INCOGNOLIO Read online

  Once we were married, I would slip off my wedding band before Lunaria’s sessions, afraid of how she might react to seeing it. This went on for well over a year until, one day, I forgot to replace the ring afterwards. When I showed up at home with my finger bare, Angelica guessed what was going on. Furious, she made me promise to end the deception.

  The next session, as soon as Lunaria spotted the ring, she became enraged. She cursed me up and down, screaming at me one moment and sobbing the next. Lunaria accused me of humiliating and betraying her, of leading her on just so I could inflict the deepest pain.

  That evening she tried to kill herself by washing down an entire month’s worth of Lucidazole with a bottle of Southern Comfort. I was interrupted by a call during a night out with Angelica, and I left her sitting alone at Fleur de Lis while I rushed to the hospital where Lunaria was having her stomach pumped.

  After that episode, I could no longer kid myself that continuing to treat Lunaria was in her best interest. Instead, I began talking to her about ending the treatment and referring her to another therapist. Lunaria would have none of it. She pleaded and cajoled, insisting that the therapy was helping her. She threatened to make another suicide attempt. She even attended one session wearing a short skirt and no panties, slouching down in her seat so as to give me a clear view of her snatch.

  Finally, I realized that I couldn’t justify the termination purely in terms of what was best for Lunaria, a proposition that she would never accept. In our final session, I told Lunaria that for personal reasons I could no longer continue being her therapist, and referred her to Dr. Freeman. When Lunaria asked me to elaborate, I began to cry. Unable to contain my emotions, I wept as I admitted that I had fallen in love with her. Lunaria stared at me, tears running down her face, and then ran out of my office, never to return.

  “Don’t you like Dr. Freeman?” I ask her now.

  “Only saw him once. When you’ve had the best, Misha, there’s no going back.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I say, feeling both flattered and irritated. “Anyhow, with your history of drug addiction, don’t you think it’s risky to be fooling around with Anosh?”

  Anosh, a psychedelic agent extracted from the adrenal glands of the Bolivian marmoset, was ingested during the Wakan.

  “It’s totally safe,” Lunaria insists. “It’s nothing like heroin or meth. It puts you in touch with ultimate reality.”

  I am unsuccessful in my attempts to change Lunaria’s mind, and finally decide to accompany her to the ceremony in order to provide assistance should she happen to unravel psychologically.

  At least that’s how I rationalize this decision to myself.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  WAKAN

  As we enter the loft apartment where the Wakan is to take place, we find the air laden with incense—a heady mixture of sandalwood, sage, and myrrh. The light in the expansive room is soft and dim, produced by dozens of candles of every size, shape, and color. In the background, I can hear the low drone of an Indian tambura.

  Lunaria and I are greeted by the Shazan—the ceremonial leader—a wizened woman who somehow appears ageless, with smiling eyes and a profoundly peaceful aura.

  There are about twenty participants sitting cross-legged on pillows in a large circle, most of them in their late teens and twenties. An air of breathless anticipation fills the room, as if something miraculous is about to occur.

  When everyone is settled, the Shazan indicates that anyone who is having second thoughts about taking part in the Wakan should leave immediately, since once the ceremony begins we will be required to remain there until sunrise.

  People glance around at one another, but no one gets up to leave. Although I don’t intend to ingest the Anosh, I feel committed to looking after Lunaria and making sure that no harm comes to her.

  “Good,” says the Shazan. “Then we shall begin.”

  She strikes the small gong sitting in front of her with a wooden mallet, and everyone sits rapt as the mellow tone rings out, gradually fades, and finally disappears.

  “Oh, Great Spirit, whose breath gives life to the universe, may you bless this Wakan,” says the old woman. “Creator of All, we welcome you into our hearts, minds, bodies, and souls. We humbly ask you to guide our journey into the spirit world. Let the illusory world fall away, allowing us to perceive the timeless reality of the Nameless One.”

  The Shazan has everyone focus on the centerpiece, a holographic representation of a blazing fire, and then leads the group in a chant that sounds oddly familiar, as if I’ve heard it in a dream.

