The 1st Deadly Sin

2

“Good-morning, Charles,” Daniel called, and the doorman whirled around, shocked by the friendly voice and pleasant smile. “Looks like a sunny day today.”

“Oh. Yes sir,” Lipsky said, confused. “Sunny day. That’s what the paper said. Cab, Mr. Blank?”

“Please.”

The doorman went down to the street, whistled up a taxi, rode it back to the apartment house entrance. He got out and held the door open for Daniel.

“Have a good day, Mr. Blank.”

“You too, Charles,” and handed him the usual quarter. He gave the driver the address of the Javis-Bircham Building.

“Go through the park, please. I know it’s longer but I’ve got time.”

“Sure.”

“Looks like a nice sunny day today.”

“That’s what the radio just said,” the driver nodded. “You sound like you feel good today.”

“Yes,” Blank smiled. “I do.”

“Morning, Harry,” he said to the elevator starter. “A nice sunny morning.”

“Sure is, Mr. Blank. Hope it stays like this.”

“Good-morning, Mrs. Cleek,” Blank said to his secretary as he hung away his hat and coat. “Looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day.”

“Yes sir. I hope it lasts.”

“It will.” He looked at her closely a moment. “Mrs. Cleek, you seem a bit pale. Are you feeling all right?”

She blushed with pleasure at his concern. “Oh yes, Mr. Blank, I feel fine.”

“How’s that boy of yours?”

“I got a letter from him yesterday. He’s doing very well. He’s in a military academy, you know.”

Blank didn’t, but nodded. “Well, you do look a bit weary. Why don’t you plan on taking a few Fridays off? It’s going to be a long winter. We all need relaxation.”

“Why…thank you very much, Mr. Blank. That’s very kind of you.”

“Just let me know in advance and arrange for someone from the pool to fill in. That’s a pretty dress.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Blank,” she repeated, dazed. “Your coffee is on your desk, and a report came down from upstairs. I put it next to your coffee.”

“What’s it about?”

“Oh, I didn’t read it, sir. It’s sealed and confidential.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Cleek. I’ll buzz when I want to do letters.”

“Thank you again, Mr. Blank. For the days off, I mean.” He smiled and made a gesture. He sat down at his bare table and sipped coffee, staring at the heavy manila envelope from the president’s office, stamped CONFIDENTIAL. He didn’t open it, but taking his plastic container of coffee walked to the plate glass windows facing west.

It was an extraordinarily clear day, the smog mercifully lifted. He could see tugboats on the Hudson, a cruise liner putting out to sea, traffic on the Jersey shore, and blue hills far away. Everything was bright and glittering, a new world. He could almost peer into a distant future.

He drained his coffee and looked into the plastic cup. It was white foam, stained now, and of the consistency of cottage cheese. It bulged in his grip and felt of soap. He flicked on his intercom.

“Sir?” Mrs. Cleek asked.

“Would you do me a favor?”

“Of course, sir.”

“On your lunch hour-well, take your usual hour, of course, but then take some more time-grab a cab over to Tiffany’s or Jensen’s-someplace like that-and buy me a coffee cup and saucer. Something good in bone China, thin and white. You can buy singles from open stock. If it’s patterned, pick out something attractive, something you like. Don’t be afraid to spend money.”

“A coffee cup and saucer, sir?”

“Yes, and see if you can find a spoon, one of those small silver French spoons. Sometimes they’re enameled in blue patterns, flowered patterns. That would be fine.”

“One coffee cup, one saucer, and one spoon. Will that be all, sir?”

“Yes-no. Get the same thing for yourself. Get two sets.”

“Oh, Mr. Blank, I couldn’t-”

“Two sets,” he said firmly. “And Mrs. Cleek, from now on when the commissary delivers my coffee, will you pour it into my new cup and leave it on my desk that way?”

“Yes, Mr. Blank.”

“Keep track of what you spend, including cab fares there and back. I’ll pay you personally. This is not petty cash.”

“Yes, Mr. Blank.”

He clicked off and picked up the president’s envelope, having no great curiosity to open it. He searched the outside.

