The Book: A Novel Calling

by Leo Nation

  “But what if I do?”

  “Just choose to be here.”

  “What if you get hit by a bus while I’m gone?”

  “I just told you. The word I’m about to say is one you haven’t heard. When you get back don’t say it aloud, not to anyone. Don’t repeat it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Think about it, Jonathan. This is a very important agreement.”

  “Sure … okay, I agree.”

  “If you think your life is in danger it is not. Relax and do the next thing. Accept what is, and let it be.” He laughed. “It won’t kill you, Jon, and in fact, you’ll be better for it.”

  I felt a chill at the thought of getting stuck somewhere in an alternative world.

  “Just see what is,” Adam assured me. “We can talk about it when you get back. It’s a privilege to bring this to light in you. Trust yourself. Trust your surroundings, and take it all in. All you have to do now is tell me when … to say the word.”

  Adam leaned on his elbows and tapped his fingertips. I felt rather cornered as I watched him peer over his knuckles like a quirky medieval alchemist. His big office was a mess, of course, with books scattered around the floor and piled around his desk, and volumes stacked on window sills. No flat surface was free of books.

  “I see the shaman in you, Jon.”

  “I don’t know how to take that.”

  “You don’t have to take it, don’t take it. I’m excited because you are about to discover new powers. You have a chance to let mystery serve you.” He laughed, “I’ll have to pull you back because you’ll want to stay.”

  “I need a minute—”

  “Of course.”

  “Why am I doing this?”

  “I know the Word.”

  “Right.”

  Something shifted in me when I met Adam. I didn’t know what it was that he was offering, but I had a crazy urge to accept and follow through. I knew before I left the bus that I would make that call. And even now I didn’t know what I was getting into, but I didn’t want to miss it.

  “Okay, Adam … let’s go.”

  “You sure?”

  “I am.”

  “All right, Jon.”

  “And if a bus flattens you while I’m—”

  “We just covered that.”

  “Okay, right. I’m ready.”

  Adam tucked his head into his shoulders like Fagin protecting his treasure. He slid the palms of his big hands to the sides of his desk. “One more thing, Jon. No rules…”

  I felt a furrow between my eyebrows. “No rules?”

  “Just see what is. That’s it.”

  Adam stood up and I got to my feet as he walked around his desk. He laid his hand on my shoulder. “Are you ready?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Can you say that with certainty?”

  “Yes, of course. I am ready.”

  “Close your eyes, find your center, keep your eyes closed.” I felt the warmth of his hand on my forehead. “Take it easy,” he purred like a big cat. I contemplated the vibrations in his vocal chords. “Attention, front and center.”

  Keenly aware of his big warm hand on my eyebrows I listened for the word.

  “Naphsha!”

  ∞ 7 ∞

  I see a swirl of colored diamonds, blue and grey shapes turning at the top of a soft-pointed cap. I look down and see the upturned toe of a purple shoe. I’m struck by the simple fact that I don’t seem to be placed anywhere. I can’t tell where I am. Before I can think, a man with smiling eyes lifts his curly head close to my face. He is younger than I am and he moves with a sprightly kind of grace. I don’t know who he is, or where I am, or how to be in this place. This strange guy before me skips in a circle like a playful mime, gentle and silent, but highly spirited; he seems to be virtually free of gravity.

  He looks young, but I don’t think he is. In fact, I have a strong sense that this guy is very old, even ancient in fact, and I laugh, because now I realize the truth: this colorful character is a Harlequin.

  I hear a low laugh in the back of my mind, like a load of gravel in a wooden barrel.

  Standing next to Harlequin in a room with practically no light, I can see very little. I look around and barely make out his dim silhouette as he leaps toward a wall. I watch his dark slender body reaching for a cord; the wall silently rises, revealing a world of bright sunlight. I blink at the intense new light and lift my forearm to block the pain. I open my eyes again, unable to bear more than a snapshot of the scenery outside, where I see a winding road going up a hill to a stand of tall trees. I open my eyes again and I see that the sky outside has changed colors. It is now a shade of orange tinged with waves of red.

