Love Children Read online

  "I'm forty-five, and I feel older than that. Do you know why I came to India? When I was your age I traveled around the States. I took drugs, visited all the hip places, picked up girls, listened to jazz, wrote poetry. There was some spark in it all, something mystical, something I thought I'd find just around the next corner. Now it’s the seventies; the U.S. is passé, Europe is passé, and India is the place to be. I made this trip to rediscover that magical spark. And you know what I found?"

  "What?"

  "Nothing."

  Jasmine took off her blouse and jeans, and slipped under the sheet next to Paul. She put her arm around his waist and her head on his shoulder. "Maybe you didn't search long enough," she said. "I think the real magic isn't always right there on the surface."

  * * *

  While Jason waited he sat on a wooden bench sipping local tea, a brown milky brew that looked like mud and smelled like cardamom.

  In his thoughts he traveled back in time to a peaceful place, where he and the others sat cross-legged on cushions in a circle, with their eyes closed, holding hands. One stood before them in their minds' eyes, in blue robes, tall and slim, with gray hair and gray eyes.

  "Once you are there," he said, "you will be exposed to many dangers that do not exist here. Most of the illnesses we can cure. Most accidents we can heal, if you are reached in time. But if you die, we cannot bring you back."

  Questions hovered.

  "What is death?"

  "It's a different state than life as we know it now. We are still doing research in this area. But it's nothing to be feared. It's the next step, the next level after this life, for all species."

  * * *

  "Look at me," Jasmine said.

  Paul paused, and opened his eyes.

  "I want to see you," she said. "Don't stop. Fuck me. But look at me."

  As they continued, she looking into his eyes and he into hers, from her mind to his she shouted as loud as she could, "Can you hear me, Paul?"

  "What?"

  She thought again, "Can you hear me, Paul?"

  "Did you say something?"

  "No, I was only thinking."

  "But I heard it. I'm sure I heard it."

  "I'm almost coming. A little faster. Yes, that's it. Don't close your eyes. I want to see you."

  At the moment of orgasm his eyes closed involuntarily. Afterwards they lay in each other's arms. "Sorry. It's not easy to keep them open then."

  "You're just not used to it."

  "Wait a minute. What's happening? We're talking in our heads."

  "You've done it before. Do you remember? Up in the mountains with Jason."

  "I thought I was hallucinating. This is strange."

  "It's more intimate."

  "Can you talk with others like this?"

  "With Jason. And yes, we have other friends." Jasmine felt Paul withdraw in fright. "Paul, wait..."

  * * *

  "Jasmine, are you finished? Can I come back up?"

  "I need a little more time, Jason. Paul got scared. I need to pull him back. He was really close."

  "Okay. I'm right nearby."

  * * *

  "I'm tired," Paul said with his voice. "I need to rest awhile." He closed his eyes. Jasmine closed her eyes too, and snuggled up to him, resting one of her legs over his legs, and her arm on his chest.

  "Jason, what do we do? I'm not ready for this. He's too different, too complex."

  "I don't know, Jasmine, I really don't know."

  Chapter 2

  Flight From Darkness

  When Jasmine awakened she pulled the blanket tighter around herself to keep away the biting chill of the morning air. Hints of the amber light of dawn filtered through the shutters; she watched the shadowy clouds of mist her breath formed.

  Suddenly she threw the blanket aside, pulled her clothes on, ran into the hallway, and pounded on the door next to her room.

  "Jason! Jason, wake up!"

  She heard his voice in her mind. "What happened?"

  "He's gone."

  "He didn't tell you?"

  "He left while I was asleep. I must have been really tired. I can't believe I didn't notice."

  "Okay, I'm coming."

  "Do you think he went back into the mountains?"

  "Maybe. I don't know."

  * * *

  He'd panicked; he knew that. He regretted leaving almost as soon as he crept out the door. Where could he run? What did he hope to find? He'd already traveled the lonely path, and that path had led to suicide. But it was too late to go back.

  In the pre-dawn darkness he walked to the bus station. Occasionally dogs barked in the distance. Early-rising Nepalis passed by like shadowy, indistinct wraiths. Though he tried to walk softly, his footsteps seemed to crunch loudly on the dirt road.

  A bus to Kathmandu was revving up, almost ready to pull out. He bought his ticket and found a seat inside. The interior of the bus, though crowded, was silent. He tried to pull his jacket tighter around him, but the cold seemed to cut right through the cloth into his skin. He contemplated jumping off the bus and running back; instead he began to shiver almost imperceptibly, but uncontrollably, as the bus began to pick up speed.

  * * *

  Sunny noticed the man soon after she sat down. She ordered tea and cookies. Everybody there ordered tea and cookies; they were the menu specialties: laced with black hashish, guaranteed to give a buzz. But he had ordered a sandwich and coffee, and surreptitiously looked around as he ate and drank. His blue jeans, blue shirt, and leather jacket were too new; his hair, though fairly long, was too neat. He was too old to be hip and too young to be a patriarch. He just didn't fit in.

