Jacob Atabet (8 page)

He stared up at the ceiling, as if he were summoning invisible help. Did he want me to stand here or leave? Minutes passed. “Darwin?” he whispered at last. “Death is so near us.
So near.
” But as he said it, Corinne came into the room. From her look I could tell I should leave. He raised a hand. “Talk to her,” he whispered. “And I’ll see you tomorrow. I want you to take up a practice.”

She followed me into the kitchen. “That thing about death?” I asked. “What does he mean?”

“He’ll survive,” she said. “I promise you. But look—I’ll call you in a day or two. There’s a lot we have to discuss. With all these changes, there’s a lot of energy boiling.”

“Don’t worry. I know what you mean.”

She checked an impulse to say something more. “All right,” she whispered. “Remember that sometimes these things are contagious. All of us have to stay pretty centered. And we’d appreciate it if you were careful who you talked to. You know how stories get around.”

A
S
I
WALKED DOWN
the hill toward the Press I felt myself shaking. It would be good to sort out my feelings in silence. I slipped into my office, locked both doors, and turned off the telephone bell. But there were sounds near the door. “Darwin,” Casey called. “Are you there? There’s someone here to see you.” I didn’t answer and she called again, then I could hear her footsteps receding.

The scene in Atabet’s place played itself over and over. His deathly look, the wounds on his chest, Corinne’s story, all came swimming in and out of focus. The episode had shaken me more than I thought.

Casey was knocking again. “Darwin,” she said loudly. “Are you all right? I know you’re in there.”

I opened the door and she came in with a worried expression. “What happened?” she asked. “How long’ve you been here?”

It would be best to go slow. To tell her everything would only provoke her. “Sit down.” I motioned toward the couch. “Maybe you can help me sort out what’s happened.”

I sat behind the desk and watched her light a cigarette. “You look pale.” She squinted through the smoke. “Is Atabet all right?”

“Pale?” I said, affecting nonchalance. “I feel fine. Just fine. It was only a scratch on his face. His landlord thought he was hurt when he called me, but by the time I got there everything was back to normal. Some other friends were there . . .”

“But why did they call
you?
” She eyed me through the curling smoke. “Isn’t that a little odd?”

“I don’t think so. The landlord happened to see my number in Atabet’s apartment. I think he panicked.”

“Well,” she frowned. “What is it that you need to sort out?”

I felt divided. She would be skeptical of Atabet, but her good sense would help me get some perspective. “What happened?” she persisted. “What’s going on with you and him anyway? Is it just that he likes your book?”

“Nothing’s
going on
between us, for God’s sake. He’s a very interesting guy, that’s all.”

“Then what’s the problem? What’s shaken you up?”

I thought of the wound on his chest. Telling her about that would not be a good way to start. “It’s funny,” I said. “What is my problem here? What is my problem?”

She tapped her cigarette in an ashtray. “Is he gay?” she murmured.

“No, he’s not gay. I wish it was that easy. I guess the problem is—well, to say it bluntly, I guess he’s living some of the things I’ve written about. That’s probably what’s shaken me up.”

“Living it? Living it? You mean”—she made an impatient gesture. “Well, what do you mean?”

“I mean that in some way he’s living the changes I’ve tried to envision.”

“You mean the transformation of the body? I don’t think I understand you.”

I would have to be careful. For every mystical revelation her husband and lovers had lived through, there had been a dozen psychic disasters. “Well, first, it’s something in his looks,” I said. “And some things his friends have told me. It’s not that he’s gone very far with it. It’s more the promise of what he’s been through.”

“The
promise
of it?” She frowned. “That’s a phrase that Morris liked to use. The
promise
of his paintings. Remember? For a while he thought he’d found the
vita elixir,
the secret of immortal life.”

I felt a sinking sensation. Like Atabet, her husband, Morris Sills had used painting to find an entrance to the body’s mysteries before he killed himself in 1956. “But Atabet doesn’t use drugs,” I protested. “He’s had a discipline for twenty-five years. He looks strong as an ox. I don’t think they’re exactly alike.”

