The Twelve

by William Gladstone

When they arrived home, Jane greeted him with warmth and love and explained that Dr. Weinstein had arranged for Max to meet with a local psychiatrist. She further explained that neither she nor Herbert were to talk with him about “understanding understanding” or any of his philosophical insights, for fear of exacerbating the problem. Only Dr. Austin, the psychiatrist who had been selected, would be permitted to discuss his breakthrough.

  These conditions frustrated Max, but rather than upset his parents, he agreed to them, then went to his room to get settled.

  The next morning Jane drove Max to meet with Dr. Austin, a portly man with gray hair and glasses. His son was a professional musician who had worked with Jerry Jeff Walker on the album that included one of Max’s favorite songs—“Mr. Bojangles.” This singular fact created a rapport between doctor and patient that would otherwise have been sorely missing.

  Dr. Austin had written a well-reviewed book about the psychological forces that had created Adolf Hitler, and that, too, intrigued Max. The doctor was proud of the fact that his home in Tarrytown had once been owned by Mark Twain, who no doubt had written some of his masterpieces in Dr. Austin’s own study.

  Dr. Austin explained that he had dealt with grandiose thinkers before, and there was no doubt in his mind that Max was suffering from a condition known as “grandiosity.” Nevertheless, Max spent their first five sessions together trying to explain the nuances of his “A is and is not A” equation and why it was such a breakthrough.

  But Dr. Austin wasn’t buying it.

  He kept increasing the dose of Thorazine, until Max felt groggy most of the time. And he was to visit with Dr. Austin five days a week until further notice.

  ***

  It was late May before Dr. Austin felt any significant progress had been made and reduced the sessions to three days a week.

  Max also felt that progress had been made. He had learned how to answer questions in such a way that Dr. Austin would no longer think he was delusional or suffering from “grandiose thinking.”

  He never mentioned his near-death experience or the twelve colors and twelve names. He simply didn’t think it was necessary. Max knew he was on his own wavelength, and that was perfectly acceptable to him—even though other people just didn’t get it.

  So, that’s the way he left it.

  Despite his apparent improvement and acceptance, he never ceased thinking that “A is and is not A” was anything other than brilliant and never considered that the insights he had gained were less then world changing. Max did understand that he needed to show greater discretion in sharing his ideas. However, this didn’t mean the ideas were any less valid.

  By September, Max was reenrolled at Yale. There was only one stipulation:

  He could not take any courses in philosophy.

  Chapter Five

  Detained in Bolivia

  1970

  CAUTIOUS ABOUT BEING SEEN TO FOLLOW ANY BUT THE MAINSTREAM path at Yale, Max kept much to himself, completed his course work, played intramural sports, and generally conducted himself in the low-key way that would please his parents and professors and those who feared for his mental stability.

  Of course, he knew he still understood understanding, and all that it entailed, but as directed he avoided philosophy courses. He did manage to sneak in a cultural anthropology course on Claude Lévi-Strauss and structuralism, which provided a devious route to the contemplation of the singular continuities of the human brain across cultures and time.

  ***

  In the spring of 1970 Max met Paul Hazelton, a political science major with a special interest in Latin America. Paul had participated in a program in Peru called Projecto Amistad, or Project Friendship, composed of American college students who had decided that they wanted an even more direct program than the Peace Corps to allow immediate contact between North American students and the people of Latin America.

  The idea was to send forty college students to Arequipa, Peru, to work on building schools, implementing social service programs, and generally assisting in whatever way was advised by their hosts at the Peruvian-North American Cultural Center of Arequipa.

  The students would be housed with Arequipian families as part of the cultural exchange.

  Since Max was already fluent in Spanish, he thought Project Friendship would be an ideal summer program for him. He would be able to experience new adventures while keeping his Spanish fresh.

