He went to Mexico for the summer to see his teacher leaving me in charge of the sweat lodge altar. I cleaned and lit and waved incense and genuflected but the candles turned black. He said it was an attack, he was always in battle with dark forces. I wrote my first novel over those six weeks, a story of a girl who goes to India and loses her mind. When he returned, I put it in a drawer. We went to Italy to run a sweat lodge on the shores of a lake near Rome. We went to Wales to collect more basalt for the lodge at home. I went to Valencia for a month in an effort to keep up with his Spanish lover. His Spanish lover came to stay and he ran her about the garden in a wheelbarrow, she, screaming with delight. He made coffee and forgot to fill the base with water and the espresso pot exploded hurling burning Lavazza all over the ceiling and he laughed and thought it was funny and I grabbed cloths thinking, This is my kitchen. He said there was a black panther resting on a branch near the sweat lodge fire. He didn’t identify the trouble in my bones. He had a tall, angular, male devoted helper on hand to do his bidding. He had legions of beautiful female patients; one had ankles causing her suffering, he assured her he could make them slim. These are the signs, not a candle turning black but devotees and lack of care and stupid promises, the keen use of the title, Shaman. Because anyone who calls themselves that probably isn’t. Because power without awareness is force, and force runs out. I was lying in the bath when he came in to talk to me. I don’t remember what he said that made the first penny drop, but I remember thinking, He’s never going to love me, and it was a revelatory bomb going off in my head. I knew I had to leave. Not him leave, mind. Me. I was still up to my neck in belief of him. The beautiful patient with the imperfect ankles invited me to Australia, she said there were parties, it would be fun. I bought a ticket, packed a bag, left the boy from Kent with his eggs and copal and lovers at the farm and boarded a flight to Sydney with the fat ankle girl who looked down at me from a willowy six-foot height. And while I’m on that flight, because it’s long and there’s time and the choices I made when I landed need context, I’m going to take you to the place all of this has been driving at. Buckle up. Put your seats in the upright position. We’re going back in time, to 1974 and a tall, cold house in London.
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