by Dan Millman
He paused for a long moment before answering. “Do you like riddles? I quite enjoy them myself. I have asked and answered many riddles, so let me return the question. Name a Greek in your mind, and you’ll know the Greek in mine.”
As I looked up, I saw through the hut and out a window in back: the outskirts of Albuquerque lay just a few hundred yards away, obscured by the desert haze. Had I stumbled into Wonderland? “Well, Plato is a fine Greek name.”
“A teacher of merit,” he responded, still staring out into the desert. “But to understand a teacher, you must know the teacher’s teacher.”
This old indio, who spoke perfect English despite some missing teeth, was playing with me. He knew very well who Plato’s teacher was, and he knew that I knew. “Plato’s teacher was Socrates,” I said.
“Some people call me Papa Joe, but since you’ve solved the riddle of the Greek, you may call me abuelo and I will call you nieto—grandson.” Staring past me, he held his hand out in my general direction.
Before shaking his hand, I passed my own back and forth in front of his eyes and solved another riddle. “Ah, yes,” he said. “Ciego como un murciélago, listo como un zorro.” Then he translated: “Blind as a bat, smart as a fox,” He winked a sightless eye and added, “Many who see with their eyes are still blind. I have no sight, yet I see many things.”
“What do you see?” I asked.
“I see into the place where riddles are born.”
“And what do you find there?”
“That’s a riddle for you to solve. But I will tell you this: My eyesight took flight in childhood. It turned inward, and has been soaring ever since. And how is your sight, nieto? Do you have eyes to find what you seek?”
This was getting weird, even for me. We were strangers to each other. All I had done was ask him about the woman.
“Okay, Papa Joe—abuelo. Why don’t we just lay our cards on the table?”
“You like poker?” he asked obliquely.
“This isn’t about poker. It’s about life.”
“Are they not the same?” he asked, in a voice like that of old Master Po from the TV show Kung Fu.
Losing my patience, I asked him directly, “Socrates, you knew him, right? Can you help me find a woman named Ama?”
“¿Por qué? Why do you seek this woman?” he asked, and his fingers returned to the beads.
“I think you know.”
He remained silent, so I continued: “She may have met my friend, my mentor. I’m hoping she can help me find . . . something.”
“Ah, looking for a something,” he said with a knowing look. “Well, that may be difficult. There are many somethings in the desert.”
“How do you know that it’s in the desert?” I asked.
“I can’t see. And yet I see. Do you see what I mean?”
“You really do like riddles, don’t you?”
“Don’t I?” he answered with another gap-toothed grin.
“Abuelo, please. I know you find this amusing, but I have to talk with this woman, Ama, and then—”
“I appreciate your passion,” he interrupted. “You have a sense of mission. I only have a sense of humor. After nine decades of life, the concerns of youth—what other people think, finding love, achieving success—no longer concern me. What matters to me is amusement. That and what little I know about . . . somethings.” He strung the last bead and knotted the thread.
Having completed his task, Papa Joe said, “There may be something I can tell you about la mujer, Ama.”
“That would be helpful—”
“But first, I offer you a riddle.”
“Now really isn’t the best time for a game, abuelo.”
“Life is a game,” he said, “and now is always the best time. When you have no time for games, you have no time for life. You need to solve one sort of riddle. So indulge an old man in another. If you can do this, perhaps I can help you find this woman.” As he spoke, he untied the knot and began pulling the beads from the thread.
“What if I promise to come back right after?”
“Ah, but we don’t know what you’ll find, or whether you’ll return, or whether my soul will take flight in the meantime.”
“I understand. But can you understand how pressed I’m feeling?”
“It’s good to hear that you have feelings, nieto. That’s how you know you’re alive and that you care about something. But feelings must not run your life or mine. I no longer care for the dramas of this world. I’ve seen them played out in many forms. Now I await my death when I shall see once again as I do in my dreams.”
“You believe that?”