  After several minutes, the chanting comes to a close and everyone meditates in silence. Then the Shazan moves clockwise within the circle, administering the Anosh to each person in turn. The drug is in the shape of a milky-white, paper-thin wafer the size of a dime, and all are instructed to let it sit on the tongue until it dissolves.

  I observe Lunaria receive a wafer on her tongue and then close her mouth, smiling. The Shazan kneels in front of me, and I’m just about to tell her that I will be abstaining, when I make eye contact and am startled by her gaze—deeply intimate and yet impersonal, both down-to-earth and other-worldly. Without any sort of conscious thought process, I find myself opening my mouth and sticking out my tongue, accepting the wafer with a mixture of curiosity and dread.

  The Shazan moves on to the woman on my left, and I close my mouth and feel the Anosh dissolve on my tongue, leaving a faint bitter taste, similar to hops. I’m wondering how long it will be before I feel the effects, when Lunaria, as if reading my mind, leans over and whispers in my ear, “It takes about ten minutes for the Anosh to kick in.”

  When it does, the first thing I experience is a wave of nausea, as if I were in a small craft on a stormy sea. I glance at Lunaria, who is doubled over with the dry heaves and looks as queasy as I feel.

  “Do not fear the negative emotions that may arise,” says the Shazan. “We all carry around much crap. You must wade through your shit before you reach the other shore.”

  My mind starts to race as the nausea subsides, and although my mission is to look after Lunaria, it becomes increasingly difficult to focus on anything other than what I’m experiencing internally, which is highly unpleasant, centering on feelings of desolation. With eyes closed, I sense that my body has grown colossal, as if I am a giant towering over my surroundings. Other people are tiny insects, scurrying around with no apparent purpose, so removed from me that I have no feelings toward them whatsoever.

  Within I am empty—a husk of a man, a vacant fortress entirely devoid of life, a frozen wilderness in which nothing stirs except a bitter wind.

  Other participants cry and moan. The woman on my left is whimpering like an injured pup, and when I open my eyes to look at her, for a moment I’m convinced that it’s Angelica, returned from the grave. My heart overflows with love for my wife. Hope stirs within me for the first time since I tried to drown myself. But as I look at her, I realize that it’s merely a strong resemblance—that this woman is a stranger, my Angelica is gone forever—and I am plunged back into despair, cut off from all human warmth. Alone, so alone in the world.

  Unable to remain upright any longer, I lie down on the floor with my head on the cushion, and my body sinks through the floor, drops through the entire building and into the earth, tunneling into it like a neutrino, right through the molten core and out the other side of the planet, falling through space until I’m suspended in an inky void.

  As if from a great distance, I hear Lunaria’s voice. Although her words are pure gibberish, I can sense their tone, which is one of apprehension. She’s worried about me. But when I try to reassure her, I find I am unable to speak, producing instead a sickly bellow, like that of a dying moose.

  I get a strong whiff of urine and realize I have wet myself. It dawns on me that the overpowering emotion I’m experiencing is terror. My body trembles, my mind floods with anxiety, and I am left to steep in misery, wishing to hell I’d ne
ver taken the Anosh, wondering if I will ever return to normal, and fearing that I have done permanent damage to my brain.

  And now I sense my body being stretched in all directions, like I’m being drawn and quartered. My muscles are extended to the breaking point—cartilage tearing, tendons and ligaments snapping, bones fracturing, joints bursting—the pain unimaginable—utterly unbearable, and still I must bear it, over a span of time that seems endless.

  I grow convinced that what is happening to me is not random or haphazard, that a malicious entity is inflicting this horrendous pain on me. Instantly I become aware of a gruff male voice taunting me and laughing sadistically, taking great delight in my suffering.

  I hear myself screaming, the tortured sounds echoing through the void. And again, from a vast distance, seemingly from another dimension altogether, I hear a voice. This time it’s the Shazan, who makes as if to calm me down, to comfort me. Again, most of it comes across as gobbledygook, but there’s one statement I comprehend: I should listen to the voice of Incognolio.

