Green Eyes Page 0,17

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.

Balancing the punch, slipping between couples, Jocundra threaded her way toward Donnell. He was sitting across the room from the punch bowl, scowling; he had gotten some tan lately, his hollows were filling in, but his social attitudes had not changed much. He had rejected every advance so far, and no one was bothering to talk to him anymore. Jocundra was beginning to feel like the loser in a garden show, watching the crowd encircle the winners, sitting alone with her dispirited, green-eyed plant.

'I know, I know,' she said, handing him the punch. 'Where have I been?'

'Where the hell have you been?' He sipped the punch. 'God, this is awful! Let's get out of here.'

'We have to stay until Edman comes. He should be here soon.' A lie. Edman was monitoring the video, overseeing the big picture.

Marilyn Ramsburgh's therapist signalled to Jocundra, and she signalled him back No. Donnell was not ready for Ramsburgh. She was, as far as Jocundra was concerned, the most physically alarming of the patients. Frail, white hair so thin you could see the veined scalp beneath, hunched in her chair, hands enwebbed with yarn, her pupils shrunk to almost nothing. She was due to be 'discharged' soon, taken back to Tulane for 'a few final tests,' and lately she had been chirping about hugging her grandchildren again, promising to write everyone, and had presented Edman with a beautiful hand-woven coverlet worked into a design of knights battling in a forest illuminated by violet will o' the wisps: a token of her gratitude.

Squabbling noises on the patio, a woman's squeal, and Richmond came into view, swinging his cane to clear a path; his therapist, Audrey, trailed behind him. He limped along the refreshment table, picked up a sandwich, had a bite, and tossed the remainder on the floor; he dipped a ladleful of punch, slurped, and spewed it back into the bowl. 'Fuckin' fruit juice! Jesus!'