The Hypnotist

THIRTY-SIX

“The soul is not the body and it may be in one body or in another, and pass from body to body.”

– Giordano Bruno, Italian philosopher during the Renaissance, sentenced to be burned at the stake by the Inquisition for his teachings about reincarnation.

Lucian withdrew a sketchpad from his briefcase, opened it to a certain page and handed it to Dr. Bellmer.

The doctor examined the old woman’s face. “She looks terribly frightened.”

“And I’m the one she’s scared of. All of them are.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t have the faintest idea.”

Lucian had finally admitted to himself that he was no longer coming here just to spy on Malachai Samuels’s lair. The agency had Elgin Barindra to do that now-and do it much better than he could. From what he’d just overheard, Elgin was making great progress.

“What the hell is happening to me? Isn’t it possible I read a book or saw a movie that’s inspiring these regressions? Maybe the accident in Vienna did cause some brain damage?” No matter how hard he fought Bellmer’s hypnotic suggestions, he’d succumbed every time, and the realism of the episodes that played out in his mind was very disturbing.

“I know how complicated it is to accept for someone as logical as you are, James. But I can’t give you the kind of rationale you want. If you can just stick with it a little longer, for a few more sessions, I believe that what we’re doing here will ultimately bring you peace and understanding.”

“How? Let’s say I believe the unbelievable and every one of the women I’m drawing is someone I knew in a past life and mistreated. Even if we find out who they were, what good will that do me now? From what I’ve been reading about reincarnation and past-life therapy, don’t I have to know these women in this life to work out my karmic responsibilities with them?”

“Basic theory suggests that we come back in each life into a circle of souls we’ve been with before. We don’t have to go searching for them. They’re the primary reason we were born into these fragile envelopes in this time and place.”

“Envelopes?”

“I think of our physical bodies as envelopes. Poor, fragile holders for our real beings-our souls. When we pass on, it’s our envelope that’s ripped up and thrown away, not our souls. Those move on, find a new envelope, slip inside and start again.”

“You’re sounding a lot like a preacher.”

“Too spiritual? Okay, let me put in it in more scientific terms. We’re made of energy. Energy can’t be destroyed, only transformed. So what happens to our energy, our potential, when we die? Isn’t it possible that it moves from body to body? Deepak Chopra calls it a creative, quantum nonalgorithmic jump and says life doesn’t end, can’t end, because it never began.”

“You’re asking me to adopt a new belief system.”

“Chopra uses a wonderful analogy. The you in your present life, your last life and your next life are all the same-and that you is your soul. He says to think of it as water. A drop of rain and a pond are both water, and water doesn’t lose its wateriness no matter its form. If it’s an ice cube, a drop of dew or the vapor in a cloud, it’s still water, beyond beginnings and endings. It’s transformations.”

“This is all theory. Dreams I don’t understand and can’t remember wake me up every night and propel me to draw this crap.” He kicked the pad Bellmer had returned to him and that he’d put on the floor. It slid across the room. “You said you could help me.”

“I can.”

“How? With more hypnosis?”

“Yes.”

“Does a soul have to be reborn in an infant?”

Iris looked confused by the non sequitur but answered without hesitation. “No, souls can enter a host body that’s already been born and settle there. Usually it’s a body in a state of unconsciousness, but there have been cases of drug addicts, alcoholics and attempted suicides who’ve given over their bodies to another soul, and the new entity has gone on to have a productive life.”

“Unconscious as in a coma?”

“Yes.”

“Why not be reborn in an infant?”

“Sometimes it’s because the soul belonged to someone who died before their time, was in the midst of accomplishing something important and is impatient to come back. Is something about this bothering you, James?”

“Not at all. I read something and was curious.” He settled back in his seat and in defeat said, “We might as well do this.”

There was a frustrated, plaintive quality to his voice that reached Dr. Bellmer. She reacted to this patient more personally than most, almost as if she’d known him in another lifetime and had been one of these women he was drawing. She pointed to the spot between his eyebrows with her fingertip and suggested that he focus on his third eye while she talked to him in a voice that she hoped would be soothing.

Once he appeared to be deeply under, she asked him to think back to a time when he knew the woman he’d drawn that morning. When his forehead creased into a frown, she asked him if he’d found her.

“Yes.”

“You see her?”

“She’s angry.”

“Where are you?”

“In the crypt.”

“Where is the crypt?”

“In Shush.”

She didn’t recognize the name. “Where’s Shush?”

“Persia.”

Persia? Wasn’t he in Greece?

“What year is it?”

“1885.”

Bellmer felt a jolt. This was a different lifetime. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Serge Fouquelle.”

“And what are you doing in Shush?”

“I’ve been here for two years on an archaeological excavation being financed by my country.”

“What country is that?”

“France.” He sounded surprised she didn’t know.

“Have you made any discoveries?”

“Many…but this one is the most important because it’s the first site that I found on my own.”

“You must be proud.”

He wasn’t; he was angry. “This stupid old woman and her husband are trying to stop me from performing my duties and taking what’s mine.”

“What have you found?”

“A cache of very rare old pieces-jewelry, pottery, serving pieces made out of silver and gold and the pièce de résistance is a rare sculpture. It must be at least fifteen hundred years old and is quite extraordinary. Wooden sculpture usually rots over time, but this piece is intact. Perhaps being buried down here in this cave, it had more of a chance.”

“Where are you now?”

“In the crypt. I broke through several weeks ago and have been making preparations to remove these antiques since.” He frowned again.

“What’s wrong?”

“The couple who live in the house above this place claim all of these pieces belong to them.”

“Do they?”

“Of course not. I am not a robber, madame. The minister of culture said that they have rights to the house but not the land itself, and certainly not what is buried beneath it. His position, which I think is well taken, is that these Jews did not bring these treasures here, did not know they were here when they built their house on top of them and so cannot claim ownership, no matter how long they have lived here.”

Serge laughed derisively.

“What is it?” Iris asked.