Christian shifted more comfortably in the chair and dropped the newspaper to the deck, a warm breeze from the ocean falling lightly against his skin. The house was quiet, and he was alone—a rarity. On the bay in the distance, white sails slid across water, prompting a memory of Anita. Growing up on the Belgian coastline had made her an avid sailor, and while there, she’d insisted they rent a boat and sail at least once a week. She had even suggested that they buy a boat.
After carrying the toys with their stuffing of ergotamine all the way to the Bay, she’d hung around for a while. But Anita had never really understood Christian, his motivation and goals, had never grasped that he wasn’t interested in material things. When she wasn’t filling out her wardrobe, her time had been spent reading the stacks of novels purchased at Shakespeare and Company. She hadn’t the vaguest sense of communal living and was oblivious as to how to work with Alan and Linda and others who passed through the house. Her idea of meal sharing was to visit a restaurant, and housekeeping was relegated to a few loads of laundry. Eventually, Christian’s time away from Berkeley had left her bored and restless, until finally, declaring homesickness, she’d proposed returning to Amsterdam to manage the office of Northern European Pharmaceutical Company. Relieved at the prospect of her departure, Christian had paid her well, put her on a plane, and the relationship was over.
Suddenly, the phone rang, and his speculations about Anita and what might be happening with the company drifted away. He walked inside and picked up the phone receiver. “Hello.”
“I heard from them!”
Julie’s voice. Joyous, excited.
Suddenly weak with relief, Christian closed his eyes, leaned against the small phone table, and said a silent prayer of thanks. Bob and Dharma had been gone on the Afghan run eight weeks longer than planned, without sending a single message.
“Where are they?”
“Hawaii. They’ll be coming in the day after tomorrow. Wednesday. Can we expect you?”
“Any word as to why it took so long?”
Julie laughed. “I’m sure we’ll hear all about it when we see them.” Only happiness in her voice. No bitterness, no accusations. Even though she’d given birth without Bob.
“How’s Shakti?”
“Growing! She’s almost five weeks old!” Julie laughed. “Bob’s going to trip out when he sees her!”
“Don’t worry about picking me up at the airport. I’ll make my own way.”
“You sure? It’s no trouble.”
“I’m sure.” Christian hated being pinned down to a schedule. He moved when it felt right, flowed with the energy, trusted his intuition. No need to set patterns. Better not to be on time for your own bust. “I’ll see you Wednesday.”
He picked up his rolling box from the kitchen counter, pondering the rising questions about what Bob and Dharma had been doing for so long. Just as he stepped back onto the deck, Alan walked into the house.
“Hey,” Alan called. “I went by the post office box. Letter for you.”
For many moments, Christian simply held the letter in his hands, regarding the thin paper, the handwriting, the postal mark from India. He touched it to his forehead in blessing. A letter had finally come from Lisa.
His mind flashed to the first time he had seen her sparkling green eyes. Lisa had been the one person who had cared enough about him to turn him on to acid, who had strengthened his business relationship with Bob, even though making the connection had created a moral dilemma for her. She hadn’t wanted to be any part of dealing since entering the ashram.
Lisa, who still loved him, and who now lived in India because he’d been fool enough to let her go. For the second time.
For a moment, he allowed himself the luxury of fantasy, looked into those green eyes, ran his fingers through her golden hair, touched the softness of her breast, put his mouth hard upon hers.
He took the envelope into his bedroom where he could be alone, and with some anticipation, sliced open the flap. Dear Christian, the letter began,
So much has happened since I first arrived in New Delhi, I hardly know where to begin!
But first, I must sincerely thank you for the money you gave me to get here. Because of you and your generosity, I am able to live in this wonderful place in the presence of the Master. I also need to say how truly sorry I am for the way we parted. Honestly, I have been so embarrassed by my bad manners, that I could not find the courage to write. For a long while, I felt I had merely taken from you, without regard to your feelings. I know that on the night you came with the money, your needs were great. Padmananda has suggested that I say what is in my heart. So please accept my sincerest thank you, even at this late date. What I wish more than anything is that you could share with me the Master’s sense of peace, his joy and knowledge and humor. When I am with him, I have a larger sense of how I might love all things! Please know that every day, I remember you in my prayers.
Oh, Christian, it’s not just being with the Master that has changed my life. It’s India itself. This remarkable land! I look at those meditating in the garden and know that in this place, holiness is a way of life. People publicly worship and live the presence of God. Perhaps it’s the sense of timelessness, the ancient quality of the buildings, but here, I feel the agelessness of the human spirit that is bound to God. Over the past months, I have come to believe that I’ve always belonged here. That this is truly my destiny.
I have to admit that I was terrified when I first arrived! Even before leaving the New Delhi airport, with its rows of sleeping poor crowded in the terminal, the huts and hovels against the airport fence, I was already asking myself what I was doing halfway around the world. Had I left all those I loved to see misery? Was I even worthy to be with the Master? But when we arrived at the ashram at dawn, I was received with such warmth and love, that I immediately found myself at home.
