I had to convince Florence. I always forget, because I didn’t believe it then and I don’t believe it now, that she was convinced other members of the Order were conspiring to take Juan away from her—or should I say from us?—as, she also believed, were other secret cults that referred to themselves as “cults of the shadow” or “cults of the left-handed path.” As she understood it, the constant bodyguards were necessary in order to prevent that kidnapping, and as a guarantee that the medium wouldn’t hurt himself or try to flee, all of which I thought was highly unlikely.
It wasn’t raining, so I dropped Sandy off at the Warburg and left Lucie at Biba and walked to Florence’s house. The city becomes both grayer and greener as you enter the more elegant neighborhoods. Still, I missed the purple flowers of the jacarandas that the wisteria couldn’t replace, though it’s also lovely: there was a particularly lush one growing beside our house in Cheyne Walk. I had to tell Florence the whole truth and propose a simple plan. Juan and I were together, and in love. She knew that, and disapproved. To her, love was impure. I, on the other hand, have had so little love that it seems to me like a delicate jewel, and I’m terrified of losing it. My fear is not just that I’ll misplace it, like an earring on a night of sex or sweaty dancing, it’s that it will evaporate and vanish like alcohol.
I waited for her reclining on the chaise longue in front of the fireplace. I was served tea. I heard footsteps the whole time, though I was alone. Sounds were treacherous in that house, and there were currents of cold air in every corner. I sat up very straight and smoothed my hair when Florence arrived. She listened attentively. My request sounded reasonable. Juan was going to spend his first days out of the hospital in this house, but after that, please, Flo, don’t send him back to Argentina, I want him to see the city. And it would also be good, especially for him, if we could spend some time alone.
She was displeased, but not enough to refuse. We’ll have to talk about it with your uncle first, and I also want to hear what Juan has to say. Doesn’t he trust me?
Of course he does, but he’s very tired. We want to be together, Florence. We accept the surveillance, we’ll accept it if you set up a hospital in the room next door, if necessary. But it’s easier for him to communicate through me, for now. I’m not manipulating him; I would never dare. There’s never been a medium like him before, and that’s partly because he’s been pressured less. I’m asking you for a period of calm.
Florence gave me a look I will never forget, and for the first time I was afraid of her. Her power was being diluted. I was calm and very assured, and my tone held a veiled threat, although, of course, I was also in danger. I couldn’t become an obstacle, or they would eliminate me.
We’ll continue this conversation when he is out of the hospital.
Just then, that was all I needed to hear.
Stephen sat down on the bed looking happier than I’d ever seen him, and he embraced Juan with that particular tenderness they shared. I fought back an unexpected wave of jealousy that made my mouth taste sour. Even so, it excited me a lot to see them kiss unabashedly, with that discomfort of men’s kisses that at first makes them seem like a fight, and then spills over into an emotion I didn’t understand, a lost and recovered fraternity.
You’re freezing, Juan told him. This city is cold as a crypt, replied Stephen, and I know what he was referring to: the damp cold that sticks to your skin and never leaves; the saying “chilled to the bone” gets it so wrong, it’s more like there’s a second skin that forms, like that of an animal made for cold waters. Stephen stood up to get the albums he’d brought us: the North American ones I’d asked for, the Byrds and Leonard Cohen and the Velvet Underground. Neither Stephen nor Juan understood music. Juan did a little more, because he liked poetry. Stephen preferred structures, buildings, the night.
Stephen added a lot of sugar to his tea so that, as he always said, he could forget it was tea. Why don’t they make coffee in this country? I will die with that question on my lips, he said. You should play these albums at night, to drown out my brother’s screams. Don’t listen to him. You should really have something more than a few albums to protect yourselves from him.
When he screams, your brother talks about hands, Juan said suddenly. Stephen and I looked at each other in surprise. Juan had only spent one night in St. John’s Wood. You didn’t sleep? He nodded with his head a little cocked, as if he were hearing something right then. The screams woke me up. There are hands that touch him. Can’t you all help him? I can, I’ve felt the same thing many times. I know how to get them to leave.
My brother talks about hands and about rapes, said Stephen, and he lowered his head. You can’t help him, no one can, not even you. Don’t think about Eddie, fuck.
Juan insisted. He asked if Eddie had also been kept in a cage, and Stephen said he didn’t know the details about what had been done to his brother. “My father admitted to certain practices, but not to everything. What he has done is his dirty secret, and he’s ashamed. They were trying to get Eddie to achieve a state of hyperia, which means an excessive number of neurons in his nervous system are turned on.”
Juan looked at us. “I was told they raped him with human remains.”
“Who told you that?” I asked in horror.
“Mercedes,” replied Juan, and Stephen swallowed hard.
“I don’t know,” he said, “but if Mercedes said it, it’s possible. Why would she tell you that while you’re recovering?”
“Because she’s a piece of shit,” I said.
“Well, in short, they achieved that state of hyperia in my brother, and that’s why he’s crazy. The state of clairvoyance, when it’s permanent, is madness.”
Juan didn’t ask anymore about Eddie that day. From an enormous bag, Stephen took a very long Afghan coat made of suede and goat leather: it was big enough for Juan. This will keep you warm, he said. That afternoon we went to Kew Gardens, and on the following days, which were rainy, we went to the museums. The Tate holds Juan’s favorites, Turner and Waterhouse. I told him I would like to pose for a photo as the woman in “The Magic Circle”： go to the countryside and reproduce it, photograph myself like that, with the crows, the cauldron, the witch in a sensational dress as she drew the circle without looking, as if leaning on the wand. Lucie could help me. Juan spent half an hour in front of his favorite Blake, the yellow monster, “The Ghost of a Flea.” Some art-school girls stared at him brazenly, giggling and nervous. If only they’d known the truth, they would have died of fright.
When we were back at St. John’s Wood, Stephen decided to go to Hive; Laura, he told us, had been drunk for three days. She’s afraid to meet me, Juan said. She’ll come when she can, said Stephen nonchalantly. In our room, Juan opened the window because a perfect breeze was blowing, and I embraced him from behind. He asked if I wanted to know the truth about Eddie, and I told him I was very curious. I can find out, he said, if we get close to him. The whole floor is guarded, I told him; they don’t want you getting near him and I’m going to obey the rules, because they’re right. Florence’s son can’t control me, he whispered. But the guards can, I said. He pulled away from my embrace and huffed in annoyance. Bring me something of his, then. Anything. Hair, for example. Or do they not let you in, either? Why do they keep him prisoner? You’re more curious than me, I said, and he replied: I want to know what they’re capable of.