Jacob Atabet (6 page)

“Hey Darwin, is that you?” He called down from the edge of the roof.

“Yes, it’s me. I’ve got to see you!”

A moment later he appeared at the picket gate. “What the hell are you doing?” he whispered. “Is anything wrong?” A startling change had come into his face. For a moment we stood there in silence. “Yes?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

In the shock I felt, I couldn’t find an answer. Whether from the whiskey or the muted light, his face seemed grotesquely misshapen.

“Well, come on in,” he said impatiently.

As we climbed the stairs I felt myself shaking, and mumbled apologies. “I was going to call you tomorrow,” he said as he locked the roof gate behind us.

The only light in the kitchen came from a fire in the hearth. We stood facing each other beside it. “So tell me what’s happening,” he said. “You don’t look in very good shape.”

In the wavering shadows now, he had an uncanny beauty—my impression on the landing had been completely transformed. “I’m all right,” I said weakly. “But it’s been kind of crazy. I’ve had the weirdest things happening . . .” In the flickering light his aspect was changing again. Now he seemed shaped like a flame, burning in the distance. “I’ve had too much whiskey,” I sat down in a chair. “Three double shots. God, I’m sorry, but I thought you’d sent me a message. I must be drunker than I thought.”

He put a pot of water on the stove. “I’ll make you some coffee,” he said. “Why don’t you sit there while I finish what I’m doing.” He nodded toward the studio. “I’m working on something your book helped inspire.”

“Helped inspire?” I murmured.

“Your book’s had an impact on me,” he whispered. “An incredible impact. But we’ll talk about it in a minute.” He went into the studio and I laid my head on the table. A feeling of sweetness passed through me. Maybe the thing I had seen in the window was some kind of message after all. “Would you make the coffee yourself,” he called. “This’ll just take a minute. The coffee grounds are in a can by the stove.” The water was steaming and I turned off the flame. My drunkenness was fading. When the coffee was made I looked into the studio to see him.

He stood in front of his easel, studying the painting I had seen there before. But the scene on his canvas had changed. The city now was enveloped in red and had a distant feeling. He touched a brush into paint. “Notice any changes?” he asked, tracing a thin red line down a street. “Tell me what you see.”

”The city’s disappearing in blood.”

“Well,” he said, standing back to survey it. “The whiskey hasn’t destroyed your vision. You’re quick.
Very
quick . . . . Does it remind you of anything else?”

“Of blood cells,” I said without thinking.

“Yes,” he murmured. “Of blood cells. And what else?”

I moved to get a better angle but nothing came to mind.

“You don’t see it?” he whispered. “In a minute you might.”

There was a hush as he studied the painting. Sensing that he wanted to be alone, I went back in the kitchen. The sweetness I felt was turning to enormous well-being. Minutes passed. Fog was moving west, revealing the great electric negligee that covered the hills to the south.

I heard him calling, and turned to see him through the kitchen door. In the few moments I’d been out of the room the painting had changed once again. Each blood cell now seemed enormous, as if the observer had shrunk.

“The
animan siddhi.
” He held up the brush. “Just like you tell it in your book.”

The
animan siddhi
is a Sanskrit term for the yogic power to shrink the focus of consciousness to a tiny point. He held the brush an inch from the canvas. “The
animan siddhi
,” he murmured. “Don’t you see it?”

The brush was poised in midair. Then he touched it to the painting. Neither of us talked as he repeated the motion. I closed my eyes to rest. It was painful to wait for his slow steady strokes. I turned and stood by the door. But when I looked at the painting again, the figure and ground had reversed. Now the city was up close and the veil of blood had receded.

I stepped back in the kitchen. These jumps in perception were unsettling. “It’ll be just a minute,” he called. “Make yourself another cup.”

I put the cup down in the sink. The fog was rolling out to sea uncovering the light-speckled hills. A rare wind from the east was blowing. It would be good to stand on the deck, I thought. Opening the door carefully, I stepped outside.

The wind hit my face with a dry electric charge. Looking back through the kitchen I could see him closing a window and guessed that the air was bad for his paint. He lifted the brush and held it in front of the canvas. Held it closer . . . . then something flashed all around him. For an instant he was enveloped in a blue sheet of fire.

