Anthology.The.Mammoth.Book.of.Angels.And.Demons.2013.Paula.Guran (12 page)

“Precisely,” says Arcadia, pleased that this is going so well. “A return to a timeless shining singularity without form, thought, or feeling.”

“But how?” she says. “And why?”

Arcadia has started to slow the car down now, scanning the storefronts of Atwater Village’s main drag. “Because about seventeen minutes ago, something that’s lived all its life as a man remembered what it really is and spoke certain words of power.”

Bethany doesn’t like the sound of that at all and, as Arcadia pulls up outside one of the few remaining un-gentrified stores on a strip that is mostly hipper new businesses and milk-it-quick franchises, she stays silent, feeling the sadness and fear tightening in her stomach like cancer, thinking of people vanishing from the world like a billion lights blinking out one by one.

“Is this where we’re going?” she finally says, nodding at the store as they get out of the car.

“Yes,” Arcadia says. “Have you seen it before?”

Bethany nods, because she has. It could have been here since 1933, she’s always thought; peeling red paint on aged wood; plate-glass window whitewashed from the inside to keep its secrets; and a single hanging sign with the hand painted phrase, CHINESE LAUNDRY. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen it open for business. “I always figured it was a front for the Tongs,” she says as if she was kidding, but realizes as she says it that that actually
is
what she’s always thought.

“You’re such a romantic,” Arcadia says, and he sounds delighted with her. He opens the door to the laundry and leads her inside.

Its interior is as weathered and as free of decoration as the outside. A hardwood floor that hasn’t seen varnish for decades and utterly plain walls painted long ago in the kind of institutionally vile colors usually reserved for state hospitals in the poorest neighborhoods. Bethany is surprised, though, to smell the heavy detergent and feel the clammy humidity of what is clearly a working laundry. There’s even the slow hissing, from behind the screen space-divider, of a heavy-duty steam press. The place isn’t menacing, merely nondescript. The fifty-yearold man behind the bare wood counter would be nondescript too were it not for the subtle phosphorescent glow of his flesh.

Arcadia makes the introductions. “Bethany Lake,” he says – and Bethany registers the use of the surname she hadn’t told him – “meet the entity formerly known as Jerry Harrington.”

Bethany gasps a little as the man fixes his eyes on her because they are the almost solid black of a tweaker on an overdose about to kill him.

Not Chinese at all, a part of her brain wastes its time thinking, and wonders if it’s entirely PC of him not to have changed the name, however generic, of the business he bought.

“What do you want?” Harrington says. His tone is hardly gracious, but at least it still sounds human, for which Bethany is grateful.

“What
do
we want?” she says to Arcadia.

“Well,
I
want him to stop destroying reality,” Arcadia says. “Don’t you?”

“Yes,” Bethany says. “Of course.”

Arcadia turns back to Harrington. “There you go,” he says. “Two votes to one. Majority rules. What do you say?”

Harrington laughs, but there’s little humor in it.

“What
is
he?” Bethany asks Arcadia quietly. She’s turned her head away from Harrington because his face seems to be constantly coming in and out of focus in a way that she finds not just frightening but physically disturbing.

“A being from a time outside time,” Arcadia says. “There’s several of them around, hidden in the flesh since the Fall. Most of them don’t remember themselves, but occasionally there’s a problem.”

The Fall? Bethany hesitates to ask, because she doesn’t want to say something that sounds so ridiculous, but she supposes she has to. “Are you talking about angels?” she says. “Fallen angels?”

“Well, you needn’t be so Judeo-Christian specific about it,” he says, a little sniffily. “But, yes.”

“What do you want?” Harrington says again, exactly as he’d said it before. So exactly that it creeps Bethany out. Less like a person repeating themselves and more like someone just rewound the tape.

“We’re here to make you reconsider,” Arcadia says. “We can do it the hard way, if you want, but I’d prefer to talk you out of it.”

Again, the laugh. But there’s little human in it.

Arcadia moves closer to the counter, which Bethany finds almost indescribably brave. “Look, I get it,” he says. “You’re homesick. You want a return to the
tabula rasa
, the blank page, the white light, the glorious absence. You yearn for it like a sailor for the sea or a child for its mother. You’re disgusted by all this . . . this . . .” He waves his hands, searching for the words. “All this multiplicity, this variousness, this detail and color and noise and
stuff
.”

