Jacob Atabet

by Michael Murphy

  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.

  6

  IT 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 forehe
ad. “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.

  Atabet winced when the hand reached his stomach. “Yes,” he groaned. “It’s about like before.” Kazi Dama put the towel on the bed and turned to me. “Would you mind waiting in the kitchen?” he asked with a bright and high-pitched voice. “We’re going to operate.” Before I could answer, he turned back to his patient who was smiling reassurances at me.

  “Can I help?” I asked.

  “Reassure Carlos,” said Corinne from the doorway. “I think he likes you.”

  But Carlos was nowhere in sight. I peered down the stairwell into the mazeway of landings, but the place was deserted. There was just a murmuring now from the bedroom. Then, for no apparent reason, I felt strangely at peace.

  Sunlight was streaming into the kitchen, and there was laughter from the other room. It sounded as if the patient were recovering.

  My outline was sitting on the table, and I slowly thumbed through it. There was another passage from Thurston: “A large number of stigmatics also bear across the forehead and around the head a circlet of punctures, such as might have been caused by a crown of thorns . . . The stigmatic has declared that the sense of interior pain in the part affected preceded by many months or even by years the visible appearance of scars or bleeding wounds.”

  I turned the page. “Prayer,” I had written, “may recreate the cells. The saint is blindly remaking his body. Stigmatics, in this respect, are signs of our further evolution. Like wheels on the toys of primitive men, these seemingly useless things anticipate the ways of the future.” I sat back with a start. There was a peal of laughter, and the door to the bedroom flew open. Corinne came out and crossed the studio to the kitchen. “You must think this is all pretty strange,” she said with mock exasperation. “And you’re right! Those two in there. I mean—they are something!”

  “How is he feeling?” I ventured.

  “Oh he’s fine. He’s such a horse.” She opened a door and I could hear her descending an interior stairwell. Apparently, it went down to the apartment below.

  My excitement was growing. Could the mark on his chest have appeared in the wake of his experience last night? I turned back to the book and reread the passage from Thurston.

  “Would you hold the door open?” her voice came up from below. I crossed the room to help her, and she appeared with a steaming tureen. “From the Echeverrias,” she lifted the lid to reveal a consomme with parsley floating on it. She put the tureen and a bowl on a tray and carried them into the bedroom.

  Why had he asked me to come? I thought. There had to be a reason. “I’m sorry,” she smiled, coming back through the door. “Now we can talk.”

  “I’ve no idea what’s going on,” I said. “I’d like to know what’s happening.”

  She sat down at the table. “This has all happened so unexpectedly. This accident—but first, he really is all right, in spite of that thing on his chest. Something like it has happened before. It’s as if there’s a circuit-breaker in his system—but I take it you’re familiar with the kinds of things he’s doing.” I c
ould tell she was feeling me out. “And you were up here last night?”

  “Yes. I guess he told you about that electricity around his painting, that lightning bolt.”

  “He told me something. But it’s a little unclear. So you saw it?”

  “Well it only lasted a second or two. There was a blue sheet of fire and something seemed to pass from his hand to the painting.”

  “About what time did it happen?”

  “About midnight I think. Yes, around twelve-thirty. But I left as soon as it happened. He came out on the deck—I was watching from out there—and asked me to leave.”

  “What do you think it was?”

  “I don’t know. A static electric charge maybe. The wind last night was blowing from the east and everything was funny.”

  “You know it’s strange,” she held my gaze, “trying to fill you in like this. Jacob rarely brings another person up here. And your being here last night. Well, he never lets people in like that.”

  “That was my doing. I just blundered in. I guess I was a little drunk, and I’ve wanted to get his reaction to my book.”

  “I’ve looked at your outline. Jacob asked me to. And the articles about Bernardine Neri. I can see why the two of you made this connection.” She pulled the manuscript toward her. “It’s quite a thing really, quite a thing—all these examples you’ve got. It’s impressive. You’ve got to give us a seminar one of these days. But let’s talk about what happened. You don’t know much about him, do you?”

  “Not much. I guess he told you about the thing at the church.”

  “He told me something about your experience—and the others. But you’d better tell me in your own words. It’s still unclear what happened.” She nodded toward the bedroom with ironic good humor. “As you might guess, things can get confused around here.”

  I briefly told her the story. As I did she listened intently. “We’ll have to talk more about this,” she said when I finished. “And talk to the others if we can, that lady and the priest. Because whatever happened then connects to last night. But maybe it would be best if I told you something about Jacob so you’ll have a better sense of what’s going on here. The trouble is—where to begin.” She looked down at the table, her green eyes darkening. “How to begin . . . well, since you know so much about this,” she tapped the manuscript, “let’s start with first things first. To say it simply, Jacob is religiously gifted, strangely and terribly gifted. When he was sixteen, he had the kind of realization you’ve written about, a kind of nirvikalpa samadhi if you will.” A subtle change came into her face, a sad ironic look. “But he had to enjoy it in a mental hospital. I guess you’ve heard about that sort of thing.”