Chapter 3

"Evil-eye" is the name Deborah gives to the American lady whose fat, purple legs are covered with a shiny yellow film of dried blood which oozes from many black, ulcerous insect bites. She scratches constantly with filthy nails. Her natural posture is almost bent in two. She has only one working eye and a broad nose to rest it upon. Her "thing" (Tom's word) is black witchcraft and she believes it is her occult mission to organize the youth of the world for Christ. Her days she spends in the patio typing with two fingers and five carbon papers on a tiny traveling typewriter belonging to Juney.

"But what can I do?" whispers Juney to Tom. "If I didn't give her that, she'd ask for my tape recorder, and I absolutely won’t give that to anyone, not even to Sweet William for his dance recital. Please tell him that, by the way."

Evil-eye sat down for supper at the little table reserved for her and Juney, while the rest of us sat around the large dining table. Then Tom was up again to help the servants serve, which is part of his yoga. He wears a clean white towel over his arm. Very correct and professional. The Swiss believe he is a genuine servant, are then distressed to see him eating at the same table. (And these are supposed to be persons interested first and last in the Soul, not in the social position of human beings! So funny-ironic it is too, because Tom is an extremely rich American, having more money and connections than anyone at the table.)

Thanks to the influence of the former French invaders, European food of the highest quality is served in Villefranche. There is no British cooking with its porridge and mutton. At the ashram guesthouse, salads and vegetables can be safely eaten without fear of cholera. Everything is arranged on the serving dish to be pretty for the eye. It is clear that the Indian man who runs the guesthouse (he has long been with the ashram as a disciple and this work is his yoga) is a serious student of metaphysics. I will see how deeply he believes when I ask him to accept my postdated check. From talking to him I do not think he argues with the official ashram policy: No Charity.

After supper, coffee was served in the patio, never a successful undertaking since the Americans must have theirs with milk, hence confusion. Evil-eye, barefoot, sat at our table reading Time magazine, nose rubbing the page. Her Ladyship was suddenly very upset remembering the little dog she had seen, must absolutely tell someone about this rather typical case. A young dog, hairless on most of its body (I do not know why so many dogs in this country lack hair), had also deep holes behind its "armpits" where it constantly licked and bit. Then it would roll, rubbing its hairless back on the hot pavement, then run several steps howling woo-woo-woo, then biting again, then rolling, etc.

She must know, Deborah said, how life can go on in a universe so filled with pain and suffering. She looked at us, but our eyes were downcast. What could we say? Then Evil-eye raised her head, eyes as usual very angry, almost she would speak, then suddenly looking back into the magazine.

"I mean," said Deborah in a pleading voice "that little dog belongs to no one. He can't get any help or relief. His whole life will be one constant misery. And multiply him by millions. The universe is filled with such pain." (She had also once, in Lebanon, seen a boy carrying a chicken upside down by the feet while trying to sell it. The chicken tried to keep its head upward, but was very tired. The boy was always stopping to talk to his friends and perhaps the chicken was in this position many hours. Her Ladyship was, for two days after, in psychological trauma.)

Then Tom told of a white cow he had seen on the "street of lepers" in Benares. A very large, wellfed cow, only with no lower legs. It was standing on soft, bloody stumps which could never heal, very much like leper fingers. Now Tom would know whether we thought a cow could have that disease, but none of us could tell him.

"I sometimes feel," said Deborah, "that I'd like to go around India with lumps of poisoned meat and feed them to stray dogs to end their misery."

At this, Evil-eye became very angry, putting down the magazine and looking at us with her squinting eye. "I suppose you people never heard of Jesus Christ."

There was a very long silence. Then Deborah replied, "I've heard of Him."

"I've heard of Him," said Tom.

Evil-eye looked at Conningsfield. He had to smile, trying of course to hide it out of politeness. He said that he, too, had heard of This Man. Then Tom and Deborah were hiding smiles.

"I suppose you think that's very funny," said Evil-eye, "that Someone went and died in pain and misery on the Cross to save people like you. Very amusing, is that it?"

"It's not amusing," said Deborah kindly (for she does not, I know, even believe in the New Testament story), "but what has Christ got to do with it? He didn't die to save dogs and cows."

It is incredible that all "theological" discussions I have heard in this place are on this level.

