I want to run to the sea, back to the womb. Instead I drift into the red-light district that bordered our old orphanage. The timeless profession is legal in our country.
The locale is a chirpy street with arched entryways at both ends. People have named it ‘the confessional’, an allusion to its clients – the politicians, top brass, bankers, fat cats, media-bods, judges, ecclesiastics and celebrities who stream through incognito and confide countless secrets to perfumed loins.
If the pillow talk of the incognitos was to be weighed on Doomsday’s scales, it would prove heavier than all the tea in China. While most of these confidences do eventually leak out, they only serve to enhance reputations. The hoary dodderers especially are lauded as golden-agers still capable of quickening their gonads.
Before I met Belkis, I used to sneak here whenever I could save enough pennies from odd jobs. However, burdened by the orphanage’s homilies on the pitfalls of carnality, my escapades always felt like slinking into vipers’ nests. Only the relief of surviving without fang marks mitigated shame’s heavy yoke.
The place bustles. The French-windowed brothels rub shoulders with cafés and bars. Vendors hawk barbecues, pastries and ice-cream. Romani matriarchs sell posies to men hoping to allay their partners’ suspicions. There’s the usual Police presence, but, judging by their badinage with prostitutes recharging batteries in bars, they seem benign.
Men dart from one brothel to another. Some encounter acquaintances and banter. Those who have just ‘flicked their ash’ are easily spotted by their jaunty strides. Equally noticeable are those flustered by their indecision about which woman to choose.
The most conspicuous are the poor. They skulk from door to door and masturbate furtively. These rolling stones, so desperate for love, sadden me. The sex-starved are downtrodden, too. They must wonder when, or if, a lover will ever yearn for their touch. Are there lands of milk and honey for down-and-outs? For anybody?
I don’t know what made me drift here.
I don’t want a woman. Belkis is my woman. I never desired another.
I sit at a café and order a coffee.
A dog licks my hand: Phral, leading Moni.
Moni chuckles. ‘Phral purrs so happily when he sees you. Good to meet again, Oric – here of all places.’
I bridle. ‘It’s not what you think.’
He pulls out a chair. ‘Not thinking anything. Just happy to bump into you.’
Several waiters rush with coffees. They kiss Moni’s hands. Serve him snacks. Also, some for Phral. And some for me.
I offer to pay but they protest. ‘No, no, no. You’re Moni’s guest. His guests are our guests.’
Moni shrugs apologetically. ‘It’s so embarrassing ...’
‘They love you. Everybody does. You give them good tidings.’
‘I try.’
I attempt to sip my coffee, but my hand shakes.
Moni takes my hand and steadies it. ‘Grief is very heavy. Sometimes the heart needs to let it out.’
‘A short while ago I was with Amador, the poet. He passed away in front of me.’
Moni pours some coffee onto the ground in libation. ‘May his earth be plentiful, and may his soul live in light forever.’
‘He has children. A daughter, Sonya. Only nine. A son, Rudolph, fifteen. And a wife, Rosalind – for whom he wrote amazing poems. Mostly from prison. Ballads bursting with love. He called her Rosalind-Selene, after the moon goddess.’
Moni sighs. ‘I just passed the undertakers. She was there with the children. Organising his funeral, Phral said.’
‘What will become of the children?’
‘They – and Rosalind – will celebrate his spirit. They’ll fight the evils we see and the evils to come. Like Amador they’ll denounce inhumanity.’
I mutter. ‘That’s good news. I sound glib. But I mean it.’
Moni holds my hand again. ‘You’re thinking of Childe Asher.’
‘And Belkis!’
‘Belkis is a step ahead of you.’
‘But can I catch up with that step?’
‘There’s someone here – Aurora.’
I protest. ‘I’m not here for that!’
‘I know. You’re here to find your Moses basket.’
I look up thinking he’s joking. ‘What?’
‘We spoke about it this morning. The Moses basket that brought you this far. The one that’s taking you to your destiny.’
‘Don’t I still have it?’
‘You do. But you’re not sure whether it’ll survive the rapids ahead.’
‘Might it … Might it not get me to Belkis?’
‘Belkis is your destiny – written on your forehead. As I told you.’
