The Televisionary Oracle (36 page)

If this guy was making this stuff up, it was pretty entertaining.

“And how did you just happen to be here,” I said, “in the same little bookstore in the same small city in Northern California at the exact same time I was?”

“Your wound,” he replied. “As soon as you began showing up in my dreams with a bloody forehead, I knew that the real flesh-and-blood you was about to re-enter my life. In all our dream adventures up until recently, you see, you have always been a majestic and flawless goddess, not anything like a real human being. Our rendezvous have always been in archetypal landscapes—windswept battlefields
and thousand-foot waterfalls and crystalline palaces. Last night, I dreamed I found you in this shabby bookstore with uncombed hair and dark circles under your eyes.”

The implications of what he was saying were boggling. I could barely focus on sorting them out. For the moment, I obsessed on how he could have known about my forehead. Instinctively, I put my hand up and found there was a tiny corner of gauze jutting out from beneath my beret. So maybe that explained it. I’d inadvertently given him a clue to use in his confabulations, if indeed he was confabulating.

I longed to ask him more about his dreams of me. Had he really, as he seemed to be implying, had an ongoing series of adventures with me over a long period of time—comparable to my experience with Rumbler? But I wasn’t ready to hear the portentous answer to that question just yet; if it were “yes,” it would be too spooky.

“I would consider getting a theater group together with you,” I said instead. “There’s a slight problem, though. I have no experience as an actress whatsoever.”

“Are you telling the truth? I find that hard to believe. I can plainly see a strong thespian streak in your physiognomy. But
de toute façon
, the more important question is: Can you bleat like a charging rhino? You could do that back when you were Artaud. Can you whirr like a cloud of locusts? And ululate like a beautiful young woman dying from the plague?”

“I can feel all those skills right on the edge of my memory.”

“I have a very good idea,” he said suddenly. “Shall we give you a crash course to help you get over your amnesia? I mean this very evening, a full-immersion exercise in the good old
le Théâtre de la Cruauté?
By the way, back in France I used to be Luçienne. You can call me that if you want. Or you may use my new name, Jumbler.”

“Jumbler? What kind of name is that?” I said, not meaning to sound as shrill as I did.

“ ‘Jumbler’ is a name I gave myself eight years ago—in honor of my coming of age. It means I am the kind of person who loves to mix things up and put them back together in new combinations. What about you? Who are you this time around?”

“Rapunzel. Rapunzel Blavatsky.”

Before I could expound, he reached out his left hand, and when I
offered mine in return, he gave me the same secret handshake he’d applied before.

With his last announcement, the tide turned dramatically away from the interpretation that this character was merely a guy cruising for babes. First there had been his delectable aroma, which arrived just moments after I’d read about the Holy Ghost’s sweet smell. Then he conjured up the scenario of me being connected in a past life to the Goddess Persephone, and confessed (I think) that he’d been dreaming of me for years. Now I’d found out that his name was one letter away from that of my magic companion in the Televisionarium.

I was torn about going along with the crash course he’d proffered. My imagination had become so excited by his improvisations that I was practically swooning. And wasn’t this exactly the kind of adventure I had invited into my life by launching my apostasy against the Pomegranate Grail? But I worried that I should be more self-protective. I’d had surgery that morning, for one thing. And given the fact that I was an underage runaway, shouldn’t I lay low and remain inconspicuous?

“Come on now, I will buy you these two books,” he said, plucking
Mysterium Coniunctionis
out of my hands and heading towards the front of the store. I followed behind, hoping to find a definitive clue to his gender in the way he walked. There was the slightest swinging of the hips—more than most men I’d ever observed, at least, though less than most women.

My taproot to the Drivetime was surging deliciously again: linen and sweet almond and gold-tinged terra cotta and a spritely but mournful Irish-Chinese tune. There was no way, I decided firmly, that I was going to break the spell.

Suddenly Jumbler and I were pushing through the doors of the store and out into the warm spring evening. I was mad at myself for not noticing how he’d paid for the books. Had he used a check and been required to produce a driver’s license, I might have seen his real name and gender.

We were headed down the sidewalk past a seedy vacant lot when he stopped, put down the books, and spread his arms up to the sky in an expansive yet formal gesture.