  She chewed her last cookie slowly. The bitter taste made her gag; she spit out the crumbs into the plate. A chillum that was making its way around the room reached her, but she passed it on without smoking. The room seemed to crumble like the cookie and then reassemble itself. The conversations around her ran together into a jumble of words that didn't make any sense.

  "Too much," she mumbled. "Too much." In the thick haze of smoke from the numerous chillums, pipes, and joints in the room, she found it hard to breath.

  Then her eyes met his. He'd been watching her.

  With a great effort she stood up; she almost fell over but managed to keep her balance. Short as she was, she had to stoop to avoid hitting her head on the low ceiling. She stumbled down the steep wooden stairs, crouched low to get through the small door, and stepped out into the late-afternoon sunlight.

  Glimpses of Freak Street: wandering hippies, sadhus, tourists, and beggars; cheap restaurants with imitation western food; shops selling drug paraphernalia, tie-died clothes, leather bags and pouches; tourist offices advertising mountain treks; everyone intently into their own trip.

  Sunny walked slowly to maintain her equilibrium. She was trying to remember how to get back to her hotel, but all the side-streets looked the same. Kathmandu wasn't that big; she figured if she kept walking she'd find it eventually.

  Suddenly she felt uneasy. In the multitude of hums and tingles in her head, a tiny whine of fear, like a dentist’s drill in the next room, caused her to look back down the street.

  The man was there. The man from the tea shop. About half a block behind her. He'd turned his head to appear as if he wasn't following her. But she knew he was. She knew it.

  Paranoia gripped her like a nauseating fist twisting her stomach. She hurried down one street, then another, hardly realizing where she was going, conscious of nothing around her, as if running through a corridor of thick, cotton-like mist. When she stopped, heart pounding, lungs aching, she looked behind her but saw nobody. She turned around and found herself face-to-face with a large grinning idol, its fangs and claws red with blood-colored paint. As she stepped slowly backwards, the wide maniacal eyes seemed to follow her until she turned the corner onto another street and the statue was no longer in sight.

  Once in her small, second-story hotel room, she locked the door; t
hen she opened the wooden shutter just wide enough to see the street below. At first she noticed nothing unusual. People were passing by, but people always passed by. Then she saw him standing across the street. He looked one direction and then the other, up and down the street; then he looked upward towards her room, as if he could see her standing in the darkness.

  She slumped onto the bed, and pulled the blankets around her. Did he sense her lying there shivering, not from the cold but from fear? For hours she didn't move. She stayed as motionless as she could, listening to every sound in the hotel's hallway and in the street, until finally, exhausted, she fell asleep.

  * * *

  As soon as he arrived in Kathmandu Paul had the uneasy feeling that someone was searching for him. Not Jason and Jasmine; someone more malevolent. The sensation seemed to come from several directions at once, but just beyond the range of his consciousness, like the lingering gloom of a nightmare you can't quite remember. Flashbacks, he thought. I must be having flashbacks.

  As he walked along the narrow streets, and later as he ate at a small Chinese restaurant, he kept looking over his shoulder and all around him.

  He thought he heard voices. He'd look at someone and would imagine what they were thinking. Not everyone, just certain people. He'd hear their inner voices in his mind. Some faintly, some more strongly. Sometimes just a mumble, sometimes insane gibberish, sometimes scattered phrases spoken with clarity and precision. It was like static, like crackling bits of broadcast between stations when you're trying to tune a radio.

  After dinner, he found a hotel. He sat on his bed for a long time in the small room, thinking about Jason and Jasmine, and feeling the shadow of uneasiness become stronger and stronger. Whoever they were that were trying to find him, they were very close. He didn't know how he knew, but he knew. He checked the bolts on the door and the window, then he lay down on the bed. He stared into the darkness for a long time before he fell asleep.

  He awakened with a start in pre-dawn silence. He'd been attacked. No. Had it been a dream? Or... It was someone else. His heartbeat began to speed up. He looked frantically around the room, then he jumped to his feet and dressed himself. A pale glow from the faint streetlights outside filtered through the shutter's slats into the room.

  He heard muffled sounds on the other side of the wall. Stepping quietly into the chilly hallway, he smelled damp mold on the threadbare carpet and peeling wallpaper. A sliver of light shone from the slightly open door of the room next to his. Through the crack he saw two men, one a white foreigner dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, the other a Nepali or Indian dressed in local clothes; they leaned over a girl lying on the bed. The Nepali had a hypodermic syringe in his hand; it looked as if he'd just used it on her and was pulling it away.

  In the absence of other noises Paul could hear them clearly.

  "Her face doesn't match the photo."

  "It does! Take a closer look."

  "I don't know. Why is she alone? They're supposed to be traveling in teams or in groups."

