Free Jacob Atabet by Michael Murphy Page A

locked both doors, and turned off the telephone bell. But there were sounds near the door. “Darwin,” Casey called. “Are you there? There’s someone here to see you.” I didn’t answer and she called again, then I could hear her footsteps receding.
    The scene in Atabet’s place played itself over and over. His deathly look, the wounds on his chest, Corinne’s story, all came swimming in and out of focus. The episode had shaken me more than I thought.
    Casey was knocking again. “Darwin,” she said loudly. “Are you all right? I know you’re in there.”
    I opened the door and she came in with a worried expression. “What happened?” she asked. “How long’ve you been here?”
    It would be best to go slow. To tell her everything would only provoke her. “Sit down.” I motioned toward the couch. “Maybe you can help me sort out what’s happened.”
    I sat behind the desk and watched her light a cigarette. “You look pale.” She squinted through the smoke. “Is Atabet all right?”
    “Pale?” I said, affecting nonchalance. “I feel fine. Just fine. It was only a scratch on his face. His landlord thought he was hurt when he called me, but by the time I got there everything was back to normal. Some other friends were there . . .”
    “But why did they call you? ” She eyed me through the curling smoke. “Isn’t that a little odd?”
    “I don’t think so. The landlord happened to see my number in Atabet’s apartment. I think he panicked.”
    “Well,” she frowned. “What is it that you need to sort out?”
    I felt divided. She would be skeptical of Atabet, but her good sense would help me get some perspective. “What happened?” she persisted. “What’s going on with you and him anyway? Is it just that he likes your book?”
    “Nothing’s going on between us, for God’s sake. He’s a very interesting guy, that’s all.”
    “Then what’s the problem? What’s shaken you up?”
    I thought of the wound on his chest. Telling her about that would not be a good way to start. “It’s funny,” I said. “What is my problem here? What is my problem?”
    She tapped her cigarette in an ashtray. “Is he gay?” she murmured.
    “No, he’s not gay. I wish it was that easy. I guess the problem is—well, to say it bluntly, I guess he’s living some of the things I’ve written about. That’s probably what’s shaken me up.”
    “Living it? Living it? You mean”—she made an impatient gesture. “Well, what do you mean?”
    “I mean that in some way he’s living the changes I’ve tried to envision.”
    “You mean the transformation of the body? I don’t think I understand you.”
    I would have to be careful. For every mystical revelation her husband and lovers had lived through, there had been a dozen psychic disasters. “Well, first, it’s something in his looks,” I said. “And some things his friends have told me. It’s not that he’s gone very far with it. It’s more the promise of what he’s been through.”
    “The promise of it?” She frowned. “That’s a phrase that Morris liked to use. The promise of his paintings. Remember? For a while he thought he’d found the vita elixir, the secret of immortal life.”
    I felt a sinking sensation. Like Atabet, her husband, Morris Sills had used painting to find an entrance to the body’s mysteries before he killed himself in 1956. “But Atabet doesn’t use drugs,” I protested. “He’s had a discipline for twenty-five years. He looks strong as an ox. I don’t think they’re exactly alike.”
    “How do you know?” She looked down at the ashtray. “You didn’t know Morris. You didn’t know him at all. Darwin, I’m sorry. But what do you expect? First Morris, then Walt.” Walter Storm, her lover for a while in the fifties, had been a mystic too, before he withdrew into his private visions in 1960. “I can’t help comparing. So you think Atabet’s different?”
    “As far as I can tell. Yes, I do. He seems solid