"Or chickens," added Her Ladyship.

"Jesus Christ died to save you and me," snapped the witch. "And don't you forget it." Then her nose was back in the pages.

Now we three were nearly speechless, but feeling all the same less sad on the animal question. Tom told us that he had been talking on this very subject with a communist government minister. They were sitting one day by the swimming pool in the tennis club in New Delhi. The minister had said that it was the responsibility of all animals to look after themselves.

"That sounds rather strange for a communist to say," observed Deborah, but could recall reading nothing to the contrary. "In a way, it's even rather reassuring to think of animals having a sense of responsibility. I'd like to believe it."

Evil-eye was again glaring at us. "Go ahead. Go ahead. You'll love living in Godless Russia, I can tell you."

Most comical, this "political discussion." Very typical for here. Then I began thinking of my last visit to New Delhi, where I saw something which was most funny but which also saddened me and gave me a sorrowful mood like Her Ladyship after seeing the little dog. As I have a very good humouristic sense, I decided to visit (you will laugh) a prison! The Central Jail. Since it is not always happening in this world as it should, I, giant criminal, was received with all honours and was taken around by the Superintendent and his staff, all prisoners and guards saluting. I took the salute with my field-marshal baton, so I had a feeling like Himmler visiting a concentration camp.

After having seen this I also saw — and then my mood changed from fun to sadness — the gallows and the scaffold with its fall-litter, what a harsh reality. I was now alone with the Deputy Commissioner, a very kind and well-educated man, not a bureaucrat, not a blunt man, but one with heart. He invited me to attend an execution. I refused that kind of hospitality quite ashen-faced, He told me they had the executions early in the morning. I asked if they had problems, if it was not a hard psychological pressure on them also. No. in the ten years he had attended thirty executions, there had never been problems. "Well, you see, boy, first we will give you a bath...." Then they put him on the fall-litter, rope on his neck. A nice, comfortable, jovial atmosphere, no noise or irritating disturbances(!) But a man, though he has taken other lives, loses his own either by breaking his neck or by suffocating to death, which takes up to twenty minutes if the machinery is not perfect.

(O Justice, quelles crimes on commet en ton nom!)

The odd thing was that the man who told me this was a humanhearted man. Well, in India they have quite another concept of life and death, therefore his and the convicts' attitude. I saw the condemned men. They looked quite peaceful except one, a young boy of about twenty. He looked in despair. The cells were like cages in a zoo. How little to have seen of life, twenty years old, and then a cruel death.

I remembered a motion picture telling of the life of Barbara Graham, the California mother of two who in 1955, in beautiful California, was gassed to death in that so nice gas chamber. I saw the movie in 1959, just one year before Chessman was executed in the same chamber. What a bloody irony of fate! If I attended this in India I would do as in America, try to stop the execution and in anger shout if they realized what they were doing. Therefore I would never attend an execution, though I have a secret interest to see one (nothing perverse).

When Evil-eye left the table both Tom and Deborah jumped upon the Time magazine, looking for news of home. Together they found an article concerning a father (very fat, nearly 300 pounds) who killed his daughter and her "hippy" friends. It was a terrible story, read aloud in turns, first Tom, then Deborah. But rather than causing tears, the style of the writing ("soap opera") provoked much silliness in the readers. Soon the three of us were laughing helplessly at this grotesque journalism in which a so sad human tragedy was buried.

Evil-eye, bent, unkind, passed through the room with a roll of toilet paper in her mouth. "How can you people laugh? That's the saddest story I ever read. That poor man."

"Terrible," agreed Deborah, getting her breath. "But the poor daughter, " she called after the bent back. "She's the victim."

"She got what she deserved," shouted Evil-eye and disappeared into her bathroom.

Then Tom and Deborah returned to Tom's room, promising not to throw the I Ching that evening or unless I was there. I did not accompany them. As an Honorable Professor I cannot afford further loss of face among the ashram guests as when seen laughing uncontrollably over murders. I had earlier imagined that my so often being with them might account for Tom's reluctance in fulfilling his male role. But no.

"That's yoga, Chickie," he shrugs.

I am sure that Her Ladyship is feeling very sad internally.