  The trip could not have begun more auspiciously. The family in Arequipa to which Max had been assigned was similar to his Barcelona family, in that Señora Rodriguez was a widow and had two sons, Alberto, who was fifteen, and Javier, seventeen. Señora Rodriguez’s sister also lived with them. They were all intent on learning English and maintaining the economic freedom, which their upper-middle-class standing had ensured them while Señor Rodriguez was alive. Like all but the poorest families in Arequipa at that time, they had several servants—two gardeners, a cook, and two maids—even though the house was not large.

  Max’s bedroom offered him a full view of the bright white center of Arequipa with its colonial architecture. By law, all buildings had to be painted white, and when the sun was shining, the city virtually sparkled with a blinding light that was breathtaking. Sunsets with the oranges and pinks of the early night sky left an equally indelible impression.

  With the spectacular El Misti volcanic mountain in the background against the ever cloudless, brilliant blue sky, Arequipa was one of the most visually striking cities Max had ever seen. As in Spain, he felt a deep connection to this country and its people, and a great level of comfort.

  He hadn’t altogether overcome the loss of Lizzie, but he was no longer in a state of emotional devastation when he met the incredibly intense and exotically beautiful Carolina, who was twenty-three years old and lived just a five-minute walk from the Rodriguez home. Carolina was a cousin to Javier and Alberto, and the only daughter of their mother’s brother, who had had twelve sons before she was born.

  Despite her age, Carolina had never been alone with a boy. Her father was a professor at the university and was writing a mathematics textbook. He met Max at a party thrown at his sister’s house to welcome their visitor to the community. He was intrigued that Max was such an accomplished mathematician and arranged for him to teach algebra at one of the local high schools.

  Pleased with Max’s teaching skills, the professor decided that Max would be the ideal person to translate his textbook into English. Thus Max gained access to Carolina’s home and eventually to Carolina.

  His interest in their sister drew suspicion from her brothers, who were certain this could not be a good thing, but their father was so taken with Max’s ability that he overrode their concerns. Even when Carolina suggested that she take Max sightseeing, he consented, though of course one of the brothers went along as a chaperone.

  After two such expeditions Carolina asked Max to accompany her to the movies. The film was Robert Altman’s M*A*S*H, a new release. The brothers weren’t available for chaperone duty, yet Carolina’s father gave his consent. It seemed innocent enough for the young couple to see a film together, and at Carolina’s suggestion, Max purchased two tickets in the butaca section of the Colonial Palace music theater.

  Unbeknownst to Max, the butaca turned out to be a private room with curtains completely concealing them from all other theater attendees. Carolina and Max could see out to the screen if they chose to, but no one could see in.

  Max didn’t remember a single scene from the film.

  Carolina sought in those two hours to explore every inch of his body and to assimilate what she had been prohibited from observing and experiencing the first twenty-three years of her life.

  Thereafter Max was overwhelmed by Carolina’s intensity and during his eight-week stay in Arequipa could not keep his hands or mouth or mind focused on anything other than her Peruvian beauty. The sheer intensity of the affair brought him to a state of euphoria, but with a detachment he found both disconcerting a
nd liberating.

  ***

  It was in this strange state of detachment that he was approached by fellow Project Friendship participant Rolf Ines, who asked Max to accompany him to the wilds of the Bolivian jungle in search of jaguars. Rolf was Dutch, had already completed his military service in Holland, and at twenty-six, was the oldest member of the project contingent. He was over six-feet tall and a bit gangly, wore glasses, dressed sharply, and was always neatly groomed with his brown hair cut short, which made him stand out because long hair was more common at the time.

  Rolf was a civil engineering student attending graduate school at Vanderbilt University in Tennessee, and his engineering knowledge had proved particularly helpful in designing the schools and homes that the project group had helped to build throughout Arequipa that summer of 1970.

  It was the year of an earthquake that shook northern Peru, and Rolf had taken a two-week leave to assist with the devastation there. He was fun-loving with a daredevil streak. One of his personal goals for this trip was to hunt jaguars following the completion of the Project Friendship assignment. Thus he was seeking a companion who spoke Spanish, since his knowledge of the language was practically nonexistent, even after weeks of interaction with the locals.