“Perhaps not, but ¿quién sabe? In the meantime, each new day brings another chance to learn and to serve some small purpose. Maybe I can help with yours.”
I looked at the beads, now scattered around the naked thread.
“All right,” I said, resigned. “Tell me your riddle.”
“It’s this,” he said, leaning forward: “What is greater than God and worse than the devil? The rich want it, the poor have it, and if you eat it, you die?”
“What?” I asked.
Papa Joe repeated the riddle.
“I . . . really don’t know,” I answered.
“You’re not supposed to know. That’s why it’s called a riddle,” he said.
I turned my mind to it: Greater than God. But also worse than the devil. Is it a play on words? “Water?” I said. “Is it water, abuelo? I mean, Gandhi once said, ‘To a starving man, God is bread.’ So to someone in the desert, water may seem greater than God. Or if someone is drowning, water can seem worse than the devil.”
“Nice try,” he replied. “But no.” He returned to stringing the beads.
“Well, then I’d guess—”
“Don’t guess!” he said. “Wait until you know.”
Frustrated by this waste of time, I ran the riddle through my mind, concentrating, looking at it from different angles. Nothing came to me. Meanwhile, Papa Joe picked up one bead after the next until the thread was complete. “I give up,” I said. “Anyway, I can’t take any more time for—”
“You have all the time you need until your time runs out,” he said.
“Okay,” I said with finality. “I’ve reflected, contemplated, cogitated, and ruminated. And I’ve come up with nothing.”
“So!” he said, as his hand moved away from the knot he’d just tied. “You’re smarter than you look,” he added with a note of irony. “Nothing—nada—is the correct answer.”
It took a moment before I got it. “Of course! Nothing is greater than God; nothing is worse than the devil; the rich want nothing; the poor have nothing; and if you eat nothing, you die.”
Papa Joe was indeed as crafty as a fox—because there might be another layer to the riddle. So I had to ask: “Abuelo, did you ever meet a woman named Nada?”
He tilted his head, as if listening for something from his past. He smiled. “I’ve known many women by many names.”
I waited. After a pause, during which I could only imagine him recollecting some of these women, he finally gave me detailed directions.
FOUR
* * *
An hour later, after following Papa Joe’s directions in the sweltering heat, I found myself back at his souvenir store.
“I don’t get it,” I said, wiping my brow. “I did exactly as you said and wound up where I started!”
“Naturally,” he explained, turning to face me, “I didn’t want to waste my time telling you how to find the school until I knew you could follow directions.” At this, he broke into such enthusiastic laughter that he nearly fell off his chair. After he’d regained his composure, he said, “Like I told you, nieto—all I have left are amusements.”
I took a slow, deep breath. “Now that I’ve demonstrated my navigational abilities, would you be willing to direct me to the school where Ama may or may not teach?”
“Of course,” he said. Pointing to the west, he s
aid, “Go down the road. Get off near the Acoma Pueblo. Seek the children who laugh and play, and you’ll find Ama on that day.”
“Thank you,” I said, calming down. “I look forward to seeing children play. I have a child of my own—a little girl.”
Hearing this, he brightened. “¡Un momento!” He rose from his chair and entered the shop. Finally he emerged and held out a leather-cloaked kachina doll painted red and green. “For su hija,” he said. “I call her Standing Woman. Take good care of her. Such kachinas may bring help in times of need.”
“Thanks again, abuelo,” I said, tucking the doll into a side pocket of my pack.
Settling back into his chair, he dismissed my thanks with a wave and the customary “De nada.”
“Maybe I’ll see you again.”
“It’s possible, but it isn’t likely that I’ll see you,” he said, amused as ever by his own wit.
Papa Joe and his shop soon shrank, then disappeared from the rearview mirror. If he’d ever known the old sage Nada, he wouldn’t say. But I finally knew where I might find the woman named Ama.
As the truck bumped along a dusty road just off the highway, I made a mental note to buy and send another postcard to my daughter. But how would I explain my presence in the Southwest when I couldn’t even explain it to myself?