“You talk too much,” Harrington says, and Bethany, though shocked at her treachery, thinks he’s got a point.

“But isn’t there another way to look at it?” Arcadia says. “We’re all going back to the white light eventually, so what does it matter? Couldn’t we imagine looking at these people amongst whom your kind has fallen not with contempt but with delight? Isn’t it possible that an angel could embrace the flesh rather than loathe it? Could choose to be humanity’s protector rather than its scourge?”

“You can imagine whatever you like if it makes you feel better,” Harrington says, and his voice is confident and contemptuous. “But you won’t imagine it for very long. Because that’s not the path I’ve chosen.”

Arcadia smiles, like there’s been some misunderstanding. “Oh, I wasn’t talking about you,” he says.

Bethany is wondering just who the hell he
is
talking about when the pores of her flesh erupt and the light starts to stream from her body. The rush of release almost drowns out the beating of her terrible wings and the sweet music of Harrington’s scream.

Arcadia picks up the small-pitted cinder-like object from the laundry counter with a pair of tweezers. It’s still smoking slightly and he blows on it to cool it before dropping it into a thin test tube which he slips back into an inside pocket of his suit.

“I’ll put it with the others,” he says to Bethany. She wonders where the
if that’s all right with you
tone has come from, like he’s her Beautiful Assistant rather than vice versa, but she nods anyway. She and he are the only people in the place and she’s sort of grateful that she has no memory of the last few minutes. She feels quite tired and is glad of Arcadia’s arm when he walks her to the car.

*    *    *   

Bethany’s relieved that she’s back in the store before either of the Michaels. As ever, there are several out-of-shelf books lying around here and there and she decides to do a little housekeeping to assuage her guilt for playing hooky. She shelves most of them in the regular stacks, some in the high-end display cases, and one in the spaces between the worlds, though she doesn’t really notice that because she’s thinking about her crappy Dodge and how much the shop is going to charge her to fix it this time.

Gay Michael gets back first. Maybe Fat Michael’s date is going better than expected. Bethany hopes so.

“Anything happen?” Gay Michael says.

“Not so you’d notice,” Bethany tells him.

The Night of White Bhairab

Lucius Shepard

Commissioned in 1769 by King Rana Bahadur Shah (1775–1805), the “White Bhairab” is a portrayal of a fierce manifestation of Lord Shiva associated with annihilation. It was intended to ward off evil influences and protect a palace. About ten feet high, it sports a golden crown made of serpents, skulls and jewels. A huge open mouth shows terrifying white teeth and fangs. Angry red-pupiled eyes are set in a golden face detailed with red, black, blue and white paint. Usually mostly hidden behind a carved wooden screen, during the days of Indra Jatra and the coinciding festival of the Living Goddess, it is open to public view. Lucius Shepard sets his exotic and exciting story during the festival, but the evil that visits Katmandu is imported from the West: a demonically possessed spirit that takes more than human effort to fight
.

Whenever Mr Chatterji went to Delhi on business, twice yearly, he would leave Eliot Blackford in charge of his Katmandu home and, prior to each trip, the transfer of keys and instructions would be made at the Hotel Anapurna. Eliot – an angular, sharp-featured man in his mid-thirties, with thinning blond hair and a perpetually ardent expression – knew Mr Chatterji for a subtle soul and he suspected that this subtlety had dictated the choice of meeting place. The Anapurna was the Nepalese equivalent of a Hilton, its bar equipped in vinyl and plastic, with a choirlike arrangement of bottles fronting the mirror. Lights were muted, napkins monogrammed. Mr Chatterji, plump and prosperous in a business suit, would consider it an elegant refutation of Kipling’s famous couplet (“East is East”, etc.) that he was at home here, whereas Eliot, wearing a scruffy robe and sandals, was not; he would argue that not only the twain met, they had actually exchanged places. It was Eliot’s own measure of subtlety that restrained him from pointing out what Mr Chatterji could not perceive: that the Anapurna was a skewed version of the American Dream. The carpeting was indoor-outdoor runner; the menu was rife with ludicrous misprints (
Skotch Miss
,
Screwdiver
), and the lounge act – two turbaned, tuxedoed Indians on electric guitar and traps – was managing to turn “Evergreen” into a doleful raga.

