by Pyotr Patrushev

SELECTED CHAPTERS

THE DEATH AND REBIRTH OF RICHARD SINCLAIR

Sinclair was lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling. It was the third day he had spent in this passive, withdrawn mood. They came in to give him some food; he ate it, went to the toilet and returned to bed to look at the ceiling with the same vacant stare. A doctor came in, measured his temperature, blood pressure, looked at his eyes and tongue, and left, shrugging his shoulders.

In the last few days Sinclair’s significance in the world had shrunk from that of a global military strategist to that of an occupant of a small prison like cell. And now it had shrunk even further — to a dimly-lit point somewhere inside his skull, which kept continually posing him some huge and ultimately unanswerable question.

His debriefing was finished. At first he felt bad about giving them any information at all. As he saw that they would not give up and might even use torture on him, he began to tell them a little about his work, but continued to withhold the sensitive data. However, he had to grant that the KGB or the GRU, or whoever was questioning him — knew what they were doing and expected him to behave exactly as he did. The whole team set upon him methodically, backed up by an unknown number of experts who checked and cross checked everything he said. Every lead he gave was relentlessly followed up, and whenever he left some gaps or they found inconsistencies, they demanded clarification. They pressured him by increasing or decreasing the small liberties which, to a man imprisoned, make the difference between bearable purgatory and sheer hell.

But in the end it was neither the pressure nor their interrogating skill that made him give up. He began to say everything of his own free will, even things that they did not need nor wish to hear.

It came over him slowly and imperceptibly, as the debriefing exercise proceeded. As he listened to their questions and their theorizing, anticipating their guesses and speculations, he discovered the strange and alarming fact that for the past 15 years, he had lived a life of unreality, fighting phantoms which were crazier than Don Quixote’s windmills.

In the minds of the Soviet military experts who came to debrief him, Richard could see the same suspicion and paranoia, the mirror image of his own and fellow workers’ worldview. The Soviets, he discovered, were animated by the same ideas as the Americans, only in reverse. They also looked at their American counterparts as treacherous and potentially violent barbarians who needed somehow to be contained, lest the world fall prey to their cunning and greed. It was suspicion breeding suspicion. As soon as one side postulated that the other side was gaining a new edge on weaponry (often incorrectly), it would search for an answer to this new challenge. This, in turn, would confirm the worst suspicions on the other side. Thus the growing spiral of weaponry pressed onward. Attempts to curb it were timid and ineffectual and were due not so much to the renunciation of suspicion as to the unbearable costs and potential dangers of new weapons to the whole of mankind, including the victors in the new war.

If there was any intelligence or rationality in this whole macabre and infinitely escalating process, it certainly did not reside in the minds of those who pushed it along. All that seemed to improve and become more sophisticated were the weapon systems themselves which their human inventors served like robots. Could it be that the development of ever more sophisticated weaponry had a rationale of its own, as yet impenetrable to the human mind? If so, what was that rationale? To what twisted part of the human mind/brain system was it hinged? Could it even be connected to some source of unknown, outside malevolent intelligence?

Worn out by endless questioning and sleepless nights, Richard was becoming more and more engrossed in such problems, until something in his mind finally snapped. It did not seem to matter any more if he gave information or withheld it. What was the use of hiding a trump when the rules of the game were not known even to the players? And if they were known to somebody — or something — outside of them, then surely that higher arbiter knew every card in the pack, and also who, if anyone, would win in the end.

Did life really have a meaning? Or was his consciousness nothing more than the puppet stage upon which Nature — or God — played out its illogical spectacle? Richard was no longer thinking of his cozy unit overlooking the lake in Croton-on-Hudson, nor his German Shepherd, Rekki. Mrs. Grim, his neighbor, would surely take good care of him. Working in the secret government business for many years, divorced, and remaining single for the past few years had taught him to keep to himself. Now he began to dwell at length over the same questions that he had so facetiously dismissed during his chess games with Swami.

There was a knock at the door. Richard rolled over to face the wall. He did not want to talk to the officer who brought in his meals. He found the officer’s attempts to cheer him up inappropriate and pathetic. Now that they had squeezed him dry of everything he knew, he was no use to anyone. He had become a non person. He wished they would leave him alone with his thoughts.

The door opened and into the room marched Vlas accompanied by Dr Larchuk.

***

That evening, Richard was transferred to the Institute. Dr Larchuk was so eager to verify his hypothesis that he decided to carry out some preliminary tests the very next morning, using Richard as a guinea pig. He explained to Sinclair that they were testing a new psychotherapeutic technique which could help relieve his depression. “What depression?” he thought apprehensively. Were they going to treat his existential anxiety as depression? But he became a little more interested in what they were proposing to try when they told him that the method was derived from an ancient Vedic tradition, and that Swami was involved.

He was sitting under the EEG helmet, staring blankly into space. In the laboratory, Dr Larchuk was speaking to Dr Kon. “He seems to be ideal for our purposes. Very little cross talk between the limbic area and the frontal lobes. Ordinarily, he would have no chance at all of homing into the pleasure areas by means of some traditional meditation technique. It would take him months, possibly years, before he could even attain deep relaxation. Right now, he seems on the verge of a neurotic, or maybe psychotic, breakdown.”