  As weird as this is, I feel good, as Adam said I would. It feels familiar.

  I have no idea why.

  The bright light out there appears unable to penetrate into this place. It’s like looking at a painting of light that can’t get in here. I’m surrounded by darkness. Out there in the world, although it looks quite close, it feels foreign and distant. I see two flat planes outside, one pure white, above, and a second one lying just below, a little grey, running to the skyline like an elevated highway. Harlequin leaps through the missing wall, and he races between the parallel paths to infinity and back again in a flash!

  How the hell did he do that?

  Standing by my side now, Harlequin tips his curly head back and explodes into a round of silent laughter. Clinging to my shoulder, he shakes and chuckles without making a sound. He wraps his free arm around diamond shapes on his belly and guffaws in complete silence.

  What a guy!

  He raises his arm and looks at me over his hand; he shakes his finger and shakes his head knowingly. He laughs again and turns away. Now he dances in a little circle, stamping his feet as he chuckles like a mute clown.

  He claps his hands, and the tassel on the end of his cap swings in front of his eyes. I wonder how he can move so effortlessly, and as I wonder what else he can do, a voice in my head throws me off balance as it provides an answer.

  Anything he pleases.

  It doesn’t sound like me, but I know it took place somewhere between my ears. Despite that, I turn around looking for a different source.

  Harlequin crosses the room into a dark hallway that I didn’t see before now. He disappears and I decide to follow. After moving through the dark passageway only a few steps, I feel something pulling me inside. It feels like vibrating energy passing through me like an invisible field of electricity; it causes tingles in my chest.

  I walk into a dark room divided by a thin shaft of sunlight. I look for a source and I see a small crack in shuttered French windows on the wall facing me.

  Harlequin’s diamond outfit is barely visible there, waving at me to look off to my right. I turn and squint. I can just make out a huge wooden desk with a gigantic, antiquated typewriter, about three feet high and almost as wide, sitting in the center.

  Behind the desk a seated man looks down. I don’t know how he can read with no light, but he seems to be absorbed by what he finds on the page. He doesn’t know we’re here.

  Harlequin springs over to the man; he bends down. He swivels his head and looks back at me. Surprised by Harlequin’s head an inch under his chin, the man looks uncomfortable in a suit and tie that appear too tight. He smiles as if under duress. I can feel his discomfort.

  This place smells like a musty attic locked away from human society for years. In the skinny shaft of light, particles of dust float like stars in a slice of silent universe.

  Harlequin straightens up. He bolts past the man to a wall of books behind him. Now, standing beside a wooden coat tree, he peruses the titles as if he’s looking for one in particular.

  He takes a book from the shelf, looks it over, and satisfied that he has the right one he skips back to the man in the chair.

  He lowers his head as though he expects to be petted, and the man laughs. Now, like a Kabuki player, Harlequin does a slow
double-take at me. He points at a coat tree and some clothes hanging there. A wide pair of burgundy suspenders hangs from the waist of a pair of formal trousers with shiny black stripes.

  The only things I see with any distinction are the huge desk, the antique typewriter, the man in the suit, the formal trousers hanging on the coat tree, and rows of books lining the shelf in the wall behind them.

  I turn and follow the dusty slice of light to the crack in the wall. Harlequin bounds away from the desk and stands in front of the wall like an orchestra conductor. He flings his arms at the French windows as if directing a set of classical musicians, and the windows fly open; a gush of fresh air expands the space.

  It is easier to breathe.

  Harlequin returns to the desk and he leans over to inspect the typewriter like a doctor examining an abnormal organ. As he gazes at the machine I notice the keypads are bigger than silver dollars, and the keystrokes must be longer than Harlequin’s forearms.

  Without a word the man stands up. The two men seize the sides of the great machine and cross the floor like sailors on the deck of a stormy sailing ship. They stick their chins out and wrestle the massive contraption to the window, where they quickly adjust and toss it out into the void.