This old estate that is now the ashram once belonged to a wealthy merchant. My room is bright, with high ceilings and tall windows that look down on the garden and courtyard. I share the room with two sisters, one from California and another from Denmark. I am completely comfortable with only my single bed, trunk, and small altar with its picture of the Master. Do you have an altar in your home now that you are settled? Should I send you a picture of the Master?
You will be happy to know I am spending my time well. When I am not taking teachings, I am secretary to the disciple Padmananda. We’re in the process of establishing a medical clinic for the poor. Soon, I’ll be working in the clinic and meeting those beyond these walls. I’m sure you can appreciate the merit of this work.
I have come to know Padmananda much better and wish you could know him as well. I think you might be friends. He is young and especially patient. He has to be, because he’s teaching me so much about business! He jokes a lot with all of us working on the hospital project. His spirit is kind and generous, and he’s become a dear friend.
I’ve spoken of you to Padmananda, because you are still close to my heart. Usually, I’m a vessel to be filled, listening, not saying much. Yet about you, Padmananda encourages me to speak. And to write! Perhaps it is because he hears the happiness in my voice.
Christian, again, many thanks for the opportunity you have given me. My fondest daydream is that someday you’ll appear at the door and know all that I’ve been given.
Will you come? Won’t you know the happiness the Master has to offer? Won’t you reconsider joining the ashram?
Peace, my friend,
Kali
Christian read the letter several times, taking from it every nuance, then leaned back. The pages fell to his lap while he lit the joint and considered her words. There could be no guessing that she still cared for him. But if they were to be together, there was still the trade-off—only if he would accept the Master. Maybe he should have taken more interest in the ashram and determined which Master it actually was. But how could he have known she would stick with it this long? He had fully expected her to m
ake another overnight decision and leave months ago.
He tried to imagine her as Padmananda’s secretary. Surprised by a surge of jealousy, he stood and walked out the sliding doors to the deck. That night on the ashram porch when they’d parted, he’d wished only for her happiness. Now, he wasn’t so sure. Perhaps he’d prefer her a little less happy and ready to leave India.
Standing at the railing, still holding to the letter, he slipped easily into a familiar memory, one of her standing beneath the rose trellis at Ananda Shiva in Santa Monica, the gold in her hair an aura in the sunlight, the green light in her eyes, her body darkly outlined beneath a white muslin dress. Would it be worth going back to India to put his lips against hers? Would he again have to stop at her mouth when he wanted to devour all of her?
India. The very word held conflicting emotions for him. India was home, with all its nostalgic pull. But India also meant seeing his father again. Forcing him to explain what had happened to Nareesh.
An old ripple of fear went through him.
No, Christian told himself. Nareesh can’t be dead. But then, where is he? What is it my father’s not saying?
Lisa’s view of India made him laugh with some bitterness. He read again, … in this place, holiness is a way of life …
What would she think once she left the ashram walls?
Carefully, he folded the paper along its creases, then placed the letter in his private stash. He didn’t want anyone seeing this letter. Not that it mattered. He simply didn’t want to try to explain his relationship with Lisa, particularly since he couldn’t understand it himself.
Come and visit, she had written. Know my happiness.
Well, maybe someday, he would.
JERRY PUTNAM AND JOE O’BRIAN
MARIN COUNTY, CALIFORNIA
JULY 1968
Six weeks had passed since Jerry’s return from Mexico, and he was still trying to make his way through the culture shock of being back in the United States. On his return, he’d reluctantly rifled through an awaiting stack of mail, only to have a small card slip away from the bundle and flutter to the ground. He’d reached down and turned it over to read the name. Joseph O’Brian, Private Investigator.
What could a private investigator want with me?
A premonition told him that the questions would have something to do with his arrest. Did he really want to open a wound that was closing? Deciding to ignore the card, he’d tossed it into a desk drawer and had forgotten the entire incident. So it was with some surprise that on this warm July morning, he’d received a follow-up phone call from the investigator.
“Mr. Putnam. Would you mind if I stopped by to talk to you about a case I’m working on?” The detective’s voice over the phone was easy, relaxed.
Jerry was hesitant. After a long moment of silence, he asked, “What case is that?”
“I’m working for Lance Bormann, an attorney, with the cooperation of Winsted James, your attorney. Lance has another case at the moment that’s similar to yours. He feels there may be some connection between them. If you’d consent to answering a few questions, you may help us to help someone else.”
Jerry was quiet for a long time.
“Mr. Putnam?”
“What kind of questions?”
“That would take some explaining. It would be better if we could have a few minutes together.”
Jerry knew he had to decide quickly. Should he forget the past? Or see whether this guy knew something about Myles that he didn’t. Making a quick decision, he asked, “When do you want to meet?”
Thirty minutes after speaking on the phone, the investigator arrived, knocking on the blue-painted door at the front of the house.