  Between the thunderous sadistic laughter and my own echoing screams, I am gradually able to make out the remote sound of a female voice. Sweet and inviting, singing the most soothing, mellifluous song I’ve ever heard, it is the voice that spoke to me while I was on the verge of drowning. The more I focus on it, the louder it grows, eclipsing and finally silencing the vicious laughter, and in so doing, the voice of Incognolio eradicates all of my pain.

  What follows feels like coming home. My original home, like an infant suckling at its mother’s breast. Sheer ecstasy, surrounded by boundless love, basking in the affection of an all-embracing, all-accepting deity whose light illuminates my mind, whose compassion liberates my soul, whose song entices me to let go of my fears, surrender my self until all boundaries dissolve and I am merged with the Goddess.

  Only I can’t.

  As delightful as it feels, and as much as I’d like to fully submit, a part of me resists. Perhaps out of instinct, perhaps out of some perverse need to oppose, or perhaps out of loyalty to my unflagging sense of worthlessness, the unshakeable conviction that at the core I remain unlovable.

  And in this moment, in which I falter and begin to pull away, all is lost. I plunge from the rapturous heights of Incognolio, her voice receding into the muffled background, and plummet head-first back into the darkness, the agony, the relentless pain, all the while being ridiculed and debased by that vicious, sadistic bastard whom I now recognize as Mazazel.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  DOCTOR DJINN

  I awaken to excruciating pain, and when I open my eyes I find myself lying on a sofa in a strange place I’ve never seen before. I manage to stand up and walk around—wincing with each step—and stumble into the bathroom, where steam rises from behind the shower curtain.

  I take a piss, a burning sensation coursing through my penis, and when I flush the toilet, Lunaria calls out, “Misha, is that you?” I answer in the affirmative. She shuts off the water and pulls the curtain aside, revealing her naked body in all its glory. I turn away from her and, as she towels off, ask how I have come to be at her apartment.

  Donning a bathrobe, Lunaria explains that I fell asleep toward the end of the ceremony, and when dawn arrived and the Shazan sounded the gong, one of the participants helped Lunaria carry me to his car. He drove the two of us to Lunaria’s apartment and helped carry me upstairs and onto the sofa, where I continued to sleep for several hours while she dozed in her bed.

  She asks whether I’d like to take a shower, but I decline, worried that the spray of water will feel like needles piercing my battered body. But since my pants reek of urine, I accept her offer of a fresh set of clothes, courtesy of a former boyfriend.

  As Lunaria cooks breakfast, I ask her how long it will take for the Anosh to wear off, and she replies that the effects should already have dissipated. But I insist that I am still tripping, having awakened in tremendous pain, my body and mind feeling shattered, like I’m living in hell. Not to mention—indeed, I keep this to myself—that I can still hear the cackle and snort of Mazazel.

  Lunaria comes over and strokes my hair, looks down at me with pity and compassion, and explains that in rare cases Anosh has been known to produce a prolonged effect, at times extending to several weeks. This apparently happened to her one time, although it was altogether different, since she was stuck not in hell, but in heaven, where she walked around in a perpetual state of euphoria.

  This comes as bad news indeed, since I can’t imagine how I’ll make it through the next hour, let alone the next several weeks. And now I have no appetite, so I simply sit across from her while Lunaria eats her eggs and grackle. She tells me that she hadn’t realized until last night, when I was crying and grieving during the Wakan, that Angelica had died.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” she says. “But on the bright side, this means that the two of us can be together.”

  “Afraid not,” I reply. “You know that I can’t have an intimate relationship with a patient, Lunnie. Even a former patient.”

  “That’s a stupid rule. What if the two of you are in love?”

  “There’s no exception for love. It’s a violation of professional boundaries, a breach of trust. Like with a parent and child. There’s an imbalance of power inherent in the therapist-patient relationship that doesn’t vanish simply because the treatment ends.”

  “Why, that’s just a bunch of words!” Lunaria bangs the table with her fist. “The two of us would be great together!”