“Plato long ago recognized,” he began, “that besides eating, sleeping, breathing, and mating, every creature has an instinctual need to
periodically leap up into the air for no other reason than because it feels so good. I mean no offense, Rapunzel, but I would guess that you have not been attending to this need for a very long time. Seeing as how it is essential to our exercise, I implore you now to do just that. Nine times, if you would be so kind.”

Surprising myself with my lack of hesitation, I did just what he asked. My first jump was a twisting pirouette in which I tried to imitate an ice skater doing a double axle. The rest were increasingly less disciplined and more careening. On the ninth I lost my balance and sprawled as I came down to earth. Having set down the two books he was carrying, he responded with sustained applause and a “Bravo!”

“Then on the other hand,” he continued as I reassembled myself, “there is me, who has always recognized that besides eating, sleeping, breathing, and mating, every creature has an instinctual need to contradict himself at all times—since that is the only way to be like a god,
n’est-ce pas?
Again, Rapunzel—I hope you are not insulted—but my sense is that you have not had extensive practice in the art of smashing together the contradictions. Or rather blending them gracefully. I call this art tantra, and it is at the heart of the Theater of Cruelty crash course I wish to give you.”

I had some knowledge of tantra—enough to know that contrary to its hip New Age transmogrification, it was an ancient magical tradition with far more to it than exotic sexual practices. My sense was that it aspired to create a union of opposites on all levels, and sacred copulation was merely one strategy among many to accomplish that. Still, I was unprepared for Jumbler’s interpretation.

He took out a pack of Virginia Slims cigarettes from his shirt pocket and lit two, one for me and one for him. I had never smoked a cancer stick in my life, but I was willing to go along with the gag.

He launched into a series of strenuous exercises: ten quick sit-ups followed by eight push-ups and then a minute of jumping jacks. Through it all he puffed on his butt. Eager to please, I did the same.

“Excellent form!” he exclaimed at the end, gasping for breath. “Beautifully executed self-confutation!”

As I threw my cigarette on the sidewalk and stamped it out, he bent over to pick up something from the gutter. It was an empty, battered plastic bottle of Clorox bleach with the top off. He handed it to me as
if it were a treasure.

“This is your reward for so faithfully taking up my challenge,” he explained. “A priceless artifact from an ancient civilization. Long ago, this vessel was used in sacred water-purification rituals. All the reservoirs and aquifers of that once-proud land had been poisoned by pollution, you see, and only the potion contained in bottles like these could render the water safe for drinking again. I have rarely seen a better-preserved example. This will make a handsome addition to your home, if you choose to display it there. Or you will no doubt be able to sell it to a museum for a large sum. Accept it with my admiration.”

I searched Jumbler’s face for some sign of irony. But I was glad it wasn’t there. I loved the inscrutable mood he had conjured up and didn’t want it to devolve into a boringly literal conversation.

I put down my water-purification vessel and surveyed our surroundings to see if there were any gifts for me to offer in return. Awaiting my discovery was the gnarled knob of a root lying free on the edge of the vacant lot.

“And here is a token I want you to have in appreciation for how you’ve stuck by me all these centuries, Jumbler.” I was trying to imitate his majestic cadences. “It’s a precious goddess figurine from an even more ancient civilization, the peace-loving matriarchal society of Old Europe. As you can see, her shape is cast in the ideal of fertile beauty that prevailed back then: stocky frame with large, hammy buttocks and pendulous breasts. She was built for comfort, not speed.”

Jumbler bowed deeply as he accepted my present. Just for fun, I did two exaggerated curtsies, pretending to extend the edges of my non-existent skirt. In response, he saluted me sharply with his right hand, and I couldn’t help but salute back with my left, except with a goofy look on my face. Before I even realized the implications, he was scratching himself under the arms and jutting out his lower lip like a chimp—though in a somehow dignified manner—and I in turn stuck out my tongue and gave him the raspberry. Then he made the sign of the cross on his forehead with his index finger and stifled a big yawn, and I put my hands together in prayer and genuflected. He formally blew me a kiss, and I bared my teeth and growled. He aristocratically thumbed his nose at me, his eyebrows arched, and I replied by tilting my head to one side and holding my arms out in the offer of a hug.