  He considered Max an excellent candidate to accompany him and had already mapped out two possible locations for the hunt. One was the Peruvian city of Iquitos on the Amazon, and the other was the Yungas region in nearby Bolivia.

  “Max, have you ever thought about hunting jaguars in the jungles of Peru or Bolivia?” Rolf asked Max as they drank their Pisco Sours at the bar in the Peruvian-North American Cultural Center in downtown Arequipa.

  “Can’t say that I have,” Max responded. “I’ve never held, let alone shot, a gun, but I love the idea of visiting a real jungle. What do you have in mind?”

  “I’ve scoped it out,” Rolf said enthusiastically. “I visited the Bolivian Consulate, and they told me about this place in the jungle called Caranavi, where you can rent guides and equipment and hunt jaguars. It’s not very expensive, so I would cover the hunting expenses if you care to join me.

  “You know my Spanish isn’t very good, so it would be great to have you along as my interpreter, and of course we always have a great time together.”

  “Count me in,” Max responded impulsively. “It sounds like a blast.” They clinked their Pisco Sour glasses to seal the commitment. “But I only have $100 for the whole two-week trip, so it’ll have to be low-budget travel all the way,” Max added.

  “Except for the money I set aside for the jaguar hunt, I’m on a tight budget, too,” Rolf admitted. “Not to worry, though. I’ve planned it all out, and we can even visit Cuzco, Machu Picchu, and some other great places along the way.”

  “Excellent,” Max responded, beaming. “I was really hoping to get to Machu Picchu, Lake Titicaca, and Tiahuanaco if possible.”

  “They’re all on the itinerary,” Rolf affirmed as he downed the remainder of his drink.

  ***

  Two days later, the duo departed on the train to Puno, and after a day there, proceeded on to Copacabana.

  The least expensive mode of transportation from Puno to Copacabana was via collectivo, a private car service of Volkswagen minibuses that could cram up to twelve passengers into each van. However, when Rolf and Max showed up at the departing station, the nine vans were completely full.

  One of the drivers sized them up and announced that he would make room in his van. He started speaking rapidly in Quechua to the riders who were already seated, and suddenly two of the Indians stood up, exited the vehicle, and climbed on top—most likely for a reduced fare.

  The road was unpaved, dusty, and full of holes—a truly wild ride that required the half-priced riders to hold on for dear life.

  The occupants in the van hailed from small villages surrounding Lake Titicaca. These were the homes of the ancient peoples, the original Incas who had ruled the Andes and much—if not all—of South America for centuries.

  They didn’t speak a word of Spanish, only the indigenous languages of Aymara and Quechua. Many were headed for the two-day music festival held every August at which they would play the same instruments, chant the same songs, and repeat the same dance steps as their grandparents’ grandparents and even more remote ancestors had long ago.

  The Indians believed in the sacredness of all of life. They worshipped rocks and trees and did not see any distinction between animate and inanimate objects. For them, there was life in every object, and they sought to defeat time through the ritual recreation of their sacred music. They also sought to have an uninhibited orgy of dance and song and chicha—corn beer—and coca leaves.

  Everyone on the bus was already inebriated or high before they even sat down.

  With the exception of the driver, Max and Rolf hoped.

  ***

  As the van crossed the border from Peru into Bolivia, Max asked the driver to stop so they could get their passports stamped. The driver told them that the border guards weren’t checking passports.

  “They know that hundreds of our people will cross over and return following the end of the festival tomorrow,” he explained. “They know us and know that all is well.”

  This made sense to Max and Rolf, so they didn’t question it.

