A Nation of Mystics Read online

  Lisa regarded him for several long seconds. When she finally spoke, her voice shook with the emotion of unaccustomed confrontation. “You know, Matt, I’ve known Jacob a lot longer than you have. Don’t try telling me where I can or can’t go. I’ll make my own decisions.”

  “I’m trying to develop a permanent business relationship!” he answered hotly, his ire growing.

  Lisa raised her chin, her posture hardening, everything about her suddenly accepting the challenge. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but it’s not my trip. I don’t get your mercenary attitude toward something that’s holy. Grass isn’t about money. If you can’t understand that, then we’re in a different headspace.”

  At her words, Matt jumped from the couch, his voice loud and threatening, moving closer. “You want to know something? I’m sick of your lectures on everything. The religious books you keep insisting I read. Every time I turn around, you’ve got new guys coming up here from the Ave to score. I’m beginning to wonder how you get them up here …”

  “Matt!” Christian moved between them, his hand on Matt’s chest, his words uncertain, reflecting his surprise. “Let’s … let’s slow down a bit …” Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw that Lisa’s eyes sought his, held, and sent a silent message.

  Stepping to the side to confront Matt directly, she made her intent clear. “My path is more spiritual. And wherever that path is going to lead me, it’s not with you. I don’t want to be with you anymore, not ever again. It’s over.”

  “Your path?” Matt continued hoarsely, laughing in disbelief. “Your ideas about how things should run would put us all back on the street hawking small amounts of pot on some corner. Like you were doing when I met you. So, go. Find your own space. See how well you do on your own.”

  “Matt,” Christian tried, watching as they faced each other, “ease up, will you?” The unfolding scene had become a lurid quagmire of emotion. “Lisa lives here. She can come and go as she pleases.”

  Suddenly incredulous, outraged that Christian would take her side, Matt glared at him. “Fuck you!” he finally cried, turning his entire livid attention on Christian. “Who the hell do you think you are? Like you think you’re better? Just because you come from India and thought about becoming a minister. Who is it you knew? Some Tibetan lama who taught you to meditate? But I know better. You’re just like all the rest of us dudes.” Now, he cast a suspicious look at Lisa. “He’s got lots of girlfriends. He just doesn’t bring them around.”

  Lowering his voice, Christian replied, “Right now, meditation is exactly what we need. Let’s sit down, have a smoke, and talk.”

  Instead, looking as if he’d just realized something important that he’d missed, Matt demanded, “Have you fucked my girlfriend?”

  Lisa flushed, her eyes bright and suddenly filled with tears, her gaze on Christian’s face. For a long moment, Christian wondered whether Matt really expected an answer.

  “You know I wouldn’t do that to you,” he finally answered, his voice low.

  “But you’ve both thought about it. Haven’t you?”

  “Matt …” Christian sighed.

  “Not now. I’m not up for another lesson in logic.”

  With a last frustrated scowl, he left the apartment, slamming the door hard.

  When the reverberation of sound fell away, Christian took Lisa into his arms, stroking her hair, unnerved by her quiet weeping. “It’s all right. Don’t cry. I’m sorry. He’s … he’s just not himself. Please don’t cry. Look, what do you want to do?”

  “You know the only reason I’ve been sticking around is to be near you,” she whispered. “Is it true? Do you have lots of girlfriends?”

  “No.” His lips moved over her tear-brimmed eyes, whispering, “Matt’s just … a little tense. The draft. Maybe a bit of paranoia. We’ve been carrying bags of grass through the streets. Sometimes you just don’t know who might be watching …”

  “Oh, Christian,” she breathed softly, her lips touching his.

  “Lisa!” he cried with real frustration. “What would I say to him?”

  “Just tell him I’m moving into your room.”

  “He already feels I’ve betrayed him. What would he say to your moving in? He … he was there for me when I really needed someone.”

  “I just told him it was over between us.” She held up her hands in a gesture of disbelief. “I’m not with him any more. You won’t hurt him, but you’ll hurt me?”

