бы давая мне время ещё жаловаться.
Но перед этим он напомнил мне о парике, который он натянул мне на
голову. "Если ты не узнала Isidore Baltazar - кто
не маскировался - почему ты думаешь, что он мог узнать тебя в
твоём облачении пуделя?" Mariano
Aureliano продолжал следить за мной. Его глаза потеряли холод и сейчас
они были печальны и усталы. "Тебя никто не разыгрывал, тебя даже не
заманивали. Не то, чтобы я не мог это сделать, если думал, что это
необходимо," заметил он лёгким, тихим тоном. "С самого начала я сказал
тебе что было что. Ты была свидетелем невероятных событий; и всё равно
ты их не заметила. Как многие, ты ассоциируешь Колдовство со странным
поведением, ритуалами, наркотиками, заклинаниями." Он наклонился ближе
и потом добавил, что настоящее Колдовство - это почти незаметная и
искусная манипуляция восприятия. "Настоящее Колдовство," вмешался
мистер Flores. "не позволяет
человеческого вмешательства."
"Но мистер Aureliano утверждает,
что он послал меня к Isidore Baltazar," по детски объявила я.
"Разве это не вмешательство?"
"Я - Нагуал," просто сказал Mariano
Aureliano. "Я - Нагуал Mariano Aureliano и то,
что я - Нагуал, даёт мне право
манипулировать восприятие." Я внимательно слушала
его, но понятия не имела, что он подразумевает под МАНИПУЛИРОВАНИЕМ ВОСПРИЯТИЯ.
Просто из-за нервозности, я схватила последний персик на блюде.
"Тебе будет плохо," сказал мистер Flores, "Ты такая
крошечная, но настоящая травма в заднице."
Mariano
Aureliano подошёл и встал сзади меня, затем так нажал на мою спину, что
я закашляла и последний персик вылетел у меня изо рта.
Часть 8
112-113
С этого момента последовательность событий, как я помню, становится не
совсем ясной: я не знаю, что потом случилось. Наверно я заснула и этого
не осознавала или возможно, что давление, которое Mariano Aureliano
произвёл на мою спину, было таким мощным,что я потеряла сознание.
Когда очнулась, то лежала на ковре на полу. Я открыла глаза и мгновенно
осознала непривычную яркость вокруг себя. Казалось, что солнечный свет
был в самой комнате. Я моргала и моргала, не понимая, может что-то
случилось с моими глазами: я не могла их сфокусировать.
"Mr.
Aureliano," позвала я.
"Кажется что-то случилось с моими глазами." Я старалась сесть, но не
смогла. Это не был мистер Aureliano
или мистер Flores, кто стоял возле меня, а женщина. Она наклонилась
надо мной, загораживая яркость, если можно так выразиться. Её чёрные
волосы свободно спадали по бокам и плечам. У неё было круглое лицо и
большая грудь. Я снова попробовала сесть. Она не тронула меня, однако я
знала, что каким-то образом она пригвоздила меня к месту.
"Не называй
его мистер Aureliano," сказала
она. "Или Mariano. Это неуважительно с
твоей стороны. Зови его Нагуал, а когда говоришь о нём, называй его
Нагуал Mariano
Aureliano.
Ему нравится его полное имя." Её голос был мелодичным, она мне
нравилась, я чувствовала себя вдохновенно. Мне хотелось спросить её,
что это за чепуха - быть неуважительной. Когда я слышала как Делия и
все остальные женщины звали его всякими нелепыми прозвищами и
няньчились с ним, как-будто он был их любимой куклой. Он явно получал
от этого огромное удовольствие. Но я никак не могла вспомнить когда и
где
я была этому свидетель. "Ты поняла?"
спросила женщина. Я хотела сказать да, но у меня не было голоса. Я
старалась открыть рот и сказать что-то, но всё - напрасно, я только
кивнула. Она предложила мне руку, чтобы подняться. Ещё до того как
дотронуться до меня, я уже встала, как-будто моё желание подняться
опередило контакт с её рукой и помогло мне сесть, до того как ей помочь
мне. Поражённая таким обстоятельством, я хотела распросить её об этом,
но сил хватило только, чтобы держаться прямо. А что касается разговора:
слова просто отказывались вылетать из моего рта. Она постоянно гладила
мои волосы. Она явно прекрасно знала о моей проблеме. Приветливо
улыбаясь, она сказала, "Ты - в Полёте." Я не слышала, чтобы она это
сказала, но знала, что её слова отлетели прямо от её разума к моему.
Она кивнула и сказала мне, что и в самом деле, я могла слышать её
мысли, и что она могла слышать мои. Она заверила меня, что для меня она
была фантазией моего воображения, но всё же она могла оперировать со
мной и также влиять на меня.
"Обрати внимание!" скомандовала она мне. "Я не двигаю свои губы, и
всё-таки я говорю с тобой. Сделай то же самое." Её рот совсем не
двигался. Мне было любопытно, смогу ли я чувствовать движение её губ,
когда она молча произносила слова, мне хотелось прижать палец к её
губам. Собственно, она была очень симпатичной, но угрожающей. Она
достала мою руку и прижала её к своим улыбающимся губам. Я ничего не
почувствовала.
"Как я смогу разговаривать без своих губ?" подумала я.
"У тебя есть дырка между ногами," послала она прямо мне в голову.
"Сфокусируй своё внимание на ней. Разговор Пусси (Pussy - влагалище)."
Эти слова рассмешили меня. Я так хохотала, что задохнулась и опять
потеряла сознание. Женщина начала трясти меня чтобы очнуться. Я всё ещё
была на том же коврике на полу, но полусидя и с толстыми подушками за
спиной. Я моргала и тряслась, потом глубоко вздохнула и посмотрела на
неё. Она сидела на полу рядом со мной.
114-115
"Вообще-то я обмороками не страдаю," сказала я и удивилась самой себе,
что смогла произнести слова. Звук собственного голоса был таким
убеждающим, что я громко рассмеялась и повторила то же самое
предложение несколько раз.
"Знаю, знаю," успокаивала она меня. "Не волнуйся, в любом случае, ты
ещё не совсем проснулась. Меня зовут Клара. Мы уже встречались у Esperanza."
Мне следовало бы запротестовать или спросить её, что она имела ввиду.
Но вместо этого, не сомневаясь ни на секунду, я согласилась, что всё
ещё спала и что мы уже встречались у Esperanza.
Воспоминаяния, туманные мысли, видения: людей и мест начали медленно
возникать. Ясная мысль появилась в голове: у меня однажды был сон, что
я её встретила. И так как это был только сон, у меня никогда не
появлялись мысли об этом, в смысле как о настоящих событиях. И в тот
момент, когда до меня это дошло, я вспомнила Клару. "Конечно мы
встречались," с триумфом произнесла я. "Но мы встречались в Полёте,
поэтому ты - не настоящая. Я должно быть и сейчас в Полёте (Dreaming),
поэтому я тебя и помню." Я вздохнула, довольная, что всё это так легко
объясняется, и прилегла на толстую подушку. Другое ясное воспоминание
Полёта вдруг появилось в голове. Я не могла точно вспомнить, когда у
меня был этот Полёт, но я помнила его также хорошо, как-будто событие
действительно произошло. В нём Делия представила меня Кларе. Делия
описала Клару как самую общительную из всех Женщин-Путешественниц (Dreamers).
"На самом деле у неё есть друзья, кто обожает её," поделилась со мной
Делия. Клара в этом сне была довольно высокой, сильной и упитанной. Она
всё время за мной наблюдала так, как наблюдают за неизвестной формой
жизни, с осторожностью и нервными улыбками. И всё-таки, несмотря на её
требовательный осмотр, мне она ужасно нравилась. Её глаза улыбающиеся и
зелёные, любили риск. Что запомнилось сильнее всего в её интенсивном
наблюдении, так это что она смотрела на меня неморгающим взглядом кота.
"Слара, я знаю, что это только Полёт," повторила я, как-будто мне нужно
было убедить себя в первую очередь.
"Нет, это не просто Полёт, это - особый Полёт," не согласилась со мной
Клара. "Тебе не следует иметь такие мысли, мысли имеют Могущество.
Следи за ними."
"Ты - не настоящая, Клара," настаивала я каким-то охриплым тонким
голосом. "Ты - сон. Вот поэтому я не могу вспомнить тебя, когда
просыпаюсь."
Моя упрямая настойчивость рассмешила Клару. "Ты никогда и не старалась
запомнить меня," наконец объяснила она. "В этом не было смысла, не было
причины для этого. Мы, женщины, до тошноты практичны, это - наше
огромное достоинство или наш ужасный недостаток."
Я было собралась спросить её, какая практическая сторона была в том,
что я вспомню её сейчас, как она опередила мой вопрос.
"Так
как я сейчас перед тобой, тебе нужно запомнить меня. И ты запомнишь."
Она нагнулась ниже и, фиксируя меня своим кошачьим взглядом, добавила,
"И ты
меня больше не забудешь. Колдуны, кто вырастил меня, сказали мне, что
женщинам нужно всего по два, чтобы это сделалось твёрдым, чтобы это
застыло. Два образа чего-то, два раза прочитать, два испуга и т.д. Ты и
я теперь встретились дважды. Сейчас я твёрдая и настоящая для тебя."
Чтобы
доказать насколько настоящей она была, она подняла рукав блузки и
заиграла мускулатурой руки. "Дотронься до них," предложила она. Хихикая,
я дотронулась:
у неё действительно были мышцы мощного рельефа, они чувствовались и
правда настоящими. Она также заставила меня потрогать мускулы её ног.
"Если
это особый Полёт," сказала я осторожно, "Что я делаю в этом Полёте?"
"Всё,
что пожелаешь," сказала она. "Пока что ты прекрасно
справляешься. Хотя я не могу быть твоим гидом, так как я не твой
учитель по Полётам (Dreaming Teacher).
Я просто пышная Колдунья, кто заботится о других Колдуньях. Это был мой
партнёр - Делия, кто привёл тебя в мир Колдунов, как повивальная бабка
при родах. Но не она была первой, кто тебя нашёл. Флоринда нашла."
"Кто такая Флоринда?" я нервно усмехалась. "И когда она меня нашла?"
"Флоринда - это другая Колдунья," деловито ответила Клара, и тоже
начала хихикать. "Ты её тоже встретила. Это она, кто взял тебя в свой
Полёт в доме Esperanza. Ты помнишь
пикник?"
"Ааа," вздохнула я с благодарностью. "Ты имеешь ввиду высокую женщину с
осиплым голосом?" Сияние заполнило меня: я всегда восхищалась высокими
женщинами.
116-117
"Высокая
женщина с охрипшим голосом," подтвердила Клара. "Она нашла тебя пару
лет назад на обеде, на котором ты была со
своим парнем в роскошном доме нефтяного магната в Хьюстоне, в
Техасе."
"Что
делать Колдунье на вечеринке в доме нефтяного магната?"
спросила я. И тогда полный удар её повествования сразил меня. От
полученного шока я не могла говорить. Хотя я и не помнила, что видела
там Флоринду, я отлично помнила эту вечеринку. Я попала туда с другом,
кто летал туда на собственном самолёте из Лос Анжелеса, только чтобы
принять участие в этом событии, и вернуться на следующий день. Я была
его переводчицей. Там было несколько мексиканских бизнесменов, кто не
разговаривал по английски. "Господи!" воскликнула я задыхаясь. "Какой
странный поворот событий!"
Я описала это событие Кларе в мелочах. Побывать в Техасе было впервые
для меня. Как какой-нибудь любитель Голливуда, я уставилась на мужчин,
не потому что они были красивы, а потому что для меня они выглядели
настолько странно в своих шляпах Stetson,
в костюмах пастельных цветов, и в ковбойских сапогах. Нефтяной
магнат нанял артистов и они устроили шоу-варьете, не уступающее Лас
Вегасу, в гротто ночного клуба, специально построенному для этого
события. Всё место вибрировало от громкой музыки и мигающих огней, а
разнообразие еды было просто королевским.
"Но почему Флоринда
пришла на такое мероприятие?" спросила я.
"Мир Колдунов - самая странная вещь, которая существует," сказала Клара
в ответ. Она, как акробат, подпрыгнула из сидячего положения в стоячее
не опираясь на руки. Она шагала по комнате перед моим ковриком
туда-сюда. Она выглядела величественно в своей широкой тёмной юбке и в
ковбойском жакете, ярко вышитом на спине, и в своих крепких ковбойских
сапогах. Австралийская шляпа, наклонённая над бровью, как бы защищая её
от палящего Солнца, добавляли последний штрих её эксентричной
вызывающей внешности. "Как тебе нравится мой наряд?"спросила она,
позируя передо мной.
Её лицо светилось.
"Выглядит великолепно!" выдала я. У неё определённо был вкус и
уверенность носить любую одежду. "Это действительно грандиозно."
Она встала коленями на коврик рядом со мной и доверительно
прошептала, "Делия лопнет от зависти. Мы с ней всё время соревнуемся:
кто появится в наиболее неожиданном наряде. Он может быть сумасбродным,
но не глупым." Она на момент остановилась, глазами наблюдала за мной,
обдумывая.
"Ты можешь присоединиться к соревнованиям," предложила она. "Хочешь
присоединиться к нашей игре?"
Я с готовностью кивнула и она продиктовала правила для меня.
"Оригинальность, практичность, недорого и никакой мании величия," она
произнесла без всяких усилий. Затем снова встала и покружилась ещё
несколько раз по комнате. Смеясь она свалилась рядом со мной и сказала,
"Флоринда думает, что
я должна вдохновить тебя на участие. Она сказала, что на той вечеринке
она поняла, что у тебя есть вкус к практичной одежде." Она едва могла
закончить предложение: её распирал смех.
"Флоринда разговаривала со мной там?" спросила я и застенчиво взглянула
на неё, не зная скажет ли она мне то, что я не договорила из
сказанного; то, что я не собиралась рассказывать. Клара покачала
головой, потом улыбнулась отвлечённой улыбкой, означавшей отложить
дальнейшие вопросы об этом вечере. "А как получилось, что Делия
оказалась на крестинах в Nogales, Arizona?"
спросила я, отвлекая разговор на события другой встречи.
"Флоринда послала её туда," призналась Клара, заправляя свои волосы под
австралийскую шляпу. "Она разбила вечер, сказав всем, что пришла с
тобой."
"Подожди-ка!" перебила её я. "Это - не сон и не Полёт. Что ты
добиваешься от меня?"
"Я стараюсь инструктировать тебя," настаивала Клара, не меняя своего
равнодушия, ровным, почти небрежным тоном. Казалось эффект её слов на
меня ей не был интересен. И всё-таки , внимательно наблюдая за мной,
она добавила, "Это - Полёт и конечно наш разговор происходит в твоём
Полёте, потому что
я тоже в твоём Полёте." Эти её странные заявления были достаточно,
чтобы успокоить меня, были хорошим доказательством, что я находилась в
Полёте. Мой ум стал спокойным, сонливым и способным смириться с
ситуацией. Я услышала как стала говорить голосом, возникшим без моего
желания.
"Флоринда никак не могла знать о моей поездке в Nogales," сказала
я. "Я приняла приглашение моей подруги в последнюю минуту."
118-119
"Я знала, что это будет необъяснимым для тебя," вздохнула Клара. Потом
посмотрела мне в глаза и, тщательно взвешивая каждое слово, она
объявила, "Флоринда - больше твоя мать, чем та мать,
которая была у тебя." Я нашла её заявление нелепым, но не могла сказать
ни слова, "Флоринда чувствует тебя," продолжала Клара.
Дьявольский блеск появился в её глазах когда она добавила, "Она
использует антенну и всегда знает, где ты."
"Какая антенна?" спросила я, мой мозг вдруг приобрёл полный контроль.
Мысль, что кто-то во все времена может знать, что я собираюсь делать,
наполнил меня ужасом.
"Её чувства к тебе и есть та антенна," ответила Клара с необыкновенной
простотой и таким мягким и гармоничным тоном, что моя тревога тут же
испарилась.
"Какие чувства ко мне, Клара?"
"Кто знает, дитя?" сказала она задумчиво. Она подняла ноги наверх,
руками обняла их положила подбородок на колени. "У меня никогда не было
вот такой дочери."
Моё настроение резко поменялось от удивления назад к тревоге. От
рациональной, ментальной манеры, что было моим стилем, меня начали
беспокоить едва заметные детали заявления Клары, что снова вызвали мои
сомнения. Всё это не может быть в Полёте: и я не спала. Моя
концентрация была слишком чёткой, чтобы думать иначе. Соскользнув с
подушки за моей спиной, я полузакрыла глаза. Продолжая следить за
Кларой, мне было интересно исчезнет ли она, как люди и сцены обычно
медленно исчезают после сна. Но она не исчезла и я это моментально
убедило меня, что я бодрствовала и также Клара.
"Нет, мы не бодрствуем," возразила она мне, влезая снова в мои мысли.
"Но я могу говорить," ответила я, таким образом оценивая моё состояние
полного осознания.
"Не велика задача!" отметила она. "А сейчас я сделаю кое-что и это
разбудит тебя, и так ты сможешь продолжить разговор, когда ты
действительно будешь в полном сознании." Она произнесла последнее слово
с особой тщательностью, преувеличенно артикулируя губами.
"Подожди, Клара," взмолилась я. "Дай мне время привыкнуть ко всему
этому." Я предпочитала неопределённость тому, что она могла со мной
сделать.
Не обращая внимания на мои мольбы, Клара поднялась и взяла кувшин с
водой, стоящий рядом на низком столике. Всё ещё посмеиваясь, она
закружилась надо мной, держа кувшин над моей головой. Я пробовала
откатиться в сторону, но не смогла этого сделать: моё тело не слушалось
меня; казалось оно было приклеено к коврику. До того как она и вправду
вылила воду на меня, я уже почувствовала холодные, мягкие брызги на
лице. Холод, скорее, чем влажность, дали мне удивительное ощущение. Оно
сначала затуманило лицо Клары, нависшее надо мной, как рябь искажает
поверхность воды. Затем холод перешёл на мой живот и повлёк меня
внутрь, как рукав, который вывернули наизнанку. Моей последней мыслью
было, что я собираюсь утонуть в кувшине с водой. Пузыри темноты
закрутили меня, пока всё не стало чёрным. Когда я пришла в себя, я уже
не лежала на коврике, а на софе в гостиной.
Две женщины стояли в ногах софы и смотрели на меня круглыми любопытными
глазами. Флоринда, высокая, седая женщина с хлиплым голосом, сидела
рядом со мной, напевая старую колыбельную - или мне так казалось - и
ласкала мои волосы, моё лицо, мои руки с огромной нежностью. Её
прикосновения и звук её голоса не давали мне подняться. Я просто
лежала там с немигающими глазами, зафиксированными на её глазах,
совершенно уверенная, что это был один из моих живых красочных снов,
которые всегда начинались как сны, но заканчивались как ночные кошмары.
Флоринда разговаривала со мной.
Она велела мне смотреть ей в глаза: слова не сопровождались звуком, как
крылья бабочек. Но то, что я видела в её глазах, наполняло меня
знакомым чувством - жутким ужасом, который я испытывала в своих ночных
кошмарах. Я подпрыгнула и тут же закрыла дверь на засов. Это была
машинальная реакция, которая всегда возникала в ночном кошмаре.
"Не пугайся, моя дорогая," сказала высокая женщина, следуя за мной.
"Успокойся, мы все здесь, чтобы помочь тебе. Нет смысла расстраиваться.
Ты только навредишь своему маленькому телу, подвергая его излишнему
страху."
120-121
Я остановилась у двери, не потому что она убедила меня, а потому что я
не могла открыть эту проклятую дверь. Я нервно дёргала дверь туда-сюда:
она не поддавалась. Высокая женщина была за моей спиной. Моя вибрация
усилилась. Я так сильно тряслась, что тело болело и сердце стучало так
сильно и хаотично, что я подумала оно выпрыгнет из груди.
"Нагуал!" крикнула высокая женщина, повернув голову через плечо.
"Сделай что-нибудь, пока она не умерла от страха."
Я не видела с кому она обращалась, но во время моих диких поисках
побега я увидела вторую дверь в другом конце комнаты. Я была убеждена,
что у меня осталось достаточно энергии, чтобы добраться до неё, но мои
ноги подкосились как-будто жизнь уже покинула моё тело. Я свалилась на
пол с последним дыханьем. Длинные руки женщины опустились на меня как
огромные крылья орла. Она держала меня, прижала свой рот к моему и
вдувала воздух в меня.
Медленно, моё тело начало оживать, ритм сердца вернулся к нормальному.
Меня заполнил странный покой, который быстро превратился в дикий
восторг.
Это не был страх, что заполнил меня таким волнением, а её дыхание. Оно
было горячим, и обожгло меня, моё горло, мои лёгкие, мой желудок, мою
брюшную полость; двигаясь напрямую к моим рукам и ногам. Тут же я
осознала, что эта женщина точно как я, только высокая, какой я хотела
бы быть.
Я испытывала такую любовь к ней, что совершила что-то из ряда вон
выходящее: я страстно поцеловала её и почувствовала как её губы
расширились в улыбке. Затем она откинула голову назад и засмеялась.
"Эта маленькая мышка меня поцеловала," сказала она, поворачиваясь к
остальным.
"Я - в Полёте!" воскликнула я и они все рассмеялись с детской
беспечностью. Сначала я не могла сдержаться и тоже смеялась. Однако
через несколько минут я превратилась в свою обычную стыдливую натуру,
как после одного из моих импульсивных поступков, и недовольна тем, что
меня на этом поймали. Высокая
женщина обняла меня.
"Я - Флоринда," сказала она, подняла меня вверх и держала меня в руках,
как-будто я была младенцем. "Ты и я - одно и то же," продолжала она.
"Ты такая маленькая, какой я хотела бы быть. Это большой недостаток -
быть высокой: никто никогда не сможет держать тебя на руках. Я - 5
футов 9 дюймов."
"А я - 5 футов 2 дюйма,"
призналась я и мы обе рассмеялись, потому что совершенно понимали друг
друга. Я поцеловала её щёки и глаза. Я любила её любовью, которая была
мне непонятна. Это было чувство, не запачканное сомнениями, ужасом или
ожиданием. Это была любовь, которую чувствуешь только в Полёте. Похоже
в полном согласии со мной, Флоринда тихо засмеялась. Скользящий свет в
её глазах, неправдоподобная белизна её волос были как какие-то забытые
воспоминания. Я чувствовала, как-будто знаю её с рождения. Я подумала,
что дети, кто любил своих матерей, должно быть lost дети.
Родительская
любовь, соединённая с признанием материнского физического существа,
должна в результате создавать чувство тотальной любви, как любовь к
этой высокой таинственной женщине.
Она поставила меня на пол. "Это - Кармела," сказала она, поворачивая
меня к красивой, тёмно-глазой, тёмноволосой женщине. У неё были
деликатные черты и кожа без всяких изъянов. У неё была ровная кремовая
бледность того, кто много проводит времени внутри дома.
"Я только принимаю лунные ванны," прошептала она в ухо, обнимая меня.
"Тебе нужно делать то же самое, ты слишком белая, чтобы быть на Солнце.
Ты портишь кожу."
Это был её голос больше, чем что-то ещё, который я узнал. Она была та
самая женщина, которая задавала мне все те прямые, личные вопросы на
пикнике. Я помнила её в сидячем положении: она казалась маленькой и
хрупкой. На удивление, она оказалась 3-4 дюймов выше меня. Её
могущественное, мускулистое тело заставило меня почувствовать себя
ничтожной по сравнению с ней. Обнимая мои плечи рукой, Флоринда повела
меня ко второй женщине, кто стояла рядом с софой, когда я очнулась. Она
была мускулистой и высокой, но не такой высокой как Флоринда. Она не
была красива согласно стандартам красоты, её черты были слишком
сильными для этого, однако было что-то броское, непостижимо
привлекательное в ней, даже в лёгкой тени мягких волос на верхней губе,
которые она явно не беспокоилась сбривать или обесцветить. Я
чувствовала невероятную силу в ней, в волнении, которое было под
постоянным контролем, и всё-таки оно присуствовало.
122-123
"Это
- Зойла," сказала мне Флоринда. Зойла не сдвинулась чтобы пожать мне
руку или обнять меня. Кармела смеялась и говарила за Зойлу,
"Я очень счастлива снова увидеть тебя." Рот Зойлы изогнулся в
прекрасной улыбке, показывая ряд больших, ровных и белых зубов. Её
длинная и тонкая рука, сверкающая ювелирными кольцами, проехалась по
моей щеке. Я поняла, что она была той, чьё лицо было спрятано под
копной неопрятных волос. Она была той, кто вышила бельгийское кружево
на скатерти, на которой сидели во время пикника. Три женщины окружили
меня и заставили меня сесть на софу.
"В первый раз когда мы встретили тебя, ты была в Полёте," сказала
Флоринда. "Поэтому у нас не было времени контактировать. Однако в этот
раз ты в полном сознании, поэтому расскажи нам о себе." Я было
собралась перебить её и сказать, что это - сон и, что во время пикника,
спящей или бодрствующей, я всё им рассказала, что стоило рассказывать.
"Нет, нет. Ты неправа." ответила Флоринда, как-будто я свои мысли
сказала вслух. "Сейчас ты в полном сознании и что мы хотим знать так
это то, что ты делала после нашей последней встречи. Особенно если ты
расскажешь об Isidore Baltazar."
"Вы имеете ввиду, что это не сон?" застенчиво спросила я.
"Нет, это - не сон," заверила она меня. "Ты была в Полёте несколько
минут назад, но это - другое."
"Я не вижу разницы."
"Это потому, что ты хороший внетелесный путешественник (Dreamer)," объяснила она.
"Твои ночные кошмары - настоящие, ты сама это сказала."
Всё моё тело напряглось; и тогда, как-будто оно знало, что не сможет
выдержать ещё одну атаку испуга, оно сдалось. На момент моё тело
оставило себя.
Я повторила им, что я уже раньше это говорила и говорила Mariano Aureliano и мистеру
Flores. Однако в этот раз я вспомнила детали, которые
я совершенно пропустила, такие как две стороны лица Isidore Baltazar; он
показывал одновременно два
настроения, которые были чётко отражены в его глазах. Его левый глаз
был неприятным, угрожающим. Правый глаз был открытым и дружественным.
"Он
(Карлос Кастанэда) - опасный человек," заключила я на основе своих
наблюдений. "Он
обладает необычным могуществом двигать события в том направлении, в
каком пожелает, а тем временем он остаётся вне этого, наблюдая как ты
извиваешься." Женщины были захвачены тем, что я сказала.
Флоринда дала мне сигнал продолжать. "Что
делает людей такими поддатливыми к его обоянию, так это его щедрость,"
продолжала я. "И щедрость, возможно, единственная черта, перед которой
ни одна из нас, женщин, устоять не может,
потому что мы физически или духовно этого лишены независимо от нашего
положения в обществе."
Осознав то, что сказала, я вдруг остановилась и взглянула на них,
шокирована. "Я не знаю, что нашло на меня," пробормотала я, пытаясь
извиниться. "Я и правда не знаю, почему я это сказала, когда о Isidore Baltazar (Карлос
Кастанэда) я сама так не думаю. Это не я говорю.
Я даже не способна делать такие заключения."
Флоринда
сказала,"Неважно, дитё, откуда у тебя эти мысли. Ты явно
входишь в сам Источник Всех Солнц. Все делают это: входят в сам
Источник, но только Колдуньи осознают это."
Я не поняла, что она пыталась объяснить мне, и снова подчеркнула, что
мне следовало держать свой длинный язык за зубами. Флоринда
хихикала и несколько минут внимательно осматривала меня. "Действуй,
как-будто ты в Полёте. Будь смелой и не извиняйся," добавила она. Я
чувствовала себя глупой, не способной анализировать свои чувства.
Флоринда кивнула, как бы соглашаясь с моими мыслями, затем повернулась
к своим напарницам и сказала, "Расскажи ей о нас."
Кармела прочистила своё горло и, не смотря на меня, сказала. "Мы, трое,
и Делия составляем группу. Мы имеем дело с нашим Повседневным Миром."
Я внимательно слушала каждое слово, но не понимала ни слова. "Мы -
группа Колдунь, которая имеет дело с людьми," объяснила Кармела. "Есть
другая группа из 4х женщин, которая совсем не имеет дело с людьми." Она
взяла мою руку в свою и осмотрела мою ладонь - как-будто она собиралась
предсказывать мою судьбу - потом свернула её деликатно в кулак и
добавила.
124-125
"В основном, ты такая же как и мы, то есть ты можешь иметь дело с
людьми. И ты в общем-то как Флоринда." Она снова остановилась и с
мечтательным взглядом повторила то, что Клара мне уже сказала. "Это
Флоринда, кто нашла тебя, поэтому пока ты находишься в Мире Колдунов,
ты принадлежишь ей. Она будет вести тебя и заботиться о тебе." В её
голосе звучала такая огромная уверенность, что меня бросило в жар и,
естественно, в беспокойство.
"Я никому не принадлежу," ответила я. "и ничья забота мне не
нужна." Мой голос напрягся, был неестественным и неуверенным. Молча,
женщины наблюдали за мной с задумчивыми улыбками на своих лицах. "Вы
думаете меня нужно вести?" спросила я вызывающе, переводя свой взгляд с
одной на другую. Их глаза были полузакрыты, их губы оставались всё в
той же задумчивой улыбке. Еле заметные кивки подбородками ясно
означали, что они ждали. когда я закончу то, что мне хотелось сказать.
"Ты помнишь, что ты делала на вечеринке, где я тебя нашла?" спросила
меня Флоринда. Я уставилась на неё в изумлении, Кармела прошептала мне
на ухо,
"Не беспокойся, ты всегда найдёшь способ всё объяснить." Флоринда
погрозила мне пальцем, совершенно равнодушно. Паника одолевала меня при
мысли, что они могут знать, что я ходила голой на этой вечеринке перед
множеством людей. До того момента я, если не гордилась своего странного
показного поведения, то по крайней мере не возражала против него.
В моём понимании то, что я творила на той вечеринке, была манифестация
моей спонтанной, неуёмной натуры. Первое, что я сделала, это -
проехалась в вечернем платье на спине лошади без седла вместе с
хозяином, чтобы доказать ему - после того, как он осмелился и заключил
пари, что я не смогу - что я ездила на лошади как любой ковбой. У
меня был дядя в Венесуэле, кто разводил лошадей на ферме, и я правила
лошадью ещё малышом. После того, как выиграть пари, когда голова ещё
кружилась от усталости и алкоголя, я поплавала в его огромном бассейне
- голой.
"Я была там у бассейна, когда ты купалась в нём голой," сказала
Флоринда, явно не скрывая мои воспоминания. "Ты толкнула меня своей
голой попой.
Ты всех шокировала, включая меня. Мне нравилась твоя смелость. Больше
всего мне понравилось, когда ты прошла ко мне голой всю дорогу с
противоположной стороны бассейна, только чтобы пройтись по мне своим задом. Я поняла
это как знак, что Дух указывает мне на тебя."
"Этого не может быть. Если бы ты была на этой вечеринке, я бы запомнила
тебя. Ты слишком высокая и бросаешься в глаза, чтобы тебя пропустить."
Я не имела ввиду это как комплимент: мне хотелось убедить себя, что
меня разыгрывают, мной манипулируют.
"Мне нравится, что ты убивала себя, только чтобы похвастаться,"
продолжала Флоринда. "Ты была клоуном, готовая на всё, лишь бы привлечь
к себе внимание, особенно когда ты прыгнула на стол и танцевала
какое-то время, бесстыдно тряся задом, пока хозяин науськивал тебя до
упаду."
Вместо стыда, её замечания наполнили меня неописуемым чувством лёгкости
и удовольствия. Я почувствовала себя освобождённой. Секрет перестал
быть секретом, эту тайну я не смела признавать то, что я была клоуном,
кто пойдёт на всё только, чтобы привлечь внимание. Новое настроение
овладело мной, определённо более скромное и менее оправдательное,
правда я боялась, что такое настроение долго не продержится. Я знала,
что любые открытия и домыслы, которые приходили ко мне в моих Полётах,
никогда не сохранялись. Но наверно Флоринда была права и это не был
сон, и мой новый склад ума это выдержит. Похоже зная мои мысли, три
женщины весело кивнули. Вместо того, чтобы чувствовать себя ободрённой
их согласием, это только вызвало у меня путаницу. Как я и боялась, мой
настрой открывателя тайн недолго длился. Уже через несколько минут я
сгорала от сомнений; мне нужен был отдых.
"Где Делия?" спросила я.
"Она в Oaxaca," ответила Флоринда,
затем добавила, подчеркнув, "Она была здесь только чтобы приветствовать
тебя."
Я подумала, если поменять тему, то обрету желанный отдых и у меня будет
шанс восстановить.свою энергию. Сейчас передо мной было то, для чего у
меня не было энергии, чтобы с этим иметь дело. Я не могла, прямо вот
так, обвинить Флоринду - как я бы обычно это сделала с любым - в
распространении лжи, чтобы мной манипулировать. Я не могла ей сказать,
что подозреваю их в том, что они сделали меня нестабильной и, пока я
была без сознания, они перетаскивали меня из комнаты в комнату. "Всё,
что ты говоришь, просто невероятно, Флоринда," отчитывала я. "Не думаю,
что ты ожидаешь я сербёзно поверю тебе." Покусывая губу, я долго и
упорно глядела на неё. "Я знаю, что Делия прячется в одной из комнат."
126-127
Казалось глаза Флоринды говорили мне, что она понимает мою дилемму. "У
тебя нет выбора, кроме как отнестись ко мне серьёзно," сказала она,
тихим, но
безапеляционным тоном. Я повернулась к двум другим женщинам, надеясь на
какой-то ответ, любое, что облегчит мою растущую тревогу.
"Если кто-то ещё ведёт тебя, тогда, просто говоря, Полёт легче,"
поделилась со мной Кармела. "Единственное неудобство, что этот кто-то
должен быть Нагуал."
"Я всё время слышу о Нагуале," сказала я. "Кто такой Нагуал?"
"Нагуал - Колдун огромной силы, кто может вести других Колдунов сквозь
и из Темноты. Но ведь сам Нагуал сказал тебе всё это не так давно.
Разве ты не помнишь?" объяснила Кармела. Флоринда вмешалась, как только
моё тело изогнулось в попытке вспомнить.
"События, которые случаются с нами в повседневной жизни, легко
вспомнить. Мы много практикуемся в этом. Но события, прожитые в Полёте,
это другая история. Нам действительно нужно бороться, чтобы вспомнить
их, просто потому, что тело сохраняет их в разных местах. Для женщин, у
кого нет твоего мозга сомнабулиста (ходить во сне)," указала она.
"Инструкции для Полёта начинаются с карты их тел, которую они должны
нарисовать: тяжёлая работа, которая показывает, где видения Полётов
откладываются в их телах."
"Как ты рисуешь эту карту, Флоринда?" спросила я, не на шутку
заинтригованная.
"Систематически накладывая каждый см своего тела," сказала она. "Но я
не могу тебе сказать больше. Я - твоя мать, а не твой учитель Полётов."
Тут она порекомендовала маленький деревянный молоточек для реальных
отметок только ног и боков.
"Очень редко тело копит эти воспоминания на груди или на животе, что
накапливается на животе, на
груди и на спине, так это воспоминания повседневной жизни. Но это
другая вещь, а сейчас тебя должно касаться только то, что запоминание
Полётов связано с физическим давлением на особое место, где сохраняется
это воспоминание. Например, если ты надавишь на клитор влагалища,
то
вспомнишь, что сказал тебе Mariano Aureliano," закончила она просто
с каким-то задором. Я уставилась на неё в абсолютном шоке, потом
залилась нервным смехом. Я и не собиралась ни на
что давить. Флоринда тоже весело засмеялась и, похоже, мой стыд
доставлял ей удовольствие.
"Если ты это
не сделаешь," пригрозила она, "то я просто попрошу Кармелу сделать это
за тебя." Я повернулась к Кармеле. С полуулыбкой, почти переходящей в
смех, она заверила меня, что она уж точно будет давить на клитор за
меня.
"Не нужно!" закричала я в отчаянии. "Я и так всё помню!" И я
действительно всё помнила, даже не только что говорил Mariano
Aureliano, но и другие события. "Mr. Aureliano..."
"Клара просила тебя называть его Нагуал Mariano
Aureliano," отрезала Кармела.
"Полёты
- двери в Неизвестное," сказала Флоринда, гладя меня по голове.
"Нагуалы ведут с помощью Полётов и Полёты с целью являются Искусством
Колдунов. Нагуал Mariano Aureliano помог
тебе начать Полёт, в котором все мы принимали
участие."
Я постоянно моргала, покачала головой, потом откинулась назад на
подушки софы, шокированная абсурдом всего, что я помнила. Я вспомнила,
что год назад они мне виделись в Sonora,
в Полёте, который, казалось, длился вечность. В этом Полёте я встретила
Клару, Нэлиду и Хермелинду; другую группу - внетелесных
путешественников. Они сказали мне, что лидер той группы была Зулейка,
но что я пока не могла её видеть. По мере того как воспоминания того
Полёта становились яснее в моей голове, также стало ясно, что среди тех
женщин никто не был более важным или менее важным, чем другие. То, что
одна из женщин в каждой группе была лидером, никоим образом не служило
знаком превосходства, достижения или престижа; а только средством
эффективности. Не знаю почему, но я была убеждена, что всё, что имело
для них значение, это - глубокая привязанность друг к другу. В том
Полёте все сказали мне, что Зулейка была моим учителем по Полётам. Это
всё, что я могла вспомнить. Как Клара и сказала, мне нужно было видеть
их или быть с ними в Полёте ещё один раз, чтобы это стало реальным,
чтобы они отпечатались в моей памяти. Как и получилось, они остались
как память.
128
Я
едва слышала как Флоринда говорила, что после ещё нескольких попыток, я
лучше справлюсь с переходом от воспоминаний моих прошлых Полётов
непосредственно к тому Полёту, в котором нахожусь сейчас, и затем
вернуться к обычному состоянию. Я слышала как Флоринда посмеивалась, но
я уже не была в комнате, я находилась снаружи, шла через кусты (в
Полёте). Я медленно и неуверенно шла по невидимой тропинке, так как
света не было, не было ни луны, ни звёзд в небе. Затянутая какой-то
невидимой силой, я вошла в большую комнату. Внутри было темно, кроме
световых линий, пересекающихся от стены к стене по лицам людей, сидящих
кругами, их два: внутренний круг и внешний. Сначала свет был ярким,
потом стал приглушённым, как-будто кто-
то в кругу баловался электрическим выключателем, то включал, то
выключал. Я узнала Mariano Aureliano
и Isidore Baltazar, сидящих спина к спине в середине внутреннего круга.
Не то, чтобы я узнала их лица, а скорее их энергию, их энергия не была
ярче или отличалась от энергии других. Просто её было больше, массивнее
у них обоих. Это был единый, огромный, прекрасный комок неиссякаемого
блеска, так что вся комната светилась белым светом. Вещи были
настоящими, каждый край и угол были твёрдыми; такая ясность в комнате,
что всё само по себе чётко отделялось друг от друга, особенно те линии
света, которые соединяли людей, сидящих в кругу или исходили от них.
Все люди были соединены волокнами Света и выглядели как-будто они были
подвешанными точками громадной Светящейся Паутины.
Все они контактировали друг с другом без слов, через Свет. Меня несло к
этому молчаливому электрическому скоплению, пока я тоже не превратилась
в подвешанную точку в этой Светящейся Паутине.
Я растянулась на софе; моя голова покоилась на коленях Флоринды. "Что
произойдёт?" спросила я глядя на неё. Она не ответила; не ответили и
Кармела, и Зойла, кто сидели с закрытыми глазами рядом с ней. Я
повторила свой вопрос несколько раз, но всё, что я слышала было мягкое
дыхание трёх женщин.
Я была уверена, что они спали, и всё-таки я чувствовала на себе их
спокойные, пытливые глаза. Темнота и Молчание двигались по дому как
что-то живое, неся с собой ледяной ветер и запах пустыни.
Chapter 9
129
Дрожа от холода, я плотно обернуло одеяло воукруг себя и села. Я была в
странной постели, в странной комнате, в которой были только кровать и
тумбочка, и тем не менее, всё вокруг меня, казалось знакомым. Однако я
не могла понять, почему всё это было так хорошо знакомо мне. Наверно я
всё ещё в Полёте, подумала я. Как мне узнать, что это - не Полёт? Я
погрузилась обратно в подушки, лёжа там - руки за голову и позволяя
странным событиям, которые пережила и которым была свидетелем
(наполовину сон - наполовину воспоминания), пробежать в голове. Всё это
началось, конечно, год назад, когда я ехала с Delia Flores к дому знахарки.
Delia
утверждала, что пикник, на котором я присуствовала со всеми, был Полёт.
Я смеялась над ней и отмела её заявления как нелепые. Однако она была
права. Сейчас я знала, что пикник был Полётом. Не моим Полётом, а
Полётом, созданным другими, и для которого меня пригласили; я была
гостем, принимающим участие. Моей ошибкой, всю дорогу, было опасное
отрицание этого; отбрасывать это как ложь, не зная что я имела ввиду
под ложью. Всё, в чём я приуспела, это настолько заблокировать в уме
это событие, что его просто не осознавала. Что мне нужно было сделать,
это - согласиться с тем, что у нас есть особый вибрационный канал, в
котором сохраняются воспоминания Полётов. Если бы я настроила себя
вспомнить Полёт, который у меня был в Sonora, не что иное как
Полёт, я бы прекрасно запомнила изумление того, что произошло во время
Полёта.
130-131
Чем больше я размышляла об этом и о всех вещах, которые случились со
мной сейчас, тем больше был мой дискомфорт. Но что удивило меня больше
всего, это то, что я действительно не пугалась всех этих людей, кто,
хоть и поддерживал меня, были угрожающей группой по мнению любого. И
тут до меня дошло, что причина почему я их не боюсь, была в том, что я
их очень хорошо знала. Доказательством служило, что они сами мне
сказали: у меня появилось странное, но успокающее чувство, потому что я
пришла домой. Я отбросила все эти мысли, как только они возникли и,
честно говоря, удивлялась: может
я была ментально не в себе и они нашли способ сфокусироваться на
этом, таким образом усилить его. Серьёзно и систематически я
исследовала историю своей семьи в надежде вспомнить всё,
что я может быть слышала о ментальной болезни. Была история со стороны
брата дедушки мамы, кто с библией в руках читал молитвы в уличных
углах. Затем оба, мой прадедушка и мой дедушка в начале Первой и Второй
Мировых Войн, покончили жизнь самоубийством, когда поняли, что для них
всё потеряно. Одна из моих бабушек выстрелила себе в голову, когда
поняла, что потеряла свою красоту и сексуальную привлекательность.
Мне
хотелось верить, что я унаследовала чувство отрешённости будучи
настоящей внучкой всех тех сумасшедших. Я всегда верила, что это
чувство отрешённости
проявилось в моей бесрассудности. Эти меланхолические мысли вызвали
такое беспокойство во мне, что я выпрыгнула из постели. Нервными
торопливыми движениями я вытащила своё тело из одеяла и, к своему
удивлению, обнаружила, что на мне тяжёлая фланелевая ночная рубашка,
толстые по колено шерстяные носки, руковицы и свитер.
"Должно быть я больна," пробормотала я в беспокойстве. "Почему тогда я
мёрзну во всех этих одеждах?" Обычно я сплю голой независимо от времени
года. Только тогда я заметила солнечный свет в комнате, он проходил
через толстое, полупрозрачное окно. Я была уверена, что свет попадал
мне в глаза и разбудил меня. Мне очень нужна была ванная. Беспокоясь,
что дом не имел внутренней канализации, я подошла к двери в другом
конце комнаты, которая была открыта, и на мою удачу там находился
умывальник с ночным горшком в нём. "Проклятье! Я не могу справлять
нужду в умывальнике!" закричала я.
Дверь открылась и вошла Флоринда. "Ничего," сказала она, обнимая меня.
"Есть ещё и туалет наружи. Умывальник - это реликвии прошлого."
"Мне повезло, уже утро," рассмеялась я. "Никто никогда не узнает, что я
боюсь идти в такой туалет ночью."
Флоринда странно
посмотрела на меня, потом отвернулась и наконец сказала шёпотом,
"Почему ты думаешь, что сейчас утро?"
"Солнце разбудило меня не так давно," сказала я, двигаясь к окну. Не
понимая, я уставилась на темноту снаружи. Лицо Флоринды посветлело.
Она казалось, контролировала себя, но давилась от смеха, плечи
тряслись, когда она указала на лампу, стоящую за кроватью. Я приняла
лампочку за Солнце. "Почему ты так уверена, что уже проснулась?"
спросила она.
Я повернулась, чтобы посмотреть на неё и сказала, "Моё непреодолимое
желание пойти в туалет."
Она взяла меня за руку и сказала, "Позволь мне отвести тебя в туалет, а
то ты опозоришься."
"Я никуда не пойду пока ты мне не скажешь: я сплю или я ещё в Полёте?"
заорала я.
"Ну и характер!" воскликнула Флоринда, наклонив головупока её лоб не
коснулся моего. Её глаза расширились. "Ты - в Полёте и не спишь,"
добавила она, произнося отчётливо каждое слово. Несмотря на мою
возрастающую тревогу, я начала хохотать. Звук моего смеха, который
разносился по всей комнате как отдалённое эхо, развеял мою тревогу. В
тот момент меня уже больше не интересовало спала я или бодрствовала.
Всё моё внимание было приковано к туалету. "Где туалет?" рычала я.
"Ты знаешь где он," ответила Флоринда, скрестив руки на груди. "И ты
никогда его вовремя не достигнешь, пока ты не пожелаешь быть там. Но не
приноси туалет к своей постели. Это называется "ленивый Полёт"; верный
способ загрязнить постель. Сама иди в туалет, мигом!"
132-133
К моему абсолютному ужасу, я не могла достигнуть двери, когда
попыталась: ноги не слушались меня. Медленно и неуверенно, как-будто
они не могли решить, каким путём идти, они зашагали одна нога за
другой. Сопротивляясь подчиниться тому, что мои ноги мне больше
не подвластны, я постаралась ускорить свои движения, поднимая руками
свои ноги, одну за другой. Флоринда казалась равнодушной к тому, что со
мной присходило. Слёза полного расстройства и жалости к себе наполнили
мои глаза, пока я стояла, привязанная к месту. На губах появилось слово
- помоги - но никакого звука изо моего рта не вылетело. "В чём дело?"
спросила она, беря одну из моих рук и мягко потянув меня вниз на пол.
Она стащила с меня тяжёлые шерстяные носки и осмотрела мои ноги. Сейчас
она казалась действительно озабоченной. Я хотела объяснить, что моя
неспособность двигаться была из-за того, что я была эмоционально
истощена. Но как сильно я ни старалась, я не могла сформулировать свои
мысли в слова. Пока я пыталась произнести хоть звук, я заметила, что
что-то было неправильно с моим зрением: мои глаза больше не могли
сфокусироваться. Лицо Флоринды было как в тумане как я ни старалась
щурить глаза и придвигать лицо к её лицу.
"Я знаю что с тобой происходит," прошептала Флоринда мне в ухо. "Ты
хочешь пойти в туалет, давай! Двигай себя туда своей волей!"
Я понимающе кивала и знала, что я и в самом деле нахожусь в осознанном
Полёте, или скорее я жила в другой реальности, которая пока ещё мне
полностью не принадлежала, но в которую у меня был вход через этих
людей. Затем я почувствовала необъяснимую лёгкость; и вдруг я оказалась
в настоящем туалете, а не в том, который был в другой реальности. Мне
взяло долгое время исследовать окружающий мир, чтобы убедиться, что это
был Повседневный Мир, затем я вернулась в комнату, но не знала как это
получилось. Флоринда похвалила мою способность к спонтанным Полётам. Я
почти не обращала внимания на её замечания, так как была отвлечена
грудой одеял у стены. Я не заметила их когда проснулась, однако я была
убеждена, что их раньше видела. Моё ощущение лёгкости быстро исчезло,
когда я пыталась вспомнить, где я видела те одеяла. Моя
раздражительность росла. Я уже больше не знала: я всё ещё в том же
самом доме, в который прибыла раньше в этот вечер с Isidore Baltazar, или
я была где-то ещё. "Чья эта комната?" спросила я.
"И кто завернул меня во все эти одежды?" я ужаснулась своего
собственного голоса. Флоринда гладила мои волосы и тихим добрым голосом
сказала, что
на какое-то время эта комната будет моей; и что это она завернула меня
в одежды, чтобы я не замёрзла. Она объяснила, что пустыня - обманчива,
особенно ночью. Она осмотрела меня с загадочным выражением лица,
как-будто она намекала на что-то. Это встревожило меня, потому что её
слова мне не говорили на что она ссылается. Мои мысли бесцельно кружили
в голове. Ключевое слово, я подумала, было - пустыня. Я не знала, что
место Колдунь было в пустыне. Мы прибыли сюда таким замысловатым путём,
что я не смогла выяснить, где точно находился дом. "Чей это дом,
Флоринда?" спросила я.
Похоже она внутренне боролась: её выражение менялось от задумчивого до
обеспокоенного несколько раз.
"Ты - дома," наконец сказала она, её голос наполняли эмоции. Не успела
я напомнить ей, что она не ответила на мой вопрос, она жестом попросила
меня замолчать и указала пальцем на дверь. Что-то шептало наружи в
темноте. Это мог быть ветер и листья, но я знала, что нет. Это был
знакомый успокающий звук, он принёс мне воспоминания о пикнике. В
особенности, он принёс мне слова Mariano Aureliano,
"Моим дыханьем я пошлю тебя, как посылал других к тому, у кого
сейчас в руках миф." Слова раздавались в
моих ушах. Я повернулась, посмотреть вдруг Mariano Aureliano
вошёл в комнату и
громко повторяет слова в этот самый момент. Флоринда кивнула и её
глаза, сфокусированные на моих, заставляли меня признать то, что я
понимала его требование.
На пикнике я особо не думала о его требовании. Оно казалось слишком
бессмысленным. Сейчас меня настолько обуяло любопытство: кто на самом
деле были "другие", что я не могла себе позволить, чтобы эта тема
разговора ускользнула от меня.
134-135
"Isidore
Baltazar упоминал каких-то людей, кто с ним работает," осторожно начала
я. "Он сказал, что ему их доверили и что теперь это его святая
обязанность им помочь. Это те, кого к нему послали?" спросила я
неуверенно. Флоринда утвердительно кивнула головой, лёгкая улыбка
появилась на губах, как-будто она нашла мою неуверенность упоминать
слово - дуть - забавным.
"Это те люди, которых старый Нагуал послал новому Нагуалу (Карлосу
Кастанэда). Это - женщины и они - как ты."
"Как я?" спросила я неуверенно. Мне не очень хотелось быть настолько
погружённой в свои личные удивительные перемены настроения и чувств по
отношению к
Isidore Baltazar в течение этой поездки. Я не обращала особого внимания
на то, что он открыл мне о своём мире.
"Каким образом те женщины - похожи на меня?" спросила я и потом
добавила, "Ты их знаешь?"
"Я
их видела," ответила она без притворства.
"Сколько
женщин было послано Isidore Baltazar?"
спросила я с нескрываемой досадой; однако даже мысль о них была и
волнующей, и тревожной. Флоринда была явно довольна моей
реакцией. "Несколько. И они не похожи на тебя физически, и всё-таки они
- как ты. Что я имею ввиду: они похожи друг на друга, точно так как я и
мои соратницы-Колдуньи похожи друг на друга," объяснила Флоринда.
"Разве ты сама не удивилась, насколько мы похожи, когда ты впервые
встретила нас?" Видя мой кивок, она продолжала говорить, что делало её
и её группу такими похожими друг на друга, несмотря на явную физическую
разницу - это их беспристрастное (unbiased) служение Миру
Колдунов. "Мы связаны вместе чувствами, пока непонятными тебе," сказала
она.