The small house Jerry rented was old, the porch wooden and worn, the roof shingled in wood. Inside was a front room, the tiny kitchen where he and Myles had shared a joint a year ago, a single bath, and two small bedrooms. One of the bedrooms barely fit a double bed and dresser; the other was used as his office. Underneath and running the length of the kitchen and living room was a basement with enough room for a man to stand, the space dusty and smelling of mildew and holding his boxes of research.
“Can I get you anything?” Jerry asked nervously, watching as the investigator took a seat on the old green couch.
“No, thank you. This shouldn’t take long.”
“Tell me why you’re here today,” Jerry prompted. “I called Winsted James. He confirmed that you were working for Mr. Bormann.”
In fact, James had told him quite a bit about Lance Bormann. Bormann’s name had been in the news since his work with free speech activists. Currently, he was one of the new drug attorneys making headlines and helping to write law through his arguments and cases. At the moment, he was cooperating with a slick young detective, Joe O’Brian, who’d had a leadership role during the university sit-ins. Now, here Joe was, sitting calmly on his couch.
“Ever hear of a man named Max Jackson?” Joe asked.
Jerry shook his head.
“Max is a rock promoter. Several months ago, he was arrested. The search warrant was issued on testimony given by a ‘confidential reliable informant.’”
“Just like me. Right?”
Joe nodded. “That’s why I’m here. In looking back over his cases, Lance saw that there were other clients who’d had the same arrest pattern. There was always an unnamed informant involved. He’d never questioned the cases before, because he thought the informants were people who had known the defendants intimately. But in Jackson’s case, there was something unusual. Jackson remembers a man coming to his door to use the phone. He claimed his car had broken down. All he can recall is that the guy was young, with short brown hair.”
“Where do I fit into all of this?”
“You were one of the first arrests of this type. I know it was a long time ago, but … perhaps, if I ask you some questions, I can help to bring back that time.”
Jerry took a deep breath. The investigator was proposing that Myles had not only set him up and sent him to prison, but that he was doing it to other people. If so, Jerry needed to know why.
“You don’t have to ask me any questions.” The words rushed out as if he might lose the courage to speak them. His voice was shaking. “I know who had me arrested. The description fits. I have a picture of him.”
Joe leaned forward, his entire body suddenly alert, and rubbed his hands together. “What makes you think you know who the informant is?”
Jerry stood, put his hands in his pockets, and began to pace, as if that might help him organize his thoughts—the same walk Benjamin Miller used while giving his lectures.
“When I was arrested, I was just about to begin my sophomore year at Berkeley. My future was all planned. Biology. That past summer I’d traveled to Africa as part of a collecting expedition with the university.”
“That’s quite an honor for a freshman student.”
Jerry’s smile was slow, sickly. “That’s what I thought at the time. I’ve always been … well, smart.” Then he went on. “One of the men I worked with on that expedition was an old childhood friend of mine—Myles Corbet. Myles is your informant.”
“Why do you think so?”
“That’s the part I don’t understand,” Jerry cried in frustration. “He smoked pot. In Africa. Here with me when we were back home. Probably still smokes it.”
“What else?”
“He set me up! It’s not like it was some accident. He went out of his way to make sure I was holding! Then he sent the police over!”
“How do you know he didn’t come later? That something didn’t happen to make him late?”
“Because I see it in his face every time I look at him. I know it in the way he avoids me.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t want to be guilty by association?”
“Even though my department’s notorious for gossip, remarkably enough, only one person knows about my jail term. A professor. And he never speaks of it. Myles asked if I’d get tha
t kilo for him. Just at the time he was supposed to be there, my door was busted in.”
“Academic jealously, perhaps? You never talked to him about it?”
“There’s nothing to say. We both know.”
“What other reasons would he have to do something like that to an old friend?”
“That’s what’s so frustrating. I don’t know! My best friend sends me to prison. You know what that’s like? I was nineteen. He went out of his way to ruin my life! And I don’t even know why.” Jerry picked up his high school yearbook. “Here’s a high school graduation picture. That’s about two years old. And here,” he passed Joe an envelope, “some shots in Africa.”
Joe looked through them, studying the pictures. “What if Myles Corbet is the man who’s showing up at other doors?”
“That’s what I want to know. That would prove it for me.”
“Then what?”
“Then I don’t know. Right now I just want to know.”
“Mr. Putnam, if he did this, he’s working for a narcotics officer named Dolph Bremer, Field Supervisor for Northern California. Bremer is … more than committed. He’s passionate and vindictive. Whatever your friend is doing, you can bet that Bremer is involved.”
“Yeah. Bremer. Big. And mean. Wouldn’t accept probation without jail time for me. Is this going to get messy?”
“I hope not, Mr. Putnam. But honestly, there’s no telling what Bremer might do.”
Jerry smiled, a slow grin, both mischievous and resigned. The forgiveness he had begun to nurture in Mexico was one thing. Justice was another.
“I was hoping you’d say ‘yes.’ I want this to get really messy. Especially for Myles.”
“Max, this is Joe O’Brian,” Lance introduced them. Max had come right over to Lance’s office in Berkeley the moment he had heard Joe’s report.
A Nation of Mystics_Book II_The Tribe Page 15