Jacob Atabet

by Michael Murphy

  A Chinese boy answered the bell at the parish house. Father Zimbardo was resting, he said, but I could talk to another priest. A moment later the second priest at the Mass appeared, a young Italian with a thin dark face. He sat down with an impatient air. “I’m Father Bello,” he nodded. “What is the problem?”

  I introduced myself, thumbing through the papers in my briefcase. “I’m working with some priests in Rome. Whatever happened in the church this noon is like the kind of thing we’re looking into. You’ve heard about Bernardine Neri? Here are some articles I’ve written about her.”

  “You’re not a reporter?” he said, squinting suspiciously.

  “I publish books for a living. You know the Greenwich Press? We have our offices on Grant Avenue, just around the corner. But this kind of thing is what I’m really doing—studying this kind of event. Those articles will tell you what my project’s about.”

  “The man’s name is Jacob Atabet,” he said abruptly. “Zimbardo has known him for years. But what happened, don’t ask me. Zimbardo might’ve had an epileptic attack. At least that’s what the doctor just said.”

  “An epileptic attack? And get right up like that to finish the service?”

  “Who can tell?” he shrugged. “Do you really think it’s something to get excited about? What do you think happened?”

  I briefly described my experience and told him about the reactions of the people around me.

  ”So some of them thought Atabet pushed Zimbardo over!” he exclaimed. “That’s absurd. Zimbardo was ten feet away. And someone else saw a light like you did? Well, maybe you’re right. Maybe this is something to study.” But I could see the veil in his eyes. Like the priests in Italy I had talked to about Bernardine Neri, he was filtering the experience to fit his normal perceptions. “But there’s a problem,” he went on. “We don’t know where Atabet lives. Zimbardo told me that. Even though he sometimes goes to church—he even taught a class here I think—no one has his address. I don’t know how you’ll find him.” He smiled faintly as if he were secretly pleased. “So how can we pursue this?”

  “We can talk to some of the other people who were there. What about the altar boys? Did they see anything strange?”

  “No. At least neither of them has said so.”

  “Can I talk to Father Zimbardo?”

  “No. I’m sorry. The doctor said he should rest. But why don’t you come back tomorrow or the next day? He should be up by then.”

  “How long do you think you were standing there after Zimbardo fell down?” I persisted. “It seemed like two or three minutes.”

  “Oh no.” He made a sour look. “It couldn’t’ve been more than a couple of seconds. I picked him up at once.”

  “And you didn’t feel anything strange?”

  “Just the shock of seeing him on the floor there. That made me jump. But no light. No strange sounds. No nothing. So you study these things?” He smiled urbanely. “Have you written a book?”

  I said I was working on one, and we talked for a few minutes more. But I felt an impatience building. Would he help me find Atabet’s address? He said that he would, and stood with a look of relief. As I left he said he would try to find it from people who were friends of Atabet’s landlord.

  Outside, the church doors seemed to beckon. I stopped abruptly. The woman who had seen a light around the chalice was coming down the steps.

  “I was looking for you,” she said. “I want to talk about that thing in the church. To prove I’m not the only crazy.” We crossed to the Square and sat on a bench. A moment later she was talking to me freely. She was a dark attractive woman in her thirties, who had come into the church on a whim. The event had shaken her badly. “The same kind of thing happened to me once in high school,” she said. “Just like this—hard as it is to believe. Yes, just like this. Both times there was a light in the chalice. I was looking directly at it when it happened. And then the light from that man’s body. Right from him. God! It seemed to pulse.” She clenched and unclenched her fist to suggest a throbbing. “Then it was gone, and no one else had seen it. Everyone seemed stunned.”

  “There was someone like this man involved the first time?”

  “No, wait.” She shook her head. “There wasn’t another person the first time—just the priest. It was another priest. The two experiences weren’t exactly alike. But there was that noise both times. That crack of electricity. Did you hear it?”

  I said that I hadn’t.

  “No one else I talked to did. It was like some kind of short circuit in the wires. The other time something like this happened, when I was in high school, no one else heard it either. It was at the church here, the very same place. Can you believe it? Maybe there’s some kind of defect in the wiring!” She smiled, as if she were finally getting distance from it. “Yes, maybe that’s what it was. Bad wiring . . .”

  “And no one else was involved?”

  “No, just the priest that time. Just the priest. You don’t think I’ve got a screw loose?”

  “If you do,” I said, “we both do. I didn’t hear any sounds, but I saw that light and saw the priest fall over. No, something definitely happened even though most of the others deny it.”

  We talked for several minutes more, but she couldn’t remember anything else that seemed significant. She had never seen Atabet in the church or neighborhood, but that was not surprising. She lived in a different part of the city and rarely came to Sts. Peter and Paul’s. There was no reason she would have seen him. We traded addresses and she promised to let me know if she recalled anything else unusual.

  A man with a doctor’s bag was coming down the steps of the parish house. If it was the doctor, I thought, Zimbardo might be alone. Crossing the street, I went into the house without knocking. The Chinese boy was standing in the hallway. “The doctor asked me to take this to Father Zimbardo,” I said, taking a paper from my pocket. “Where’s his room?”