"Я уверена," объявила я как можно циничнее. Затем моё волнение и
любопытство о тех женщинах, которых послали
Isidore Baltazar, овладело мной (взяло
вверх). "Когда я встречу их?"
"Когда ты их найдёшь," сказала Флоринда. Её голос, хоть и низкий,
обладал экстра-ординарной силой, которая заткнула меня на момент.
"Как я могу найти их, если я их не знаю? Это невозможно."
"Не для Колдуньи," как бы между прочим заметила она. "Как я уже
сказала, ты физически на них не похожа, но сияние внутри тебя такое же
яркое, как и сияние внутри них. Ты узнаешь по этому сиянию." Её глаза
пристально сфокусировались на мне, как-будто она и в самом деле могла
видеть сияние внутри меня. Её лицо было серьёзным и голос - низким,
когда она сказала, "Это - Сияние Колдунов."
Мне хотелось ответить ей какой-нибудь непристойностью, но чьто-то в её
манере встревожило меня. "Могу я увидеть это сияние?" спросила я.
"Для этого нам нужен
Нагуал," сказала Флоринда и уазала на Нагуала
MarianoAureliano,
кто стоял в тёмном углу комнаты. Я вообще его не заметила, но не нашла
его внезапное появление чем-то тревожным. Флоринла сказала ему что я
хотела. Он показал мне жестом следовать за ним на середину комнаты.
"Я покажу тебе это свечение," сказал он и сел на корточки, подняв обе
руки, жестом указал мне залесть ему на спину.
Я спросила, "Мы будем играть?" и не прятала своего разочарования. "Ты и
не собираешься показывать мне сияние Колдунов?" Хотя я ясно помнила его
слова, что настоящее Колдовство - это не странное поведение, ритуалы,
наркотики или заклинания, и всё-таки я ожидала шоу, своего рода показ
его могущества, как например, смесь заклинаний и тривиального над
огнём. Игнорируя моё разочарование, Mariano
Aureliano попросил меня положить мои руки вокруг его шеи, только
слегка, чтобы не задушить его. "Ты не думаешь, что я уже взрослая,
чтобы меня носили на руках?" предупредила я. Смех
Mariano Aureliano клокотал у него в груди, пока не взорвался, с
удовольствием выходя наружу. Одним быстрым движением он подпрыгнул на
ногах. Пряча свои руки сзади моих коленей, он подбросил меня в более
удобное положение и вошёл в зал, но моя голова о дверной верх не
ударилась. Он шёл быстро и без всяких усилий, у меня было ясное
ощущение, что я плыву по длинному, тёмному коридору. Я с любопытством
смотрела вокруг себя, правда мы так быстро двигались, чтобы схватить
что-то большее, чем мимолётные сцены дома. Мягкий, но настойчивый запах
проникал везде: аромат цветущих апельсинов и свежесть холодного
воздуха.
136-137
Снаружи двор был еле виден от тумана. Всё, что мне удалось увидеть,
было равномерная масса тёмных силуэтов. Спирали тумана изменили всё
пространство, обнажая и затем покрывая странные формы деревьев и
камней. Мы не были у дома Колдунь, в этом я была уверена. Я ничего не
слышала кроме ритмичного дыхания, но не могла определить чьё это было
дыхание: моё или Mariano Aureliano. Звук
распространился по всему двору.
Это заставило листья дрожать, как-будто ветер носился сквозь ветви.
Дрожание просачивалось в моё тело в каждым моим вдохом. У меня так
стала кружиться голова, что я крепко вцепилась руками в его плечи,
чтобы не потерять сознание. Не успела я сказать ему, что испытываю, как
туман окружил меня, и я почувствовала, что растворяюсь в НИЧТО.
"Положи свой подбородок на верх моей головы." Голос Нагуала
Mariano
Aureliano послышался как-будто издалека. Слова напрягли меня, так как
я совершенно забыла, что лечу на его спине. "Чтобы ты не делала: не
отпускай меня," торопливо добавил он, подбрасывая меня выше на своей
спине, так что моя голова оказалась выше его.
"Что может произойти, если я отпущу?" спросила я с растущей тревогой.
"Я просто упаду на землю, не так ли?" Мой голос превратился в визг. Нагуал
Mariano
Aureliano тихо засмеялся, но не ответил. Он праздно
прохаживался лёгкими, тихими шагами
туда-сюда по просторному двору, почти как танцевал.
И затем, на мгновение мне показалось, что мы взлетели, мы стали
невесомыми. Я чувствовала, что мы, в сущности, путешествовали сквозь
темноту какой-то момент, потом я ощутила плотную поверхность через
тело Mariano
Aureliano. То ли туман поднялся, то ли мы оказались в другом дворе, я
не могла определить, но что-то поменялось. Наверно это был только
воздух: он был тяжелее, труднее было дышать. Луны не было и звёзды едва
были видны, однако небо сияло, как-будто его освещало из какого-то
далёкого места. Медленно, как-будто кто-то вычерчивал их в воздухе,
контуры деревьев становились чёткими.
На расстоянии 5и шагов перед особенно
высоким и развесистым деревом, MarianoAureliano
резко остановился. У подножья дерева стояла группа людей, наверно
12-14. Длинные листья свисали ниже от тумана и закрывали их лица.
Странный зелёный свет исходил от дерева и делал каждого человека
неестественно живым. Их глаза, из носы, их губы - все их черты
светились зелёным светом, и всё же я не могла разобрать их лица. Я
никого из них не узнала, даже не могла понять: мужчины это или женщины,
это были просто люди.
"Что
они делают?" прошептала я в ухо Mariano
Aureliano. "Кто они?"
"Держи свой подбородок на макушке моей головы," прошипел он. Я твёрдо
нажала на его голову, боясь, что если я нажму слишком сильно, всё моё
лицо просто утонет в его черепе. Надеясь узнать кого-нибудь по его/её
голосу, я им сказала добрый вечер. Мимолётные улыбки появились на их
губах. Вместо того, чтобы улыбнуться, они отвернули от меня свои лица.
Странный звук исходил от них из самой середины: звук давал им энергию и
они, как и дерево, начали сиять. Не зелёным светом, а золотым блеском,
который смешивался и волновался пока все они не превратились в один
большой Золотой Шар, который просто кружил под деревом. Затем Золотой
Шар растворился в кусочки сияния. Подобно гигантским светящимся червям,
они то появлялись, то исчезали среди деревьев, сея свет и тень на своём
пути.
"Запомни
это сияние," пробормотал Mariano
Aureliano.
Его голос эхом раздавался в моей голове. "Это свечение...Surem (духов
природы)." Неожиданный порыв ветра развеял его слова. Ветер был живым;
он светился на фоне тёмного неба. Он дул с жестокой свирепостью, со
странным рвущим звуком. Ветер ополчился на меня; я была уверена, что он
намеревался уничтожить меня. Я закричала от боли, когда особенно
леденящий порыв обжёг мои лёгкие. Холод разлился по всему моему телу,
пока я не почувствовала себя затвердевшей. Был ли это
Mariano
Aureliano, кто говорил или сам ветер, я не могла понять.
Ветер выл у меня в ушах, закрывая всё вокруг меня. Потом он оказался
внутри моих лёгких: он дёргался как живой, готовый сожрать каждую
клетку моего тела. Я чувствовала, что падаю, и знала, что умираю. Но
вой прекратился, молчание было таким неожиданным, я слышала его и
громко засмеялась, благодарная, что всё ещё жива.
Chapter
10
138-139
Кровать была большая и мягкая. Золотое свечение наполнило комнату.
Надеясь продлить подольше это мгновение прекрасного духа, я закрыла
глаза и зарыла себя в сонном блаженстве среди душистых простыней
и, пахнущих лавандой, наволочек. Я могла чувствовать напряжение в
каждом мускуле, в каждой косточке, когда я вспоминала события
ночи как не связанные фрагменты какого-то ужасного сна. Не было
линейной последовательности всему тому, что я испытала в течение тех
бесконечных часов. Я дважды просыпалась в течение ночи, в разных
постелях, в разных комнатах и даже в разных домах. Как-будто обладая
своей собственной жизнью, эти бессвязные образы образовали кучу и все
вместе расширялись в лабиринт, который я каким-то образом могла
осмыслить: всех одновременно. То есть я осознавала каждое событие
одновременно. Ощущение тех образов, перерастающих из моего черепа в
огромный диковиный головной убор, был настолько реальным, что я
выпрыгнула из кровати и понеслась через комнату к трильяжу.
Трёхстворчатое зеркало было закрыто рисовой бумагой, я попыталась
оторвать кончик, но бумага прилипла к стеклу как кожа к телу. Вид серебряной щётки для волос с такой
же расчёской, бутылочек с духами и баночек со всякой косметикой на трильяже,
возымело успокоительный эффект на меня. Я бы тоже так в ряд
распределила бутылочки и баночки по размеру, как инструменты. Каким-то
образом я знала, что нахожусь в комнате Флоринды в доме Колдунь.
Это восстановило во мне чувство равновесия. Комната Флоринды была
огромной. Кровать и туалетный стол были единственной мебелью здесь. Они
стояли в противоположных углах, подальше от стен и так, что оставляли
треугольное пространство за собой. Я удивлялась такому расположению
какое-то время и подумала, что может быть это следовало какой-то
эзотерической цели, значение которой ускользнуло от моего внимания, или
может быть это было результатом эстетического вкуса Флоринды. Сгорая от
любопытства куда эти 3 двери в комнате вели, я попробовала все три.
Первая была закрыта снаружи. Вторая открывалась в наружное маленькое,
прямоугольное, огороженное патио. В удивлении я уставилась на небо,
пока до меня не дошло, что это не было утро, как я подумала когда
проснулась, а почти конец дня. Меня не беспокоило, что я спала целый
день, наоборот, я чувствовала подъём. Убеждённая в том, что страдала от
хронической бессонницы, я всегда страшно радовалась периодам
длительного сна. Третья дверь открывалась в коридор. Горя желанием
скорее найти
Isidore Baltazar, я пошла в гостиную. Она была пуста. Было что-то
запрещающее в аккуратной и строгой манере, в которой была расставлена
мебель. Ничто не доказывало, что кто-то сидел на софе и на креслах
предыдущую ночь, даже подушки стояли твёрдо. Столовая по коридору
выглядела также пустынной, также забытой, ни одно кресло не выделялось.
Ни одной крошки, ни одного пятна на полированной поверхности
деревянного стола; ничего не доказывало, что я здесь сидела прошлой
ночью с Нагуалом Mariano
Aureliano и мистером Flores и ела ужин. В кухне, отделённой от столовой
сводом коридора и небольшим залом, я нашла кувшин, наполовину
заполненным champurrado, и закрыто
тарелкой с несколькими сладкими тамале.
Я была слишком голодной, чтобы разогревать, и налила себе кружку
густого шоколада, съела 3 кукурузные лепёшки. Начинённые кусочками
ананаса, изюма и орехами, они были вкуснейшими. Одного я не могла
понять: почему меня оставили совсем одну в этом доме? И всё-таки я не
могла игнорировать неподвижность вокруг себя.
140-141
Это
не был удовлетворяющий покой, который осознаёшь, когда люди намерено
спокойны, а скорее это было подавляющее безмолвие покинутого места.
От
мысли, что меня и в самом деле, бросили здесь, я поперхнулась куском
тамале. По пути обратно в комнату Флоринды, я останавливалась перед
каждой дверью, которую проходила. "Кто-нибудь дома?" звала я и
постоянно стучала в дверь, но ответа не было. Я уже было собралась
выйти наружу, когда отчётливо услышала как кто-то спросил, "Кто зовёт?"
Голос был низким и хрипловатым, но я не могла отличить, это был мужчина
или женщина. Я также не могла понять откуда был голос, из какой
комнаты. Я повторила свои шаги и изо всех сил позвала снова того, кто
был дома. Достигнув конца коридора,
я секунду колебалась перед
закрытой дверью, потом повернула дверную ручку, спокойно открыла её и
осторожно вошла. С закрытыми глазами я прислонилась к стене и
подождала, пока моё сердце не успокоится. А
вдруг кто-нибудь поймает меня здесь, подумала я виновато, но
любопытство пересилило угрызения совести, так как я дышала воздухом
тайны, зачарованности, которая наполняла комнату. Тяжёлые тёмные
занавеси были зашторены и свет только исходил от высокой настольной
лампы. Огромная тень лампы, оправленной бахромой, накладывала круг
жёлтого света на кресло рядом с окном. В самом центре комнаты стояла
кровать с 4я колоннами. С канопи и занавесями, кровать доминировала
пространство как трон. Вырезанные деревянные и бронзовые восточные
фигурки удобно расположились на 4х круглых столах в каждом углу,
казалось стояли чтобы охранять комнату, как какие-то божества. Книги,
бумаги и журналы были разложены на французском письменном столе и на
комоде. Зеркал не было, и вместо расчёски, щётки, флаконов духов и
косметики, набор хрупких маленьких кофейных чашек стоял на стеклянной
поверхности. Нити жемчуга, золотые цепочки, кольца и брошки свисали из
чашек как какое-то забытое сокровище. Я узнала два кольца: я видела их
на руке Зойлы.
Осмотр кровати я оставила на последнее. Почти с
благоговением, как-будто это и в самом деле трон, я откинула занавеси и
ахнула от удовольствия. Ярко окрашенные подушки на зелёном шёлковом
покрывале напомнили мне дикие цветы на лугу. И всё же невольная дрожь
охватила моё тело пока я стояла в середине комнаты. Я не могла не
чувствовать, что тепло, тайну и очарование, которые эта комната
испускала, были иллюзией. Ощущение, что я попала в какой-то мираж,
чувствовался ещё больше в третьей комнате. Она тоже казалась тёплой и
дружеской сначала. Сам воздух был нежным и любящим. Эхо смеха
будто отпрыгивало от стен. Однако эта атмосфера тепла была только
мимолётным впечатлением, как угасающий солнечный свет, пробивающийся
через окна без стёкл, только занавешанные марлевыми занавесками. Как и
в другой комнате, кровать доминировала пространство. Она тоже была под
канопи и украшена подушками ярких цветов, которые были разбросаны в
художественном беспорядке. Рядом с одной стеной стояла швейная машинка,
она была старой, оперировалась педалью. Рядом с ней стоял высокий
книжный шкаф. Вместо книг, полки были доверху наполнены рулонами из
прекрасных хлопковых материй, шёлка и шерсти, все аккуратно подобранные
по цвету и материалу. Шесть разных цетных париков, все натянутые на
бутыли, были выставлены на низком столе под окном. Среди них был
светлый парик, который я видела на Delia Flores, и тёмный
кудрявый, который Mariano
Aureliano натянул на мою голову
возле кафе в Tucson.
Четвёртая комната была немного дальше от других
и за залом. Последние солнечные лучи, просачивающиеся через решётку в
стене, лежали на полу как ковёр света и теней. По сравнению с другими
двумя комнатами, она создавала впечатление пустой. Некоторая мебель
была расставлена с таким искусством, что визуально создавало ещё больше
пространства. Низкие книжные полки со стеклянными дверцами
располагались вдоль стены. В дальнем конце, в алькове стояла узкая
кровать, низко висело серо-белое одеяло, похожее на тени на полу.
142-143
Подобранный
со вкусом, секретер из розового дерева с его деликатным креслом не
добавлял заполняемости комнате, а скорее наоборот. Я знала, что это
была комната Кармелы. Мне хотелось проверить названия книг за
стеклом,
но моё беспокойство было слишком сильным. Как-будто кто-то гнался за
мной,
я бросилась в коридор и дальше, во внутреннее патио, там
села в одно из плетёных кресел. Я дрожала и потела, однако руки были
ледяными. Я не дрожала из-за стыда - я не возражала если меня поймают
за вторжения - но иноземные, прекрасно мебилированные комнаты излучали
обояние других миров. Неподвижность в стенах - была неестественной
неподвижностью. Она не имела ничего общего с отсуствием проживающих, а
в отсуствии чувств и эмоций, которые обычно заполняют жилые
пространства.
Каждый
раз когда кто-то называл этих женщин колдуньями или ведьмами, я
внутренне смеялась. Они не вели себя и не выглядели, как я ожидала
ведьмы выглядят и действуют: ярко-драматичные и неприятные. Но теперь я
точно знала, что они и в самом деле отличались от других людей.
Меня
напугало, что они отличались внутренним содержанием, которое я не могла
понять и не могла вообразить. Тихий звук положил конец моим угнетающим
размышлениям. Следуя явно зловещему шуму, я на цыпочках прошла коридор,
подальше от спален, противоположному концу дома. Зловещий звук
доносился из комнаты сзади кухни. Я тихо пробиралась и звук утих,
как
только я прижала ухо к двери. Звук восстановился как только я отошла от
двери. Поразившись, я ещё раз прижала ухо к двери и звук быстро исчез
(и так несколько раз). С намерением выяснить кто там прятался или хуже,
кто нарочно пытался напугать меня, я потянулась к дверной ручке. Не в
силах открыть дверь, я нервно крутила её несколько минут, пока не
поняла, что она была закрыта изнутри и что ключ был в замке. То, что
кто-нибудь опасный мог прятаться в той комнате по каким-то причинам,
дошло до меня только, когда я оказалась внутри. Давящий полумрак прилип
к тяжёлым занавесям, как что-то живое, привлекающее тени всего дома к
этой огромной комнате. Свет угасал, тени густели вокруг,
что походило на остатки брошенной мебели; странно выглядели маленькие и
огромные фигуры из металла и дерева. Тот же зловещий звук, который
привёл меня в эту комнату, нарушил молчание. Как кошки, тени скользили
по комнате, как-будто ища добычу. Охваченная леденящим ужасом, я
наблюдала за занавесями. Они пульсировали и дышали как монстр моих
ночных кошмаров. Вдруг звук и движение прекратились. Неподвижное
молчание пугало ещё больше. Я повернулась, чтобы уйти, и пульсирующий
угрожающий звук начался снова. Я решительно пересекла комнату и
откинула занавеси. Не могла удержаться от смеха, увидев разбитую
стеклянную панель французкой двери. Ветер попеременно вдувал и выдувал
занавеси через рабитую дыру в стекле.
Угасающий свет конца дня
лился через полуоткрытые занавеси, перестраивая тени в комнате и
открывая на стене зеркало овальной формы, наполовину спрятанное одной
из странных металлических фигур. Я протиснулась между скульптурой и
стеной, и с изумлением восхищалась старому венецианскому стеклу. Оно было затуманенным
от старости, и
настолько исказило мою внешность, что я выбежала из комнаты. Я вышла из
дома через заднюю дверь.
Вырубленый
от кустов, участок сзади дома, было пустынным. Небо всё ещё было ясным,
но высокие фруктовые деревья по кругу уже приобрели цвет сумерков. Стая
ворон пролетела над головой. Их чёрные махающие крылья закрыли небо и
ночь быстро опустилась на двор. С чувством полнейшей депрессии и
отчаяния я села на землю и заплакала. Чем сильнее я плакала, тем больше
удовольствия я испытывала от моего горя.
Звук
граблей отвлёк меня от жалости к себе. Я посмотрела вверх и увидела
худенького человека, гребущего листья к небольшому костру позади
участка.
"Esperanza!"
крикнула я, спеша к ней, и резко остановилась, поняв, что это была не
она, а мужчина.
"Я
извиняюсь," пробормотала я виновато. "Я приняла вас за кого-то другого."
144-145
Я вытянула руку, представилась, и старалась не
рассматривать его, но не не сдержалась. Я была не совсем уверена, что
он не был замаскированной Esperanza.
Он вложил свою руку в мою, мягко сжал её и сказал, "Я - завхоз." Он не
сказал мне своё имя, его рука чувствовалась в моей руке такой же
жёсткой, как крыло птицы. Он был тощий, древнего вида мужчина, лицо
напоминало птицу с горбатым носом и быстрыми глазами. Его белые волосы
были густыми и напоминали перья. Не только его тощая фигура и внешность
птицы напоминали мне Esperanza,
а также его морщинистое невыразительное лицо и глаза, блестящие и
безмятежные, как у ребёнка, и зубы - квадратные и очень белые.
"Вы знаете
где Флоринда?" спросила я. Он помотал головой и я добавила, "Вы не
знаете, где кто-нибудь находится?"
Он долго молчал и потом, как-будто я его ни о чём и не спрашивала, он
повторил, что был завхозом. "Я забочусь обо всём."
"Неужели?"
спросила я, глядя на него с подозрением. Он был таким хрупким и слабым
на вид, что не казался способным о чём-либо заботиться, включая
самого
себя.
"Я
забочусь обо всём." повторил он, приятно улыбаясь, как-будто таким
образом он мог развеять мои сомнения. Он собирался ещё что-то сказать,
но вместо этого задумчиво пожевал нижнюю губу с минуту, потом
повернулся и пошёл опять собирать граблями листья в маленькую кучу
аккуратными, быстрыми, привычными движениями.
"Куда все
подевались?" спросила я. Положив свой подбородок на руку, лежащей на
конце ручки граблей, он смотрел на меня отсуствующим взглядом. Потом
глупо усмехнулся, осмотрелся вокруг себя, как-будто в любую минуту
кто-нибудь мог материлизоваться из гущи фруктовых деревьев. Громко и
нетерпеливо вздыхая, я повернулась, чтобы уйти. Он прочистил горло и
дрожащим, от старости, голосом сказал, "Старый Нагуал взял Isidore Baltazar в горы." Он не
смотрел на меня: его глаза сфокусировались на что-то вдали. "Они
вернутся через пару дней."
"Дней!"
заорала я. "А вы уверены, что правильно их поняли?" Разочарованная, что
мой страх оправдался, я только могла пробормотать, "Как он мог оставить
меня здесь совсем одной?"
"Они ушли прошлой ночью," сказал старик, возвращая лист, который ветер вытянул из кучи перед
ним.
"Такое
- невозможно!" Убедительно спорила я с ним. "Мы только прибыли сюда
прошлой ночью, поздно ночью," подчеркнула я. Безразличный к моему
грубому тону и моему присуствию, старик разжёг костёр из кучи листьев
перед ним. "Isidore Baltazar
оставил мне записку?"
спросила я, усаживаясь на корточкм перед ним. "Разве он не оставил мне
что-то?" У меня было желание опять орать, но по какой-то причине я не
смела. Какая-то неуловимая
деталь во внешности старика беспокоила меня. Мысль, что он был
переодетой Esperanza, всё ещё не
давала покоя. "А Esperanza тоже с ними
пошла в горы?"
спросила я. Мой голос задрожал, потому что меня вдруг, охватило
непреодолимое желание посмеяться. Кроме как спустить штаны и показать
мне свои интимные места, он никак не смог бы меня убедить, что он и в
самом деле - мужчина.
"Esperanza в доме," пробормотал он, его
внимание привлекла небольшая куча горящих листьев. "Она в доме с
другими."
"Не
говорите ерунды: она не в доме," грубо спорила я с ним. "В доме никого
нет. Я их искала весь день и проверила каждую комнату."
"Она
в другом, маленьком доме," упрямо повторил старик, также пристально
наблюдая за мной, как он наблюдал за горящими листьями. Из-за озорного
огонька в его глазах мне хотелось наподдать ему. "Какой маленький..."
мой голос осёкся, когда я вспомнила другой дом, тот, который я видела
после прибытия. По правде говоря, даже мысль о том месте уже была
причиной моей интенсивной физической боли. "Вы могли бы мне сразу
сказать, что Esperanza в маленьком доме,"
ответила я недовольно, тайком рассматривая всё вокруг себя, но не
видела этого места. Стена и высокие деревья прятали дом из виду.
"Пойду, посмотрю, если Esperanza и в самом
деле там, как вы говорите,"
сказала я вставая. Старик тоже поднялся и повернулся к ближайшему
дереву, взял керосиновую лампу и мешок, висящий на низком суку.
"Боюсь, тебе нельзя идти туда самой, я не разрешу," сказал он.
146-147
"Не понимаю, почему?" возразила я в негодовании. "Может быть вы не
знаете этого, но я - гость Флоринды. Меня вчера взяли в маленький дом."
Я на секунду остановилась, потом добавила, "Я точно там была." Он
слушал внимательно, но на его лице проглядывало сомнение.
"Туда
попасть не так легко," предупредил он меня. "Мне нужно приготовить
тропинку для тебя. Мне придётся..." казалось он поймал себя на мысли,
которую не хотел оглашать, потом вздёрнул плечами и повторил, что
должен приготовить мне дорожку.
"Что там приготавливать?" ответила я раздражённо. "Вам что, нужно
продираться сквозь кусты с охотничьим ножом?"
"Я
- завхоз и я приготавливаю тропу," повторил он непоколибимо и сел на
землю, чтобы зажечь керосиновую лампу. Какое-то мгновение она мигала в
воздухе, затем с силой вспыхнула. Его черты лица казались почти
бестелесные, без морщин, как-будто свет сгладил следы времени.
"Как только я закончу сжигать эти листья, я сам возьму тебя туда."
"Я
тебе помогу," предложила я, было ясно, что старик был с дементией и без
юмора нельзя было. Я следовала за ним вокруг участка и помогала ему
собирать листья в небольшие кучи, которые он тут же сжигал. Как только
пепел остывал, он сметал его в мешок. Внутри мешок был покрыт
пластикой.
Эта особая деталь - пластика внутри - вернула в памяти
полу-забытые детские воспоминания. Когда мы сметали кучи пепла в мешок,
я сказала ему, что будучи маленькой и живя в деревне недалеко от
Caracas, я часто просыпалась от звука граблей. Бывало я соскакивала с
кровати и на цыпочках ползла по коридору мимо спален моих родителей и
братьев в зал, который выходил на площадь. Зная, что деревянные панели
на окне скрипят, я
осторожно открывала окно и протискивалась через железные решётки.
Старик, который отвечал за чистоту площади, всегда был там, чтобы
приветствовать меня своей беззубой улыбкой. Мы вместе, бывало, сгребали
граблями листья, упавшие ночью, в небольшие кучки - другой мусор мы
клали в мусорные ящики.
Мы сжигали эти кучки и как только пепел
остывал, мы сметали его в мешок, покрытый шёлком изнутри. Старик
утверждал, что водяные феи, кто жил в священном ручье в близлежащих
горах, превращали пепел в золотую пыль.
"Ты тоже знаешь фей, кто превращает пепел в
золотую пыль?"
спросила я, видя как был доволен старик моей историей. Он не ответил,
только хихикал с таким удовольствием и непринуждённостью, что я тоже не
могла сдержаться и расхохоталась. Не успела я опомниться, как мы
достигли последней кучки пепла рядом с арочным входом, встроенным в
стену. Узкая деревянная калитка в ней была широко открыта. За кустами
находился другой дом, почти скрытый в тени. В окнах не было света и
он
как-будто отдалялся от меня. Думая, что дом мог быть просто предметом
моего воображения, место, которое
я запомнила во сне, я неустанно моргала и тёрла глаза. Что-то здесь не так,
подумала я, вспоминая как я шла к дому Колдунь с
Isidore Baltazar прошлой ночью. Маленький дом стоял справа от
большого дома. Тогда как, спросила себя, я могу сейчас видеть
задний двор Колдунь? В попытке соорентироваться, я двигалась и так, и
иначе, но не могла собраться. Я натолкнулась на старика, который сидел
на корточках перед кучкой пепла, и упала на него.
С неожиданной быстротой он встал и помог мне встать. "Ты вся в пепле,"
сказал он, вытирая моё лицо сложенным рукавом своей рубашки.
"Вот он!" закричала я. Колеблющийся силуэт дома появился на фоне неба в нескольких шагах. "Вот
он!" повторила я, прыгая вверх и вниз, как-будто таким образом я могла
удержать дом на месте; вовремя остановить. "Это - настоящий дом
Колдунь," добавила я, всё ещё стоя перед стариком, чтобы он мог
продолжать вытирать пепел с моего лица. "Большой дом - это только
ширма."
"Дом Колдунь,"
сказал медленно старик, произнося со вкусом каждое слово. Потом крякнул
от удовольствия, смёл последний пепел в мешок, затем поманил меня
следовать за ним через калитку. Два
апельсиновых дерева росли с другой стороны калитки, дальше от стены.
Холодный ветерок шелестел в цветущих ветках, но цветы не двигались и не
падали на землю.
148-149
На тёмной зелени цветы выглядели выточенными, как-будто сделанные из
молочного стекла. Два
апельсиновых дерева напоминали охрану, склонённую над дорожкой. Дорожка
была белой и прямой как линия, которую нарисовали линейкой на
ландшафте. Старик дал мне керосиновую лампу, затем насрёб горсточку
пепла из мешка и начал пересыпать его из одной руки в другую -
как-будто взвешивая пепел, до того как высыпать на землю.
"Не задавай
никаких вопросов и делай как я скажу," объявил он уже не хриплым
голосом. Голос имел необычное, воздушное звучание, энергичное и
убеждающее. Он слегка наклонился и пошёл задом, позволяя остаткам пепла
падать прямо из мешка на узкую дорожку. "Ступай ногами по линии пепла,"
предупредил он. "Если не будешь, то никогда дома не достигнешь." Я
покашляла, чтобы скрыть свой нервный смех. Раскинув руки, я
балансировала на узкой линии пепла, как циркачи на канате. Каждый
раз когда мы останавливались, чтобы старик перевёл дух, я
поворачивалась посмотреть на дом, который мы оставили. Казалось он
уходил в даль, а тот дом, который был сейчас перед нами, не становился
ближе. Я старалась убедить себя, что это просто была оптическая
иллюзия, однако у меня была смутная уверенность, что самостоятельно,
мне одной никогда не достигнуть ни одного из этих домов. Как-будто
чувствуя мою тревогу, старик ободряюще похлопал меня по руке. "Вот
поэтому я и приготавливаю тропинку." Он посмотрел в мешок и добавил,
"Нам немного осталось, чтобы попасть туда. Только помни держать ноги на
линии пепла. Если будешь, то сможешь двигаться взад и вперёд без
проблем в любое время." Ум мне говорил, что старик был сумасшедшим, а
моё тело, однако, знало, что без него и его пепла, я просто заблужусь.
Я была настолько поглощена тем, чтобы держать ноги на едва заметной
линии, что поразилась, когда мы наконец, оказались перед дверью.
Старик взял у меня керосиновую лампу, прочистил горло, затем слегка
постучал кулаками по панели. Ответа он не ждал, а просто открыл дверь и
прошёл внутрь. "Не идите так быстро!" крикнула я, боясь остаться одной.
Последовала за ним в узкий коридор. Он оставил лампу на низком столе. Потом
без единого слова или взгляда, открыл дверь в дальнем конце и исчез в
темноте. Благодаря смутной памяти, я вошла в едва освещённую комнату и
направилась прямо на коврик на полу. В голове сейчас не было сомнения,
что я была здесь прошлой ночью и что я спала на этом самом коврике. Но я не была уверена в
том, как я попала в эту комнату с самого начала. То,
что Mariano
Aureliano носил меня на своей спине через кусты, было ясным в моей
памяти. Я также была уверена, что проснулась в этой комнате - до того,
как старый Нагуал носил меня - с Кларой, сидевшей рядом со мной на
коврике. Уверенная,
что через несколько минут всё мне объяснят, я сидела на коврике. Свет
керосиновой лампы поколебался и потом совсем затух.
Я скорее
ощущала, чем видела как вещи и люди двигаются вокруг меня. Слышала
бормотание голосов, непонятные звуки, доносящиеся из каждого угла.
Из всего этого шума я узнала знакомый шелест юбок и тихое посмеивание. "Esperanza?"
прошептала я, "Боже! Я так рада увидеть тебя!"
Хоть я и ожидала увидеть её, но тем не менее, обалдела, когда она
уселась рядом со мной на коврике. Стисняясь, я дотронулась до её руки.
"Да, это я," заверила она меня. Только услышав её голос, я убедилась,
что это и в самом деле была Esperanza,
а не завхоз, кто поменял свои защитного зелёного цвета штаны и рубашку
на шелестящие нижние юбки и белое платье. И как только я почувствовала
успокающее прикосновение её руки на моём лице, все мысли о завхозе
исчезли.
"Как я попала сюда?" спросила я.
"Завхоз
привёл тебя сюда," засмеялась она. "Разве ты не помнишь?" Она
повернулась к низкому столу и снова зажгла керосиновую лампу.
"Я
говорю о прошлой ночи," пояснила я. "Я знаю, что была здесь. Я
проснулась на этом коврике, Клара была со мной. Потом Флоринда была
здесь и другие женщины..." мой голос отставал от меня, пока я
вспоминала, что после проснулась в гостиной другого дома и потом снова
на кровати. Я тряхнула головой, как-будто так могла внести порядок в
свою память.
150-151
В
отчаянии я смотрела на
Esperanza, надеясь что она заполнит пробелы в моей памяти. Я говорила
ей о трудностях, с которыми столкнулась, вспоминая ночные события в
последовательном порядке.
"У
тебя не должно быть никаких проблем," сказала она. "Пошли себя в
вибрацию своего Полёта. Сейчас ты в осознанном состоянии Полёта."
"Вы
имеете ввиду, что я сейчас сплю, в это самое мгновенье?" спросила я с
издёвкой. Я наклонилась к ней и спросила, "Вы тоже спите?"
"Мы не спим," ответила она, тщательно артикулируя каждое слово. "Ты и я
- в осознанном состоянии
Полёта."
Она подняла руки вверх жестом, означающим мою безнадёжность. "В
прошлом году я сказала тебе что делать. Помнишь?" На ум вдруг пришла
спасительная мысль, как-будто кто-то только что прошептал мне её на ухо:
'Когда сомневаешься, необходимо разделить две временные линии, две
вибрации; вибрация для обычных дел и вибрация для Полётов, так как
каждый из них имеет разный Уровень Сознания.' Я чувствовала себя на
высоте, так как знала, что в первую очередь нужно протестировать
линию-вибрацию Полётов. Если рассматриваемая ситуация не подходит
той вибрации-линии, тогда это - не Полёт. Моё вдохновение вскоре
исчезло, когда
я попробовала проверить линию-вибрацию Полётов. Я понятия не имела что
с этим делать или какой была вибрация Полётов; и что
ещё хуже, я не могла вспомнить, кто мне об этом сказал. "Я сказала,"
сказала Esperanza,
стоя за моей спиной. "Ты много путешествовала в области Полётов. Ты
почти вспомнила, что я говорила тебе в прошлом году, через день после
пикника. Тогда я сказала тебе: Когда сомневаешься в Полёте ты или
ты бодрствуешь, то тебе нужно проверить вибрацию, где находятся Полёты
- имеется ввиду, что Сознание в Полётах узнаётся чувствуя вещь, с
которой ты в контакте. Если ты в Полёте, твоё чувство возвращается к
тебе как эхо. Если оно не возвращается, тогда ты не в Полёте."
Улыбнувшись, она ущипнула моё бедро и сказала,
"Попробуй на коврике, на
котором лежишь, почувствуй его попой. Если ощущение вернётся, тогда ты
в Полёте!"
Чувство
не возвращалось к моей онемевшей попе, собственно, у меня всё так
онемело, что я даже коврика не чувствовала. Мне казалось, что я лежала
на шероховатых плитках пола. У меня было сильное желание
указать ей, что должно быть наоборот - если чувство возвращается, тогда
ты бодрствуешь - но
я быстро взяла себя в руки. Я знала без всякого сомнения, что то, что
она имела ввиду под 'чувство возвращается к нам' не имеет ничего общего с нашим
пониманием - что чувство значит. Различие между бодрствованием и бодрствованием
в Полёте всё ещё мне было непонятно, но я была убеждена, что его
значение не имеет ничего общего с нашими обычными взглядами как
понимать Сознание. Однако именно тогда слова полились из моего рта без
всякого контроля с моей стороны. Я сказала, "Я знаю, что сейчас я
бодрствую в Полёте, вот так !" Я чувствовала, что была близко к новому,
более глубокому уровню понимания, и всё-таки мне пока не удавалось
овладеть им. Я спросила, "Мне хотелось бы знать: когда я заснула?"
"Я уже сказала тебе: ты - не спишь. Ты бодрствуешь в Полёте." Невольно я начала смеяться спокойным,
правда нервным смехом.
Казалось она не заметила или не обращала внимание. "Когда произошёл
переход?" спросила я.
"Когда завхоз заставил тебя пересечь кусты и тебе пришлось
сосредоточить внимание на том, чтобы идти по пепельной дорожке."
"Он,
должно быть, загипнотезировал меня!" не очень приятным голосом
воскликнула я, бессвязно выкрикивая, запутываясь в словах, безуспешно
пытаясь найти смысл во всём, пока я наконец не расплакалась и не стала
винить их всех. Esperanza
молча за мной наблюдала, её брови поднялись, глаза широко открылись от
удивления. Меня тут же охватил стыд; но в то же время я была довольна,
что высказалась, из-за моментального облегчения, которое приходит после
после конфронтации.
"Твоё
замешательство," продолжала она, "происходит от того, что ты с
лёгкостью двигаешься из одного уровня сознания в другой (из одной вибрации в другую
вибрацию). Если бы ты боролась, как все остальные это делают, чтобы
достичь плавные переходы из одного состояния в другое, тогда бы ты
знала, что Бодрствование в Полёте - это не только гипноз." Она
секунду помолчала, потом тихо закончила, "Бодрствовать
в Полёте - самое сложное состояние, в котором может находиться человек."
Она смотрела в комнату, как-будто ожидая, что более правильное
объяснение может дать ей кто-то, прячущийся в
тенях. Потом она повернулась ко мне и спросила, "Ты съела то небольшое
количество пищи?"
152-153
Перемена
темы настолько удивила меня, что я начала заикаться, а когда пришла в
себя, то сказала ей, что и в самом деле съела сладкие tamales.
"Я была так голодна, что не беспокоилась разогревать их. Они были
вкуснейшие." Лениво играя своей
шалью, Esperanza спросила
меня рассказать ей, что
я делала с тех пор как проснулась в комнате Флоринды. Я высказала
больше, чем ожидала, но
Esperanza, казалось, не возражала, что я вынюхивала в комнатах женщин.
Её не поразило, что я знала кому принадлежит каждая комната. Что её
однако безумно интересовало, была моя встреча с завхозом.
С улыбающимся
лицом, полным явного восторга, она слушала, пока я рассказывала мою
историю и путая её с этим мужчиной. А когда я упомянула, что в какой-то
момент я даже хотела попросить его снять штаны, чтобы я могла проверить
его член, она согнулась вдвое, заливаясь хохотом на коврике.
Она
ближе прильнула ко мне и доверительно мне шепнула, "Я облегчу твоё
положение." Дьявольский огонёк появился в её глазах, когда она
добавила,
"Я покажу тебе свои генеталии!"
"В этом нет нужды, Esperanza," пыталась я отбиться
от неё. "Я не сомневаюсь, что ты - женщина."
"Нельзя
быть слишком уверенным в том: женщина перед тобой или мужчина," сказала
она, как бы невзначай, не обращая внимания на мои слова и моё смущение,
вызванное не столько её предстоящей оголённости, а скорее мыслью, что
мне придётся увидеть её старое, сморщенное тело. Она легла на коврик и
с невероятной ловкостью медленно подняла свои юбки. Моё любопытство
победило моё смущение: я уставилась на неё с широко-открытым ртом. У
неё не было трусов, не было волос, её тело излучало невероятную
молодость, кожа сильная и твёрдая, отточенные рельефы мускулов, на коже
не было следов вздутых или растянутых вен. Вся она была одного
цвета: равномерный, цвета розовой меди. Ничто не нарушало гладкую кожу
её живота и ног.
Я
потянулась, чтобы дотронуться до неё, чтобы удостовериться, что её
шёлковая, гладкая кожа была реальной, и тут она открыла пальцами губы
своего влагалища.
Я
отвернулась, не столько от смущения, сколько от
моих конфликтующих эмоций. Нагота женщины или мужчины для меня не было
проблемой. Я выросла вполне свободной дома. Никто особенно не
носился
со своей наготой. А когда я была в школе в Англии, меня пригласили
провести пару недель лета в Швеции, в доме друзей, у моря. Вся семья
принадлежала колонии нудистов, и все они боготворили Солнце каждым
кусочком своей голой кожи.
Видеть Esperanza голой перед
собой было другое.
Меня это сексуально возбудило в наиболее странной манере. В
действительности, я никогда не концентрировалась на женских половых
органах. Конечно я, как и все, тщательно осматривала себя в зеркало под
каждым возможным углом. Я также видела порнофильмы, которые мне не
только не нравились, но я нашла их оскорбительными.
Видеть
Esperanza настолько интимно, было потрясающим событием, так как я
всегда относилась к своим сексуальным вспышкам, как чему-то само
разумеющемуся. Я всегда думала, что как женщина, я только могу быть
возбуждена мужчиной. Охватившее меня желание прыгнуть на неё, было для
меня абсолютным сюрпризом и невозможно было только потому, что у меня
не было члена. Когда
Esperanza вдруг встала с коврика и сняла свою блузку, я громко вдохнула
воздух, потом уставилась в пол до тех пор, пока лихорадочное щекотливое
ощущение на моём лице и шее не исчезло.
"Посмотри на меня!" нетерпеливо потребовала
Esperanza. Её глаза светились, щёки горели, она была абсолютно голой.
Её груди были налитыми и не свисали, тело было не полным, однако больше
и сильнее, чем казалось в одежде. "Потрогай груди!" командовала она
тихим вызывающим тоном. Её слова эхом разносились по комнате как
завораживающий ритм, который превратился биение в воздухе, в пульс
звука, который скорее чувствовался, чем слышался, и который понемногу
затвердевал и убыстрялся, пока не стал стучать упорно и быстро, как
ритм моего сердца. И потом всё, что я слышала, был смех Esperanza.
"Тут
случайно не прячется завхоз?" спросила я, когда смогла говорить. Я
стала подозрительной, почувствовав себя виноватой за свою выходку.
"Надеюсь нет!" крикнула
она с таким видом отчаяния, что я невольно рассмеялась.
"Где
он?" спросила я. Её глаза широко открылись, затем она ухмыльнулась,
как-будто думала рассмеяться. Но стёрла веселье с лица и серьёзным
тоном сказала, что завхоз был где-то на территории, что ему приходится
присматривать за обоими домами, но у него нет привычки подсматривать за
всеми.
154-155
"Он
и впрямь - завхоз?" спросила я скептическим тоном. "Не хочу умалять его
достоинства, но он вообще-то не выглядит способным о чём-то заботиться."
Esperanza
захихикала, потом сказала, что его хрупкость была обманчивой. "В
отношении секса - он очень способный," заверила она меня. "Тебе с ним
нужно быть осторожной, ему нравятся молодые девушки, особенно
блондинки." Она прильнула ко мне и, как-будто боясь, что её могут
услышать, прошептала мне на ухо, "Он уже за тобой приударил?"
"Боже, нет конечно!" ответила я в его защиту. "Он был таким вежливым и
помог мне. Только..." мой голос превратился в шёпот, моё внимание
начало как-то странно бродить по мебели в комнате, которую я не видела,
потому что тусклая керосиновая лампа создавала больше теней, чем света
вокруг меня. Когда мне, наконец, удалось сфокусировать своё внимание на
ней, завхоз меня больше не интересовал. Всё, о чём я могла думать с
наваждением, которое не могла стряхнуть, было почему Isidore
Baltazar ушёл в горы, не дав мне об этом знать, не оставив записки.
"Почему он меня так оставил?" спросила я, повернувшись к Esperanza.
"Должно быть он кому-то сказал, когда вернётся." Видя её всезнающую
усмешку, я воинственно добавила, "Уверена, что вы знаете, что
происходит."
"Я не знаю," настаивала она, совершенно неспособная понять мою
ситуацию. "Я не касаюсь таких вещей и тебе не советую. "Isidore
Baltazar ушёл, вот и всё. Он может вернуться через пару дней или пару
недель, кто знает? Всё зависит от того, что случится в горах."
"Всё зависит?" заорала я, находя её отсуствие понимания и поддержки -
ужасным. "А как насчёт меня?" орала я, "Я не могу находиться здесь
неделями."
"Почему не можешь?"
невинно спросила Esperanza.
Я обмерила её взглдом. как-будто она была не в своём уме, потом выдала,
что мне нечего было одеть, что мне там нечего было делать. Мой список
жалоб был нескончаем: они выливались из меня пока я не иссякла.
"Я
просто должна быть дома; чтобы быть в своём нормальном окружении,"
закончила я. Я чувствовала неизбежные слёзы и делала всё в своих силах,
чтобы сдержать их.
"Нормальном?" Esperanza
повторила слово медленно, как-будто она хотела попробовать его на вкус.
"Ты можешь уехать когда хочешь, никто тебя не держит. Легко можно
устроить: доставить тебя до границы, где ты можешь поймать
Greyhound автобус до Лос Анжелеса."
Я кивнула, но этого также не хотела. Я не знала чего хотела, но мысль
покинуть - была непереносимой. Каким-то образом я знала, что если я
уйду, то больше никогда снова этих людей не найду, даже Isidore Baltazar
в
Лос Анжелесе. Я стала безудержно рыдать. Я не могла это описать
словами, но серость жизни, будущего без них, было невыносимо для меня.
Я не заметила как Esperanza
ушла из комнаты, и не заметила как она вернулась. Я бы так ничего и не
заметила, если бы не приятный аромат горячего шоколада,
распространявшийся прямо под моим носом. "Тебе будет лучше после еды,"
заверила она меня, кладя поднос мне на колени.
Медленно и с
пониманием улыбаясь, она села рядом и призналась, что ничего нельзя
сравнить с шоколадом когда хочешь избавиться от печали. Я с ней была
вполне согласна. Я выпила несколько неуверенных глотков и съела
несколько tortillas с маслом. Я
сказала ей, что хотя действительно не знаю её
и её друзей, но не представляю себе, чтобы их больше снова никогда не
видеть. Я призналась, что чувствую свободу и лёгкость с ней и с её
группой, которую
я никогда не встречала нигде до этого. Это было
странное чувство, старалась я объяснить, частично физическое, частично
психологическое. Я только могла описать его как чувство уверенности,
что я, наконец, нашла то место, которому принадлежу. Esperanza
точно знала, что я пыталась выразить. Она сказала, что быть в Мире
Колдунов, даже короткое время, становится пагубной привычкой. Дело не в
количестве времени, подчеркнула она, а интенсивность встреч имела
значение. "И твои встречи были очень интенсивными," добавила она.
"Они были?" спросила я.
Esperanza
подняла брови, откровенно удивляясь, потом потёрла подбородок,
притворяясь решающей проблему, у которой не было решения. После долгого
молчания, она наконец произнесла, "Тебе будет легче, после того, как ты
полностью поймёшь, что пути назад, к старой жизни - нет." Её голос,
хоть и тихий, обладал экстро-ординарной силой.
156-157
Какой-то
момент её глаза смотрели в мои, и я знала, что означают её слова.
"Ничего снова не будет для меня тем же самым," сказала тихо я.
Esperanza кивнула. "Ты вернёшься в Повседневный Мир, но не в твой мир
или в твою прежнюю жизнь," сказала она, вставая с коврика. Она
бросилась к двери только чтобы резко остановиться. "Это дико волнует,
сделать что-то, не зная, почему мы это делаем," сказала она,
повернувшись, чтобы посмотреть на меня. "А ещё больше волнует, когда
расчитываешь что-то сделать, не зная каким будет конечный результат."
"Я не могла не
согласиться с ней и заявила,"Мне нужно знать что я делаю. Во что
влезаю."
Она вздохнула и комично всплеснула ладонями вверх. "Свобода -
ужасно пугающая вещь," резко прокомментировала она, я не успела ей
ответить, как она мягко добавила,
"Свобода требует спонтанные действия. Ты понятия не имеешь, что такое
спонтанно бросить себя..."
"Всё,
что я делаю - это спонтанно," перебила я. "Почему вы думаете, что я
здесь? Вы думаете, что я долго раздумывала приехать мне или нет?"
Она
вернулась на коврик и встала, долго глядя на меня, прежде чем сказать,
"Конечно ты долго об этом не думала. Но твои спонтанные действия похожи
скорее на недостаток мыслей, чем на действие отрешения от себя." Она
стукнула ногой, чтобы не дать мне возможность снова перебивать её.
"Настоящее спонтанное действие - это когда ты полностью бросаешь себя,
но только после глубокого раздумья. Действие, когда все за и против
были взяты на рассмотрение и один за другим отброшены. Ты ничего не
ждёшь и ни о чём не сожалеешь. Действиями такого рода Колдуны сигналят
Свободе."
"Я
- не Колдунья," промямлила я, но она дала понять, что ей не интересно
продолжать наш разговор. Я проводила её наружу через участок, к
тропинке, которая вела к другому дому. Также как и завхоз, она тоже
просила меня держать ноги на линии пепла.
"Если не будешь," предупредила она меня, "то попадёшь в пучину хаоса."
"Пучина хаоса?"
переспросила я неуверенно, осматривая массу тёмных кустов вокруг себя и
расширяющихся по обе стороны от нас. Повеял лёгкий ветерок. Голоса и
шёпот раздались из тёмной массы теней. Инстинктивно, я схватилась за
юбку Esperanza.
"Ты слышишь их?" спросила она, поворачиваясь ко мне лицом.
"Кого я должна слышать?" хрипло пробурчала я. Esperanza подвинулась
ближе, затем как-будто боясь, что нас подслушают, прошептала мне на
ухо, "Surems из другого времени
(другая вибрационная линия
времени, ЛМ). Они используют ветер, чтобы бродить по
пустыне, никогда не засыпая."
"Вы имеете ввиду призраков?"
"Призраков
не существует," сказала она под конец и стала прибавлять шагу. Я
следила, чтобы мои шаги оставались на линии пепла, и я не отпускала её
юбку, пока она вдруг не встала на середине патио большого дома. Она
колебалась секунду, как-будто не могла решить в какую часть дома ей
нужно взять меня. Затем она пошла вверх и вниз по многочисленным
коридорам, заворачивая за угол, пока наконец, мы не вошли в громадную
комнату, которую я пропустила во время моего раннего обследования дома.
Стены были до потолка заполнены книгами. В одном углу стоял прочный
длинный деревянный стол, в другом конце висел, сотканный вручную,
гамак.
"Какая
замечательная комната!" воскликнула я. "Чья она?"
"Твоя," грациозно
предложила Esperanza. Она подошла к деревянному сундуку, стоящему у
двери, и открыла его. "Ночи - холодные," предупредила она, подавая мне
три толстых шерстяных одеял.
"Ты имеешь ввиду, что я могу здесь
спать?" спросила я с волнением. Всё моё тело дрожало от удовольствия,
пока я раскладывала одеяла на гамаке и затем погрузилась в него.
Ребёнком, я часто спала в таком. Вздыхая от удовольствия, я
раскачивалась взад и вперёд, потом втянула ноги и с удовольствием
потянулась. "Знать как спать в гамаке, это всё равно что знать, как
кататься на велосипеде. Никогда не забудешь как," сказала я ей.
Она ушла, но я не заметила.
Chapter 11
Я
выключила свет и легла неподвижно в гамаке, успокоенная шумами дома,
странным скрипом и каплями воды из глинянного фильтра, стоящего за
дверью.
Я резко села, так как безошибочный звук шагов эхом пронёсся
по коридору. "Кто бы мог быть в этом часу?" подумала я и на цыпочках
пересекла комнату, прислонив ухо к двери. Шаги были тяжёлыми, моё
сердце забилось громко и быстро, когда шаги подошли ближе. Они
остановились перед моей дверью. Стук был срочным, и хоть я его ожидала,
тем не менее он напугал меня. Я отпрыгнула назад, сшибая стул.
