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Someone, probably the same Paris bohemians with whom he had first chased the dragon, had put about the idea that opium smelled exotic and spicy, like frankincense or musk. In Christopher's experience, burning opium smelled, to his nose, like a damp hedge that has been set on fire.
He accepts the pipe from Manuel and draws the smoke deep into his lungs. It tastes much the same as it smells, though the acrid stuff sits cool and mellow on his throat. He lets his breath out, the smoke issuing from his mouth and nostrils in thick white rivulets, like ectoplasm.
The opium hits in the back of his legs first; a strange weakness, a tingly-numb feeling that is not entirely unpleasant. A warm wave of calm washes up from the base of his brain, spreading slowly through his entire body. He hands the pipe back and relaxes into the chair, possessed- as always seems to happen- of an unusually talkative internal monologue, intent on describing and documenting every thought and sensation to itself. He runs through the chakras, activating each briefly in turn, just to make sure he can still do it in this state. It's like a nervous twitch, like running a hand over his hair or scratching his nose. He is only marginally aware that he is doing it.
Manuel puts the pipe to his mouth, and inhales for what seems to Christopher like a very long time. Then he sets the pipe down, crosses his arms, and closes his eyes.
Christopher watches, entranced.
Time passes. Just how much, he is not sure. A minute, perhaps. Then another. Then another.
At last, Manuel breathes out, the smoke all but invisible as it leaves his mouth. He catches sight of Christopher's expression and grins. "It takes a very large amount to affect me at all. It is not a habit. It is what you might call a natural tolerance."
"You've an impressive set of lungs," Christopher says. He reviews this statement in his head. Does it sound rude? Inappropriate? He is not sure. "I mean...do you swim?"
"Only when I must." Manuel goes about uncorking the bottle of wine on the table.
Christopher relaxes further into his chair. He feels a pleasant drowsiness about him, not actual sleepiness, but the beginnings of reverie. Twilight sleep. He listens to Manuel pour wine, the sound like a physical thing behind his eyes. It seems to go on for a long time, water pouring from one void to another. His eyes slip shut. A piece of doggerel, dredged up from the musty cupboards at the back of his brain, unspools itself:
This lion's a carpet
This carpet's a shag
This shag's a tobacco
This tobacco's a fag
"May I ask a question of you?" Manuel says.
Christopher shakes himself. The reverie passes. "Hmm? Yes, of course."
Manuel hands a full glass across the table. "What would you say if I told you I was a great deal older than I appear?"
Christopher takes the glass. He can smell the rich, heavy body of the wine, even at a distance. "How much older?"
"Several centuries."
Silence in the little room.
Christopher considers this calmly. He is almost always calm, the constant practice of yoga having upped the serotonin levels in his brain, but particularly so now, with the fruits of the poppy soaking into his grey matter. "Well," he says, after a moment. "I would say that you are mad, but luckily you are in England, where we have an ancient and well-respected tradition of madness, so it is unlikely anyone will ever notice."
"You don't believe me?"
"Of course I don't believe you. It's preposterous."
"But you tell me that you yourself-"
"It's not the same thing." Christopher sits up in his chair. "Look, if I told you I belonged to the Golden Dawn, would that require me to take you seriously if you claimed to be the Comte de St. Germain?"
"Who?"
"It isn't important. No, I don't believe you. On the other hand, you seem to be an otherwise reasonable person, and you have very kindly shared your hospitality with me, so I shan't think any less of you for it."
"That is very kind of you."
"Mm. Not at all."
Christopher sips his wine. He has no particular taste for it at the moment, the opium having taken away any desire for food and drink, but it feels good on his tongue and palate.
"May I pose a theoretical question?" Manuel says.
"By all means."
"Let us suppose, for the moment, that someone did find a way to live for centuries."
Christopher sighs. "Very well. What then?"
"Throughout the last few centuries, this someone would have no trouble with money or identity. To change identity, he should only have to move somewhere distant from where he lived last. As for money, gold is accepted everywhere. Yes?"
"I suppose so."
"Let us say this man has lived into the present. Here he encounters problems. The world is becoming..." Manuel waves a hand, searching for the right word. "Modern? Mechanical? I do not know the word. He is asked to show papers to prove he is himself. In some places, gold is regarded with suspicion. Where did he get this gold? Who is he? Can he prove he is he? Who is his family, his father, his writer-of-papers, and on and on. He feels walls closing in around him. What does he do?"
"Your hypothetical man is thinking on too concrete a level," Christopher says. "Money needn't be something you hold in your hand. It's only a way of keeping score, at heart. It's just numbers. You could invest in property, in businesses, sink your money into abstract things. The stock market, for instance-" He breaks off. "This is meant to be you we're speaking of, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"And you actually believe this? That you've been alive for hundreds of years?"
"Since the fifteenth century, yes." Manuel appears unruffled.
"Very well. Stipulate this to be the case. Can you prove it? Do you have something- a family heirloom, perhaps, or something portraying yourself that could be dated- anything at all?"
Manuel looks away. Christopher opens his mouth to say something- he has no idea what- when Manuel looks back, his expression unreadable.
"I have something, yes."
"Yes?"
Manuel stands up. "Come and stand close to me, please."
"What-"
"You will see. Please."
Christopher stands up, and walks over toward him until they are standing at arm's length."
"Closer."
Christopher takes a hesitant step forward.
"Closer, please."
He takes another.
"Closer, please, Christopher."
He lets out a breath and takes another step. Now they are standing nearly nose-to-nose. He can smell Manuel's hair tonic, the hint of wine on his breath.
"What am I-?"
Manuel holds up a finger. "Wait."
At first, there is nothing. He stares into Manuel's eyes, feeling the discomfort that comes of being so close to a stranger. There is nothing...and then...
It starts from somewhere inside him. Not from anywhere he can pinpoint, but from some central core, an Inside more profound than flesh and bone. His eyes widen. He feels his legs wanting to buckle, his eyes rolling back in his head. He takes a faltering step backward and nearly falls into his chair. He can feel his hands trembling, like an old man with palsy.
"What..." His voice is hoarse. He clears his throat and tries again. "What is that? My god. Manuel, what is that?"
"I do not know," Manuel says. "But it is part of what has kept me on this earth all these years. I do not ask you to believe me. I only wish for you to consider the possibility. There are, perhaps, more things in Heaven and Earth, as Shakespeare says?"
"Dear Christ. Don't tell me you knew William Shakespeare."
"No," Manuel says. "But I did watch the plays, when I visited England."
"Christ. 'O brave new world, that has such people in't'." Christopher puts a hand to his face. "I do believe I'll have some more opium now."
------
"Quit this world, quit the next world, quit quitting!" -Sufi proverb.
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Take Me Back to the Garden of Love - 21