  “At the end of the hall.” He pointed up the stairs. “On the left.”

  I went up to the second floor and found the door. Zimbardo answered hoarsely when I knocked. “Come in,” he said. “It’s unlocked.”

  He was sitting on his bed with pillows stacked behind him. He looked startled as I came through the door. “I’m sorry to bust in here like this,” I said. “My name’s Darwin Fall and I own the Greenwich Press around the corner. I think I can help you understand that thing in the church. Something happened there that people are brushing off too easily.”

  “Yes, they are brushing it off too easily,” he said weakly. “You’re right.”

  I could see that he was still suffering from shock. “Yes, you’re right.” He gestured toward a chair. “Aren’t you the man who came into the sacristy after the Mass?”

  I said that I was.

  “Are you a detective?” he smiled. “You certainly stay on the job.”

  We both smiled, and there was silence while he studied my face. “Believe it or not,” I said, “but I’m doing research on things like this with the Catholic office in Rome that was started by Cardinal Alcantara. I’ve been studying Bernardine Neri.”

  “I’ve heard of Alcantara’s project. How come you’re working with them? Are you a psychologist?”

  ”No, I publish books. The study in Italy is part of my own project

  “And what do you think is going on here?” A look of weary amusement crossed his face. “Was it an angel or the devil?”

  “I think it might’ve been you and Atabet.”

  “You think so? You really think so? I think you may be right.” He was a muscular man in his fifties with a square honest face. There was a stubbornness about him, I thought, that would help him hold on to these strange perceptions. “Yes, you might be right,” he said. “Though the doctor thinks I had some kind of epileptic attack. So you actually study these things? Tell me about Bernardine Neri.”

  I described some accounts of the saintly woman. There were pictures of her in my briefcase and I sh
owed them to him.

  “What a face!” he softly exclaimed. “What a face! There was nothing like that here. You’ll have to explain the connection.” He paused, then slapped the bed. “But it was not an epileptic attack! That doctor is not very bright. I never thought he was. There was definitely something else involved!” He looked at me now as if he might have found a confidant. “For one thing, that blood on his face. You saw it. The blood all over his cheek and mouth.” He closed his eyes and leaned back on the pillows. “I’ve known Jacob for years, but what do I really know about him? What do I really know?” He shook his head slowly. “The bleeding came out on his face between the time I fell over and when he came back into focus. For a minute there I thought he disappeared. He was almost unconscious, I think. Both of us were hit by the same force, whatever it was. Yes, the doctor is wrong.” He opened his eyes and turned to see me. “There was something like lightning or fire, something physical, that went on between us. And no one else saw it! The other priest, Father Bello—you talked to him—didn’t feel anything. Or even see Atabet bleeding. It’s one of the strangest things that’s ever happened to me.”

  “And what else happened? Can you remember?”

  ”Yes. It seems to me that I saw something else. It lasted just for a second, but there seemed to be a figure on the ceiling. It was full of light and there were little whirling things inside it . . .”

  “Little whirling things?”

  “Yes.” He smiled at the thing’s absurdity. “Yes, it looked like an angel! It must’ve been a figure in the glass. Who knows?” He laughed. “Who knows? Nothing really makes sense about this. I wish we could find Jacob. Bello is looking for friends of his landlord.”

  “What does he do for a living?”

  “He’s an artist, but very reclusive. A mysterious man really, though he’s been popular here with the boys. He taught a class in pantomime, and another one in myths and fairy tales. I’ve known him for ten years or so, ever since I came here from Italy, but no one knows him well. He’s always been a hermit. Never married. His parents used to go to church here. They’re Basque people. The mother lives in Nevada now, if I remember right, and he lives with another Basque family somewhere in North Beach. I believe his father died. But I’ll try to find out.” He smiled weakly. “I’m glad you came up here. It helps me see I’m not crazy.”

  There was silence as we looked at one another. “But I’m tired,” he said. “Why don’t you leave me your number. I’ll let you know if we find his address. I’d like to talk to you more about this.”

  I went down to the street with a surge of excitement. The important thing now was to follow every lead as soon as I could. From experience I knew how fleeting these openings could be.

  I turned and went up the street past the church steps. Father Bello was coming down from inside. “Mr. Fall!” he shouted. “You’re still here! By luck I found the address of the family Atabet lives with. Their name is Echeverria and they live here in North Beach. Here’s the number. But you’ll have to wait until tomorrow if you want to see them. They’ve gone away for the day.”

  2

  FOG WAS COMING IN over Russian Hill as I went up the street toward the Echeverrias’ place. It came sweeping down into the little valley of North Beach like an ocean breaker, its upper edge bright in the setting sun. I pulled up the collar of my jacket. It was a typical pattern on summer days. The tiers of white buildings would soon be dripping wet and close, as if an edge of St. Tropez had turned to London streets.

  The address was on Telegraph Place, a block-long alley lined with narrow wooden buildings. I rang at the front door and waited, but no one answered. After two more rings I crossed the alleyway. An outside staircase wound up one side of the building and a heavyset man was coming down it. He came out at street level and I asked if he knew the Echeverrias.