  Harlequin sticks his head out the window, apparently watching the big old typewriter fall. It seems to take a long time before he flinches, hunches his shoulders, and turns around with his forearm over his eyes. As he comes to a full stop he turns his palms up and shrugs as if to say, “No big deal—just a couple of people.”

  The two men slap their hands like movers finishing a difficult job; they turn and try to look down through the window. They get stuck. They wriggle out and laugh, and now they shake hands. They try again and the same thing happens. They squirm trying to extricate from the window. Now Harlequin steps aside with a sweeping gesture to let the other man go first.

  The man in the suit pokes his head through the window. He gazes down for a moment before he brings himself inside. Harlequin shakes a wrist under his nose and manifests a small bouquet of dark red roses. The man gawks stiffly and steps back. Reluctantly he reaches for the roses, and as his hand touches the stems both men laugh like long lost brothers. They fall into a backslapping embrace.

  I merely look on, stumped by their obvious delight. Harlequin grabs the man’s face and peers into his eyes. He laughs wildly and silently. Now he turns away and runs through the hall to the bright world outside. The man follows without hesitation. As they move through the passage, I feel another tingling sensation that vibrates every cell in my body. It goes away as the man passes all the way through.

  Now, they stand in bright sunlight.

  The man in the suit looks at the sky. He arches his back and bellows, “Yes!” Surprisingly, he playfully repeats, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

  The two parallel surfaces to infinity are gone. I watch the man pull the knot of his tie. He shouts again, “Hah! Hah!” Dragging his tie through his collar he adds, “Hah! Hah! Hah!”

  He waves his fist, laughs, and he repeats, “Yes! … Yes! … YES!”

  He works his jacket over his shoulder and struggles mightily with his sleeve; as he extracts his arm he turns it inside out. Trapped by his own effort, he looks like an ape in a straightjacket.

  “Damn!” he cries.

  He rolls up his jacket and heaves it to the ground savagely; he seizes the front of his shirt with both hands and he rips it apart; buttons fly. He stops and emits another gleeful huff, “Ha-Hah!”

  He tears his cuffs apart and sloughs off his tattered shirt. He unbuckles his belt. He drags it through loops in a frenzy and he tosses it away onto castaway clothing.

  He unzips his fly.

  He lets his trousers drop.

  Fiery red shorts appear.

  Shaking his legs he lets them fall to his ankles. He shifts weight stepping aside and kicks his shorts and his trousers onto his crumpled jacket. He lifts both arms high as he runs in a circle, crying out, “Yes. Yes. Yes!”

  Breathing hard and gasping, he arches his back and completes his dominant thought: “Yes. Yes. Yes!—Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!”

  He hoists his left foot and grabs a shoelace. It instantly becomes an impossible knot. “Damn it!” he shouts, hopping on one foot. He torques the shoe and pitches it onto the pile.

  “Ha-hah!”

  Balancing on one foot, turning, he twists off his other shoe. With a forefinger he slides off a long black sock and sends it flying. Repeating the process he casts a second sock through the air to the pile of clothes. He runs back through the passage. Before I can wonder what he is up to, he reappears with tuxedo trousers from the coat tree.

  He steps into the formal trousers and finds them so big and baggy he pulls them to his chest. He laughs as he slips suspenders over his shoulders and looks down. With his thumb stuck inside the waist he pushes out. “Look at this!”

  Suddenly, I have a strange sense of falling. I feel as if I am dropping from somewhere high. I look down. I’m the guy in the baggy pants. I run my thumbs along the inside of my suspenders, push out and let go.

  “Ouch,” I say to my stinging chest. I feel so alive. I push out and let go again … snap!

  It hurts but I feel happy.

  Harlequin runs away on the road to the top of the hill. He stands there beckoning me to follow. I cut across a patch of green grass, my oversized trousers bouncing like a portable circus tent. The grass feels cool under my bare feet. On top of the hill Harlequin greets me with a round of vigorous but silent laughter.