“How do you know?” She looked down at the ashtray. “You didn’t know Morris. You didn’t know him at all. Darwin, I’m sorry. But what do you expect? First Morris, then Walt.” Walter Storm, her lover for a while in the fifties, had been a mystic too, before he withdrew into his private visions in 1960. “I can’t help comparing. So you think Atabet’s different?”

“As far as I can tell. Yes, I do. He seems solid as a rock.” But as I said it, I felt a doubt. Like Morris Sills, he had spent time in a mental hospital, and like Walter Storm, he had experienced stigmatic effects on his body. In some ways, the resemblances among the three men were uncanny.

I got up and went to the window. In the year of his withdrawal, Walter Storm had frequented a place across the street. I thought of him sitting at a table there, oblivious to the people around him as he stared through some invisible window in space. “But Walt was so bitter,” I said. “And so run down physically. Atabet looks so healthy. But God, I don’t know. Maybe anyone who has these stigmata is fragile.”

“Stigmata!” she exclaimed. “He has those too? God, he does sound like Morris and Walt!”

“Oh Jesus,” I sighed. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. The whole thing is so fucking complex.”

“But if he has some insight or gift, it doesn’t matter whether he’s put together right or not. As long as you don’t make him your guru. Or get involved in his paranoia.”

“Goddamn it!” I hit the desk. “He’s not paranoid! Where do you get that idea?”

She sat back with a startled expression. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. But what’s all this upset? What’s getting you down like this?”

I turned and looked at the wall. Directly in front of me was the face of Sigmund Freud looking out at the world with pride and certainty. Then I thought of him fainting when he was challenged by Jung. Underneath that masterful look was a pervasive fear of contradiction . . .

“Darwin,” she coaxed. “Let’s forget it. Can I get you a cup of coffee? Or a sandwich? They’re sending something up from the store.”

I turned to see her. She was standing in front of the desk, making a little girl’s face of contrition. “Yes, a sandwich,” I said. “And something to drink. Have them send up a couple of beers.”

She gave me a look that was both apology and good-natured reprimand, then turned and went into her office. I felt a sudden sadness. There was no denying it—in many ways Atabet resembled Walter Storm and Morris Sills. I wondered how many of their flaws he shared.

All day I felt a sadness and doubt. Atabet might be a religious eccentric, full of weaknesses that would undermine his realization and gifts. It would be good to talk to someone who knew him. That night I phoned John Levy, but he had left the city for a trip to Europe. That left Armen Cross. Reluctantly I decided to see him. In spite of his cynicism about religious types, he might give me the perspective I needed.

A
RMEN CROSS CONCEIVED OF
himself as New York’s man in California. Many of his essays were appraisals of West Coast fads and movements for eastern magazines.

He was dark and slender and walked with a limp. His pale blue eyes, framed by heavy hornrimmed glasses, gave his face a cruel unearthly aspect. He crossed his studio and handed me a glass of scotch. “So, Jacob Atabet,” he sighed. “I don’t blame you for being puzzled. When I tried to do that story on him I felt the same way you do.” He flapped an elbow like a wing. “Have you seen him do that pantomime? What does he call it? The molecular pantomime? Has he shown you that?”

I said that he hadn’t.

“He did it once for a show at the Art Institute. It was a
strange performance.
I think he told me the idea came to him when he was in a mental hospital or during a vision or something. He’s a queer and difficult fellow. So attractive at first, so impressive looking—but what happened anyway? I want to hear about it.”

He sat down and listened while I told him the story about Atabet’s attack and apparent stigmata.

“Isn’t it something,” he said, “the way he manages these effects. He actually made you believe they were real stigmata?”

“He wasn’t faking it. That’s the problem. No, I actually saw it.”

“But couldn’t it have been something else? Maybe he had a fight with someone, a woman maybe. He does have a weird kind of sex life. You know I was doing that story on him and for a while we got pretty close. He told me some things he was sorry about later, like his relationship with that woman. What’s her name? Apparently he goes through these long periods without sex and she gets jealous. Maybe he had a fight with her.”

“That’s impossible. No, you’re way off there.”

“Maybe. But those marks were not genuine religious stigmata. Believe me. Things like that are
very
rare. No, it must’ve come from a fight or a fall.” He took a sip of scotch. “You said something on the phone about the lift he’s given you. Now I can understand that. He’s got that energy. And that charm. But tell me why you’re so disturbed.”