  He closed his eyes, wanting her and unsure where to go with his desire. How was he to walk the line between this beautiful woman and his friend?

  Before he could speak, make some excuse, some argument, she said, “You know, I watch you sometimes. When you don’t know I’m watching. You look so … so far away.” She softened her voice. “Whatever Matt says, you are different. People come over to buy lids, yes. But they also come over to be with you. To listen to the things you have to say.”

  With a sudden sadness, Christian remembered the promise of his childhood abilities for the ministry. How many times had he been told that he had special gifts—clarity of thought, insight, a tenor of voice that suggested care and concern.

  Lisa sighed and wiped her face with the back of her hand. “Alright. I’ll stick around. But only until Christmas. A few weeks. By then, you need to choose. Me or Matt.”

  Then, pressing her body against his, she whispered, “Just so you know …”

  Slowly, sucking the very breath from his lungs, she kissed him, until he could not resist, but embraced her and felt the whole of her against him, how she fit along his body and shared his skin.

  “Two weeks,” she said, her breath a short, hot rush into his ear. “And I’ll take the couch.”

  “You can have my room.”

  “No.”

  Before tempting him further, she turned and left the apartment.

  A few days later, Jacob’s truckload of Acapulco Gold arrived. The smoke was everything Lisa had promised, leaves and flowers a beautiful brown gold, and the high unlike any pot Christian had experienced—intense, pushing him to a new edge of color and sound and thought. Suddenly, they found themselves not only selling lids but also turning whole kilos.

  Word spread quickly, and on a rainy afternoon in late December, outrageous Kevin from the Haight-Ashbury returned with a friend named Bob, who’d arrived from Laguna Beach. Bob, like Kevin, was a couple of years older—twenty-one or twenty-two—hair to his shoulders, a walrus mustache, lean, muscled, and tan even in the beginnings of the Northern California winter. With a self-assurance that promised he knew the scene, he took one look at the color of the smoke and began counting out enough for two keys.

  “You’re Christian, yes?” he said, passing over the money and picking up his shoulder bag to leave. “Let me know if you get any more of this. Someone’s put a good trip together.”

  Behind him the door opened, and Lisa walked into the apartment.

  Christian watched uncomfortably as Bob did a double take, his eyes taking in her body, her hair and eyes. Instead of leaving, Bob took a seat on the floor, pulled a pipe from his coat pocket, and began to fill the pipe with the smoke he’d just bought.

  In the apartment that evening, Bob told stories of India and the hashish that could be bought in the mountains of Kashmir, described the small, family owned hash shops along narrow, bricked streets, the charas scored on the beaches of Goa. As he passed the pipe, he spoke of the fabrics and jewelry of the bazaars to Lisa, described his home in Laguna Beach, with its incense, rugs, pillows, and religious statues. Lisa laughed at his anecdotes as she had not laughed in weeks, and Christian knew she was lost to them when Bob began to describe the holy river Ganges and the temples in Benares. For a wild, jealous moment, he thought to fight for her with his own stories of Asia. But to speak of them would be to live through his memories. The nightmare had stopped for the moment, and he didn’t want to awaken it.

  Late, just as Christian was about to fall asleep on the f
loor where they had smoked, Bob opened his hand to hold out small, white tablets. Bob chose one, swallowed, and reverently placed the other tabs in Lisa’s palm.

  “Oh, Christian,” she cried, in spite of herself. “Here’s the great adventure I promised you! LSD!”

  Christian regarded Matt’s tight-lipped silence and knew that everything was already up in the air. “Let’s see where it all comes down,” he quietly said, taking a tablet.

  Lisa had already taken LSD, but for Matt and Christian, it was a brand new, mind-blowing experience, the energy of the relationships in the room disquieted, the night heavy with music, laughter, wonder, and sexual confusion. The dimly lit room was pierced by color and pattern, the head trip more intense than anything Christian had ever experienced, could ever have imagined.