  Standing in his presence is like spreading my arms under a gushing waterfall. Harlequin's energy is boundless, robust, jubilant, so perfect and aligned I feel inspired.

  I lift my arms up and lay them over his shoulders. His body quakes in my embrace. I wonder what he is feeling. Probably pure bliss.

  I step back to get a good look at him.

  He pokes my ribs and dances around me.

  I hear a bouzouki playing a bright melody in the distance. Harlequin stands erect. He grabs my arm and he lifts. We lock our arms and dance side by side like a pair of Greeks celebrating life. Feeling proud as we quick-step together I feel as if we are honoring a mystery in the music.

  Are we on the Earth?

  I don’t know.

  The sky is completely orange.

  We could be somewhere else in the universe, floating around a cosmic bubble a billion light years from where I started. It is so strange and yet, I feel at home.

  Harlequin and I touch foreheads as we dance; I look deep into his eyes and I feel silly, but it’s good. Inside a stream of joyous, thriving, ancient music, I am satisfied. I don’t want to stop.

  Leaning into Harlequin’s forehead, I let my arms hang down as we turn, and I look up at the sky. I know we aren’t close to an ocean, but this feels Mediterranean. If Dionysus appeared right now and joined this dance I would not be in the least surprised.

  Harlequin seems old and new at the same time. He brings forth something ancient into the present moment.

  “I feel alive!” I shout.

  His eyes glisten like galaxies.

  I’m beginning to have a sense— that is, I mean, I have a strong feeling—that Harlequin and I are here to glorify existence!

  ∞ 8 ∞

  In a building on the corner of 21st and Santa Monica Boulevard, Sophie stood in the doorway of her office.

  I was reeling with camaraderie like a new citizen after taking his oath. I felt as plush as an apple on a stick. I smiled at Sophie Love and I said, “With this I can get back to my kids.”

  Sophie was a delightful feminine presence. She had chosen to be happy a long time ago. Her default position was happiness. Always warm and receptive to the ways of others, she was simply open. The loan she had just handed me sparked my desire to get back to my kids as soon as possible. Until now I had avoided thoughts of return because I didn’t know how to do it.

  Now, the prospect was real.

  “I’ll take care o
f this as soon as I can.”

  “I know that, Jon.”

  I had known Sophie most of my life.

  We were kids together and she was like one of the boys, an equal playmate, until a miracle transmuted a buddy into a stunning pretty girl. Before the great change she climbed trees with the best of us, helped us build forts, and braided grass huts, and dug tunnels underground as if we were all behind enemy lines. We carved hidden cubicles and tunnels underground, passing buckets hand to hand to fresh air outside. We had shared secret words and secret worlds, softball games and long bike rides, day trips exploring railroad tracks and sassafras tea in scalding tin cups. Sophie was still my buddy. My lifelong friend.

  “No hurry, Jon. Take your time.”

  Sophie’s decision to be happy was a rational conscious choice, because it made the most sense. She took it as the only logical option. She probably wondered how anybody could make a less intelligent choice, like taking a stance that would guarantee long term misery. Sophie was married, with three children who were so beautiful people stopped in their tracks to admire their grace. She was not only committed to being happy but she was also entirely devoted to her kids—and they knew it.

  I never heard Sophie blame another person for any kind of problem. She owned her own business, enjoyed the challenge, and took responsibility for things as they arose. I thought Sophie had a rarified gift for wellbeing.

  As I started to restate my promise Sophie raised her right hand. “It’s time for lunch, Jon. I’ll get something good to eat and be right back.”

  I felt my empty stomach reach for the door.

  “Something on your mind, Jon?”

  “Nothing you can’t fix,” I laughed.

  “I won’t be long. Call your kids from here if you want. Dial straight out.”

  A fireplace in a mountain cabin in the North Country of my brain lighted up crackling warmth as I watched her back out of the office.