Robert and Alain, Part 4: An Invitation to Tea
Part 1: Robert Meets Alain is here
Part 2: Circles and Lines is here
Part 3: Under the Bigtop is here
San Francisco, 1981-82
In most circles, if a piano teacher were to suddenly announce that he is the boss of an imaginary institute dispensing spiritual
inspiration to world leaders from an invisible estate in the Napa
Valley, some sort of intervention would likely ensue. Inside the sealed echo chamber
of the micro-cult, this fantasy went unchallenged, although supporting a pretend Center for the Advancement of All
Mankind did ultimately precipitate crises of faith in even the most slavish of Alain's remaining true believers, none of whom was actually stupid.
The fantasy consumed huge amounts of energy. The other
couple in the cult picked up the rent on Alain’s house, which he
insisted be referred to as The Center, and paid the printing costs for
the first (and only) issue of All One. The single guy of the group was
at Alain’s house every day. Robert, too, was expected to be available
most afternoons and evenings, to take dictation and transcribe the
content of All One, every word of which was handwritten by Alain. These
demands on his time, on top of a full-time job and a family, were
framed as preparation for even greater service to come; Alain
emphasized repeatedly that Robert would need to be away from home for
“weeks, sometimes months at a time” while those world leaders were
being guided to new states of consciousness in the Napa Valley.
If
the imaginary Center and its attendant demands were indeed part of a
plan to recapture some of the enthrallment that had been so easily commanded of
the group in its early years, the timing was just terrible. After a decade
of protracted emotional adolescence, Alain’s acolytes were,
in spite of the best efforts of everyone involved, growing up. We were
all in our 30s. Members of the group were grappling with raising
children, earning a living, tenure, infertility, and coming out of the
closet. What we all had in common was the increasingly urgent
imperative of being able to decide, on our own, which box to check on
any form indicating personal identity or preference.
Citing the
rigors of school nights, I stopped going to meetings, and was adamant
about enforcing appropriate social and emotional boundaries around my
children and myself. Other members of the micro-cult, each restless
in his or her own way, appeared also to be heading in that direction,
questioning for the first time the judgment behind such things as a
special boys-only meeting about how to break up a young couple Alain
had lately met. The man in question was in the process of
dropping out of medical school, and the woman was urging him to
reconsider. “What can we do to get her out of the picture?” Alain
asked. You could see doubt moving through the group like a slow virus:
if he was wrong about this, might he be wrong about that, too? About...many things?
I
was the first to be invited to a private tea at Alain’s house. I
brought my 3-year-old, kept home from preschool with the sniffles, who
played quietly on the kitchen floor of Center for the Advancement of
All Mankind while its founder and sole proprietor brought out Twinings
Earl Grey loose-leaf and a set of metaphorical scalpels. He brewed the
tea and unsheathed his blades. “You were never really one of us,” he
began, in the heightened British accent that I had learned over the
years was a signal of stress. I believe this was intended to hurt, but
it was, in fact, one statement about which we were in complete
agreement. “You’re right,” I said, and before I could say anything further was gob-smacked by a swift, smooth recitation of his perception of my sins: I was mired in materialism, shallow,
and I lacked true intelligence. My priorities were terribly wrong, I
was an impediment to my husband’s spiritual progress, and my own lack
of spirituality left me wanting as a mother, which was most unfortunate
for my children. My life was a shabby thing, quite ordinary, which was
to be expected of someone with my limited understanding.
Then the
ante was abruptly upped with the naming of my deepest fears and doubts,
secrets known only to my husband. Robert had reported them to
Alain, who was now using my dark night of the soul as a weapon in his tea time evisceration.
His recall was amazing. Some of the issues he was
attempting to incise into my flesh had been resolved years ago. Others
were dead-on, and deadly. Had he been planning this all along—amassing
an arsenal of intimate knowledge to use for harm? If so, why? Why would
anyone want to wound another person at such a profound level?
To what end? I had come as summoned that afternoon, thinking that
despite everything I witnessed when other people left his spiritual
orbit, our relationship might be edited so we could meet as social
friends, as he was with people he knew through his interests in music
and homeopathy. Being so terribly wrong, so far off the mark, left me
literally speechless. Well, that and the hideous betrayal.
My little
girl broke the spell. She had been so quiet at my feet, so good,
drawing with her crayons and trying hard not to pull the string on the
talking baby doll that went with her everywhere. She hugged my leg and
rested her head against me and I realized she was listening to every
word. Even if she could not understand all of them, the overall meaning
was clear enough. I scooped up her and Talking Baby and stood up myself.
“I
don’t understand why you’re doing this,” I said, or I think I said.
Words to that effect. I mostly remember needing to get my kid and
myself out of there, and quickly. Alain smiled pleasantly and said that
we would still friends, even if I was no longer part of the group.
Balancing my daughter on my hip, I gathered up her drawings and headed
toward the door. “Of course, you understand that I will continue with
{my son’s name},” Alain informed me in, smile gone.
It took me
less than a heartbeat to pass through a haze of shock and fury and land
on the solid ground of maternal resolve. This was a place of complete
confidence. There was not even a remote possibility of negotiation on
this point.
“ No, you won’t,” I assured him. “Don’t even try. I am
his mother.” And on that true, high note, I left Alain’s house for the
last time.
Next: Each member of the group gets invited to tea; a fresh crop of 20-somethings (no girls need apply).
