The illuminatus! trilogy (49 page)

Lovecraft remained seated. “I think I know of whom you are speaking; I can also read newspapers and make deductions. Even if they are mad enough to attempt it, they do not have the means. They would have to take over not one government but many. That project would keep them busy enough, I should think, to distract them from worrying about a few lines here and there in stories that are published as fiction. I can conceive of the next war leading to breakthroughs in rocketry and nuclear energy, but I doubt that even that will lead many people to take my stories seriously, or to see the connections between certain rituals, which I have never described explicitly, and acts which will be construed as the normal excesses of despotism.”

“Good day, sir,” Drake said formally. “I must be off to New York, and your welfare is really not a major concern in my life.”

“Good day,” Lovecraft said, rising with Colonial
courtesy. “Since you have been so good as to give me a warning, I will return the favor. I do not think your interest in these people is based on a wish to oppose them, but to serve them. I beg you to remember their attitude toward servants.”

Back out on the street, Drake experienced a momentary dejection.
For nearly twenty years he’s been writing about them and they haven’t contacted him. I’ve been rocking the boat on two continents, and they haven’t contacted me. What does it take to make them show their hand? And if I don’t have an understanding with them, anything I work out with Maldonado and Capone is written on the wind. I just can’t afford to deal with the Mafia before I deal with them. What should I do—put an ad in the New York Times: “Will the All-Seeing Eye please look in my direction? R. P. Drake, Boston”?

And a Pontiac (stolen an hour before in Kingsport) pulled away from the curb, several houses back, and started following Drake as he left Benefit Street and walked back toward the downtown area. He wasn’t looking back, so he didn’t see what happened to it, but he noticed an old man coming toward him stop in his tracks and turn white.

“Jesus on a pogo stick,” the old man said weakly.

Drake looked over his shoulder and saw nothing but an empty street. “What is it?” he asked.

“Never mind,” the old man replied. “You’d
never
believe me, mister.” And he cut across the sidewalk toward a saloon.

(“What do you mean, you lost four soldiers?” Maldonado screamed into the phone.

“Just what I’m saying,” Eddie Vitelli, of the Providence gambling, heroin and prostitution Vitellis, said. “We found your Drake at a hotel. Four of the best soldiers we’ve got followed him. They called in once to say he was at a house on Benefit Street. I told them to pick him up as soon as he comes out. And that’s it, period, it’s all she wrote. They’re all gone, like something
picked them off the face of the earth. I’ve got everybody looking for the car they were in, and that’s gone, too.”)

Drake canceled his trip to New York and went back to Boston, plunging into bank business and mulling over his next move. Two days later, the janitor came to his desk, hat in hand, and asked, “Could I speak to you, Mr. Drake?”

“Yes, Getty, what is it?” Drake replied testily. His tone was deliberate; the man was probably about to ask for a raise, and it was best to put him on the defensive immediately.

“It’s this, sir,” the janitor said, laying a card on Drake’s desk. Drake looked down impatiently and saw a rainbow of colors—the card was printed on some unknown plastic and created a prismatic effect recalling his mescaline trips in Zurich. Through the rainbow, shimmering and radiant, he saw the outlines of a thirteen-step pyramid, with a red eye at the top. He stared up at the janitor and saw a face without subservience or uncertainty.

“The Grand Master of the Eastern United States is ready to talk to you,” the janitor said softly.

“Holy Cleopatra!” Drake cried, and tellers turned to stare at him.

“Kleopatra?” Simon Moon asked, twenty-three years later. “Tell him about Kleopatra.”

It was a sunny afternoon in October and the drapes in the living room of the apartment on the seventeenth floor of 2323 Lake Shore Drive were pulled back to reveal a corner window view of Chicago’s Loop skyscrapers and the whitecap-dotted blue surface of Lake Michigan. Joe sprawled in a chair facing the lake. Simon and Padre Pederastia were on a couch under an enormous painting titled “Kleopatra.” She looked a good deal like Stella Maris and was holding an asp to her bosom. The eye-and-pyramid symbol appeared several times in the hieroglyphs on the tomb wall behind her. Sitting in an armchair opposite the painting was a slender man with sharp, dark features, shoulder-
length chestnut hair, a forked brown beard and green eyes.

