Bargain With the Gods Page 3

  Marc blinked in bemused bewilderment and nodded as if he understood.

  “It's really much simpler than it seems,” Elizabeth added in an attempt to clarify. “It's like a game of catch, using thoughts as the ball. Someone pitches and someone catches.”

  The eager new volunteer insisted on an experiment… “just to get the feel of things.” Elizabeth agreed to a simple color telepathy test, if only to let him know from the onset that it was not a game and the results could prove very disappointing, if one expected a perfect score.

  She placed him behind the glass barrier, where the student Lisa had sat, and went into the monitoring booth to record his responses. She logged the experiment in her book as an unauthorized test and began by explaining the procedure.

  “Now Mr. Augenbech,” she began formally, “there is not really much to this other than a simple direct response to a telepathic suggestion. I shall concentrate on the color of an object and you will tell me the first thing that pops into your mind. We'll leave off trying to guess the shapes on the cards until you are able to show progress in the single area of color reception. It is very simple. I shall pitch and you catch.”

  She shuffled the cards containing the colored shapes, then chose a yellow triangle and pressed it to her forehead. She concentrated on the color yellow, allowing a black void to appear in her head before her closed eyes. In the center of the void, a yellow spot would appear. She waited, focusing her attention, but her mind drifted and she was suddenly gripped with the fear that the receiver might be able to read her thoughts about him. She thought him a silly vain man, but worse yet, she found him attractive.

  “Yellow,” Marc's voice came through the monitor.

  Elizabeth's attention raced back to the focus of the experiment. Surprised, she asked him to repeat the answer.

  “That's very good,” she said, “but is it more than a lucky guess? This type of experiment is known as a forced response trial, because there are restrictions on the choices possible to you. You are not able to draw in or visualize any random object… but are limited to the shapes and colors of geometric forms.”

  Next she chose a red circle and placed it against her forehead. She visualized the color strongly in her mind.

  “Red,” he answered almost immediately. “A red circle is what comes to mind.”

  “Yes, that is correct,” she answered. “Let's continue.”

  She chose a blue square, but even before she was able to place it to her forehead, the answer came through the intercom. She chose a rectangle but decided to try the red circle again in an attempt to confuse him.

  “I'm not sure, “ he answered. “I believe I see a rectangle, but I'm also getting the color red. I'd say it was the red circle again, if it weren't for the impression of the rectangle. I'm sorry. I guess I didn't get that one.”

  “It's all right,” Elizabeth answered, concealing the truth. “One can't expect a perfect score in everything.”

  Her voice carried a tone of near hostility. She had intended that he would learn that things would not come easily to him here in her lab, as she assumed they had for him in all other facets of his life, just because he was both charming and handsome.

  “I think that's enough for today,” she said into the intercom. “We don't want to give you the wrong idea about what we do here. As I said, it is not a game.”

  “How'd it go?” Marc asked brightly, as Elizabeth joined him on the same side of the glass.

  Elizabeth laughed.

  “Don't tell me you expect praise for a few right answers. I'm hardly a Pavlavian specialist. If you must know, you did very well.”

  “I didn't mean the color test,” Marc smiled. “I meant my first day. I'd love to stay and continue to work with you, of course, but I'm giving you an honest chance to back out. If you'd rather not have me around, just say the word and I promise to leave you in peace.”

  Elizabeth was a bit taken aback by his sheer niceness.

  “I think you'll do just fine,” she said.

  “In that case, I'd like to buy you dinner... only to discuss what I might do to be of help,” he added with haste.

  “No, thank you,” Elizabeth answered, a bit stunned at the offer.

  “You're not going to tell me that you have to go home and wash your hair.”

  Elizabeth poked at her hair with nervous fingers, not certain that her earlier anxious thought had been transmitted to him.

  “I was only joking,” he said softly, sensing her inexplicable alarm.

  “Yes, of course.” She tried to laugh. “It's a kind offer, but I have a lot of clearing up here and work to do at home. To be perfectly frank, I don't think being personable would help the objectivity of the experiments. As you know, the better people know one another, the easier it is for thoughts to appear to be transmitted, and that would, of course, spoil our ratio of randomness.”

  Marc sighed. “I don't mean to come on so strong and give you the wrong idea, but it's just so seldom that I get to talk about the functions of the mind, especially with someone as renowned as you.”

  Elizabeth lowered her head and sighed with exhaustion.

  “At least I know that I can help get this place organized,” Marc continued, as he surveyed the room. “For a creative type, I'm surprisingly thorough. I'll make you glad that you took me in off the streets.”

  Chapter Four

  Pacific Palisades

  When Elizabeth returned to her quiet apartment, she slumped into the comfort of the living room sofa and sat in the dark, convincing herself that she did not regret in the slightest refusing Marc’s dinner invitation. The street lamp outside cast a glow across the quilted window seat that reminded her of moonlight, softly illuminating the planes and dark shapes of the furniture that lay around her like a nocturnal landscape. How peaceful it felt to just sit in the quiet of the room. It was like meditating in a dream state of drowsiness. She could become so relaxed that she would not be aware of her body. She would feel as if she were floating above the room, hovering over herself in the darkness, looking down at the weary woman below.