"Тебе приснился кошмар?" Спросила Florinda,
входя в комнату. Она оставила дверь полуоткрытой и свет из коридора
проник внутрь. "Я думала, что тебе будет приятно слышать звук моих
шагов," сказала она, игриво улыбаясь мне. "Мне не хотелось тайком
следить за тобой." Она поставила стул на место и накинула на него штаны
и рубашку защитного цвета. "С пожеланиями от завхоза, он сказал, что ты
можешь держать их у себя."
"Держать их?" повторила я, смотря
подозрительно на одежду. Они выглядели чистыми и выглаженными. "Что не
так с моими джинсами?"
"Тебе будет намного
удобнее в этих штанах во время долгой поездки обратно в Лос Анжелес,"
сказала Флоринда.
"Но я не хочу уезжать!" крикнула я испуганно. "Я остаюсь здесь до тех
пор, пока Isidore Baltazar не вернётся."
Флоринда засмеялась затем, видя что я уже собралась плакать, сказала, "Isidore Baltazar вернулся, но ты можешь
остаться дольше, если хочешь."
"О
нет, я не хочу," выдавила я. Беспокойство, которое наполняло меня
последние два дня, было тут же забыто, а также все вопросы, которые я
хотела спросить Флоринду. Всё, о чём я могла думать, было: Isidore Baltazar вернулся. "Могу я его увидеть
сейчас?" спросила я.
"Боюсь,
что нет." Флоринда не дала мне возможность покинуть комнату. Какой-то
момент я на её заявление не прореагировала и уставилась на неё, ничего
не понимая, а она повторила, что увидеть нового Нагуала в этот вечер,
не было возможности.
"Почему невозможно?" спросила я, поражённая. "Я уверена, что он хочет
видеть меня."
"Я
тоже уверена, что он захочет," с готовностью согласилась Флоринда. "Но
он крепко спит, и ты не должна его будить." Отказ был таким жестоким,
что всё, что я могла сделать, это - без слов уставиться на неё.
Флоринда смотрела в пол долгое время, потом посмотрела на меня:
выражение лица было печальным. Какое-то мгновение я подумала, что она
смягчится и возьмёт меня увидеть Isidore Baltazar. Вместо этого она
окончательно повторила,
"Боюсь, тебе
не увидеть его сегодня." Торопливо, как-будто боясь, что может
передумать, она обняла меня и поцеловала, затем ушла из
комнаты.
Она выключила свет снаружи, потом выглянула из тени коридора посмотреть
на меня и сказала, "А сейчас иди спать."
Я
часами лежала, поворачиваясь с боку на бок. Под утро я наконец встала и
надела одежды, которые принесла мне Флоринда. Они точно подошли мне,
кроме штанов, которые мне пришлось в талии завязать потуже куском
резинки, пояса у меня с собой не было. С туфлями в руках, я прошла по
коридору мимо комнаты завхоза к заднему входу. Помня о скрипучих
дверях, я осторожно открыла дверь и только щелку. На дворе было всё ещё
темно, но мягкий светящийся голубой свет распространялся на восточной
стороне неба. Я побежала к арочной двери, встроенной в стену,
остановившись на момент снаружи её, около двух деревьев,
охраняющих тропинку.
160-161
Воздух
был тяжёлым от аромата цветов апельсина. Оставшиеся сомнения, которые я
может быть имела, чтобы пройти через кусты, улетучились, когда
я
обнаружила свежий пепел, покрывающий дорожку. Не думая, я рванула к
другому дому. Дверь частично была открыта, но сразу я не пошла. Я
согнулась перед окном и ждала какого-нибудь звука. Долго ждать не
пришлось, как я услышала громкий храп. Какое-то время я слушала, затем
пошла внутрь. Направляемая отчётливым звуком храпа, я пошла прямо в
комнату в задней части дома. В темноте я едва могла различить спящую
форму на соломенном матрасе, но всё-таки у меня не было сомнения, что
это был Isidore Baltazar.
Боясь, что он мог удивиться, если я разбужу его слишком неожиданно,
я
вернулась в переднюю комнату и села на диван. Я настолько была
взволнована, что не могла спокойно сидеть, вне себя от радости, думая,
что в любую минуту он проснётся. Дважды, на цыпочках я заходила в
комнату посмотреть на него. Во сне он повернулся и перестал храпеть. Я
должно быть задремала на диване и почувствовала сквозь лёгкий сон, что
кто-то стоит в комнате. Приподнявшись, я пробормотала, "Я жду когда Isidore Baltazar
проснётся."
Но
я знала, что никакого звука не последовало. Я сделала осознанное
усилие, чтобы сесть. Я качалась в дремоте, прежде чем сфокусировать
свои глаза на мужчине, стоящим рядом со мной. Это был Mariano
Aureliano. "Isidore Baltazar всё
ещё спит?" спросила я его.
Старый Нагуал смотрел на меня долгое время.
Не понимая, нахожусь ли я в Полёте, я смело схватила его за руку, только чтобы тут же её выпустить:
она обжигала, как-будто она горела. Он поднял брови и
похоже был удивлён моими действиями. "Вы не сможете увидеть
Isidore Baltazar до самого утра,"
медленно сказал он, как-будто ему стоило больших усилий произнести
слова. Не успела я сказать, что уже почти утро и что я буду ждать
Isidore Baltazar на диване, я почувствовала обжигающую
руку Mariano
Aureliano на моей спине, выталкивающую меня за порог. "Иди в свой гамак." И
вдруг неожиданный порыв ветра, я повернулась, чтобы протестовать, но Mariano
Aureliano там больше не было. Ветер эхом раздавался в моей голове как
гонг. Этот звук становился тише и тише, пока не превратился в вибрацию.
Был полдень, когда я проснулась в своём гамаке, в одежде,
принесённой Флориндой. Механически, не думая я вышла наружу и пересекла
очищенный участок до малого дома. Дверь была закрыта, я постучала и
позвала несколько раз, ответа не было. Я попробовала открыть окна, но
они тоже были закрыты. Меня так трясло, что я была готова разрыдаться.
Я побежала с холма вниз к небольшому участку рядом с дорогой,
единственное место, где можно было парковать машину. Микроавтобус
Isidore Baltazar там не было. Я прошлась по просёлочной дороге какое-то
время, разыскивая свежие следы от шин.
Их
не было. Более запутавшись, чем раньше, я вернулась в дом. Зная, что
бесполезно искать женщин в их комнатах, я встала посреди внутреннего
патио и заорала изо всех сил "Флоринда!" звука не последовало, кроме
эха моего собственного голоса вокруг меня. Неважно сколько раз я
обдумывала, что Флоринда сазала, я не могла придти к
удовлетворительному заключению. В чём я была совершенно уверена, что
Флоринда приходила в мою комнату в середине ночи, чтобы принести мне
одежду, которая сейчас на мне. Её визит и её заявление, что
Isidore Baltazar вернулся, наверно вызвало живой сон во мне. Чтобы не
думать: почему я одна в доме - даже завхоза не было - я начала мыть
полы. Чистка всегда вызывала успокающий эффект во мне.
Я закончила со всеми комнатами, включая кухню, когда услышала явный
звук мотора Volkswagen. Я побежала
с холма вниз и бросилась в объятья
Isidore Baltazar, до того как он полностью вылез из машины, почти сбив
его с ног. "Я всё ещё не могу в это поверить," смеялся он, крепко обнимая меня
руками.
"Ты была той, о ком Нагуал мне столько говорил. Знаешь, я ведь чуть не
умер, когда они поприветствовали тебя?"
162-163
Не
дождавшись ответа, он снова меня обнял и , смеясь, поднял меня с земли.
Потом, как-будто какая-то преграда сломалась в нём, он начал говорить
без остановки. Он сказал, что знал обо мне целый год. Нагуал сказал
ему, что он доверяет ему очень странную девушку. Вкратце Нагуал описал
эту девушку как
'12 часов утра ясного дня, который не ветренный, но и не спокойный, ни
холодный, но и не жаркий, а меняется между всем этим, сводя всех с
ума.'
Isidore
Baltazar признался, что будучи напыщенной задницей, коим он себя
считал, он сразу подумал, что Нагуал имел ввиду его девушку (girlfriend).
"Кто - твоя девушка?" обрезала я его. Он сделал резкое движение рукой,
явно недовольный моим вопросом.
"Это
не
история фактов," выпалил он. "Это история идей; чтобы ты видела какой я
- идиот." Его раздражение быстро сменилось сверкающей улыбкой.
"Я,
собственно, верил, что сам смогу выяснить, кто эта девушка была." Он
остановился на минуту, затем тихо добавил, "Я даже впутал замужнюю
женщину с детьми в мои поиски." Он глубоко вздохнул, потом усмехнулся и
сказал, "Смысл моей истории в том, что в Мире Колдунов себялюбие должно
быть исключено, иначе это будет для нас преградой; так как в этом Мире
нет места для обычных людей вроде нас, что-либо предсказывать." Затем
видя, что
я всхлипываю, он поднял меня вверх и с тревогой посмотрел на меня. "В
чём дело, Небелунга?"
"Так,
ничего," смеялась я между всхлипами, вытирая слёзы. "Я не обладаю
абстрактным мышлением, которое может волноваться миром абстрактных
историй," добавила я. Твёрдым голосом я добавила, "Меня только
беспокоит здесь и сейчас. Ты понятия не имеешь, что я пережила в этом
доме."
"Я тебя прекрасно понимаю," ответил он с нарочитой
твёрдостью. "Я провёл годы в этом доме." Он посмотрел на меня взглядом
инквизитора и спросил,
"Вот что я хочу знать: почему ты не сказала мне, что уже знакома с
ними?"
"Я
собиралась, но не знала, что это важно," промямлила я, смутясь. Затем
мой голос приобрёл твёрдый и продолжительный звон, и слова невольно
полились из меня. "Выходит, что встреча с ними была единственной важной
вещью, какую я когда-либо сделала." Чтобы спрятать своё удивление, я
тут же начала жаловаться, что меня оставили в доме совершенно одной.
"У меня не было возможности дать тебе знать, что я ушёл с Нагуалом в
горы," прошептал он с неожиданной непередаваемой улыбкой.
"Я
забыла обо всём этом," заверила я его. "Я говорю о сегодняшнем дне.
Этим утром, когда я проснулась, я ожидала, что ты будешь здесь. Я была
уверена, что ты провёл ночь в маленьком доме, заснув на соломенном
матрасе. Когда я не могла найти тебя, я запаниковала." Видя его
удивлённое лицо,
я рассказала ему о полуночном визите Флоринды, о
моём последующем сне, и как я обнаружила когда проснулась утром, что в
доме одна. Моя речь была безсвязной, мысли и слова смешались, однако я
не могла остановиться. "Так много вещей, с которыми я не могу
согласиться," сказала я, наконец закончив мою горькую критику. "И
всё-таки я не могу доказать, что они не правы."
Isidore
Baltazar не сказал ни слова. Он продолжал смотреть на меня, как-будто
ожидал, что я буду продолжать, его брови поднялись любопытствующей и
насмешливой аркой. Лицо было худое и усталое серого цвета. Кожа
излучала странный холод и лёгкий запах земли, как-будто он провёл дни
под землёй в пещере.
Все
мысли о моих личных переживаниях исчезли, когда я глядела в его
угрожающий левый глаз с его ужасным, беспощадным взглядом. В тот момент
не имело значения, что было настоящей правдой, а что было иллюзией -
Полёт внутри Полёта. Я громко рассмеялась, чувствуя себя лёгкой как
ветер.
Я чувствовала, как невыносимо тяжёлый груз был снят с моих плечей, пока
я смотрела в его Глаз Колдуна. Я узнала его: Флоринда, Mariano
Aureliano, Esperanza и завхоз, у них у всех был такой глаз.
Предназначенный во все времена быть без всяких эмоций и чувств, этот
Глаз отражает пустоту. Затем, как-
будто этого было недостаточно, внутреннее веко - как в глазе ящерицы -
закрыло зрачок левого глаза.
Не успела я ничего
сказать о его колдовском глазе, Isidore
Baltazar на момент закрыл оба глаза. Когда он открыл их снова, они были
одинаковыми: тёмные и сверкающими от смеха, Глаз Колдуна стал иллюзией.
Он обнял рукой мои плечи и мы пошли на холм. "Собери свои вещи," сказал
он как раз перед тем, как достигнуть дома. "Я подожду тебя у машины."
164-165
Я
подумала: как странно, что он не вошёл в дом со мной, но в тот момент я
не думала спрашивать его почему. Только когда я собирала свои вещи,
я
подумала, что наверно он боялся женщин. Эта мысль тогда рассмешила
меня; и тут я точно поняла и это изумило меня, что единственно кого Isidore Baltazar
не боялся, были женщины. Я всё ещё громко смеялась, когда добралась до
его машины у подножья холма. Я открыла рот, чтобы объяснить ему причину
моего смеха, как тут странная, обуревающая меня, эмоция охватила меня:
удар был таким сильным, что я не могла сказать ни слова. То, что
я
чувствовала не было сексуальной страстью, и не было платонической
любовью. Оно не было то, что я чувствовала к своим родителям, братьям и
друзьям. Я просто любила Isidore Baltazar
любовью, которая не была омрачена никакими
ожиданиями, сомнениями или тревогами. И как-будто я это говорила вслух,
Isidore
Baltazar так крепко обнял меня, что мне трудно было дышать. Мы
поехали очень медленно. Я вытянула шею через окно, надеясь увидеть
завхоза среди фруктовых деревьев. "Странное
ощущение вот так уезжать," воскликнула я, откинувшись на спинку кресла.
"В какой-то мере Флоринда попрощалась со мной прошлой ночью. Но мне
хотелось поблагодарить Esperanza и завхоза."
Просёлочная дорога обвивала холм, и как только мы достигли крутой
поворот, показалась задняя часть малого дома. Isidore
Baltazar остановил машину и выключил мотор. Он указал на хрупкого
старика, сидящего на ящике перед домом. Я хотела вылезти из машины и
помчаться вверх на холм, но
он удержал меня. "Просто помаши ему,"
прошептал он. Завхоз поднялся с ящикаю Ветер хлопал штанами и жакетом
по его конечностям, как-будто
это были крылья. Он громко смеялся, затем выгнулся назад и похоже с
ветром сделал
двойное сальто. Какой-то момент он казался висящим высоко в воздухе. Он
так и не приземлился, а исчез, как-будто ветер вобрал его в себя.
"Куда он исчез?" прошептала я в изумлении.
"На другую сторону," Isidore Baltazar
засмеялся с детской непринуждённостью. "Это был его жест попрощаться с
тобой."
Он опять завёл машину. Как бы давая мне приманку, он насмешливо
посматривал на меня время от времени. "Что-то беспокоит тебя,
Нибелунга?" наконец спросил он.
"Ты ведь знаешь кто он, не так ли?" упрекнула я его. "Он - не завхоз,
не так ли?" Isidore
Baltazar немного нахмурился, потом, после долгого молчания,
он напомнил мне, что для меня Нагуал Juan Matus был Mariano
Aureliano.
Он заверил меня, что на это была веская причина, чтобы я знала его под
этим именем. "Я уверена, что есть такая же причина для старика, не
открывать своё имя тебе."
Я спорила, что так как я знала, кто был
Mariano Aureliano, я не видела причины старику притворяться. "И,"
удовлетворённо подчеркнула я, "Я знаю, кто завхоз на самом деле." Я
глянула в сторону посмотреть на реакцию Isidore Baltazar. Его
лицо ничего не выдавало.
"Также,
как и все члены Мира Колдунов, завхоз - Колдун," сказал он. "Но ты не
знаешь, кто он." Он повернулся ко мне на момент, затем перевёл фокус
снова на дорогу. "После всех этих лет я всё ещё не знаю, кто любой из
них действительно есть, включая Нагуала Juan Matus. Когда
я с ним, я думаю, что знаю, кто он. Однако как только он поворачивается
ко мне спиной, я - в полном замешательстве." Почти мечтательно, Isidore Baltazar
продолжал говорить, что в Повседневном Мире
нашим подчинённым состояниям подвержены все наши люди. По
этой причине, мы, во все времена, знаем что наши люди будут делать в
разных
обстоятельствах.
"Ты
не прав, ты совершенно не прав," кричала я. "Не знать, что люди будут
делать при определённых обстоятельствах, и есть волнующая часть жизни.
Одна из немногих оставшихся нам вещей..."
"Мы не знаем, что
точно люди будут делать," терпеливо объяснял он, "но мы можем написать
список возможностей...длинный лист...Чтобы его написать, нам не нужно
спрашивать у людей, что они предпочитают. Всё, что нужно сделать это -
поставить себя на их место и написать возможности, относящиеся к нам.
Они будут относиться ко всем, так как все мы разделяем их..." Он
сказал, что наше подчинённое знание мира знакомо нам как логика, смысл.
166-167
Это
может отличаться от группы к группе, от культуры к культуре, и
всё-таки, несмотря на все эти различия, смысл достаточно однороден
чтобы гарантировать заявление, что Повседневном
Мир - это мир личного опыта. "Однако в отношении Колдунов,
логика-смысл, к которому мы привыкли, уже не работает," подчеркнул он.
"У них другая логика-смысл, потому что они могут находиться в других
состояниях (других вибрациях)."
"Ты имеешь
ввиду, что они как существа с другой планеты?" спросила я. Isidore
Baltazar рассмеялся. "Да. Они как существа с
другой планеты."
"Это поэтому
они всё держат в тайне?"
"Не
думаю, что тайна - это правильное слово," отметил он задумчиво. "Они
просто относятся по другому к Повседневному Миру, их поведение для
нас
выглядит таинственным, потому что мы не думаем как они. И так как у нас
нет измерительной системы, чтобы мерять их логику, мы предпочитаем
думать, что их поведение таинственное."
"Они делают всё, что делаем
мы: они спят, они готовят свою пищу, они читают," вмешалась я. "Однако,
я никогда не могла поймать их в действии. Верь мне, они всё держат в
секрете."
Улыбнувшись, он покачал головой. "Ты видела только то, что
они хотели чтобы ты видела," настаивал он. "И тем не менее, они ничего
не прятали от тебя. Ты просто не могла ВИДЕТЬ, вот и всё."
Я было
собралась поспорить с ним, но не хотелось, чтобы я ему разонравилась.
Не то, чтобы он был прав, да я и не совсем понимала , о чём он говорил;
скорее я чувствовала, что все мои поиски не принесли плодов, я всё ещё
не могла понять: кто были эти люди и что они делали? Вздохнув, я
закрыла глаза и откинула голову на спинку кресла. Пока мы ехали, я
снова рассказала ему о своём сне; насколько реально это было, видеть
его спящим и храпевшим на соломенном матрасе. Я рассказала ему о моём
разговоре с Mariano Aureliano; про
жару на его руке. Чем больше я говорила, тем больше
я убеждалась, что это совсем не было сном. Я привела себя в такое
состояние нервозности, что закончила тем, что расплакалась. "Я не знаю,
что они
сделали со мной, я не совсем уверена: бодрствую я или в Полёте даже
сейчас. Флоринда продолжала говорить мне, что я бодрствую в Полёте."
Isidore
Baltazar кивнул, затем тихо сказал, "Нагуал Хуан Матус (Juan Matus) называет это ПОВЫШЕННОЕ СОЗНАНИЕ (5й
Уровень Сознания)."
"ПОВЫШЕННОЕ
СОЗНАНИЕ" повторила я. Слова легко соскользнули с языка, правда они
звучали прямо противоположно БОДРСТВОВАНИЮ В ПОЛЁТЕ.
Я едва помнила, что слышала их до этого. Кажется Флоринда или Esperanza использовали
это выражение, но я не могла вспомнить в связи с чем. Слова слегка
намекали на
что-то, но мой мозг уже устал от моих бесполезных попыток вспомнить мои
ежедневные действия в доме Колдунь. Как бы сильно я ни старалась,
оставались эпизоды, которые я не могла вспомнить. Не то, чтобы я что-то
забыла, скорее образы приходили ко мне разбитые, как куски разла (a
puzzle), которые не совсем
сходились. Эта забывчивость ощущалась физически, как-будто туман
заволок определённые части моего мозга.
"Итак, Бодрствование в Полёте
и ПОВЫШЕННОЕ СОЗНАНИЕ (5й Уровень
Сознания) - это одно и то же?" Это
был больше, чем вопрос, это было УТВЕРЖДЕНИЕ, чьё значение ускользнуло
от меня. Я двигалась в своём кресле и, подоткнув ноги под себя, села
лицом к Isidoro Baltazar. Солнце очертило его
профиль.
Чёрные кудрявые волосы падали с высокого лба, изящно оформленые скулы и
губы, сильный нос и подбородок придавали ему вид римского воина. "Я
должно быть всё ещё в ПОВЫШЕННОМ
СОЗНАНИИ," сказала я, "Я никогда
не замечала тебя до этого."
Машина отклонилась
на дороге, так как он откинул голову назад и засмеялся. "Ты определённо
в ПОВЫШЕННОМ
СОЗНАНИИ," заявил он, хлопая
себя по бёдру. "Разве ты забыла, что я низкий, загорелый и семейного
вида?"
Я
захихикала не потому, что согласилась с его описанием, а потому что это
была единственная вещь я помнила он сказал на лекции, которую читал в
день, когда я формально встретила его. Моё веселье быстро сменилось
странной тревогой.
168-169
Казалось
прошли месяцы вместо только двух дней, с тех пор как мы приехали в дом
Колдунь. "Время идёт по другому в Мире Колдунов," сказал Isidore
Baltazar, как-будто я высказалась вслух. "И каждый испытывает это по
разному." Он продолжал говорить, что один из наиболее сложных сторон
его тренировки было: иметь дело с последствиями событий в смысле
времени. Часто они все перемешивались в его мозгу; сбивчивые образы,
которые утопали только глубже, когда он пытался сфокусироваться на них.
"Только сейчас, с помощью Нагуала я помню какие-то стороны и события
его учений, которые произошли годы тому назад," сказал он.
"Как он тебе
помогает? Он тебя гипнотизирует?"
"Он заставляет
меня менять вибрации, то есть Уровни Сознания," сказал он. "И когда он
этого добивается, я не только помню прошлые события, но
я также проживаю их вновь."
"Как он это
делает? Я имею ввиду, заставляет тебя менять Уровни Сознания?" настаивала я.
"До
недавнего времени я думал, что это было достигнуто резким ударом по
моей спине между лопатками. Но сейчас я совершенно уверен, что просто
его присуствие заставляет меня менять Уровни Сознания."
"Тогда он гипнотизирует тебя," настаивала я.
В ответ он покачал головой и сказал, "Колдуны - эксперты в
переменах Уровней Сознания. Некоторые настолько сильны в этом, что
могут менять Уровни Сознания других." Я
кивнула. У меня было много вопросов, но он жестом попросил терпения. "Колдуны
заставляют тебя ВИДЕТЬ, что природа всего мира - другая по отношению к
тому, как мы верим мир выглядит; имеется ввиду: как нас учили мир
выглядит.
"Интелектом, мы хотим дразнить себя идеей, что
культура привуалирует: кто - мы, как себя ведём, что хотим знать
или что можем чувствовать.
Но мы не желаем сжиться с такой идеей: принять её как конкретное,
практическое предложение. И причина этого в том, что мы не желаем
согласиться с тем, что культура также навязывает то, что можем
воспринять. Колдовство заставляет нас осознавать другие
реальности-миры; другие возможности, не только в мире, но и в самих нас
до такой степени, что мы больше не можем верить в даже наиболее прочные
убеждения о нас самих и о нашем окружении."
Я удивилась тому, что смогла понять его слова так легко, когда на самом
деле я ничего не поняла. "Колдун не только знаком с разными мирами,"
продолжал он, "но и использует эти знания на практике. Колдуны знают не
только интелектом, но и практикой, что мир, каким мы его знаем, состоит
только из согласия, выдавленного из каждого из нас." Видя, что я не
могла понять его аргументы, он попробовал представить его с другого
угла. Он сказал, что социальная сфера определяет для нас восприятие
пропорционально тому как это полезно, ведя нас через премудрости
повседневной жизни. Социальная
сфера устанавливает лимит тому, что мы способны воспринимать. У Колдуна
восприятие может идти за пределы этих установленных параметров.
Эти параметры
сконструированы и поддерживаются словами, языком, мыслями, то есть
Соглашением.
"А Колдуны не согласны?" спросила я неуверенно, пытаясь понять его
логику.
"Они согласны," сказал он,"Но их Соглашение - другое. Колдуны ломают
обычное Соглашение не только интеллектуально, но и физически или
практически или как хотите называйте это. Колдуны обваливают параметры
социально запрограмированного восприятия; и чтобы понять, что Колдуны
подразумевают под этим, нужно стать практикантом. Имеется ввиду, что
нужно отдать всего себя: тело и разум. И это должен быть осознанный,
бесстрашный поступок."
"Тело?" спросила я с недоверием, сразу же обдумывая, какой ритуал
применяется в этом случае. "Что они хотят от моего тела?"
"Ничего, Нибелунга," засмеялся он. Потом серьёзным, но добрым тоном, он
добавил, что ни моё тело, ни мой разум в любом состоянии ещё не могли
следовать трудной тропе Колдуньи. Видя, что я собиралась протестовать,
он быстро добавил, что ничего плохого ни с моих телом, ни с моим
разумом не было.
170-171
"Подожди-ка!"
силой прервала я его. Isidore
Baltazar проигнорировал мою атаку и продолжил говорить, что Мир
Колдунов - утончённый Мир; что недостаточно было понять его принципы
интуитивно. Также нужно впитать их интеллектуально. "В
противоположность тому, во что верят люди, Колдуны - не практиканты
непонятных эзотерических ритуалов, а наоборот - стоят впереди нашего
времени, а жизнь нашего времени основана на причине. В целом,
мы - порядочные люди или люди порядка. Колдуны живут по принципам
колдовства, не теряя трезвости и честности. В этом они здорово
отличаются от нас. В нас очень мало трезвости и ещё меньше честности."
Он быстро взглянул на меня и улыбнулся. У меня осталось неприятное
впечатление, что он точно знал, что я думала или скорее о чём я вообще
не могла думать. И опять: я поняла его слова, но не их значение, не
знала что сказать, даже не знала, что спросить. Впервые в своей жизни я
почувствовала себя дурой. Чувства моей неадекватности не возникало,
хотя я поняла, что он был прав. Мой интерес к интеллектуальным вещам
всегда был поверхностным и незначительным. Иметь романс с идеями было
абсолютно чуждо мне.
Через несколько часов мы уже были на границе США в Аризоне, а поездка
уже так измучила нас. Мне хотелось говорить, но я не знала что сказать
или, скорее я не могла найти подходящих слов, чтобы выразить
себя. Я чувствовала себя напуганной всем тем, что произошло. Чувство
было новым. Isidoro
Baltazar начал говорить, чувствуя мою неуверенность и беспокойство. В
открытой манере он признался, что до сих пор поражён Миром Колдунов;
даже после стольких лет изучения и общения с ними. "И когда я говорю
изучения, я имею ввиду настоящую учёбу." он засмеялся и хлопнул себя по
бедру, подчеркнуть своё заявление. "Только этим утром я был полностью
сражён Миром Колдунов так, что невозможно описать." Он говорил тоном
полу-жалобы - полу-убеждения, и всё-таки была такая приятная мощь в его
голосе; какая-то удивительная сила в нём, что я чувствовала себя
приподнято. Он производил впечатление, что мог сделать всё, что угодно,
выдержать любое и это для него не будет иметь никакого значения. Я
чувствовала Волю в нём; способность преодолеть все преграды. "Можешь
себе представить, я думал, что ушёл с Нагуалом только на 2 дня."
Смеясь, он повернулся ко мне и тряхнул меня своей свободной рукой. Я
была настолько поглощена звуком и живучестью его голоса, что не поняла,
о чём он говорит и попросила его повторить. Он повторил, но до меня всё
ещё не дошло, что он сказал.
"Не пойму, что тебя так волнует," наконец сказала я, вдруг раздражённая
моей неспособностью схватить, что он старался мне сказать. "Ты ушёл на
два дня. Ну и что?"
"Что?" от его громкого восклика я подпрыгнула в кресле и ударила голову
о крышу машины. Он уставился прямо в мои глаза, но не сказал ни слова.
Я знала, что он не осуждал меня ни в чём, но я чувствовала, что он
насмехается над моей мрачностью, моей переменой настроений и моим
отсуствием внимания. Он припарковал машину на стороне дороги, выключил
мотор, затем повернулся в своём кресле лицом ко мне. "А сейчас я хочу,
чтобы ты рассказала мне всё, что ты испытала." Нервное волнение было в
его голосе, неудержимость и жизнерадостность. Он заверил меня, что
последовательность событий не имела значения. Его улыбка была настолько
убедительной, что я рассказала ему всё, что помнила. Он внимательно
слушал, посмеиваясь время от времени, поощряя меня своим подбородком
каждый раз когда я колебалась.
"Итак, всё это случилось с тобой за ..." Он остановился, посмотрел на
меня блестящими глазами и затем, как бы невзначай, добавил, "два дня?"
"Да," твёрдо сказала я. Он скрестил руки на груди широким жестом.
"Итак, у меня есть новость для тебя," сказал но. Весёлый огонёк в
глазах маскировал его серьёзный тон и выражение его губ. "Меня не было
12 дней, но
я думал, что только два дня. Я подумал, что ты оценишь иронию всего
этого, потому что ты могла лучше следить за временем. Но ты не следила,
как и я.
Мы потеряли 10 дней."
172
"Десять дней," пробормотала я, ошарашенная, затем повернулась
посмотреть через окно. Я не сказала ни слова до конца поездки. Не то,
чтобы я ему не верила, нето, чтобы я не хотела говорить. Мне нечего
было сказать даже после того, как я купила газету "
L.A. Times" в первом же ларьке и там подтвердилось, что и в самом деле,
я потеряла 10 дней. Но были ли они действительно потеряны? Я задавала
себе этот вопрос, но ответа не хотела.
Часть 12
173
Студия-офис
Isidoro
Baltazar состоял из прямоугольной комнаты, выходящей на парковку;
маленькая кухня и, покрытая розовыми плитками, ванная.
Он привёл меня туда в ночь, когда мы вернулись из Соноры. Слишком
измученная, чтобы что-то заметить, я последовала за ним наверх два
этажа вдоль коридора, покрытого тёмным ковром, в квартиру №8. Как
только моя голова коснулась подушки, я заснула и мне снилось, что мы
были всё ещё на дороге.
Мы ехали всю дорогу из Соноры без остановок, меняясь за рулём и
останавливались только чтобы поесть или налить бензин. В квартире было
немного мебели : помимо двух кроватей, у него был складной длинный стол
для пикника, который служил письменным столом, складное кресло и два
металлических шкафа, в которых он держал свои полевые заметки.
Несколько костюмов и полдюжины рубашек висели в двух больших встроенных
шкафах в коридоре. Остальное пространство было завалено книгами: они
лежали кучами. Книжных шкафов не было. Казалось, книги никогда не были
тронуты, не говоря о том, чтобы быть прочитанными. Кухонные шкафы тоже
были переполнены книгами, кроме одной полки, которая была отведена для
тарелки, кружки, ножа, вилки и ложки. На газовой плите стоял чайник и
кастрюля. За 3 недели я нашла себе новую квартиру на улице, около мили
от
UCLA
- университетских территорий, прямо за углом от его студии-офиса. И
всё-таки я продолжала проводить большую часть времени у него. Он отдал
вторую кровать мне, а также карточный стол, складной стул, как у него,
в другом конце комнаты.
174-175
Прошли 6 месяцев и Сонора для меня стала мифологическим местом. Не имея
больше никакого желания блокировать свои воспоминания, я сопоставила
воспоминания обоих случаев, когда я побывала там. Но сколько я ни
старалась, я не могла ничего вспомнить о тех одинадцати днях, которые я
потеряла:
один во время первой поездки и десять в течение второй. Isidoro
Baltazar просто отказался даже упоминать о потере тех дней. Иногда я
была в полном согласии с ним. Нелепо
рассматривать те дни потеряными просто потому, что я не могла вспомнить
их. Это мне стало так ясно, что меня наполнило благодарностью к нему за
равнодушие к этому делу. Было также ясно, что защищает меня. Однако в
другие дни без всякой причины во мне скоплялось глубокое негодование.
Это было его долгом помочь мне, объяснить мне тайну, повторяла я самой
себе, пока я не убеждалась, что он нарочно прячет вещи от меня.
"Ты
свихнёшься, если будешь постоянно твердить об этом," наконец сказал он
однажды. "И все твои переживания будут зря, потому что это ничего не
изменит." Он на момент поколебался, как-будто сопротивлялся говорить
то, что собирался сказать, потом пожал плечами и добавил вызывающим
тоном, "Почему ты не используешь ту же самую энергию в более полезных
целях, например выписать и исследовать все свои плохие привычки."
Вместо
того, чтобы прислушаться к этому, я сразу же атаковала его другой
жалобой, которая распирала меня. Я всё ещё не встретила других молодых
женщин, кто был доверен ему старым Нагуалом. Он столько рассказал мне о
них, что я чувствовала, что уже знаю их. Когда бы я не спросила его о
них,
он долго отвечал на мой вопрос. О них он говорил с
удовольствием. С глубоким и явно искренним обожанием он говорил, что
посторонний описал бы их как привлекательных, интеллигентных,
совершенных - они все имели университетские дипломы - самостоятельные и
очень независимые. Однако для него они были намного больше, чем это.
Они были магические существа, кто разделял его судьбу. Они соединялись
с ним связями привязанности и долга, что не имело ничего общего с
социальным порядком. Он говорил, что они вместе искали свободу. Однажды
я даже объявила ему ультиматум.
"Ты должен взять меня к ним или..." Isidoro
Baltazar весело засмеялся глубоким горластым смехом.
"Всё,
что я могу сказать тебе, это - не то, что ты воображаешь," сказал он.
"И невозможно сказать когда ты, наконец, встретишь их. Тебе придётся
подождать."
"Я и так долго ждала!" заорала я. Не видя никакой
реакции на его лице, я насмешливо добавила, "Ты ошибаешься, если
думаешь что я буду искать этих женщин в Лос Анжелесе. Я даже не
знаю
откуда начать искать."
"Ты найдёшь их, как ты
нашла меня," заявил он, "как ты нашла Mariano Aureliano." Я с подозрением
посмотрела на него. Я не могла не подумать,
что было что-то зловещее в нём.
"Я тебя не искала," подчеркнула я нетерпеливо. "Я также не искала Mariano
Aureliano. Верь мне, встреча с тобой и с ним были
случайными."
"В
Мире Колдунов случайных встреч не бывает," беспечно заметил он. Я уже
собралась сказать ему, что такой совет мне не был нужен, как он добавил
серьёзным тоном, "Ты их встретишь в нужный час. Тебе не нужно ходить и
искать их."
Лицом к стене я посчитала до десяти, потом повернулась к
нему и сказала, "Проблема с тобой в том, что ты типичный латино. Завтра
всегда хорошо для тебя. У тебя нет представления как закончить вещи." Я
повысила голос, чтобы он не перебил меня. "Моя настойчивость на встрече
с твоими друзьями, чтобы всё ускорить."
"Ускорить вещи?" спросил он не понимая. "Что тут ускорять?"
"Ты
мне почти ежедневно говорил, что осталось так мало времени," напомнила
я ему. "Ты сам всегда говорил, как важно для меня встретить их, однако
ты ведёшь себя как-будто у тебя вечность в запасе."
"Я постоянно
тебе это говорю, потому что хочу чтобы ты поторопилась и вычистила своё
внутреннее существо, не потому что я желаю бессмысленных действий,
сделанных как можно быстрее," ответил он с нетерпением. "Это не зависит
от меня представить тебя им. Если бы так было, я бы не сидел здесь,
слушая твои абсурдные замечания."
176-177
Он
закрыл глаза и вздохнул в притворном бессилии, потом улыбнулся и тихо
пробормотал, "Ты слишком глупа, чтобы видеть, что поисходит."
"Ничего
не происходит," выпалила я, рассерженная его оскорблением. "Я не такая
дура, как ты думаешь. Я заметила переменчивость в твоих реакциях по
отношению ко мне. Иногда у меня возникает мысль, что ты не знаешь, что
со мной делать."
"Я знаю точно, что делать," перебил он меня.
"Тогда почему ты всегда выглядишь неуверенным, когда я предлагаю
что-то?" Слова сами собой выскочили из меня. Isidore
Baltazar пронзительно взглянул на меня. Какой-то момент я думала, что
он атакует меня теми быстрыми и жестокими словами в своём арсенале,
сотрёт меня в порошок острой критикой. Но его голос был удивительно
мягким когда он сказал, что я была вполне права в своих заключениях.
"Я
всегда жду, когда события дадут мне выбор," подтвердил он. "И тогда я
быстро и энергично двигаюсь вперёд. Я обгоню тебя, если ты не будешь
внимательна."
"Я уже давно
позади," сказала я жалобным тоном. "Из-за того, что ты не хочешь помочь
мне найти этих женщин, я всё время буду оставаться позади."
"Но это
не срочная проблема," сказал он. "Ты всё ещё не пришла к своему
решению,это проблема." Он поднял брови в ожидании, как-будто ждал моего
надвигающегося взрыва.
"Я не знаю, что ты имеешь ввиду. Что мне нужно решить?"
"Ты
ещё не решила присоединиться к Миру Колдунов. Ты стоишь на пороге,
смотришь внутрь и ждёшь чтобы увидеть, что произойдёт. Ты ждёшь чего-то
практического, что сделает это стоющим твоего внимания." Слова протеста
поднялись в моём горле, но не успела я вылить своё глубокое
негодование,
он сказал, что у меня неправильное представление: переехать в новую
квартиру и оставить старый образ жизни было переменой.
"Тогда что?" с сарказмом спросила я.
"Ты
ничего не оставила кроме своих принадлежностей," сказал он, игнорируя
мой тон. Для некоторых это - большой шаг, а для тебя это - ничто. Вещи
тебя не интересуют."
"Нет," согласилась я, затем настояла на том,
что неважно во что он верил, но я давно решила присоединиться в Миру
Колдунов. "Почему, ты думаешь,
я здесь сижу, если я ещё не присоединилась?"
"Ты
и вправду присоединилась к миру телом, но не Духом. Сейчас ты ждёшь
какой-нибудь карты, какую-то удобную инструкцию, прежде чем ты сделаешь
своё окончательное решение. А тем временем, ты будешь продолжать
смеяться над ними. Главная проблема с тобой, что ты хочешь быть
убеждённой в том, что Мир Колдунов может что-то предложить."
"А разве нет?" выдала
я. Isidoro
Baltazar повернудся ко мне, его лицо сморщилось от удовольствия.
"Да,
у этого Мира есть что-то особое предложить, называется Свобода. Однако
нет гарантии, что тебе удасться её получить; или что любой из нас
получит."
Я задумчиво кивала, потом спросила его, что мне нужно
сделать, чтобы убедить его, что я и в самом деле присоединилась в Миру
Колдунов.
"Тебе не нужно убеждать меня. Тебе нужно убедить Дух. Тебе нужно
закрыть за собой дверь."
"Какую дверь?"
"Ту,
что ты всё ещё держишь открытой. Дверь, которая позволит тебе убежать,
если вещи тебе не будут нравиться или не будут подходить твоим
ожиданиям."
"Ты говоришь, что я могу покинуть?"
Он посмотрел на
меня загадочным взглядом, затем вскинул плечи и голосом, похожим на
бормотание, сказал, "это - между тобой и Духом."
"Но если ты сам веришь что..."
"Я
ни во что не верю," отрезал он. "Ты вошла в этот Мир тем же путём, как
и остальные. Это не было чьей-то работой и не будет, если ты или кто-то
ещё решит уйти."
Я смотрела на него в смущении. "Но правда, ты ведь
постараешься убедить...если я..." я запнулась, он потряс головой,
прежде чем я закончила говорить.
"Я не буду убеждать тебя или
кого-то другого. Твоей силы не будет в таком решении, если тебя нужно
поддерживать каждый раз, когда ты не решаешься или сомневаешься."
"Но кто поможет мне?" спросила я поражённая.
178-179
"Я
помогу, я - твой слуга." Он улыбнулся, но не цинично, а застенчиво и
приятно. "Но в первую очередь я служу Духу. Борец - не раб, а слуга
Духа. У рабов нет выбора; слуги имеют. Выбор борцов - служить
безупречно. Моя помощь далека от расчётов, я не могу инвестировать в
тебя и Мир тоже. Ничего в нём не делается, что можно рассматривать
полезным; разрешены только стратегические действия. Это то, чему меня
учил Нагуал Juan Matus и так я живу. Колдун практикует то, чему он/она
учит, и всё-таки ничего не делается из практических соображений. Когда
ты это поймёшь и будешь это практиковать, только тогда ты закроешь за
собой дверь."
Мы были погружены в долгое молчание. Я поменяла
положение на кровати, где сидела. Мысли заполнили мою голову. Наверное
ни один из Колдунов не поверил бы мне, но я определённо изменилась,
перемена, которая сначала была почти незаметной. Я заметила это, потому
что это связано с наиболее трудной вещью, с которой некоторые из нас,
женщин, могут столкнуться: ревность и желание знать. Мои вспышки
ревности были притворными, не обязательно осознанными, но так или иначе
было в них что-то позирующее. Что-то во мне требовало (инородная рептоидная вставка в мозг!
ЛМ), чтобы
я ревновала всех остальных женщин в жизни
Isidore Baltazar. И в то же время, что-то во мне прекрасно знало,
что жизнь нового Нагуала не может быть похожа на жизнь обычного
человека, даже того, у кого может быть много жён. Наши отношения, если
их можно так назвать, не входили ни в одну знакомую, привычную форму.
Чтобы ревность и желание овладеть имело хватку, нужно зеркало, не
только своё собственное, но и партнёра.
Isidore Baltazar больше не отражал желания, мотивы, чувства и эмоции
мужчины.
Моё желание знать больше о жизни Isidore
Baltazar было всепоглощающей необходимостью. Меня просто
пожирало то, что он никогда не разрешал мне действительно войти в его
личный мир. И тем не менее я ничего не предпринимала. Я часто
напоминала себе, было бы несложно следовать за ним или рыскать в его
бумагах и выяснить, раз и навсегда, кем он действительно был. Но я не
могла этого сделать. Что-то во мне было уверено, что я не могу вести
себя с ним, как я бы обычно себя вела. Что останавливало меня больше,
чем любое чувство этикета, было доверие, которым он одаривал меня.
Он
полностью доверил мне свои вещи и это делало его не только на практике,
но даже в моих мыслях, неприкосновенным. Я громко рассмеялась, я поняла
что такое - стратегическое действие борца. Isidore
Baltazar
был неправ: он принимал мою укоренившуюся привычку менять настроение и
немецкую разборчивость, как легкомыслие в обязательствах.
Неважно, я знала, что по крайней мере, я
начала понимать и практиковать стратегию Колдуна, хотя бы в его
присуствии - не обязательно в самой студии, но в Лос Анжелесе. Однако в
его отсуствие я часто начинала сомневаться, и когда это начиналось,
я
обычно шла спать в его студию.
Одной ночью, когда я вложила свой ключ в
замок, я почувствовала, как из-за двери вылезла рука и потянула меня
внутрь. Я
заорала в ужасе. "Что...что...," заикалась я, когда рука, держащая мою
руку, отпустила меня. Стараясь не упасть, я облокотилась на стену,
сердце дико стучало. "Флоринда!" поражённая,
я уставилась на неё. На
ней была длинная рубашка, собранная на талии; волосы свободно висели по
бокам и по спине. Я не понимала:
она была настоящей или просто тень призрака, окружённая лёгким светом
за её плечами. Я подошла к ней и незаметно тронула её за рукав.
"Это ты, Флоринда? Или
мне это снится?"
"Это - не сон, дорогая. Это - живая я."
"Как ты попала сюда? Ты - одна?" Я прекрасно знала, что было бесполезно
спрашивать её об этом. "Если бы я знала, что ты придёшь, я бы начала
чистить раньше," сказала я стараясь улыбаться, но мои губы прилипли к
зубам. "Мне нравится убирать студию Isidore
Baltazar ночью. Я всегда убираюсь ночью."
Вместо
того, чтобы как-то ответить, Флоринда повернулась боком, так чтобы свет
освещал её лицо. Злорадная улыбка засветилась в её глазах. "Я велела
тебе никогда не преследовать никого из нас или приходить без
приглашения. Тебе повезло, что это не был кто-то ещё, кто втащил тебя
сюда сегодня."
"Кто ещё мог втащить меня внутрь?" спросила я, расхрабрившись, хотя
была далека от этого. Флоринда посмотрела на меня ещё немного, затем
развернулась и сказала через плечо, "Тот, кому всё равно, если ты
умрёшь от страха."
180-181
Она
слегка подвигала своей головой, так что её профиль стал выделяться при
слабом свете. Она тихо засмеялась и махнула рукой в воздухе, как бы
сметая слова, прошла длину комнаты до маленькой кухни. Казалось она не
шла, а скользила в каком-то свободном танце. Это делало её длинные
белые волосы висеть свободно на спине, и сиять как серебрянная занавесь
в колеблющемся свете. Стараясь имитировать её грациозную походку, я
следовала за ней.
"Ты знаешь, у меня есть ключ," сказала я. "Я
приходила сюда каждый день в любое время с тех пор как мы вернулись из
Соноры. Я практически, живу здесь."
"Разве
Isidore Baltazar не говорил тебе не приходить сюда,
когда он в Мексике?" Тон Флоринды был ровным, почти равнодушным, она не
осуждала меня и всё-таки осуждала.
"Может
быть он что-то упоминал," заметила я с притворным равнодушием. Видя,
что она нахмурилась, я была вынуждена защищать себя. Я сказала ей, что
здесь часто была одна и что не думала, что будет какая-то разница, если
Isidore
Baltazar будет вдали 5 миль или 500 миль. Ободрённая её
постоянными кивками, я призналась, что помимо выполнения здесь моей
школьной работы, я часами раскладываю книги в шкафах. Я складывала
их
согласно автору и теме. "Некоторые книги настолько новые, что страницы
всё ещё не разрезаны. Я разделяла их, собственно для этого я и пришла
сегодня."
"В три утра?" воскликнула она. Покраснев, я кивнула.
"Столько
страниц всё ещё нужно разрезать, берёт столько времени, нужно быть
очень осторожной, чтобы не повредить страницы, хотя эта работа
успокаивает. Помогает заснуть."
"Невероятно," тихо
сказала Флоринда. Ободрённая её явным одобрением, я продолжала
разглагольствовать.
"Я
уверена, что ты понимаешь, что значит для меня это место," сказала я.
"В этой квартире я чувствую себя безучастной, отрезанной от своей
старой жизни, от всего и от всех, кроме
Isidore Baltazar и его магического мира. Сам воздух наполняет меня
чувством настоящей удалённости."
Я громко и долго вздохнула. "Здесь я никогда не чувствую себя одинокой,
хотя большую часть я здесь одна. Что-то в атмосфере этой квартиры
напоминает мне дом Колдунь. Тот же холод и отсуствие чувств, которые я
сначала нашла такими тревожными, пропитывают эти стены. И это точно
недостаток теплоты, эта отдалённость, что
я ищу день и ночь. Я нахожу
это удивительно ободряющим, это даёт мне силу."
"Невероятно,"
прошептала Флоринда, как бы не веря, и взяла чайник в раковину. Она
что-то сказала, но я не слышала из-за шума воды, затем поставила,
наполненный водой, чайник на плиту. "Я так счастлива, что ты себя
чувствуешь здесь как дома," сказала она, вздыхая с драматизмом.
"Защиту, которую ты должно быть чувствуешь в таком маленьком гнёздышке,
зная, что у тебя есть соратник." Она добавила самым неуважительным
тоном, что я должна делать всё в своих силах, чтобы делать Isidore
Baltazar счастливым, и что это включает секс, который она описала с
жуткой прямотой. Обалдевшая от таких речей,
я уставилась на неё с
открытым ртом. С уверенностью и эффективностью того, кто знаком со
странным положением кухни, она вытащила две кружки, мой специальный
чайник и пакет шоколадного печенья, который я прятала в шкафах сзади
толстых немецкого и французского словарей. Улыбаясь,
она повернулась ко
мне и вдруг спросила, "Кого ты ожидала найти здесь сегодня?"
"Не
тебя!" отрезала я, слишком поздно поняв, что мой ответ выдал меня. Я
ударилась в длинное и замысловатое объяснение того, почему я верила,
что могу найти здесь, если не всех, то, по крайней мере, одну из других
молодых женщин.
"Они пересекут твою тропинку, когда придёт время," сказала Флоринда.
"Встреча с ними не зависит от твоих усилий."
Не понимая, что говорю, я поймала себя на том, что обвиняю её, а
также Mariano Aureliano и Isidore
Baltazar,
за свои подозрения. Я сказала ей, что для них это было не практично
ожидать, что я буду ждать, пока какие-то незнакомые женщины пересекут
мою тропинку, и верить, что я действительно узнаю их по такому неясному
признаку как их внутреннее Свечение. И как обычно, чем больше я
жаловалась, тем лучше я себя чувствовала.
Флоринда меня
игнорироала. "Одна, две полные ложки и одну для чайника," приговаривала
она с преувеличенным британским акцентом, раскладывая чай.
182-183
Затем, в самой обычной манере, она заметила, что только единственной и
непрактичной вещью для меня было: думать и относиться к Isidore Baltazar как к
мужчине.
"Я не знаю, что ты имеешь ввиду," сказала я в свою защиту. Она
внимательно посмотрела на меня, пока я не покраснела.
"Ты
прекрасно знаешь, что я имею ввиду," объявила она, затем налила чай в
чашки. Быстрым движением подбородка она указала, какую из двух чашек
должна взять я. С пакетом печенья в руке она села на кровать Isidore
Baltazar ту, которая была ближе к кухне. Она медленно цидила свой чай.
Я сидела рядом и делала то же самое. "Ты совсем не изменилась," вдруг
сказала она.
"То же самое сказал мне Isidore Baltazar
несколько дней тому назад," ввернула я. "Однако я
знаю, что здорово изменилась." Я сказала ей,
что мой мир был перевёрнут кверх тормашками после моего возвращения из
Соноры. Пространственно я объясняла как нашла новую квартиру, как я
переехала и оставила всё, что мне принадлежало, позади. Она только
кивала и сидела молча и неподвижно как камень. "Собственно говоря, меня
не похвалишь за прерывание рутин или в собственной недосягаемости,"
поделилась я, нервно смеясь, пробивая её молчание. "Каждый, кто в
близком контакте с Isidore Baltazar
забудет, что есть границы
между ночью и днём, между обычными днями и каникулами." Я взглянула на
неё боком, довольная своими словами. "Время просто течёт и уступает
..." но я не смогла закончить предложение: меня пронзила странная
мысль. Насколько позволяла моя память, никто и никогда не говорил мне о
прерывании
рутин или о
собственной недосягаемости. Я внимательно осмотрела Флоринду, затем мой
взгляд невольно заколебался. Это её работа? Спросила я себя. Откуда у
меня эти идеи? И что было ещё более удивительным: я точно знала, что
означают эти идеи.
"Это должно быть предупреждением: что-то
вот-вот выскочит из тебя," сказала Флоринда, как-будто она следила за
моими мыслями. Она продолжала говорить, что что бы я к этому времени не
достигла в Полётах, так и не пропитало мои часы бодрствования
необходимой жёсткостью, необходимой само-дисциплиной, нужной для
путешествий в Мире Колдунов.
"Ничего такого я в жизни никогда не делала," сказала я. "Не гони
лошадей, для меня всё это - ново."
