The World Is a Trance We Enter Together
III
There fell a very fine clear rain
With no admixture of frost or snow;
And this was, and no other thing,
The very sign of the start of spring;
Not the longing for a lover
Nor the sentiment of starting over,
But this pure and refreshing rain,
Falling sweetly without haste or strain.
Paul Goodman, "Rain in Spring"
1
Alan Diamond leaned forward and looked at Geoffrey Martin quietly as he sat slumped, across from him, in the brown leather club chair just like the one he was sitting in facing him. Martin's soul had moved to the edges of his body and was being drawn to him across the space between them. Even in his sleep, in this trance, he felt Alan Diamond's power as the surge of his own energy rushing out of him.
He could feel it. The emptiness.
Can you hear me, Geoff?
Yes.
You are very relaxed, very relaxed and sinking deeper and deeper into the chair. You feel how heavy your body is. It is like a balloon that has been deflated. I have let out all the air. Your body is sinking deeper and deeper into the chair. It is so deep in the chair that it is becoming part of the chair. There is no difference between the body and the chair. You cannot feel the difference between the body and the chair. You feel nothing. You are a chair. You are a cushion of air. You are empty. You are emptiness. You are empty. You are empty space.
For nearly a year, since his breakdown, Martin had been seeing Alan Diamond once a week, and through these regular sessions of hypnosis he had become stronger, easier, more confident.
He had learned to put himself into a trance and often at times when he felt an inexplicable tension or the surge of panic about to reach over him in a dreadful arch, like a threatening wave rushing to engulf him, he transcended the illusion and entered a trance, from which it might be hours later he always emerged steady, sturdy, and easy.
Steady. Sturdy. Easy. Diamond chanted slowly, and slowly Martin woke in the chair, looked at Diamond and smiled.
At times like these he felt a childlike affection for his master, for to himself he had begun to refer to Alan as his master and he wanted to tell him that but did not have the courage to. As each session ended Martin's affection was so strong that he wanted to kiss Diamond, but he was in awe of him and never would have presumed to do anything like that. He allowed himself to feel his desire as gratefulness, devotion, and tribute.
How do you feel? Alan asked him as he emerged from the trance.
Steady, Martin said, sturdy, easy. Empty. And he nodded his head, as if, after giving it a moment's thought, he could definitely affirm what he had just said. Empty.
2
When the Securities and Exchange Commission began its investigation of overvaluation of certain stocks at Pinchon and Broadfells, Mathew learned about it from the story in The New York Times, which he read with the same anxiety a hypochondriac reads the obituaries, checking to make sure he hasn't died without being aware of it. He knew he was still alive because of the icy chill of anxiety that began like a tremor in his belly and a sense of sexual arousal.
Later that morning, Old Pinchon leaned forward on the mahogany table in the boardroom with both elbows, cigar in his right hand, inches from his mouth, inches from the microphones, always at the ready. The board of directors were assembled around the table to his left and right, and the room was crowded with reporters and television cameras. Klieg lights gave a white intensity to the otherwise subdued mustard-colored grandeur of the room, which was lined with a burnished wainscoting and furnished with dark leather sofas, red plush chairs, several crystal chandeliers and a red carpet bordered by a band of gold fleurs-de-lys.
If there was an act of malfeasance, Pinchon said slowly and quietly, it is obvious that the malefactor will have to take the responsibility. Our company itself has too great a tradition as an upstanding corporate citizen to countenance such things and can only regret the misjudgments in personnel which have allowed someone whose ethical standards do not conform to the high standards of Pinchon and Broadfells to penetrate the radar, as it were, and gain a position of influence and of responsibility, from which position he was able to profit himself -- or herself -- and besmirch P&B.
He promised an immediate audit and an investigation, but refused to answer reporters' questions and was ushered out the side door by uniformed Pinchon and Broadfells security officers.
Three days later, Pinchon himself was on the phone with the financial editor of The New York Times detailing the investigation and informing him that the overvaluation had been traced to reports authored by one of the men they had trusted implicitly, a Princeton graduate, that they were shocked and profoundly disappointed, and that they had terminated Matt Parker that morning and were cooperating fully with the Securities and Exchange Commission, the New York State's Attorney General's Office, and the independent prosecutor, and that one of the firm's senior vice presidents, Morgan Howard by name, would be testifying before the grand jury impaneled to investigate the matter.
3
He ought to understand, Myra Daley, P&B's lawyer, drawing on a cigarette through a black and silver holder, told Mathew, that things would go much better for him if he cooperated with the independent prosecutor.
He had tried to argue. He was acting inside a corporate culture. He had been given the figures to work with. He didn't make them up. Depending upon how a sum was entered it might be interpreted as an asset or a liability. He had done nothing dishonest. He had made models and projections based on hypotheses. His work had been clean. The way it was used had been faulty.
But it was useless. The top tier at P&B was good. They were very good. They had played him for a sucker. They had cast him in a role which he couldn't get out of. It felt eerily familiar. If he accepted the role he had been assigned rather than resist it, he's get off easy. Daley assured him of that. Her steely demeanor momentarily gave way to a smile that was surprisingly warm and reassuring.
He was over a barrel, yes, she explained, but, again, if he made the best of it, it would be over in less than a year and no real harm would be done. After a few months on a prison farm, he'd be ready to make a comeback. With a financial mind like his, he'd never go hungry, certainly not if^Åwell he knew.
But if he insisted on trying to make things complicated, to be vengeful, then^Åwell, it would be foolish. He could be sure no one, or at least no one who mattered, would credit anything he had to say, especially -- and here she took some glossies out of a leather portfolio and surprised Mathew -- especially after pictures like these with him handcuffed, naked, to a bed in the company of, well, on television and in the newspapers they would call him a male escort had been published.
How did you get those? Mathew said almost without a voice. Granger, was he working for you?
Don't be paranoid, Mathew. This is the information age. Your friend Granger doesn't know anything about this and will be as surprised as you are. Perhaps you'd enjoy that -- humiliating the man who humiliated you.
No, Mathew said, wistfully, for he loved him.
I thought so, Daley said. That's just the reason why I think we can count on you, too, can't we?
Mathew only nodded submissively.
You're a good soul, Mathew, Myra Daley said and caressed his cheek.
He did not know why, but suddenly, unaccountably, he wanted her to embrace him. The tears welled up in his eyes.
4
It was raining and dark at three in the afternoon on a Tuesday in May as Granger came out through the revolving brass and glass door of the court house at Foley Square. He stood battered by the rain, paralyzed and fixated on the lowering sky, lost in his mind, wandering through an empty maze.
Are you ok?
It was Martin at his side. They had glanced at each other several times throughout the last week as they followed Mathew's trial, but until now they had never spoken or even acknowledged each other's glances.
What? Granger said, shaking himself out of a trance.
Are you ok? You're getting soaked.
Martin opened his umbrella and with his arm round Granger's shoulder, he pulled him under it.
You need a coffee, or maybe a brandy.
A brandy, Granger said.
Come on, Martin said pointing to a tavern he spotted across the square.
They stood at the bar. Granger was lost somewhere deep inside himself and Martin waited quietly for him to return. Finally, Granger lifted his glass, saluted his companion with it, and took a deep swallow. The burning essence of the brandy made fiery flames leap up inside him and grate against his inner skin like stinging needles.
Three years, he said, with a chance for parole after eighteen months, and his license permanently revoked.
Martin returned the salute with his glass, took a swallow of brandy, let a shallow breath out slowly, and shook his head.
The poor bastard, Granger said in a whisper, almost inaudibly.
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