  I shake my head. “Lunaria, you don’t even know the real me. As your therapist, I always focused on your needs. In real life I’m not nearly so selfless.”

  “Big fucking deal. I’m used to boyfriends who are assholes.”

  She then smiles beguilingly, and I find myself imagining going to her and lifting her to her feet, kissing those swollen lips, running my hands under the robe, cupping her breast with one hand as I caress her shapely tush with the other, then sweeping her up into my arms, whisking her into the bedroom, and making passionate love to her for hours on end.

  Mazazel bursts out laughing. I shake myself out of my reverie, and then I spend the next half-hour fending off arguments from Lunaria as to why the prohibition against sex with former patients is unfair, outdated, and patently absurd. Each time I counter her line of reasoning she becomes increasingly agitated, so I say the matter is closed and she stomps off to her bedroom to get dressed. I feel like it’s time to leave, but I sense that a goodbye hug from Lunaria could undermine my self-restraint, so I write a quick thank-you note on a napkin and slip out the front door.

  Out on the street, I pass a bank with a digital clock reading 3:45, which startles me, having forgotten how late I went to sleep. I’m forced to take a taxi to get to my therapy appointment on time, arriving just as Dr. Djinn is opening his office door.

  I sit down across from him and, after describing my experiences at the Wakan, say that I don’t know whether to laugh or cry at the horror of existence.

  “Doctor, I’m living in a state of physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual torment. I’m taunted by the cruel and pitiless voice of Mazazel, who mocks and denigrates me.”

  “I see,” says Dr. Djinn. “And does this Mazazel remind you of anyone in particular?”

  The answer jumps right out at me, and I think it strange that the connection hadn’t occurred to me earlier.

  “There are definite parallels to my father,” I say. “Not that he was demonic, of course. But when I was young, he loomed over me as a massive and terrifying figure. During his worst moods, he was vicious and traumatizing, engaging in both physical and emotional abuse.

  “Even during lighter moments when we played together, he seemed to forget how much bigger and stronger he was. My father loved to pin me down and tickle me, taking great delight in my squeals and laughter. He was oblivious to the fact that I was screaming to be released from what amounted to torture, the experience of utter helplessness in
the face of being violated. Something akin to rape.”

  “Yes.” Dr. Djinn nods. “And this Incognolio could represent aspects of your mother, who nurtured you. She surrounded you with love and acceptance, providing experiences of soothing and comfort, of ecstatic merging. Which on some level you perceived as seductive and you ultimately rejected, leaving you even more exposed to the dangers of your father’s sadism.”

  “This all makes sense,” I reply, “but I’m wary of viewing Incognolio and Mazazel purely as projections of early feelings toward my parents. I experienced them during the Wakan as all-too-real entities, and even at this very moment I hear the fiendish voice of Mazazel and feel that he subjects me to intolerable pain.”

  Dr. Djinn agrees. “These are not figments of your imagination, but powerful archetypes of the human unconscious. Despite the emphasis on God-the-Father in Western religions, most cultures through the ages have associated the Female with a loving Goddess and the Male with a malicious, bestial Devil figure. This makes biological sense in that the infant’s primary bond is generally with the mother, who protects and cares for the child, whereas the father intrudes on this idyllic mother-child unit, and in time becomes the one who initiates the youngster into the harsh realities of the world. “If,” the doctor adds, “he doesn’t abandon mother and child altogether.”

  “That’s all well and good,” I say. “But no amount of intellectualizing can change the fact that I’m in trouble here—strung out on Anosh, terrorized by Mazazel, and facing the real possibility of several more weeks of this hell. Can’t you prescribe some damn opiates or something? Without serious pain relief, I’m liable to kill myself.”

  “I’m not averse to using medications,” Dr. Djinn replies. “But first I’d like to suggest another approach. A bold approach that could help resolve matters, although it would entail certain…risks.”

  Failing to imagine how things could possibly be any worse, I say I’m open to giving it a try, and Dr. Djinn nods and then asks me to please invite Mazazel to join the two of us in his office.