  It was in this state of intense relaxation, a half consciousness, that she noticed the maid had put the ashtray on the wrong side of the coffee table again. She glared at the glass bowl and its silver rim with annoyance. She had told the woman a thousand times where she liked certain objects, but the little Mexican had her own ideas about the decor of this apartment, and Elizabeth had often returned home to find colorful patterned pillows defiling her white sofa, or her Steuben glass animals hidden away in exchange for a vase filled with garish paper flowers. She stared at the ashtray, hating it for its lack of obedience.

  Almost at once the sound began, a grating sound, a creaking, like the sound that one grows accustomed to at sea, or the sound that wooden structures make in an earthquake. The furniture around her groaned with slow imperceptible movements. She glanced out of the corner of her eye, holding her breath to make certain it was not the magnified sound of her heartbeat. In the dim light, she saw all the familiar shapes of the room's furnishings shifting slowly as if uncertain of their footing. The doors to the dining room sideboard opened and closed like two silent tongues lashing out in the darkness. Elizabeth watched in horror, digging her nails into the upholstery, as the sound intensified inside her head. In that instant, the glass ashtray slid across the surface of the table and shattered on the floor. It must be an earthquake, her mind told itself. Her brain struggled to explain the creaking of the distant bedroom doors and the rattling of the silver in the kitchen drawers. She gripped the arm of the sofa to steady herself as the piece of furniture quaked violently under her.

  “I am going mad,” she said aloud.

  It was not the first time this sort of thing had happened. She had long been aware that through some power of psychokinesis, objects moved around her, seemingly of their own will. It was her own mind, she knew, that caused the disturbance, but it had never been as violent as this. Other times, it had subtly m
anifested itself as the turning of the page of a book unaided, the prolonged holding of an elevator door until she got in, or the inexplicable freezing of a green light at an intersection as she sped through, late for an appointment. Most manifestations of this power had been harmless enough, mere projections of her will.

  But then again, there had been the incident at her prep school that she never allowed herself to think about. She had been terribly overworked, studying for exams and had neglected sleep for nights on end. She sat one afternoon huddled over a book on the mezzanine of the school library, staring blankly in a state of half consciousness. At one point, her eye fell on the great bronze plaque that hung behind the registration desk, bearing the names of those who had fallen in the Great War. As her eyes passed over it, without rancor or intent, without realizing that she was focusing her attention in any powerful way, the great sheet of glass that protected the plaque shattered into splinters and the heavy bronze slab crashed inexplicably to the floor. There had been no explanation why a plaque that had hung there securely for over fifty years would suddenly come crashing down on a given Wednesday in April. But somehow, Elizabeth knew she was responsible.

  She reminded herself that she was overtired now, just as she had been that day, years ago in the library. She tried to distract her mind from the eerie shifting of the room around her. The image of Marc Augenbech passed through her thoughts and she gladly seized upon it. His face stood before her, emblazoned in her mind, and she realized that the sound had stopped. She opened her eyes to see that everything was firmly rooted in its designated position and the room was once again quiet and familiar. She switched on the table lamp to enhance the feeling of reality and began picking up the bits of broken glass on the carpet. She smiled to herself as she prepared for bed, silently anticipating the morning and her meeting with the mysterious Mr. Augenbech, the worker of miracles.

  Chapter Five

  Mr. Raymond’s Gallery, Los Angeles

  “I always have a cup of tea this time of day,” the old man said, carefully stacking the china cups and placing them on a silver tray. “I think it's so much more civilized, don't you?”

  Marc nodded without answering. His portfolio lay unopened on the sofa. He resented that he must have tea with the gallery owner, when all he had come about was to show the photographs of his painting in the hope of getting permission for a one-man show. Marc paced the gallery space, pretending to peer into the messy canvases on the walls, as if finding some hidden depth in their patchy surfaces. Secretly, he loathed the paintings, but he nodded approvingly and bent forward to get a better look.

  “Interesting pieces. You have a good eye, Mr. Raymond,” he said.

  Marc’s feelings for the work of other artists ranged from mild disinterest to abject hatred. He hated these paintings for their self-indulgent smearing of blatantly uncontrolled color and lack of form. He crossed his hands behind his back and strolled over to the old man and the teacups.

  “They're really remarkable,” he said with a boyish smile. “It's no wonder you have the top gallery in LA. It would be quite a coup to have a show here. In fact, I'm rather pleased with myself and grateful to you that this meeting was even possible.”

  He took the cup of tea that the other man bestowed like a knighthood, and settled back on the pink leather sofa unanswered. Mr. Raymond stirred his cup, making a tiny irritating sound. At last he raised his eyes, long enough to give Marc an appraising glance.

  “I would have taken you for an actor,” he said, imitating a smile. “You are far too good looking to be a painter. I mean they are most often troubled-looking, so wrapped in sounding the depths of their own emotions, feeling the pain of creativity and the rest of that rubbish. But you aren't that way at all. You could easily be mistaken for one of those handsome young men in the afternoon soap operas... very pretty, with a trim physique.”