  “Which one you want?” he said with an accent I couldn’t quite place. “I’m an Echeverria.”

  I said that I was looking for their boarder, Jacob Atabet.

  “You a friend?” He came closer. “What’s your name?”

  “I’m not a friend of his. But Father Zimbardo gave me your address. My name’s Darwin Fall.”

  “Jacob know you’re coming?” He eyed me suspiciously. “I think he’s busy now.” He stood about five feet away, in the middle of the narrow alley, sizing me up. I guessed he was about sixty years old.

  “It’ll just take a minute,” I said. “I want to give him these papers. Father Zimbardo thought he’d be interested in them.” I handed him a package with my articles about Bernardine Neri.

  “I’ll give it to him myself.” He took the package from me. “Do you have a number where he can call you?”

  “The number’s on the cover,” I said. “You can tell him I want to talk about the thing that happened during the Mass yesterday. When Father Zimbardo fell down. He’ll know what I mean.”

  He gave me a long melancholy look, then nodded and went into the house.

  Two hours later a call came from Atabet. “You wanted to talk to me?” he asked with a tentative inflection. “It has something to do with Father Zimbardo?”

  I was surprised at the sound of his voice. The man I remembered had been ruggedly handsome though spent, and had looked to be fifty years old. The voice I was hearing sounded like it belonged to a very slight man in his twenties.

  “I was in the church yesterday when you came away bleeding,” I said. “Father Zimbardo and I have talked about it. I got your address from him.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Hello?” I said. “Are you there?”

  “Yes,” he said faintly. “I thought you were going to say something more. I read your articles. They’re interesting.”

  “Would it be possible to see you? I’ve been talking to people who were in the church, trying to find out what happened. I had an extraordinary experience—an incredible thing really. Like the things in the article I gave you. I’m involved in a research project that’s studying experiences like this.”

  “What kind of project is it?” His voice sounded stronger. “I didn’t get a very good idea from the story.”

  “It would be better to tell you in person. It’s complicated. If we could just meet for half an hour or so, I could show you some other things I’ve written.”

  There was another silence. He must be terribly shy, I thought. “And something happened to you during the communion?” Again his voice was tentative.

  “I even had a premonition of the time. In a dream the night before, something happened at exactly 12:30. That was the time, you know—12:30. Exactly 12:30 according to my watch. You can see why the thing’s shaken me up.”

  “What do the other people say?” he asked with the same distant voice. “Everyone has a different version of it. One lady saw light coming from the chalice. Father Zimbardo saw you disappear. A few people thought you pushed Zimbardo over . . .” “Disappear?” he broke in. “Zimbardo saw me disappear?” “He thinks it was the shock of the fall and whatever else that happened. His doctor thinks he had some kind of epileptic seizure.” “But he saw me disappear? For how long, did he say?” “No one can agree how long any of it lasted. Some people say two or three minutes, others say a few seconds. Zimbardo doesn’t know. But he does remember seeing blood on your face.” “Did you see me disappear?” he whispered. “I didn’t see you disappear. But there was a light. A light that seemed to come through the people between us. For a moment it filled the whole church.” Talking to him now, I realized how clear it had been. For an instant, everyone in the church had been enveloped in that dazzling explosion.

  “Yes, it would be a good idea if we talked,” he said. “Come up here now if you like.”

  3

  THE STAIRCASE WOUND UP the side of the three-story building to his apartment on the roof. At the second story landing there was a gate and I stopped before ringing the bell. The climb and nervous excitement had left me out of breath. As I stood there I rehears
ed my story, for I knew how elusive he might be. If the events in the church were related to gifts he possessed, it was conceivable that he had learned how to protect them.

  I rang the bell, and a buzzer sounded in the doorlatch. I pushed it open and continued up. After two more bends in the staircase another gate came into view, and I rang another bell. There was a buzz in the gate and I stepped through it onto a broad wooden deck. He stood twenty feet away, dressed in sweatshirt and jeans. I started back. Instead of the broken-looking man about fifty who had passed me in the aisle, here was a man about thirty in radiant health. But the most startling change was in his physical beauty. He was one of the handsomest men I had ever seen. It was almost impossible that he could be the figure I had seen in the church.

  He seemed amused at my startled expression. “You got here just in time.” His dark eyes flashed. “Look at that light in the bridge!”

  To the west, the fog had turned to molten gold along its upper edges, and in the distance rising through it were the towers of the Golden Gate Bridge. His apartment, the only structure on top of the building, stood like the bridge of a ship on the billowing sea of San Francisco.

  “You can smell the ocean,” he said, breathing deeply. “I think there’ll be a storm tonight. But come on in.”

  As I followed him inside I felt myself shaking. A ship’s table was surrounded by captain’s chairs and he gestured toward it. “Take a seat,” he said. “Would you like a glass of wine? The Echeverrias made it.”

  I said I would, and he poured us each a glass from an unlabeled bottle. “You met Carlos,” he smiled. “He owns the building here. His family and some of my cousins have a vineyard in Sonoma.” He lifted his glass in a toast. “To your health.”

  As we drank, he watched me. It was clear he was sizing me up. “It’s good,” I said. “Do they make it themselves?”