Also Conningsfield is not feeling at the height of joy tonight. Soon he must to Ceylon, that country of rascals and criminals, where he knows the revengeful are waiting to do him harm. It will be one of his more dangerous military adventures, but he must sell there the 51 sarees bought on credit in Benares from merchants who would absolutely not take no for answer, so anxious were they to be cheated. Fortunately they have sold them to an honest man who intends to pay them the rest and has given them letters to this effect, including his real identification and embassy address (unavoidable).

So it is obvious that I must not in the meantime throw away the few remaining rupees, thus placing in jeopardy the adventure to come. By not paying my bill, I am forcing the ashram into a charitable act. It is for their own good (as well as mine) and will help them balance their spiritual books and pave their way to heaven.

One thing must of course be said: the Mother is not false. She is no rascal, only a very good old lady. Why then has her goodness not influenced those around her? They are, it must be said, black as tar in their souls, using the ashram funds for their personal achievement, glory and ambition. Tom says that around the light source there is always a circle of darkness, that this is a well-known fact. But I think there is some exaggeration here.

I tell you, if you wish to be taken seriously in this ashram, do not give them all your money at once. If you do so and are naked they do not praise you (penury is a Christian virtue), nor give you a five rupee dhoti to wrap around your bones. Unless you can get the Mother's ear you will find yourself living in a rathole in the Tamil quarter.

Nor do the poor Tamils of Villefranche take pity on their ashram neighbors, be they white or black. Although the Mother is of European origin, and many of the ashramites too, there are mostly Indians in the ashram. One sees them riding on their bicycles, their noses twisted upwards so as not to breathe their stinking brothers squatting and defecating in the gutters like well trained dogs. The ashram girls are very serious-looking, wear very short pants, and practice many sports. Adult females wear white sarees. They pretend to see nothing around them, but I think they seldom put their feet accidentally into the gutter piles.

The ashram has its own busy life going on inside many walls. As the ashram expands, it buys more of the yellow buildings of the old French quarter, streaked with black monsoon fungus, and paints them pearly grey. Behind these walls, over which bougainvillaea and palm fronds look, the life of the ashram goes on.

Once a year there is "Olympic Games" and marchby with goose-stepping and arms raised stiffly in salute. The Mother takes the salute from her reviewing platform. Some say there seems to be an unhealthy echo here; it causes puzzlement and consternation in many hearts. I personally think games and marching is not a bad thing, for on the other side are the Indian masses looking like Dachau skeletons. There is little guessing which Conningsfield would choose if he had been born black and with the same prospects.

Her Ladyship, who is of Jewish (!) descent (I learned it only after a terrible gaffe), says this choice is not there because the ashramites are the children of the rich, not of the gutters. She says that in fact they are giving up much luxury at home to pursue their karmas in a place where the food is so foul tasting. Tom says the ashram food is very balanced and healthy if one can only force it down the throat (most comical), but I know that even some of the most devout cannot. They are forced by weak stomachs to revert to the rice and curry of their childhood. I myself have eaten once in the ashram diningroom, first standing in line to have such sour yellow slop put into my cup like a prisoner in jail, then sitting on the floor among the rest to eat in silence and meditation.

I ask you: Is such poor food necessary for the evolution of the soul? Or are some sadists and misers working here? It must be a surprise to the young ladies who come here and give all their worldly possessions to the Mother, then find they will spend the rest of their days eating no better than the pigs.

Thus I feel no interior agonies over my plans to give the guesthouse a cheque with no funds in the bank. I told my plan to Her Ladyship who looked doubtful but promised not to give me away. I assured her that a large sum is awaiting me in Ceylon. With this I will pay my debts. She still looked troubled, which shows that her heart is pure and honest.

So, my reason for being here is financial. And Deborah? She says she has come to Villefranche to write an article for a journal and earn some money. Americans, who are all rich, are always looking to increase their wealth. Juney is living on alimony cheques but giving Art and Civilization lectures (!) to women's clubs when she returns. Evil-eye is a retired school teacher, but not, I think, from the public school system in America. She has been married (!) and has grandchildren. Evil-eye has come swimming and crawling across the world to this place. Even on third-class Arab and Asian trains, she has traveled in safety and comfort. Of her and dirt it can be said as of the pyramids and Time: Evil-eye is not afraid of dirt; dirt is terrified of her.