"Конечно,"
с готовностью согласилась она. Она закинула голову на подушки и закрыла
глаза. Она так долго молчала, что я подумала она заснула, и
естественно, я удивилась, когда она сказала, "Настоящая перемена - это
не перемена в настроении, в отношении или во внешности. Настоящая
перемена включает в себя полную трансформацию своей личности." Видя,
что я собралась перебить её, она прижала свои пальцы к моим губам и
добавила,
"Та перемена, о которой я говорю, не может быть
достигнута за 3 месяца или за год и даже за 10 лет. Это возьмёт всю
жизнь." Она сказала, что это было невероятно трудно стать кем-то
другим, чем таким, каким тебя вырастили. . "Мир Колдунов - это Полёты,
миф и всё-таки он такой же настоящий, как и Повседневный Мир,"
продолжала Флоринда. "Чтобы ощущать и функционировать в Мире Колдунов,
нам нужно снять маску каждого дня, которая была надета на наши лица с
самого рожденья, и надеть вторую маску. Ту маску, которая даёт нам
возможность видеть нас самих и наше окружение, какоё оно на самом деле:
дух захватывающие события, которые распускаются в переходное состояние
только однажды, чтобы никогда больше не повториться. Тебе нужно самой
сделать эту маску." Она устроилась удобнее на кровати, обняла руками
кружку, которую я наполнила опять, и громко выпила несколько глотков.
"Как мне сделать эту маску?" спросила я.
"В
Полёте со своим Вторым Существом (Double)?" пробормотала она. "Конечно
не только имея новый адрес, новую одежду, новые книги."
Она посмотрела на меня боком и насмешливо ухмыльнулась. "И явно не
веря, что у тебя новый мужчина."
Не
успела я отвергнуть её грубое обвинение, она сказала, что с внешней
стороны я была текучей личностью, способной двигаться с бешенной
скоростью.
Но внутренне, я была не гибкой, замороженной. Как
уже заметил Isidore
Baltazar, она тоже подтвердила, что это было моей ошибкой верить, что
переехав в новую квартиру и в порыве раздав все свои вещи, было
переменой. Я склонила голову, принимая её критику. У меня было в крови:
избавляться от вещей.
И как она подчеркнула, это, в общем, был порыв.
184-185
К
полному неудовольствию моих родителей, я периодически избавлялась от
своих одежд и игрушек с раннего детства. Моя радость видеть мою комнату
и шкафы аккуратно убранной и почти пустой, превышала радость иметь
вещи. Иногда моё желание было
настолько доминирующим,
что я опустошала также шкафы моего отца и моих братьев. Обычно эти вещи
никто не замечал, так как я всегда освобождалась от одежд, которые
никто давно не носил. Правда,
несколько раз весь дом вдруг охватывало полное замешательство, взрывом
суматохи, когда мой отец бегал из одной комнаты в другую, открывая
шкафы и вопя о потеряной особой рубашке или штанов. Флоринда смеялась,
потом встала и подошла к окну с видом на аллею. Она уставилась на,
загораживающую вид, занавеску, как-будто она могла видеть через неё.
Взглянув назад через плечо, она
сказала, что женщине намного легче, чем мужчине, порвать связи с семьёй
и с прошлым. "Женщины
- в счёт не идут. Это явление даёт женщинам больше гибкости, больше
текучести. К сожалению, женщины редко, если вообще когда-либо,
используют это приемущество." Она двигалась по комнате, её рука
скользила по шкафу и столу. "Самую
трудную вещь схватить о Мире Колдунов, что это предлагает полную
Свободу, но Свобода - не даром. Сколько стоит Свобода? Свобода
будет стоить тебе маску, которая на тебе; маска, которая настолько
удобна и её так трудно снять, не потому что она сидит так хорошо, а
потому что ты носила её так долго. Знаешь ли ты что такое Свобода? Свобода
- это полное отсуствие заботы о себе," сказала она, сидя рядом со мной
на кровати. "И самый лучший способ, бросить заботу о себе,
это -
думать о других."
"Я думаю," убеждала я её. "Я постоянно думаю об Isidore Baltazar и о
его женщинах."
"Я
в этом не сомневаюсь," с готовностью согласилась Флоринда. Она покачала
головой и зевнула. "Наступило время тебе начать формировать свою новую
маску; задание, которое не может иметь чей-то другой почерк, а только
твой. Это должно быть сделано в одиночестве, иначе маска не подойдёт
как надо: всегда возникнут такие моменты, когда маска может
чувствоваться слишком тугой, слишком свободной, слишком горячей,
слишком холодной..."
Её голос следовал за ней, пока она перечисляла
всевозможные и невероятные неудобства. Последовало долгое молчание, и
потом, тем же сонным голосом она сказала, "Выбрать Мир Колдунов это -
не только сказать - я присоединилась. Нужно действовать в этом Мире, в
твоём случае, тебе приходиться летать. Ты была в осознанном Полёте с
тех пор как вернулась?" В мрачном настроении я призналась, что не была.
"Тогда ты ещё не решила," она основательно осмотрела меня. "Ты не
формируешь свою новую маску. Ты не представляешь в Полёте своё Второе
Существо (главное). Колдуны связаны со своим Миром полностью за счёт
своей безупречности." Необычный блеск появился в её глазах, когда она
добавила, "Колдуны
не заинтересованы в навязывании своих взглядов. Среди них нет гуру или
мудрецов, только Нагуалы. Они - лидеры не потому, что больше знают или
что они лучше других Колдунов, а просто потому, что у них больше
энергии. Я не обязательно имею ввиду физическую выносливость, а
определённую конфигурацию их Существа, которая позволяет им помочь
любому, сломать параметры восприятия."
"Если
Колдуны не заинтересованы в навязывании своих взглядов кому-либо, тогда
почему Isidore Baltazar ученик старого Нагуала?" Прервала я её.
"Isidore
Baltazar появился в Мире Колдунов так же, как и ты," сказала она. "Что
бы то ни было, что привело его к нему, не могло быть игнорировано
Mariano Aureliano. Это было его долгом учить Isidore Baltazar всему
тому, что он знал о Мире Колдунов." Она объяснила, что никто не
искал Isidore Baltazar или меня. Что занесло нас в их Мир, не
имело
ничего общего с чьим-то желанием или с чьими-то действиями. "Никто из
нас не будет держать тебя против твоей воли в этом Магическом Мире,"
сказала она, улыбаясь. "И тем не менее, мы сделаем любую вообразимую и
невообразимую вещь, чтобы помочь тебе остаться в нём." Флоринда
повернулась боком, как-будто она хотела спрятать своё лицо от меня,
секундой позже она посмотрела через плечо. Что-то холодное, отрешённое
показалось в её глазах: перемена выражения была настолько невероятной,
что напугало меня. Интуитивно, я отодвинулась от неё.
186-187
"Единственную
вещь я не могу и не буду делать, и также Isidore Baltazar, это -
помогать тебе оставаться той же старой уродливой, жадной, потакающей
своим прихотям. Это было бы настоящей насмешкой."
Как
бы
смягчить оскорбление, она положила свою руку на мои плечи и обняла
меня. "Я скажу тебе в чём ты нуждаешься," прошептала она, но так долго
молчала, и я подумала, что она забыла сказать
то, что собиралась. "Тебе нужно хорошо
выспаться," наконец пробормотала она.
"Я
совсем не устала," ответила я машинально и поняла, что все мои ответы
были противоположны тому, что было сказано. Для меня, это было дело
принципа - быть всезнающей. Флоринда тихо засмеялась и затем меня снова
обняла. "Не будь такой Германской, и не ожидай, что всё тебе будет
сказано ясно и точно." Она добавила, что в Мире Колдунов нет ничего
ясного и точного, вместо этого вещи разворачиваются медленно и едва
заметно. "Isidore
Baltazar поможет тебе," заверила она меня.
"Однако помни, что он не поможет тебе так, как ты это ожидаешь."
"Что ты имеешь ввиду?" спросила я, освобождаясь из её рук, чтобы
посмотреть на неё.
"Он
не скажет тебе то, что ты хочешь слышать или как тебе вести себя,
потому как ты уже знаешь: в Мире Колдунов нет никаких правил или
инструкций." Она весело хихикала и, казалось, получала удовольствие от
моего растущего раздражения. "Всегда помни: существуют только
импровизации," добавила она, потом, широко зевая, она полностью
растянулась на кровати и схватила одно из, аккуратно сложенных, одеял,
сложенных на полу. До того как закрыть себя, она поднялась на локте и
внимательно посмотрела на меня. Было что-то гипнотическое в её сонливом
голосе, когда она говорила мне, что я должна всегда держать в голове,
что путешествую по одной Дороге такого Борца, как Isidore Baltazar. Она закрыла глаза и
голосом, который был почти неслышным, сказала, "Никогда
не теряй его из виду. Его действия будут вести тебя в такой
артистической манере, что ты даже не заметишь этого. Он - безупречный и
бесподобный борец!" Я быстро потрясла её за руку, боясь, что она уснёт
до того, как закончит говорить. Не открывая глаза, Флоринда добавила,
"Если
ты будешь внимательно за ним следить, ты увидишь, что Isidore Baltazar
не ищет любви или одобрения. Ты будешь видеть, что он не проявляет эмоций при любых
обстоятельствах. Он ничего не требует и, тем не менее, он отдаёт всего
себя. Он
ищет сигнала от Духа в виде доброго слова; подходящего жеста...и когда
он получает это, он выражает свою благодарность, удваивая свои усилия. Isidore Baltazar никого не судит. Он свёл себя к
нулю, чтобы слушать и наблюдать, так чтобы он мог победить и быть
удовлетворённым
своим поединком; или быть побеждённым и более опытным в результате
поражения. Если ты будешь следить внимательно, ты увидишь, что Isidore Baltazar не сдаётся. Он может быть поражён, но никогда не
сдастся.
И самое главное, Isidore Baltazar - свободен."
Я
сгорала от желания перебить её, крикнуть ей, что она уже говорила мне
всё это, но не успела я сказать ей что-нибудь, как Флоринда уже
заснула. Боясь, что я могу не застать её утром, если вернусь в свою
квартиру. Я села на другую кровать. Странные мысли ворвались в моё
сознание, я отдыхала, дала себе полностью расслабиться. Я поняла, что
связи не было между этими мыслями и моими обычными мыслями. Я видела
эти мысли как Лучи Света, Вспышки Интуиции. Следуя одной из этих Вспышек
Интуиции, я решила почувствовать своей попой кровать, на которой
сидела. И, к моему удивлению, моя попа почувствовала, как-будто она
погрузилась в саму постель.
Какой-то
момент я была кроватью и кровать тянулась, чтобы дотронуться до моей
попы. Какое-то время я получала удовольствие от этого ощущения.
В тот момент я знала, что нахожусь в Полёте, и поняла с полной
ясностью, что я сейчас чувствовала то, что Esperanza описала
как 'моё ощущение было отброшено назад ко мне'. И затем всё моё
существо растаяло или лучше сказать оно взорвалось. От радости мне
хотелось громко смеяться, но не хотелось будить Флоринду. Я всё
вспомнила!
188-189
Сейчас мне
совсем не было трудно вспомнить, что я делала в те потерянные 10 дней в
доме Колдунь. Я была в Полётах! Под неутомимым взором
Esperanza я постоянно была в
Полётах, просыпаясь в доме Колдунь или в доме
Esperanza или иногда в других местах, которые я не так хорошо могла
разглядеть в тот момент. Клара
настаивала, что до того как какая-то особая вещь, которую я видела в
Полёте, могла быть накрепко зафиксирована в моей памяти, мне нужно
видеть её дважды. Я видела всех женщин больше, чем два раза: они были
прочно врезаны в мою память.
Пока я сидела на кровати,
наблюдая как спит Флоринда, я вспомнила других женщин из группы
Колдунов, с которыми я общалась в Полёте в те забытые дни. Я ясно
их
видела, как-будто они спустились передо мной; или скорее, как-будто
меня транспортировали вместе с телом назад, к тем событиям.
Самой
яркой для меня была Нелида, кто была так похожа на Флоринду, что
сначала я думала, что она была её близнецом. Она не только была такой
же высокой и тонкой как Флоринда, но у них были одного цвета глаза,
волосы и цвет кожи. Даже выражения их лиц были одинаковы. По
темпераменту
они тоже были похожи, только Нелида выглядела более
покорной и менее энергичной. Казалось, у неё был недостаток мудрости и
силы Флоринды.
И всё-таки была в Нелиде терпеливая, молчаливая сила, это было очень
убедительно. Хермелинда (Hermelinda)
легко могла сойти за младшую сестру Кармелы. Её тонкое тело было
деликатно округлённым и такими же были её утончённые манеры. Она
казалась менее уверенной, чем Кармела. Она тихо разговаривала и
двигалась быстрыми бросками, что каким-то образом превращалось в
грациозность. Её подруги сказали мне, что её застенчивость и
спокойствие возбудили самое лучшее в других, и что она не могла
общаться с группой или даже двумя людьми одновременно. Clara
и
Delia составляли невероятную пару шутников. На самом деле они не были
такими большими, как показались мне сначала. Это их пышущее здоровье,
их задор и энергия,
что
заставляло думать, что они были большими, нерушимыми женщинами. И они
на самом деле играли в самые увлекательные соревновательные игры.
При
малейшей возможности они вышагивали в своих эксцентрических ярких
костюмах. Обе хорошо играли на гитаре и у обоих были красивые голоса,
как на подбор. Они пели, одна старалась перепеть другую не только на
испанском, но также и на английском, немецком, французском и
итальянском. В их репертуаре были баллады, народные песни, всевозможные
популярные песни, включая новейшие поп-песни. Мне стоило только напеть
или напомнить первую строчку песни, как Клара или Дэлия сразу же
закончит всю песню за меня. И потом они приготовят конкурсы своих
написанных поэм, написав к случаю какую-нибудь поэтическую строчку. Они
для меня писали поэмы и совали их под мою дверь, неподписанными. Мне
приходилось догадываться, кто написал поэму. Каждая утверждала, что
если я действительно люблю её, как она любит меня, то я интуитивно
догадаюсь, кто - автор. Что делало их соревнования приятными это, тот
факт, что в них не было крайностей, негативных эмоций. Они проводились
чтобы развлекать. Нет нужды говорить, что Клара и Дэлия получали
столько же удовольствия, как и их зрители. Если им кто-то нравился, как
похоже получилось со мной, их любви и преданности -
не было
лимита. Они обе защищали меня с поразительным упорством, даже когда я
была неправа. В их глазах я была совершенна и не могла сделать ничего
неправильно. От них я узнала, что это была вдвойне ответственность,
чтобы поддерживать, поощрять такое доверие. Не было так, чтобы я
боялась их разочаровать и старалась жить согласно их ожиданиям, а
скорее это была самая естественная вещь для меня - верить, что я была
совершенна, и вести себя с ними безукоризненно. Самой странной среди
всех Женщин-Колдунь была мой учитель Полётов - Зулейка (Zuleica), кто никогда ничему
меня не научила.
Она даже не разговаривала со мной или наверно не замечала, что я
существую. Зулейка
была, также как и Флоринда, очень красивой; наверно не такой яркой, но
красивой в более феерическом смысле. Она была крошечной, её тёмные
глаза с крылатыми бровями, маленький отточеный нос и рот обрамляли
тёмные кудрявые волосы, которые седели. Это подчёркивало её ауру
другого мира. Она не обладала обычной красотой, а величественной,
регулируемой её постоянным само-контролем. Она прекрасно осознавала
элемент: что такое быть красивой и желанной в глазах других.
190-191
Она
научилась узнавать и использовать его, как-будто это был приз, который
она выиграла. Поэтому она была совершенно безразлична ко всем и ко
всему. Зулейка научилась мастерству исполнения за кукол и превратила
это в непревзойдённое искусство. Согласно ей, слова, переданные
двигающимися губами, становятся более неразборчивыми, чем они на самом
деле. Мне нравились такие разговорные привычки Зулейки со стенами, со
столами, с посудой или с другим предметом перед ней, и поэтому я
следовала за ней по пятам, когда она появлялась. Она двигалась по дому,
казалось, не
касаясь пола, похоже не волнуя воздух. Когда я спросила других Колдунь,
было ли это иллюзией, они объяснили, что Зулейка ужасно не любила
оставлять следы.
После того, как я встретила и пообщалась со всеми женщинами, они
объяснили мне разницу между -
Dreamers (внетелесные путешественники) и Stalkers (манипуляторы).
Это они называли: две Планеты. Флоринда, Кармела, Зойла и Дэлия были - Stalkers:
мощные Существа в огромным количеством физической энергии; охотники,
неутомимые работники, специалисты экстравагантного состояния сознания,
которое они называют Dreaming-Awake (5й Уровень
Сознания). Другая Планета:
Dreamers, состояла из другой четвёрки женщин: Зулейка, Нелида,
Хермелинда и Клара. Они обладали более воздушной внешностью. Не то,
чтобы у них было меньше силы, меньше энергии, скорее их энергия была
менее видная. Они проэктировали, отражали чувство других миров, даже
когда занимались самыми обычными делами. Они были специалистами другого
необычного состояния сознания, который они называли - 'летать
и действовать в других мирах, а не в этом Повседневном Мире' ('Dreaming
in Worlds other, than this World').
Мне сказали, что это был самый сложный Уровень Сознания, который
женщины могут достигнуть. Когда Dreamers
и Stalkers работали вместе, Stalkers
были вроде защитного, прочного внешнего слоя, который прятал глубинное
Ядро. Dreamers и были тем глубинным
Ядром. Они были как мягкая матрица-конструкция, которая смягчала
твёрдый, внешний слой.
В те дни в доме Колдунь, обо мне заботились, как-будто я была их самым
ценным достоянием. Они баловали и ссорились из-за меня, как-будто я
была ребёнком. Они готовили мне мою любимую пищу. Они шили
для меня самые элегантные и удобные одежды, какие у меня когда-либо
были. Они осыпали меня подарками, иногда глупыми, а иногда ценными
драгоценностями, которые они откладывали, ожидая дня, когда я проснусь
(говорили они). Были ещё две женщины в Мире Колдунов, оба - Stalkers:
две полные девушки, Марта и Тереза. Обе были приятной внешности и
незавидного аппетита под стать. Не то, чтобы обманывать кого-то, но они
хранили банку печенья, шоколада и отборных конфет, спрятанную в
секретном отделении кухонных шкафов.
К
моему огромному удовольствию, они дали мне знать с самого начала, где
секретная банка и разрешили мне этим угощаться, что конечно я и делала.
Марта из обоих была старше, ей было около 25, экзотичная смесь
немецкой и индейской крови. Цвет кожи был если не абсолютно белый, то
бледный.
Её роскошные волосы были мягкими и волнистыми,
обрамлявшими широкое лицо с высокими скулами. Её раскосые глаза были
блестящего аквамаринового цвета, а уши - маленькие и деликатные, как у
кошки мягкие, и почти розово-прозрачные. Марта отличалась длинными
печальными вздохами - Германик, называла она, и молчаливыми настроями,
наследство её индианской души. Она недавно начала брать уроки по классу
скрипки, которые она практиковала в любой час дня. Вместо того, чтобы
критиковать или злиться на неё,
они в полной гармонии согласились, что у Марты был великолепный
музыкальный слух. Тереза была маленькой, но из-за веса она казалась
намного выше. Она выглядела больше как женщина Индии, чем Мексики.
Её
безупречная кожа была кремовой, светло коричневой, тёмные, блестящие
овальные глаза обрамляли длинные курчавые ресницы, они были такие
тяжёлые, что веки низко сползали, придавая ей мечтательный, отвлечённый
вид. Её нежность и доброе расположение духа склоняло к желанию защищать
её. Тереза тоже была артистической, она рисовала акварели днём в
поздние часы. Со своим треножником, кистями и подносом с красками
наготове,
она могла сидеть во дворе часами и ждать, когда свет и
тени будут подходящими. Затем, с расчитанным контролем она устремлялась
к листу с, мокрыми от красок, кистями.
192
Масса
моих забытых воспоминаний выплыла наружу и я была измучена. Ритм
лёгкого храпа Флоринды, поднимающегося и опускающегося в комнате как
отдалённое эхо, гипнотизировал меня. Когда я открыла глаза, первое что
я сделала, это - крикнуть её имя, но она не ответила, кровать была
пуста. Жёлтая простынь, плотно подоткнутая под матрасс, не показывала
никаких признаков, что кто-то сидел или, не говря уже, спал там. Две
подушки находились в их обычном положении - приставленные к стене - а
одеяло, которым она пользовалась, было сложено с другими на полу. С
рвением, я искала в квартире какого-нибудь знака, что она на самом деле
была здесь. Я ничего не нашла, даже её длинного седого волоса в ванной.
Часть 13
193
Когда
я была полностью в сознании, я не вполне помнила о тех потерянных днях
за исключением того, что я знала с абсолютной точностью, что они не
были потеряны. Что-то произошло со мной тогда: что-то скрытное,
ускользнувшее от меня. Осознанного усилия я не делала, чтобы
восстановить все те смутные воспоминания. Я просто знала, что они были
там, наполовину спрятанные как люди, которых едва знаешь и чьи имена не
можешь точно вспомнить. Я никогда не спала хорошо, но с той ночи -
когда Флоринда появилась в студии Isidore
Baltazar - я ложилась спать во все часы,
только чтобы быть в Полёте. Я просто отключалась каждый раз когда
ложилась и спала немыслимо долгие отрезки времени. Я даже пополнела,
что к сожалению, не отложилось в нужных местах. Тем не менее, я никогда
не находилась в Полёте с Колдунами. Однажды я внезапно проснулась от
громкого скрежета. Isidore Baltazar
уронил чайник в раковину. Голова
болела, глаза слипались, сильно потела. Я тут же вспомнила ужасный сон,
который тут же забыла.
"Это
всё твоя вина," заорала я на него. "Если бы ты только помог мне, я бы
не спала всю свою жизнь!" Мне хотелось бесноваться, выдать своё
нетерпение и расстройство. Но вдруг меня осенило, что я уже не могу так
делать, потому что я больше не получала удовольствия от своих жалоб,
как когда-то.
194-195
Его
лицо озарилось удовольствием, как-будто я высказала свои мысли вслух.
Он схватил кресло и сел, широко раздвинув ноги, и сказал, "Ты знаешь,
что
я не могу тебе помочь. У женщин другие приёмы в Полётах. У меня даже в
голове не укладывается, что женщины делают для Полёта."
"Ты
не можешь не знать с таким количеством женщин в своём Мире," грубо
ответила я. Он засмеялся: казалось ничего не может изменить его хорошее
настроение.
"Я даже не знаю с чего женщины начинают, чтобы
улететь. Мужчинам приходится непрерывно бороться, чтобы соблюдать
внимание в Полётах. Женщинам для этого бороться не нужно, но им нужно
овладеть внутренней дисциплиной." Он сверкнул улыбкой и добавил, "Есть
одна вещь, которая может помочь тебе. Не подходи к Полётам в своём
обычном принудительном, вынужденом настрое. Пусть это само придёт к
тебе."
Я открыла и закрыла рот, потом моё удивление быстро превратилось в
ярость. Моя предыдущая проницательность (интуиция) была забыта, я одела
туфли и нагло затопала, не забыв бешено ударить дверью за собой. Его
смех преследовал меня всю дорогу к моей машине внизу на парковке.
Отверженная, полностью чувствуя
нелюбимой, одна и прежде всего жалея себя, я поехала к пляжу. Там
никого не было и шёл дождь, ветра не было и дождь мягко падал. Было
что-то умиротворяющее в звуке накатывающихся волн и падающего дождя на
воду. Я сняла туфли, закатила вверх штаны и зашагала до тех пор, пока
не была дочиста промыта от, потакающих моим слабостям, настроений. Я
знала, что избавляюсь от них, потому что слышала от шепчущих,
набегающих волн слова Флоринды, "Это - одиночная борьба." Я не была
напугана, а просто признала, что и на самом деле была одна; что убедило
меня в том, что делать дальше. Я немедленно приступила к действиям.
После того как оставить записку под дверью Isidore Baltazar - мне
не хотелось, чтобы он меня отговорил - я направилась в дом Колдунь. Всю
ночь я ехала по дороге в Tucson, остановилась в
мотеле, спала почти день. Потом в полдень опять поехала, следуя
маршруту, которому следовал
Isidore
Baltazar, когда мы вместе возвращались из Мексики. Чувство направления
у меня не развито, однако этот маршрут глубоко во мне отпечатан. С
поразительной уверенностью я могла
точно выбирать по каким дорогам ехать и где повернуть. Я мигом достигла
дом Колдунь. Я не беспокоилась проверять мои часы, так как не хотела
терять чувство, что никакого времени не прошло между тем, когда я
влезла в свою машину в Tucson,
и моим прибытием в дом Колдунь. То, что в тот момент никого не было
дома, меня совсем не волновало. Я сознавала, что прямого, формального
приглашения мне дано не было, но я ясно помнила, как Нелида сказала
мне, пряча в ящике маленькую корзинку с подарками, которые они все мне
подарили, что я могу вернуться когда пожелаю. Слова Нелиды звенели в
моих ушах - "День или ночь эта корзинка благополучно втянет тебя
внутрь."
С уверенностью, которая обычно приходит с практикой, я пошла прямо в
комнату, которую дала мне Esperanza.
Белый гамак висел там, как-будто ожидая меня. Лёгкая тревога наконец
овладела мной, но я не была настолько испугана, как ожидалось. Усталая,
я погрузила себя в гамак, одну ногу наружу, чтобы раскачивать себя
туда-сюда. "Страхи, пошли к чёрту!" выкрикнула я, втянула ногу и
растянулась в своё удовольствие как кот, пока все мои кости не
хрустнули.
"О, ты благополучно вернулась," сказал мне голос из коридора. Я не
видела её и не узнала голоса, и всё-таки я знала, что это была Нелида.
Я ждала в нетерпении когда она войдёт, но она не вошла. "Твоя еда на
кухне," я слышала как она сказала. Её шаги удалялись от моей двери вниз
по коридору.
Я подпрыгнула и помчалась за ней. "Подожди, подожди, Нелида!" кричала
я, но никого не было ни в зале, ни в комнатах, которые я проходила по
пути на кухню. Собственно говоря, никого не было во всём доме и
всё-таки я была уверена, что они были там. Я слышала их голоса, их
смех, звук тарелок, горшков и кастрюль. Я провела следующие несколько
дней в состоянии постоянного ожидания, что может случиться что-то
важное. Я не могла представить, что должно было случиться, но знала,
что это должно быть связано с женщинами.
196-197
По какой-то непонятной причине женщины не хотели, чтобы их видели. Их
непостижимо таинственное поведение вело меня в коридоры, крадясь
бесшумно, как тень, в любое время. Несмотря на хитрые планы, которые я
придумывала, чтобы удивить женщин, я ни разу ничего не поймала, кроме
намёка на них. Они скользили в и из своих комнат, в и из дома как-бы
между мирами, оставляя за собой свои голоса и смех. Иногда я
сомневалась в том, что женщины и в самом деле были там; что звуки
шагов, шёпота и смеха не были предметом моего воображения. Когда я была
склонна верить, что это только моё воображение, как вдруг я слышу, что
одна из них неловко двигает что-то на патио. Тогда, объятая новым
порывом, ожиданием и волнением, я бегу к задней части дома, только
обнаружить, что меня опять провели. В те моменты я была убеждена, что
женщины, будучи настоящими Колдуньями, имели своего рода внутреннюю
эхо-систему летучих мышей, которая предупреждала их о моих звуках. Моё
разочарование того, что я не могла поймать их перед плитой, всегда
исчезающих при виде маленьких блюд экзотической
пищи, которую они оставляли для меня. Вкус этих блюд достаточно
компенсировал крошечный размер порции и я с огромным аппетитом уплетала
эту пищу. И всё же я всегда была голодна.
Однажды,
прямо перед сумерками, я услышала голос мужчины, зовущий меня с задней
части дома. Я выпрыгнула из гамака и помчалась по коридору.
Я была так рада увидеть завхоза, что чуть не прыгнула на него, как
собаки это делают. Не в состоянии скрыть свою радость, я расцеловала
его в щёки.
"Подожди, Небилунга," сказал он таким же голосом и в той же манере как
и Isidore
Baltazar. Я отпрыгнула назад, мои глаза широко открылись от удивления.
Он подмигнул мне и добавил, "Не увлекайся, ты понимаешь, а то следующим
будет, что ты приберёшь меня к рукам." Какое-то мгновенье я не знала,
как это понять, тогда он засмеялся и похлопал меня доброжелательно по
спине. Я вполне успокоилась. "Приятно видеть тебя," сказал он тихо.
"Это так прекрасно увидеть тебя!" Я посмеялась, потом спросила его, где
все?
"О,
они - вокруг," сказал он туманно. "В настоящий момент они по секрету
недосягаемы, но всегда присуствуют." Видя моё разочарование, он
добавил, "Будь терпеливой."
"Я знаю, они здесь," пробормотала я.
"Они оставляют пищу для меня." Я взглянула через плечо и призналась,
"Но я всё ещё голодная. Порции слишком маленькие." Согласно завхозу, с
пищей Силы это было естественным условием. Этого никогда не будет
достаточно. Он сказал, что готовит сам себе пищу: рис и фасоль с
кусками свинины, говядины или курицы; и ест только один раз в день, но
в разные часы. Тогда он взял меня в свои аппартаменты. Он жил в большой
заставленной комнате за кухней, среди странных деревянных и
металлических скульптур, где воздух, наполненный цветущим жасмином и
эквалиптом, тяжело и неподвижно висел вокруг задёрнутых занавесей. Он
спал на раскладушке, которую держал сложенной в защитном чехле, когда
ей не пользовался, и ел свою пищу на маленьком столе 18 века с
длинными и тонкими ножками. Он признался, что ему, как и мистическим
женщинам, не нравилась рутина. День или ночь, утро или полдень было то
же самое для него. Он подмёл патио и граблями вымел листья за просеку,
когда у него было на то желание. Были цветы или листья на земле или нет
- это было несущественно. В следующие дни у меня был ад, стараясь
приспособиться к этому, казалось, бессистемному образу жизни. Скорее
вынуждено, чем из-за желания быть полезной, я помогала завхозу
справляться с хозяйственными делами. Я также постоянно принимала его
приглашения разделить его пищу. Его блюда были такими же аппетитными,
как и его компания. Убеждённая, что он был больше чем завхоз, я делала
всё, что в моих силах, поймать его моими дьявольскими вопросами;
бесполезный способ, потому что я никогда не получала удовлетворительных
ответов. "Откуда ты родом?" храбро спросила я его однажды, когда мы
ели. Он поднял голову с тарелки и, как-будто ожидая прямого
оскорбления, он послушно указал на горы к востоку, огороженные рамой
открытого окна, как картина.
198-199
"Горы Bacatete?" мой голос передал моё
недоверие. "Но ты ведь не индеец," огорчённо пробормотала я. "Как я
смотрю на это: только Нагуал Mariano Aureliano, Delia Flores и
Genaro Flores - индейцы."
Воодушевлённая удивлённым и выжидающим выражением его лица, я добавила,
что по-моему Esperanza
перешла выше, чем расовые категории. Я наклонилась над столом и
таинственным тоном откровенно высказала ему то, что уже сказала
Флоринде. "Esperanza не родилась
как человек. Она появилась с помощью колдовства. Она настоящий дьявол."
Отклонившись
назад в своём кресле, завхоз вскрикнул от радости. "А что ты хочешь
сказать о Флоринде? Ты знаешь, что она француженка? Или скорее её
родители были французами. Они были из семей, которые пришли в Мексику
вместе с Maximilian и Carlota."
"Она
очень красивая" пробормотала я, стараясь вспомнить когда точно в
восемнадцатом веке австрийский принц был послан Наполеоном в Мексику.
"Ты ещё не видела, когда она разодета," выпалил завхоз. "Она что-то
ещё. Возраст ничего для неё не значит."
"Кармела сказала мне, что я как Флоринда," сказала я в порыве
самолюбования.
Воодушевлённый
смехом, кипящим внутри него, завхоз соскочил со своего кресла. "Да,
интересное будущее." Сказал он без всякого чувства, как-будто его
нисколько не интересовало, как его слова будут восприняты. Раздражённая
его замечанием, его отсуствием эмоций, я уставилась на него с плохо
скрываемой враждебностью. Затем, чтобы поменять тему, я спросила его о
Нагуале Mariano Aureliano.
"Где точно он родился?"
"Кто
знает, где Нагуал родился?" пробурчал он, двигаясь к окну. Он долго
смотрел на далёкие горы, потом снова повернулся прямо ко мне и сказал, "Некоторые
говорят, что Нагуалы приходят из самого ада. Некоторые говорят, что Нагуалы даже не Люди."
Он снова остановился и я подумала, может долгое молчание повторится
опять. Как-будто чувствуя моё нетерпение, он подошёл сесть рядом со
мной и добавил. "Если
ты спросишь меня, я скажу, что Нагуалы - супер-люди. Это и причина,
почему они знают всё о человеческой натуре. Нагуалу ты не можешь врать:
они тебя насквозь видят. Они видят всё насквозь. Они из этого мира даже
видят другие миры сквозь пространство, а из других миров - наш мир."
Я
завозилась в своём кресле, хотела чтобы он прекратил говорить, жалела,
что завязала с ним этот разговор. У меня в голове не было сомненья, что
этот мужик был сумасшедший.
"Нет, я не сумасшедший," заверил он меня, и я
издала громкий вопль. "Просто я говорю вещи, о которых ты никогда не
слышала, вот и всё."
Чувствуя
странно в свою защиту, я часто заморгала. Но моя неловкость дала мне
прилив смелости и я напрямую его спросила:"Почему они прячутся от меня?"
"Это
- ясно," выпалил он в ответ, затем видя, что мне всё-таки неясно,
добавил, "Ты это должна знать. Ты и такие как ты - команда, не я. Я не
один из них, а только завхоз. Я смазываю машину."
"Ты меня ещё
больше запутываешь, чем я была раньше," в раздражении пробормотала я. И
тогда секундная вспышка интуиции проникла в меня.
"Кто эта команда, на которую ты ссылаешься?"
"Все женщины, которых ты встретила, когда была здесь последний раз. Dreamers и
Stalkers. Они мне сказали, что Stalkers - твой вид, и
ты - одна из них."
Он налил себе стакан воды и с ним отошёл к окну. Выпил несколько
глотков, потом информировал меня, что Нагуал Mariano Aureliano
протестировал мои способности как Stalker в Tucson,
Arizona, когда он послал меня в сафе, чтобы положить таракана в мою
пищу. Завхоз повернулся спиной к окну, посмотрел мне прямо в лицо и
добавил, "Ты провалила."
"Я не хочу слышать этот вздор," отрезала я. У меня не было желания
слышать конец истории. Его озорное лицо сморщилось.
"Но тогда, после провала, когда освободилась от того груза, ты
стала кричать и бить ногами Нагуала Mariano Aureliano без всякого стыда или
сожаления. Stalkers,"
подчеркнул он, "такие люди, у кого есть способности иметь дело с
людьми." Я открыла рот, чтобы сказать, что ни слова из этого не поняла,
но быстро снова его закрыла. "Что было удивительным," продолжал он,
"что ты - великолепный Dreamer. Если бы не
это, ты была бы как Флоринда, только меньше красоты и меньше роста
конечно." Ехидно улыбаясь, я
молча проклинала старого хрена.
200-201
"Ты
помнишь сколько женщин было на пикнике?" вдруг спросил он. Я закрыла
глаза, чтобы лучше вспомнить пикник. Ясно видела шесть женщин, сидящих
на скатерти, растеленной под эквалиптом. Там не было Esperanza,
но были Carmela, Zoila,
Delia и Florinda.
"Кто были другие две?" спросила я, более зачарованная, чем когда-либо.
"Ааа!" довольно пробормотал он, сверкающая улыбка сморщила его лицо.
"Те две были Dreamers
из другого мира. Ты их ясно видела, но потом они исчезли, а твой мозг
не заметил их исчезновения, потому что это выглядело слишком абсурдно."
Я кивнула, не придавая этому значения, не в силах понять, что я,
собственно, видела только 4 женщины, когда я была уверена, что их было
шесть. Мысль должно быть перешла к нему, так как он сказал, что это
было естественно фокусироваться только на четырёх. "Две другие женщины -
твой источник энергии. Они не физические и не из этого мира."
Поражённая и смущённая, всё, что я могла сделать это - уставиться на
него: вопросов к нему у меня больше не было. "Так как ты не
принадлежишь Планете Dreamers,"
объяснил он, "Твои Полёты становятся кошмарами, а твои переходы между
Полётами и реальностью (между разными вибрациями) очень нестабильны и
опастны как для тебя, так и для остальных Dreamers. Поэтому Флоринда
взяла на себя ограничить и защитить тебя."
Я
встала настолько импульсивно, что моё кресло перевернулось. "Я больше
ничего не хочу знать!" кричала я, вовремя остановив себя от дальнейших
нелепостей, что мне лучше не знать об их взбродной логике и способах.
Завхоз взял меня за руку и повёл наружу через просеку, сквозь кусты, к
задней части маленького дома.
"Мне нужна твоя помощь с
генератором," сказал он. "Его нужно починить." Я громко рассмеялась и
сказала, что ничего не знаю о генераторах. Только когда он открыл дверь
ловушки бетонного ящика, я поняла, что электричество для света в доме
вырабатывалось здесь. Я совершенно не отдавала себе отчёта, что
электрический свет и приборы в сельской Мексике были как те, с которыми
я была знакома. С того самого дня я старалась не задавать ему слишком
много вопросов, чувствовала, что не готова к его ответам. Наши встречи
приобрели вид ритуала, в котором я делала всё, что в моих силах, чтобы
соответствовать прекрасному использованию стариком испанского языка. Я
часами просматривала разные словари в своей комнате, ища новые и часто
допотопные слова, которыми поразить его. Одним утром, пока я ждала
завхоза с едой - это было впервые, с тех пор как я обнаружила его
комнату, что я была одна в ней - я вспомнила старое, странное зеркало.
Я тщательно осмотрела его запятнанную, таинственную поверхность. "Тебя
зеркало поймает, если ты будешь смотреть на себя слишком много," сказал
мне голос сзади. Ожидая увидеть завхоза, я повернулась, но никого в
комнате не было. В спешке достигнуть двери, я почти сбила деревянную с
металлом скульптуру сзади меня. Механически, я кинулась чтобы удержать
её, но до того как дотронуться до неё, фигура, похоже, стала вертеться
и удаляться от меня странным, круговым движением, затем достигла своего
обычного места с обалденным человеческим вздохом.
"В чём дело?"
спросил завхоз, входя в комнату. Он поставил большой поднос на шаткий
стол и, посмотрев на моё пепельное лицо, снова спросил, что со мной
случилось.
"Иногда у меня бывает чувство, что эти монстры - живы и
наблюдают за мной," сказала я, указывая подбородком на ближайшую
скульптуру. Заметив его похоронное, неулыбающееся лицо, я поспешила
заверить его, что не имела ввиду монстры в смысле уродливости, а скорее
в смысле - большие.
Я глубоко вздохнула и повторила, что его
скульптуры показались мне живыми. Посмотрев украдкой вокруг себя и
снизив голос к еле слышному шёпоту,
он сказал, "Они - живые." Я
почувствовала себя настолько не в себе, что начала мямлить о дне, когда
я впервые обнаружила эту комнату; как меня привлёк сюда странный звук,
который оказался ветром, толкающим занавеску сквозь разбитое окно.
"И
всё-таки в тот момент я знала, что это был монстр," делилась я, нервно
хихикая. "Инопланетное присуствие, питающееся тенями сумраков."
202-203
Жуя
свою нижнюю губу, завхоз смотрел на меня пытливыми глазами. Затем его
отсуствующий взгляд поплыл по комнате. "Мы лучше сядем и будем кушать,"
наконец сказал он, "мы не хотим, чтобы наша пища остыла." Он пододвинул
для меня кресло и, как только я удобно уселась, добавил оживлённым
тоном, "Ты совершенно права, называя их сущности, так как они не
скульптуры. Они - изобретения." Тоном заговорщика он доверился,
"Они были сделаны из образцов в другом мире великим Нагуалом."
"Кем? Mariano
Aureliano?" спросила я.
Он покачал головой и сказал, "Более старым Нагуалом по имени Elias."
"Почему эти изобретения в твоей комнате?" спросила я. "Этот великий
Нагуал сделал их для тебя?"
"Нет,"
сказал он. "Я только присматриваю за ними." Вставая, он залез в карман,
вытащил оттуда, аккуратно сложенный белый носовой, платок и начал
вытирать им изобретение. "Так как я - завхоз, в мои обязанности входит
следить за ними. Когда-нибудь, с помощью всех этих Колдунов, я доставлю
эти изобретения туда, где они должны быть."
"И где же это?"
"Бесконечность, Космос, Вакуум."
"Как ты предлагаешь взять их туда?"
"С той же силой, которая принесла их сюда прежде всего: Могущество
Осознанного Полёта (Dreaming-Awake.)."
"Если ты делаешь это как эти Колдуны," осторожно начала я, стараясь
скрыть триумф в своём голосе, "Тогда ты тоже Колдун."
"Да, я - Колдун, но не как они."
Его прямое признание смутило меня. "Какая разница?"
"Ааа!"
многозначительно воскликнул он. "Огромная разница. Но я не могу тебе
сейчас её объяснить. Если я это сделаю, то ты станешь ещё злее и
мрачнее. Когда-нибудь однако, ты сама узнаешь всё об этом, без
чьей-либо помощи." Я почувствовала, как колесо завертелось в моей
голове, я отчаянно старалась найти что сказать, может задать другой
вопрос.
"Мог бы ты мне рассказать, как Нагуал Elias добыл эти
изобретения?"
"Он
ВИДЕЛ их в своих Полётах и схватывал их," делился завхоз. "Некоторые из
них копии изобретений, сделанные им, потому что он не мог вытащить их
оттуда. Остальные - настоящие: изобретения, принесённые всю дорогу сюда
этим великим Нагуалом."
Я не верила ни одному его слову, и всё-таки я не удержалась и добавила,
"Почему Нагуал Elias принёс их?"
"Потому что изобретения сами попросили его об этом."
"Почему
поросили?" Завхоз игнорировал мои попытки, взмахнув рукой и поторопил
меня взяться за еду. Его нежелание удовлетворить моё любопытство,
только усилило мой интерес. Я не могла представить, почему он не хочет
говорить о механизме, когда ему так удаётся давать туманные ответы. Он
мог бы мне всё сказать. В момент, когда мы закончили с едой,
он попросил меня достать его раскладушку из чехла. Зная что он
хочет,
я
разложила её для него перед занавешанной французской дверью. Довольно
вздыхая, он лёг, уложив свою голову на маленькую прямоугольную подушку,
которая была прикреплена к одному из концов раскладушки. Она была
заполнена сухими бобами и кукурузыми зёрнами. Согласно ему, подушка
обеспечивала сладкие сны.
"Сейчас я готов ко сну," сказал он,
расстёгивая ремень на штанах. Это был его вежливый знак выпроводить
меня из комнаты. Раздражённая его отказом поговорить об изобретениях, я
навалила
тарелки на поднос и затопала из комнаты. Его храп преследовал меня всю
дорогу на кухню. В ту ночь я проснулась от игры на гитаре. Механически,
я схватила фонарь, который держала рядом с гамаком, и проверила часы.
Было чуть больше полуночи. Я туго завернула одеяло вокруг себя и на
цыпочках вышла в коридор, который вёл на внутреннее патио. Но патио,
сидя в плетёном кресле, находился мужчина. играя на гитаре. Я не могла
видеть его лицо, но знала, что это был тот же самый человек, которого Isidororo Baltazar и я
видели
и слышали, когда в первый раз я здесь была. И также, как тогда, мужчина
прекратил играть, как только увидел меня. Он встал с кресла и пошёл в
дом.
204-205
Как только я возвратилась в свою комнату, его игра возобновилась. Я уже было хотела
заснуть, как услышала как он запел чистым, сильным голосом.
Он
пел о ветре, махая ему придти из молчания и пустоты. Как бы отвечая на
его таинственный зов, ветер стал набирать силу. Он свистел сквозь
кусты, рвал сухие листья с деревьев и сметал их в кучи возле стен дома.
Импульсивно, я открыла дверь на патио: ветер наполнил комнату
непередаваемой печалью, не печаль слёз, а меланхолического одиночества
пустыни, пыли и древних теней. Ветер кружил вокруг комнаты как торнадо
и я дышала им с каждым вдохом. Он осел тяжело в моих лёгких, и
всё-таки, чем глубже я вдыхала, тем легче я себя чувствовала. Я вышла
наружу и, протиснувшись между высокими кустами, проделала тропинку
назад к дому. Лунный свет, отражённый от белоснежных стен, сиял ярко
на, очищенную ветром, землю широкой просеки. Боясь, что меня увидят, я
пробиралась от одного фруктового дерева к другому, прячась в тёмных
тенях, образованных лунным светом, до тех пор, пока я не достигда два
цветущих апельсиновых дерева снаружи стены, охранявших тропу к
маленькому дому. Ветер донёс из кустов звук смеха и лёгкого шептания. Я храбро ринулась по
дорожке, не зная, что меня ждёт, пока не
достигла парадной двери небольшого тёмного домика. Дрожа от волнения, я
на цыпочках подошла к открытому окну и узнала голоса Флоринды и Дэлии.
Но окно было слишком высоко для меня, чтобы видеть что Женщины-Колдуньи
там делали. Я слушала, ожидая услышать от них что-нибудь значительное;
какое-нибудь потрясающее открытие, которое собьёт меня наповал и
которое поможет мне понять то, зачем я к ним приехала, то есть понять
мою неспособность к Dreaming. Но я только услышала одни сплетни.
Я
настолько заинтересовалась их недвусмысленными высказываниями, что
начала громко смеяться, забыв, что я подслушиваю. Сначала я подумала,
что они сплетничали о ком-то со стороны, но потом поняла, что они
обсуждали своих же членов группы, Женщин-Dreamers, и их наиболее
красочные замечания были направлены против Нэлиды. Они заявили, что она, после
стольких лет, не смогла подавить в себе
желание властвовать над миром. Она не только была бесполезной, но и,
проводя весь день перед зеркалом (как они утверждали), доказала свою
сексуальную озабоченность. Она делала всё, что в её силах, чтобы быть
сексуально- желанной и привлечь старого Нагуала Mariano Aureliano.
Другая Колдунья по-кошачьи отметила, что Нэлида была единственная, кто
могла вместить в себя его огромный стимулирующий член. Затем они
обсуждали Клару: они обозвали её помпезным слоном, которая думала, что
в её обязанности входило рассыпать свои благославления на каждого. В
данный момент тем, на кого она перекинула своё внимание, был молодой
Нагуал Isidore Baltazar (Карлос Кастанэда), и сооблазнительной
приманкой было её голое тело. Ему не положено было его иметь, а только
смотреть и облизываться. Один раз утром и один раз вечером она
развлекала его своим голым видом. Она уверена, что делая это, она
восстановит в молодом Нагуале его сексуальный стимул-потенциал. Третьей
Женщиной, которую они обсуждали, была Зулейка. Они сказали, что она
преставлялась святой Марией-Девственницей. Её, так называемая
одухотворённость, было не что иное, как тихое
помешательство. Периодически у неё съезжает крыша и, когда её обуревает
один из таких приступов, она моет дом сверху-донизу и даже камни на
веранде и вокруг дома. Следующей была Хермелинда. Её они описывали
очень трезвой, очень правильной, моделью превосходства, согласно оценке
среднего класса. Также как и Нэлида, после стольких лет, она была не
способна подавить желание стать совершенной женщиной и совершеной
домохозяйкой. Хотя она и не умеет готовить, шить, вышивать, играть на
пианино, чтобы развлечь своих гостей, Хермелинда хочет быть
знаменитой, как модель привлекательной женственности, точно также как
Нэлида хочет быть знаменитой, как модель извращённой женственности,
судачили они вперемежку со взрывами смеха. Если бы они объединили свои
таланты, то у них получилась бы совершенная женщина ублажать хозяина:
совершенная на кухне и в гостиной, с фартуком или в вечернем платье,
совершенна в постели с ногами вверх, когда бы хозяин этого не захотел.
Когда они успокоились, я побежала обратно к другому дому, в свою
комнату, в свой гамак, но как ни старалась, не могла заснуть.
206-207
Я
чувствовала, что какой-то защищающий пузырь вокруг меня, лопнул, стирая
моё ощущение удовольствия, очарования от моего присуствия в доме
Колдунь. Всё, о чём я могла думать это то, что я сама была виновата:
приехала в Сонору и осталась с сумасшедшими старухами, кто ничего не
делали, кроме как сплетничали. Тогда как я могла остаться в Лос
Анжелесе и развлекаться в своё удовольствие. Я приехала, ища совета, а
вместо этого меня игнорировали, компанией сделали, выжившего из ума,
старика-завхоза, кто, я подозревала, был женщиной (так оно и было: это
была Зулейка-Эсперанца,
кто временами трансформировала
себя в мужчину,
старика-завхоза! ЛМ). Утром, к тому времени когда я села
завтракать со
"стариком-завхозом", я довела себя до такого состояния оскорблённой
правоты, что не могла ничего проглотить.
"В чём дело?" спросил "старик-завхоз", внимательно рассматривая меня.
Обычно он избегал прямого контакта глазами. "Ты - не голодна?"
Я ответила взглядом, больше не контролируя себя, и вывалила ему всё
своё скрываемое негодование и огорчение. Пока я жаловалась, на меня
нашла вспышка трезвости: я сказала себе, что не должна обвинять
старика, что я должна быть благодарной, т.к. он был добр ко мне. Но
было уже поздно остановиться: моя мелочная несправедливость приобрела
собственную жизнь. Мой голос стал ещё голосистее и навязчивее, пока я
увеличивала и искажала события последних нескольких дней. Со злобным
удовлетворением я рассказала ему, что подслушивала Женщин-Колдунь.
"Они совершенно не хотят помочь мне," подтвердила я авторитетно. "Всё,
что они делают, это - сплетничают. Они говорили ужасные вещи о
Женщинах-Dreamers."
"Что ты слышала они говорили?"
С нескрываемым удовольствием я ему всё рассказала. Я удивила саму себя
своей эктра-ординарной способностью вспомнить каждую деталь жутких
замечаний Женщин.
"Явно, они говорили о тебе," объявил он, как-только я закончила.
"Конечно - символически!" Он хотел, чтобы его слова улеглись в памяти,
и, до того как
я начну протестовать, он невинно спросил: "А разве ты не такая?"
"Да, я такая!" взорвалась я. "И не нуждаюсь в подобной галиматье, даже
от образованных, а ещё меньше от тебя, грёбаный пахарь."
Глаза завхоза широко открылись в изумлении и его хрупкие плечи
опустились. Но у меня жалости к нему не было, только жалость к себе. Я
напрасно потеряла время, рассказывая ему, что я слышала. Я уже
собиралась сказать какой ошибкой это было - мне проделать такой длинный
и
тяжёлый путь, и всё - напрасно! Завхоз посмотрел на меня с таким
презрением, что я почувствовала стыд за свою выходку.
"Если ты уймёшь свой характер, ты поймёшь, что эти Колдуньи ничего не
делают, только чтобы развлечь себя или впечатлить кого-то или дать
выход своим эмоциям," сказал он с достоинством. "Всё, что они делают
или говорят, имеет смысл, цель." Он посмотрел на меня так, что мне
захотелось бежать, но я не смогла. "Не думай, что ты здесь на отдыхе,"
подчеркнул он. "Для Колдунов, чьей жертвой ты стала, каникул не
существует."
"Что ты пытаешься мне сказать?" сердито требовала я. "Не трать напрасно
время, так и скажи."
"Как можно быть ещё более понятным?" Его голос был обманчиво мягким и
наполненный большим значением, чем можно было подумать. "Колдуньи уже
сказали тебе прошлым вечером, какая ты. Они использовали 4х Женщин
"Планеты Dreamers", как
комедию, чтобы описать тебя, подслушивающую, какая ты есть на самом
деле: особа непомерного о себе мнения."
Мой шок нельзя было передать словами: он меня параллизовал. Потом
злоба, горячая как лава, прострелила всё моё тело.