A few minutes later, I caught sight of a hand-painted sign that read ACOMA PUEBLO. At the bottom in smaller letters: ELEMENTARY SCHOOL.
I parked at the edge of the dusty schoolyard and made my way to the door. A few of the young children glanced my way, smiling and whispering to one another. Their teacher stood by an old desk. A handmade nameplate read “Ama Chávez.” The stern-faced, bespectacled teacher, younger-looking than I’d expected, said in a strident voice, “Eyes front!” She nodded to me briefly, then turned back to an old blackboard with chalk that screeched as she wrote. Meanwhile, several children—first- and second-graders, I guessed—glanced back and made me a coconspirator in their fun.
When the school day ended, before I had a chance to speak with the teacher, a little girl ran up to me. She was, I guessed, seven years old—my daughter’s age. She wore her hair in a ponytail decorated with a bright yellow ribbon tied in a bow, which reminded me of an embarrassing time when I’d dozed off while spying on Socrates only to discover that he’d fastened a similar ribbon to my hair as I slept.
The girl’s voice brought me back to the present. “My name is Bonita and it means pretty in Spanish I am pretty don’t you think?” she said without a pause. And after a big breath: “Bonita doesn’t mean anything at all in the Hopi language but that’s okay because I’m not Hopi I’m only part Hopi and part Mexican. Samatri my best friend who I’m mad at today says that since I’m only part Hopi then I’m only part pretty even if my name is Bonita. What’s your name?” In a ladylike gesture, she slowly extended her hand.
“My name is Dan, and, yes, you’re very bonita,” I replied, taking her hand delicately. I took my own big breath, which made her giggle and take back her hand to cover her mouth. “Do you call your teacher Ama or Señora Chávez?” I asked, pointing to the woman erasing the board.
Imitating my style of speech, Bonita whispered to me as the teacher approached, “She’s only the assistant and Señora Chávez will be back soon I heard because she had an errand. I think there’s going to be a surprise party but it’s not a surprise at all.” She took a big breath. “Did you know that it’s my birthday and Blanca’s on the same day today?”
“No, I didn’t know. I don’t know a lot of things.”
“You’ll like Señora Chávez. She knows everything,” Bonita declared.
About an hour later, just after kicking up to a handstand on the teacher’s desk, I saw an upside-down woman enter the room carrying two bags of groceries. Even from my inverted position, I could see she was attractive. More important, she was real—and here! I quickly returned to my feet. Feeling like a student who’d been caught in some mischief, I introduced myself and started to offer an explanation.
She waved that away and said, “Bonita told me you were looking for me. You can explain your antics while I set up party decorations.”
“I hear it’s a double birthday.”
“Bonita gets around,” she said. “A future television host. Or first lady.”
“Already a first lady,” I said, reaching out for one of the bags. She hesitated, her body language sending a clear message: Hands off, stranger. But, changing her mind, she passed me a bag, then crossed toward an alcove with a small sink.
I placed the bag on the counter and said, “Ms. Chávez, I’m hoping you might be able to help me find something I’ve been looking for.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“Would you like me to diagram a sentence?”
I thought I saw a faint smile before she turned away to lift a cake and party decorations out of the bag. “I’m sorry, Mr. Millman,” she said, “I’m so used to being a teacher, I forget how to speak with surprise guests who drop by to help with children’s parties.”
She had a point. So I came to the point myself. As I taped blue and orange crepe paper to the wall, I said, “I have a mentor named after an ancient Greek. . . .”
I felt her eyes on the back of my neck. Yes, I had her attention. So I told her about the letter, about asking around Old Town and meeting Papa Joe. “He asked me to call him abuelo because—”
“Because he’s older than dirt,” she said, finishing my sentence. “I know him. And I may have once met your mentor.” She turned and looked right at me, which is when I noticed that she had one blue eye and one brown eye—it worked for her. “I’d like to see this letter,” she said. “This letter from Socrates.”