By then I had become conscious of a memory from earlier in the day. While on the operating table in Dr. Elfland’s office, I’d seemed to recall or maybe hallucinate that my dream at dawn had included a dialogue of gestures with Rumbler. It was an exchange eerily similar to the dance I was now doing with Jumbler.

I was paralyzed with an attack of self-consciousness. Jumbler didn’t seem to hold it against me, though. He pointed his right index finger down at the top of his head and spun like a top, and when I failed to respond promptly, he retrieved our two books and simply resumed walking down the sidewalk, gesturing with a sweep of his hand. I picked up the valuable artifact he’d bestowed on me and followed along.

“Now be so kind as to tell me what the word is for that thing right there,” he ordered cheerfully as we crossed Fourth Street, the downtown’s main drag. He was pointing at a car that was stopped at a red light. I wasn’t sure what the rules were for this part of the game.

“Voiture?”
I said “car” in French, thinking maybe he wanted me to speak as Artaud would have.

“No, that is a rude dappled ganglion, my friend. Now tell me what that is.” He was pointing at a parking meter.

“Uh. A black-market sphinx?”

“Better. Much closer than last time. Actually, it is a slippery loud fetish. But you are improving. What is this?” He was pointing at himself.

“Flaming milk tree?”

“Yes! Yes! Excellent! Now I want you to give names to everything else. Remember, it is our hallowed responsibility to invent words for everything.”

“Cobalt mermaid serum,” I proclaimed, indicating an empty baby stroller in front of a store. “Almond whirlpool medicine,” I added, coining a fresh phrase for what was once a “mailbox.”

“Coral hydrangea sap. Swampy opalescent lather. Pearly ejaculating heart. Eucalyptus anemone guard. Ovarian hawk cedar. Peachy porcelain mist. Beaded mushroom face.” So I bestowed new names on what were formerly a window, a door, a sign, a garbage can, an awning, a cloud, and the sky.

“That was extraordinary work,” he said, directing us to enter the door of a small market. “You show great potential in the art of naming.
That will come in handy in the latter-day version of the Theater of Cruelty, because in its domain absolutely everything must be blessed with a fresh name every day—sometimes twice a day.”

This was no sleek 7-Eleven we’d slipped inside. It was a dingy, claustrophobic place with narrow aisles and dusty products crammed on shelves that reached the ceiling. The signs and packages were all in Spanish, though many had English translations. Cheap jewelry and watches were arranged in a messy display next to grimy bags of charcoal and disposable diapers that looked like they’d been languishing there for months. A riotous assortment of herbs, as if in a witches’ apothecary, hung in small plastic bags adjacent to tall candles in glass containers that were painted with Catholic religious icons. Mostly there were foods, some of it exotic stuff I’d never imagined existed, like cans of curdled milk pudding and jars of deep-fried pork skin in brine.

Jumbler was filling a hand-held red plastic shopping basket. “For our sacred feast,” he beamed as I examined his haul: a jar of
nopalitos
, or shreds of tender cactus; a very large jar of
pacaya
, which seemed to be the fruit of the date palm tree, whatever that was, though it resembled small octopi with long tentacles; a can of
olluco
, an “ancient Andean tuber”; Pulparindo, a hot and salted tamarind pulp candy; Extraño, popsicles made with jalapeños; and
rosa de castilla
, a bag of rose petals. He’d also gathered a can opener and three of the Catholic candles. Into the basket I threw a mini-pack of Advil, which I had already opened and swallowed without the aid of water. My forehead had begun to throb.

“Will that be all, ma’am?” the clerk asked Jumbler as he used cash to pay for these items. He either didn’t hear her or didn’t correct her.

So now at least one observer had cast her support towards the theory that my new companion was of the female persuasion. I asked myself whether it made a difference to me. Would I alter my behavior if I thought I was dealing with someone of my own gender? Maybe. Even though I was not yet sure if I was physically attracted to Jumbler, I wanted him to be male. There’d be more of a charge; the mystery would have an edge of uncertainty and risk. If he were a she, I’d instinctively feel more trust, and would as a result be lazier about advancing the mysterious game we were playing.