“Kleopatra,” said the man, “was an instant study. Would have made her Polymother of the great globe itself, if she’d lived. She damned near brought down the Roman Empire, and she did shorten its life by centuries. She forced Octavius to bring so much Aneristic power to bear that the Empire went prematurely into the state of bureaucracy.”

“What do I call you?” said Joe. “Lucifer? Satan?”

“Call me Malaclypse the Elder,” said the fork-bearded man with a smile that seemed to beam through endless shifting veils of warm self-regard.

“I don’t get it,” said Joe. “The first time I saw you, we were all terrified out of our minds. Though when you finally showed up looking like Billy Graham, I didn’t know whether to laugh or go catto. But I know I was scared.”

Padre Pederastia laughed. “You were so terrified, my son, that you were trying to climb right inside our little redhead’s big red bird’s nest. You were so frightened that that hefty cock of yours”—he licked his lips—“was squirting juice all over the carpet. Oh, you were terrified, all right. Oh, my, yes.”

“Well, I wasn’t so scared just at that moment you mention,” said Joe with a smile. “But a little later, when our friend here was about to appear. You were terrified yourself, Padre Pederastia. You kept hollering, ‘Come not in that form! Come not in that form!’ Now we’re all sitting around the living room behaving like old chums—and this—this
being
here is reminiscing about the good old days with Kleopatra.”

“They were terrible days,” said Malaclypse. “Very cruel days, very sad days. Constant wars, tortures, mass murders, crucifixions. Bad times.”

“I believe you. And what’s worse, I can understand what it means if I believe you, and I can live knowing that you exist. And even sit down in this living room and smoke a cigarette with you.”

Two lit cigarettes appeared between Malaclypse’s
fingers. He passed one to Joe. Joe drew on it; it tasted sweet, with just a hint of marijuana.

“That’s a corny trick,” said Joe.

“Just so you don’t lose your old associations to me too quickly,” said Malaclypse. “Too quick to understand, too soon to misunderstand.”

Padre Pederastia said, “The night of that Black Mass, I simply had worked myself up to the point where I totally believed. That’s what magic is, after all. The people who were here that night relate to left-hand magic, to the Satan myth, to the Faust legend. It’s a quick way to get them involved. It worked with you at the time, but we’ve brought you along fast, because we want more help from you. So now you don’t need the trappings.”

“You don’t have to be a Satanist to love Malaclypse,” said Malaclypse.

“In fact, its better if you’re not,” said Simon. “Satanists are creeps. They skin dogs alive and shit like that.”

“Because most Satanists are Christians,” said Joe. “Which is a very masochistic religion.”

“Now, just a minute—” said Padre Pederastia with some asperity.

“He’s right, Pederastia,” said Malaclypse. “Nobody knows that better than you—or me, for that matter.”

“Did you ever meet Jesus?” Joe asked, awed in spite of his skepticism.

Malaclypse smiled. “I
was
Jesus.”

Padre Pederastia flapped his hands and bounced up and down in his chair. “You’re telling too much!”

“For me, trust is total or nonexistent,” said Malaclypse. “I perceive that I can trust Joe. I wasn’t the original Jesus, Joe, the one they crucified. But—this happened a few centuries after I experienced transcendental illumination at Melos—I was passing through Judea in the persona of a Greek merchant when they crucified Jesus. I met some of his followers the day he died, and I talked with them. If you think Christianity is a bloody religion as it is, this is nothing to what it
would have been if Jesus hadn’t seemed to come back. If the seventeen original apostles—five of them have been purged from the records—had been left on their own, they would have passed from horror and terror at Jesus’s death to vindictive fury. It would have been as if Islam had come seven centuries earlier. Instead of slowly taking over the Roman Empire and preserving much of the Greco-Roman world intact, it would have swept and mobilized the East, destroyed most of Western civilization and replaced it with a theocracy more oppressive than Pharaonic Egypt. I stopped that with a few magic tricks. Appearing in the persona of the resurrected Jesus, I taught there was no need for hatred and vengeance after my death. I even tried to get them to realize that life is a game by teaching them Bingo. To this day, nobody understands and critics call it part of the
commercialism
of the Church. The sacred Tarot wheel, the moving Mandala! So despite my influence, Christianity focused obsessively on the crucifixion of Jesus—which is really irrelevant to what he taught while he was alive—and remained a kind of death worship. When Paul went to Athens and made the link-up with the Illuminati, who were using Plato’s Academy as a front, the ideology of Plato combined with the mythology of Christ to deliver the knockout blow to pagan humanism and lay the foundations for the modern world of superstates. After that, I changed my appearance again and took the name of Simon Magus and had some success spreading ideas contradictory to Christianity.”