"Ты ничтожный, не мыслимый кусок говна," заорала я и ударила его в
брюшную полость. До того как удар пришёлся по нему, у меня уже всплыл
образ маленького старого недоноска, извивающегося от боли, правда мой
удар ни в кого не попал. Со скоростью борца-призёра он во время
отпрыгнул. Ртом
он улыбался, но глаза были пустые и холодные, когда он
смотрел, как я пыхтела и стонала.
"Ты разыгрываешь все эти трюки с Нагуалом Isidore Baltazar, о котоорых
говорят Колдуньи. Тебя для этого вытренировали, подумай об этом, а не
просто злись."
Я открыла рот что-то сказать, но никакого звука из себя не выдавила. Не
так его слова, как его безразличный ледяной тон оставил меня без слов.
208-209
Лучше было бы если он кричал на меня, тогда я знала бы как реагировать:
я бы орала громче! Не было смысла драться с ним, он был неправ, уверяла
я себя. Он просто был выживший из ума старик с ядовитым языком. Нет, я
не собиралась сходить с ума из-за него, ну и конечно не принимать его
всерьёз.
"Я надеюсь ты не собираешься заплакать," предупредил он меня, до того
как я оправилась от шока. Несмотря на мою решимость - не выйти из себя
из-за старого выродка - моё лицо стало красным от злости и я крикнула:
"Конечно не собираюсь!"
До того как лягнуть его опять, я заорала на него, что так как он
всего-навсего обосранный слуга, то он заслуживает, чтобы его избили за
его нахальство, но упорное, беспощадное и бесжалостное выражение в его
глазах заставило меня потерять момент. Без малейшей перемены в его
заботливом, но равнодушном тоне, каким-то образом он сумел убедить
меня, что мне нужно извиниться перед ним.
"Я извиняюсь," сказала я наконец и это было от души. "Мой плохой
характер и плохие манеры всегда мучают меня."
"Я знаю, они все предупредили меня насчёт тебя," сказал он серьёзно, а
потом добавил, улыбаясь: "Ешь свою еду."
Во время еды я вся содрогалась. Медленно жуя, я по секрету наблюдала за
ним. Хотя он не прилагал никаких усилий, я знала, что он не злился на
меня.
Я пыталась успокоить себя этой мыслью, но это не помогало. Я
чувствовала, что это его совсем не волновало, и это отсуствие интереса
не было наигранным. Он не наказывал меня. Что бы я ни сделала, и ни
сказала, ничто не могло повлиять на него. Я проглотила последний кусок
и сказала первое, что пришло мне в голову, с такой уверенностью, что
удивилась сама: "Ты - не завхоз."
Он посмотрел на меня и спросил: "А кто ты думаешь я?"
На лице появилась довольная улыбка, которая заставила меня потерять
осторожность. Невероятная безрассудность обуяла меня и я выдала,
естественно как оскорбление, что он - Женщина, что он - Эсперанца.
Успокоившись, что я наконец высказала, что было у меня на душе, я
громко вздохнула и добавила, "Вот поэтому только у тебя одной есть
зеркало: тебе нужно выглядеть убедительно и как мужчина, и как женщина."
"Воздух Соноры должно быть повлиял на тебя," пробормотал он. "Это -
известный факт, что разряжённый воздух пустыни действует на людей самым
невероятным образом." Он взял мою руку и, крепко держа её, добавил,
"Или, наверно это твоя
натура быть злой, нетерпеливой и выплёвывать, с видом абсолютного
авторитета, всё, что взбредёт тебе в голову?" Посмеиваясь, завхоз
наклонился ближе ко мне и предложил поспать с ним:
"Это будет полезно для нас, мы оба - воинствующие бедолаги," сказал он.
"Тааак, понятно!" воскликнула я, не понимая стоит ли мне обидиться или
засмеяться на его предложение. "Ты хочешь спать со мной, да?" и
добавила, что Эсперанца уже предупредила меня насчёт тебя.
"Почему ты не хочешь поспать со мной, если ты думаешь что я -
Эсперанца?" спросил он, растирая сзади мою шею. Его рука была тёплой и
успокающей.
"Я не возражаю, я просто не люблю спать днём, никогда это не делаю с
детства," неуверенно защищалась я, говоря быстро и нервно, спотыкаясь
через слово или повторяя слова. Мне хотелось встать и уйти, но лёгкое
давление его руки на моей шее держало меня, привязанной к стулу.
"Я знаю, что ты - Эсперанца," настаивала я. "Я узнаю её прикосновение:
оно имеет тот же самый успокаювающий эффект, как и твоё." Я
чувствовала, что моя голова кружится и мои глаза закрываются против
моей воли.
"Такой же успокающий эффект," согласился он мягко. "Тебе полезно сейчас
полежать даже хоть с минуту." Приняв моё молчание за знак согласия,
он пошёл к шкафу, вытянул свою
раскладушку и два одеяла. Одно он дал мне: для меня наступило время
бесконечных сюрпризов. Не зная почему, я легла на раскладушку, не
протестуя. Через полузакрытые веки я следила за тем как он потягивался,
пока его кости не стали хрустеть. Он скинул ботинки, расстегнул ремень,
присел на раскладушку рядом со мной. Под прикрытием своего тонкого
хлопкого одеяла, он вылез из штанов, просто бросив их на пол рядом с
ботинками.
210
Поднял своё
одеяло и показал себя мне. Покраснев, я
уставилась на него с диким любопытством и удивлением. Его голое тело,
как и у Эсперанцы, было полной противоположностью того, что я ожидала.
Его тело было гибким, без волос и гладким. Он был тонким как тростинка,
но при этом мускулистым.
И он определённо был мужчиной, причём молодым!
Не думая и сдерживая дыхание, я застенчиво приподняла своё одеяло. Звук
отдалённого женского смеха
заставил меня закрыть глаза и притвориться, что я сплю. Но зная, что
она (старая Флоринда. ЛМ)
не собиралась входить в комнату, я
успокоилась. Сложив руки за голову, я погрузилась в странное
чувство,
что завхоз и отдалённый смех из коридора восстановили мой баланс;
восстановили магический пузырь вокруг меня. Что именно я подразумевала
под этим, я не знала, кроме того, что чем больше моё тело отдыхало, тем
ближе я становилась к ответу."
После моего
возвращения из дома Колдунь, меня уже никогда не нужно было убеждать
или воодушевлять. Женщины-Колдуньи сумели дать мне странное сцепление,
связь с ними; своего рода эмоциональную стабильность, которой у меня
никогда не было. Так не было, что я, вдруг, поменялась, скорее
появилась чёткая цель моего существования. Моя судьба была
предначертана для меня. Мне приходилось бороться, чтобы освободить свою
энергию.
И точка: сама Простота. Но я не помнила, ясно или смутно,
всё, что обнаружилось в течении 3х месяцев, которые я провела в их
доме. Вспомнить это у меня
взяло годы; задание, в которое я ринулась всей
своей решимостью и энергией. Нагуал Isidore
Baltazar, предупредил меня однако, об ошибочности отдельных целей и о,
заряженных эмоциями прозрениях. Он сказал, что они были бесполезны,
потому что настоящее поле деятельности Колдуна - жизнь день ото дня и в
таком поле деятельности незначительная логическая основа не выдерживает
давления. Женщины-Колдуньи говорили более-менее то же самое, но более
гармоническим путём. Они объясняли это тем, что так как женщины
привыкли к манипуляции, они легко соглашаются. Но согласие женщины
просто пустая адаптация к давлению. Но если это возможно убедить
женщину поменять свои убеждения, тогда пол-победы - выиграно. Даже если
они интеллектом не соглашаются, их эмоционаяльная осознанность более
долговечная, чем у мужчины.
212-213
Мне нужно было оценить два мнения. Я думала, что оба были правильными.
Время от времени, вся моя логика Колдовства разваливалась под давлением
Повседневного Мира, но моё первоначальное посвящение Миру Колдунов
никогда не нуждалось в поправке. Понемногу я стала достаточно
приобретать энергии для Полётов. Это значило, что я наконец поняла, что
женщины мне сказали: Isidore Baltazar
был новый Нагуал; и он больше не был мужчиной.
Эта осознанность также давала мне достаточно энергии периодически
возвращаться в дом Колдунь. Это место, под названием Дом Колдунь,
принадлежало всем Колдунам группы Нагуала
Mariano
Aureliano. Большой и массивный дом снаружи, был незаметным для других
домов в округе; едва различимый, несмотря на обильное цветение bougainvillea,
свисающей со стен, окружающих поместье.
Что делало людей не замечать дом и не сосредотачиваться на этом,
говорили Колдуны, был лёгкий туман, который покрывал его, тонкий как
вуаль, видимая глазу, но незаметная для взора. Однако внутри дома,
будешь живо и непременно осознавать, что вступил в другой мир. Три
патио, закрытые тенью фруктовых деревьев, распространяли мечтательный
свет в тёмные коридоры и во многие комнаты, которые открывались в эти
коридоры. Что было особо примечательным в доме это - кирпичные и
плиточные полы, которые были выложены очень сложными рисунками. Дом Колдунь не был тёплым местом,
тем не менее он был уютным. Это не был дом, какой можно вообразить, так
как было что-то в нём разрушающее; его
безжалостные простые условия.
Это было место, где старый Нагуал Mariano Aureliano
и его Колдуны
рождали свои Полёты и осуществляли свои цели. Так как проблемы тех
Колдунов не имели ничего общего с Повседневным Миром, их дом отражал их
занятия
и мысли о других мирах. Их дом был настоящий способ оценки, мера,
критерий
их индивидуальности; не как людей, а как Колдунов. В Доме Колдунь я
общалась со всеми Колдунами группы Нагуала Mariano Aureliano.
Они не учили меня Колдовству и даже Полётам. Согласно им: учить было
нечему. Они говорили, что моё задание было помнить всё, что выявилось
между ними всеми и мной в те первые встречи, когда мы были вместе.
Особенно, я должна была вспомнить всё, что Зулейка и Флоринда сделали
или сказали мне - но Зулейка никогда со мной не говорила. Когда бы я ни
старалась попросить кого-нибудь из них о помощи, они тут же
отказывались со мной иметь дело. Они все доказывали, что без
необходимой энергии с моей стороны, всё, что они будут делать это -
повторять самих себя; и что у них на это не было времени. Сначала я
нашла их отказ небрагодарным и несправедливым. Однако через некоторое
время, я оставила любую попытку надоедать им: я просто получала
удовольствие от их присуствия и их компании. Я, наконец, поняла, что
они конечно были совершенно правы, отказываясь играть нашу любимую
интеллектуальную игру. Это - притворяться быть заинтересованной,
спрашивая, так называемые, ищущие духовность, вопросы, которые обычно
не имеют никакого значения для нас. И причина, почему они не имеют
значения для нас, в том, что у нас нет энергии, чтобы что-то сделать в
смысле ответа; мы можем слышать, но согласиться или не согласиться с
этим. Однако с помощью нашего ежедневного общения, я поняла ряд вещей
об их Мире. Женщины
Dreamers и Stalkers придерживались двух
особенностей поведения среди женщин, настолько разными, насколько
можно. Вначале, я удивлялась, действительно ли группа, которую мне
описали как Dreamers -
Nelida,
Hermelinda и Clara - на самом деле были Stalkers.
Так как насколько я могла понять, моё общение с ними было строго на
повседневном уровне нашего мира. Только позже я полностью осознала, что
одного их присуствия было достаточно, чтобы вызвать - без всякого
намёка на это - новую тональность в моём поведении (переход на вибрацию выше! ЛМ).
То есть я не чувствовала нужды утверждать себя с ними. Не было
сомнений, не было вопросов с моей стороны, когда я была с ними. У них у
всех была способность заставить меня видеть абсурдность моего
существования, не утруждаясь говорить об этом вслух. И, тем не
менее, я не чувствовала нужды защищать себя. Наверно это было отсуствие
силы, прямоты, которая заставляла меня принять их без всякого
сопротивления, без всякого протеста. Прошло немного времени когда я
поняла, что Женщины-Dreamers, общаясь со
мной на
мировом уровне, давали мне необходимый пример перестроить мою энергию.
Они хотели, чтобы я поменяла манеру, с которой я фокусировалась на
обыденных вещах как: приготовление пищи, уборка, стирка, продолжать
школу или зарабатывать на жизнь.
214-215 (о
Силвио Мануэль)
From
Universal Dictionary - by Reader's Digest: Auspice
(protection, support, patronage,
augury-divination-portent-sign-indication-omen, especially when
observed in the actions of birds); Portent (an omen, indication of
something calamitous about to occur; prophetic or threatening
significance; miraculous).
Это должно
было сделано, как они говорили, под различными знаками (omen). Они не должны
быть обычными хозяйственными делами, а искусным сознательным усилием; и
все одинаково важными. Прежде всего, это было их общение друг с другом
и с Женщинами-Stalkers,
которые заставляли меня осознавать, насколько особенными они были. В их
человечности; в их обыкновенности, у них полностью отсуствовали обычные
человеческие недостатки. Их полное сознание с лёгкостью существовало с
их индивидуальными характерами; будь то потеря баланса, плохое
настроение, грубая сила, сумасшествие или приторное чрезмерное
внимание. В присуствии и в компании любого из этих
Колдунов, я испытывала очень необычное чувство, что у меня были
нескончаемые каникулы.
214-215
Но это была
иллюзия. Они были на постоянной Тропе Войны, и враг был - идея своего
величия. В доме Колдунь я также встретила Vicente и Silvio
Manuel,
ещё два Колдуна в группе Нагуала Mariano Aureliano. Vicente явно был
испанского происхождения. Я узнала, что его родители приехали из
Каталонии.
Он был худощавый, аристократического вида мужчина с обманчиво хрупкими
руками и ногами. Он шаркал вокруг в шлёпанцах и предпочитал куртку
пижамы, которая была открыта нараспашку и свисала со штанов защитного
цвета. Щёки - розовые, хотя он был бледным. Его, превосходно
отстриженная, бородка на подбородке добавляла отпечаток достоинства к
его, однако рассеянной, манере.
Он
не только выглядел как учёный, он им был. Книги в комнате, где я спала,
были его; или скорее, это был он, кто коллиционировал их, читал и
заботился о них. Что делало его эрудицию такой привлекательной - ничего
не существовало, чтобы он не знал - было то, что он себя вёл так,
как-будто он всегда был студентом. Было ясно, что он знал больше, чем
другие. Это был его щедрый дух, который заставлял его естественно
раздавать свои знания и никогда не стыдя кого-то, знающего меньше.
Был также Silvio
Manuel. Он был среднего роста, толстый, безбородый и с коричневой
кожей. Таинственный, пугающего вида индеец, он был совершенный образец
того, как я ожидала, злобно-выглядевший, brujo
должен выглядеть. Его явная перемена настроения пугала меня, и его
редкие ответы обнажали, что я верила - свирепую натуру. Только
когда я
узнала его, я поняла, какое удовольствие для него создавать такой
образ. Он был самый открытый, и для меня, самый приятный из всех
Колдунов. Секреты и сплетни были его слабостью, были они правдой или
ложью не имело значения для него. Это как он рассказывал их - было
бесценным для меня и для всех остальных. У него также имелся
неисчерпаемый запас шуток, большая часть которых была вульгарной. Он -
единственный, кто с удовольствием смотрел телевидение и таким образом
всегда был в курсе событий, мировых новостей. Он докладывал их другим с
невероятным приувеличением, посыпая новости потоками злобы.
Silvio
Manuel был классным танцором. Его опыт и знания разных народных,
священных танцев было легендарным. Он двигался с приятной
непринуждённостью и часто просил меня танцевать с ним. (Он
уже много лет находился только в нефизической форме. Похоже, что они
оба танцевали в своих нефизических телах на более высокой вибрации, а
не в нашем Повседневном Мире! ЛМ). Было это венесуэльское joropo,
cumbia, samba, tango, twist, rock-н-roll,
bolero, он их все знал. Я также общалась с Джоном, индейцем, к которому
меня представил Нагуал Mariano
Aureliano в
Tucson, Arizona. Его круглый, покладистый, молодой вид был только
фасадом. На самом деле он был самым неприступным из всех Колдунов. Он
ездил по делам везде в своём грузовичке, исполняя услуги для всех.
Он
также
ремонтировал всё, что нужно было отремонтировать внутри или вокруг
дома. Если я не беспокоила его своими вопросами или замечаниями, и
молчала, то он брал меня с собой в свои поездки и показывал мне как
чинить вещи. Он
также ремонтировал всё, что нужно было отремонтировать внутри или
вокруг дома. Если я не беспокоила его своими вопросами или замечаниями,
и молчала, то он брал меня с собой в свои поездки и показывал мне как
чинить вещи. От него я узнала как менять washers и
отрегулировать текущий faucet или туалетный
бачок; как
отремонтировать утюг и выключатель света; как менять масло и свечи в
моей машине. Под его руководством правильное использование молотка,
отвёртки, пилы и электрической дрели стало вполне естественным для
меня. Единственную вещь ни один из них не делал для меня это: не
отвечали на мои вопросы и реплики об их Мире. Когда я старалась
завязать их разговор, то они посылали меня к Нагуалу Isidore
Baltazar.
Их обычный отказ был сказать: "Он - новый Нагуал. Это его обязанность
иметь дело с тобой. Мы только твои тёти и дяди."
216-217
Сначала Нагуал Isidore
Baltazar был больше, чем тайна для меня.
Где он на самом деле жил было неясно мне. Не соблюдая никаких рутин и
распорядков,
он
появлялся и исчезал из студии в разные часы. День и ночь были одно и
тоже для него. Он спал когда уставал - и ел когда был голодный - почти
всегда.
Между своими непредсказуемыми появлениями и
исчезновениями, он работал с концентрацией, которая была поразительной.
Его способность растянуть или сжать время (энергию времени) не
укладывалась в моей голове. Я была уверена, что провела часы, даже
целые дни с ним, когда на самом деле это могли быть только моменты,
украденные от чего-то ещё здесь и там, днём или
ночью, когда он что-то делал. Я всегда считала себя энергичной, однако
я
не могла угнаться за ним. Он всё время был в движении - или это так
казалось; активный и быстрый; всегда готовый начать какой-нибудь
проект. Его задор был просто невероятным. Только позже я полностью
поняла, что источником Isidore Baltazar
нескончаемой энергии был то, что он просто забывал о себе. Это была его
нерушимая поддержка; его
неуловимые, но мастерски исполненные махинации-планы, которые помогали
мне оставаться на правильном пути. Была в его сердце лёгкость,
чистое
удовольствие в его незаметном, однако мощном влиянии, которое заставило
меня поменяться. Неожиданно для меня, меня повели по новому пути; путь,
на котором мне больше не нужно было играть в игры или притворяться или
использовать мои обманчивые женские трюки, чтобы настоять на своём. Что
делало его руководство таким неимоверно сильным, было, что у него не
было мотива врать. У него не было желания ничем владеть и его лидерство
не было загрязнено обещаниями и сентиментальностью. Он не толкал меня в
каком-то определённом направлении. Имеется ввиду, что он не советовал
мне какие курсы я должна взять или какие книги я должна читать. Всё это
полностью зависило от меня. Было одно условие, на котором он настаивал:
я должна была работать только с одной целью - просвещающий и приятный
процесс мышления. Необыкновенное предложение! Я никогда не
рассматривала мышление вот так или как-то иначе. Хотя я и не возражала
ходить в школу, но никогда не думала о школьной работе как об особенно
приятной. Это просто было то, что приходилось делать, обычно в спешке и
с наименьшими усилиями. Я была согласна с Флориндой и с её подругами,
которая так чётко указала мне, первый раз я встретила их, что я
хожу в
школу не для получения знаний, а чтобы хорошо провести время. То, что у
меня были хорошие оценки, было больше делом удачи и болтовни, чем
трудного изучения. У меня была хорошая память, я знала как говорить и
знала, как убедить других. Как только я прошла своё первоначальное
смущение от того, чтобы согласиться и принять тот факт, что мои
интеллектуальные способности были пустое притворство, и что я не знала
как думать, кроме как в очень неглубокой манере, я почувствовала
облегчение. Я была готова к обучению Колдунами и следовать план обучения Isidore Baltazar. К
моему великому разочарованию,
он такого не имел. Всё, что он делал, это - настаивал, чтобы я
перестала заниматься и читать снаружи дома. Он верил, что процесс
мышления был личным, почти секретным актом и не мог происходить на
улице, на виду у публики. Он сравнивал этот процесс с поднятием,
дрожжами, теста: оно может подняться только в комнате.
"Самый
лучший способ всё понять конечно в кровати," сказал он мне однажды. Он
потянулся на своей кровати, приподнял голову на нескольких подушках, и
правой ногой пересёк левую, положив лодыжку на приподнятое колено левой
ноги (лодыжка - самая тонкая часть ноги в самом низу). Я много не
думала об этом нелепом положении для чтения, хотя и практиковала его,
когда была одна. С книжкой на груди, я погружалась в наиболее глубокий
сон. Помня, насколько чувствительна я была к моим бессонным
наклонностям, я больше была рада поспать, чем получить знания. Однако
иногда, как раз перед тем, как потерять сознание, я чувствовала
как-будто руки обнимали мою голову, слегка давя на виски. Глаза
автоматически просматривали открытую страницу, до того, как я даже
осознановала это и поднимала целые параграфы с бумаг. Слова плясали
перед моими глазами, до тех пор пока скопления значений не взорвутся в
моём мозгу как откровения. Желая раскрыть эту новую возможность,
открывающуюся передо мной, я двигала вперёд, как-будто меня толкал
какой-то беспощадный наставник. Однако были времена, когда эта причина
и метод изводили меня до изнеможения физически, также как и ментально.
В такие моменты я расспрашивала Isidore
Baltazar об интуитивных знаниях; о той внезапной вспышке
проницательности, понимания, которое Колдуны похоже культивируют прежде
всего.
218-219
В
такие моменты он всегда говорил мне, что знать что-то только интуитивно
- не имеет смысла. Вспышки интуиции должны быть переведены в какую-то
связанную мысль, иначе они - бесцельны. Он сравнивал вспышки интуиции
со встречами с необъяснимыми феноменами. Оба быстро исчезают - как
только появляются. Если о плодах интуиции постоянно не думать, не
укреплять в памяти, то наступает сомнение и забывчивость, так как наш
разум был натренирован быть практичным и принимать только то, что
достоверно. Он объяснял, что Колдуны - Мужчины Знаний, скорее чем
Мужчины - Рассудка или Благоразумия. Таким образом они
намного впереди
западных мужчин-интеллектуалов, кто согласился, что эта реальность,
которая часто приравнивается правде, узнаётся через рассудок. Колдун
утверждает, что всё, что получено через рассудок, это наш процесс
мыслей. Но это только понимая наше Тотальное Существо на самом
изощрённом и глубоком уровне, мы в конце концов можем стиреть границы,
которыми рассудок определяет реальность.
Isidore
Baltazar
объяснил мне, что Колдуны культивировали, ценили и изучали Тотальность
своего Существа. Суть в том, что Колдуны не обязательно делают различие
между нашей рациональной и интуитивной частью. Они используют обе
части, чтобы достигнуть Уровня Сознания, которые они называют
Молчаливые Знания, которые находятся за пределами языка или мысли.
Снова и снова
Isidore Baltazar
подчёркивал, что чтобы заставить молчать нашу рациональную сторону,
сначала нужно понять его или её мысленный процесс на его самом
запутанном, усложнённом и утончённом уровне. Он верил, что философия,
начиная с классической греческой мысли, которая дала лучший способ
осветить этот мысленный процесс...Колдуны активно стараются
размаскировать тот факт, что реальность диктуется и держится нашим
рассудком; что идеи и мысли, идущие от рассудка, становятся знаниями
того, как
мы
видим и ведём себя в мире. И что невероятное давление наложено на всех
нас, чтобы сделать определённые идеологии приемлемыми для нас.
Колдуны
заинтересованы в восприятии мира путями, вне того, что официально
определено, что наш личный опыт плюс разделяемое социальное согласие на
то, что наши чувства способны воспринимать, диктует нам, что мы
воспринимаем. Остальное выбрасывается нашим рациональным рассудком.
Таким образом хрупкое одеяло человеческих понятий никогда не рвётся...
Колдуны знают, что существует что-то огромное, чем то, что мы заставили
наши чувства воспринимать. Восприятие находится в точке снаружи физ.
тела, снаружи чувств, говорят они...Чтобы понять это, нужно это
испытать. Колдуны
постоянно стараюся разрушить
это хрупкое одеяло, однако Колдуны не прыгают слепо в темноту. Они
знают и готовятся к тому, что прежде чем они прыгнут в Неизвестность, у
них должна быть хорошо развита рациональная сторона. Только тогда они
смогут объяснить и понять то, что они могут вынести из своих
путешествий в Неизвестность. Он добавил, что я не пойму Колдовство,
читая книги философов. Скорее я увижу, что философия и Колдовство -
крайне усложнённые формы Абстрактных Знаний...Однако Колдун делает шаг
дальше: он действует благодаря своему опыту, который получен за
пределами наших принятых возможностей. Isidore
Baltazar верил, что философы - интеллигентные Колдуны, но их изыскания
всегда только ментальные.
220
Философы не могут влиять на мир, который они понимают и так хорошо
объясняют, кроме как в, согласованной с обществом, манере. Философы
добавили к уже существующим знаниям. Они по своему понимают
существующие философские тексты...Однако ничто из того, что философы
делают, не изменит их восприятие мира, так как они работают внутри
Социального Порядка. Философы поддерживают Социальный
Порядок, даже если интеллектом с ним не согласны...Колдуны тоже строят
на существующих знаниях, однако не путём принятия того, что уже было
установлено и доказано другими Колдунами. Колдуны должны доказать самим
себе снова, что то, что уже было согласовано, на самом деле существует
для восприятия. Чтобы
одолеть такое грандиозное задание, Колдунам нужен экстраординарный
запас энергии, который они получают открепляя себя от Социального
Порядка, не покидая мир. Колдуны разламывают соглашение, которое
определяет реальность, не разламывая себя в этом прцессе.
Часть 15
221
Неуверенность овладела мной вскоре после того, как мы пересекли границу
в Мексику в Mexicali. Моё оправдание в
поездке в Мексику с Isidore
Baltazar, которая казалась мне такой блестящей сначала, сейчас казалась
только предлогом заставить его взять меня с собй. Сейчас я сомневалась,
что смогу читать социальную теорию в доме Колдунь, как я сказала, что
буду. Я знала, что точно буду делать то, что делала во всех
предыдущих
случаях: много спать, видеть странные сны, и отчаянно стараться понять,
что люди из Мира Колдунов хотели, чтобы я делала.
"Жалеешь?" голос Isidore Baltazar
заставил меня подпрыгнуть. Он боком смотрел на меня и наверно долго
наблюдал за мной.
"Конечно, нет," поспешила я заверить его, думая, что он намекает на моё
обычное настроение или на моё спокойствие. Я
пожаловалась на жару, потом повернулась посмотреть в окно. Я больше не
разговаривала, в основном потому что я была напугана и в плохом
настроении. Я чувствовала, что беспокойство ползло по моей коже как рой
муравьёв. Isidore Baltazar с
другой стороны, подогрелся до своего бурного энтузиазма, был как на
крыльях.
Он
пел и рассказывал мне глупые шутки и стихи на английском, испанском,
португальском. Даже обрывки смачных сплетен о людях, которых мы оба
знали в UCLA (университет), не
развеяли мой мрачный настрой. То, что я не реагировала, совсем не
смущало его. Даже мои крики на него
- оставить меня в покое - не повлияли на его хорошее настроение.
222-223
"Если
бы люди наблюдали за нами, они точно подумали бы, что мы были женаты
вечность," комментировал он между взрывами смеха. А если бы Колдуны
за нами наблюдали бы, думала я вся в депрессии, они бы знали, что
что-то не так. Они знают, что Isidore Baltazar и я -
не равны. Я констатирую фактом и финальностью свои действия и решения.
Для него же
действия и решения - быстротечны, какой бы не был результат, и их
финальность измеряется в той полной ответственности за них, не взирая
на то, какие обыденные или насколько значительны они.
Мы ехали прямо на юг, мы не бродили, как мы обычно делали, чтобы
попасть в дом Колдунь. Когда мы покинули Guaymas - никогда до
этого мы не ехали так далеко на юг по пути к дому Колдунь. Я спросила
его: "Куда ты меня везёшь?"
Он просто ответил. "Мы едем длинным путём, не беспокойся."
Такой же ответ он дал мне, когда я спросила его снова во время ужина в Navojoa. Мы оставили Navojoa и ехали на юг
прямо в Mazatlan. Я страшно
волновалась. Около полуночи Isidore Baltazar съехал
с главной магистрали и повернул в узкую просёлочную дорогу.
Машина качалась и дребезжала когда он проезжал через ухабины и камни.
За нами главная магистраль была видна только на момент в тусклом свете
фар, потом всё исчезло, поглощённое кустами у дороги. После неимоверно
долгой поездки мы резко остановились и он погасил фары.
"Где мы?"
спросила я, озираясь вокруг, какой-то момент я ничего не видела. Затем,
по мере того, как мои глаза привыкали к темноте, я увидела белые искры
не так далеко от нас. Крошечные звёзды, казалось, падали с неба.
Насыщенный аромат кустов жасмина, взбирающегося на крышу и свисающегося
вниз в рамаду, настолько был заблокирован моим мозгом, что когда я
вдруг узнала всё это, я почувствовала, как-будто я вдыхала этот
ароматный воздух до этого только во сне. Я начала посмеиваться: всё это
дало мне почти детское чувство удивления и удовольствия. Мы были в доме
Esperanza.
"Это
сюда я впервые пришла с Делией Флорес," бормотала я самой себе. Затем в
одно мгновенье, я чуть не задохнулась от волненья, схватила руку Isidore
Baltazar и спросила, "Но как это возможно?"
"Что?"
спросил он изумлённым тоном. Он был обеспокоен, его рука, обычно
тёплая, была ледяной.
"Этот дом был на окраине Ciudad Obregon, 100
миль к северу," крикнула я. "Я сама
сюда ехала и я никогда не оставляла мощёную дорогу." В темноте
я осмотрелась и вспомнила, что я также уезжала из этого дома в Tucson, и что я никогда
в своей жизни не была в или рядом с Navojoa. Isidore
Baltazar молчал несколько минут. Он казался озабоченным, в голове искал
ответ. Я знала, что такого не было, который мне бы понравился. Пожав
плечами он повернулся лицом ко мне. Была пронизывающая сила в нём,
также как и в Нагуале Mariano
Aureliano, когда он сказал, что не сомневался, что я была в осознанном
Полёте, когда вместе с Делией я покинула Hermosillo, чтобы попасть в дом
знахарки.
"Я
предупреждаю, чтобы ты покончила с этим," заявил он. "Я знаю из личного
опыта, как голова может пойти кругом, стараясь объяснить то, что
необъяснимо." Я собралась протестовать, когда он оборвал меня и указал
на свет, двигающийся к нам. Он улыбнулся в предвкушении как-будто точно
знал, кому принадлежит эта колеблющаяся тень на земле.
"Это -
завхоз," обалдела я, когда он подошёл и встал перед нами. В порыве я
обняла его руками за шею и поцеловала в обе щёки. "Я никак не ожидала
увидеть тебя здесь," бормотала я. Он застенчиво улыбнулся, но со мной
не говорил. Он обнял
Isidore Baltazar, хлопая его несколько раз по спине, как это бывало
делали мужчины-латино когда приветствуют друг друга, затем пробормотал
что-то ему. Стараясь слушать изо всех сил, я всё-таки не могла понять
не единого слова. Завхоз повёл нас в дом. Было что-то неприступное в
массивной передней двери, она была закрыта, а также решётчатые окна. Ни
света, ни звука не выходило из-за толстых стен. Мы кружили вдоль
дома
до заднего двора, окружённым высоким забором, к двери, которая вела
прямо в квадратную комнату.
224-225
У меня появилась уверенность, когда я узнала 4 двери. Это была та же
самая комната, в которую привела меня Delia
Flores.
В ней почти не было мебели, насколько я помню: узкая кровать, стол и
несколько кресел. Завхоз поставил керосиновую лампу на стол и затем
попросил меня сесть. Поворачиваясь к Isidore
Baltazar, он положил руку на его плечи и вышел с ним наружу в тёмный
коридор. Неожиданность их ухода оставила меня поражённой. Я ещё не
успела очухаться от изумления и от моей неопределённости, нужно мне следовать за ними или
нет, как снова появился завхоз. Он протянул мне одеяло, подушку, фонарь
и ночной горшок.
"Я
бы хотела использовать туалет наружи," сказала я слишком официально.
Завхоз вскинул плечами и толкнул ночной горшок под кровать.
"На всякий случай, если тебе придётся идти в середине ночи." Его глаза
блеснули соболезнующим блеском, когда он сказал, что Esperanza
держала наружи большую чёрную сторожевую собаку. "Он не очень
любит
незнакомцев, бродящих по двору ночью." Как по команде, я услышала
громкий лай.
"Я не незнакомец," сказала я как бы между прочим,
стараясь игнорировать враждебные нотки в лае зверя. "Я раньше здесь
была и я знаю собаку."
Завхоз
удивлённо поднял брови, потом спросил, "А собака тебя знает?" я
уставилась на него. Он вздохнул, взял лампу на столе и повернулся к
двери.
"Не забирайте лампу," сказала я, быстро встав перед ним,
чтобы заблокировать его. Я попробовала улыбнуться, но мои губы
приклеелись к зубам.
"Где все?" мне наконец удалось спросить. "Где Esperanza и
Florinda?"
"В настоящее время я здесь один," ответил он.
"Где Isidore Baltazar?"
в панике спросила я. "Он обещал взять меня в дом Колдунь. Мне нужно
работать над моими бумагами." Мои мысли и слова были полностью
запутаны, когда я болтала о своих причинах сопровождать Isidore
Baltazar в Мексику. Я была близка к слезам, когда объясняла завхозу,
насколько важно было для меня закончить мою работу. Он потрепал меня по
спине с полной уверенностью и издал успокающие звуки, как-будто
он успокаивал ребёнка.
"Isidore
Baltazar спит. Ты знаешь каков он. Как только его голова касается
подушки, он улетает из этого мира."
Он слегка улыбнулся и добавил, "Я оставлю свою дверь открытой на
случай, если тебе понадоблюсь. Позови меня, если у тебя будет кошмар
или что ещё, я сразу приду." Не успела я сказать ему, что у меня
кошмаров больше не было с тех пор, как я была в последний раз в Соноре,
завхоз исчез в тёмном коридоре.
Керосиновая
лампа на столе начала мигать и вскоре погасла. Наступила полная
темнота. Я легла полностью одетой и закрыла глаза. Всё было спокойно,
кроме тихого храпящего дыхания, слышного издалека. Слыша это дыхание,
твёрдая, узкая кровать не давали спать. С фонарём в руке я бесшумно
кралась по коридору, надеясь найти Isidore Baltazar или
завхоза.
Я
тихо стучала на каждую дверь, никто не отвечал, ни звука не было слышно
ни из какой комнаты. Странное, почти негативное молчание охватило весь
дом.
Даже щебетание снаружи прекратилось. Как я и подозревала, меня
оставили одну в доме. Вместо того, чтобы об этом беспокоиться, я решила
осмотреть комнаты. Это - спальни; 8 из них одного размера и напрвления;
довольно небольшие, квадратные, и из мебели только кровать и стол.
Стены и 2 окна во всех покрашены в белый, а плиточный пол - сложного
дизайна. Я открывала движущиеся двери шкафов, нажимая на нижние левые
углы ногой. Я знала, не зная как, что мягкий толчок в это место
освобождал механизм, открывающий двери. Я отодвинула сложенные одеяла
на полу в одном из шкафов и попала к маленькой секретной двери,
освободила замаскированный болт, замаскированный под настенную розетку.
Так как меня уже ничего не удивляло, я легко отнеслась к тому, что знаю
кое-что о дверях ловушках; эти знания, конечно, не были позволены моему
осознанному рассудку. Я открыла маленькую секретную дверь, вползла
через крошечное отверстие и оказалась в шкафу соседней комнаты. Без
особого удивления - так как я это уже знала - обнаружила, что присидая
через все эти отверстия, я могла переходить из одной в другую, через
все 7 комнат.
226-227
Я
выругалась, когда мой фонарь погас. Надеясь оживить батареи, я вытащила
их и привинтила их назад. Бесполезно: они были без заряда. Темнота в
этих комнатах была настолько интенсивной, что я не видела собственных
рук. Боясь удариться об дверь или стену, я медленно, наощупь
пробиралась в коридор. Усилия были настолько грандиозными, что я
пыхтела и тряслась, когда встала и облокотилась на стену. В коридоре я
стояла долгое время, думая в каком направлении идти, чтобы найти мою
собственную комнату. Издалека послышался шум голосов. Я не могла
определить: звук шёл изнутри или снаружи. Я пошла на звук, он привёл
меня на патио. Я живо вспомнила то зёлёное, почти тропическое патио за
каменной аркой, со своим папортником и густой зеленью, его аромат
апельсиновых деревьев и лианы honeysuckle.
Сделав несколько шагов, я увидела
огромный силуэт собаки, её тень на стене. Зверь рычал. Его сверкающие
глаза обдали меня холодом, но вместо того, чтобы испугаться или может
быть в результате этого, я почувствовала странная вещь произошла.
Как-будто я всегда была сложена как японский веер или как вырезанная,
сложеная фигурка. Я вдруг разложилась. Физическое ощущение было почти
болезненным. Собака смущённо наблюдала за мной, она начала скулить как
щенок, захлопала ушами и свернулась на земле. Я стояла там, прикованная
к месту, я не боялась: я просто не могла двигаться. Затем, как-будто
это было самой естественной вещью в мире, я сложилась опять,
повернулась и ушла. В этот раз проблемы найти свою комнату у меня не
было.
Я проснулась с головной болью и с мыслью, что я совсем не
спала и что, как привыкшей не спать, я знала так хорошо. Мускулы моего
тела разошлись.
Я громко стонала, когда услышала как открылась
дверь и свет упал на моё лицо. С трудом я пыталась перевернуться на
другой бок, не слетев с узкой кровати.
"Доброе утро!" воскликнула Esperanza,
входя в комнату и шумя юбками.
"Собственно, добрый день," поправила она себя, указывая на Солнце в
открытой двери. Она была удивительно весела, приятная сила в её голосе,
когда она мне сказала, что это она, кто подумал вытащить мои книги и
бумаги из машины,
до того, как Isidoro
Baltazar ушёл со старым Нагуалом. Я резко села, я
полностью проснулась.
"Почему Нагуал Mariano Aureliano не
пришёл поздороваться со мной? Почему Isidoro
Baltazar не
сказал мне, что он уходит?" выдала я, упомянув, что теперь мне никогда
не закончить мои бумаги и перейти в школу выпускников. Esperanza посмотрела
на меня с любопытным выражением и сказала, что если писать
мои
бумаги было просто мотивом к материальным вещам, то я никогда не смогу
это закончить. Не успела я сказать ей, что лично мне было всё равно,
если
я никогда не начну школу
выпускников, она добавила, "Ты не пиши свои
бумаги только чтобы попасть в школу выпускников. Ты делай это, потому
что
ты любишь это делать; потому что ничего другого в это время, ты делать
не будешь."
"Много чего я бы скорее делала."
"Что,
например?" бросила она мне вызов. Я подумала какой-то момент, но не
могла найти ничего стоящего. Пришлось признать, хотя бы самой себе, что
мне никогда не нравилось работать над бумагами так много, как над этими.
Разница была в том, что я начала читать и изучать с начала семестра,
вместо того, чтобы ждать, как я обычно делала, пока оставалось
несколько дней до сдачи бумаг. Знания, вот что было
моим билетом в школу выпускников, и это испортило моё настроение. Esperanza,
снова зная мои мысли, сказала, что мне следует забыть о школе
выпускников и думать только как хорошо написать бумагу. "Как только ты
становишься частью Мира Колдунов и начинаешь понимать природу
Полётов,
тогда ты на пути к пониманию, в чём заключается Колдовство; и это
понимание тебя освобождает." Я удивлённо смотрела на неё, не могла
понять, что она старается мне объяснить мне. "Это освобождает тебя от
желания чем-то владеть." Esperanza
произнесла это предложение очень внятно, как-будто я была глухой. Она
внимательно осмотрела меня, потом добавила, "Жадность - твоё отчество и
всё же ты ни в чём не нуждаешься и ничего не хочешь..."
228-229
Её
голос следовал за ней, когда она начала сортировать мои книги, бумаги и
пачки карт на столе. Её лицо светилось, когда она повернулась взглянуть
на меня, в руках она держала несколько карандашей. "Я бритвой поточила
их для тебя," сказала она. "Я поточу их для тебя, когда они опять
затупятся."
Она положила карандаши рядом с блокнотом и затем широко
развела руками, как-будто хотела обнять всю комнату. "Это -
удивительное место для тебя, чтобы работать. Никто не будет тебя
беспоскоить здесь."
"Я в этом уверена," сказала я. Видя, что она собралась уходить, я
спросила её, где Isidore Baltazar спал прошлой
ночью.
"На
своём соломенном матрасе, где ещё?" тихо посмеиваясь, она подобрала
свои юбки и вышла во двор. Я следила за ней пока она не исчезла за
каменной аркой. Мои глаза болели от того, что я долго смотрела на свет.
Через несколько минут громкий стук в одну из дверей, которая выходила в
коридор.
"Ты одета?" спросил завхоз, открывая дверь, когда я ещё
не успела ответить. "Питание для твоих мозгов," сказал он, положа
бамбуковый поднос на стол.
Он налил мне миску бульона, затем попросил меня съесть machaca
Sonorense. "Я приготовил это для тебя," объяснил он мне. Смесь яиц,
мяса, лука и чили была превосходной. "Когда ты закончишь, я возьму тебя
смотреть фильмы," сказал он.
"Когда я покончу с едой?" спросила я с волнением, запихивая целую
тортиллу в рот.
"Когда
ты закончишь со своими бумагами," пояснил он. Как только я покончила с
едой, он сказал, что мне придётся познакомиться с собакой. "Иначе ты не
сможешь выходить наружу, даже в туалет." Не успела я сказать ему, что я
уже встретила собаку и сходила в туалет наружи прошлой ночью, как
быстрым
движением подбородка он
позвал меня во двор. Большая чёрная собака лежала свёрнутой в тени
высокого забора. Завхоз присел на корточки перед животным
и почесал его за ушами. Склонившись ещё ниже, он прошептал что-то в ухо
животного. Завхоз резко встал. Поражённая,
я отступила назад и упала в кресло. Собака завыла и завхоз, сделав
невероятный прыжок, скрылся за забором.
Я поднялась и уже собралась как можно быстрее выбежать оттуда, как
вдруг собака протянула свои передние лапы и положила их на мои ноги.
Я
почувствовала давление лап через свои туфли. Собака посмотрела на меня
и открыла свою пасть, широко зевая. Его язык и дёсна были
иссиня-чёрные.
"Это
признак хорошей породы." Я настолько обалдела, услышав завхоза за своей
спиной, что закружилась. Я снова потеряла баланс и свалилась на собаку.
Сначала я не смела двигаться, потом медленно освободила свою
голову.
Янтарного цвета собачьи глаза сфокусировались на мне, она оскалила
зубы, не рыча, а в самой дружественной собачьей улыбке. "Сейчас вы -
друзья," произнёс завхоз,
помогая мне встать. "И время настало тебе начать работать над своими
бумагами."
Следующие
3 дня были поглощены полностью моим желанием закончить моё задание. Я
работала долгими часами, но как-то не чувствовала проходящего времени.
Не то, чтобы я так глубоко погрузилась в свою работу, чтобы потерять
связь со временем. Скорее время, казалось, трансформировалось в
пространство. То есть я начала считать время по интерлюдиям (короткая
музыкальная часть, вложенная между частями более длинной композиции);
интерлюдии между моими встречами с Esperanza.
Каждый день утром, когда я ела свой завтрак - чтобы она не оставляла
для меня на кухне - она вдруг появлялась. Бесшумно, она, казалось,
материлизовалась из вечного голубого дыма, который висел на кухне как
облако. Неизменно, она причёсывала мои волосы грубой деревянной
расчёской, но никогда не говорила ни слова. Я тоже. В полдень я видела
её снова. Также бесшумно, как она появлялась на кухне, она вдруг
материлизовалась во дворе и садилась в своё, сделанное на заказ,
кресло-качалку под каменной аркой. Часами она смотрела в пространство,
как-будто она могла видеть за пределами человеческого зрения. Кроме
быстрого кивка или улыбки, между нами не было общения в то время,
однако я знала, что была защищена её молчанием. Собака, как-будто
направленная завхозом, никогда не покидала меня. Она сопровождала меня
день и ночь даже в туалет.
230-231
Особенно я ждала с нетерпением наши поздние прогулки,
когда собака и я бежали по полям к ряду деревьев, которые разделяли
участки земли. Там мы садились в тени, уставившись в пространство, как
это делала Esperanza.
Иногда мне казалось, что я могу дастигнуть и потрогать горы вдалеке. Я
слушала ветерок, пролетающий сквозь ветки, и ждала до тех пор, пока
жёлтый свет заходящего Солнца не превратит листья сначала в золотые
колокольчики, потом в голубые и, наконец, в чёрные. Тогда я и собака
возвращались в дом, чтобы избежать слабый голос ветра, говорящий об
одиночестве той безжизненной земли. На 4й день я проснулась,
удивлённая. Из-за двери, которая открывалась во двор, голос звал, "Пора
вставать, лежебока." Голос завхоза был заспанным и безразличным.
"Почему ты не заходишь?" спросила я. "Где ты был все эти дни?" Ответа
не последовало. Я села, завернувшись в одеяло и ожидая когда он
появится, слишком сонная и напряжённая, чтобы самой пойти посмотреть,
почему он прячется. Вскоре я встала и вышла наружу, во дворе никого не
было. В попытке отогнать сон, я вылила на голову ведро за ведром
холодной воды. Мой завтрак был другим в то утро: Esperanza
не появилась. Только потом, когда села за работу, я поняла, что
собака
тоже исчезла. Бесшумно я листала свои книги: у меня было очень мало
энергии и ещё меньше желания работать. Я просто часами сидела за
столом, уставившись на отдалённые горы через открытую дверь. Молчание
полдня временами нарушало едва слышное кудахтанье кур, разгребающих
землю в поисках семян, и пронизывающий крик цикад, вибрирующих в синем
безоблачном небе, как-будто всё ещё был день. Я уж собралась поспать,
когда услышала какой-то шум во дворе. Я быстро посмотрела: завхоз и
собака лежали рядом друг с другом на соломенном коврике в тени забора.
Было что-то странное в том, как они лежали на соломенном коврике. Они
были так неподвижны, что казались мёртвыми. С любопытством и желанием
помочь, я подошла к ним на цыпочках. Завхоз заметил меня прежде, чем
собака. Он широко раскрыл глаза в преувеличенной манере, затем одним
быстрым движением сел со скрещенными ногами и спросил, "Ты по мне
скучала?"
"Да!" воскликнула я. а потом нервно засмеялась. Казалось
странным услышать от него такой вопрос. "Почему ты не зашёл в мою
комнату утром?" Видя его отсуствующий взгляд, я добавила, "Где ты был
последние 3 дня?" Вместо того, чтобы ответить, он спросил строгим
тоном.
"Как продвигается твоя работа?" Меня настолько поразил его
тон, что я не знала, что ответить, не знала должна ли я говорить ему,
что моя работа - не его собачье дело или мне следует признаться, что у
меня проблемы с работой. "Не затрудняй свои мозги, стараясь придумать
извинения." Сказал он.
"Просто скажи мне правду. Скажи мне, что
тебе нужно моё мнение эксперта по твоим бумагам семестра." Боясь, что
сейчас рассмеюсь, я присела перед собакой и почесала ей голову. "Ну?"
требовал завхоз. "Не хочешь признать, что без меня ты не справишься?"
Не
уверенная в его здравом уме, я решила, что будет лучше посмеяться над
ним, чем спорить с ним. Я сказала, что да, я не написала ничего за
целый день;
и что я ждала его; зная, что только он может меня
спасти. Я заверила его, что это не зависело от моих профессоров в
школе,
а от него, решить мою судьбу как выпускника. Завхоз весь сиял от
гордости, потом попросил принести мои бумаги: он хотел взглянуть на
них. "Они на английском," указала я.
"Ты не сможешь прочитать их."
Желание было добавить, что даже если это было бы написано на испанском,
он не смог бы понять. Он настоял, чтобы
я принесла ему бумаги, и я
принесла. Он разложил все страницы вокруг себя, некоторые на коврик,
остальные на пыльную землю, затем достал из кармана своей рубашки очки
в металлической оправе и нацепил их на нос.
232-233
"Важно
выглядеть как образованный человек," прошептал он, наклоняясь к собаке.
Зверь навострил ухо, потом издал тихое рычание, как-будто согласившись
с ним. Собака сменила положение и завхоз поманил меня сесть между ним и
зверем. Он выглядел как сова: эрудированный и строгий, когда
он
прошёлся по разрозненным страницам на земле. Он сделал неодобрительный
щелчок своим языком, почесал голову, листал и перелистывал страницы,
как-будто старался найти какой-то порядок, который никак не мог найти.
Мускулы моей шеи и плеч ныли от этого сидячего положения. Вздыхая от
нетерпения, я прислонилась к забору и закрыла глаза. Несмотря на моё
возрастающее раздражение, я должно быть вздремнула, так как меня вдруг
удивило слабое, но назойливое жужжание. Я открыла глаза. Сидящая рядом
лицом ко мне, появилась, прекрасно одетая, красивая
женщина. Она что-то сказала мне, но я не слышала что. Жужжание в ушах
возрастало. Женщина налонилась ко мне и громким, ясным голосом
спросила, "Ты не собираешься здороваться со мной?"
"Нелида! Как ты
попала сюда? Я пыталась стряхнуть жужжание в ушах," объяснила я. Она
кивнула, потом подтянула свои длинные, красивые ноги под юбку, в
которой была, и обхватила ноги руками.
"Так хорошо увидеть тебя,"
сказала она мечтательно. С нахмуренными бровями, завхоз бормотал что-то
себе под нос, пока изучал лежащие перед ним, страницы.
"Твои
каракули не только трудно читать," произнёс он через некоторое время,
"но в них также нет никакого смысла. Нелида рассматривала меня
узкими
критическими глазами, как-будто наталкивая меня поспорить с ним." Я
нервно двигала руками, намереваясь как-то отделаться, избежать её
испытующего взгляда. Она наклонилась вперёд и схватила мою руку крепкой
хваткой. Завхоз стал читать страницы с раздражительной медлительностью.
То, что он читал, звучало знакомо, но действительно ли он следовал
тексту, я не могла сказать, потому что не могла сконцентрироваться. Я
была слишком раздражена той нелепой манерой, которой он срезал
предложения, фразы и иногда слова. "Итак," заявил он, закончив
последнюю страницу, "бумаги плохо написаны."
Он сложил разбросанные страницы в кучу, затем облокотился на забор.
Очень демонстративно, он согнул колени в том же положении Isidore
Baltazar учил меня
(the
right leg crossed over with the ankle resting on the left thigh) и
закрыл глаза. Он так долго молчал, что я подумала он заснул, и поэтому
удивилась когда он, отмерянным, медленным голосом начал говорить об
антропологии, истории и философии. Казалось его мысли оживали, пока он
рассказывал, и слова лились из него чисто и точно, с простотой, которую
легко было понять. Я внимательно слушала его и, в то же время, я не
могла не думать,
"Как
он мог так много знать о западных интеллектуальных тенденциях? Каким
было его образование? Кто он в действительности? Можешь ты повторить
всё сначала?" спросила я, как только он закончил говорить. "Я бы хотела
сделать заметки."