FIVE
* * *
Seeing my reluctance, Ama added, “I don’t need to read it. I just need to see it.”
I reached into my pack, took the letter out, unfolded it carefully, and showed her the first page, then the last. She sighed. I have to say it was a lovely sigh. So I had to ask: “Do you and your husband live nearby?”
She looked at me knowingly. “I never married. But I do have a friend. Joe Stalking Wolf.”
“You have a friend named Stalking Wolf?”
“A good friend. He’s reservation police.”
So much for my fantasies, I thought. Joe Stalking Wolf . . . Quickly abandoning that track of thought, I refocused on the matter at hand.
“In his letter, Socrates made a point of describing a bright little girl he’d met at a school.”
“I was a spirited child,” she said, smiling. “Or at least my father said so. And I didn’t just meet Socrates at the school. I also saw him at a small hospital—a clinic and infirmary—while he was recovering from a bad fever.”
“But why were you there?”
“My father was the primary doctor. He’d served as a medic in the military and worked in hospitals after that, one near Santa Fe and then in the clinic a few miles from here. Anyway, it was Papa Joe who’d stumbled over Socrates and brought him into the clinic.”
“Papa Joe never told me. . . . How do you even remember all this?”
“Socrates had a way of making an impression, even on a six-year-old girl. He held my hand and told me I had an energy, a gift for healing,” she said. “He had a beat-up old rucksack like some vagabond. I remember seeing it on a chair in the hospital. He muttered in his sleep about it, and about a book or journal. My father thought these were just feverish ramblings. Most days I went to the infirmary after school to wait. It’s funny,” she said. “Until you showed up, I hadn’t thought about all this for a long while.”
“Is it possible that Papa Joe visited Socrates in the infirmary?” I asked.
“I have a vague memory of seeing the two of them together. Maybe he came by to check up on the man he’d brought in. They seemed on friendly terms. That’s it.”
In the pause that followed, I resumed my decorating duties as Ama set out the cake and napkins. “You c
an be our special party guest,” she said, and this time she meant it. “Would you call the children in for the party?”
When I stepped out the door, I saw a couple of boys climbing the lower branches of a great oak to a makeshift tree house. A few other children were playing on an old swing set. Meanwhile, Bonita and two other girls were watching a younger boy attempt to do a cartwheel. When I walked over to him and demonstrated the proper form, I was immediately surrounded by all the other children. So I showed them how to do cartwheels, out on that thin patch of lawn by the oak, in the late-afternoon sun.
A few minutes later, I heard Ama’s voice. “Okay, everyone!” she called out. “Cake and ice—” The kids shot past me and ran toward their teacher.
“I think I had them at cake,” she said as I followed her into the classroom.
When the party ended, and Bonita and the other children went home, Ama and I sat outside on an old porch swing, hanging from a tree branch.
“Multipurpose oak,” I said, pointing up into the branches.
“It’s their second classroom,” she said. “Joe helped repair it. There’s not much in the school budget for tree houses and repurposed porch swings.” She laughed. “It was nice of you to teach the children cartwheels. They’ll remember you.” The softness in her voice told me, You just made my A-list, and I wouldn’t mind if you kissed me. (At least, that’s how it played out in my overactive imagination.)
“So just where is Joe Stalking Wolf these—”
She asked at the same time: “How did you come to have Socrates as a mentor?”
Resigning myself to this change of subject, I shrugged. “Lucky twist of fate, I guess. I’m glad you met him too, years before I did.”
“We only exchanged a few words,” she responded, “and for much of that he wasn’t in his right mind.”
“Then he hasn’t changed much,” I joked.
Ignoring my attempt at wit, she said, “You know, he told me some things that changed the way I see the world. I’d love to know more about him.”
So, as the old swing swayed gently in the cool evening breeze, I shared a few highlights of my early days with Socrates. Her curiosity planted the seed of an idea in my mind: someday I might write about my time with Socrates and what I’d learned—when I finally understood what it was I’d learned. Where would I even begin?