KATACLYSM: A Space-Time Comedy (7 page)

Flower began vigorously slicing a piece of fish with her knife.  Jude tried to change the subject.

“Flower, I wanted to ask you about something you said earlier.”

She sighed.

“Go ahead.”

“You mentioned that you didn’t mind telling me about your psychic because I’m not the Political Editor for the Boston Globe.  Now, I don’t mean to be rude, but it struck me as a fairly obscure reference and I was wondering if I could ask you a question.”

Flower nodded.

“Is there any particular reason you settled on those exact words?”

“Oh that’s easy,” Flower said with a smile.  “Last week, I was tired of talking to Madame S about clothes, so I asked her to tell me something a bit more juicy.  Normally she doesn’t do this sort of thing, but that day I guess something came over her.”

Flower leaned towards Jude and lowered her voice.

“She said that if I was to hang around this tavern at lunchtime today, I would meet a Rhodes Scholar.  Can you believe that?  In this dump?”

Flower let out a little squeal.  The bartender looked over and scowled.  Jude nodded slowly.

“So anyway, I was going to really like this guy and he was going to turn out to be the Political Editor for the Boston Globe.”

She glanced at her watch.

“Hmmm, quarter to three…well, how about that.  I guess she isn’t right about everything after all.”

Flower brightened considerably.

“You know what Jude?  You are so right.  I’ve been awfully silly.  Thanks for showing me the error of my ways.  What a relief.  I’m in your debt.”

Jude sat frozen.  Flower smiled at him.

“You know, I really like you.  Yesterday I would never have thought that I would actually be happier having lunch with a cat massage therapist than some high powered intellectual editor.”

Still, Jude didn’t move.

“Flower?”

“Yes Jude.”

“What if I told you that I’m a cat massage therapist who moonlights as the Political Editor for the Boston Globe.  And that as it happens, I’m also an Oxford alumn.”

She thought for a moment.

“I think I’d ask you to use a little less Tabasco on your chips next time.”

Kiran and Jaya looked up from their computer screens as the Hindu mystic stepped into the private office on the second floor of his Beacon Hill home.

“Hey Amish,” said Jaya snapping her bubble gum, at the same time using an elastic to put her long dark hair into a ponytail.  “How many more are we going to do today?”

“I believe this is the last one.”

The name Amish meant ‘honest’ in Hindi, an irony that was not lost on the mystic.  Though he was brought up in the state of Kerala in the south west of India, Amish, unlike his brothers, had never learned the ancient healing art of Ayurveda.  He simply never felt like putting in the time.  Not, at any rate, when there were so many computers around to pique his interest.  After earning a degree in computer science from the University of Delhi, Amish made several million dollars as one of Microsoft’s top programmers and, after five years of insane hours and little sleep, he promptly retired at the ripe age of twenty-eight.  He had quickly grown bored of the relaxed life though and now, two years later, he had also tired of his other home in Boca Raton.  If he was to buy the vacation home of his dreams, on the water in Palm Beach, he would have to make more money.

One of the great advantages of having more than sixty universities in and around his home in Boston was that there was no shortage of young, cash strapped computer whizzes to help Amish with his project.  Together with his team, including Kiran and Jaya, at the beginning of the school year, Amish had been able to devise a computer program that successfully hacked into the medical records of all of the major hospitals in the United States.  Five months later, he was one of the most trusted alternative healers in the north east and marble floors were being laid in his home in Palm Beach the following Tuesday.

“That was a brilliant touch, looking up that woman’s mother’s records,” said Amish stroking Jaya’s hair.  Kiran, who had gotten up to get a soda out of the mini fridge slapped his hand.

“That was my idea.  And why wouldn’t we look?  It doesn’t cost extra.  Say, do you think the Cohosh will really do her any good?”

“You have such little faith in placebos,” said Amish.  “The relief of knowing she doesn’t have cancer will do her wonders.  You know, in many ways, we’re better than a hospital.  So, what’s the scoop on Louis Avery.”

Jaya flung a printout of Louis’s medical records to Amish who scanned the page and committed it to memory.

“You know, his brother is the chief of internal medicine at MGH.  I think you had better bring out the big guns.  Or at least have some fun with it,” chimed in Kiran as she put on a brown leather jackets while Jaya applied some clear lip gloss.  “It says in the chart that there was some disagreement between the resident and this guy’s brother over whether he just had unstable angina or a heart attack with no ST elevation.”

As the three were in the doorway, Amish slipped a wad of cash into Kiran’s hand.  He produced a similar roll of bills for Jaya.  As she reached for it, he pulled back and pointed to his cheek.  Lunging for him, she grabbed the money and instead planted a big, smoldering kiss on his lips.

