by Susan Tabin
“In that case,” I said, “the bed ought to be called sultan-size.”
Olivia and Michael exchanged smiles and they both fixed their eyes on me as we climbed the curved staircase to the third-floor guestroom. The room was romantic with a stone fireplace, and mahogany four-poster bed floating in layers of soft white cotton linens, a fluffy comforter and plush pillows, probably down. Back home our bedding was muslin, the scratchy kind with big cheesy flowers that do not resemble anything in nature.
I arose late the next morning. The house was abuzz with activity. Rosa, the housekeeper, was pounding squid. Michael was grinding coffee beans. An earthy aroma filled the long rectangular kitchen.
“Good morning sleeping beauty,” Olivia flashed her pearly whites and greeted me.
“I felt like a princess in that bed.”
“You slept well?” Michael asked.
“Like a log,” I looked over at the gelatinous mounds of squid and shrieked, “Dios, they remind me of some of the boys I dated in high school with all those arms!”
Rosa, obviously embarrassed, clutched the over-sized silver cross on the chain around her neck and grimaced at my remark. The lines at the sides of her nose going down past her small mouth deepened and made her old, leathery face look like that of a marionette.
Olivia giggled like a schoolgirl and said, “Talk in English, love, and please have breakfast. Then I will teach you to make calamari. Also you can help me arrange flowers.”
I sat down at the large rustic table in the center of the kitchen, had a cup of coffee, a poached egg and a piece of thick whole wheat bread spread with grape jelly. Olivia told me we were having company for dinner, Ere Zeta.
“Wonderful.”
“Yes, is wonderful when he visits,” she said moving to the table and reaching for one of the squid. “Okay, we cut arms into little rounds like this,” she said wielding the knife expertly. “You mix flour, oil and egg yolks. Keep stirring and I add beer.” She paused, thrusting the knife into the chopping block. “Good, now we put in ice box. Later we add beaten egg whites. Rosa will deep fry and we have calamari. Food for the gods.”
Olivia and Michael’s record collection was as eclectic as their home. Ray Charles’ Georgia On My Mind, the Shirelle’s Dedicated To The One I Love and Elvis’ Are You Lonesome Tonight accompanied us as we prepared salad with lots of tomatoes, olives and chunks of feta. In between layering eggplant and ground beef for the moussaka, we stomped around the kitchen to fiery Flamenco. Setting the dining room table with starched white linen, fine china and sterling silverware, Olivia and I serenaded each other with our cockney and aristocratic interpretations of My Fair Lady’s “The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain.” We filled hand-painted vases and crystal bowls with sunflowers round and full as smiling children’s faces while Pachelbel’s Canon in D played on the stereo and moved in my heart in some deeply visceral way.
With everything prepped and in place, we took a long siesta. When I came downstairs, rested, bathed and dressed in a long green skirt and green cap-sleeve blouse for dinner, Michael and Olivia were still in the master suite on the second floor. There was a warm golden glow emanating from the living room. I was surprised because it wasn’t cold enough for a fire. When I entered fully into the step-down room, furnished with brown leather couches and chairs that had enormous rolled arms, I saw that the slate fireplace had not been lit.
“Hello, Darci,” a voice that was at once soothing as an elixir and piercing as the truth greeted me, and I felt as though an electric current was coursing through my body.
“Ere Zeta?” I asked, stunned.
“Yes.”
“But I, I know you. I… I’ve seen you… you were in my dream last night,” I stammered.
“Yes,” he said again.
“Really, I saw you. God, you probably think I’m crazy.”
“No, Darci, I don’t think you’re crazy. That happens for some people. They dream of me before we meet,” he said in perfect, unaccented English.
“At one time in my dream, Ere Zeta you wore a long hooded robe. When I looked closely you were a woman, but I knew it was you.”
“The form I take is of no importance. The teachings of the mystery school are not about who I am. The teachings exist to awaken you to who you are.”
Moving toward the couch and taking a seat next to him I said, “I’d love to know who I am. I’ve never really felt comfortable with myself, since I was in first or second grade.”
“There’s a veil of forgetfulness placed with all infants; it descends by the time they are seven or eight.”
“Why?”
“To keep the divine plan for your life and your past lives from being revealed.”
“But why?”
“So you come to this life’s experiences anew.”
“You know, I feel different since I’ve met Olivia and Michael, more like I fit in.”
“Because they’re living in loving, caring and sharing; in health, wealth and happiness. Your soul recognizes that and wants that,” he said.
“Yes, I, I think so. Can I come to the mystery school?”
“Yes, Darci, because you asked. It’s a requisite for receiving the guidance of the masters.” He looked directly into my eyes and said, “The spirit doesn’t come to you until you come to it.”
“Is the school here in Barcelona?”
Ere Zeta grinned impishly, “It’s a school of inner travels, of an inner journey.”
“You mean like in dreams?”
“Precisely, and when you learn to tune into the frequency of spirit, it’s during your awake time as well.”
“How do I tune in?”
“You start by loving yourself and you begin to remember you’re a spiritual being on the way home to God.”