The sadness I felt was growing deeper. To get him talking I would have to share my misgivings. “It’s hard to give you the headlines,” I sighed. “I really don’t know what to make of him. On the one hand he’s artistically gifted. His paintings are remarkable, I think. And religiously gifted. That’s something I sense. But as you say, he’s been in a mental hospital, and has visions, so I just don’t know. What do you think about him?”

“I can tell you what happened when I tried to do that article, and what some of the people who know him say.”

“What other people?”

“Oran Bedford, the art critic. Or Deborah Von Urban. She owns one of his paintings.”

“What do they say?”

“That he’s a little bit off.” He pointed a finger at his forehead. “That he has a delusional system going. Have you heard about his voyages in the body? How his paintings are changing the shape of his cells?”

“He might’ve meant it as a figure of speech.”

“Maybe. But no, I think he really believes it. Still I can see why you might be intrigued. I know that it fits some of the ideas in your book.” He rubbed the edge of his glass on his lips. “Maybe you should let him read it.”

“I did and he liked it. You know it’s been hard to get anyone serious to like the thing.”

“Ah, Darwin.” He leaned toward me. “You’ve had a hard time with that book. That’s the reason you’re troubled. He likes your book and you’re disturbed by his funny ideas.”

I looked out the window. Through chimneys that rose from the adjoining roof, I could see lights on the hills across the Bay. “But the problem’s deeper than that,” I said. “It’s not just the book. It’s him, the way he is. That’s the simplest way to say it. He seems so solid, and yet . . . And yet, like you say, there are these things about him.”

“Yes. These quirks.” He was leaning toward me with an expression that was cruel and sympathetic at once. “Has he tried to enlist you yet in the great work?”

“Enlist me? Why no, he hasn’t tried to enlist me. Why do you ask that?”

“Because he tried to enlist
me
.” His mouth curved into an expression that was part contempt and part embarrassment. “After I’d spent about a week with him, he told me all about
my body
and the diseases he saw in it. It got to be very strange.”

“Diseases in your body? Was any of it right?”

“None of it,” he snorted. “Oh, it’s all crap! And then he tried to tell me about his visions. Did he tell you about the Book of Revelation?”

“No, he didn’t. God, it sounds like the two of you got pretty close.”

“Not close. Though I did buy one of his paintings. At first it was intriguing.” He made a sour look. “I’ve sold the thing, by the way, for much less than I paid. But then when he saw that I didn’t go along with all his ideas, well, he called the story off—which spared me the trouble. I really couldn’t’ve done it. I finally saw that his work was second-rate.”

“Has he tried to enlist anyone else?”

“Deborah’s daughter, I hear.” He smiled faintly. “Of course that might be a rumor. Though one wonders about his sex life. I’ve heard stories that he’s a closet gay. But that doesn’t matter. The point is that he’s a charming fellow, and so seductive. For a while I believed the things he said. But then—well, I finally saw how sad it was. All that inflated talk about
the mystery of his body
and how it’s going to be transformed. Has he told you much about it?”

“He said something about it.” My voice sounded listless. “And you said something about a network of forces he feared.”

“Yes, that. He thinks there’s something going on between this plane and the world of spirits. Some kind of alliance against what he’s trying to do. It’s always a giveaway, these ideas about persecution. He talked about suggestion at a distance, the kind of thing that Russian you told me about is doing. What’s his name—Kirov or something?”

“Yes, Kirov. But they are doing research there. That’s no delusion.”

“That they’re doing research is no delusion. But that it works—or that you’re being attacked by telepathy. Oh, it’s rubbish! And sad. Of course he thinks that there’s some kind of
help
on the other side, something like angels I think.” He gave a weary shrug. “You’re right to be concerned. It’s just like you said on the phone. He’s a very odd fellow, yet he’s terribly captivating. A friendship with him would be difficult.” He got up to pour himself another drink. “You would have to think like him, if you wanted to spend much time around him. I know the type. They’re absolute tyrants when you get to know them. I’ve written a couple of hundred pages about it in the book I’m working on. All this religious awakening is full of bullying characters, some of them as winning and impressive as he is.”