“Do your thang Amish,” she whispered in his ear before grabbing Kiran’s arm and sneaking down the back staircase.

“God, I love college girls.”

The mystic entered the chamber with a sombre expression.  He did not glance at Albert Avery or Eric Silver who were still standing by the wall.  The sight of Louis Avery in shorts and a T-shirt was nothing less than appalling.  As he had done with Jenny O’Brian, the mystic approached his patient and went through his usual ritual examination.  When he was finished he addressed Louis.

“Louis Avery?”

“Yes,” said Louis hesitantly.

“You are forty-three years old.  Your parents’ names are Bill and Veronica.  As a teenager, you were diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder after reporting that numbers in your math textbook were trying to attack you.”

Louis glanced at his brother and gave a nervous laugh.

“In fact, you did not suffer from schizoaffective disorder but rather your problems stemmed from mild autism.  Today, am I right in thinking that you wish to discuss your heart?”

“Yes.”

“You smoked a package of cigarettes a day for two years from the age of seventeen to nineteen.  You suffer from high blood pressure and high cholesterol.  Your family doctor thinks that your triglycerides are low enough but in fact he is wrong.  Every time you walk two blocks, you feel tightness and pain in your chest.  Six weeks ago, you went to the hospital because the chest pain did not improve after three sprays of nitroglycerin under your tongue.  The resident on call diagnosed you with unstable angina, but his supervisor who is also your brother felt that you had a non-ST elevation myocardial infarction.  While the electrocardiogram showed some indication that there was damage to your heart muscle, the damage was not permanent.  Therefore, the resident was correct and you only suffered from angina which has stabilized on your medication.  As long as you continue to feel well, it should come as a relief to you that you require no further treatment.”

With a short bow, the mystic left the room.  Louis sighed and picked up his clothes.  Dr. Avery frowned.  Eric Silver turned to his teacher.

“Huh…maybe I was wrong.  Perhaps these guys do know their stuff after all.”

Jude and Flower had been talking for hours.  It was supper time and the bar was still deserted.  Jude had tried, in vain, to convince her that perhaps they should revisit Madame Sfortunata’s outlandish yet disconcerting prediction, but Flower would have none of it.  So Jude sat there using his fork to pick at the crusty remnants of a dry slice of apple pie while Flower was in the bathroom.  He downed the last drop of his fifth Sam Adams.

This is exactly the kind of thing that’s always happening to me, thought Jude.  I meet a beautiful girl, hit it off and then find out that she has some horrifying secret.

He had to admit that these secrets usually involved the girl’s ex-boyfriends or her personal hygiene rather than some mysterious, unintelligible cosmic occurrence that was to bring about the arrival of an unknown messiah as well as the incidental obliteration of the girl’s existence.  Still, what was the practical difference?  He had a mind to stand up and walk out of the bar then and there.

No, he thought.

Grad school had taught Jude that copious amounts of alcohol did not tend to enhance the quality of discussions concerning the intricacies of the forces governing space-time.  This happens to be especially true when your partner in conversation is an extremely attractive woman in tight fitting clothes.  Suddenly Jude had an epiphany explaining why all successful physicists look and dress as an alien might if it was put in a room filled with human clothing and given no instructions.  This woke him up.  He had gotten a second wind and was beginning to turn around on the idea of this relationship.  Being about to be not having been born was not only a grammatical drag but an actual drag as well.  Nonetheless, it was hardly something Jude could fault her for.  He could also see an advantage to their rendezvous coming to an end with her past, present and future instantaneously disappearing into oblivion.  How often had he wished for that very thing to happen when he had broken up with past girlfriends?  It was settled, Jude decided as he threw a few bills onto the table.

The bartender glared at Flower as she returned.  She tried not to make eye contact and instead gave Jude a big smile revealing her immaculate teeth.

“I think we ought to go.  It’s getting late and we seem to have outstayed our welcome,” she said throwing her purse over her arm.

“I don’t live very far from here,” offered Jude.  “Why don’t we swing by my place?”

“Why not?” said Flower with a wink.

The scent of lavender incense wafted up from the basement into the entrance hall of the small townhouse where Terry and Greg, his associate, had been waiting patiently for half an hour.  Normally, Terry did not like to be kept waiting, but on this day he made an exception for his old friend Max Trenton.  The room they stood in, with its psychedelic wallpaper and forest green wall-to-wall shag carpeting felt more like a 70s time warp than the home of a renowned scientist.  At least, Dr. Trenton had been renowned.  That is, until he went completely mad.  Since the two phony cat massage therapists arrived, they had been treated to the steady sound of Max banging things and shouting at himself downstairs interrupted only once when, it seemed, he had paused to put on an old Three Dog Night record.