‘I have fears.’
‘Everybody has.’
‘Not like mine.’
‘Fear is fear. You can’t pigeonhole it.’
‘You don’t understand. I’ve got Hidebehind chasing me!’
He pats my shoulder. ‘Go to Aurora.’
I screech. ‘I don’t want a woman!’
‘She’ll help. She wipes the sweat from tortured heads.’ He points vaguely at the brothels. ‘She works there. Go to her.’
I stare at Moni. ‘Now?’
‘Now’s always better than later. Phral will take you.’
Phral wags his tail.
I follow Phral.
We stop at the door of a brothel.
I hesitate.
Phral barks softly to urge me on.
I go in.
Several women, most of them semi-naked, look at me expectantly. One of them – bare-breasted – comes across.
I stammer. ‘I’ve come to see Aurora.’
The woman smiles. ‘That’s me. Just saw Phral. Did Moni send you?’
‘Yes.’
She takes my hand. ‘Welcome.’
She leads me into her room.
I look around, mesmerised. I had expected it to be Spartan – like the cubicles I remember. But this one, an extravaganza in hues of indigo and violet, could only belong to an astral imagination. Everything – not just the carpet, the walls and the ceiling, but also the huge bed, the armchair, the tablecloth, even the bowl, pitcher, urinal and soap in the toilet alcove – glitter in shades shamans attribute to blue moons.
My amazement pleases Aurora. ‘Nice?’
‘Stunning.’
‘I’m saying goodbye to the Piscean Age and welcoming the Aquarian. The Piscean has been ruling us with dictatorial energy for 2,000 years. That’s the span of every Age. The Aquarian will rule the next 2,000 with agape, brotherhood, sanity and integrity. The indigo chakra – the spiritual power – emits our sensitivities. The violet chakra is earthy, visionary, rational, magical, hence the wisest and most receptive. It affirms the soul’s love for all life.’
Belkis would understand her, but I’m bemused.
She strokes my cheek then takes off her panties. ‘Undress.’
‘Completely?’
She lies on the bed. ‘Completely.’
I strip off clumsily and look for a place to hang my clothes.
She laughs. ‘Drop them anywhere. Births don’t need decorum.’
I put my clothes on the armchair. Naked, I feel unbearably shy.
She pats the bed. ‘Over here.’
I sit on the bed uncertainly.
She pulls me down. ‘Lie down.’
I do, but at a distance from her.
‘Close to me.’
I move until our bodies touch.
‘Look at my face.’
It’s the first time I’ve dared to look at her closely.
She’s not as beautiful as my Belkis. But her eyes, infinitely deep, radiate the same tenderness. Her face glows. She looks ageless. She could be … ‘Pachamama!’
She laughs. ‘Very kind of you to say so. Now look at my body.’
Again, I dare.
She emanates – like Belkis – the poise of a woman proud of her body.
‘Still like Pachamama?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good man! Time for birth.’
I yield to her softness.
‘Souls need several births to evolve. Seven is the standard. There can be more. Do you remember your first?’
‘Who can?’
‘Some do. I’ll tell you yours. It was joyous. Your Mum and Dad were ecstatic. They had waited a long time to have you. Seeing them so happy, you floated on air.’
My mind opens. I feel that happiness. Tears of joy swell up. ‘It’s so blissful.’
‘What about the second birth? That’s also usually associated with one’s parents.’
‘They were taken away. Killed. I was still an infant.’
‘You remember it happening?’
‘In nightmares and daymares. Whenever I’m afraid. One of Hidebehind’s grand guignols ...’
‘That’s your second birth. Onto the third! That’s normally an event that accelerates the Self’s evolution.’
‘I’d say meeting my Belkis. I loved her instantly. She gave me life.’
‘She is your fourth birth. There must have been one before that – one that primed you for her.’
‘I can’t think …’
‘A transitional event. A rite of passage.’
I freeze. ‘Oh.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘It tears my guts out. I managed to mention it to Belkis … also my mentor, Hrant, knows it. Now I keep it locked up.’
She wipes the sweat from my brow and wraps her legs around my body. ‘I’ll read it off your skin. Shut your eyes. Breathe slowly. Shallow breathing helps births.’