“Do I have to die to go home to God?”
“You don’t have to die to claim the grace of God. We’re in a constant state of revelation and we can know the knowable, but not the unknowable. Your eyes are the same lovely green color as your skirt and blouse. What are you going to wear twelve years from today?”
“I have no idea.”
“Because right now you don’t need to know twelve years from now. It’s part of the unknown.”
Ere Zeta reached out and took my hand when Olivia and Michael joined us. Olivia, striking in a simple black sleeveless sheath, ushered us into the elegant dining room. Michael opened the high shuttered windows. We could smell the Mediterranean as if it had exhaled right into the house. In the glow of candlelight I looked at my friends and at Ere Zeta. They seemed somehow ethereal and angelic to me. I only had a little bit of sangría but felt as if I were lifting out of my body. Dinner was delicious. The conversation was lively and topical. Ere Zeta was a world traveler; he spoke about Light centers on the planet where he met with people of like mind who wanted to go into spirit while they were still here in the physical.
That night in the four-poster bed under layers of soft white cotton I slept like a princess again, and again I dreamt of Ere Zeta. Each time I saw him over the next two months he appeared differently. Was he young, old, thin, robust, curly or straight haired, fair skinned or did he have that genetic tan so common in Spain; how tall was he? Only his eyes were constant—but not in their color, rather in their quality of compassion, loving and wisdom. They were ancient, diaphanous eyes. Ere Zeta defied description. He was vibratory, dynamic, transubstantial both in my dreams and when I met with him while awake, during September and October.
On September twenty-fourth we strolled along the narrow cobblestone streets in the medieval quarter of Barcelona. The people were celebrating Our Lady of Mercy. Some donned huge ceremonial masks; others held elaborate gigantes, giant ten-foot puppets. Ere Zeta asked me to tell him about my life.
“There’s not much to tell. I felt as if I never really knew my parents and they didn’t know who I was.”
“I’m sure you’re right. If they knew who you really were and if you knew who they were, you
all would have treated each other quite differently.” I hesitated to speak. Ere Zeta said, “Go on, continue.”
“Well, I was born in New York. We moved to Pennsylvania because my father had a hard time finding work. Then back to Brooklyn the summer before third grade. When I was in sixth grade my grandmother died and six months later my grandfather.
“Is that around the time Natalie disappeared?” He asked.
I didn’t remember having mentioned that to him, or anyone.
“Yes, her family moved away. I never saw or heard from her again. My parents moved to an unfriendly place. My mother got sick and she died.”
“Darci, you’re marking your existence by all the difficult things that have occurred in your life. Give yourself a break; celebrate Our Lady of Mercy. Have mercy on you, forgive yourself for judging those experiences and let them go. They’ll complete themselves. Surround and fill yourself with the Light of Spirit.”
“How do I do that, Ere Zeta?”
“It’s a process of visualization. Everyone has his own twist on it. You can close your eyes and imagine your spiritual heart; take a moment to center yourself, breathe the loving in and out. See white Light coming from the highest, holiest realms. A Light shower, a solid column, radiance, energy—it doesn’t matter. Just move into it and always ask that the Light be present for the highest good. Spirit will handle the rest.”
In the days to follow we walked through vineyards crimson and gold, past velvet hills that looked like dyed, sheared wool; through olive orchards with branches growing out of gnarled tree trunks; by the harbor and the beach with the sea lapping at the soles of our feet and Ere Zeta’s words lapping at the very soul of my being. He spoke to me of Jesus and the Disciples, of Lao Tse and Buddha, of infinite Light and love and forgiveness. I was in something like a heightened state whenever Ere Zeta was near me. My skin tingled, my breathing slowed, my heart opened to a greater loving than I had ever known. If the summer was one of delight and aliveness then autumn was the season of my transformation, the season of my awakening into the Light.
Fourteen
February 14,1961
Dear Dad,
Hi, hope this card finds you in the best of health. I’ve been in Madrid since November, living near the university and doing well in my classes. I’m working as a docent, a sort of tour guide, taking groups through the Prado Museum. It’s filled with amazing art. Goya, Velazquez, El Greco—he’s from Crete like grandma. I’m grateful she taught me Spanish!
Love, Darci
P. S. photo is my favorite painting, Las Meninas by Velazquez
~
“Darci love, it is awesome, painted in sixteen hundreds. He is mas
ter of light and shade. I can see why is your favorite painting.”
“And you’re my favorite person, Olivia. I’m so happy you’re here.”
Olivia dabbed the tip of my nose with her finger, stuck her tongue in the little space between her teeth and told me there was a poet, Raphael Alberti, who had dedicated a poem to the painter of Las Meninas. “I think I remember,” she said, slowly shutting her eyelids like small seashells. She stood several feet back from Velazquez’s magnificent baroque canvas depicting the golden haired child, Princess Margarita, surrounded by her maids and friends with the reflection of her parents, King Philip IV and Queen Mariana, in a rear mirror and Velazquez himself painting in the background, and shared the poem.
“Life appeared one morning
and begged him
Paint me, paint my portrait
as I really am or as you would
really like me to be.