“You can change your appearance at will, then,” said Joe.

“Oh, sure thing. I’m just as quick with a thought projection as anybody.” He pushed his pinkie thoughtfully into his left nostril and worked it around. Joe stiffened; he didn’t care to watch people picking their noses in public. He looked resolutely over Malaclypse’s left shoulder. “Now that you know as much as you do about us, Joe, it’s time you started working with us. Chicago, as you know, is the Illuminati nerve center in
this hemisphere, so we’ll use this town to test AUM, a new drug with astonishing properties, if ELF’s technicians are correct. It’s supposed to turn neophobes into neophiles.”

Simon slapped his forehead and shouted “Wow, man!” and started laughing. Pederastia gasped and whistled.

“You look blank, Joe,” said Malaclypse. “Has no one explained to you that the human race is divided into two distinct genotypes—neophobes, who reject new ideas and accept only what they have known all their lives, and neophiles, who love new things, change, invention, innovation? For the first four million years of man’s history, all humans were neophobes, which is why civilization did not develop. Animals are all neophobes. Only mutation can change them. Instinct is simply the natural behavior of a neophobe. The neophile mutation appeared about a hundred thousand years ago, and speeded up thirty thousand years ago. However, there has never been more than a handful of neophiles anywhere on the planet. The Illuminati themselves sprang from one of the oldest neophile-neophobe conflicts on record.”

“I take it the Illuminati were trying to hold back progress,” said Joe. “Is that their general aim?”

“You’re still thinking like a liberal,” said Simon. “Nobody gives a fuck for progress.”

“Right,” said Malaclypse. “They were the innovators in that instance. All the Illuminati were—and are—neophiles. Even today, they see their work as directed toward progress. They want to become like gods. It’s possible for humans, given the right methods, to translate themselves into sentient latticeworks of pure energy that will be more or less permanent. The process is called transcendental illumination, to distinguish it from the acquisition of insight into the true nature of man and the universe, which is ordinary illumination. I’ve gone through transcendental illumination and am a being composed altogether of energy, as
you may have guessed. However, prior to becoming energy fields men often fall victim to hubris. Their actions cause pain to others and make them insensitive, uncreative and irrational. Mass human sacrifice is the most reliable method of achieving transcendental illumination. Human sacrifice can, of course, be masked as other things, such as war, famine and plague. The vision of the Four Horsemen vouchsafed to Saint John is actually a vision of mass transcendental illumination.”

“How did you achieve it?” Joe asked.

“I was present at the massacre of the male inhabitants of the city of Melos by the Athenians in 416 b.c. Have you read Thucydides?”

“A long time ago,”

“Well, Thucydides had it wrong. He presented it as an out-and-out atrocity, but there were extenuating circumstances. The Melians had been stabbing Athenian soldiers in the back, poisoning them, filling them full of arrows from ambush. Some of them were working for the Spartans and some were on the side of Athens, but the Athenians didn’t know which ones they could trust. They didn’t want to do any unnecessary killing, but they did want to get back to Athens alive. So they rounded up all the Melian men one day and hacked them to pieces in the town square. The women and children were sold into slavery.”

“What did you do?” said Joe. “Were you there with the Athenians?”

“Yes, but I didn’t do any killing. I was a chaplain. Of the Erisian denomination, of course. But I was prepared to perform services to Hermes, Dionysus, Heracles, Aphrodite, Athena, Hera and some of the other Olympians. I almost went mad with horror—I didn’t understand that Pangenitor is Panphage. I was praying to Eris to deliver me or deliver the Melians or do something, and she answered me.”

“Hail, she what done it all,” said Simon.

“I almost believe you,” said Joe. “But every once in
a while the suspicion creeps in that you’re simply doing a two-thousand-year-old man routine and the butt of the joke is me.”