They had to evacuate the grade school on Tuesday. Kids were getting headaches and eye irritations, tasting metal intheir mouths. A teacher rolled on the floor and spoke foreign languages. No one knew what was wrong. Investigatorssaid it could be the ventilating system, the paint or varnish, the foam insulation, the electrical insulation, the cafeteriafood, the rays emitted by microcomputers, the asbestos fireproofing, the adhesive on shipping containers, the fumesfrom the chlorinated pool, or perhaps something deeper, finer-grained, more closely woven into the basic state ofthings.
Denise and Steffie stayed home that week as men in Mylex suits and respirator masks made systematic sweeps of thebuilding with infrared detecting and measuring equipment. Because Mylex is itself a suspect material, the resultstended to be ambiguous and a second round of more rigorous detection had to be scheduled.
The two girls and Babette, Wilder and I went to the supermarket. Minutes after we entered, we ran into Murray. Thiswas the fourth or fifth time I'd seen him in the supermarket, which was roughly the number of times I'd seen him oncampus. He clutched Babette by the left bicep and sidled around her, appearing to smell her hair.
"A lovely dinner," he said, standing directly behind her. "I like to cook myself, which doubles my appreciation ofsomeone who does it well.""Come any time," she said, turning in an effort to find him.
We moved together into the ultra-cool interior. Wilder sat in the shopping cart trying to grab items off the shelves aswe went by. It occurred to me that he was too old and too big to be sitting in supermarket carts. I also wondered whyhis vocabulary seemed to be stalled at twenty-five words.
"I'm happy to be here," Murray said.
"In Blacksmith?""In Blacksmith, in the supermarket, in the rooming house, on the Hill. I feel I'm learning important things every day.
Death, disease, afterlife, outer space. It's all much clearer here. I can think and see."We moved into the generic food area and Murray paused with his plastic basket to probe among the white cartonsand jars. I wasn't sure I understood what he was talking about. What did he mean, much clearer? He could think andsee what?
Steffie took my hand and we walked past the fruit bins, an area that extended about forty-five yards along one wall.
The bins were arranged diagonally and backed by mirrors that people accidentally punched when reaching for fruitin the upper rows. A voice on the loudspeaker said: "Kleenex Softique, your truck's blocking the entrance." Applesand lemons tumbled in twos and threes to the floor when someone took a fruit from certain places in the stackedarray. There were six kinds of apples, there were exotic melons in several pastels. Everything seemed to be in season,sprayed, burnished, bright. People tore filmy bags off racks and tried to figure out which end opened. I realized theplace was awash in noise. The toneless systems, the jangle and skid of carts, the loudspeaker and coffee-makingmachines, the cries of children. And over it all, or under it all, a dull and unlocatable roar, as of some form ofswarming life just outside the range of human apprehension.
"Did you tell Denise you were sorry?""Maybe later," Steffie said. "Remind me.""She's a sweet girl and she wants to be your older sister and your friend if you'll let her.""I don't know about friend. She's a little bossy, don't you think?""Aside from telling her you're sorry, be sure to give her back her Physicians' Desk Reference.""She reads that thing all the time. Don't you think that's weird?""At least she reads something.""Sure, lists of drugs and medicines. And do you want to know why?""Why?""Because she's trying to find out the side effects of the stuff that Baba uses.""What does Baba use?""Don't ask me. Ask Denise.""How do you know she uses anything?""Ask Denise.""Why don't I ask Baba?""Ask Baba," she said.
Murray came out of an aisle and walked alongside Babette, just ahead of us. He took a twin roll of paper towels outof her cart and smelled it. Denise had found some friends and they went up front to look at the paperback books inspindly racks, the books with shiny metallic print, raised letters, vivid illustrations of cult violence and windsweptromance. Denise was wearing a green visor. I heard Babette tell Murray she'd been wearing it fourteen hours a dayfor three weeks now. She would not go out without it, would not even leave her room. She wore it in school, whenthere was school, wore it to the toilet, the dentist's chair, the dinner table. Something about the visor seemed to speakto her, to offer wholeness and identity.
"It's her interface with the world," Murray said.
He helped Babette push her loaded cart. I heard him say to her, "Tibetans believe there is a transitional state betweendeath and rebirth. Death is a waiting period, basically. Soon a fresh womb will receive the soul. In the meantime thesoul restores to itself some of the divinity lost at birth." He studied her profile as if to detect a reaction. "That's whatI think of whenever I come in here. This place recharges us spiritually, it prepares us, it's a gateway or pathway. Lookhow bright. It's full of psychic data."My wife smiled at him.
"Everything is concealed in symbolism, hidden by veils of mystery and layers of cultural material. But it is psychicdata, absolutely. The large doors slide open, they close unbidden. Energy waves, incident radiation. All the lettersand numbers are here, all the colors of the spectrum, all the voices and sounds, all the code words and ceremonialphrases. It is just a question of deciphering, rearranging, peeling off the layers of unspeakability. Not that we wouldwant to, not that any useful purpose would be served. This is not Tibet. Even Tibet is no............