He glanced at the kitchen—I could tell he was looking for me. Then he turned and wiped off his hands. I crossed to the rail. The sheet of fire, I thought, had been static electricity or some kind of illusion.

“Darwin,” he called from the doorway. “Are you out there?” From the sound of his voice I could tell he was shaken. Up close, he smelled like something burnt, and his face was tightly drawn. “You all right?” he asked, coming out on the deck. “I’m sorry I’ve taken so long.”

I said I felt fine. Just seeing him was all I had needed.

“Look here.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “I’ve got to ask you to leave. I’m too tired to talk. But I’ll call you first thing tomorrow. That book of yours . . .” He gestured vaguely. “It’s very important. There’s a lot I want to ask you about.” He led me to the gate with a vacant expression, and waved as I went down the stairs.

Walking to my apartment I made a decision. The light I had seen was a static electric charge, a ripple of something like St. Elmo’s Fire. There was nothing occult about it. In this air you could build up a charge simply by rubbing your hands. I had even felt a shock when I zipped up my nylon jacket. And this wind from the valleys, full of dust and pollution from refineries and factories all across the state to Fresno and Stockton, could drain your virtue in minutes. That would account for his sudden fatigue.

The shocks of the last several hours were washed away by the excitement I felt. He had seen that my work was important. As I went down the hill I found myself running with sheer exuberance. But as I went into my apartment I remembered that something else had appeared on the deck. I felt myself shrinking in horror. A giant bird, black as ebony, was turning toward me. Its unblinking eyes fixed my gaze, and I felt something inside me surrender. If I would let it, something said, it would tear me apart. Tear me slowly and deliberately to pieces. A shudder passed through me, part fear and part pleasure. Slowly it came down from the rail. Then it bent toward me and started to rip out my organs one by one.

The heart came first, and as it did I felt a thrill of pleasure. Piece by piece, I would be completely dismembered. Next came my lungs, dripping veins and arteries, then my liver and kidneys spurting blood. Like a hooded priest, the bird lifted them up in the sky and laid them down on the ground by my side. The process went on like a ritual dance, each move done in stately cadence. I had no choice but to let it continue. An eye was removed and I felt an ecstatic shudder. Then the second eye, which was placed high on the pile of glistening parts.

I lay trembling on the bed, released into wide open spaces. The walls of the room might serve as my body, or I might stretch to the edge of the Bay. This freedom had been trying to happen for as long as I could remember.

I knew my body would not be the same. The waves of pleasure passing through it told me that. I got up and looked through the window. The Bay glistened in the moonlight as if it too had been stripped to its essence. The whole world, it seemed, had been remade.

I
T WAS A BRILLIANT DAY
. A westerly morning wind had swept the sky clean and you could catch a rare smell of the sea. There was a cheerful mood in the air. All the way down Grant Avenue I could feel it—from kids playing catch on the sidewalk, in the banter I could hear on a porch. When I bought a bag of oranges at the corner grocery, the Chinese proprietor hailed me with a greeting you could hear across the street.

I carried the oranges to the office. Casey knocked at my door and came in. Before leaving the apartment I had called to ask her to find a particular section of my manuscript and she put it down on my desk. “At least you sound better,” she said, giving me a good-natured scrutiny. “What did you do last night?”

“I’m not telling. But a mysterious cure has been worked.”

“You saw Atabet.”

“Why do you say that?” I murmured, leafing through the manuscript.

“And he likes the book. He thinks it’s the very essence of the new world-view.”

“Ah Casey,” I said. “You are clairvoyant. Yes, he likes the book and I
can see why.”
I had found the section I was looking for, a description of shamanistic vision. I shook my head with wonder as I read it.

“I haven’t seen you look so pleased in months,” she said.

“This is incredible. Incredible . . .” The passage described initiatory rituals in Siberia that involved long meditations on the body being taken apart. “Casey?” I asked, “do you think I look part Siberian? Do you think one of my ancestors might’ve been an Iglulik shaman?”

“Yes. That look.” She rolled her eyes back in her forehead. “That look in those articles about you. That disembodied look.”

With growing elation, I turned to a chapter on prayer. Passages from Thurston, the Jesuit priest, described a spiritual fire that left marks on the contemplative’s body. “There’s so much here!” I whispered. “It’s simply amazing!”

