Free Jacob Atabet by Michael Murphy

his body changing. You might call it an experience of God translated into body language, the usual kind of interpretation, except that all of us could see him changing too. Actually changing his looks. There seemed to be a relaxation here.” She made a circular motion around her forehead and eyes. “More beauty, and a light. And changes in the texture of his skin. I wasn’t the only one who saw it. After all,” she tapped the floor with her foot, “physicists say that all this hard stuff is mainly fields of empty space. He seemed to be finding a way to alter its pattern slightly.”
    “And that was when he was twenty?”
    “Yes. About nineteen or twenty. Right after he started to paint. He thinks his painting helped quicken the process, that experimenting with the contours of space and human flesh revealed the body to an extraordinary depth. Like a new kind of x-ray. Because—and this is the most important thing— because all of this would help him discover the body’s deepest secret. That’s what all of it was saying—that spirit, the One, was waiting to emerge in the flesh. His work was beginning to show how it would happen.”
    For a moment we sat there in silence. To find the secret of embodiment was the central theme of all my research. My instinct about him had been right from the beginning. “So,” she said. “You can see why your book’s made such a hit around here!” As she said it, Kazi Dama opened the door and called for us both to come in. “We’ll continue this later,” she said, and I followed her into the bedroom. Crossing the studio, I seemed to move in a daze. This confirmation of my work and ideas seemed too perfect to be true.
    Atabet was sitting against the bedboard with the tray at his side. He raised a hand in greeting. “Cured now!” exclaimed Kazi. “Very quick recovery.” Corinne picked up his pajama top to look. Apparently the wound had partially healed.
    Kazi Dama stood with his arms folded across his chest. I guessed that he was proud of the cure he had helped bring about. Or proud of something—for no apparent reason he tilted his head back and laughed. Atabet turned to see me, but made no effort to speak. He held my gaze, his dark eyes sunk in pools of peace. A wave of pleasure passed through me, and I remembered a picture of an Indian sage. Ramana Maharshi, I thought, had those eyes, swimming in the same kind of bliss.
    Corinne took the tray from the room, and Kazi Dama started humming. “Don’t mind us,” Atabet whispered. “It’s cheaper than penicillin.”
    The Tibetan inspected the wound, and nodded with approval. Then with a radiant smile, he left. “As good as the family doctor,” Atabet murmured. “And he doesn’t charge a cent.” But he winced as he said it. It was obvious his wounds were still hurting.
    He stared up at the ceiling, as if he were summoning invisible help. Did he want me to stand here or leave? Minutes passed. “Darwin?” he whispered at last. “Death is so near us. So near. ” But as he said it, Corinne came into the room. From her look I could tell I should leave. He raised a hand. “Talk to her,” he whispered. “And I’ll see you tomorrow. I want you to take up a practice.”
    She followed me into the kitchen. “That thing about death?” I asked. “What does he mean?”
    “He’ll survive,” she said. “I promise you. But look—I’ll call you in a day or two. There’s a lot we have to discuss. With all these changes, there’s a lot of energy boiling.”
    “Don’t worry. I know what you mean.”
    She checked an impulse to say something more. “All right,” she whispered. “Remember that sometimes these things are contagious. All of us have to stay pretty centered. And we’d appreciate it if you were careful who you talked to. You know how stories get around.”

7
    A S I WALKED DOWN the hill toward the Press I felt myself shaking. It would be good to sort out my feelings in silence. I slipped into my office,