Green Eyes

  ‘I believe I’ll bring it up in staff tonight.’ Edman reached inside his lab coat and pulled forth a red memorandum book. “The seventeenth looks free.’

  Jocundra looked at him questioningly, realizing she must have missed something. Edman smiled; he slipped the book back into his pocket, and it seemed to her he had reached deep within his body and fed his heart a piece of red candy.

  ‘I won’t take any more of your time, Ms Verret. I was saying that I thought this fear reaction needed to be examined under group conditions, and I proposed we have a party for our green-eyed friends. Invite the staff from Tulane, arrange for some sort of music, and just see if we can’t get the patients to pass off their fear as another side effect of the process. At the very least it should be a memorable social occasion.’

  The main hall was thronged with doctors, technicians, students and administration people wearing sport jackets and summer dresses, most gathered around the groupings of sofas which roughly divided the room into thirds; and scattered throughout the crowd were the five patients -Richmond had not yet arrived. A three piece band played cocktail jazz on the patio, and several couples were dancing. The room was huge. Carved angels flowed from the molding, spreading their wings in the corners of the ceiling, and the space whose sanctity they guaranteed was the size of a country church, filled with the relics of bygone years. Gilt chairs and statuettes and filigreed tables occupied every spare nook, and every flat surface was cluttered with objets d’art, the emphasis being upon ceramic figurines of bewigged lords and ladies. The French doors were flanked by curio cabinets, except for those beside which stood a grand piano, its finish holding a blaze of sunlight. Paintings and prints and photographs hung in rows to the ceiling, presenting scenes of the countryside, historical personages, hunts, groups of shabbily dressed blacks. One print depicted a masque whose participants were costumed as demons, beasts, and fanciful birds. Passing it on the way to the punch bowl, Jocundra decided that this masque had much in common with Edman’s party: though the mix of music and conversation suggested a trivial assemblage, most eyes were fixed on the patients and most talk concerned them, and there was an underlying air of anticipation, as if the partygoers were awaiting a moment of unmasking so they could determine which of them was not masked, which was truly a demon, a beast, or a fanciful bird.

  Knots of people were clumped along the refreshment table, and Jocundra eavesdropped as she ladled punch.

  ‘… the greater their verbal capacity, the more credibly they fabricate a past reality.’ A fruity male voice.

  Jocundra moved down the table, examining the sandwich trays, hoping for some less Edmanesque commentary.

  ‘… and Monroe looked like the devil had asked her to tango!’ Laughter, a babble of voices.

  ‘Listen to this!’ The click and whirr of a tape recorder, and then the tiny, cornpone-accented voice of Kline French:

  ‘… Ah’m quite an afficionado of the dance, though of course Ah’ve only been exposed to its regional privations.’

  Clarice Monroe had been sketching scenes for a ballet on one of the sofas, and French had been maneuvred into approach by his therapist and had asked to see her sketch.

  FRENCH: ‘This appears to be an illumination of an African myth… Am Ah correct?’

  MONROE (tremulously): ‘It’s the Anansi, the Ashanti god of lies and deceit.’

  FRENCH: ‘And this young lady has fallen into his clutches?’

  MONROE: ‘She’s the sorceress Luweji. She’s traveled through the gates of fire…’

  FRENCH: ‘Represented by these red curtains, I presume?’

  MONROE: ‘Yes.’ (Silence)

  FRENCH: ‘Well, it seems quite wonderful. Ah hope Ah’ll have the privilege of attendin’ its triumphant celebration,’

  Jocundra spotted French through the press of bodies. He was being wheeled along, nodding his massive head in response to something his therapist was saying. His shoulders were wide as a wrestler’s; his eyes sparked emerald in a heavy-jawed, impassive face, and made Jocundra think of an idol ruling over a deserted temple or - perhaps closer to the truth - one of those James Bond villains whose smile only appears when he hears the crunching of a backbone. The doctors said they had rarely had a patient with such muscle tone, dead or alive, and there had been a rumour at Tulane that his body had been introduced to the project via a government agency. But whatever his origins, he now believed himself to be a financial consultant; the administration followed his market analyses with strict attention.

  ‘There goes French,’ said someone beside her. ‘I bet he’s chasing Monroe again.’ Giggles.

  ‘He’s out of luck. I think she had to go potty after the last time.’ Laughter unrestrained.