"Всё, что я сказал, находится в твоих бумагах,"
заверил меня завхоз. "Это похоронено под кипой заметок, ссылок и
неразвитых идей." Он наклонился ближе, пока его голова почти не
дотронулась до моей. Недостаточно только предоставить работы в попытке
снабдить свои бумаги правдой, которой так нехватает."
Обалдев, я могла только уставиться на него. "Ты поможешь мне написать
эту работу?" Спросила я.
"Нет,
я этого сделать не могу," ответил он с мертвящим взглядом в глазах.
"Это то, что ты должна сделать сама."
"Но
я не могу," протестовала я. "Ты только что указал, как плохо написана
моя работа. Верь мне: это - самое лучшее, на что я способна."
"Нет!"
Отчаянно спорил он со мной, потом посмотрел на меня с удивлённым видом,
который смешивался с дружественной теплотой. "Я уверен, твои профессора
примут работу, когда она аккуратно напечатана."
"Но я не буду. В ней нет ничего оригинального." Я была слишком
поражена, чтобы огорчаться.
"Ты
только перефразировала, что читала," продолжал завхоз. "А я требую,
чтобы ты полагалась больше на своё собственное мнение, даже если оно
противоречит тому, что ожидается от тебя."
234-235
"Это
только работа за чертветь," сказала я в свою защиту. "Я знаю, что она
требует больше усилий, но я также должна удовлетворить своих
профессоров. Соглашусь ли я с выраженными взглядами - это посмотрим.
Мне нужно быть принятой в школу выпускников, и это частично включает удовлетворения
моих профессоров."
"Если
ты хочешь набрать силы из Мира Колдунов," сказал он, "тогда ты не
можешь больше работать с такой логикой и такие мотивы не одобряются в
нашем Магическом Мире. Если ты хочешь стать выпускником, тогда тебе
нужно вести себя как борец, а не как женщина, которую воспитали
угождать. Знаешь, даже когда ты дьявольски нахальна, ты тратишь много
энергии, чтобы угодить. Но с сегодняшнего дня, когда бы ты не писала,
так как тебя не тренировали писать, ты определённо можешь принять новый
настрой: НАСТРОЙ БОРЦА."
"Что вы имеете ввиду - НАСТРОЙ БОРЦА?" спросила я. "Мне
придётся бороться со своими профессорами?"
"Не
своих профессоров," сказал он. "Тебе нужно бороться с самой собой
каждый сантиметр пути. И тебе придётся это делать артистически и так
умно, чтобы никто не заметил твоей борьбы." Я не совсем была уверена, что он имел
ввиду, да я и не хотела знать. До того как он мог ещё что-нибудь
сказать,
я
спросила его, откуда он знал так много об антропологии, истории и
философии. Улыбаясь, он потряс головой. "Ты заметила как я это делал?"
спросил он,
затем начал отвечать на свой же вопрос. "Я хватал те
мысли из воздуха. Я просто вытянул свои Энергетические Волокна и
подцепил те мысли ими, как подцепляют рыбу удочкой, из необъятного
океана мыслей и идей, который находится там." Он широко развёл руками,
как бы охватывая сам воздух вокруг него.
Я спорила, "Чтобы подцеплять мысли, Isidore
Baltazar сказал мне, нужно знать какие из них могут быть полезны.
Поэтому ты должно быть изучал историю, философию и антропологию."
"Наверно когда-то я этим занимался," сказал он неуверенно, почесав свою
голову и удивляясь. "Должно быть так."
"Наверняка!"
объявила я с удовлетворением, как-будто я сделала великое открытие.
Громко вздыхая, он прислонился к забору и закрыл глаза.
Нелида
спросила, "Почему ты настаиваешь, что всегда права?" Удивлённая тем,
что она говорит, я уставилась на неё с открытым ртом. Углы её губ
свернулись в озорную, таинственную улыбку. Затем она дала мне знак
закрыть рот. Я настолько была поглощена тем, чтобы слушать то, что
завхоз говорил о моих бумагах, что забыла о ней, хотя она сидела прямо
передо мной. Или не сидела? Мысль, что она могла уйти и вернуться, и я
могла это не заметить, наполнила меня беспокойством. "Пускай тебя это
не беспокоит," сказала тихо Нелида, как-будто я громко высказала свои
страхи. "У нас привычка приходить и уходить, и никто этого никогда не
замечает."
Её тон анулировал леденящий эффект её заявления.
Переводя взгляд с одного на другого, я думала, исчезнут ли они
незаметно, прямо на моих глазах. Я старалась быть уверенной, что они не
исчезнут. Растянувшись как кот, я лежала на соломенном коврике и
подвинула ногу к краю платья Нелиды, которое расстилалось на земле; моя
рука потянулась к жакету завхоза. Он должно быть заметил это на своём
рукаве, так как он вдруг сел и уставился на меня. Я закрыла глаза, но
следила за ними сквозь ресницы. Они не двигались. Их прямая осанка не
показывала ни следа усталости, тогда когда мне пришлось бороться, чтобы
держать глаза открытыми. Свежий ветерок, пахнущий эквалиптом,
разносился вокруг. Группы цветных облаков двигались по небу и глубокая
прозрачная голубизна медленно становилась более рассеянной. Она так
мягко таяла на глазах, что было невозможно отличить облака от неба, что
было день, а что - ночь. С моей ногой на платье Нелиды и схватив жакет
завхоза, как-будто моя жизнь зависела от этого, я благополучно заснула.
Казалось, что прошло несколько секунд, как я проснулась от руки,
дотронувшейся до моего лица. "Флоринда?" прошептала я, инстинктивно
зная, что женщина, сидящая рядом, была кем-то ещё. Она что-то бормотала
и у меня было чувство, что она это делала долгое время. А я только что
проснулась, чтобы услышать, что она говорит. Я хотела сесть, но женщина
предостерегла меня от этого мягким, но твёрдым прикосновением на моём
плече. Небольшое пламя неуверенно горело где-то в темноте. Оно
придавало мягкую неестественную бледность её лицу: делало её похожей на
призрак. Казалось она выросла, когда подвинулась ближе. Её глаза тоже
стали больше, когда они смотрели вниз на мои. Арка её бровей, как
изгиб, нарисованный чёрным карандашом, нахмурилась.
236-237
"Нелида!"
я вздохнула с облегчением. Слегка улыбаясь, она кивнула. Я хотела
спросить её о завхозе и о моих бумагах за семестр, но она прижала свои
пальцы к моим губам и продолжала своё бормотанье. Звук становился всё
тише и тише. Казалось он шёл с огромного расстояния, а затем он наконец
совсем исчез. Нелида поднялась и жестом велела мне сделать то же самое.
Я так и сделала, и заметила, что были не снаружи во дворе, а в одной из
пустых спален в коридоре. "Где мои бумаги?" спросила я, обеспокоенная
тем, что ветер может разбросать страницы. От мысли, что мне придётся
начать свою работу с самого начала, меня залихорадило. Нелида сделала
властный жест своим подбородком, показывая мне следовать за ней. Она
была намного выше меня и выглядела точно как Флоринда. Если бы она не
была такой деликатной, я бы не смогла их различить. Тут она появилась
как незаконченная версия Флоринды, как Флоринда выглядела, когда была
моложе. Было что-то такое эфирное в Нелиде, такое хрупкое и всё же
такое привлекательное. Я бывало шутила с
Isidore Baltazar, что если бы я была мужчиной, я бы приударила за ней.
Он отвечал (надеюсь в шутку), это наверно причина, почему Нелида почти
не разговаривает со мной. Мы направились к моей комнате и я услышала
шаги вокруг себя. Это не могла быть Нелида, решила я, так как она
ходила почти бесшумно, казалось, она едва касалась земли. Абсурдная
мысль, что я слышу свои собственные шаги, застаила меня пойти на
цыпочках как кот, и всё же я продолжала слышать шаги. Чьи-то ноги
двигались как мои; тот же ритм, слегка отдавался эхом на плитках пола.
Несколько раз я посмотрела назад, но конечно, никого сзади меня не
было. Надеясь избавиться от страха, я громко хихикнула. Нелида резко
повернулась. Я подумала, что она собралась пожурить меня, но она тоже
начала смеяться. Она обняла рукой мои плечи. Её прикосновение не было
особенно тёплым или нежным. Мне было всё равно. Она мне нравилась
и её прикосновение было очень обнадёживающим для меня. Всё ещё
посмеиваясь и со звуком шагов вокруг нас, мы вошли в мою комнату.
Странное свечение висело на стенах, как-будто туман проник через четыре
двери комнаты, которую в тот момент я не могла видеть. Туман поменял
форму комнаты, придавая ей странный контур, почти делая её круглой.
Несмотря на мои моргания и прищуривания, всё, что я могла увидеть, был
стол, на котором я работала последние 3 дня. Я подошла ближе. К моему
облегчению, я увидела свои бумаги сложенными в аккуратную стопку. Рядом
с ней были все мои карандаши: они были заточены. "Нелида!"
закричала я взволнованно. Я больше её не видела: сейчас туман
становился гуще. Он окутывал меня с каждым моим дыханием, он
просачивался внутрь меня, наполняя глубоким волнующим чувством лёгкости
и свечения. Ведомая каким-то невидимым источником, я села за стол и
разложила все страницы перед собой. Прямо перед глазами появилась вся
структура моих бумаг, накладывая себя на мою первую работу, как двойник
на кадр фильма. Я была вне себя от восхищения умного развития тем.
Как-будто ими манипулировала какая-то невидимая рука, которая думала и
писала, параграфы сами себя расставляли, создавая новый порядок. Это
всё было таким ясным и простым, что я засмеялась от радости.
"Напиши
это." Слова эхом тихо прозвучали в комнате. Я с любопытством
осмотрелась вокруг себя, но никого не увидела. Зная, что я испытала,
было определённо больше, чем сон. Я взяла блокнот и карандаш и начала
писать с сумасшедшей скоростью. Идеи приходили ко мне с невероятной
ясностью и лёгкостью. Они пульсировали в моей голове и в теле как
звуковые волны. В то же самое время я слышала и видела слова. И всё же,
это не были мои глаза или уши, которые воспринимали, что было там,
передо мной. Скорее это были какие-то волокна внутри меня, которые
ударяли, и как бесшумный пылесос всасывали слова, светящиеся передо
мной, как частицы пыли. Через некоторое время, порядок, наложенный на
мои бумаги, начал исчезать. Одна за другой, строчки испарялись. В
отчаянии, я старалась держаться за эту восхитительную структуру, зная,
что всё это исчезнет без следа. Только память в моём сознании той
великолепной ясности, останется. И затем это тоже погасло, как-будто
свечу задули.
238
Виток
тумана, тонкий как волос, оставался в комнате. Затем он улетел
маленькими волнами и гнетущая темнота окутала меня. Я была настолько
выжата,
я знала, что потеряю сознание. "Ляжь!" я даже не подумала
посмотреть вверх, зная, что не смогу никого увидеть. С огромным трудом,
я поднялась с кресла и, шатаясь, двинулась к своей кровати.
Часть 16
239
Какой-то
момент я просто лежала на кровати, смутно осознавая мой удивительный,
непередаваемый сон, такой непохожий на другие сны. В первый раз
когда-либо, я помнила всё, что я делала.
"Нелидa?"
прошептала я, когда тихое бормотание, идущее из другого конца комнаты,
вмешалось в мои воспоминания. Я села, только чтобы быстро лечь назад:
комната начала крутиться вокруг меня. Какое-то время я ждала и потом
попробовала опять. Я встала и сделала несколько неуверенных шагов, но
свалилась на пол и ударила голову о стену. "Чёрт!" крикнула я, а
комната продолжала крутится. Я теряю сознание.
"Всё не так
драматично," сказала Флоринда, затем усмехнулась при виде моего
изумлённого лица. Сначала она потрогала мой лоб, потом шею, как-будто
боясь, что у меня лихорадка. "Сознание ты не теряешь," объявила она.
"Тебе нужно восстановить твою энергию."
"Где Нелида?"
"Ты не рада видеть
меня?" Она взяла мою руку и помогла мне лечь обратно в постель. "У тебя
голодный обморок."
"Нет,"
спорила я, больше по привычке, чем по убеждению. Хотя я не чувствовала
голода, я была уверена: моё головокружение было от голода. Кроме
завтрака, я весь день ничего не ела.
240-241
"Мы удивлялись, почему ты не ела," сказала Florinda,
отвечая на мои мысли. "Мы приготовили вкуснейшее жаркое для тебя."
"Когда ты здесь появилась?" спросила я. "Я целыми днями молча звала
тебя."
Закрыв
глаза, Флоринда издала мычащий звук, как-будто шум мог помочь ей
вспомнить. "Думаю, мы были здесь несколько дней," наконец сказала она.
"Ты
думаешь!" Я была полностью ошарашена, моя натура выдала всё сполна. Я
быстро оправилась. "Почему ты не дала мне знать, что была здесь?"
Больше чем обижена, я была поражена, что не заметила её присуствие.
"Как я могла такое пропустить?" бормотала я себе под нос. Флоринда с любопытством
посмотрела на меня. Она казалась удивлённой моим поведением.
"Если
бы мы дали тебе знать, что мы здесь, ты бы не могла сконцентрироваться
на своей работе," заметила она хитровато. "Как ты уже хорошо знаешь,
вместо работы над бумагами, ты бы ожидала нашего прихода и ухода. Вся
твоя энергия была бы истрачена в попытках узнать что мы делаем, не так
ли?"
Её голос был резким и низким, и странный волнующий свет
заставил её глаза сверкать ещё больше, чем обычно. "Мы нарочно так
сделали, чтобы ты работала не отвлекаясь," заверила она меня. Затем она
продолжила объяснять, что завхоз помог мне с моими бумагами, но только
когда он был удовлетворён тем, что я уже проделала. Она утверждала, что
во сне (Dreaming) он нашёл заложенный
порядок моих бумаг.
"Я тоже видела заложенный порядок моих
бумаг," отметила я с
удовлетворением. "Я тоже видела это во сне."
"Конечно ты видела," с готовностью согласилась Флоринда. "Мы втянули
тебя в этот сон (Dreaming), чтобы ты могла
работать над своими бумагами."
"Вы
втянули меня в этот сон (Dreaming)?"
повторила я. Было что-то удивительно обычное в её заявлении. И в то же
самое время оно сделало меня раздражительным. У меня было странное
чувство, что я наконец, близка к пониманию что такое Осознанный Полёт (Dreaming-Awake), но каким-то образом
я не вполне смогла
схватить это. Чтобы всё прояснить, я рассказала Флоринде всё, что
произошло с того момента, когда я увидела во дворе завхоза и собаку.
Было трудно сделать это выглядеть связанным, так как я сама не могла
решить, когда я бодрствовала, а когда я была в Полёте. К моему полному
удивлению, я смогла вспомнить общее описание моих бумаг, как я их
видела, наложенных на черновик-мою первоначальную работу. "Моя
концентрация была слишком высокая для меня, чтобы быть в Полёте."
Указала я.
"Это как раз и есть - Осознанный Полёт (Dreaming-Awake),"
перебила Флоринда меня. "Вот поэтому ты так хорошо его помнишь." У неё
был тон нетерпеливого учителя, объясняющего недалёкому ребёнку что-то
простое, но фундаментальное. "Я уже сказала тебе, что Осознанный Полёт (Dreaming-
Awake) не имеет ничего общего
с тем, чтобы лечь спать и видеть сон."
"Я
сделала заметки," сказала я, как-будто это могло повлиять на её
заявление. Видя её кивок, я спросила её, смогу ли я найти то, что я
видела в Осознанном Полёте, и
сжато написать своей рукой на своём блокноте.
"Ты
сможешь," заверила она меня. "Но прежде, тебе надо поесть." Она встала
и, протянув руку, помогла мне подняться на ноги. Чтобы придать какой-то
порядок моей внешности, она заткнула мою рубашку в джинсы и стряхнула
куски соломы.
Она
поставила меня на расстоянии руки и критически осмотрела. Не
удовлетворённая результатами, она начала поправлять мои волосы, так-сяк
сгибая непослушные концы. "Ты выглядишь как пугало со своими волосами,
торчащими во все стороны," объявила она.
"Я привыкла принимать
горячий душ когда встаю," сказала я и последовала за ней в коридор.
Видя, что она направляется прямо на кухню, я ей сказала, что мне
сначала нужно в туалет.
"Я пойду с тобой." Видя моё недовольное
лицо, она добавила, что она только хотела удостовериться, у меня не
закружится голова и что я не упаду в дыру.
По правде, я была рада
держаться за её руку, когда мы вышли во двор. Во дворе я чуть не упала,
не столько от слабости, сколько от шока увидеть, что уже конец дня.
"В чём дело?" спросила Флоринда. "У тебя
кружится голова?" Я указала на небо. Слабый отблеск, это - всё, что
осталось от солнечного света.
"Каким
образом я потеряла день?" Спросилая, но мой голос исчез ещё до того,
как я закончила говорить. Я боролась с тем, как привыкнуть к идее, что
и самом деле целая ночь и целый день прошли, но мой разум не хотел это
принимать. То, что я не смогла измерять время обычным способом, запутал
меня.
242-243
"Колдуны
ломают течение Времени," ответила Флоринда на мои мысли. "Время, как мы
измеряем его, не существует, когда мы летаем, как летают Колдуны. Колдуны
растягивают или сжимают Время по желанию. Для Колдунов, Время - это не
минуты или часы или дни, а совершенно другая вещь. Когда находишься в (Dreaming-Awake) в Осознанном Полёте на 5м Уровне
Сознания, где
наша способность восприятия - повышена," продолжала она терпеливым,
неторопливым тоном. "Однако, когда дело доходит до восприятия там
Времени, происходит что-то совершенно другое. Восприятие Времени
вибрационно не доходит до 5го Уровня Сознания, а полностью аннулируется."
Она добавила, что Время всегда фактор Сознания, что осознавать время -
психологическое состояние, которое мы автоматически
трансформируем в физические измерения. Это настолько
вбито в нас силой, что мы можем подсознательно слышать, как часы
тикают внутри нас, которые подсознательно сохраняют Линию Времени. На
более высоком, 5м Уровне Сознания (Dreaming-Awake) эта способность отсуствует (там
вибрация слишком высокая для вибрации энергии Времени! ЛМ),"
подчеркнула она. "Совершенно Новая, Незнакомая Структура заменяет
там Время и её не нужно стараться понимать или обсуждать, как мы
обычно
делаем это здесь со Временем."
"Колдуны не тратят Время на его измерение, они заняты его
использованием: растягиванием или сжатием Времени по желанию."
"Тогда всё, что я когда-либо буду знать о Dreaming-Awake это то, что
Время или растянули, или сжали," сказала я, стараясь привыкнуть к её
объяснению.
"Ты поймёшь
намного больше, чем это," заверила она меня пылко. "Как только ты, как
эксперт, научишься входить в повышенное сознание, так
Mariano Aureliano называет это, тогда ты будешь осознавать всё,
что хочешь, потому что Колдуны не тратят свою энергию на измерение
Времени. Они заняты растягиванием или сжатием Времени по своему
усмотрению.
"Раньше ты упомянула, что вы все помогли мне попасть в
Полёт," сказалая. "Тогда кто-то из вас наверно знает, как долго
продолжалось это состояние."
Флоринда
сказала, что она и её товарищи постоянно
находятся на более высоком 5м Уровне Сознания
(Dreaming-Awake), хотя они никогда не
следят за этим, что это как раз было
их общее усилие, которое втянуло
меня в Dreaming-Awake.
"Ты что, намекаешь, что я тоже могу находиться в данный момент в
состоянии Dreaming-Awake?" спросила я, зная ответ, до того как она
ответила.
"Если так, то что я сделала, чтобы достигнуть этого Уровня? Какие шаги
я проделала?"
"Самый простой шаг, какой только можно вообразить," сказала Флоринда.
"Ты не разрешила себе быть такой, какая ты обычно. Это - Ключ, который
открывает все двери. Мы много раз тебе говорили разными путями, что
Колдовство - это совсем не то, что ты думаешь. Сказать это, чтобы
остановить себя от возврата к своей обычной персоне, и есть самый
сложный секрет Колдовства, звучит как идиотизм, но это не так. Это -
Ключ к Могуществу, поэтому является самой трудной вещью достичь для
Колдуна. И в то же время, это не что-то сложное или невозможное, чтобы
понять. Это не изумляет Разум и как раз по этой самой причине никто не
подозревает об её Важности или не относится к этому серьёзно."
"Судя
по результатам твоего последнего Осознанного Полёта, я могу сказать,
что ты накопила достаточно энергии, не давая себе волю - быть такой,
какая ты обычно." Она потрепала меня по плечу и отвернулась. "Увидимся
на кухне," прошептала она. Дверь кухни была открыта, но никакого звука
не было слышно.
"Флоринда?"
прошептала я. Тихий смех ответил на мой зов, но я никого не видела. Как
только мои глаза привыкли к, частично затемнённой, оборке вокруг
солнечного пятна, я увидела Флоринду и Нелиду,
сидящими за столом. Их лица были неестественно живыми при этом
неустойчивом свете.
Их одинаковые волосы,
их одинаковые глаза, те же самые носы и рты, светились, как-будто
освещённые внутренним светом.
"Вы
двое настолько красивы, что это пугает," сказала я, подойдя ближе. Обе
женщины смотрели друг на друга, как бы подтверждая моё заявление, затем
залились настораживающим смехом. Я почувствовала как странное
покалывание сбегает вниз по позвоночнику. Не успела я прокомментировать
об их странном смехе, как они остановились. Нелида поманила меня сесть
в свободное кресло рядом с ней. Я глубоко вздохнула, нужно оставаться
спокойной, сказала я себе, когда садилась. В Нелиде была какая-то
напряжённость, которая нервировала меня. Она налила мне тарелку густого
супа из супницы, стоящей посредине стола.
"Я хочу, чтобы ты съела всё," сказала она, толкая ко мне масло и
корзинку с тёплыми тортиллами.
244-245
Я была настолько голодна,
что атаковала еду так, как-будто не ела вечность. Еда была
изумительной. Я съела всё, что было в супнице, потом взялась за тортилл
с маслом и запила их тремя кружками горячего шоколада. Насытившись, я
откинулась назад в своём кресле. Дверь во двор была широко открыта и
холодный
ветерок переставил тени в комнате. Казалось сумерки будут длиться
бесконечно. Небо всё ещё было пронизано тяжёлыми слоями разных цветов:
оранжевый, синий, фиолетовый и золотой. Воздух был прозрачным, что
давало лучше вид дальних гор. Как-будто вытолкнутая какой-то внутренней
силой, ночь похоже выстрелила из земли. Двигающиеся на ветру, тени
фруктовых деревьев ритмично и грациозно выметали темноту прямо в небо. Esperanza
влетела в комнату и поставила зажжёную керосиновую лампу на стол. Она
смотрела на меня немигающими глазами, как-будто испытывала проблему
сфокусироваться. Она создавала впечатление, что её всё ещё беспокоит
какая-то мировая тайна, что она ещё не вполне находилась здесь.
Затем постепенно её глаза оттаяли и она улыбнулась, как-будто
сейчас поняла, что вернулась из далёкого далека.
"Мои бумаги!" крикнула я, обнаружив разбросанные страницы и свой
блокнот под её рукой. Широко ухмыляясь, Esperanza
подала мне мои записи.
С
рвением, я осмотрела страницы и громко рассмеялась, видя что листы
блокнота заполнены точными и детальными инструкциями (написанными
половина
на испанском, половина на аглийском), как продолжать мою работу за
четверть. Почерк был несомненно мой. "Здесь есть всё," волнуясь сказала
я. "Вот как я это видела в Полёте." Мысль, что я может смогу проскочить
в выпускники, не утруждая себя так сильно, заставило меня забыть всё
моё прошлое беспокойство.
"Лёгких путей для написания хорошей работы за семестр - нет," сказала Esperanza.
"Даже с помощью Колдовства. Ты должна знать, что без предварительного
чтения, без написания и переписывания черновиков, ты бы никогда не
смогла узнать структуру и порядок своей работы за семестр в Полёте." Я
кивнула, не говоря ни слова. Она говорила с таким неоспоримым
авторитетом, что я не знала что ответить.
"А как насчёт завхоза?" Мне наконец удалось вставить. "Был он в
молодости профессором?" Нелида и Флоринда повернулись к Esperanza,
как-будто это зависело от её ответа.
"Я этого не знаю," затуманила
Esperanza
с ответом. "Разве он не говорил тебе, что он - Колдун, влюблённый в
идеи?" Она помолчала какое-то время, затем тихо добавила, "Когда он
отдыхает от забот о нашем мире, как ожидается от завхоза, он читает."
"Кроме чтения
книг," просвещала Нелида, "он читает экста-ординарное количество
школьных журналов. Он говорит на нескольких языках, таким образом, он
всегда в ногу с самым передовым. Делия и Клара - его ассистенты. Он
научил их английскому и немецкому."
"Библиотека в вашем доме - его?" спросила я.
"Она принадлежит
нам всем," сказала Нелида. "Однако, я уверена, что он - единственный,
кроме Vicente, кто
прочёл там каждую книгу на полке."
Заметив
моё недоверчивое выражение, она посоветовала мне, не быть обманутой
внешностью, когда дело касается людей в Мире Колдунов.
"Чтобы
достигнуть уровня знаний, Колдунам нужно работать в два раза больше,
чем обычным людям," заверила она меня. "Колдуны также должны логично
относиться к Повседневныому Миру, как и к их Магическому Миру. Чтобы
этого добиться, они должны быть очень опытными и утончённым умственно,
а также физически." Она посмотрела на меня узкими критическими глазами,
затем тихо кашлянула. "Три дня ты работала над своими бумагами. Ты
тяжело работала, не так ли?" Она ждала моего согласия, потом добавила,
что когда я была в Осознанном Полёте, то работала над моими бумагами
даже больше, чем когда я бодрствовала.
"Это не так," поспешила я
со своими выводами. "Это не стоило мне никаких усилий. Всё, что я
сделала это - увидела новую версию моей работы, наложенную на мой
старый черновик, а затем я скопировала то, что видела."
"Чтобы
сделать это, нужно было истратить всю твою силу," продолжала Нелида. "В
Осознанном Полёте ты истратила всю свою энергию на эту единственную
цель. Все твои желания и усилия ушли на заканчивание своих бумаг. В тот
момент ничего больше не имело для тебя никакого значения. Никаким
другим мыслям ты не давала помешать твоим усилиям."
246-247
"Был завхоз в Осознанном Полёте, когда он просматривал мои бумаги?"
спросила я. "Видела я то, что видел он?"
Нелида
поднялась и медленно подошла к двери. Долго она всматривалась в
темноту, потом возвратилась к столу. Она прошептала что-то Esperanza, но я
не слышала, а потом опять села. Esperanza тихо
кашлянула, потом сказала: то, что завхоз видел в моих бумагах,
отличалось от того, что видела и написала я.
"И это - естественно, так как его знания намного обширнее, чем твои." Esperanza
уставилась на меня своими живыми тёмными глазами, которые каким-то
образом делали остальную часть её лица выглядеть безжизненным.
"Руководимая его предложениями и согласно своим собственным
способностям,
ты видела, как твои бумаги должны читаться. Это ты и
написала. В Осознанном Полёте у нас имеется доступ к скрытым знаниям,
которые мы обычно не используем," сказала Нелида, собираясь объяснить,
что в тот момент, когда я увидела мои бумаги, я вспомнила ключи к
разгадке, которые завхоз мне дал.
Заметив моё удивлённое выражение, она напомнила мне то, что завхоз
сказал о моих бумагах. "Слишком много пометок, слишком много записей и
неряшливо развитые идеи." Её глаза излучали симпатию и удовольствие,
когда она продолжала говорить. Так как я была в Полёте и я не так
глупа, как кажусь, я сразу же разглядела разного рода связи, которые я
не замечала до этого в моём материале. Нелида наклонилась ко мне ближе,
полу-улыбка играла на её губах, она ждала моей реакции. "Настало время
тебе знать, что помогло тебе увидеть лучшую версию твоего черновика."
Эсперанца села прямо и подмигнула мне, как бы подчёркивая, что она
собирается открыть мне главный секрет. "Когда мы в Осознанном Полёте
- Dreaming-Awake, у нас
появляется вход в Настоящие Знания." Я увидела разочарование в её
глазах, пока она долго меня рассматривала.
"Не будь настолько плотной!" нетерпеливо бросила Нэлида.
"Dreaming-Awake, должен был заставить тебя понять, что ты имеешь, как и
все Женщины, уникальную способность получать Высшие Знания напрямую."
Эсперанца сделал жест рукой, чтобы я молчала, и сказала:
"Разве ты не
знаешь, что одно из фундаментальных различий между женщинами и
мужчинами это - как они подходят к Знаниям?"
Я
понятия не имела, что она имела ввиду. Нарочно медленно она оторвала
чистый лист от моего блокнота и нарисовала две человеческие фигуры.
Одну голову она короновала конусом и
сказала, что это был мужчина. Другою голову она тоже короновала
конусом, только перевёрнутым, и сказала, что это - женщина. "Мужчины
накапливают Знания шаг за шагом," объясняла она, а карандаш
она держала на фигуре с перевёрнутым конусом над головой: "Мужчины
тянутся вверх, они
взбираются прямо к Знаниям. Колдуны говорят, что мужчины конусоидально
тянутся к Духу, к Знаниям. Конусоидальный процесс ограничивает мужчин в
том, как высоко они могут взобраться." Она обвела карандашом конус над
фигурой. "Как ты видишь, мужчины только
могут достигнуть определённой высоты. Их путь к Знаниям заканчивается в
самой узкой точке: верхушка конуса." Она пристально посмотрела на меня,
"Обрати внимание," предупредила она меня, указывая карандашом на вторую
фигуру с перевёрнутым конусом на голове. "Как ты видишь, конус кверх
тормашками, открыт как воронка. Женщины способны открыть себя прямо
Источнику Всех Солнц, или скорее, Источник прямо достигает их в широкой
части конуса. Колдуны говорят, что связь Женщины со Знаниями,
расширяющаяся, тогда как связь Мужчины со Знаниями довольно ограничена.
Мужчинам ближе конкретное, логика, а не целиться в Абстрактное,"
продолжала она,
"Женщинам ближе Абстрактное, хотя они стараются довольствоваться конкретным или
логикой."
"Почему
Женщины, имея такой доступ к Знаниям или к Абстрактному,
считаются менее развитыми?" перебила я её. Эсперанца посмотрела на меня
с вдумчивым признанием. Она быстро встала, потянулась как кот до тех
пор, пока её
суставы не хрустнули, затем она снова села. "То, что Женщин
рассматривают
хуже Мужчин или, в лучшем случае, равными Мужчинам, происходит из-за
отношения, с каким женщины и мужчины подходят к Знаниям.
В общем, женщины больше заинтересованы в Могуществе над собой, чем над
другими. Ясно, что могущество над другими это, то что хотят мужчины."
"Даже среди Колдунов," вставила Нелида и все Женщины засмеялись.
Эсперанца продолжала говорить, что она верит, что вначале Женщины не
видели необходимости использовать свою способность соединять себя
полностью и напрямую к Духу.
248-249
Она
сказала, что Женщины не видели необходимости вести интеллектуальный
разговор на тему их натуральной способности, для них было достаточно
применять эту естественную способность в действии и просто знать, что
они её имеют. Неспособность Мужчин связать себя
напрямую с Духом и было то, что заставляло их говорить о Процессе
Достижения
Знаний," подчеркнула она. "Они не прекращали говорить об этом. И
определённо эта настойчивость знать, как им достигнуть Духа; эта
настойчивость анализировать Процесс и есть то, что дало им
уверенность, что быть логичным - это типично мужская черта (на более высоких Уровнях Сознания
логика, как мы её понимаем, отсуствует! ЛМ)."
Эсперанца объяснила, что концепция логики была придумана исключительно
мужчинами, и что это дало мужчинам возможность принижать таланты и
достижения женщин. И даже хуже того: это дало право мужчинам отвергать
уникальные женские черты женщин, из формулировок идеалов логики. А
сейчас, конечно, женщины верят в то, что было определено для них
(мужчинами),"
подчеркнула она. "Женщин воспитывали верить, что только мужчины
рациональны, логичны, последовательны. Сейчас мужчины несут на себе
груз, подаренных
им, привилегий, что делает их автоматически выше женщин, неважно какая
у
них подготовка или способности."
"Как Женщины
потеряли свою прямую связь со Знаниями?" спросила я.
"Женщины связи не потеряли," поправила меня Эсперанца. "Женщины всё
равно имеют прямую связь с Духом. Они просто забыли как
этой связью пользоваться; или, скорее, женщины копируют поведение
мужчин, кто
этих способностей не имеет. В течение тысяч лет мужчины боролись за то,
чтобы быть уверенными, что женщины забудут об этом. Возьмём к примеру
церковную инквизицию. Это была систематическая борьба, чтобы уничтожить
знание того, что у Женщин прямая связь с Духом. Все
существующие религии - это не что иное как манёвр, опустить Женщину на
самый низ. Религии сфабриковали "божественный закон", который гласит,
что женщины хуже мужчин (вроде
как "женщина - друг человека", ЛМ)." Я
смотрела на неё в изумлении, удивляясь про себя, как ей удалось стать
такое эрудированной. "Желание мужчин доминировать других и отсуствие
интереса у женщин, чтобы выразить или сформулировать то, что они знают
и
как они это знают, превратилось в страшный дьявольский союз," продолжала
Эсперанца. "Таким образом стало возможным заставить Женщин с самого
рождения
примириться с тем, что их роль только: церковь, домашний очаг, секс,
замужество, дети и само-отрицание. Женщин исключили из всех
доминирующих форм Абстрактного мышления и привили им зависимость.
Женщин настолько основательно вытренировали верить, что мужчины должны
за них думать, что в конце концов Женщины бросили думать."
"Женщины
вполне способны думать." перебила я её.
"Женщны способны формулировать то, что они изучили," поправила меня
Эсперанца, "но то, что они изучили, было сфабриковано мужчинами.
Мужчины определяют природу обычных "знаний" Повседневного Мира (не Высших Знаний
Вселенной! ЛМ),
и из этих "знаний" они исключили всё, что имеет
отношение к Женщинам. А если что-то, относящееся к Женщинам, включено,
что всегда в негативном свете. И Женщинам приходится это проглатывать."
"Ты
давно отстала от жизни," вставила я. "В наши дни Женщины могут
делать что хотят, к чему их влечёт сердце. Они прекрасно могут
присоединиться к центрам любых знаний, и
могут делать почти всё, что могут делать мужчины."
"Но это не имеет никакого значения, пока у Женщин нет системы
поддержки;
базы поддержки," спорила Эсперанца. "Что хорошего, если женщина имеет
доступ к тому, к чему имеет доступ мужчина, когда женщины всё ещё
считаются существами хуже мужчин, меньше калибром? Женщинам приходиться
перенимать мужское отношение и поведение, чтобы быть успешными. По
настоящему успешные женщины - просто хамелеоны: они тоже начинают
презрительно смотреть на женщин ! Согласно мужчинам, Матка лимитирует
женщин и умственно, и физически! Это и есть причина почему Женщинам,
хотя они и
имели доступ к "знаниям", не разрешалось помогать в определении сути
разного вида "знаний". Возьми, к примеру, философов," предложила
Эсперанца. "Они - чистые мыслители, некоторые из них очень агрессивно
настроены
против женщин. Другие - более скрытые: они не против признать, что
женщины могут быть такими же способными, как и мужчины, если бы не тот
факт, что женщинам не интересны рациональные поиски. И, если женщинам
интересны рациональные поиски, то это - ненормально; им больше подходит
быть 'естественными своей природе' : кормящими, зависимыми слугами
мужчины." Эсперанца выразила всё это с непререкаемым авторитетом.
Однако после нескольких минут меня охватили сомнения.
"Если "знания" не что иное, как мужская конструкция, тогда почему ты
настаиваешь, чтобы я ходила в Школу (университета)," спросила я.
250-251
"Потому что ты - Колдунья, и поэтому тебе нужно знать, что наползает на
тебя и как
влияет," ответила она. "До
того, как отказаться от
чего-то, ты должна понять, почему ты отказываешься от этого. Понимаешь,
проблема в том, что "знания" в наше время берутся, просто выдумывая
вещи. А у Женщин другой канал, который никогда не принимался во
внимание. Этот канал может добавить "знаниям", но эта добавка не должна
иметь ничего общего с выяснением, рационализированием,
обдумыванием вещей."
"Тогда с чем это будет связано?" спросила я.
"Это будет зависеть от тебя решить, после того, как ты
усовершенствуешь свою логику и понимание." Я полностью растерялась.
"Что предлагают
Колдуны - это, чтобы мужчины не имели абсолютные права
на логику. Похоже сейчас мужчины имеют это право только потому, что
поле деятельности, где мужчины используют логику, это - поле
деятельности, где привалирует,
перевешивает Мужское Начало. Тогда давай применим логику к полю деятельности, где
перевешивает Женское Начало; и это поле деятельности,
естественно, перевёрнутый
конус - воронкой, который я тебе описала: связь Женщин с самим Духом!"
Она слегка наклонила голову в сторону, обдумывая что сказать. "Эта
связь должна быть лицом к другой стороне логики. Сторона, которую
никогда не использовали: ЖЕНСКАЯ СТОРОНА ЛОГИКИ !" сказала она.
"Что такое ЖЕНСКАЯ СТОРОНА ЛОГИКИ, Эсперанца?"
"Много вещей.
Одна из них определённо наши Полёты без тела
(Dreaming)." Она вопросительно посмотрела на меня, но мне нечего было
сказать.
Её глубокое покашливание захватило меня врасплох. "Я знаю, что ты
ожидаешь от Колдунов. Ты хочешь ритуалов,
заклинаний, странных таинственных культов. Ты хочешь петь, ты хочешь
слиться с природой, ты хочешь общаться с водяными духами, ты хочешь
паганизм, какое-то романтическое представление того, что делают
Колдуны. Всё это - очень германское, саксонское. Чтобы прыгнуть в
Неизвестность, тебе нужен Разум и Храбрость! Только с ними ты сможешь
объяснить самой себе и другим богатства, которые ты можешь там
найти." Она наклонилась ко мне, готовая, казалось, поведать что-то.
Почесав голову, она чихнула пять раз, как делал завхоз. "Тебе нужно
действовать своей МАГИЧЕСКОЙ СТОРОНОЙ!" продолжала
она.
"А что это такое?"
"МАТКА !" она сказала это настолько
спокойно и отчуждённо, как-будто ей была неинтересна моя реакция, что я это чуть не пропустила. Потом
вдруг, понимая абсурдность её замечания, я выпрямилась и посмотрела на
других
Женщин. "МАТКА !" повторила Эсперанца. "МАТКА - это самый
совершенный
Женский Орган. Это - МАТКА, что даёт Женщине то дополнительное
приемущество; ту
дополнительную Силу, чтобы передавать свою Энергию."
Она
объяснила, что мужчины, в своей борьбе за доминирование, преуспели
в сокращении Женского Мистического Могущества - ЕЁ МАТКИ, к просто
биологическому органу, чьей единственной функцией Мужчины считают
размножение т.е. "нести мужское семя".
Как по команде, Нелида поднялась, обошла вокруг стола и встала за моей
спиной. "Ты знаешь историю фестиваля Женский День?" прошептала она мне
в
ухо.
Усмехнувшись, я повернула к ней лицо: "Нет!"
Как заговорщик, она продолжала шептать мне, что по
Еврейско-Христианской традиции, мужчины - единственные, кто слышит
голос
"бога". Женщин лишили этой привилегии за исключением
Марии-Девственницы. Нелида добавила, что ангел, шепчущий Марии, конечно
был натуральный. Однако не было натуральным то, что ангелу только
пришлось сказать Марии, что она забеременеет "сыном бога". Матка не получила Знание, а скорее обещание
"семени бога". Мужчина "бог", кто изобрёл другого мужчину "бога" (что в традициях мужчин! ЛМ).
Я
хотела обдумать всё, что я слышала, но мой Разум превратился в
крутящийся водоворот. "А как же в отношении Мужчин-Колдунов? У них нет
Матки и всё же они явно связаны с Духом."
Эсперанца удостоила меня взглядом нескрываемого удовольствия, потом
посмотрела через плечо, как-будто не хотела чтоб её подслушивали, и
зашептала: "Колдуны способны слиться с Силой Интэнт и с Духом,
потому, что они отбросили то, что определяет их мужские черты, и они
больше не мужчины!"
Часть 17
252-253
Манера,
в которой Isidore Baltazar вышагивал по комнате, отличалась от той
обычной, какой он проходил длину прямоугольной студии. Раньше меня
всегда успокаивали его шаги. Однако в этот раз, его шаги отдавали
беспокоющим, странно угрожающим звуком. Образ тигра, вынюхивающим в
кустах, пришёл на ум. Я оторвалась от бумаг и уже собиралась спросить
его, что случилось, как он сказал, "Мы поедем в Мексику!" То, как он
сказал это, меня рассмешило.
Мрачность и строгость его голоса вызвала у меня шутливый вопрос, "Ты
собираешься жениться на мне?"
Посмотрев на меня, он вдруг остановился. "Это не шутки," зло отрезал
он. "Это - реальность." Как только он это сказал, как он улыбнулся и
покачал головой. "Что я делаю?" Сказал он, смешно и беспомощно
жестикулируя. "Я злюсь на тебя, как-будто у меня на это есть
время. Как
жаль! Нагуал
Juan Matus предупреждал меня, что мы - ничто до самого конца." Он
крепко меня обнял, как-будто меня не было долгое время и я только что
вернулась.
"Не думаю, это такая уж хорошая идея мне ехать в Мексику," сказала я.
"Анулируй
всё, что не такое важное. Больше времени нет." Он командовал как
военный, отдающий приказы. Так как я была в праздничном настроении,
я не могла не ответить "Jawohl, mein
Gruppenfuehrer! (Есть, мой фюрер!)" Он расслабился и рассмеялся.
Когда
мы ехали через Аризону, какое-то странное чувство вдруг охватило меня.
Это было чувство в теле, вроде холода, который шёл от моей матки по
всему моему телу и вызвал мурашки по всей коже; давая понять, что
что-то не так. В этом чувстве был новый элемент, с которым я до сих пор
не встречалась; полная уверенность без намёков, права я или не права.
"Интуиция мне подсказывает, что что-то не так!" Сказала я, повышенным
против воли, голосом. Isidore
Baltazar кивнул, затем сказал как бы между прочим, "Колдуны уходят."
"Когда?" Мой крик был совершенно неожиданным.
"Может
завтра или послезавтра," ответил он. "Или может быть, через месяц, но
их уход неизбежен."
Облегчённо
вздохнув, я откинулась в сиденье и стала отдыхать. "Они говорили о том,
что уходят c того дня, когда я их впервые встретила 3 года назад,"
я бурчала, но в действительности я себя хорошо не чувствовала, говоря
это. Isidore
Baltazar повернулся посмотреть на меня, его лицо выражало
полную неприязнь. Я видела, как он старался стиреть с лица своё
неудовлетворение. Он улыбнулся, затем похлопал меня по коленке и тихо
сказал,
"В Мире Колдунов мы не можем быть точными. Если Колдуны
тебе что-то повторяют, до тех пор пока тебе это не надоест до смерти,
это потому что они хотят подготовить тебя к этому." Он быстро посмотрел
на меня своими неулыбчивыми глазами и добавил, "Не путай их магические
поступки с твоими идиотскими." Я кивнула без слов, его реплика не
обидела меня: я и без того была была напугана. Я хранила молчание.
Поездка совсем не была долгой или это мне просто казалось. Мы вели
машину и спали по очереди и в полдень следующего дня мы были в доме
Колдунь. В момент, когда заглох мотор, мы оба выпрыгнули из машины,
грохнули дверьми и побежали в дом Колдунь.
254-255
"Что
случилось?" сказал завхоз. Он стоял у парадной двери и похоже был
изумлён нашим неожиданным и шумным прибытием. "Вы оба ссоритесь или
бегаете друг за другом?" Он посмотрел на
Isidore Baltazar, а потом на меня. "Дааа, так бегать!"
"Когда вы покидаете? Когда вы уходите?" механически повторяла
я, не в силах больше совладать с растущей тревогой и страхом.
Рассмеявшись,
завхоз успокающе потрепал меня по спине и сказал, "Я никуда не ухожу,
вы от меня так легко не избавитесь." Его слова звучали достаточно
искренними, они меня не успокоили. Я рассматривала его лицо, его глаза,
увидеть смогу ли я обнаружить обман. Всё, что я видела, была
искренность и доброта. Поняв, что Isidore Baltazar возле
меня больше не стоял, я забеспокоилась опять. Он исчез быстро и
бесшумно как тень. Чувствуя мою тревогу, завхоз указал подбородком на
дом. Я услышала как голос Isidore Baltazar
усиливается, как-будто он протестует, а затем я услышала его смех.
"Все здесь?" спросила я, стараясь пройти мимо завхоза.
"Они
внутри," сказал он, блокируя мне дорогу своими вытянутыми руками. "В
настоящий момент они не могут тебя видеть." Видя, что я собралась
протестовать, он добавил, "Они не ожидали тебя. Они хотят, чтобы я
сначала поговорил с тобой, прежде чем они будут." Он взял меня за руку
и повёл подальше от двери. "Пойдём на задний двор и соберём листья,"
предложил он. "Мы сожжём их и оставим пепел для водяных фей. Может они
превратят их в золото."
Мы вообще не разговаривали пока собирали
кучу за кучей листьев, но физическая работа и звук граблей, царапающих
землю, успокоил меня. Казалось, что мы собирали и сжигали листья
часами, когда вдруг я осознала, что есть ещё кто-то во дворе. Я быстро
повернула голову и увидела Флоринду. Одетая в белые штаны и жакет, сидя
на скамейке под деревом, она была похожа на привидение. Её лицо
затеняла широкополая соломенная шляпа, а в руке она держала кружевной
веер. Она выглядела не совсем как человек и такая отдалённая, что я
просто стояла не двигаясь, в полном изумлении. Не понимая, даст ли она
мне знать, я прошла к ней несколько нерешительных шагов. Заметив, что
она не отреагировала на моё присуствие, я ждала так и не решив. Не то, чтобы
я хотела защититься от того, что мне отказали или что ко мне отнеслись,
как не к такой важной персоне, скорее какое-то неопределённое, всё-таки
подсознательно понятое, правило удерживало меня от требования, чтобы
она обратила внимание на меня. Однако когда завхоз присоединился к
Флоринде на скамейке, я потянулась за граблями, осталенным у дерева, и
потихоньку стала приближаться к ним. Рассеянно ухмыляясь, завхоз
посмотрел на меня, но его внимание было приковано к на то, что говорила
Флоринда. Они разговаривали на языке, который я не понимала, и всё-таки
я их слушала как зачарованная. Был ли это язык или её влияние на
старика, я не знаю; но её хрипловатый голос был необычно тихим,
странным и завораживающе нежным.
Она резко встала со скамейки, как-будто заведённая какой-то скрытой
пружиной, она зигзагом пересекла просеку как колибри;
останавливаясь на момент рядом с каждым деревом; трогая лист там,
цветок здесь. Я подняла руку привлечь её внимание, но мне помешала
яркая синяя бабочка, бросая синие тени в воздухе. Она летела по
направлению ко мне и уселась мне на руку. Широкие вибрирующие крылья
распустились и их тёмные тени упали на мои пальцы.
Она ногами
потёрла свою голову, и после того, как открыла и закрыла свои крылья
несколько раз, она полетела опять, оставляя на моём среднем пальце
кольцо в форме треугольной бабочки. Уверенная, что это было оптической
иллюзией, я несколько раз тряхнула рукой. "Это - трюк, не так ли?"
спросила я завхоза дрожащим голосом. "Это - оптическая иллюзия?" Завхоз покачал
головой и его лицо сморщилось в самую лучистую улыбку.
"Это - прекрасное кольцо," сказал он, держа мою руку в своей. "Это
восхитительный подарок."
"Подарок,"
повторила я. У меня появилась интуиция и быстро исчезла, оставив меня
растерянной и изумлённой. "Кто надел кольцо на мой палец?" спросила я,
уставившись на украшение. Антенна и тонкое, удлинённое тело,
разделяющие треугольник, были оправлены в белый золотой орнамент и
покрыты маленькими бриллиантами.
256-257
"Разве раньше ты не замечала кольцо?" спросил завхоз.
"Раньше?" повторила я, обалдев. "Когда раньше?"
"Ты носила это кольцо с тех пор, как Флоринда тебе дала его," ответил
он.
"Но
когда?" спросила я, затем подняла руку ко рту сдержать свой шок. "Я не
могу вспомнить, чтобы Флоринда дала мне кольцо," сказала я скорее себе,
чем ему. "И почему я не замечала кольца раньше?" завхоз
пожал плечами, не находя слов, чтобы объяснить мою рассеянность, потом
высказал, что возможно, я не замечала кольца, потому что оно так точно
подходит моему пальцу. Похоже он хотел ещё что-то сказать, но
остановился и вместо этого предложил собрать больше листьев. "Я не
могу," сказала я. "Мне нужно поговорить с Флориндой."
"Тебе нужно?"
протянул он тоном того, кто слышит нелепую и наверно нелогичную идею.
Но он не стал меня разубеждать, только сказал, "Она пошла прогуляться,"
указывая подбородком на тропинку, ведущую в холмы.
"Я догоню её," заявила я. Я увидела её белую фигуру, появляющуюся вдали
из-за кустов.
"Она идёт далеко," предупредил меня завхоз.
"Это
- не проблема," заверила я его и побежала за Флориндой, потом замедлила
до того, как достигнуть её. У неё была восхитительная походка:
она двигалась прямо, живо, без труда как атлет. Чувствуя
моё присуствие, она вдруг встала, затем повернулась и протянула руки
жестом приветствия.
"Как
ты, дорогая?" сказала она, смотря на меня. Её хриплый голос был лёгким,
чётким и очень тихим. В моей решимости узнать о кольце, я даже эабыла
её как следует поприветствовать. Запинаясь, я спросила её, надела ли
она кольцо на мой палец. "Оно теперь моё?"
"Да,"
сказала она. "Оно твоё по праву." Было что-то в её тоне; чувство
убеждённости, что и волновало, и ужасало меня. Однако до меня даже не
дошло отказаться от, без сомнения, дорогого подарка.
"Кольцо имеет магическую силу?" спросила я, держа руку на свету, так
чтобы каждый камень сверкал завораживающим блеском.
"Нет,"
засмеялась она. "Оно не имеет никакой силы, хотя это особое кольцо, не
из-за его стоимости или из-за того, что принадлежало мне, а потому что
человек, кто сделал это кольцо, был экстра-ординарным Нагуалом."
"Он был ювелир?" спросила я. "Это был тот же самый человек, кто сделал
те странные фигуры в комнате завхоза?"
"Тот
же самый," ответила она. "Хотя он и не был ювелиром. Он также не был
скульптором. Даже мысль, что его можно рассматривать как художника,
смешила его. Однако любой, кто видел его работы, не мог не отметить,
что только художник мог создать такие экстраординарные вещи, какие
создавал он."
Флоринда отодвинулась от меня на несколько шагов и
глазами обвела холмы, как-будто вдали она искала воспоминания. Затем
она ещё раз повернулась ко мне и, едва слышным, шёпотом сказала, что
что бы этот Нагуал не сделал, было то кольцо, кирпичную стену,
таинственные изобретения, или просто картонная коробка, это неизбежно
превращалось в утончённое искусство; не только в смысле мастерства
выполнения, но и потому, что это становилось насыщенным чем-то
непередаваемым.
"Если такой экстраординарный человек сделал это кольцо, тогда оно
должно иметь какую-то силу," настаивала я.
"Само
кольцо не имеет силы, неважно кто его сделал," заверила меня Флоринда.
"Сила была в процессе создания кольца. Нагуал, кто сделал это кольцо,
был настолько сильно связан к тем, что Колдуны называют Интент, что он
мог создать эту прекрасную драгоценность, не быв ювелиром. Кольцо было
актом чистого Интента."