“There will be one important delivery.” Mr Chatterji hailed the waiter and nudged Eliot’s shot glass forward. “It should have been here days ago, but you know these custom people.” He gave an effeminate shudder to express his distaste for the bureaucracy, and cast an expectant eye on Eliot, who did not disappoint.

“What is it?” he asked, certain that it would be an addition to Mr Chatterji’s collection: he enjoyed discussing the collection with Americans; it proved that he had an overview of their culture.

“Something delicious!” said Mr Chatterji. He took the tequila bottle from the waiter and – with a fond look – passed it to Eliot. “Are you familiar with the Carversville Terror?”

“Yeah, sure.” Eliot knocked back another shot. “There was a book about it.”

“Indeed,” said Mr Chatterji. “A bestseller. The Cousineau mansion was once the most notorious haunted house of your New England. It was torn down several months ago, and I’ve succeeded in acquiring the fireplace, which—” he sipped his drink “—was the locus of power. I’m very fortunate to have obtained it.” He fitted his glass into the circle of moisture on the bar and waxed scholarly. “Aimée Cousineau, was a most unusual spirit, capable of a variety of . . .”

Eliot concentrated on his tequila. These recitals never failed to annoy him, as did – for different reasons – the sleek Western disguise. When Eliot had arrived in Katmandu as a member of the Peace Corps, Mr Chatterji had presented a far less pompous image: a scrawny kid dressed in Levi’s that he had wheedled from a tourist. He’d been one of the hangers-on – mostly young Tibetans – who frequented the grubby tea rooms on Freak Street, watching the American hippies giggle over their hash yogurt, lusting after their clothes, their women, their entire culture. The hippies had respected the Tibetans, they were a people of legend, symbols of the occultism then in vogue, and the fact that they liked James Bond movies, fast cars and Jimi Hendrix had increased the hippies’ self-esteem. But they had found laughable the fact that Ranjeesh Chatterji–another Westernized Indian – had liked these same things, and they had treated him with mean condescension. Now, thirteen years later, the roles had been reversed; it was Eliot who had become the hanger-on.

He had settled in Katmandu after his tour was up, his idea being to practice meditation, to achieve enlightenment. But it had not gone well. There was an impediment in his mind – he pictured it as a dark stone, a stone compounded of worldly attachments – that no amount of practice could wear down, and his life had fallen into a futile pattern. He would spend ten months of the year living in a small room near the temple of Swayambhunath, meditating, rubbing away at the stone; and then, during March and September, he would occupy Mr Chatterji’s house and debauch himself with liquor and sex and drugs. He was aware that Mr Chatterji considered him a burnout, that the position of caretaker was in effect a form of revenge, a means by which his employer could exercise his own brand of condescension; but Eliot minded neither the label nor the attitude. There were worse things to be than a burnout in Nepal. It was beautiful country, it was inexpensive, it was far from Minnesota (Eliot’s home). And the concept of personal failure was meaningless here. You lived, died, and were reborn over and over until at last you attained the ultimate success of non-being: a terrific consolation for failure.

“. . . yet in your country,” Mr Chatterji was saying, “evil has a sultry character. Sexy! It’s as if the spirits were adopting vibrant personalities in order to contend with pop groups and movie stars.”

Eliot thought of a comment, but the tequila backed up on him and he belched instead. Everything about Mr Chatterji – teeth, eyes, hair, gold rings – seemed to be gleaming with extraordinary brilliance. He looked as unstable as a soap bubble, a fat little Hindu illusion . . .

Mr Chatterji clapped a hand, to his forehead. “I nearly forgot. There will be another American staying at the house. A girl. Very shapely!” He shaped an hourglass in the air. “I’m quite mad for her, but I don’t know if she’s trustworthy. Please see she doesn’t bring in any strays.”

“Right,” said Eliot. “No problem.”

“I believe I will gamble now,” said Mr Chatterji, standing and gazing toward the lobby. “Will you join me?”

“No, I think I’ll get drunk. I guess I’ll see you in October.”

“You’ re drunk already, Eliot.” Mr Chatterji patted him on the shoulder. “Hadn’t you noticed?