“What a switch,” she said wryly. “What a difference a compliment can make.”

“Did I actually write this?” I murmured. “I wonder if I knew what I was doing?” I leaned back in my chair. Something like a gentle breeze was blowing through the room.

A phone was ringing in her office, and she went to answer it. “If it’s for me, I’m not here,” I shouted. “Tell them I’ll call back this afternoon.”

She came back in the room. “It’s him,” she said. “Your friend. Jacob Atabet.”

“Jacob!” I grabbed the phone.

“This is Carlos Echeverria,” the voice said. “Jacob is very sick. He wants to see you.”

“Sick?”

“Yes, sick,” he sounded angry. “He wants to see you now.”

“Wants to see me now? Are you sure?” The old man didn’t answer. “All right. Tell him I’ll be right up. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”

I stood up from the desk. “Casey,” I heard myself saying. “I’ll call you if I need you. Something’s happened to Atabet.”

Carlos Echeverria was standing by the gate. “He’s inside,” he muttered. “There’s another friend with him.”

“What happened?” I was gasping for breath. “Is it serious?”

“He’s bleeding. On his clothes. On his face.” He raised a trembling hand. “We should get a doctor, but he says no. Maybe you persuade him.” For a moment I stood there. It seemed so strange that I, a stranger, would be called upon like this. “Do you know why he wants me?” I asked.

“You his friend? He’s sick, that’s why.”

Suddenly I felt sad. That he didn’t have anyone else to call on . . . but as I moved toward the door I could hear a woman’s voice. “Someone’s here,” she was calling. “I’ll go out and see.” A rich melodious voice, then she came to the door.

“Are you Darwin?” she asked.

She was dressed in jeans and a stiff-collared shirt, and light brown hair fell over her shoulders. “Come in,” she smiled. “He’s inside resting.”

I stood there uncertainly. “He’s all right,” she said. “Everything’s under control.” As I went in past her, she closed the door. “He’s lying down in the bedroom, and there’s someone coming who knows what to do. My name’s Corinne Wilde. And you’re Darwin Fall?”

I nodded. There was something about her that was vaguely familiar. “Jacob and I are old friends,” she said. “I’m sorry about Carlos. It must seem pretty strange, having him call you like this.”

In spite of her calm self-possession, I felt myself shaking. “Well, yes,” I said. “He sounded alarmed. And I think he still is. He thinks you haven’t called a doctor.”

“I think I’d better fill you in on things. I know that you and Jacob just met. You know he leads a very private life here, so each new friend is a major event.”

“But what happened? Carlos said there was blood on his face.”

“He fell and scratched himself in a couple of places. That’s not serious. But there’s something else, and that’s the part I’ll have to explain.” She paused. “From seeing your book I think you’ll understand . . .” Then through the walls of the kitchen we could hear Atabet’s voice. “Corinne,” he called. “Would you come in here?”

“He may want to see you,” she said. “But take a seat.” She crossed the studio to his bedroom. From where I was sitting I could see her standing at the foot of his bed. Why did she seem so familiar? I wondered. Had I seen her around North Beach? “Darwin,” she called. “Jacob wants to see you.”

He was propped against pillows, and held a towel against his naked chest. There was a bandage on his temple. “Sit down,” he whispered. “I’ve been shot.” He raised a hand in feeble greeting, then let it fall on the covers.

“Is there anything I can do?” I asked with a sinking sensation. “I guess you’ve got a doctor.”

“Last night,” he whispered. “It started last night. Or maybe that day in the church.” His weakness was alarming. “I want to tell you, but first you’ll meet Kazi Dama.” He nodded toward the deck and I turned to see what was happening. Carlos and Corinne were standing with an Oriental man dressed in a windbreaker jacket and jeans. “Poor Carlos,” he sighed. “What he has to go through. What he has to go through.” He sank down in the pillows. Neither of us spoke while the conversation outside continued. Then the old man threw up his hands and went down the outside stairs.

Kazi Dama came into the bedroom. Without saying a word he sat down on the bed and picked up the towel. Underneath it was a wound about the size of a silver dollar. He gently touched the skin around it, watching Atabet’s face for response.