Не желая выглядеть глупой, я не смела
признать, что понятия не имею, что она подразумевала под Интентом.
Поэтому я спросила её, что заставило её сделать мне такой замечательный
подарок. "Я не думаю, что заслуживаю его," добавила я.
"Ты
воспользуешься кольцом, чтобы связать себя с Интентом," сказала она.
"Усмешка разлилась на её лице, когда она добавила, "Но
естественно, ты
уже знаешь как связать себя с Интентом."
258-259
"Ничего подобного я не знаю," пробормотала я в свою защиту, потом
призналась, что на самом деле не знаю, что такое Интент.
"Ты
может и не знаешь, что это слово значит," сказала она, "Но интуиция в
тебе подсказывает, как связаться с этой Силой." Она подвинула свою
голову ближе к моей и прошептала, что я всегда использовала Интент
двигаться из Полёта в реальность или связать свой Полёт - где бы он не
происходил - с реальностью. Она взглянула на меня, без сомнения ожидая,
что я сделаю явные выводы. Видя моё непонимающее выражение, она
добавила,
"Оба: изобретения в комнате завхоза и кольцо были
сделаны в Осознанных Полётах."
"Я всё ещё не понимаю," жаловалась я.
"Изобретения
напугали тебя," сказала она спокойно. "А кольцо доставляет тебе
удовольствие. Так как они оба - Полёты, то это легко может быть
противоположным..."
"Ты пугаешь меня, Флоринда. Что ты имеешь ввиду?"
"Это,
дорогая, Мир Полётов. Мы учим тебя, как справиться самой с ними со
всеми." Её тёмные блестящие глаза какой-то момент задержались на моих и
затем она добавила, "В настоящий момент, все Колдуны группы Нагуала Mariano
Aureliano помогают тебе войти в этот Мир и помогают тебе остаться в нём
сейчас."
"Это - другой Мир? Или я сама другая?"
"Ты
- та же самая, но в другом мире." Какой-то момент она молчала, потом
подтвердила, что у меня больше энергии, чем раньше. "Энергия, которая
приходит из твоих накоплений и которую мы все одалживаем тебе." Её
банковская метафора была мне так ясна. Только я всё ещё на усекла, что
она имела ввиду под "другой мир". "Посмотри вокруг себя!" воскликнула
она, раздвинув широко руками. "Это - не Повседневный Мир." Она долго
молчала, потом низким, мягким бормотанием добавила. "Могут бабочки
превратиться в круги в Повседневном Мире; в мире, который был надёжно и
строго сконструирован ролями, данными всем нам?" У меня не было слов, я посмотрела вокруг: на
деревья, кусты, на отдалённые горы. То, что она имела ввиду под "другой
мир" всё ещё не дошло до меня, но мысль, которая наконец дошла до меня.
"Это - не то!" Настаивала Флоринда, читая мои мысли. "Это - мечта
Колдуна.
Ты попала в него, потому что у тебя достаточно энергии." Она кинула в
меня безнадёжный взгляд и сказала. "Нет способа учить
Женщин Полётам, это и не нужно (они это
делают автоматически без всяких инструкцй! ЛМ).
Всё, что может быть
сделано, чтобы поднять их выше, это - объяснить им, чтобы они поняли,
какой Мощный Потенциал они
носят в своём органическом строении (Матка). Так как Полёты для
Женщины возможны только, когда она имеет достаточно Энергии в своём
распряжении,
важным является убедить её в необходимости изменить её обычаи,
уничтожить религии и рутину, чтобы освободить, нужную ей, энергию.
Использование этой энергии будет автоматическим и тогда у Женщин Полёты
становятся как у Колдунь, в тот момент когда у них появляется
достаточно своей освободившейся энергии." Она доверительно добавила,
что была трудность для Женщин справиться с собственными недостатками.
Необходимо вдохновить Женщин
храбростью, чтобы они могли завоевать Новые Горизонты. Большинство
Женщин - и она отнесла себя к их числу -
предпочитают надёжные кандалы на Земле ужасу всего Нового,
Неизведанного (в
Новой Вселенной! ЛМ).
"Осознанные Полёты (Dreaming) - только для храбрых Женщин," прошептала
она мне в ухо. Затем
громко рассмеялась и добавила, "Или для тех Женщин,
у кого нет другого
выхода, потому что условия их жизни настолько невыносимы, и эта
категория, к
которой относится большинство Женщин, не зная этого." (Имеется ввиду Женщины в Старой
Вселенной и не только на Земле, но и на
многих других планетах, лунах, астероидах, кометах и НЛО ! ЛМ).
Звук
её хрипловатого смеха возымел странный эффект на меня. Я почувствовала,
как-будто проснулась от глубокого сна и вспомнила что-то полностью
забытое, пока я спала.
"Isidoro Baltazar сказал мне о вашем приближающемся уходе. Когда это
случится?"
"Я
пока ещё никуда не ухожу." Её голос был твёрдым, но звенел неумолимой
печалью. "Твой учитель Полётов и я останемся. Остальные уходят."
Я не совсем поняла, что она имела ввиду, и чтобы спрятать это, я
шутливо прокомментировала. "Мой учитель Полётов - Зулейка, не сказала
мне ни одного слова за три года. Собственно говоря, она никогда даже не говорила со мной. Ты
и Esperanza, вы -
единственные, кто действительно вёл меня и учил."
Взрывы
смеха Флоринды эхом раздавались вокруг нас, радостный звук, который
принёс мне грандиозное облегчение, и всё же я была удивлена.
"Объясни
мне кое-что, Флоринда," начала я. "Когда ты дала мне это кольцо? Как
получилось, что собирая листья с завхозом, у меня появилось это кольцо?"
260-261
Лицо
Флоринды излучало полнейшее удовольствие, когда она объясняла, что
легко можно сравнить: собирание листьев - это одна из дверей в Полёт
Колдунов, только если у человека имеется достаточно энергии перейти
этот порог. Она взяла мою руку в свою и добавила, "Я дала тебе кольцо,
когда ты пересекала этот порог, поэтому твой ум не зарегистрировал это
действие. Неожиданно, когда ты уже была в Полёте, ты обнаружила кольцо
на пальце."
Я с любопытством посмотрела на неё. В её объяснении было
что-то я не могла схватить: что-то такое туманное, такое неясное.
"Пойдём в дом," предложила она, "и опять пересечём этот порог. Может
тогда ты осознаешь это."
Спокойно, мы повторили наши шаги, подойдя к
дому сзади. Я шла несколько шагов впереди Флоринды, так чтобы полностью
всё осознавать.
Я рассматривала деревья, плитку, стены; готовая заметить изменения или
что-то такое, что могло дать мне знак к переходу. Я ничего не заметила,
кроме того, что завхоза там уже не было. Я обернулась, чтобы сказать
Флоринде, что я определённо пропустила переход, но её за мной нигде не
было. Она ушла и оставила меня там одну. Я вошла в дом, он, как обычно,
был пуст. Чувство одиночества больше не пугало меня: больше не давало
мне чувства, что меня бросили. Механически, я пошла на кухню и съела
куриные tamales, которые были
оставлены в корзине. Затем я
пошла к своему гамаку и попыталась собраться с мыслями.
Я проснулась и обнаружила себя, лежащей на раскладушке, в маленькой,
тёмной комнате. Я отчаянно искала каких-то знаков того, что
происходило.
Я
сидела прямо, пока наблюдала за двигающимися тенями, крадущимися у
двери. Хотелось выяснить была ли дверь открыта и тени были внутри, я
нашла ночной горшок
под раскладушкой - который, я как-то знала, что был там - и бросила его
в тени. Горшок с оглушающим грохотом оказался наружи и тени исчезли.
Удивляясь, может мне они просто почудились, я вышла наружу. Не решив, я
уставилась на высокий деревянный забор, окружающий просеку, и тогда,
через секунду я знала, где находилась: я стояла сзади маленького
домика. Всё это пролетело через мозг пока я искала ночной горшок,
который откатился прямо к забору. Когда я нагнулась, чтобы его
подобрать, то увидела как койот протискивается сквозь забор.
Механически, я бросила горшок в животное, но горшок вместо этого ударил
в камень. Безразличный к грохоту и к моему присуствию, койот пересёк
просеку. Он нагло повернул свою голову несколько раз, чтобы посмотреть
на меня. Его мех переливался как серебро. Его пушистый хвост обметал
разные камни как волшебная палочка.
И
каждый камень, который он трогал, оживал. Камни с блестящими глазами
подскакивали и двигали свои губы, задавая странные вопросы голосами,
слишком тихими, чтобы их услышать. Я закричала; камни испуганно и
невероятно быстро подвинулись ко мне. Я тут же поняла, что я в
Осознанном Полёте.
"Это - один из моих обычных ночных кошмаров,"
пробормотала я себе под нос. "С монстрами, страхом и всем остальным."
Убеждённая, что как только
я узнаю и голосом заявлю о проблеме, я
нейтрализую её эффект на меня. Я уже было собралась бросить и сжиться с
идеей ночного ужаса, как услышала голос говорит, "Проверь канал
Полётов." Я обернулась: Esperanza
стояла под рамадой, присматривая за огнём
на поднятой платформе, сделанной из бамбука и покрытой толстым слоем
глины. Она смотрелась странной и отдалённой в горящем, двигающемся
свете огня, как-будто она дистационно была отделена от меня, что не
имело ничего общего с пространством. "Не бойся," приказала она. Потом
она снизила свой голос до бормотанья и сказала,
"Мы все разделяем Полёты друг друга, но сейчас ты не в Полёте."
Сомнение должно быть разлилось по всему моему лицу. "Верь мне, ты не в Полёте,"
заверила она меня. Я подошла немного ближе. Не только её голос казался
незнакомым, но она сама была какая-то другая. С того места, где я
стояла,
она была Esperanza; тем не менее
она выглядела как Зулейка. Я пододвинулась очень близко к ней: это была
Зулейка!
Молодая, сильная и очень красивая. Ей не было больше 40. Её овальное
лицо обрамляли кудрявые чёрные волосы, превращающиеся в седые.
262-263
У
неё было гладкое бледное лицо, подчёркнутое живыми тёмными глазами,
стоящими широко друг от друга. Её взгляд был отрешённый, завораживающий
и очень чистый. Её короткая, тонкая верхняя губа намекала на
серьёзность, тогда как полная, привлекательная нижняя губа давала знаки
нежности и страсти. Очарованная переменой в ней, я просто уставилась на
неё. Я определённо должно быть в Полёте, подумала я. Её ясный смех
заставил меня понять, что она читает мои мысли. Она взяла мою руку в
свою и тихо сказала, "Ты не в Полёте, моя дорогая. Это я в самом деле.
Я твой учитель Полётов. Я - Зулейка. Esperanza - это моя другая
личность. Колдуны называют это - Тело в Полёте (или Двойник, или Энергетическое
Тело, ЛМ)."
Моё сердце забилось с такой силой, что заболела грудь. Я почти
задохнулась от волнения и беспокойства. Я попыталась отдёрнуть руку, но
она держала её мёртвой хваткой, которую
я не смогла одолеть. Я
плотно закрыла глаза и больше, чем что либо, я хотела, чтобы она ушла,
когда я их открою снова. И конечно, она была там, её губы раздвинулись
в сверкающей улыбке. Я снова закрыла глаза, потом прыгнула вверх и
вниз, потопала ногой по земле, как-будто я сошла с ума. Своей свободной
рукой я несколько раз ударила себя по лицу, пока оно не стало гореть от
боли. И всё напрасно: я не могла проснуться. Каждый раз когда
я
открывала глаза, она была здесь. "Я думаю, этого достаточно,"
засмеялась она, а я попросила её ударить меня. Она с готовностью
согласилась, дав мне пару ударов длинной, крепкой клюшкой по верхней
части руки. "Дорогая, это бесполезно." Она говорила медленно, как-будто
она очень устала, затем глубоко вдохнула и отпустила мою руку. Потом
она снова заговорила, "Ты не в Полёте, и я - Зулейка. Но когда я в
Полёте, то я - Esperanza; и кое-что
ещё, но я не собираюсь вдаваться в это сейчас."
Я хотела что-нибудь сказать, но не могла говорить: язык не слушался
меня, его паразизовало и всё, что я могла извлечь из себя, был
всхлипывающий, похожий на собачий, звук. Я постаралась успокоиться
дыханием, которому научилась в классе йоги. Похоже, глядя на мои
старомодные приёмы, она посмеивалась. Это был поощрительный звук,
который имел успокающее влияние на меня: он излучал так много тепла,
такое глубокое доверие, что моё тело мгновенно отхохнуло.
"Ты
- манипулятор," продолжала она. "И по всем правам, ты принадлежишь
Флоринде." Её тон предполагал никаких споров и никаких противоречий.
"Ты
также лунатик и великолепный натуральный внетелесный путешественник,
благодаря твоим способностям, ты также принадлежишь мне." Одна
часть меня хотела громко рассмеяться и сказать ей, что она просто
сумасшедшая. Но другая часть меня была в полном согласии с её
заявлениями. Я неуверенно спросила. "Как ты хочешь, чтобы я тебя
называла?"
"Каким
именем?" повторила она, глядя на меня, как-будто это должно быть
очевидным. "Я - Зулейка. Ты что думаешь это? Игра? Мы здесь в игры не
играем."
Растерявшись от её эмоциональности, я смогла только
промямлить. "Нет, я не думаю, что это игра."
"Когда я в Полёте, я - Esperanza," продолжала она, голос
резкий от интенсивности. Её лицо - суровое, но в то же время, лучистое
и открытое, без всякой жалости. "Когда я в обычной жизни (не в Полёте),
я - Зулейка. Но Зулейка я или Esperanza или
что-то ещё, для тебя не должно иметь никакого значения. Я для тебя
остаюсь твой учительПолётов." Всё, что я могла сделать это по-идиотски
кивать. Даже если у меня было что сказать, я бы не смогла. Холодный
обволакивающий пот от страха пробежал по телу. Я чуть не обкакалась, а
мочевой пузырь чуть не лопнул. Я хотела бежать в туалет и освободиться
от всего этого. В конце концов я не могла больше терпеть. Это был
вопрос - опозориться прямо там или бежать в туалет. У меня на это
еле-еле хватило сил. Смех Зулейки напоминал хохот молодой девушки и
следовал за мной до самого туалета. Когда я вернулась к просеке, она
попросила меня сесть рядом с ней на ближайшую скамейку. Я механически
подчинилась и тяжело уселась на краю, нервозно положив руки на свои
сжатые коленки. Был определённо безжалостный, но также добрый блеск в
её глазах. Дошёл до меня вспышкой, как-будто он раньше мне был знаком,
что её безжалостность была больше, чем что-то ещё, это была внутренняя
дисциплина. Её безупречный само-контроль отпечатался на всём её
существе особо привлекательной таинственностью и нереальностью.
264-265
Не
спрятанная секретность и негативное прячущее поведение, а
таинственность Неизведанного. Это и была причина почему я следовала за
ней везде как щенок, когда бы и где бы я её не увидела.
"У тебя были две трансформации сегодня," объяснила Зулейка. "Одна -
будучи бодрствующей до Осознанного Полёта и другая - наоборот: с Осознанного Полёта до обычного состояния
бодрствования. Первое прошло гладко и незаметно, второе было похоже на
ночной кошмар. Это нормальное положение
вещей, мы все испытываем подобного рода переходы (с одной вибрации на другую. ЛМ)."
Я
с трудом выдавила из себя улыбку, "Но я до сих пор не знаю, что я
делаю, я не осознаю никаких шагов. Вещи просто случаются со мной и я
нахожу себя в Полёте, не зная как я попала в Полёт."
Был блеск в её глазах и она сказала, "Что делается сначала - это начать
Полёты, заснув в гамаке или в каком-то пристёгнутом устройстве, висящим
с балки крыши или с дерева. Подвешенные в таком положении, мы не имеем
никакого контакта с землёй. Земля негативно приземляет нас. В этом
подвешенном состоянии, начинающий внетелесный путешественник может
изучить как Энергия (вибрация) переходит от бодрствования к Полёту и от
Полёта к Осознанному Полёту. Всё дело, как Флоринда уже тебе сказала, в
достатке Энергии. Как только она у тебя появилась, ты улетаешь.
Сейчас
твоя
проблема будет в том, сможешь ли ты сама накопить
достаточно Энергии, так как Колдуны больше не смогут одалживать тебе
свою Энергию." Зулейка в комической манере подняла брови и добавила,
"Посмотрим. Я постараюсь напомнить тебе в следующий раз, когда мы
разделим Полёты друг друга." Видя разочарование на моём лице, она с
детским задором рассмеялась.
"И
как же мы разделим Полёты друг друга?" спросила я, глядя в её
изумлённые глаза. Они были тёмные и светящимися лучами, исходили от
зрачков.
Вместо того,
чтобы ответить, Зулейка бросила ещё несколько палок в огонь. Огненный
пепел, затухающего огня, взвился и разлился по земле, сделав свет ярче.
Мгновенье она неподвижно стояла, устремив глаза в костёр, как-будто она
впитывала свет оттуда. Резко повернувшись и какой-то момент смотря на
меня, она присела и обернула свои сильные мускулистые руки вокруг своих
коленок. Смотря в темноту, слушая потрескивания огня, она раскачивалась
из стороны в сторону.
"Как
мы разделяем Полёты друг друга?"
спросила я снова. Зулейка прекратила раскачиваться, тряхнула головой,
затем посмотрела вверх, удивлённая, как бы вдруг разбуженная.
"Мне это невозможно объяснить тебе сейчас," заявила она. "Полёты
невозможно понять, их нужно чувствовать, а не обсуждать. Также, как и в
Повседневном Мире, до того, как что-то объясняют и это анализируют,
нужно это испытать." Она говорила медленно и с растановкой, признав,
что это было важно объяснить по мере прохождения учёбы. "И всё-таки,
иногда объяснения - преждевременны, и сейчас, как раз, тот самый
момент. Когда-нибудь это всё прояснится для тебя," обещала Зулейка,
видя разочарование на моём лице. Быстрым, лёгким движением она встала
на ноги и пошла посмотреть на пламя, как-будто её глазам нужно было
питаться от света. Её тень от огня, чудовищно выросла на стене и
потолке рамады. Кивнув, она повернулась, сопровождаемая шелестом её
длинной юбки, и исчезла внутри дома. Не в силах двигаться, я стояла как
вкопанная. Я с трудом могла дышать пока стук её сандалий не затих.
"Не оставляй меня здесь!" закричала я в панике. "Есть вещи, которые мне
нужно знать."
Зулейка мгновенно
материлизовалась у двери. "Что тебе нужно знать?" спросила она
равнодушным, почти раздражительным тоном.
"Извини," пробормотала
я, глядя в её сверкающие глаза. Я всматривалась в неё почти
загипнотизированная. "Я не хотела кричать," добавила я извинительным
тоном. "Я подумала, что ты пошла в одну из комнат." Я умоляюще
посмотрела на неё, надеясь, что она мне что-то объяснит, но она не
объяснила. Всё, что она сделала это, снова спросила меня, что в
действительности, я хотела знать. "Ты со мной будешь разговаривать,
когда я тебя снова увижу?" выдала я неожиданно, первое, что пришло в
голову; боясь, что она уйдёт, если я не продолжу разговор.
"Когда я тебя снова увижу, мы не будем в том же самом мире как раньше,"
сказала она. "Кто знает, что мы там будем делать?"
266-267
"Но
когда-то," настаивала я, "ты сама сказала мне, что ты - мой учитель
Полётов. Не оставляй меня в темноте, объяни кое-какие вещи мне.
Мучение, которое я испытываю, больше, чем я могу выдержать. Я -
раздвоена."
"Да,
ты - раздвоена," сказала она в порядке вещей, посмотрев на меня глазами
полными доброты. "Но это только от того, что ты никак не оставишь своё
старое поведение. Ты - превосходный Летун. Мозги лунатиков имеют мощный
потенциал. Это если... ты улучшишь свой характер." Я с трудом
разобрала, что она сказала, старалась собраться с мыслями, но не могла.
Последовательность образов событий, которые я не совсем помнила,
пролетела в уме с невероятной скоростью. Вне моей воли был контроль их
порядка или их природы. Те образы были трансформированы в ощущения,
которые, хоть и точные, не поддавались определению; не поддавались
формулированию в слова или даже в мысли. Явно видя мою неспособность,
лицо Зулейки осветила широкая улыбка.
"Мы все помогали Нагуалу Mariano Aureliano всю
дорогу протолкнуть тебя во Второе Внимание (вибрация 5го Уровня Сознания! ЛМ),"
сказала она медленно и тихо. "Там мы
находим плавность, текучесть, непрерывность и последовательность, как
мы делаем в нашем Повседневном Мире. В обоих состояниях доминирует
практика. Мы эффективно действуем в обоих состояниях. Однако, что мы не
можем делать во Втором Внимании, это - ломать то, что мы испытываем, на
куски, так чтобы потрогать это и, таким образом, быть уверенным, что мы
можем это понять." Пока она говорила,
я себе думала - 'она напрасно
теряет время, высказывая мне всё это. Разве она не знает, что я слишком
глупая, чтобы понять её объяснения?' Но она продолжала говорить, широко
улыбаясь, явно зная, что для меня признаться, что я не очень умная,
означало, что я каким-то образом изменилась. В противном случае, я
бы никогда не признала такое, даже самой себе.
"Во Втором Внимании," продолжала она, "или, как я предпочитаю называть
это, когда находишься в Осознанном Полёте, приходится верить, что Полёт
- такой же настоящий, как и Повседневный Мир (Осознанный
Полёт - это когда ты помнишь, куда
летаешь, а если не помнишь, то это просто Полёт! ЛМ).
Другими словами, приходиться это принять, не протестуя. Для Колдунов,
все мировые поиски или поиски в других мирах управляются совершенными,
безупречными действиями, а в, казалось бы, несовершенных действиях лежит девиз - 'прими
это не протестуя' ! И этот девиз -
не просто согласие. Этот девиз включает в
себя динамический элемент: он включает в себя
действие!" Её голос был очень
тихим, когда она закончила: в глазах - лихорадочный блеск.
"Как только
начинается Осознанный Полёт, открывается Мир манящих неисследованных
возможностей; Мир, где неуёмная СМЕЛОСТЬ И НАСТОЯЩЕЕ НАХАЛЬСТВО
становятся реальностью;
где ожидается
НЕОЖИДАННОЕ. Это момент, когда определённо начинается
человеческое приключение. Мир становится безграничным из-за
возможностей и удивительного." Зулейка долго молчала, казалось
думала, что ещё сказать. "С помощью Нагуала Mariano Aureliano, ты
даже однажды видела Свечение Surem," начала она и её
меланхолический голос превратился в ещё тише,
"Surem - магические существа,
которые существуют только в индейских легендах; существа, которые
Колдуны могут видеть только когда находятся в Осознанном
Полёте, самого глубокого уровня. Они светятся как светящиеся люди (одного такого я сняла на фото в
нашем саду, только не помню теперь где это фото, было давно, ЛМ)."
Она пожелала мне спокойной ночи, повернулась и исчезла внутри дома.
Какой-то момент я стояла оцепеневшая, потом помчалась за ней. Не успела
я достигнуть порог, как услышала голос Флоринды за мной сказал,
"Не следуй за ней!"
Присуствие Флоринды было настолько неожиданным, что мне пришлось
облокотиться на стену и подождать когда биение моего сердца станет
нормальным. "Иди сюда и составь мне компанию," сказала Флоринда. Она
сидела на лавке и добавляла дров в огонь. Обманчивый свет в её глазах и
призрачная белизна её волос были больше как память, чем реальность.
Я растянулась на скамейке рядом с ней и, как-будто это была самая
естественная вещь, положила свою голову на её колени. "Никогда не
следуй за Зулейкой или также за кем-то из нас, только если тебя
попросили это сделать," сказала Флоринда, прочёсывая пальцами мои
волосы. "Как ты теперь знаешь, Зулейка не то, чем она кажется. Она
намного, намного больше, чем это. Никогда не старайся разобраться в
ней, потому что когда ты думаешь, что обдумала все возможности, она
сокрушит тебя, тем, что она больше, чем ты можешь себе вообразить в
своих самых диких фантазиях."
"Я
знаю," вздохнула я с удовольствием. Я чувствовала как напряжение
отходит от моего лица. Чувствовала как оно покидает моё тело. "Зулейка
- Surem из гор Bacatete,"
сказала я с абсолютной убеждённостью. "Я всё время знала об этих
существах." Видя изумление на лице Флоринды, я храбро продолжала,
"Зулейка не родилась как обычный человек. Она была основана, она - само
Колдовство."
268
"Нет," Флоринда никак не соглашалась со мной. "Зулейка была рождена как
обычный человек, а Esperanza
не была." Она улыбнулась и
добавила, "Это - стоющая усилий загадка для тебя."
"Я думаю, что понимаю, но я слишком бесчувственна и не могу
формулировать то, что понимаю."
"Ты справляешься неплохо," она тихо помеивалась,"Быть такой
бесчувственной, какая ты обычно, поэтому тебе придётся подождать, пока
ты действительно не проснёшься на
100%, чтобы понять. Сейчас ты только на 50% проснулась. Трюк -
оставаться на повышенной вибрации Повышенного Сознания, в нём -
невозможного понять для нас не существует." Чувствуя, что я хочу
прервать её,
она закрыла мои губы своей рукой и добавила, "Не думай об этом сейчас.
Всегда помни, что ты - стараешься принуждать, доминировать даже на
Уровне более Высокого Сознания, и твой процесс думать далёк от
совершенства."
Я услышала, что кто-то двигался в тенях за кустами. "Кто там?" спросила
я, пристав. Я посмотрела вокруг, но никого не увидела. Женский смех
эхом пронёсся через двор.
"Ты не можешь их видеть," сказала сонная Флоринда.
"А почему они прячутся от меня?" Спросила я. Флоринда улыбнулась.
"Они не прячутся от тебя. Просто ты не можешь их видеть без помощи
Нагуала Mariano Aurliano."
Я не знала, что на это ответить. В какой-то степени это было логично,
однако я нашла, что трясу своей головой. "Ты можешь помочь мне видеть
их?"
Флоринда кивнула. "Но твои глаза устали: они устали от того, что видели
слишком много. Тебе нужно поспать." Я нарочно держала глаза широко
открытыми, боясь пропустить того, кто выйдет из кустов, если не буду
внимательна. Я уставилась на листья и тени, больше не различая, что
было что, пока не свалилась в глубоком сне без снов.
Часть 18
269
Завхоз дремал на своей любимой скамейке в тени дерева. Это всё, что он
делал последние два дня. Он больше не подметал патио или разгребал
листья снаружи, а просто сидел часами на этой скамейке и дремал или
смотрел вдаль, как-будто у него были секретные связи с чем-то, что
только он мог видеть. Всё в доме поменялось. 'Может я неправильно
сделала, что приехала сюда?'
Постоянно спрашивала я себя, как обычно чувствуя, вину и оправдания.
Всё, что я делала это: спала необеспокоенная часами без просыпу. Однако
когда я бодрствовала, я в тревоге осознавала, что ничего не было по
прежнему. Бесцельно бродила я вокруг дома, но это ни к чему не
приводило. Казалось что-то улетело из дома. Долгий и громкий вздох
завхоза перебил мои мысли. Не в состоянии больше сдерживать свою
тревогу, я толкнула свои книги в сторону, встала и прошла короткую
дистанцию между нами. "Разве ты не собираешься сгребать и сжигать
листья сегодня?" Спросила я.
Он посмотрел с изумлением, но ничего не ответил. На нём были солнечные
очки, так что я не могла видеть выражение его глаз через чёрные очки.
Не знала остаться ли мне, уйти или ждать ответа.
Боясь, что он опять может задремать, я спросила громким нетерпеливым
тоном, "Есть какая-то причина, почему ты не сгребаешь и не
сжигаешь больше листья?"
270-271
Он ответил на мой вопрос одним из своих, "А разве ты видела или слышала
как листья падали последние два дня?" Его глаза как-будто
сверлили сквозь меня, когда он поднял очки. Это были скорее
серьёзность его тона и манера, чем его заявление,
которое я сочла нелепым, что заставило меня ответить. "Нет," сказала я.
Он подозвал меня сесть рядом с ним на скамейку.
Наклонившись близко ко мне, он прошептал мне в ухо. "Эти деревья точно
знают, когда проститься со своими листьями." Он осмотрел всё вокруг
себя, как-будто он боялся, что нас подслушают, затем добавил тем
же конфедициальным шёпотом, "А сейчас деревья знают, что нет
смысла их листьям падать."
"Листья слабеют и падают независимо от чего-либо," произнесла я с
помпой. "Это - закон природы."
"Эти деревья чрезвычайно капризные," упирал он. "У них свой разум и они
не следуют законам природы."
"Что послужило причиной для деревьев не терять листья?" спросила я,
стараясь сохранять ясность.
"Хороший вопрос," протянул он, задумчиво потерев свой подбородок.
"Боюсь, у меня нет ответа. Деревья пока мне не сказали." Он глупо
улыбался мне и добавил, "Я уже сказал тебе, эти деревья - капризны." Не
успела я ответить, как он спросил невзначай, "Ты сама себе сделала
обед?" Его неожиданная смена темы удивила меня.
"Да," призналась я, затем поколебалась какой-то момент. Почти
вызывающий настрой овладел мной. "Еда меня особо не заботит, я вполне
привыкла есть ту же самую еду каждый день. Если бы не тот факт, что у
меня возникают прыщи, я бы жила на шоколаде и орехах." Выбросив всякую
осторожность на ветер, я начала жаловаться и сказала завхозу, что мне
хотелось, чтобы женщины разговаривали со мной. "Я буду благодарна, если
они дадут мне знать, что происходит. Беспокойство сводит меня с ума."
После того, как я полностью высказалась, я так хорошо себя
почувствовала, вполне облегчённой. "Это правда, что они уходят
навсегда?" спросила я.
"Они уже ушли навсегда," сказал завхоз. Видя моё непонимающее
выражение, он добавил, "Но ты это знала, не так ли? Ты просто заводишь
разговор со мной, не так ли?" Не успела я отойти от шока, как он
спросил меня, искренне удивлённым, тоном, "Почему это тебя шокирует?"
Он остановился на секунду, как бы давая мне время подумать, затем сам
ответил на свой вопрос.
"Ааа, знаю! Ты злишься, потому что они взяли с собой Isidore Baltazar?"
Он несколько раз похлопал меня по спине, как бы подчёркивая каждое
слово. Его взгляд дал мне понять, что ему было всё равно разозлюсь я
или расплачусь. Зная, что у меня нет публики, сразу же дало мне
мгновенное чувство баланса.
"Я этого не знала," пробормотала я. "Клянусь, я не знала." Я уставилась
на него в молчаливом молчании, чувствуя как вся кровь отхлынула от
моего лица. Колени болели, грудь так стянуло, что
я не могла дышать. Зная, что была близка к обмороку, я вцепилась в
скамейку обоими руками. Я слышала голос завхоза в каком-то отдалении.
"Никто не знает, вернётся ли он назад. Даже я не знаю это." Склоняясь
ко мне, он добавил, "Моё собстенное мнение, что он ушёл с ними
временно, но он вернётся; если не сразу, то когда-нибудь. Это моё
мнение." Я искала его глаза, думая не разыгрывает ли он меня. Его
приветливое лицо излучало добрую волю и честность, а его глаза были
простодушными как у ребёнка. "Однако, когда
он возвратится, он больше не будет
Isidore Baltazar," предупредил меня
завхоз. "Isidore Baltazar,
которого ты знала, я думаю, уже ушёл.
"И ты знаешь, что самое печальное?" Он остановился, затем ответил на
свой же вопрос. "Ты настолько принимала его как должное, что даже не
поблагодарила его за всю заботу, за помощь и любовь к тебе. Наша
величайшая трагедия в том, чтобы быть клоунами, не восприимчивыми ни к
чему другому, кроме нашего паясничанья." Я была слишком потрясена,
чтобы сказать хоть слово. Завхоз резко встал на
ноги. Не говоря ни слова, как-будто ему
было слишком стыдно оставаться со мной, он пошёл к тропинке, ведущей к
другому дому.
"Ты не можешь оставлять меня здесь одну," закричала я ему в след.
272-273
Он повернулся, помахал мне и потом начал смеяться. Это был громкий
радостный звук, который раздавался эхом над кустами. Он помахал ещё раз
и исчез, как-будто кусты поглотили его. Не в состоянии следовать за
ним, я ждала когда он вернётся или вдруг неожиданно появитсяпередо мной
и испугает меня до смерти. Я почти
убедила себя в страхе, который я чувствовала в своём теле больше, чем
ожидала его в голове. Как это случалось и раньше, я не слышала и не
видела как подошла Esperanza, но я
чувствовала её присуствие. Я повернулась и она тут, сидит на скамейке под деревом. У меня
выросли крылья, только наблюдая за ней. "Я думала, что не увижу тебя
никогда," вздохнула я.
"Я почти подготовила себя к этому. Думала, что ты ушла."
"Ну что ты!" пожурила она меня в притворном смущении.
"Ты действительно Зулейка?" выдала я.
"Ну уж нет," ответила она. "Я - Esperanza. Что ты делаешь? Сводишь себя с ума
вопросами, на которые никто не может ответить?"
Никогда в своей жизни я не была так близко к полному коллапсу, как в
тот момент. Я чувствовала, что мой мозг не сможет вобрать в себя,
выдержать больше всё это напряжение. Что меня разорвёт на части всё
происходящее горе.
"Девочка, возьми себя в руки," сурово
сказала Esperanza. "Худшее ещё впереди. Но мы на можем жалеть тебя.
Останавливать напряжение сейчас, только потому что ты вот-вот
свихнёшься, немысленно для Колдунов. "Это твой поединок сегодня -
пройти тест, ты или выживешь, или умрёшь; я имею это ввиду в прямом
смысле."
"Я никогда не увижу Isidore Baltazar?" Спросила я, едва
способная говорить сквозь слёзы.
"Я не могу врать тебе, только чтобы тебе было легче. Нет, он никогда не
вернётся. Isidore Baltazar был
только моментом в Колдовстве. Мечта, которая
исчезла после сна. Isidore Baltazar как
мечта, уже ушёл."
Небольшая, почти меланхолическая улыбка извивала её губы. "Что я пока
не знаю это," продолжала она, "ушёл ли мужчина, новый Нагуал, также
навсегда. Ты конечно понимаешь, что даже если он вернётся, он не будет Isidore Baltazar. Он
будет кто-то ещё, кого тебе придётся снова встретить."
"Он будет мне незнаком?" спросила я, не вполне уверенная, что хочу это
знать.
"Я
не знаю, моё дитя," сказала она неуверенно. "Я просто не знаю. Я сама -
Полёт; и также новый Нагуал. Полёты, как мы, недолговечны, вот эта наша
недолговечность и позволяет нам существовать. Ничего не держит нас,
кроме Полёта." Ослеплённая горючими слезами, я едва могла её видеть.
"Чтобы облегчить свою боль, углубись глубже в себя," сказала она тихо.
"Сядь и подними коленки, ухвати нижнюю часть ног скрещенными руками
(правую ногу левой рукой и т.д.). Положи свою голову на колени и дай
печали уйти. Позволь Земле смягчить твою боль, дай
возможность её Лечебной Силе придти к тебе." Я села на земле как она
посоветовала. Через несколько секунд моя печаль исчезла, глубокое
телесное ощущение здоровья заменило мои муки.
Я больше не концентрировалась на себе в прошлом, а только в настоящем:
боли не было. Esperanza
похлопала место рядом с ней на скамейке. Как только я уселась, она
взяла мою руку в свою и потёрла её какой-то момент, как бы массируя её,
потом сказала, что рука была довольно мясистой для такого костлявого
человека. Она повернула её ладонью вверх и стала её довольно пристально
изучать. Она не сказала ни слова и мягко свернула её в кулак. Мы молча
сидели довольно долго. Была вторая половина дня, ничего не было слышно,
кроме ритмичного звука листьев, двигающихся ветром. Пока я смотрела на
неё, самая неожиданная, странная мысль овладела мной. Я знала, что Esperanza и я уже долго
говорили о моём прибытии в дом Колдунь и об уходе Колдунов.
"Что со мной, Esperanza?" спросила я. "Я в
Полёте?"
"Нууу," начала она медленно. Глаза сверкали когда она объявила, чтобы я
проверила Полёт. "Сядь на землю и проверь его." Я так и сделала.
Но всё, что я чувствовала: это - холод камня, на котором я сидела.
Никаких чувств мне послано не было. "Я - не в Полёте," заключила я.
"Тогда почему я чувствую, что мы уже говорили?"
274-275
Я всматривалась в её лицо, чтобы видеть, смогу ли я найти знак решения
моей проблемы, отпечатанный на её чертах лица. "Это в первый раз я тебя
вижу после моего прибытия, но я чувствую, что мы были вместе каждый
день," пробормотала я больше самой себе. "Это уже 7 дней."
"Нет, намного больше. Но ты должна решить эту загадку сама с
минимальной помощью," сказала
Esperanza. Я кивнула в знак согласия. Было так много, что я
хотела
спросить, но я знала и согласилась, что будет бесполезно говорить. Не
знаю почему, но я знала, что мы уже обсудили все мои вопросы. Я уже
была насыщена ответами. Esperanza
осмотрела меня внимательно, как-будто она сомневалась в моих мыслях.
Затем, очень медленно, она отчётливо произнесла свои слова, "Я хочу,
чтобы ты знала, что Сознание, которое ты получила здесь, неважно каким
глубоким и постоянным оно покажется тебе, только временно. Ты вернёшься
назад к своей чепухе достаточно скоро. Это наша, Женщин, судьба; быть
особенно трудными."
"Я думаю, ты неправа," запротестовала я. "Ты меня совсем не знаешь."
"Это как раз, потому что я знаю тебя, я это утверждаю." Она
остановилась на момент и, когда заговорила опять, её голос уже был
твёрдым и серьёзным. "Женщины по своей натуре очень осторожны. Помни,
будучи воспитана стать слугой, делает тебя очень искусной и умной."
Взрыв её резонирующего смеха стёр всякое моё желание протестовать.
"Самое лучшее, что ты можешь сделать, это ничего не говорить," объявила
она. Взяв мою руку, она потянула меня вверх и предложила, чтобы мы
пошли в маленький дом для долгого и очень нужного разговора. Внутрь мы
не пошли, а сели на скамейке у парадной двери. Молча, мы просто сидели
там почти час. Затем
Esperanza повернулась ко мне, какзалось она меня не видит. Собственно,
я удивлялась, может она забыла, что я с ней пришла и сидела рядом.Всё ещё не замечая моё
присуствие, она встала,
отошла на несколько шагов от меня и посмотрела на другой дом,
находящийся среди деревьев. Прошло ещё долгое время, когда она сказала,
"Я собираюсь далеко." Я не могла понять была ли это надежда,
возбуждение или беспокойство, что дало мне странное болезненное
ощущение в желудке. Я знала, что она под дистанцией не имеет ввиду
мили, а другие миры.
"Мне всё равно, куда мы пойдём," ответила я браво, от чего я была
далека. Мне ужасно хотелось знать, но я не смела спросить, что будет в
конце путешествия.
Esperanza
улыбнулась и широко распахнула руки, как бы обнять заходящее Солнце.
Небо на западе было огненно красным;
а дальние горы тёмно-лиловые. Лёгкий ветерок пролетал через деревья.
Листья светились и шелестели. Час молчания прошёл и затем всё
остановилось. Печать сумерков остановила всё вокруг нас, прекратился
каждый звук и движение. Контуры кустов, деревьев и холмов были
настолько точно переданы, что, казалось, их выгравировали на небе.
Я подвинулась ближе к
Esperanza, по мере продвижения чёрных теней на нас и на небо. Вид
другого молчаливого дома с его огнями, мигающими как светлячки в
темноте, вызвали какую-то, глубоко запрятанную, эмоцию во мне. Эта
эмоция не была связана ни с каким чувством того момента, а к печальному
ностальгическому воспоминанию, захороненному ещё в детстве. Я должно
быть была полностью погружена в воспоминания. Вдруг я обнаружила, что
шагаю рядом с
Esperanza.
Моя усталость, моя тревога - всё исчезло. Наполненная переполняющим
чувством задора, я шла в экстазе, в молчаливом восторге, мои ноги шли
вперёд, но не только моим собственным желанием. Тропа, по которой мы
шли, вдруг оборвалась. Земля поднялась и деревья вытянулись высоко над нами.
Огромные
валуны были разбросаны здесь и там. Откуда то издалека раздался звук
бегущей воды, как тихий умиротворяющий шёпот. Вздыхая от неожиданной
усталости, я облокотилась на один из валунов и захотелось, чтобы это
был конец нашего путешествия.
"Мы ещё не достигли нашей цели!" закричала
Esperanza. Она уже была на полпути, влезая на какие-то валуны. Она
двигалась с лёгкостью горной козы и меня не ждала, даже не смотрела
назад, чтобы видеть, что я за ней следую. Моя короткая передышка
ограбила меня моей последней энергии. Пыхтя, я постоянно соскальзывала
с камней, стараясь догнать её. На полпути вверх тропинка изгибалась
вокруг огромного валуна. Сухая и хрупкая растительность перешла в
приятно-пахнущую, но тёмную в свете раннего вечера. Воздух тоже не был
тем же самым.
276-277
Было влажно и для меня легче дышать. Esperanza
двигалась безошибочно вдоль узкой тропинки. Она была полна теней, полна
молчания и шуршания. Она знала каждый таинственный ночной звук.
Она могла различить каждый из пульсирующих трелей, криков, зовов и
шипенья. Тропинка закончилась перед какими-то ступеньками, врезанными в
скалу. Ступени вели к скрытой горе камней.
"Подними один," приказала она, "и положи его в свой карман." Такой же
гладкий, как галька в ручье, все камни выглядели похожими сначала. При
близком рассмотрении однако, я обнаружила, что
они все были разные.
Некоторые
были такими гладкими и блестящими, что казалось их полировали в
специальном барабане. Взяло довольно долго пока я нашла тот, который
мне нравился. Он был тяжёлый, но входил в мою ладонь. Его
светло-коричневая солидная масса была клинообразной формы и пронизана
почти прозрачными белыми венами. Поражённая шумом, я почти уронила
камень.
"Нас кто-то преследует!" прошептала я.
"Никто за нами не идёт," воскликнула
Esperanza со взглядом озорства и недоверия. Видя как я спряталась за
деревом, она тихо посмеялась и сказала, что это наверно лягушка прыгала
в траве.
Мне хотелось сказать ей, что жабы не прыгают в темноте, но я не была
уверена, что это правда. Что удивило меня, так это то, что я не просто
по привычке сказала это с абсолютной уверенностью.
"Со мной что-то не так Esperanza," сказала я с тревогой
в голосе. "Я - не в себе."
"С тобой всё в порядке, дорогая," заверила она меня равнодушно. "Если
честно, ты сейчас больше на себя похожа, чем раньше.
"Я как-то странно себя чувствую..." Я начала видеть систему в
том, что со мной происходило с первого дня, когда я
прибыла в дом Колдунь.
"Очень трудно учить что-то зыбкое, неустойчивое, не имеющее твёрдости и
силы, как Полёты," сказала
Esperanza. "Особенно женщин. Мы, женщины, чрезвычайно обманчивы и умны.
Не забывай, что мы были рабами всю нашу жизнь. Мы, женщины, знаем как
точно манипулировать вещами, когда мы не хотим ничто и никого
огрорчить, мы так много работали, для того чтобы приобрести: наш
статус кво (настоящее положение дел)."
"Ты имеешь ввиду, что мужчины такого не добились?"
"Ну конечно они кое-что добились, но они менее скрытны. Женщины борются
скрытно. Их любимый приём борьбы - это манёвр раба: отключить свой
мозг. Они слушают, не обращая внимание. Они смотрят, не видя." Она
добавила, что инструктировать женщин было достижение, стоющее похвалы.
"Нам нравится открытость твоей борьбы. На тебя возлагается большая
надежда. Что мы больше всего боимся - это услужливая женщина, кто не
возражает против ничего Нового и делает всё, что попросят; затем
поворачивается и критикует тебя, как только она устаёт или ей надоедает
это Новое."
"Я думаю, что начинаю понимать," протянула я неуверенно.
"Конечно ты начала понимать!" Её заключение было таким успехом комизма,
что я захохотала. "Ты даже начала понимать, что такое Интэнт."
"Ты имеешь ввиду, что я начинаю становиться Колдуньей?" спросила я. Всё
моё тело затряслось, так как я старалась подавить взрыв хохота.
"С тех пор как ты прибыла сюда, ты была часто в Осознанном Полёте," заявила
Esperanza.
"Вот почему ты так много спишь." Она не притворялась; не было ни следа
покровительства на её улыбающемся лице. Мы молча шли какое-то время, и
затем она сказала, что разница между Колдуном и обычным человеком
заключалась в том. что Колдун мог войти в состояние Осознанного Полёта
по желанию. Она несколько раз постучала по моей руке, как бы
подчёркивая свою точку зрения, и конфедициальным тоном добавила, "А ты
попадаешь в Осознанный Полёт, потому что чтобы помочь тебе заострить
свою энергию, нам пришлось создать пузырь вокруг тебя в первую же ночь
твоего прибытия." Esperanza
продолжала говорить, что с того момента когда они впервые встретили
меня, они дали мне прозвище - Fosforito,
маленькая спичка. "Ты сгораешь слишком быстро и бесцельно." Она жестом
дала мне понять - оставаться спокойной, и добавила, что я не знала, как
фокусировать мою энергию. "Твоя энергия тратится на защиту и
поддержание Идеи своего Величия." И снова она дала мне понять: не
прерывать её, сказав, что то, что мы думаем - наша личность, в
сущности, только идея. Она заявляла, что основная масса нашей энергии
тратится на защиту этой идеи (личности). Брови Esperanza немного
приподнялись, довольная ухмылка разлилась по её лицу.
278-279
Esperanza
объяснила, "Достигнуть Точки Беспристрастности, Отчуждённости,
Отрешённости, где идея самой себя - просто идея, которую при желании
можно изменить, и есть настоящий акт Колдовства; и самый трудный из
всех. Когда идея своего Величия отступает, Колдуны накапливают свою
энергию, чтобы связать себя с Интэнтом и быть больше того, что мы
считаем нормальным. Женщины, из-за того, что у них есть Матка, могут с невероятной лёгкостью,
находясь в Полёте, фокусировать своё внимание на чём-то вне своего
Полёта," объяснила она. "Это как раз то, что ты делала всю дорогу, не
зная этого. Этот
предмет становится мостом, который соединяет тебя с
Интэнт."
(В моём случае этот
предмет-мост-связь в виде треугольника: Источник Всех Солнц - Интэнт - Наше Солнце - МОЯ
МАТКА, это я держу в памяти, когда
засыпаю! ЛМ).
"И какой
предмет я использую?" Появился нетерпеливый блеск в её глазах. Затем
она сказала, что это обычно окно или лампа или даже кровать.
"Ты так в этом преуспела, что это как одеть платье для тебя. Вот почему
у тебя ночные кошмары. Я всё это тебе говорила, когда ты была в
состоянии глубокого Осознанного Полёта, и тогда ты всё поняла. Если ты
откажешься фокусировать своё внимание на любом предмете до того, как
заснуть, тогда ночных кошмаров больше не будет. Ты уже выздравила, не
так ли?" Спросила она.
Моей первой реакцией было конечно, спорить с ней. Однако, подумав, я не
могла не согласиться с ней. После моей встречи с ними в Соноре, я уже
не испытывала ночных кошмаров.
"По правде говоря, ты никогда от них не избавишься, пока ты будешь
самой собой (старый менталитет)," произнесла она. "Что тебе следует
делать конечно, это - использовать свой талант к Полётам с умом и
целеустремлённо. Вот поэтому ты и здесь.
Первый урок: женщина
должна
через свою Матку фокусировать своё внимание на предмете. Не на предмете
из самого Полёта, а на независимом предмете из мира перед Полётом
И
всё-таки, не предмет имеет значение," она подошла к главному. "Что
важно - так это намеренное действие фокусирования на этом
согласно желанию,
но до Полёта или продолжая Полёт." Она предупредтла меня, что хотя это
звучало достаточно просто, это было монументальным заданием, что может
взять у меня годы, чтобы этого добиться. "Что обычно происходит это то,
что можешь проснуться, когда фокусируешь своё внимание на предмете
снаружи."
"Что это значит: использовать Матку? И как это сделать?" Перебила я её.
"Ты - женщина," сказала
тихо Esperanza. "Ты знаешь как чувствовать своей Маткой." Мне хотелось
поспорить с ней, объяснить, что я ничего не знаю.
Но она однако, продолжила
объяснять, что в женщине чувства возникают в Матке. В мужчинах чувства
возникают в мозгу..."Женщина - бессердечна, кроме своих
детей, потому что её чувства идут из её Матки. Чтобы фокусировать своё внимание на
Матке, возьми какой-нибудь предмет и положи его на живот или вотри его
в свою генеталию." Esperanza
ткнула меня в живот и добавила, "Подумай об этом..." Esperanza
оглушительно засхохоталась, глядя на мой растерянный вид, затем, между
взрывами хохота, пожурила меня. "Я ещё не так плохо выразилась, я могла
сказать, что тебе нужно смазать предмет своими соками, но я не
сказала." И снова серьёзным тоном она продолжала, "Как только ты
установишь глубокую связь с предметом, он всегда будет там, чтобы
служить тебе как мост." Мы прошли дистанцию молча: Esperanza казалось,
была в глубоком раздумье.
Мне не терпелось что-то сказать, но знала, что сказать нечего. Когда
Esperanza наконец заговорила, её голос стал суровым и требовательным.
"Ты больше не можешь терять напрасно время," сказала она. "Это -
естественно, что по нашей глупости мы делаем ошибки. Колдуны знают это
лучше, чем кто-либо. Но Колдуны также знают, что второго шанса нет. Ты
должна научиться контролю и дисциплине, потому что у тебя больше нет
запаса времени на ошибки. Ты даже не знала, что Isidore Baltazar ушёл."
Мой эфирный барьер, который сдерживал поток чувств, сломался. Память
восстановилась и печаль охватила меня, она становилась такой
интенсивной, что я даже не заметила как села и стала утопать в грунте,
как-будто он был сделан из губки. В конце концов земля поглотила меня.
Чувства кластрофобии или удушения не было, потому как ощущение, что
сидишь на поверхности, существовало одновременно с чувством,
проглоченным землёй; это заставило меня заорать, "Сейчас я в Полёте!"
Это, громко произнесённое, заявление сдвинуло что-то внутри меня. Новый
обвал разных воспоминаний обрушился на мою голову.
280-281
Я знала, что
было со мной не так: я всё провалила и у меня больше не было энергии
для Полёта. Каждую ночь после моего приезда мне снился один и тот же
сон, о котором я забыла до этого момента. Мне снилось, что все
Женщины-Колдуньи пришли ко мне в комнату и сверлили в меня логику
Колдунов. Они всё говорили мне и говорили, что Полёты - это Вторая
Функция Матки,
а Первая - размножение и всё относящееся к этому. Они мне сказали, что
Полёты - естественная функция у женщин; чистый эффект энергии. И если
этой энергии достаточно, то тело женщины само разбудит в Матке эту
Вторую Функцию; и женщина испытает невероятные Полёты. Однако,
необходимая энергия для Полётов, это вроде помощи неразвитой стране:
никогда не прибывает. Что-то в общественном порядке нашей социальной
структуры не даёт этой
энергии освободиться, чтобы женщины могли летать. Если бы эта энергия
освободилась, Женщины-Колдуньи сказали мне, это могло бы просто
разрушить "цивилизованный порядок вещей" на куски. Но величайшая
трагедия женщин это то, что их социальная совесть полностью доминирует
их индивидуальное сознание. Женщины боятся отличаться и не хотят отойти
слишком далеко от того комфорта понятной жизни, с чем уже знакомы.
