“We’re going to operate.” Before I could answer, he turned back to his patient who was smiling reassurances at me.
“Can I help?” I asked.
“Reassure Carlos,” said Corinne from the doorway. “I think he likes you.”
But Carlos was nowhere in sight. I peered down the stairwell into the mazeway of landings, but the place was deserted. There was just a murmuring now from the bedroom. Then, for no apparent reason, I felt strangely at peace.
Sunlight was streaming into the kitchen, and there was laughter from the other room. It sounded as if the patient were recovering.
My outline was sitting on the table, and I slowly thumbed through it. There was another passage from Thurston: “A large number of stigmatics also bear across the forehead and around the head a circlet of punctures, such as might have been caused by a crown of thorns . . . The stigmatic has declared that the sense of interior pain in the part affected preceded by many months or even by years the visible appearance of scars or bleeding wounds.”
I turned the page. “Prayer,” I had written, “may recreate the cells. The saint is blindly remaking his body. Stigmatics, in this respect, are signs of our further evolution. Like wheels on the toys of primitive men, these seemingly useless things anticipate the ways of the future.” I sat back with a start. There was a peal of laughter, and the door to the bedroom flew open. Corinne came out and crossed the studio to the kitchen. “You must think this is all pretty strange,” she said with mock exasperation. “And you’re right! Those two in there. I mean— they are something!”
“How is he feeling?” I ventured.
“Oh he’s fine. He’s such a horse. ” She opened a door and I could hear her descending an interior stairwell. Apparently, it went down to the apartment below.
My excitement was growing. Could the mark on his chest have appeared in the wake of his experience last night? I turned back to the book and reread the passage from Thurston.
“Would you hold the door open?” her voice came up from below. I crossed the room to help her, and she appeared with a steaming tureen. “From the Echeverrias,” she lifted the lid to reveal a consomme with parsley floating on it. She put the tureen and a bowl on a tray and carried them into the bedroom.
Why had he asked me to come? I thought. There had to be a reason. “I’m sorry,” she smiled, coming back through the door. “Now we can talk.”
“I’ve no idea what’s going on,” I said. “I’d like to know what’s happening.”
She sat down at the table. “This has all happened so unexpectedly. This accident—but first, he really is all right, in spite of that thing on his chest. Something like it has happened before. It’s as if there’s a circuit-breaker in his system—but I take it you’re familiar with the kinds of things he’s doing.” I could tell she was feeling me out. “And you were up here last night?”
“Yes. I guess he told you about that electricity around his painting, that lightning bolt.”
“He told me something. But it’s a little unclear. So you saw it?”
“Well it only lasted a second or two. There was a blue sheet of fire and something seemed to pass from his hand to the painting.”
“About what time did it happen?”
“About midnight I think. Yes, around twelve-thirty. But I left as soon as it happened. He came out on the deck—I was watching from out there—and asked me to leave.”
“What do you think it was?”
“I don’t know. A static electric charge maybe. The wind last night was blowing from the east and everything was funny.”
“You know it’s strange,” she held my gaze, “trying to fill you in like this. Jacob rarely brings another person up here. And your being here last night. Well, he never lets people in like that.”
“That was my doing. I just blundered in. I guess I was a little drunk, and I’ve wanted to get his reaction to my
“Can I help?” I asked.
“Reassure Carlos,” said Corinne from the doorway. “I think he likes you.”
But Carlos was nowhere in sight. I peered down the stairwell into the mazeway of landings, but the place was deserted. There was just a murmuring now from the bedroom. Then, for no apparent reason, I felt strangely at peace.
Sunlight was streaming into the kitchen, and there was laughter from the other room. It sounded as if the patient were recovering.
My outline was sitting on the table, and I slowly thumbed through it. There was another passage from Thurston: “A large number of stigmatics also bear across the forehead and around the head a circlet of punctures, such as might have been caused by a crown of thorns . . . The stigmatic has declared that the sense of interior pain in the part affected preceded by many months or even by years the visible appearance of scars or bleeding wounds.”
I turned the page. “Prayer,” I had written, “may recreate the cells. The saint is blindly remaking his body. Stigmatics, in this respect, are signs of our further evolution. Like wheels on the toys of primitive men, these seemingly useless things anticipate the ways of the future.” I sat back with a start. There was a peal of laughter, and the door to the bedroom flew open. Corinne came out and crossed the studio to the kitchen. “You must think this is all pretty strange,” she said with mock exasperation. “And you’re right! Those two in there. I mean— they are something!”
“How is he feeling?” I ventured.
“Oh he’s fine. He’s such a horse. ” She opened a door and I could hear her descending an interior stairwell. Apparently, it went down to the apartment below.
My excitement was growing. Could the mark on his chest have appeared in the wake of his experience last night? I turned back to the book and reread the passage from Thurston.
“Would you hold the door open?” her voice came up from below. I crossed the room to help her, and she appeared with a steaming tureen. “From the Echeverrias,” she lifted the lid to reveal a consomme with parsley floating on it. She put the tureen and a bowl on a tray and carried them into the bedroom.
Why had he asked me to come? I thought. There had to be a reason. “I’m sorry,” she smiled, coming back through the door. “Now we can talk.”
“I’ve no idea what’s going on,” I said. “I’d like to know what’s happening.”
She sat down at the table. “This has all happened so unexpectedly. This accident—but first, he really is all right, in spite of that thing on his chest. Something like it has happened before. It’s as if there’s a circuit-breaker in his system—but I take it you’re familiar with the kinds of things he’s doing.” I could tell she was feeling me out. “And you were up here last night?”
“Yes. I guess he told you about that electricity around his painting, that lightning bolt.”
“He told me something. But it’s a little unclear. So you saw it?”
“Well it only lasted a second or two. There was a blue sheet of fire and something seemed to pass from his hand to the painting.”
“About what time did it happen?”
“About midnight I think. Yes, around twelve-thirty. But I left as soon as it happened. He came out on the deck—I was watching from out there—and asked me to leave.”
“What do you think it was?”
“I don’t know. A static electric charge maybe. The wind last night was blowing from the east and everything was funny.”
“You know it’s strange,” she held my gaze, “trying to fill you in like this. Jacob rarely brings another person up here. And your being here last night. Well, he never lets people in like that.”
“That was my doing. I just blundered in. I guess I was a little drunk, and I’ve wanted to get his reaction to my
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