  "Should we finish her then? A kid dying of an overdose isn't so uncommon; it wouldn't attract too much attention."

  "But what if she's one of them? Let's let her go, then follow her. If she's the one in the photo, she'll lead us to the others."

  "She'll remember us."

  "We'll keep out of sight. She'll never know we're there."

  Paul slipped back into his room and shut the door. Leaning against the wall, he listened to the faint sounds of footsteps in the hallway, then on the stairs. "It's not my business," he whispered. "I don't want to get involved. It looks dangerous as hell. I'm going to go back to sleep."

  He opened his door and paused. The silence was broken only by the scuttle of cockroaches scurrying deeper into the hallway shadows.

  The other door was closed but unlocked.

  Her tangled brown hair partly covered her face. Her deep rhythmic breathing suggested drug-induced slumber. She's not much over twenty years old, Paul thought. I wonder who she is. Come to think of it, she looks a bit like Jasmine.

  He went to the door and listened. Silence. The vast empty black silence before dawn.

  He went to the window. The shutter was cracked open just wide enough to see the street below. But the street was empty, desolate, deserted. Not even a dog, or a rat.

  She was a small girl; she wasn't heavy. He picked her up and carried her to his own bed. Then he went back to her room and gathered her things: a backpack, a sleeping bag, a few clothes, a towel. He made her bed, checked around again on the floor and in the bathroom to be sure he hadn't forgotten anything, then closed and locked the door.

  He put a chair between the bed and the window, where he could watch her, and also keep an eye on the street below.

  I could use a joint right now, he thought. A joint would sure be nice. What am I doing? This is crazy. I don't know her. She could be anybody. Maybe there's a good reason why those guys are after her.

  But Paul knew there was nothing dangerous about the girl. Since he'd met Jason in the mountains, and had awakened afterwards in Pokhara, Paul could sense things. It reminded him of how he'd felt sometimes in the past when on psychedelics, but it was different. It was clearer, without the hallucinations, the distortions, the paranoia. And now he sensed that the threat had temporarily passed; those who had sought him were distant, or were asleep, or their attentions were focused elsewhere. The nervous tension that had kept him wide awake as if he'd mainlined a huge dose of speed passed suddenly, as the black clouds of a summer lightning storm pass, revealing a clear blue sky; his eyelids became heavy, his head fell onto the back of the chair, and he fell asleep.

  * * *

  At first Paul hardly had to make an effort at all. He was gliding along, high above the mountains, the forests, the valleys. But when he passed the last range of craggy peaks, he knew that the men he saw far below on the plain were enemies. He tried to soar higher but somehow lost altitude; he flapped his arms furiously but only succeeded in slowing his descent. The men below tried to grab him. Their legs and arms seemed to grow until he was almost within their reach.

  Ahead a building loomed; it looked like an abandoned factory. To escape the groping hands Paul zoomed into an open window and sprawled onto the floor. At first he thought he was safe, but after a few moments he became apprehensive. He felt a presence: a presence with darkness and power. Like a vampire, but not exactly a vampire. It was stalking him. It wasn't close yet. It moved slowly and majestically, knowing that it was in control, knowing that Paul had nowhere to run. By the time Paul managed to struggle to his feet, he knew that it was in the next room, about to enter. In terror he looked frantically around, found another door behind him, opened it, and ran.

  * * *

  Paul opened his eyes. Outside he heard rickshaw bells, the shouts of street vendors, the confusion of many conversations. The morning sun had warmed the room; its light, though it only penetrated through the window cracks, hurt his swollen eyes.

  The girl was still asleep, her mouth slightly open, curls of dark brown hair half-covering her face, one hand under her head, the other slightly curled and resting on her hip. He'd covered her with a quilt before he fell asleep, but she'd thrown it off in the night. She still wore the blue jeans and light brown cashmere sweater that he'd found her in.

  He watched her for a long time, reluctant to awaken her; but the feeling of apprehension had returned and intensified. Danger was near; he knew it.

  He shook her. No response. He shook her again more vigorously. She moaned, coughed, then leaned over the bed and vomited onto the floor. Two heaves and she was finished; she spat a few times, began to cry, abruptly stopped, and looked up, startled.

  "Who are you?"

  "My name is Paul. Don't be afraid. I found you last night, after those men left. I brought you to my room."

  "Those men..." She sat up and clutched her stomach. "My stomach hurts," she sobbed. "Do you have any tissue?"

  "Uh...toilet paper
...just a minute."

  He ran to the bathroom and ran back. She wiped her eyes, her nose, her mouth.

  "I feel like shit," she said. "Who were those guys?"

  "You didn't know them?"

  "One of them knocked on the door and said he was from the hotel. When I opened it they pushed their way in and grabbed me. I thought they wanted to rape me, but when they stuck me with a needle I thought maybe they were terrorists and wanted to kidnap me. But why? Why me?" She wiped the tears from her eyes again.