  Two hours later the van pulled to a stop on the shore of Lake Titicaca in the town of Copacabana. It was near nightfall, but there were crowds of people on the beach and in the plazas, with musical performances and dances occurring everywhere. The flutes and stringed instruments created extraordinary vibrations that made everyone want to dance, not with the wild abandon of Carnival in Rio, but with a deeper more soulful step, a kind of mystical sadness that contained the essence of joy that seemed to embody these proud, yet subjugated peoples.

  Men and women were wrapped in brightly colored blankets and ponchos they had made with wool from their alpaca and sheep. The women all wore hats of different shapes and sizes. Each small town was known by the uniqueness of its hats—the style was a mark of identity and of the private heritage of place and purpose.

  Hypnotized by the music and the energy of the people, Max and Rolf moved through the highly charged atmosphere as if in a dream. They ate roasted corn, guinea pig, and other delicacies from the food vendors, and eventually felt the need to sleep.

  Since all of the hotels were full, an accommodating farmer allowed them to sleep in his barn with the alpaca goats, making their bed on the straw. He threw in a couple of beautiful, multicolored blankets.

  Rolf thought these would make great ponchos, and knowing they would need warmer clothes for their trek through the mountain passes before descending into the jungle, they paid the farmer a nominal amount for the blankets.

  The next day, Max and Rolf roamed back to the center of town, wearing their colorful new ponchos. They bought large Mexican sombrero-style straw hats to complete the picture and looked pretty ridiculous. Far from blending in, they stuck out as the gringos they were.

  Wandering down to the beach they met two attractive seventeen-year-old girls who had come with their families and friends to celebrate the music festival. They lived in La Paz and had arranged for the school bus to drive them up and back.

  As the conversation continued, the girls flirted with these two gringos who represented worlds they could not even imagine. They invited Rolf and Max to join them on the bus for the return trip to La Paz, and the two jumped at the opportunity, knowing the company of the girls would make the trip all the more enjoyable.

  The next morning, shortly after sunrise and after another night spent sleeping with the farmer’s alpaca goats, Rolf and Max boarded the school bus. The trip was uneventful, though there must have been at least twenty checkpoints along the road to La Paz. The checkpoint guards always recognized the bus and the driver and waved them through without incident.

  They reached La Paz by late afternoon, said their goodbyes with thanks to the girls and their families, and decid
ed to stop at the outdoor cafe near the bus station. As a native of Holland, Rolf was particularly fond of beer, and the Bolivian beer was a superior brew created by Germans who had been brought to Bolivia specifically to create breweries.

  With the freshness of the mountain water throughout the Andes, the local beers were extraordinary and served in bottles double the size of their American counterparts.

  “These are the best beers I’ve ever had,” Max asserted. “Even better than the Peruvian Arequipeño beer.” He and Rolf ordered another round to go with bar-food delicacies they were enjoying.

  “I think you’re right,” Rolf agreed as he downed his glass.

  Suddenly Max jumped up from the table.

  “Oh my God,” he said. “It’s Archie Benson.

  “Archie, Archie, over here,” Max shouted as he gestured wildly to draw Archie’s attention. “What in the world are you doing here?” he asked as his friend walked over to the table, an attractive, young woman at his side.

  Introductions were made, and Archie explained.

  “I don’t think you ever met my wife, Elizabeth, did you Max? We were married in June, right after classes got out, and are down here in South America on a special fact-finding mission for the United Nations. We’re both taking the fall semester off to complete our project.

  “But what are you doing here?” Archie asked.

  “Just visiting, but Rolf here wants to go to Yungas to hunt jaguars.” Max smiled as he spoke.

  “Well, we just returned from Yungas ourselves,” Archie noted. “The best way to get there is to jump on what they call the ‘banana boat.’ It’s a truck that comes in from the jungle loaded with bananas, and when the delivery has been made, the truck goes back empty the following day. The locals just hop on board, and for about a penny a mile, you can go all the way to the end of the line, the town of Caranavi.

  “From there I’m sure you can arrange guides for your jaguar hunting.”

  To Max’s surprise, Archie then handed him a hotel-room key.