"Let me tell you," I said, interrupting him. He looked startled,
clearly not accustomed to a woman meeting him on his own ground. "He
has four hands because he has a lot to do. That little drum in his
upper right summons things into existence. And there in his upper left
he holds a fire that destroys."
Goddard was examining me curiously, but I just stared back and
continued.
"His lower right hand is held up in a kind of benediction, as if to
say, 'Find your peace within,' and the lower left points down at his
feet, where one foot is planted on the back of that repulsive little
dwarf there, the human ego. Crush the ego and be free. The other foot
is lifted to signify spiritual freedom."
"You seem to know the Shiva well." He broke into a grudging smile, as
though we'd just met. Chalk up round one as a draw. "I'm glad you came,
Ms. James. I'm a great admirer of your work and I especially wanted to
provide your orientation personally. It's a genuine pleasure to meet
you at last."
At last? I took his proffered hand and stared. All the questions I'd
been brooding over for the past week sort of disappeared into a memory
file somewhere. Instead all I could do was focus in on him.
Meeting Carly and Paula's miracle worker in the flesh made me recall
something Aldous Huxley once observed. He declared that the kind of
man, and they are almost always men, who can control others with his
mind needs to have certain qualities the rest of us can only envy. Of
course he has to be intelligent and have a range of knowledge that can
be used to impress people, but most of all, he has to have a will of
iron, an unswerving tenacity of purpose, and an uncompromising
self-confidence about who he is, what he wants. This means a slightly
remote manner, a glittering eye, and a sympathetic gaze that bores in
deeply on you one minute, then seems off in another realm, focused on
infinity, the next. Perhaps most importantly of all, his voice must be
that of a Pied Piper, a soft yet penetrating instrument that acts
directly on the unconscious of his listeners.
Even though he was doing a casual number with me, my first impression
of Alex Goddard was that he perfectly embodied all those qualities. I
also sensed a false note. What was it? Maybe he was being just a little
too casual.
"If you're here about doing a film," he began, "please be aware we do
not encourage publicity. If you've come because of your infertility, as
Ramala said you mentioned in your call, then I welcome you with open
arms."
Well, he knew how to cut to the chase. And after his phone call to try
to intimidate Paula Marks, I was well aware he didn't "encourage
publicity." But now I also realized he wouldn't be overly interested in
my new idea of someday doing a documentary on this place. But then a
lot of people say no at first and then come around.
"I was actually interested in neither," I said, feeling my sinuses
about to close down permanently. "I was actually hoping to find out
about your adoption service, how it works."
"Ah," he said, his eyes shifting from intense scrutiny to somewhere
lost in the ozone, "that's not something I handle personally. In any
case, you first must come and participate in our program. Then, if we
fail to achieve your objectives, we can take the adoption matter under
consideration."
"I think I'd like to hear about it anyway." I took a deep breath, again
groping for air. "For instance, where and how you get the children you
place."
"I see," he said calmly, as though my question were about the weather.
Then he secured his coat tighter. "I'm thinking, how would you like to
take a short walk? Down to the river. We could get to know each other
better."
I just nodded, not looking forward to the harsh wind that would assault
my inflamed sinuses. But maybe I was getting somewhere.
As we started out through the stone archway and into the rear garden,
which seemed to extend for acres, he continued.
"You seem to have a lot of questions about what I'm doing here. So let
me try and put my efforts into perspective. As I like to point out to
women when they first come here, we in the West are making do with only
half the world's medical knowledge. We ignore all of the East. There's
also the wisdom of the indigenous peoples here in the Western
Hemisphere, the Native Americans. Who are we to say they don't have a
lot to teach?" He smiled, as though embarrassed to be passing along
such a commonplace. "For example, Western medical practice, virtually
until this century, consisted mainly of using leeches to drain away
'humors' in the blood. At the same time, the indigenous peoples of this
continent knew more about the curative powers of plants, even drugs,
than Europe ever dreamed of. Yet they were deemed savages."
I wasn't sure where he was leading, but the supreme self-confidence
with which he spoke had the effect of sweeping me along. The engaging
eyes, the voice, the well-used designer jacket, it all worked. He was
good, very good.
"So you see," he went on, "what I've tried to achieve here at Quetzal
Manor is to integrate the knowledge of East and West, ancient and
modern."
"So what, exactly, do you--?"
"Well, first let me explain that I studied in the Far East for over a
decade, until I understood how to control the energy flows in the body,
your Chi. Then I moved to Central America, where I learned all that is
currently known about Native American practices and medicines. I still
have a special place there, where I carry out pharmacological research
on the rare plants of that area, studying their effects on human
fertility, on the origins of life. I have no time to waste on disease
and degeneration."
We were well into his Eden-like rear garden now, which had lots of
herbs and was also part orchard. There were apple trees and other fruit
trees I couldn't readily identify, all just starting to show their
first buds. When we came to the end, there was a cobblestone path
leading west. In what seemed only a few moments, we'd reached a line of
bluffs overlooking the Hudson. The early spring wind was cutting into
my face, causing my nostrils to feel on fire.
As we stood gazing down at the rippling waters of the Hudson below,
where a lone sailboat was caught in the breeze, the moment took on a
timelessness, feeling as though it could have been any place, any
century.
"Incidentally," he went on, turning slightly to me, "are you familiar
with the name Asklepios?"