I am Adrian Tripod, the Director of this place,
the House of Skin.
In a sense, my present incarnation was generated
by the mad dermatologist Antoine Rouge.
The House of Skin began its existence
as a residential clinic for wealthy patients
who were treated for severely pathological skin conditions
induced by contemporary cosmetics.
Antoine Rouge, who at the time,
was considered little more then a gifted technician
seized control of the house many years ago
and guided it towards a more fantastic species of research.
There was much opposition to the Rougian ascendancy
in certain high places.
The House is undeniably in decline.
Somehow, without my direct comprehension of it,
it has fallen into the hands of my two sullen interns.
Their purposes
are entirely opaque to me.
As are the purposes of so many others.
Before the disappearance of Antoine Rouge,
there were many strange creatures in residence here.
But for some time now, there has only been one.
And he...
...I believe, I have noted
a whitish, aerated amorphous affluence
oozing from his ears.
I am not quite certain.
My interns have also noted the deadly emergence
of this secretion which we call Rouge's foam.
It has been mandatory to cremate all those
who have died from Rouge's Malady.
Although during the period of secretion and haemorrhage,
the various pathological fluids are relatively harmless,
even essentially attractive.
These fluids soon develop
a virulence which can be devastating.
There was a time when Rouge's Malady appeared
only in post-pubertal human females.
It is perhaps natural that in my present confusion
I should find my way to the Institute of Neo-Venereal Disease.
In the exhilarating days of Rougian administration,
there was much collaboration between the House and this institute.
My former colleague has somehow withdrawn.
He himself has contracted
a species of venereal disease from one of his patients.
He was once a fierce sensualist
but he has now become a pure metaphysician.
His body has begun to create puzzling organs.
Each one very complex, very perfect,
unique yet seemingly without function.
As each is surgically removed,
it is quickly replaced by another equally mysterious.
He has taken to breaking into the specimens room
and stealing the jars containing these organs.
His body, he insists, is a galaxy.
And these creatures are solar systems.
He becomes melancholy when they are far from him.
His nurse says that his disease
is possibly a form of creative cancer.
I believe that this is what they have said.
It is difficult to recall so many dialects
when one has remained so long in isolation.
I have found a position as a therapist
with the Oceanic Podiatry Group.
They support their theoretical structure,
in part, by a grossly distorted interpretation
of the later evolutionary writings of Antoine Rouge.
Still the closeness of certain Rougian concepts is comforting.
The technique I am to attempt is the invocation
of the genetic history of feet.
That is, tentacles, lobed fins, flippers and so on.
By these and other more esoteric means,
I am to reverse the psychic relapse, now so common,
which can occur under intense genetic pressure.
I am, thereby, to encourage patients
to bear the burden of a suddenly alien gravity.
To walk, for example,
when they would prefer to revert to more primitive oceanic forms.
I have achieved a sort of equilibrium
in my anonymity here at Metaphysical Import-Export.
It has been simple to remain aloof
from the internal workings of this corporation
because as a minor intramural courier
I am not required to communicate
with many candidates for executive positions with whom I deal.
As a consequence, however,
I am uncertain as to what constitutes
the significance of their incessant exercises and competitions.
When Antoine Rouge disappeared
soon after he had himself contracted the disease
which bears his name,
we believed that he had preferred to die alone
in an exile only partially self-willed.
Still, he on one occasion remarked that Rouge's Malady
could not possibly be fatal to Rouge
though it had already killed hundreds of thousands of women.
And it is true that his death was confirmed only
by certain authorities who had long wished for his death.
Yet, the Rouge, as my mentor, and I
were preternaturally close.
And I feel sure
that he no longer exists.
I have been studying the stereoscopic card
delivered to me by the man with webbed toes.
Though his manner was brutal, the card he left me
was both inviting and peculiarly flattering.
Yet it was perhaps because of the perverse sexual nature
of the card's images,
so reminiscent of those which had gained an odd popularity
at the House of Skin
which decided me against contacting these subtle colleagues
as they describe themselves.
I fear, however, that if I remain here much longer
my hard won equilibrium may become a morbid stasis.
My former difficult patient now welcomes me with open arms.
He no longer limps
and claims that as a result of my abortive attempt at oceanic therapy
he feels he has come to terms with his mutant toes.
He adds something elaborately philosophical
about sea creatures, air and water,
but his idioms are extremely obscure.
As I had anticipated,
I have been invited to join a gathering of conspirators.
Their purposes are, as yet, opaque to me.
As are the purposes of so many others.
It is, however, quite clear
that they are heterosexual paedophiles.
A group specifically outlawed
though increasingly pervasive, nonetheless.
We are now all disciples of a new master it seems.
He is called Jomkin.
He describes these provocative spheres as his aquaria
and directs me to engage psychically
any aquarium for which I feel empathy.
I cannot deny my attraction
to certain of these perverse multi-dimensional images.
Jomkin suggests that there must evolve
a novel sexuality for a new species of man.
An emergent genetic biochemistry
for a most innovatively reproductive form of life.
He mentions Antoine Rouge.
But... I cannot
seem to see the connection
between
Adrian Tripod has been accepted by the Board of Directors
of the Gynaecological Research Foundation.
The Liaison Officer complains
that his feet and legs are most unpredictable.
He is afraid that they will give out on him entirely some day without warning.
And so when he is alone, he does not walk.
He notes the vastness of the Foundation's quarters
and the difficulty in reaching aid
for those suddenly rendered helpless.
In this connection, he mentions the Foundation's hired gunman
who apparently has a tendency
to misinterpret subtle social confrontations.
Adrian Tripod is to be directly introduced
to the subject of his study.
She is a research import
brought at great expense from a great distance
across several most contentious borders.
The Corporation Metaphysical Import-Export
has been involved in the venture.
He stresses the complex nature of prematurely induced puberty
which leaves such a subject vulnerable to Rouge's Malady
and is unable to guarantee
that she is not already somewhat defective in this respect.
At an obscure hotel for transients,
the same one some had said, that the faded mad dermatologist
Antoine Rouge occupied during those last years in exile,
Adrian Tripod secures temporary accommodations
for himself and his fellow subversives.
The concierge speaks at length about a root-like excrescence
which has begun to grow from one of his nostrils.
He believes it to be an extension of certain cerebral nerve cells.
A modified antennae, perhaps, a delicate sensing organ.
Attuned to what?
I ask him about Antoine Rouge
but he does not answer.
Although for safety's sake,
we shall be without Jomkin's guidance for some time,
we have agreed among ourselves
that there must be no delay
in attempting to impregnate our strange, unfathomable captive.
Adrian Tripod senses
the presence of Antoine Rouge.