Look at me, here, I am a passive model,
still, waiting for you to capture me.
I am a mirror searching for another mirror…”
~
We left the Prado, walked down the grand avenida. I turned to Olivia, “I wish you could stay with me but my room near the university is tiny, impossible, as my grandmother used to say about her small garden.”
“No, my aunt would not hear of it if I do not stay with her when I come to Madrid.”
We passed stores, banks, hotels, restaurants and lovely old churches, walking leisurely as if it were a mild spring day. In truth it was the last week of February and cold.
“Darci love, you are natural in Madrid. You fit in with the Madrilenos. They love to dress up and stroll,” Olivia said, looping her arm around mine.
We walked through a public square with an impressive tiered fountain, water flowing from the top to the middle to the bottom level. We turned a corner and came to a modern apartment building. Laundry hung across the apartments’ small balconies like so many white birds perched high on wires, ready for flight. But they weren’t birds and with laundry hanging from every floor the five-story building appeared seedy.
We arrived at her aunt’s apartment. Olivia said, “I brought for you beautiful clothes from me, is okay with you?”
She handed me a box.
“Olivia, I used to get my clothes from my cousin May in paper bags. I can’t believe you. . .wrapped in tissue paper in this ritzy box. The pink suit! I remember you wearing it the day we met on the plane.”
“Yes, I remember also.”
“Silk, linen, is it okay with me? Does the Prado have art?”
~
Olivia and Michael visited several times over the next three years. They took me to England to see the musicians Michael had fashioned his hair after. The band had a new drummer, Ringo Starr, and had changed its name to the Beatles. We sang I Want To Hold Your Hand all the way back to Spain. Although I didn’t have the opportunity to meet with Ere Zeta again, I did dream of him, and along with my academic studies, I read his prolific writings on the human condition and what he calls “the spiritual promise.” While my professors spoke to my intellect, Ere Zeta somehow spoke to my heart and recalled my soul.
Fifteen
I was at the University of Madrid in Spanish Lit reading Don Quixote when I learned of President Kennedy’s assassination. Later in the day and still in shock I contacted Olivia. She didn’t have time to talk and she didn’t call back as she promised she would. I began to realize that she was less available. We were living in separate cities, each with full lives and though it gave me reason for pause I didn’t dwell on it.
During the summer I received a disturbing letter from my cousin May. Our mutual friend, Andrew Goodman, who attended Queens College with May, had been killed. With Michael Schwerner, another white New Yorker and James Chaney, a Negro from Mississippi, Andy had volunteered to help Negroes in the South register to vote. All three had been murdered. In my mind I saw them bathed in white Light, and beyond the pain in my heart I had a sense that my sending Light for the highest good was helping their souls to make a transition. Still the pain was tremendous. I called Olivia and once again she was unavailable.
“Michael, I haven’t spoken to her in months. She doesn’t call me anymore. What’s goin’ on?”
He cleared his throat as if to clear the way into uncharted territory. “Darci, things have changed. Olivia’s not here with me, she’s left.”
“She’s left—where to?”
“Right now she’s in Athens.”
“But I had no idea, we were so close.”
“I had no idea either,” he said with a trace of sorrow in his voice.
“Can I call her?”
“She doesn’t want to be contacted now and I’m honoring that.”
“How are you, Michael?”
“This is as rough as it gets. We didn’t have traditional ‘as long as we both shall live’ marriage vows. For us it was as long as we both shall love.”
“I’m sure she still loves you.”
“Perhaps, but she’s not in love with me. Darci, you don’t usually call just to chat. What’s going on?”
“A friend from Queens, Andy Goodman, he was murdered.”
Michael took the time to explain to me that no one dies without the high self coming into agre
ement with the soul and that this was also true of Andrew. In the midst of his own troubles Michael was living the teachings of Ere Zeta.
“I don’t get it, Michael. Andrew was as good as they come and you’re a saint. Why does this stuff happen?”
“It’s the way things are here.”
“In Spain?” I asked, dazed.
I could almost hear him smile as he gently said, “No, on the planet. You think if you have a tragedy or a hard knock that’s it, you’re through. Kennedy’s a perfect example. You know he had an older brother killed in the war? You think because the president’s been killed, his family’ll never have another hard knock? I doubt it.”
“But it shouldn’t be that way.”
“Be careful, you’re ‘shoulding’ on yourself.”
“Very cute, Michael. Listen, I think I’m gonna visit my dad. It’s been a long time. He’s only written twice. And we’ve only spoken a few times.”
“If you go over Christmas, I have two tickets. I’m going to see my mother. You can come here and we’ll travel together,” he offered.
“Yeah, school’s out, it would be a perfect time.”
~
The months ticked away like minutes. Before I knew it school was in recess and I was in Barcelona. We greeted each other with hugs.
“It’s so good to see you, Michael.”
“And you, Darci. You must be exhausted.”
“I am. I haven’t slept much. I’ve had exams all week.”
“Come on, I’ll take your bag upstairs; we’ll have plenty of time to catch up on the flight.”