Life Blood --V---Page 17

The next morning, as we trekked up Riverside Drive, then the
Henry Hudson Parkway, the sky was a flawless blue and the wide
Hudson seemed like an ardent highway leading into the heart of
America. Still in elevated spirits over Sarah's momentary brush
with consciousness, Lou had noticeably less of a hangover than
was usual most mornings. Maybe he was looking forward to a
little mental R&R. For my own part, I felt my curiosity growing. I'd
gone to a lot of appointments over the years, but rarely did I
suspect the person I was going to see already knew more about
me than I knew about them.

After we crossed the Henry Hudson Bridge, we left the

highway and headed down a service road that led toward the
river. Then there was an imposing gate, open, and a tree-
shrouded driveway. Finally the place loomed in front of us.
        The physical appearance of Quetzal Manor was a study in
European grandeur, translated with a few extra frills from the New
World. Carly had told me it had once been a Carmelite convent,
dating from sometime in the middle of the last century, and it was
a monument to Church authority, with endless arches of cut
stone, turrets, gargoyles. As we were motoring to the end of the
long cobblestone drive, I felt as if I was approaching some Gothic

movie set. Given its hovering sense of regal authority, the place could easily have been a castle, but it seemed more like a
brooding homage to medieval torture. Let me just say it was truly magisterial, yet also more than a little creepy.

As we parked under a huge oak tree in front, I surveyed the
facade, trying to marshal my strength. Enough of my cold still
lingered that I didn't feel as if my mind was working on all
cylinders, and for a moment I merely sat looking, trying to breathe.
        "Want me to go in with you?" Lou asked finally. He was
examining the building suspiciously, like a detective surveying a
crime scene.

I wanted him with me and then again I didn't. I longed for the company, a protector, but I didn't want the complications, more things to explain inside. Finally I made a snap decision.

"Why don't you take a stroll around the grounds?" I

suggested. "Commune with nature. The fresh air will do you good. This can't take long. Mainly I just want to get some literature and try to gain a feeling for the place."

That wasn't entirely, or even partly, true. What I really wanted
to find out was threefold: How did they manage to get beautiful
healthy Caucasian babies for two single women in just a few
months; how could those babies be only six months apart in age
and still obviously be siblings; and (this was where my feelings
got complicated) could they get a baby for me the same way,
never mind how they did it. It was the third thing that actually
bothered me the most, since I was far from sure I wanted to be a
part of whatever was going on.

Lou just shrugged and leaned back in his seat. "Take as
long as you like. I'll just wait here in the car. I'm not the nature
type."

That was certainly the case.

I walked across the cobblestones to an arched entryway that
had no door. I wondered at this—most convents are like a
fortress—and then I realized the front door had been removed,
leaving only its ancient hinges still bolted into the stones. Perhaps
it was intended to be a symbol of openness, inviting you in.
        There was no sign of anybody—the saccharine-voiced Ramala
was not on hand to greet me—so I just headed on down a wide
hallway, past a table of brochures. The place had been decorated
with expensive good taste: tapestries all over the stone walls,
perfect Persian rugs, classic church statuary—all of it calling forth
powerful feelings from deep in the psyche.

Then I entered a vast interior courtyard, where a central

fountain splashed cheerily in the midday light. The courtyard was circled with a picturesque gallery of cells, all with massive wooden doors, most likely rooms once inhabited by chaste sisters.

The place did seem to be a clinic-commune now, just as

Paula had said. Not nuns this time around, but rather New Age

acolytes whose tastes ran more to secular music than to religious
chants, as witness the cacophony of sounds that wafted out from
several of the cells. Only it wasn't any kind of conventional music;
it seemed a mixture of Japanese flute, North Indian ragas, African
drumming. I liked the ragas, even recognized my favorite,
"Bhairavi."

Then I spotted something that riveted my attention. At the

back of the courtyard, just past a final wooden door, stood a huge South Indian bronze statue, about five feet high, of the Dancing Shiva. It appeared to be presiding over the arch way that led out into a dense natural garden behind the building.

I walked across the cobblestones to examine and admire it. It
seemed an odd item to find here in the courtyard of a once-
cloistered convent. I was so enthralled I failed to hear the door
behind me open.

"Do you find my Shiva interesting, Ms. James?" said a

soothing voice, just barely audible above the chirps of birds. I

think I caught a breath in my phlegm-locked chest, but then I

turned to see a tall man dressed in casual chinos and a dark

sweater. He was trim, looked to be in his early sixties, with a

mane of salt-and-pepper hair and lean features more craggy than
handsome. But his eyes were everything, telling you he owned
the space around him, owned in fact, the air he breathed. It had to
be Alex Goddard.

"Yes," I answered almost before I thought. "It just seems to be a little out of place here."

I wondered if he was going to introduce himself. Then I

realized that when you're used to being the master of a private domain, you probably never think to bother with such trivial formalities. Everybody knows who you are.

"Well," he said, his voice disarmingly benign, "I suppose I must beg to differ. May I suggest you consider this Shiva for a moment and try to imagine he's a real god?"

"He is a real god" I said immediately feeling patronized. Nothing makes me angry faster. "In India, he's—"