  His eyes traveled the length of Marc's body. Marc felt the prying eyes pass over the surface of his flesh, then slip back into the cup that was held in an old, trembling hand.

  “I'm so pleased that you are interested in seeing my work,” Marc subtly insisted, reaching for his portfolio. Quickly, he unzipped the case, the small insinuating sound filling the air with an uncomfortable tenseness. He carefully placed the open folio in front of the gallery owner, but the man never dropped his gaze to the first page. Instead, he continued the coy conversation.

  “Have you lived in the city long?” Raymond asked. “I could swear that I'd seen you before... you're sure it wasn't on the soaps. I'm really quite addicted to them.” He grinned up coquettishly from under his bushy eyebrows. “Perhaps I've seen you at one of the bars?”

  Marc drew in a steadying breath.

  “I’m afraid I haven't time for that sort of thing,” he said flatly.

  “Well, what do you do for excitement, if you don't go out?” Raymond insisted, watching his handsome prey squirm.

  “I drink tea,” Marc said, raising his cup in a theatrical toast, “... and, of course, I paint.” He pushed the portfolio closer to his interlocutor with his knee.

  Raymond closed the cover and pushed it back.

  “And what makes you so interested in my gallery?” he asked in a more professional voice.

  “It's the best in the city,” Marc answered without hesitation.

  The old man placed his cup gingerly on its saucer, and raised his eyes.

  “I have a two year waiting list here for a show. What makes you think I should fit you in?”

  “Because I'm good,” Marc answered.

  Mr. Raymond laughed, making his face redden, and he brought his cup and saucer down on the table with a resounding clatter.

  “My dear young man. Everyone is good. Don't you know that almost all artists are talented, or so they think. They starve to death waiting for a break, and when you pull them up out of obscurity and nurture them until they are making more money than they ever heard of, they turn around and claim angrily that they made themselves with their art. Their art is nothing more than infantile emotion, petulance smeared all over the place. And yet…” he said, raising his brows as if in thought, “if it's packaged and promoted correctly, l’enfant terrible is pronounced a genius by the critics, and we all make money. That, my dear, is the name of the game.” He folded his hands in his lap and calmly waited for Marc to reply.

  “And how does one go about convincing you that they are marketable?” he asked.

  “I'm not an unreasonable man,” the older man grinned. “I simply find that I am able to understand my artists better if we become personal friends. Breaking down certain barriers is always desirable in a new relationship... don't you agree?” He patted the closed portfolio. “I'm convinced that you are very talented. Why, I can see that just by looking at you. One who is as aesthetically pleasing as you are must understand the true principles of beauty.”

  “Beauty for its own sake has nothing to do with the way I paint,” Marc answered coldly.

  “I see,” Raymond hissed. “You are, after all, one of the emotional breed, the angry ones. That kind of thing won't sell to the decorators, and they are our stock and trade. You are pretty though.” He sighed audibly, intentionally annoying Marc.

  “I don't see why how I look has anything to do with my work,” Marc snapped.

  “It has everything to do with the sale of your work,” the gallery owner interrupted. “As I said… I have a two-year waiting list for this space and I don't see why I should put anyone out for you, unless I have a good reason. That… or if a really unique talent presents itself. I'm sure you are talented but I want more than that. I think we could be friends. With your looks and style, I could package you to make a bundle. I've done it for just about anyone you can mention.”

  Marc sighed. “And just what is required to be considered a unique enough talent for this honor?”

  The old man adjusted the sweater tied around his shoulders. “I'm having a little party this weekend in Palm Springs. I would like you to c
ome.”

  “Who else will be there?” Marc asked suspiciously.

  “My, aren't we status conscious. Well, I'm afraid I have no big names just yet. At any rate, it will be just ourselves and another couple, two friends rather high up in the movie business. You needn't bother bringing a bathing suit. We don't use them.”

  Marc recoiled in disgust at the suggestion that he should be coupled with this bloated creature, who leered at him from the pink leather sofa.

  “I'm afraid I'm busy this weekend,” he stated coolly.

  The old man rose and collected the teacups. He shuffled off into the kitchen, leaving Marc alone with the angry paintings on the walls.

  “I have an appointment in ten minutes,” he called back from the hallway. “Holly Driscoll is coming in from Phoenix to buy something for her new house. She does so love to discover new artists.” He appeared in the doorway, wiping his hands on a dishcloth, half bored with his own small talk. “You all think you have talent. No one ever realizes that it's people like me who create you… like Galatea, freed from lifeless stone by her creator Pygmalion. Oh well, I suppose I must settle for financial rewards and leave gratitude for the humble.” Raymond heaved a resolute sigh as he straightened the ceramic ashtray on the table and turned a cold eye on Marc. “It's a pity you can't stay and meet Holly, but I really must have a minute alone to get myself together.” He extended his hand in a mock gesture of friendship.

  “Thank you for showing an interest in my gallery, and I did enjoy seeing your work.”

  Marc zipped the portfolio closed and stormed to the door. He turned, glowering. “You're making a mistake Mr. Raymond,” he said, trying to suppress the fury in his voice. “My work is good, very good.”

  “Had second thoughts about our little weekend?” the old man called back, only half interested in the reply.