  Sometime toward early morning, Lisa split with Bob. Matt, unbelievably, didn’t seem to care. He had come down in a place without Lisa, and that seemed to be all right for him.

  And Christian … when she’d left, it was as if the sun had gone from his life. He missed her. But something had happened during the evening, a memory of where his meditation could take him. The teachings of Lama Loden had come back: clear, poignant, and with an understanding that was startling in its simplicity. The remembrances were both painful and joyous, and he had cried or laughed his way through the evening, sometimes devastated by a memory, other moments elated, the dead alive again, the sense of time dropped away and held at bay. Everything was there on a giant metaphysical table, just waiting to be sorted. He wanted Lisa, but just now, he was confused. There were too many things in his past and too many questions surrounding his future.

  In the afternoon, Lisa was back, alone, wearing a new embroidered Indian dress.

  “You’re leaving?” Christian asked, watching her pack. He was spaced, riding the end of the trip, and still had not slept.

  “Yeah,” she said quietly without looking up. “I’m moving to Laguna with Bob. He’s into a spiritual trip. That’s more my direction.”

  “Aren’t you going to say good-bye to Matt?”

  “We said good-bye last night.”

  “What about me? We didn’t say good-bye last night.”

  Lisa looked up from the packing, fully and frankly, for the first time since entering the apartment. “Do you have anything you want to say to me, Christian?”

  “There’s something about this experience. Nonattachment … not much is actually real …”

  With a slow smile, she nodded, understood.

  “Lisa,” Christian said, stepping toward her, every thought in her green eyes naked, “I know you want me to ask you to stay. This feeling between us is more than something for a night or a week or a month. What I feel for you is something that will last a long time. But right now … I … I can’t offer you anything. There are things about me … about my past … things I need to work out.”

  She stood before him, an arm’s length away, their intimacy so startling, their understanding of each other so complete, that he wondered whether he could separate his mind from hers.

  “I could help, if you’d let me,” she said softly.

  “Right now, I wouldn’t be any good for you.” He slowly shook his head. “Especially after last night. I have a lot of things to put into place.”

  Spirals still floated freely in the air about his head, commingled occasionally with flashes of color and subtle paisleys, his mind blown, still standing on the edge.

  Lisa blinked and turned to finish filling the knapsack with the little she had. When the last strap was secured, she gave him a long look, then smiled.

  “So, what did you think of the acid?”

  “It was what you promised.” He looked into her eyes, her pupils large and dark, her thoughts still easy to read, and could not help but smile. “That was quite the adventure, Alice, taking me through the looking glass.”

  “You need to thank Bob,” she said gently. “The acid came from him.”

  “There’s your share of the money …”

  “I don’t need it.” She dismissed the thought with a shake of her head. “Bob has enough.”

  She waited, expectantly, still wavering.

  But he could not respond. Not just then. His mind was far away, locked into the beauty of the patterns he had witnessed the night before, the sensations that had run through his body, the depth of his perceptions.

  Lisa kissed him gently on the lips. “Good-bye, Christian.”

  She opened the front door, stepped through, and closed it softly behind.

  CHRISTIAN AND LISA

  ANANDA SHIVA ASHRAM, SANTA MONICA, CALIFORNIA

  AUGUST 1966

  In the eight months since Lisa had left Berkeley for Southern California, Christian had only heard rumors of her life. The latest word was that she’d entered an ashram. Now he’d spent the last of his money getting to Santa Monica to find her. The journey was a gamble. If he lost, it didn’t matter that the money was gone; he was busted and on the street anyway.

  In the sweltering temperatures of a late August heat wave, he parked the old station wagon in front of a Spanish colonial mansion. Impressed, wondering, he checked a small piece of paper to ensure he had the correct address. More than a little awed by this home that had been a gift to the Master of the ashram, he took the brick path that curved across a manicured lawn. Two wings stretched from a central entrance, the sides of the building a balanced design of arches and ornate iron balconies. A red-tiled roof covered the house.

  Enormous baksheesh, he thought, a brilliant offering.

