(The story starts here)
The Man Who Would Be Guru, Part 4:
Teatime at The Center For the Unity of All Mankind
San Francisco, California 1981-82
"Nobody dared stand up to Alain, but it was increasingly apparent that the natives were restless..."
In most social milieux, if a piano instructor were to suddenly announce that he is the boss of an invisible institute dispensing spiritual wisdom to world leaders from an imaginary estate in the Napa Valley, some sort of psychiatric intervention would likely ensue. Inside the echo chamber of the micro-cult, Alain's assertion went unchallenged, although the stress of supporting the phantom Center For the Unity of All Mankind did ultimately precipitate crises of faith in Alain’s followers, none of whom was actually stupid.
Maintaining the fantasy required massive infusions of attention and energy. The other couple in the micro-cult (no kids, a modest trust fund) paid the rent on Alain’s house, which he insisted be referred to as The Center; they would also be picking up printing and distribution costs for All One, The Journal for the Unity of All Mankind. The single guy of the group was at The Center every day, casting astrological charts and working with Alain on homeopathic texts. Robert—who had a full-time job, two young children, and a wife—was expected to be in attendance most afternoons and evenings to take dictation, transcribe the content of All One, and pick up Alain's dry-cleaning. These tasks were framed as preparation for even greater service to come; Alain emphasized, repeatedly, that Robert would have 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, as I suspected, intended to recapture the enthrallment that had been so easily commanded in the early years of the micro-cult, Alain's timing was terrible. Despite the best efforts of everyone involved, his acolytes were growing up. Individuals in the group were grappling with an array of real-world, adult concerns—raising children, earning a living, tenure, infertility, coming out—and the increasingly urgent imperative to be able to decide, on one’s own, which box to check on any form indicating identity or personal preference.
I declined to observe Sacrosanct Wednesdays and kept a she-wolf's watch about enforcing appropriate social and emotional boundaries around my children. There were subtle indicators that other members of the micro-cult were trending in the same direction, privately characterizing All One as "All Him" and questioning, for the first time ever, Alain's judgment about such things as his efforts to break up a young couple he had lately met. The man was thinking about dropping out of medical school at UCSF, a move Aalin enthusiastically advocated, stating that the young man was "ripe for the plucking"; the micro-cult badly needed new blood. The guy's girlfriend was urging him to reconsider and refused to have anything to do with Alain. “What can we do to get her out of the picture?” Alain asked the men of the micro-cult. Doubt moved 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 stand up to him, but it was increasingly apparent that the natives were growing restless.
I was the first to be summoned to tea at The Center For the Unity of All Mankind. I brought my 3-year-old daughter, kept home from preschool with a case of the sniffles. She played quietly on the kitchen floor of The Center while its proprietor brought out Twinings loose-leaf Earl Grey and a set of metaphorical scalpels. He brewed the tea, arranged his blades, and got right down to business. “You were never really one of us,” he began.
This was one thing about which Alain and were in complete agreement. “You are absolutely right,” I said, and before I could continue was interrupted by a swift recitation of the reasons why I was never really one of the elect: I was shallow, mired in materialism, and lacked true intelligence. My priorities were terribly wrong. My lack of higher understanding left me wanting as a mother, which was most unfortunate for my children. My life was quite ordinary, which was to be expected of someone like me. Etcetera, and curiously glib; had he practiced this litany of insults before lobbing it over the tea table?
I bit back a giddy urge to giggle. This was absurd. What was the appropriate response? Neener neener neener? Sticks and stones, etc? Then the ante was abruptly upped with Alain’s invocation of my most private fears and doubts, things I had confided only to my husband. Robert, who for years told Alain everything about himself, had apparently also told Alain everything he knew about me. The urge to laugh vanished.
The man's recall was truly amazing. Had he kept a dossier? Some of the issues Alain was attempting exhume had been resolved long ago. Others were dead-on, and deadly. I was aghast. Had he been planning this all along—secretly amassing the most intimate sort of intelligence to wield as a weapon? Why? I had done him no harm. I had been unfailingly courteous to him, asking only for the same. That was my mistake: the presumption of parity.
I had come when summoned that afternoon, hoping, with equal measures of ego and idiocy, that despite the ruthless purges I had witnessed when other people pulled out of his orbit, I could re-cast our relationship to 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. That, and the hideous betrayal.
My little girl broke the spell. She had been so good, so quiet, coloring with her crayons and controlling the urge to pull the string on the talking beanbag baby doll that went with her everywhere. Now, as she hugged my legs and looked up at me, frowning, I realized she'd been taking in every word. Even if she could not fully understand Alain's meaning, his overall intent was clear enough. I needed to get her, and myself, out of there, right away. I scooped her up along with her drawings and Talking Baby and headed for the door, still stunned into silence.
Alain escorted us, the very model of a genial host. He smiled broadly and said that even though I was not part of the group, we would still be friends. Friends. “Of course, you understand that I will continue with {my son’s name},” Alain stated. He had stopped smiling.
It took less than a heartbeat to pass through a haze of disbelief and fury and land on the solid ground of parental responsibility. This was a place of complete confidence and clarity. Robert or no Robert, there was not even a remote possibility of negotiation on this point. I found my voice, and used it.
“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.
Go to Part 5 of The Man Who Would be Guru: Sink, Slash and Burn; Salt the Earth
Thanks to C.K. for sending this link, in which Alain is quoted about the importance of humbleness, a real desire for the good of others, understanding relationships and human beings, "and, of course, love and compassion, without which nothing else has any meaning": http://www.minimum.com/interviews/anaude.htm
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