“Can we go?  I’m really not feeling comfortable here Terry…I mean, your Excellency,” said Greg, beads of sweat coalescing along his forehead.

Terry lifted his hand as if to place it on Greg’s shoulder but instead gave him a rough swat on the back of the head.

“You treacherous imbecile.  Adam returns in two days and you wish that we do not honour his presence.  How dare you!  Perhaps I was wrong about you.  Perhaps you should have waited in the car with the rest of them and I should have chosen a more worthy companion.”

“No, no, great one,” said Greg, peering out the window beside the door, really wishing that he was in the car with the others.  “I’m just wondering…and please don’t think that I’m questioning your supreme authority…but I’m just wondering whether it’s really necessary to blow up the entire city as a welcome?”

Just then, Max’s wife Brandy came into the room cinching the belt of a baby-pink housecoat around her waist.

“Would you boys like some peach cobbler?” she asked as she peered at them through thick bifocals.

“No thank you Mrs. Trenton,” said Terry.  “Today we’re strictly here for business”

“Oh all right dear,” she replied as she turned to leave the room.  “I’ll be in the kitchen if you change your mind.”

When she was out of earshot, Terry leaned close to Greg and bared his lower teeth.

“I’ve been at this for half a decade now, my dear man.  I’ve built an ingenious and elaborate cover organization, recruiting some of the shrewdest, most gifted thinkers in the northeast, all of whom were squandering their talents.  Look at you, Greg.  You have a degree from MIT, but when I found you, you were trying to teach Swahili to little old ladies and all because of some ridiculous anxiety disorder.”

“It’s…it’s not ridiculous,” stammered Greg, “and…and I was teaching them Syriac and it’s a very important language.  Anyone who truly wants to become acquainted with the religious literature of the…”

“Enough.  You mean ‘antiquated’ not ‘acquainted’, Greg.  You’re living in the past with your dead languages.  You are a modern version of the Israelites who built the Golden Calf.  I offer you the future and you bring me what is gone because you are too frightened.”

“Syriac is still used in Syria and…and” said Greg holding up a single finger, “in some parts of India.  I would hardly call it a dead language.  And another thing, I don’t think that it’s fair to say that I’m being a baby and that I’m only worried about setting off a nuclear weapon because I have an anxiety disorder.”

“Listen to me Greg.  Together we have all steadily moved forwards towards our final aim.  Yes, at times I have had to hide the details of the plan from my followers.  I know that it must be frustrating for all of you.  The fact is that Adam has delivered his signal.  He has called for a “blow out” as he foretold all those months ago.  The plan must proceed.  I will not have my orders questioned!”

Just then a voice came from the basement.

“Ok.  C’mon down.  It’s sizzlin’.”

It was seven o’clock and dark in the heart of Boston.  Jude and Flower had crammed into the back seat of a taxi that was taking them the short distance back to his apartment.  The unseasonably warm weather seemed to have awakened the local fauna, as evidenced by the tiny mosquito which Jude spent most of the ride swatting about the cabin.

The cab pulled up to the curb.  Annoyed and bitten, Jude emerged, his hair a spiky mess.  Flower, by comparison, was still as serene and gorgeous as she had been that morning.  She raised an eyebrow as Jude headed towards the door of the restaurant in front of them.

“Are we getting takeaway?” she called to him.

“No.  I live upstairs.”  Jude opened the door and gestured to the stairwell.  “Après vous.”

Greg was by no means amused as he descended with Terry into the physicist’s basement to the lyrics of “Mama Told Me Not To Come”.  They found Max Trenton hopping about, crunching his bare feet on metallic spare parts that were strewn about the small room.  He was not at all what Greg had imagined.  The physicist was a short man with large steel-framed glasses and a dandruffy salt-and-pepper ponytail that flew out in all directions.  With his front teeth, Max sucked on his lower lip repeatedly as he circled the grey cylinder that housed his creation in the centre of the room.

“I am the guy…I am the guy…I am the guy…hoohoo…yeah!”

Greg decided to climb back up the stairs.  Terry grabbed his arm and forced him further into the room.

“How are you today Dr. Trenton?”

“Good, good, great, haven’t slept in days…nope, no sleep…don’t need it…I am it!”

“Is it nearly ready?” Terry was wary of offending the physicist, labile as Max was, but the leader of the cult wanted to spend as little time in the man’s basement as possible.

“I need a new song…oh yes…a new song would be good,” Max carried on, abruptly pulling the needle off of the Three Dog Night record and replacing it at another spot.  He cranked up the volume and the room throbbed with base chords from a synthesizer.