  At the massive wooden entrance studded with iron flowers, a knocker, and a peephole, he pushed a doorbell, and in minutes, the door opened. A man in white meditation clothes bowed politely, his hands placed palm to palm and over his heart.

  “Namaste!” I acknowledge the Divine within you.

  Christian made quick notes of his young, thin face, the uncut hair curling to his shoulders, his beard, the clear, dark eyes filled with curiosity.

  Bowing, Christian returned the greeting.

  “Namaste.”

  Stoned and unprepared for the intensity of the man who greeted him, he said softly, “I’m looking for a friend. Lisa. Someone told me she was living here at Ananda Shiva. Blond hair. Green eyes. Very pretty.”

  “Ah, you must mean Kali,” he smiled and nodded. “Can you give me your name, please?”

  “Christian.”

  “And you are?”

  Christian paused. What was he to Lisa?

  “An old friend from Berkeley.”

  “My name is Krishna. If you look, I’m sure she’ll be in the garden near shade and the fountain. It’s very warm today.” He held out an arm indicating a path to the right of the building. “Feel free to wander.”

  The heat, combined with the joint Christian had smoked on the way over, made the light crystal clear, the colors of the garden both deep and bright. Walking lazily along the pebbled path, the smell of roses strong, he thought the garden more a small park. Others sat on benches—reading, meditating, and speaking quietly. He breathed easily, overtaken by the tranquility of the space.

  Toward the back of the property, on a bench beneath a rose trellis, he saw her, alone, reading, leaning in comfort on the bench’s wooden back. Lisa’s hair was still parted in the middle, her feet bare, one foot tucked under her body. The dress she wore was embroidered white muslin from India with threads of blue that created a paisley design. Christian sucked in his breath at her beauty. For months, he had dreamed of this moment of meeting, of touching her, of seeing the deep green fire of her eyes when she laughed.

  “Hello, Lisa.”

  She looked up … and with a sharp intake of breath, cried, “Christian! What are you doing here? You … your hair’s longer!”

  “Oh,” and he ran a hand through it. “I can just tie it back. So how are you? The man at the door told me your new name is Kali. That’s a powerful name.”

  He watched as she took in his long ha
ir, jeans, t-shirt, and sandals, the beads he wore around his neck. He’d filled out in his chest and arms in the months since she’d left. The boyish look was gone. A hint of beard, darker than his blond hair, stubbled his jawline.

  Smiling, without taking her eyes from his face, she said, “I’d almost forgotten you’re familiar with Hinduism. Please, sit down. I’m just so shocked to see you. How did you find me?”

  “Through Kevin from the Haight.” Christian took a seat on the bench next to her and smiled into her eyes. “I’d heard about Ananda Shiva. But to be honest, I had no idea it would be so elegant.”

  “You’ve come to see me?”

  “Kevin also said you’d left Bob.”

  Pausing, considering, she carefully placed a bookmark at her place and closed the pages.

  “Christian, I’m not proud of the way I was when I lived with you and Matt. I put you in a terrible position, insisting on a relationship, forcing you to choose between friendship and me.”

  “It was a confusing time. But I’m not so confused any more.”

  In answer, she said quietly, “I’ve met a Master. And for the first time, I know true love. God’s love.”

  “Then you’re serious about your study here.”

  She nodded. “Remember? I’d always prayed to find a teacher and one day move to India.”

  Shifting uncomfortably, Christian remembered the teachers he had called Guru, the commitments he had once been ready to make. “Do you really understand the work and dedication involved in working with a living Master?”

  “Oh, yes. You see, about a month ago, the Master came from India for a few weeks. Bob and I attended one of the teachings here.”

  “And you’re sure about this?”

  Again, she nodded. “When we left after the teaching and the Master’s blessing, Bob and I went home and took a large dose of acid. On that trip, everything fell into place. I realized that I knew the love of God when I was high, but I always came down. The Master was offering a system of knowledge and practice that made transcendent love permanent. A few days later, I took what little I had and offered to the ashram.”