Dr Larchuk went over to the experimental cubicle. “Mr. Sinclair,” he said, “I want you to take this little pill now. It will intensify the effects of the meditation technique that I will teach you presently. Don’t worry; the pill is absolutely harmless, made from plant-derived material, and very quick acting. Now, this is the sound I want you to repeat in your mind effortlessly during meditation.”

He whispered a short, meaningless syllable into Richard’s ear. “Now, begin to say it with me… that’s right… and now with your eyes closed... more quickly, and softly, and still more quickly and softly, and now just say it easily in your mind. If you find yourself distracted by something, just revert back to the sound I gave you. Keep doing this for a few minutes until I come back.”

Dr Larchuk tiptoed out of the cubicle. “What’s happening? Anything significant?” he asked Dr Kon, who was monitoring the toposcope screen. She did not answer.

Blue, red and yellow dots were dancing across the screen, coming together and dispersing again like small flocks of sparrows scattering at someone’s approach and then regrouping again. Now and again, the seemingly chaotic dance of the colored dots and strips would become synchronized, as though some unseen conductor was imposing order upon the confused sound of an orchestra tuning their instruments. These bursts of synchronized brain function were becoming more and more prolonged until, after a few minutes, the entire brain was responding to the directions of the invisible conductor, blending itself into one grand, harmonious tutti.

Dr Larchuk was whispering, “The magic brew has opened the gate to paradise... this is the answer. For thousands of years man has searched in vain, through prayer and meditation, fasting and bodily modification... and yet, how simple, how sublime…”

Dr Kon turned away from the screen. There were tears in her eyes. She too, understood the meaning of what they were witnessing. She too, was experiencing the supreme satisfaction known to those who, under tremendous pressures from within and without, pursue their search and, despite tremendous odds, find under the rubble of discarded and half baked hypotheses the shining fragments of the philosopher’s stone. They embraced, forgetting for a moment their habitual reserve.
“Now that’s very nice,” a gruff voice spoke, “combining business and pleasure-I dare say.” Vlas had just entered the Laboratory.

Sinclair was oblivious to all this. Blue, red and yellow circles were appearing in rapid succession. Each repetition of the mantra was bringing in a new wave of color, which also seemed to resound in his ears. “That’s strange,” Richard thought, “I never knew that one could hear colors. Ordinarily, he could not even see colors vividly in his mind. All his dreams were in black-and-white. Only once had he seen dream in color, and even that was of a two colored globe, with blue oceans and green forests.

“The Peace that passeth all understanding,” he remembered the words he had read somewhere and thought how apt they were. The cares and burdens that had been crushing him just a few minutes before were melting away. He felt as though someone was washing and purifying him from within with a soft, caressing sponge.
“How silly it was of me to get depressed,” he thought. “This tranquility, this bliss… Life is joy.” Was this the meaning of life for which he had been vaguely searching all his life, but desperately during these last few days? Could it be true? All those years wasted in useless, self gratifying pursuits, futile relationships, striving for success, material comforts, and fame. He could have cried over the lost opportunities, the missed moments of happiness, of love and intimacy, but his eyes refused to shed tears.

Memories from his childhood began to float into his consciousness, without disturbing the calm sea of his awareness or interrupting the gentle pulsation of his mantra. Snippets of dreams and nightmares were rising from the depths of his subconscious, disjointed and now somehow powerless. Images that ordinarily would have woken him shivering in a cold sweat were now dissolving painlessly, neutralized by the healing peace he felt within. Richard had a sensation as if his chest was expanding endlessly in one all embracing inhalation, which made him feel huge, as big as the universe itself. But at the same time he knew that this was an illusion and that his breathing was still, or almost still. The bright point of light with which he identified his consciousness was incomprehensibly spilling beyond the barriers of his skull, filling the whole world with a radiant and uniform glow.

He could not think at that moment, and only had a sensation of rising — or falling — precipitously. He did not know how long this ascent — or descent — lasted. When he could think again, words formed in his mind, “Life is joy, and peace, and light … And I am that, too...”

Richard did not know how long he spent in this state, but gradually his senses were bringing him back to the other, everyday reality. For some time, his mind was still anchored effortlessly in that pleasant and brightly lit world of oneness. Then he would be distracted momentarily by some noise or feeling. He could, for a time, immediately return to that sublime world by simply bringing back his mantra. But the breaks of normal consciousness were becoming longer and longer.

Dr Larchuk, who was observing his progress on the toposcope, came into the cubicle at that moment and whispered softly, “Just sit quietly for a few minutes, with your eyes closed and don’t bring your mantra back consciously.”

Finally, Richard opened his eyes. The world seemed to have gained some new, translucent quality. His mind and his body were light and pliable, as if he had shed some terrific burden which had been encumbering him all these years.

“Doctor,” he said, “I feel new, reborn. I feel… happy. You know something,” he said, feeling mildly embarrassed, “Life is joy.” He smiled, looking Dr Larchuk straight in the eyes for the first time.

“Yes,” Dr Larchuk averted his gaze. “Yes, I know how you must feel. I also feel happy for you. Now, if you don’t mind, a colleague of mine will ask you a few questions about your experience.”

Vlas was waiting impatiently at the entrance to the cubicle.