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 50-something piano teacher were to suddenly announce that he is the boss of an imaginary institute dispensing spiritual wisdom to world leaders from an invisible estate in the Napa
Valley, some sort of intervention would likely ensue. Inside the echo chamber
of the micro-cult, this fantasy went unchallenged, although the stress of supporting the phantom Center for the Unity of All
Mankind did ultimately precipitate crises of faith in even the most doctrinaire of Alain's few remaining true believers, none of whom was stupid.
The fantasy consumed terrific amounts of energy. The other
couple in the micro-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 Journal for the Unity of All Mankind. 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 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.
If
the pretend Center with its very real demands was intended to recapture the enthrallment that had been so easily commanded in
the group's early years, the timing was just terrible. After a decade
of protracted emotional adolescence, Alain’s acolytes were, despite the best efforts of everyone involved, growing up. We were
all in our 30s. Individuals in the group were grappling with various adult concerns—raising
children, earning a living, tenure, infertility, coming out. What we all had in common was the increasingly urgent
imperative of being able to determine, on our own, which box to check on
any form indicating personal identity or preference.
Citing the
rigors of school nights, I dropped the "sacrosanct" Wednesday meetings at Alain's house, and was vigilant
about enforcing appropriate social and emotional boundaries around my
children and myself. There were subtle signs that other members of the micro-cult appeared to be heading in the same direction, privately characterizing All One as "All Him"
and, for the first time, questioning aloud (among themselves) Alain's judgment about such things as his plot to break up a young couple he
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 the men of the inner circle. 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...a lot of things? Nobody dared speak up, but it was increasingly apparent that the natives were restless, and the excitement expressed over The Center for the Unity of All
Mankind had a dutiful, if not doubtful, cast to it.
I
was the first in the group to be summoned 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 The Center for the Unity 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, unsheathed his blades, and got right down to business. “You were never really one of us,” he
began, in the heightened British accent that signaled stress. This 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 interrupted by a swift recitation of the reasons why I was never really one of the elect: 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 everyone else's. 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 of my limited understanding. Etcetera.
I bit back a giddy urge to giggle. What was the appropriate response to the adult equivalent of playground insults? Sticks and stones, etc? Fuck you? Then the
ante was abruptly upped with Alain's intonation of my most private fears and doubts, things I had confided only to my husband. Robert had reported them to
Alain, who was now wielding them as weapons, suddenly cutting deep. The urge to laugh vanished.
His recall was amazing. Some of the issues he was
attempting exhume had been resolved years ago. Others
were dead-on, and deadly.
I was gobsmacked. The man saying these awful things had been a guest at my table hundreds of times, part of my family's life for years. Had he been planning this all along—amassing the most
intimate sort of intelligence over the course of a decade against some future need to inflict pain? If so, why? Why would
anyone want to wound another person at such a profound level? I had come when summoned that afternoon, stupidly supposing that
despite everything I had witnessed when other people left his spiritual
orbit, our relationship might be re-cast so we could meet as social
friends, as he was with "civilians"— people he knew through his interests in music
and homeopathy. Being so terribly wrong, so far off the mark, rendered me 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 each one 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. Simple words to that effect. I mostly remember needing to get my kid and
myself out of there, and quickly. Alain smiled smoothly and said that
we would still friends, even if I was no longer part of the group. Friends. 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.
This is I do remember, precisely: It took me
less than a heartbeat to pass through a haze of shock and fury to land
on the solid ground of maternal resolve. This was a place of complete
clarity and 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 with that, I left Alain’s house for the
last time. It was that awful, and that easy.
Next: A launch, a crash, some private audiences and a move. Part 5 is here.