Finally, sighing, he tore open the flap and scanned the two-sheet memo swiftly. It was about what he had expected, considering the lack of zeal in his prospectus. His suggestion of having AMROK II compute the ratio between editorial and advertising in all Javis-Bircham magazines was approved to this extent: it would be tried on an experimental basis on the ten magazines listed on the attached page, and would be limited to a period of six months, after which time a production management consultant would be called in to make an independent evaluation of the results.

Blank tossed the memo aside, stretched, yawned. He couldn’t, he realized, care less. It was a crock of shit. Then he picked up the memo again and wandered out of the office.

“I’ll be in the Computer Room,” he said as he passed Mrs. Cleek’s desk. She gave him a bright, hopeful smile.

He went through the nonsense of donning the sterile white skull cap and duster, then assembled Task Force X-1 about the stainless steel table. He passed around the second sheet of the president’s memo, deeming it wise, at this time, not to tell them of the experimental nature and limited duration of the project.

“We’ve got the go-ahead,” he said, with what he hoped they would think was enthusiasm. “These are the magazines we start with. I want to draw up a schedule of priorities for programming. Any ideas?”

The discussion started at his left and went around the table. He listened to all of them, watching their pale, sexless faces, not hearing a word that was said.

“Excellent,” he said occasionally. Or, “Very good.” Or, “I’ll take a raincheck on that.” Or, “Well…I don’t want to say no, but…” It didn’t make any difference: what they said or what he said. It had no significance.

Significance began, I suppose, when my wife and I separated. Or when she wouldn’t wear the sunglasses to bed. Oh, it probably began much sooner, but I wasn’t aware of it. I was aware of the glasses, the masks. And then, later, the wigs, the exercises, the clothes, the apartment…the mirrors. And standing naked in chains. I was aware of all that. I mean, I was conscious of it.

What was happening to me-is happening to me-is that I am feeling my way-feeling: that’s a good word-feeling in the sense of emotion rather than the tactile sense-feeling my way to a new perception of reality. Before that, before the sunglasses, I perceived and reasoned in a masculine, in-line way, vertical, just like AMROK II. And now…and now I am discovering and exploring a feminine, horizontal perception of reality.

And what that requires is to deny cold order-logical, intellectual order, that is-and perceive a deeper order, glimpsing it dimly now, somewhere, an order much deeper and broader because…The order I have known up to now has been narrow and restricted, tight and disciplined. But it cannot account for…for all.

This feminine, horizontal perception applies to breadth, explaining the apparent illogic and seeming madness of the universe-well, this perception does not deny science and logic but offers something more-an emotional consciousness of people and of life.

But is it only emotional? Or is it spiritual? At least it demands a need to accept chaos-a chaos outside the tight, disciplined logic of men and AMROK II, and seeks a deeper, more fundamental order and logic and significance within that chaos. It means a new way of life: the truth of lies and the reality of myths. It demands a whole new way to perceive a-

No, that’s not right. Perception implies a standing aside and observing. But this new world I am now in requires participation and sharing. I must strip myself naked and plunge-if I hope to know the final logic. If I have the courage…

Courage…When I told Celia of the power I felt when selecting my victim, and the love I had for him when he was selected-all that was true. But I didn’t mention the fear-fear so intense it was all I could do to control my bladder. But isn’t that part of it? I mean emotion-feeling. And from emotion to a spiritual exaltation, just as Celia is always speaking of ceremony and ritual and the beauty of evil. That is her final logic. But is it mine? We shall see. We shall see.

I must open myself, to everything. I grew in a tiled house of Lalique glass and rock collections. Now I must become warm and tender and accept everything in the universe, good and evil, the spread and the cramped. But not just accepting. Because then I’d be a victim. I must plunge to the heart of life and let its heat sear me. I must be moved.

To experience reality, not merely to perceive it: that is the way. And the final answer may be dreadful to divine. But if I can conquer fear, and kill, and feel, and learn, I will bring a meaning out of the chaos of my new world, give it a logic few have ever glimpsed before, and then I’ll know.

Is there God?