Социальное давление, наложенное на них, просто слишком огромно. И
скорее чем поменяться, женщины принимают, не протестуя то, что послала
судьба: 'Женщины существуют, чтобы служить мужчинам.' Таким образом,
женщины никогда не могут иметь Полёты Колдунь, хоть и имеют
органическую основу для этого (Матку). Женственность разрушила шансы
женщин. Будет ли она окрашена религией, наукой, политикой, это всё
равно клеймит женщин
той же печатью: основная функция женщин - размножаться, и даже если они
достигли какой-то степени политического, социального или
экономического равенства, это в сущности не имеет значения.
Женщины-Колдуньи мне это говорили каждую ночь. Чем больше я
помнила и понимала их слова, тем больше была моя печаль. Она больше не
относилась ко мне одной, а ко всем нам; раса шизофреников, схваченных в
тиски Социального Порядка, который надел нам кандалы и сделал нас
неспособными. Даже если мы когда-либо освободимся, то только на момент;
скоро-проходящая ясность, перед тем, как мы плюхнемся по доброй воле
или принудительно назад в Темноту.
"Прекрати это сентиментальное барахло!" услышала я сказал мужской
голос. Я посмотрела наверх и увидела как завхоз, нагнувшись, уставился
на меня.
"Как ты сюда попал?" спросила я. Я была поражена и немного смущена. "Ты
следовал за нами?" Это был скорее не вопрос, а упрёк или обвинение.
"Да,
я следовал, в особенности за тобой," он посмотрел на меня застенчиво. Я
всматривалась в его лицо, не веря ему. Я знала, что он нащупывает меня,
однако меня это не расстроило и сильный блеск его глаз меня не испугал.
"Где Esperanza?" спросила я. Её нигде
не было. "Куда она...?" я нервно заикнулась, не в силах выдавить слова.
"Она где-то вокруг," сказал он, улыбаясь. "Не волнуйся, я тоже твой
учитель и ты в хороших руках." Неуверенно, я положила свою руку в его.
Без труда, он подтянул меня наверх на плоский валун, смотрящий на
большое овальные
озеро. Озеро питал журчащий ручей, спадающий откуда-то из темноты.
"А сейчас сними свои одежды," сказал он. "Пришло время для твоей
космической ванны!"
"Моей что?" Я начала смеяться, уверенная, что он шутит. Но он был
серьёзен и несколько раз постучал меня по руке, точно как Esperanza, и поторопил
меня снять одежды. Не успела я понять, что
он делает, как он уже развязал шнурки на моих ботинках. "У
нас совсем немного времени," предупредил он, затем нажал на меня
побыстрее закончить с этим. Взгляд, которым он посмотрел на меня, был
циничным и безучастным: я, с таким же успехом, могла бы быть
жабой,
которая прыгала вокруг, как утверждала Esperanza.
Сама мысль влезть в эту тёмную, холодную воду, без сомненья, полную
всяких скользких существ, ужасала меня. Полная решимости положить конец
этой нелепой ситуации, я нервно двинулась вниз валуна и засунула свои
пальцы в воду.
"Я не чувствую ничего!" Закричала я, отскакивая в ужасе. "Что
происходит? Это - не вода!"
"Не будь ребёнком," ругал меня завхоз. "Конечно это - вода. Ты просто
её не чувстуешь, вот и всё."
282-283
Я открыла рот, чтобы
выкрикнуть ругательство, но вовремя взяла себя в руки. Мой ужас
испарился. "Почему я не чувствую воду?"
Спросила я, стараясь изо всех сил выиграть время. Я знала, что сделать
время неподвижным, было бесполезным занятием, потому что у меня не было
сомнения, что я окажусь в воде, чувствую я воду или нет. Однако, я не
намеревалась красиво сдаваться.
"Эта безводная вода - своего рода очищающая жидкость?" Спросила я.
После долгого молчания, заряжённый угрожающими возможностями, он
сказал, что я могу называть это
очищающей жидкостью. Он подчеркнул. "Однако, я должен предупредить
тебя, что ритуала, способного кого-то очистить, не существует! Очищение
должно придти изнутри и это одинокая личная борьба."
"Тогда почему ты хочешь, чтобы я влезла в эту воду, которая вся в
плесени, даже если я её не чувствую?" Сказала я со всей силой, на
которую была способна.
Его
губы скривились, как-будто он собрался засмеяться, но казалось не хотел
сдаваться, его лицо стало мрачным снова и он сказал, "Я собираюсь
прыгнуть в это озеро вместе с тобой," и, без малейшего колебания, он
полностью разделся. Он очень близко
стоял передо много полностью обнажённый. В том странном свете, не то
день, не то ночь, я могла видеть с абсолютной ясностью каждый см его
тела. Он не делал застенчивых попыток закрыть своё голое тело. Совсем
наоборот: он казалось, был больше, чем горд своей мужественностью и
демонстрировал её в вызывающей, нахальной манере. "Поторапливайся и
снимай свои одежды," торопил он меня. "У нас остаётся мало времени!"
"Я не собираюсь это делать. Это какое-то сумасбродство!" протестовала
я.
"Ты
сделаешь это. И это решение ты сделаешь сама." Он говорил без эмоций,
без злости, однако со спокойной решительностью. "Этой ночью, в этом
странном мире ты узнаешь, что существует только один путь, которому
нужно следовать: Путь Колдунов." Он устаился на меня с любопытным
смешанным чувством жалости и удовольствия от развлечения. С ухмылкой,
предназначенной убедить меня, но этого не случилось, завхоз сказал, что
прыжок в озеро встряхнёт меня. Он сдвинет что-то во мне. "Этот сдвиг
позже послужит тебе, чтобы понять кто мы и что мы делаем."
Проскользнувшая улыбка осветило его лицо, пока он ускорял уточнить, что
прыжок в воду не даст мне энергию самой входить с Осознанный Полёт. Он
предупредил меня, что это конечно возьмёт много времени накопить и
заострить мою энергию, и что я могу никогда не иметь успеха. "Гарантий
нет в мире Колдунов," сказал он. Затем он признался, что прыжок в озеро
может сдвинуть моё внимание прочь от моих ежедневных забот: забот,
ожидаемых от женщин моего возраста и моего времени.
"Это священное озеро?" спросила я. Его брови подскочили кверху в явном
удивлении.
"Это - озеро Колдунов," объяснил он, пристально глядя на меня. Он
должно быть видел, что моё решение было принято, так как он пристегнул
мои часы вокруг своего запястья. "Сейчас посмотри на свои часы,"
приказал он мне. "Они были твоими много лет. Почувствуй их на моей
руке." Он усмехнулся, когда начал что-то говорить и решил не
продолжать. "Ну, давай, снимай свою одежду."
"Я думаю, что просто пройдусь по воде в своих одеждах," пробормотала я,
хотя и не была особо застенчивой, но идея, стоять голой перед ним, мне
не нравилась. Он указал, что мне будет нужна сухая одежда, когда я
выйду из воды.
"Я не хочу, чтобы ты схватила пневмонию." Злая насмешка показалась в
его глазах. "Это - настоящая вода, даже если ты не чувствуешь её,"
сказал он. Нехотя, я сняла джинсы и рубашку.
"И трусы тоже," сказал он. Я прогулялась вокруг травяного края озера,
думая может мне нужно просто нырнуть и отделаться от этого или мне
лучше намокать понемножку, держа воду в руках, обливая ноги, руки,
живот и последним, моё сердце, как я помнила делали старые женщины в
Венесуэле, до того как войти в море.
284-285
"Я прыгаю!" Крикнула я, но вместо прыжка, я повернулась посмотреть на
завхоза. Его неподвижность испугала меня. Казалось, он превратился в
камень, таким неподвижным и прямым он сидел на камне. Только в его
глазах, похоже, была жизнь. Они горели с удивительной силой, без
всякого постороннего источника света. Что поразило меня больше, чем
расстроило - это: видеть как слёзы текли вниз по его щекам. Не зная
почему, я тоже начала молча всхлиповать. Его слёзы, подумала я, потекли
прямо на мои часы на его руке. Я чувствовала загадочный вес его вины и
вдруг, мой страх и моя нерешительность испарились: я прыгнула в озеро.
Вода не была в плесени, а наоборот прозрачной как шёлк и зелёной. Мне
не было холодно. Как и говорил завхоз, я не чувствовала воды.
Собственно, я ничего не
чувствовала: было ощущение, что я была бестелесным сознанием, плавающим
в середине водоёма, который чувствовался жидким, но не мокрым. Я
заметила, что свет излучался из его глубин. Я прыгала как рыба, чтобы
стимулировать себя, затем нырнула в поисках света. Поднялась за
воздухом. "Насколько глубокое озеро?"
"Такое же глубокое как Центр Земли." Голос
Esperanza был громким и ясным; он нёс такую уверенность, мне хотелось
ей противоречить, чтобы вернуться к своим старым привычкам. Но было
что-то тяжёлое в воздухе, оно остановило меня; какая-то неестественная
неподвижность, какое-то напряжение, которое вдруг было сломано
хрустящим звуком, заполняющим всё вокруг нас; своего рода
предупреждающий шёпот; торопливое угрожающее предупреждение, это что-то
было странным. Стоя на том самом месте, где до этого стоял завхоз,
стояла Esperanza. Она была полностью
обнажённой. "Где завхоз?" Закричала я паническим голосом.
"Я - завхоз!" Сказала она. Убеждённая, что эти двое сыграли со мной
какую-то ужасную шутку, одним взмахом руки я вытолкнула себя по
направлению к свисающему валуну, на котором стояла Esperanza.
"Что происходит?" Я потребовала объяснения шёпотом, так как едва могла
дышать. Жестом, мне оставаться неподвижной, она двинулась ко мне тем
развинченным бескостным движением, таким характерным для неё. Она
подняла шею посмотреть на меня, потом шагнула ближе и показала мне мои
часы, пристёгнутые на её запястье.
"Я - завхоз!"
повторила она. Я механически кивнула. Но затем, прямо передо мной,
вместо Esperanza,
предстал завхоз, голый как был прежде, показывающий на мои часы на его
запястье. Я на часы не смотрела. Всё моё внимание было устремлено на
его сексуальные органы. Я протянула руку дотронуться до него, увидеть,
может он был гермофродит, но он не был. С той, всё ещё ищущей рукой, я
почувствовала больше, чем увидела, как его тело свернулось, и я уже
трогала женское влагалище. Я раздвинула губы влагалища, чтобы
убедиться, что его пенис-член не был спрятан где-то там. "Esperanza..."
мой голос стих, когда что-то обхватило мою шею. Я помню как вода
уходила, когда что-то втащило меня в глубины озера. Мне было холодно,
но это не был физический холод, а скорее осознание отсуствия тепла,
света, звука; отсуствие любого человеческого чувства в том мире, где
находилось это озеро.
Я
проснулась от едва слышного звука храпа: Зулейка спала рядом со мной на
соломенном матрасе, положеном на землю. Она выглядела красивой как
никогда: молодая и сильная, и всё же восприимчивая к эмоционаяльной
нестабильности - непохожая на других Женщин-Колдунь - несмотря на
гармонию и силу, которую она излучала. Я смотрела на неё какой-то
момент, потом села, потому что все события ночи начали заполнять мою
голову. Мне хотелось потрясти её, пока она не проснётся и потребовать,
чтобы она рассказала мне, что случилось, когда я заметила, что мы не
были у озера на холмах, а в том же месте, где мы сидели ранее - у
передней двери настоящего дома Колдунь. Обдумывая, было ли это всё
сном, я осторожно тряхнула её за плечо.
"Ааа, наконец-то ты проснулась," сонно промямлила она.
"Что случилось? Ты должна мне всё рассказать." Сказала я.
"Всё?" повторила она, громко зевая.
"Всё, что случилось у озера," нетерпеливо перебила я её. Она снова
зевнула и затем хихикнула. Изучая мои часы, которые были на её
запястье, она сказала, что что-то во мне передвинулось больше, чем она
ожидала.
"Мир Колдунов имеет естественный барьер, который отметает нерешительные
Души," объяснила она. "Колдунам необходима невероятная сила, чтобы
справиться с этим. Понимаешь, этот мир заселён монстрами, летающими
драконами и дьявольскими существами, которые, конечно, ничто, иное как
безличная, нейтральная, иными
словами, сбалансированная энергия
(5го Уровня Сознания).
Мы, управляемые нашими страхами, превращаем эту
сбалансированную, нейтральную энергию в дьявольские
существа."
286
"А как насчёт Esperanza и завхоза?"
Прервала я её. "Мне снилось, что они оба в действительности были ты."
"Да, действительно так,"
сказала она, как-будто это была самая естественная вещь в мире. "Я
только что тебе сказала, что ты передвинулась глубже, чем я ожидала, и
вошла в то, что Летающие Путешественники называют - Полёты в мирах,
отличных от этого. Ты и я были в Полёте в другом мире. Вот почему ты не
чувствовала воду. Это тот мир, где Нагуал Элиас нашёл все свои
изобретения. В том мире я могу быть или женщиной, или мужчиной. И
также, как Нагуал Элиас принёс
свои изобретения в этот мир, я привожу Esperanza
или завхоза. Или
скорее, моя нейтральная, сбалансированная энергия это делает." Я не
могла связать мои
мысли или чувства со словами. Непреодолимое желание убежать с криками,
захватило меня, но я не могла этого сделать. Мой мотор-контроль не был
больше в моей воле. Попробовав встать и крикнуть, я свалилась на землю.
Зулейка совершенно не была заинтересована или тронута моим состоянием.
Она продолжала говорить, как-будто она не видела, что мои ноги
подкосились, как-будто я не лежала беспорядочно как матерчатая кукла.
"Ты - отличный Путешественник. Прежде всего, не забывай, тебе снились
монстры всю жизнь. Сейчас наступило время, когда ты получила энергию
путешествовать как Колдуны это делают, мечтать и летать среди
нейтральной или сбалансированной энергии." Я хотела перебить её и
сказать, что ничего безличного, сбалансированного не было в моём сне об
Esperanza
и завхозе; что это было хуже, чем монстры моих ночных кошмаров, но я не
могла говорить. "Сегодня ночью твои часы привели тебя обратно из самого
глубокого Полёта, какой ты когда-либо имела," продолжала Зулейка,
безразличная к странным звукам, исходящих из моего горла. "И у тебя
также есть камешек-галька, доказывающая это." Она подошла туда, где
лежала я с открытым
ртом, уставившись на неё. Она поискала в моём кармане, она была права,
он и правда был там, камень, который я выбрала из кучи гальки.
287
Громкий
сотрясающий шум разбудил меня. Я села в своём гамаке, вглядываясь в
темноту, и увидела, что деревянные ставни, закрывающие окна, упали
вниз. Холодный, всасывающий ветер кружился вокруг меня. Листья
разбрасывались по всему патио снаружи моей комнаты. Шелест увеличился,
затем вдруг, стих до мягкого тихого звука. Слабый блеск просачивался в
комнату.
Как туман, он прилипал к голым стенам. "Нагуал!" закричала я. Какой-то
момент, как завороженная им, Isidore
Baltazar стоял в конце моего гамака. Он выглядел живым, и всё-таки, в
нём было что-то неопределённое, как отражение, видное в воде. Я
прочистила горло, чтобы говорить, но только, еле слышное, клокотанье
слетело с моих губ, пока образ растворялся в тумане. Потом туман
задвигался, беспокойный и резкий как ветер снаружи. Слишком
взволнованная, чтобы заснуть, я села, закутавшись в своё одеяло,
сомневаясь сделала ли я правильно, что приехала в дом Колдунь, ища
Нагуала Isidore
Baltazar: я просто не знала, куда ещё ехать. Я терпеливо ждала 3
месяца, потом моя тревога достигла такой степени, что наконец,
заставила меня действовать. Как-то утром,
7 дней назад, я поехала, не останавливаясь, к дому Колдунь. Тогда в уме
не было вопроса, правильно ли я поступила - и даже после того как мне
пришлось перелезать через стену сзади дома и пролезть через незапертое
окно. Однако, после семи дней ожидания, моя уверенность начала
колебаться.
288-289
Я выскочила из своего гамака на плиточный пол, больно приземлившись на
пятки моих голых ног. Тряхнув себя таким образом, всегда помогало мне
избавиться от своих сомнений. Но в этот раз
это не сработало, и я снова улеглась в свой гамак. Если и была одна
вешь, которую мне следовало изучить в эти 3 года, которые я провела в
Мире Колдунов, это то, что решения Колдунов были окончательными; а моё
решение было жить и умереть в Мире Колдунов. Сейчас для меня был момент
это доказать. По неземному звучащий смех удивил и отвлёк меня от моих
воспоминаний.
Он пугающе
повторялся по всему дому, потом всё опять замерло. Я напряжённо ждала,
но других звуков не было, кроме сухих листьев, разбрасываемых ветром по
патио. Листья звучали как слабый, хриплый шёпот. Слушая этот звук не
только убаюкало меня, но и втянуло меня в тот же самый Полёт, в котором
я была последние 7 дней.
Я стою в пустыне Соноры, полдень, Солнце, серебрянный диск, такой
ослепительный, что почти невидимый, остановился посреди неба. Ни
движения, ни звука вокруг. Высокие деревья со своими колючими ветками,
тянущиеся к этому неподвижному Солнцу, стоят как солдаты, охраняющие
молчание и неподвижность. Ветер, как-будто он следовал за мной в
Полёте, начинает дуть с невиданной силой. Он свистит между ветвями
деревьев и постоянно трясёт их в гневе. Красная пыль вихрями
вращается вокруг меня.
Стая ворон
разлетелась тихо по
воздуху как точки, потом упали на землю поодаль, как кусочки чёрной
вуали. Также внезапно, как и началось, ветер затих. Я направилась к
холмам вдалеке. Казалось я шла часами, до того как я увидела огромную,
тёмную тень на земле. Я посмотрела вверх. Гигантская птица с вытянутыми
крыльями неподвижно висела в воздухе, как-будто её пригвоздили к небу.
Только когда я посмотрела снова на её чёрную тень на земле, я поняла,
что птица двигалась. Медленно, незаметно её тень скользила впереди
меня.
Мотивированная
каким-то необъяснимым желанием, я старалась бежать в ногу с тенью; но
как бы быстро я не бежала, тень отодвигалась дальше и дальше от меня.
Теряя баланс от усталости,
я споткнулась о собственную ногу и плашмя упала на землю. Когда
поднялась стряхнуть пыль с одежды, обнаружила, что птица уселась на
ближайший валун. Голова птицы была немного повёрнута ко мне, как бы
приглашая меня к себе. Я с осторожностью приблизилась к ней. Она
огромная, терракотового цвета, с блестящими перьями. Её янтарные глаза
- суровы и нетерпеливы, как сама смерть. Я отхожу назад, так как птица
открывает свои широкие крылья и поднимается в небо. Она взлетает так
высоко, что видно только точку в небе. Однако её тень на земле выглядит
как прямая тёмная линия, которая протянулась до бесконечности и держит
вместе пустыню и небо. Уверенная, что если я призову ветер, то я догоню
птицу, я вспомнила заклинание, но нет силы в нём. Мой голос разбивается
на тысячу шёпотов, которые молчание быстро впитывает в себя. Пустыня
приобретает зловещее спокойствие. Она начинает крошиться по краям,
потом медленно исчезает вокруг меня...
Постепенно
я начинаю осознавать своё тело, лежащее в гамаке. Как в тумане я
обнаруживаю стену в комнате, загруженную книгами. Затем я полностью
просыпаюсь, когда до меня доходит, как это было каждый раз в течение
прошлой недели, что это не был обычный сон; и что я знала, что он
значил. Нагуал
Mariano Aureliano однажды сказал мне, что Колдуны, когда разговаривают
между собой, говорят о Колдовстве как о Птице. Они называют её Птицей
Свободы и говорят, что Птица Свободы летает
только по прямой линии и никогда не появляется дважды. Они также
говорят, что это -
Нагуал, кто манит Птицу Свободы. Это
он/она манит Птицу
Свободы уронить свою тень на тропу борца. Без этой тени, нет
направления. Смысл моего сна заключался в том, что я потеряла Птицу Свободы. Я
потеряла Нагуала, а без него - всякую надежду и цель.
290-291
Тяжёлым грузом лежало на сердце то, что Птица Свободы
улетала так быстро, она не давала мне времени поблагодарить их как
нужно, не давало времени выразить моё бесконечное восхищение.
Я убеждала Колдунов всю дорогу, что я никогда не возьму их Мир или их
самих как должное, но я так и поступала - принимала их как должное,
особенно Isidore Baltazar. Я убеждённо думала,
что
он останется со мной навсегда и вдруг они все ушли, как падающие
звёзды; и взяли Isidore Baltazar с
собой.
Я неделями сидела в моей комнате, спрашивая себя тот же самый вопрос.
Как это возможно, что они вот так исчезли? Бессмысленный, ненужный
вопрос, зная то, что я испытала и увидела в их Мире. Всё, что
обнаружилось - это моя настоящая натура: подчиняющаяся и сомневающаяся.
Так как Колдуны мне годами говорили, что их конечная цель была сгореть;
исчезнуть, проглоченными Силой Сознания. Старый Нагуал и его группа
Колдунов были готовы, но
я не знала этого. Они готовили себя почти всю свою жизнь для последнего
безумства: к Осознанному Полёту, с которым они обойдут смерть - как мы
обычно представляем смерть - и перешагнут через Неизвестное; увеличивая
и не разрушив единство своей тотальной энергии. Мои сожаления были
особенно интенсивны при воспоминаниях, когда
появлялась моя обычная сомневающаяся персона и когда я меньше всего
этого ожидала. Не было так, что я не верила в их вдохновляющую, другого
мира, и всё-таки, такую практическую цель. Скорее
я объясняла их, интегрировала их, подлаживала их под смысл
Повседневного Мира - может быть не совсем, но определённо, одновременно
существующим с тем, что было нормальным и знакомым для меня. Колдуны
конечно старались приготовить меня быть свидетелем их окончательного
путешествия; что в
какой-то день они исчезнут, было что я почти осознавала. Но ничто не
могло подготовить меня к мукам и отчаянию, которое последовало. Я
провалилась в бездну печали, из которой, я знала, я никогда не
выберусь. С этим мне одной нужно было иметь дело. Боясь,
что я ещё больше поддамся отчаянию, если я дольше останусь в гамаке, я
вылезла и сделала себе завтрак. Или скорее, разогрела, что осталось от
вчерашнего: рис, тортилы, бобы - моя обычная еда последние семь дней,
кроме банки норвежских сардин, которую я добавляла на обед. Я их нашла
в бакалейном магазине ближайшего города, купила все имеющиеся банки.
Бобы тоже были в банках. Я вымыла тарелки и протёрла шваброй пол. Потом
со шваброй в руке, я пошла из комнаты в комнату, осматривая нет ли
новой грязи, какой-нибудь паутины в углу. Со дня прибытия, я ничего
больше не делала кроме как протирала полы, мыла окна и стены, подметала
все патио и коридоры. Уборка
всегда отвлекала меня от моих проблем; всегда давала мне покой, но не в
этот раз. Несмотря на то, с каким рвением я взялась за уборку, я не
могла успокоить ноющую пустоту внутри себя. Быстрый шелест листьев
прервал мою уборку, я пошла наружу посмотреть.
Был сильный ветер, дующий сквозь деревья. Я было приготовилась закрыть
окна, как ветер неожиданно остановился. Глубокая меланхолия проникла во
двор, в кусты и деревья, в клумбы цветов и овощей. Даже яркая bougainvillea,
свисающая со стены, добавляла печали.
Я прошла
к испанскому, колониального типа, фонтану, построенному в середине
двора и коленями встала на каменный край. Рассеянно, я подобрала листья
и цветы, которые упали в воду.
Затем, наклонившись, я начала искать своё отражение на гладкой
поверхности. Рядом с моим лицом появилось прекрасное лицо Флоринды.
Ничего не понимая, я смотрела на её отражение в воде,
завороженная её огромными, тёмными, блестящими глазами, которые были
полным контрастом её заплетёным белым волосам. Она медленно улыбнулась
- я улыбнулась в ответ. "Я не слышала как ты пришла," прошептала я,
боясь что её образ вдруг исчезнет; боясь, что она может только мечта.
Она положила руку на моё плечо, затем села рядом со мной на каменный
край.
"Я буду с тобой только какой-то момент," сказала она. "Но позже я
приду." Я повернулась и вылила на неё всё, что накипело на душе.
Флоринда уставилась на меня, её лицо отражало непередаваемую печаль, в
её глазах вдруг появились слёзы; слёзы, которые исчезли также быстро,
как и появились.
292-293
"Где Isidoro Baltazar?"
спросила я её, отвернув лицо и дав волю слезам. Это не было жалостью к
себе или даже печалью, что заставило меня рыдать, а глубокое чувство
провала; вины и потери.
Я утопала в этом. Флоринда определённо предупреждала меня о таких
чувствах в прошлом.
"Слёзы для
Колдунов ничего не значат," сказала она своим глубоким, хрипящим
голосом. "Когда ты присоединилась к Миру Колдунов, тебя заставили
понять, что дизайны судьбы, неважно какие они, просто вызов, с которым
Колдун должен столкнуться без негодования или жалости к себе." Она
остановилась на момент, затем в своей знакомой, беспощадной манере
повторила то, что она мне говорила в других случаях. "Isidoro Baltazar больше
не мужчина, а Нагуал. Он мог сопровождать старого Нагуала; в этом случае
он никогда не вернётся..."
"Но почему он..." мой голос оборвался до того, как я закончила
спрашивать.
"Я действительно не знаю в этот момент," ответила Флоринда,
поднимая руку, чтобы остановить мой протест. "Это - твой поединок -
подняться выше этого; и, как ты знаешь, вызовы не обсуждаются и на них
не обижаются. Вызовы встречают действием. Колдуны или имеют успех,
встречая вызов, или они всё проваливают. И это неважно, как это
кончается, если они продолжают командовать."
Раздражённая её отсуствием чувств и симпатии, я с негодованием сказала,
"Как ты ожидаешь, чтобы я командовала, когда печаль убивает меня? Isidoro Baltazar ушёл
навсегда."
Она
сурово ответила, "Почему ты не слушаешь мои предложения и не ведёшь
себя безукоризненно, несмотря на свои чувства?"
Её темперамент
был таким же быстрым, как и её ослепительная улыбка. "Как я могу это
делать? Я знаю, что если ушёл Нагуал, игра закончена."
"Тебе не нужен Нагуал, чтобы быть
безукоризненным борцом," отметила она. "Твоя
безукоризненность должна вести тебя к нему, даже если он больше не в
этом мире. Жить безукоризненно при
твоих обстоятельствах и есть твой поединок. Увидишь ли ты завтра Isidore Baltazar,
через год или в конце своей жизни не должно иметь для тебя никакого
значения."
Флоринда повернулась спиной ко мне и долго молчала. Когда она
повернулась ко мне снова, её лицо было спокойным и странно
умиротворяющим, как маска, хотя она делала огромные усилия, чтобы
сдерживать свои эмоции.
Было что-то такое печальное в её глазах, что заставило меня забыть своё
собственное мучение. "Позволь мне рассказать тебе одну историю, молодой
человек," сказала она необычно суровым голосом, как-будто её тон мог
аннулировать боль в её глазах. "Я не пошла с Нагуалом Mariano Aureliano и
его группой, а также Зулейка. Ты знаешь почему?"
парализованная ожиданием и страхом,
я уставилась на неё с открытым ртом.
"Нет, Флоринда," наконец, смогла ответить я.
Её голос стал низким и тихим, когда она сказала, "Мы здесь, потому что
мы не принадлежим этой группе Колдунов. Мы принадлежим и всё-таки мы не
принадлежим. Наши чувства принадлежат другому Нагуалу, Нагуалу Julian, нашему учителю.
Нагуал Mariano Aureliano
- наш соратник, а Нагуал Isidore Baltazar - наш
ученик. И также как и ты, мы были оставлены здесь. Ты
- потому что ты не была готова идти с ними. Мы - потому что нам нужно
больше энергии для того, чтобы сделать ещё более ГРАНДИОЗНЫЙ ПРЫЖОК
вверх; и возможно присоединиться к другой группе воинов, более старой
группе Нагуала Julian."
Я чувствовала одиночество и изоляцию Флоринды как тончайший туман,
оседающий вокруг меня. Я едва смела дышать, чтобы она не прервала свой
рассказ. Она долго рассказывала мне об её учителе - Нагуале Julian,
знаменитом во всех отношениях. Её описания его были сжатыми, и всё же
такими могучими, чтобы пробудить фантазию любого. Я могла его видеть
прямо перед моими глазами: самое впечатляющее существо, которое
когда-либо жило на Земле. Смешной, остроумный и смышлёный, врождённый
шутник-трюкач и рассказчик, быстро ориентировался, маг, кто
манипулировал восприятие, как мастер-булочник манипулирует тесто, в
любую форму, никогда не теряя его из виду. Общаться с Нагуалом Julian, уверяла меня
Флоринда,
было чем-то незабываемым. Она призналась, что любила его вне всяких
слов, всяких чувств, и также Зулейка. Флоринда долго молчала, глядя на
горы вдали, как бы получая силу от тех остроконечных вершин. Когда она
заговорила опять, её голос упал до едва слышного шёпота.
294-295
"Мир Колдунов - это Мир Одиночества, однако в нём ЛЮБОВЬ - НАВСЕГДА
! Как моя любовь к Нагуалу Julian. Мы движемся в
Мире Колдунов сами по себе, принимая во внимание только наши действия,
наши чувства и нашу безупречность." Она
кивнула, как бы подчеркнув сказанное. "У меня больше не осталось
никаких чувств, то, что я имела, ушло вместе с Нагуалом Julian. И
всё, что осталось: моё чувство долга, моя воля и цель. Возможно, что ты
и я - в одной лодке." Она сказала это так мягко, что я сначала не
заметила. Я, как всегда, уставилась на неё, ослеплённая её красотой и
молодостью, которые годы оставили магически нетронутыми.
"Только не я, Флоринда," наконей сказала я. "У тебя был Нагуал Isidore Baltazar и я, и
все остальные ученики, о которых я слышала, а у меня ничего нет. У меня
даже нет моего старого мира."
Во мне не было жалости к себе, только разрушающая убеждённость, что моя
жизнь, какую я знала до этого, закончилась. Я сказала, "Нагуал Isidore Baltazar - мой по
праву моего могущества.
Я терпеливо подожду ещё немного, но если его в этом мире больше не
будет, тогда и меня тоже. Я знаю, что делать!" Мой голос последовал за
мной, когда я поняла, что Флоринда больше меня не слушала. Она была
поглощена наблюдением за маленькой вороной, которая шла к нам вдоль
края фонтана. "Это - Dionysus,"
сказала я, доставая из кармана кусочки тортилы. Я посмотрела на
прекрасное ясное небо. Я настолько была поглощена своей печалью, не
заметив, что полдень уже прошёл, время когда эта
маленькая ворона обычно приходила за своей едой. Флоринда сказала,
"Этот парень очень огорчён." Она посмеялась над возмущённым карканьем
птицы, потом посмотрела мне в глаза и сказала, "Ты и ворона - очень
похожи: ты также легко огорчаешься и вы оба делаетесь довольно шумными
по любому поводу." Я едва могла сдержать себя от того, чтобы не
выдавить, что то же самое относится к ней. Флоринда усмехнулась,
как-будто знала, каких трудов мне стоило не расплакаться. Ворона
уселась на моей пустой ладони и боком уставилась на меня своими
блестящими, похожими на гальку, глазами. Птица раскрыла крылья, но не
улетела. Её чёрные крылья отливали синим на Солнце. Я спокойно сказала
Флоринде, что давление Мира Колдунов было невыносимым. "Чепуха!" Она
пожурила меня, как-будто она говорила с избалованным ребёнком.
"Смотри, мы напугали Dionysus."
Зачарованная, Флоринда наблюдала как ворона кругами летала над нашими
головами; потом она снова заострила своё внимание на мне. Я отвернула
лицо, не зная почему, так как не было ничего недоброго во взгляде тех
блестящих, тёмных глаз. Глаза Флоринды были спокойны и совершенно
безразличны когда она сказала, "Если ты не можешь догнать Isidore
Baltazar, тогда я и другие Колдуны, кто учил тебя, не сумели произвести
на тебя впечатление. Нам не удалось вызвать тебя на поединок. Это не
окончательная потеря для нас, но это, определённо, будет окончательная
потеря для тебя."
Видя, что я опять собралась заплакать, она сказала с вызовом, "Где твоя
безукоризненная цель? Что случилось со всеми вещами, которым ты
научилась от нас?"
"Что, если я никогда не догоню Isidore Baltazar?" Сказала
я, обливаясь слезами.
"Как ты можешь продолжать жить в Мире Колдунов, если ты не прилагаешь
никаких усилий, чтобы это выяснить?" отрубила она.
"Сейчас мне нужна доброта," промямлила я, закрывая глаза, чтобы
остановить слёзы. "Мне нужна моя мама, если бы я только могла пойти к
ней." Я была удивлена своим собственным словам, однако я их сказала от
души. Не в состоянии больше сдерживать слёзы, я начала рыдать. Флоринда
засмеялась: она передразнивала меня, но в её смехе была нотка доброты,
симпатии.
"Ты так далеко от
своей мамы," тихо сказала она с меланхолически задумчивым, отдалённым
выражением в её глазах, "что ты никогда её снова не найдёшь." Тихим
шёпотом она продолжала говорить, что жизнь Колдунов строит непроходимые
барьеры вокруг нас. Колдуны, напомнила она мне, не находят комфорта в
симпатии других или в жалости к себе.
"Ты думаешь, что все мои муки происходят от жалости к себе, не так ли,
Флоринда?"
"Нет, не только жалость к себе, но также и к самой меланхолии." Она
положила свою руку мне на плечи и обняла меня, как-будто я была
ребёнком. "Большинство женщин чертовски меланхоличны, знаешь,"
пробормотала она. "Ты и я - среди них." Я с ней не была согласна, хотя
желания спорить с ней, у меня не было. Я была так счастлива её рукам
вокруг меня, что несмотря на своё мрачное настроение, мне пришлось
улыбнуться.
296-297
Флоринда,
как и все остальные женщины Мира Колдунов, не обладала способностью
выражать материнские чувства. А я, хоть мне и нравилось целовать и
обнимать людей, которых любила, не могла вынести быть в чьих-то руках
больше, чем мгновенье. Объятие Флоринды не было таким же тёплым и
успокающим как у моей матери, но это было всё, на что я могла
расчитывать. Потом
она пошла в дом.
Я вдруг проснулась, какое-то время я просто лежала там - на земле у
подножья фонтана - стараясь вспомнить то, что сказала Флоринда, до
того, как я заснула в солнечном свете. Я явно спала часами. Хоть небо
всё ещё было ярким, вечерние тени уже влезли во двор. Я было собралась
искать Флоринду в доме, как неземной смех эхом прошёлся по двору. Это
был тот же смех, который
я слышала ночью. Я ждала и слушала. Молчание вокруг меня было
неспокойным. Ничего не щебетало, не чирикало, не двигалось. Однако, при
всей неподвижности, я могла почувствовать за собой бесшумные шаги,
безмолвные как тени. Я обернулась. В дальнем конце двора, почти скрытой
цветущей
bougainvillea, я увидела кого-то, сидящего на деревянной скамейке. Её
спина была повёрнута ко мне, но я сразу её узнала.
"Зулейка?"
Прошептала я неуверенно, боясь, что звук моего голоса может испугать её
и она исчезнет.
"Я так счастлива снова видеть тебя," сказала она, подзывая меня сесть
рядом с ней. Её глубокий чистый голос, вибрирующий с воздухом пустыни,
казалось не исходит от её тела, а откуда-то издалека. Мне хотелось
обнять её, но я прекрасно знала, что Зулейка не любила, чтобы её
трогали (она обычно была в своём эфирном теле! ЛМ). Поэтому я просто
села рядом и сказала ей, что я тоже счастлива снова видеть
её. К моему полному удивлению, она сжала мою руку в своей; маленькая
деликатная рука. Её бледное
красивое лицо розоватой меди было странно безжизненным, отсуствующим.
Вся жизнь сконцентрировалась в её невыразимых глазах: не чёрные и не
коричневые, как-то странно - посередине; и удивительно чистые. Она
заострила своё внимание на мне довольно долго.
"Когда ты сюда попала?" спросила я.
"Только что," ответила Зулейка, её губы извились в ангельской улыбке.
"Как ты сюда попала? Флоринда пришла с тобой?"
"Ну, ты знаешь" ответила Зулейка туманно, "Женщины-Колдуньи приходят и
уходят незаметно: никто не обращает внимания на женщину, особенно если
она старая. Ну а с другой стороны, красивая молодая женщина привлекает
внимание всех. Вот поэтому Женщины-Колдуньи всегда
должны быть замаскированы, если они красивы. Если они простушки, им
нечего беспокоиться."
Неожиданный лёгкий стук Зулейки по моему плечу испугал меня. Она снова
сжала мою руку, как бы развеять мои сомнения, потом посмотрела на меня
спокойно и пристально, и сказала.
"Чтобы быть в Мире Колдунов, нужно уметь классно летать!" Она
посмотрела в сторону. Почти полная луна висела над дальними горами.
"Ресурсы
большинства
людей, их естественная способность и размер их
Души, недостаточны, чтобы входить в Полёт. Они ничего не могут с этим
поделать, а только видеть мир обыкновенным и повторяющимся. И знаешь
почему?" Спросила она, останавливая на мне свой пытливый взгляд.
"Потому что, если ты не борешься, чтобы этого избежать, мир и в самом
деле будет ординарным и повторяющимся. Большая часть людей настолько
поглощена в самих себя, что становятся идиотами. У идиотов нет желания
бороться, чтобы покончить с однообразием." Зулейка встала со скамейки и
одела сандали. Она завязала шаль вокруг талии, чтобы её длинная юбка не
волочилась, и прошла на середину патио. Я знала, что она собиралась
сделать, ещё до того, как она начала. Она собралась вертеться на одном
месте. Она собралась исполнить танец, чтобы набрать Космической
Энергии. Женщины-Колдуньи
знают, что двигая свои тела, они могут получить силу, необходимую для
Полёта. Едва заметным кивком подбородка, она подозвала меня следовать
ей и имитировать её движения. Она скользила на тёмнокоричневых
мексиканских плитках и терракотовых кирпичах, которые были уложены в
древнем орнаменте Toltec самим
Isidore Baltazar, колдовской дизайн, связавший поколения Колдунов
и космических путешественников через века в паутину секретов и подвигов
Силы - дизайн, в который он сам себя вложил, внутри и снаружи его, со
всей своей силой Мечтой и Интэнтом в Реальность.
298-299
Зулейка двигалась с уверенностью и резвостью молодого танцора. Её
движения были простыми, однако они требовали так много скорости,
баланса и концентрации, что они измучили меня.
С непревзойдённой лёгкостью и быстротой, она кружилась, удаляясь от
меня. Какое-то мгновенье она заколебалась среди теней деревьев,
как-будто быть уверенной, что я следую за ней. Затем
она последовала к углублённой арке дверного проёма, встроенного в
стену, окружающей территорию за домом. Она остановилась на момент рядом
с двумя цитрусовыми деревьями, растущими за стенами; те, которые стояли
как два солдата по каждую сторону тропы, ведущей в маленький дом через
кусты.
Боясь
потерять её из виду, я устремилась вдоль узкой, тёмной тропинки. Затем,
с рвением и любопытством, я последовала за ней внутрь дома, всю дорогу
до задней комнаты. Вместо того, чтобы зажечь свет, она взяла
керосиновую лампу, висящую на одной из балок крыши, и зажгла её. Лампа
давала мигающее освещение вокруг нас, но оставляла углы комнаты,
покрытыми тенями. Встав на колени перед единственной мебелью в комнате
- деревянный сундук, стоящий под окном, она вытащила коврик и одеяло.
"Ляжь на живот," тихо сказала она, расправляя коврик на плиточном полу.
Я глубоко вздохнула и поддалась приятному чувству беспомощности, когда
я легла на коврик лицом вниз. Чувство покоя и здоровья разошлось по
всему моему телу. Я чувствовала её руки на моей спине: она массировала
меня, слегка простукивая мою спину. Хоть я и часто была в маленьком
доме, я всё ещё не знала сколько комнат в нём было и как они были
мебелерованы. Флоринда мне сказал однажды, что этот дом был центром их
приключений. Это было там, сказала она, где старый Нагуал и его Колдуны
вили свои магические паутины. Как паутина паука, невидимая и
выносливая, она из держала, когда они прыгали в Неведомое, в Темноту и
Свет, как обычно делают Колдуны. Она также сказала, что дом был
символом. Колдуны её группы были не обязаны быть в доме или даже вблизи
от него, когда они прыгали в Неизвестное с помощью Полёта. Куда бы они
не шли, они несли с собой чувство в сердцах: настрой этого дома. И то
чувство и настроение, какое у них было друг к другу, давало им силу
встречать Повседневный Мир с удивлением и удовольствием. Зулейка остро
постучала по моему плечу и удивила меня. "Повернись на спину,"
скоммандовала она.
Я повернулась. Когда она нагнулась, её лицо было сияющим энергией и
целью. "Мифы - это Полёты экстраординарных путешественников," сказала
она. "Тебе потребуется много храбрости и концентрации, чтобы
манипулировать ими. И прежде всего, тебе нужно огромное количество
воображения. Ты живёшь в мифе, миф, который был передан тебе на
хранение." Она говорила тоном, который казался почти экстазом. "Ты не
можешь получить этот миф, если ты не совершенна. Если это так, то миф
просто уйдёт от тебя." Я открыла рот, чтобы сказать, что я всё поняла,
но увидела суровость в её глазах. Она была там не для диалога со мной.
Повторяющийся звук ветвей, трущихся о стену снаружи, исчез и
превратился в ожесточённый пульсирующий стук в воздухе; вибрирующий
звук, который я скорее чувствовала, чем слышала. Я чуть не заснула,
когда Зулейка сказала, что я должна следовать командам повторяющегося
сна, который у меня был.
"Откуда ты знаешь, что у меня был этот сон?" спросила я, обеспокоенная,
стараясь привстать.
"Разве ты не помнишь, что бы делим сны друг друга?" Прошептала она,
толкая меня обратно на коврик. "Я - тот, кто приносит тебе сны."
"Зулейка,
это был просто сон," мой голос задрожал, потому что меня одолело
непреодолимое желание заплакать. Я знала, что это не был просто сон, но
я хотела, чтобы она мне соврала. Тряся своей головой, она смотрела на
меня. "Нет, это не был просто сон, это был Полёт Колдунов, Видение."
"Что мне следует делать?"
"Разве сон не сказал тебе, что делать?" спросила она вызывающе. "И
Флоринда?" Она наблюдала за мной с загадочным выражением лица, потом
улыбнулась застенчивой улыбкой ребёнка.
"Тебе
нужно понять, что ты не можешь бегать за Isidore Baltazar. Он
больше не в этом мире.Ты больше ничего
не можешь дать ему или сделать для него. Ты не можешь быть связана с
Нагуалом, как с личностью, а только как с мифическим героем." Её голос
был тихим, но властным, когда она повторила, что я должна жить мифом.
300-301
"Мир Колдунов -
мифический мир, отделённый от Повседневного Мира мистическим барьером,
сделаным из Полётов и обязанностей. Только когда Нагуал поддерживается
его соратниками-
путешественниками, может он вести их в другие возможные миры, откуда он
может привлечь Птицу Свободы." Её слова затихли в тенях комнаты, когда
она добавила, что поддержку, которая нужна была
Isidore
Baltazar - это Энергия для Полёта, а не чувства или действия этого мира. После долгого молчания
она заговорила снова.
"Ты была свидетелем как старый Нагуал, также как и
Isidore
Baltazar, своим присуствием влияли на кого-либо
вокруг их, были ли это их друзья-Колдуны или просто народ, заставляя их
осознавать, что мир - это тайна, где ништо и не при каких
обстоятельствах не должно быть принято как должное." Я кивнула в ответ.
Долгое время я не понимала, как Нагуалы, просто своим присуствием
создают такую перемену. После длительных наблюдений, сравнений мнений с
другими, и бесконечных само-проверок, я пришла к заключению, что их
влияние исходило от их отказа от мировых проблем.
(Нет! Влияние Нагуалов на других
заключалось в том, что они поднимают вибрацию других просто своим
присуствием, своей повышеной вибрацией, таким
образом народ может понять сложные вещи, которые Нагуалы стараются
объяснить людям! Тогда как в обычных условиях, без их присуствия такие
вещи трудно понять! У меня в этом есть большой опыт! ЛМ).
В
нашем Повседневном Мире мы также имеем примеры мужчин и женщин, кто
оставил мировые проблемы за своей спиной. Мы называем их мистики,
святые, религиозные люди. Но Нагуалы не мистики, святые и явно не
религиозные люди. Нагуалы, женщины и мужчины мира, не имеют интереса в
мировых проблемах... Умы тех, кто рядом с Нагуалом, не могут понять,
что влияет на них, однако они чувствуют эффект на своём теле, в виде
странного беспокойства, желания освободиться или чувства
неполноценности, как-будто что-то мистическое происходит где-то ещё и
они не могут туда попасть. Но врождённая способность Нагуалов влиять на
других, не только характеризуется отсуствием интереса в мировых
проблемах или силы их личностей; а скорее характеризуется силой их
нейтрального (не критикующего) поведения. Нагуалы не критикуются в
своих чувствах и действиях, невзирая на спрятанные ловушки - в этом
мире или в других мирах - расставленных на их бесконечных тропах. Не
то, чтобы Нагуалы следовали предписанному листу правил и указаний,
чтобы соблюдать нейтральное поведение, так как правил и указаний не существует. Скорее,
они используют своё воображение - что бы это не взяло - для адаптации
или принятия, чтобы сделать свои действия плавными. За свои подвиги,
Нагуалы, не как оычный человек, ищет одобрения, уважения, похвалу и
вообще любое проявление внимания от кого-то, включая их
друзей-Колдунов. Всё, что они ищут, это их собственное чувство
Безукоризненности, честности. Как раз это делает компанию Нагуалов
такой гипнотизирующей. Другие становятся зависимыми от их свободы, как
наркоманы от наркотиков. Для Нагуала мир всегда новенький, с
иголочки... "Это потому, что Нагуалы разбили зеркало своего отражения,"
сказала Зулейка, как-будто она следовала моим мыслям. "Нагуалы способны
видеть себя в зеркале тумана, который отражает только Неизвестность.
Это - зеркало, которое больше не отражает нашу обычную человечнсть,
выраженную в повторении; а обнажает лицо Бесконечности. Колдуны верят,
что когда лицо своего отражения и лицо Бесконечности сливаются, Нагуал
совершенно готов сломать границы мира и исчезнуть, как-будто она/он не были сделаны из плотного
вещества (со мной так и
будет! ЛМ) !
Isidore Baltazar
к этому был готов долгое время."
"Он
не может меня оставить!" Крикнула я. "Это будет слишком несправедливо."
"Это совершенно глупо так думать, измеряя справедливостью и несправедливостью," сказала Зулейка. "В
Мире Колдунов есть только могущество. Разве каждый из нас не учил тебя
этому?"
"Я многим вещам научилась," мрачно согласилась я. Спустя несколько
секунд я тяжело пробормотала, "Но это в данный момент ничего не значит."
"Сейчас они стоят многого," прервала она меня. "Если ты научилась одной
вещи, это то, что в самый трудный момент борцы собирают свою силу,
чтобы продолжать. Борец не поддаётся отчаянию."
"Ништо, что я изучила и испытала, не может облегчить мою печаль и
отчаяние," тихо сказала я. "Я даже пробовала спиритуальные заклинания,
которым я научилась от моей няни, а Флоринда смеялась надо мной. Она
думает, что я - идиот."
"Флоринда - права," объявила Зулейка. "Наш магический мир не имеет
ничего общего с заклинаниями, ритуалами и странным поведением."
302-303
"Наш Магический
Мир, что на самом деле Полёт,
который существует волей сконцентрированного желания тех, кто
учавствовал в нём. Этот Полёт сохраняется нетронутым в любой момент
упрямой волей Колдунов; также как и Повседневный Мир не распадается за
счёт упрямой воли всех, живущих на Земле!"
Она вдруг
остановилась, похоже, что она поймала себя на мысли, которую не хотела
открывать, и улыбнулась. Делая смешной, беспомощный жест, она добавила,
"Чтобы находиться в нашем Полёте, тебе нужно умереть."
"Ты имеешь ввиду, что я должна умереть прямо здесь и сейчас?" Спросила
я голосом, который становился хриплым. "Ты ведь знаешь, что я готова к
этому сию же минуту."
Лицо Зулейки осветилось и она засмеялась как-будто я рассказала самую
смешную шутку. Видя, что я - серьёзно, она поспешила прояснить, "Нет,
нет. Умереть, означает анулировать все свои связи; отбросить всё, что
имеешь, всё, что ты есть."
"Ничего нового," сказала я. "Я сделала это в тот момент, когда
присоединилась к вашему Миру."
"Очевидно, что нет. Иначе, ты бы не была в таком беспорядочном
состоянии. Если бы ты умерла как того требует Колдовство, ты бы сейчас
не чувствовала такую жестокую боль."
"Что бы я тогда
чувствовала?"
"Долг! Цель!"
"Моя боль не имеет ничего общего с моей целью," орала я. "Моя боль
независит от этого. Я жива и чувствую любовь и печаль. Как я могу
избежать этого?"
Зулейка объяснила,
"От тебя не ожидают, что ты избежишь этого, а что ты преодолеешь это.
Если у борцов ничего не было, они ничего не чувствуют."
"Что это за пустой мир?" спросила я воинственно.
"Пустой мир - это
мир потакания своим прихотям, так как такое потакание отрезает всё
остальное, кроме потакания." Она взглянула на меня, как-будто ожидая,
что я соглашусь с её заявлением. "Итак, это кривобокий мир, скучный,
однообразный. Для Колдунов, противоположное потаканию - это смерть. И
они не просто думают об этом, они это делают."
Холодная дрожь пробежалась по моей спине, я молча проглотила, смотря на
прекрасный вид луны, светящей в окне. "Я и правда не понимаю, о чём ты
говоришь, Зулейка."
"Ты меня прекрасно понимаешь," продолжала она. "Твой Полёт начался,
когда ты встретила меня. Сейчас наступило время для другого Полёта. Но
в этот раз мечта - мертва. Твоей ошибкой было мечтать вживую."
"Что это значит?" спросила я с тревогой. "Не мучай меня своими
загадками. Ты сама, сказала мне, что только Мужчины-Колдуны сводят себя
с ума своими загадками. Ты сейчас делаешь то же самое со мной."
Хохот Зулейки
раскатывался от стены до стены. Он шелестел как сухие листья, поднятые
ветром. "Мечтать вживую означает: иметь надежду. Это значит, что ты
держишься за свою мечту изо всех сил до самой смерти. Мечтать вмёртвую
означает, что твоя мечта не имеет надежды. Ты входишь в Полёт, не
связываясь со своим Полётом."
Не доверяя собственным словам, всё, что я могла сделать это - кивнуть. Флоринда
сказала мне, что свобода - это полное отсуствие заботы о себе;
отсуствие такой заботы достигается, когда, хранящийся в нас,
запас
энергии развязан. Она сказала, что эта энергия освобождается
только, когда мы можем захватить нашу Манию Величия, нашу
Важность...Голос Зулейки был ясным, только казался идущим издалека,
когда она добавила, "Цена Свободы - очень высока. Свобода только может
быть достигнута Полётом без всякой надежды; желанием всё потерять, даже
Полёт.
Для некоторых из нас Полёт без надежды; борьба без цели в уме,
единственный путь идти в ногу с Птицей Свободы."