Her Ladyship is absolutely otherwise, bathing every day, but quickly, because of the cold water and mosquitoes. I have fantasies (nothing perverse) of Deborah in her bath, dipping the cupfuls of cold water over her shoulders and thighs. But then the mosquitoes are fast going around to bite her buttocks. Often she scratches this lower part of her anatomy.

I wonder if Tom has seen her posterior. Tom is twenty-eight, Deborah is twenty-nine, Conningsfield is thirty-three, with eight of these spent giving psychotherapy on a professional level (lacking only "accredited" diplomas, but having studied three times as much as the ordinary "head shrinker"). Tom has done nothing in his life. Only two years was he employed by the army, stationed on Hawaii. Still, he is able to impress Deborah, not by his accomplishments, but by talking of the famous people he has known, such as the former President Kennedy. Therefore I decided to do the same and tell her about my meeting with the Prime Minister of India, Madame Gandhi. This short lecture came two days ago as we and Tom were waiting for tea to be served in the patio.

"My talk with Indira Gandhi was very interesting. She received me kindly. Madame Gandhi is of middle size, pale, a person who has temperament, can be wounded, be stubborn, has brown eyes which are sympathetic when she is answering questions — and mine interested her, they were not the usual ones. Otherwise her eyes are cold, so cold. Two things I shall never forget: Indira Gandhi's cold, brown eyes and her last words to me: 'I am very, very optimistic concerning the future of India. ' "

"That's very interesting," said Deborah, scratching her thigh. She turned to Tom. "You know, they must sell stuff you can rub in to stop the itching."

I told her that for this non sequitur she deserved more than mosquitoes at her buttocks.

"What?" she said dimly, pretending not to understand.

"A good spanking," I cried. (Only of course without lowering the underpants or hurting. I am no perverse sadist.)

The next day Deborah moved into Tom's room. Into her former room, which is next to mine, came an American Christ figure with beard and wide, unblinking eyes. He wears only grey cotton pajamas with rope belt for walking in the street. Though he and his French wife look very poor and have traveled by bus from Madras (the bus fell over so it took them two days to go 100 miles), they have managed to bring with them from the United States a stereophonic tape recorder with two 12-inch speakers and a library of tapes.

At night, putting my ear against the wall, I can hear the music turned very low. But I hear absolutely no other sound. Now I ask you, what are these two zoo specimens (I am being clinical, not derogatory) doing in there all evening? In the ashram circle sexual intercourse is like seasickness in a boat. It is upon everybody's mind, torturing everyone's body, but no one will mention it for fear of upsetting the others.

In 1952 1 had by chance discovered masturbation, an ugly and quite wrong word. It should be called self satisfaction. My viewpoint on this: If it leads to perverse fantasies, to shyness, loneliness, and feelings of guilt, then it is a very bad thing. But taken as a normal way of getting satisfaction when you are not engaged or married, it can be a practical and good thing, provided you know the dangers as above. I have never used bathrooms, never used my hand or had stinking clothes. (Forgive me, I do not feel satisfaction by describing this — rather I am objective, as a psychologist describing a case.)

But there is one here who will speak of sexual intercourse, though indirectly. Tom had passed his first night on the roof, had seen the sunrise, had come to the kitchen to make tea at six in the morning. The experience of passing the night under stars had unbalanced something inside him, and now he invited us for drinks before lunch in the bar of a hotel on the sea promenade. He ordered double gin and Fanta for himself.

"How come your yoga includes double gins and Fantas and not the other?" Deborah wished to know.

"I'm not supposed to drink or smoke, either."

"So I'm easier to resist than alcohol and cigarettes?"

"Chickie," cried Tom, "it's taking all my guts to draw the line somewhere."

"If it's just a line I may creep across it one day."

"Please, please don't," begged Tom. "You'll blow my mind."

"Nonsense. Do you good."

"Chickie, I respect you greatly and I have very little confidence in my own willpower and chances of survival, but I promise to go down fighting. Please don't blow it for me here. Villefranche is all I have left."

"I wonder why."

He looked in desperation to me. "Tell her, Flaminio."

So it is an interesting situation for a psychologist to observe. I myself have known women to be sexually overt in that way — Erde for one. The story of Erde is the most wicked of my life. So much of woe, of pain, cruelty, depression, tragedy, etc.

 

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