Blood Test by Kellerman, Jonathan

of August Valcroix. He told me he visited here. Do

you remember him ?”

He twirled the ends of his beard around one long

mger.

“Once or twice a year we offer seminars on or-

gallic gardening and meditatiorl. Not to proselytise,

but to enlighten. He may have attended one of

those. I dont remember him specifically.”

212 Jothn

I gave him a physical description.of Valcroix but

it didn’t evoke recognition.

“That’s it, then. I appreciate yourhelp.’

He sat there, unblinking and unmoving. In the

stingy light of the room his pupils had expanded so

-that only a thin rim of pale iris was visible. He had

hypnotic eyes. A prerequisite for charisma.

“If you have any more questions you may ask

them.”

“No questions, but I would like to hear more

about your philosophy.”

He nodded.

“We are refugees from a former life We’ve chosen

a new life that emphasizes purity and industry.

We avoid environmental poisons and seek self-sufficiency.

We believe that by changing ourselves

we increase the positive energy in the world.”

Standard stuff. He rattled it off like some New

Age pledge of allegiance.

“We’re not killers,” he added.

Before I could reply, two of them came into the

room.

Matthias stood up and left without acknowledging

their presence. The man and woman took the

two empty’seats. The transaction was oddly mechanical,

as if the people were interchangeable parts

in some smoothly functioning apparatus.

They sat, hands in laps–more good schoolkids–and

smiled with the maddening serenity of the

born-again and the lobotomized.

I was far from serene. Because I recognized both

of them, though in quite different ways.

The man who called himself Baron was medium-sized

and thin. Like Matthias, his hair was cut

short and his beard left untrimmed. But in his case

BLOOD TEST – 213

the effect was less dramatic than untidy. His hair

was medium brown and wispy. Patches of skin

showed through the sparse frizzy chin whiskers

and his cheeks were covered with soft fuzz. It was

as if he’d forgotten to wash his face.

In graduate school I’d known him as Barry Graf-tlus.

He was older than I, in his early forties, but

had been a class behind, a late starter who’d decided

to become a psychologist after trying just

about everything else.

Graffius’s family was wealthy, big in the movie

business, and he’d been one of those rich kids-who

couldn’t seem to settle down–inadequate drive level

because he’d never been deprived of anything. The

consensus was that family money had gotten him

in, but that may have been a jaundiced view. Because

Barry Graffius had been the mos unpopular

person in the department.

I’ve always tended to be charitable in my evaluations

of others but I’d despised Graffius. He was

loudmouthed and contentious, dominating seminars

wi irrelevant quotes and statistics aimed at impressing

the professors. He insulted his peers, bullied

the meek, played devil’s advocate with malicious

glee.

And he loved toflaunt his money.

Most of us were struggling to get by, working

extra jobs in addition to our teaching assistantships.

Grafus delighted in coming to class in hand-tailored

leather and suede complaining about the repair

bill on his XKE, lamenting the tax bite. He was an

outrageous name dropper, recounting lavish Hollywood

parties, offering a teasing glimpse into a glamorous

world beyond the grasp of the rest of us.

I’d heard that after graduating he’d gone into

practice on Bedford Drive—Beverly Hills Couch

Row–planning to capitalize on his connections and

become Therapist to the Stars.

I could see where he’d mn into Norman Matthews.

He recognized me too. I could tell by the flurry of

activity behind his watery brown eyes. As we looked

at each other that activity crystallized: fear. The

fear of being discovered.

His former identity was no secret in the strict

sense. But he didn’t want to be confronted by it:

for those who imagine themselves reborn, bringing

up the past has all th appeal of exhuming one’s

own moldering corpse.

I said nothing, but wondered if he’d told Matthias

about knowing me.

The woman was older, but uncommonly pretty

despite the ponytail no-makeup look that seemed to

be de r/gueur for Touch women. Madonna-faced with

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