by Daniel Quinn
“Then what will you do?”
“I’ll journey to the darkest, leafiest, most remote section of the rain forest, and try to find a tribe of my own kind that will let me forage with them. I don’t mean to worry you, but it’s pointless to disguise the fact that we’re not likely to survive as a species in the wild for very much longer. But of course I bring new tools to the problem.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning that if you hear that there’s still one wily old silverback out there that no one seems to be able to throw a net over, you’ll know that’s me.”
Before long, Art dropped by to say that the ambulance had arrived.
I asked Ishmael if I could come with him.
“I’d really rather you didn’t, Julie. It won’t be a bit easier to say good-bye tomorrow than it is today.”
I reached in through the bars, and he took my hand as if it were as fragile as a soap bubble.
Life Goes On
Incredible as it may seem, on Monday morning I got up, ate breakfast, and went to school. On Tuesday morning I did the same damn thing.
It wasn’t really possible for me to stay in touch with Art. He had to stay in touch with me, and he did. Through him, I learned that Ishmael gradually recovered and one day in January 1991 set off on his own journey to Africa. I didn’t ask what the travel arrangements were; it was not going to be a fun trip, and the less I knew about it the better. In March Art called to let me know that the whole mission had been accomplished. Ishmael was home, and if he didn’t like it, he’d have to lump it.
By some mysterious process, my mother seemed gradually to come to the realization that the reality of the Zairean thing was different from what she’d been told. She didn’t challenge me about it or demand an explanation or anything like that. Instead, she developed a mild sort of grievance about it, making dark comments like, “I know you have your secrets. Well, I have mine too.”
In September the Darryl Hicks Carnival came back to town, and Art and I spent some time together. I told him that, looking back on it from the distance of a year, I found it hard to believe that the two of them had been unable to find any way of setting up the transfer except through me.
Art grinned and said, “I thought you would have figured this out by now, a smart girl like you.”
“What do you mean?”
“We had two other plans worked out for setting up the transfer. Either one would have been cheaper—and a whole lot easier to manage—than sending you.”
“Then for God’s sake, why did you send me?”
“Ishmael insisted on it, of course. He wanted you to do it, and no one else.”
“But why?”
“I guess you could say it was all he had left to give you. This was his last gift: the knowledge that you had played a key role in his life. And there’s no doubt that you did. The fact that we could have done it another way doesn’t change that.”
“But I might have failed!”
Art shook his head. “He knew you wouldn’t fail. That was part of the gift, of course. He wanted you to know that he trusted you with his life.”
“Did Alan show up again?”
“Yes, actually he did, just about when I figured he would. We were all packed up and on the road by dawn, and I left a man behind to intercept him if he showed up, which he did, around noon.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Because it had to be ended.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I know you don’t. Ishmael was in a difficult position when it came to discussing Alan with you.”
“Why is that?”
Art paused and gave me a speculative look. “What did you think of Alan?”
“To tell the truth, I thought he was a creep.”
“That’s exactly why Ishmael couldn’t talk to you about him. You weren’t disposed to listen.”
“True, I guess.”
“There’s no guesswork to it, Julie. For some reason, when it came to Alan, your mind was closed.”
“Okay, you’re right. I know that. Go on.”
“Most of Ishmael’s pupils have been like you in this one way, that when the time came to let go of him, you let go. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
“I’m not sure. I didn’t really have a choice in the matter anyway. I had to let him go.”
Art disagreed. “No, you didn’t, Julie. You could’ve said, ‘If you don’t let me go with you, I’ll slash my wrists.’ ”
“True.”
“Alan was one of those pupils who simply would not let go. Ishmael saw the signs early on, and this became a necessary element of his planning.”
“How do you mean?”
“When it became clear that Ishmael was going to have to abandon the Fairfield Building, he could involve you in his plans, but he couldn’t involve Alan. This being the case, Ishmael had no choice but simply to disappear. All Alan was going to see was that one day Ishmael was there in his office and the next day he wasn’t. He was gone, vanished into thin air.”
“You mean Alan had no advance notice at all that Ishmael was leaving?”
“That’s right. What would you have thought if one day you’d walked into Ishmael’s office and found it empty?”
“Wow, I don’t know. I guess I would’ve thought, ‘Well, kiddo, you’re on your own.’ ”
“That’s the way most people would take it—but not Alan. Alan reasoned this way: ‘If Ishmael has disappeared, then I’ve got to find him!’ Which is what he then set out to do.”
“I see. It didn’t occur to him that Ishmael wanted to disappear.”
“I doubt if he gave any thought to what Ishmael wanted. The overwhelming fact was what Alan wanted, which was to have Ishmael back.”
“Yes, I see.”
“Now, you’ve got to understand that Ishmael wasn’t just trying to ditch Alan. He was trying to wake Alan up. He was trying to shatter Alan’s dependence on him. Otherwise Alan was going to remain a pupil forever.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Ishmael doesn’t just want pupils, he wants pupils who are going to become teachers themselves. Didn’t he make this clear to you?”
“Yes. He said all his pupils are message-bearers. That’s why it’s important for them to have ‘an earnest desire to save the world.’ Without that desire, they might do nothing with what they learned.”
“That’s right. But here’s what Ishmael was hearing from Alan: ‘I’m never going to pursue my desire to save the world—never going to become a teacher like you, never going to carry your message out into the world—because I’m going to stay here and be your pupil forever! And this is what Ishmael was trying to shatter.”
“I understand now.”
“When Alan tracked Ishmael to the carnival, the situation became even more desperate, because Alan wasn’t just saying, ‘I want to stay here and be your pupil forever,’ he was now saying, ‘I want to buy you and take you home with me and be your pupil forever.’ We really had to bring this to a complete and definitive halt.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
“But how were we going to do that, Julie? How would you have done it, knowing what our situation was? Alan has gone home, presumably to raise enough money to buy Ishmael outright. Ishmael is suffering from a bad cold, bad enough that I want him hospitalized. When Alan returns on Monday, both Ishmael and the carnival will be gone. But I can leave someone behind with a message for Alan.”
“Okay.”
“What message do I leave behind for him?”
“ ‘Go home and leave us alone.’ ”
Art shook his head. “That’s not going to work, Julie. Alan is rescuing his teacher from the forces of evil. ‘Go home and leave us alone’ just isn’t enough.”
“True.” I shrugged. “I know how I’d do it, but I don’t think Ishmael would approve.”
“Ishmael wanted Alan to give up all hope of ever resuming his career as a pupil. He wanted Alan onc
e and for all to say to himself, ‘I’m on my own—completely and forever. Ishmael is never again going to be there for me to lean on.’ He wanted Alan once and for all to say to himself, ‘Ishmael’s gone, so I have to become Ishmael myself.’ ”
“Then maybe he would approve.”
“So what message would you leave behind for Alan?”
“I would leave this message behind: ‘Ishmael is dead. His condition got worse and worse, and he died of pneumonia.’ ”
“That was the message I left for him, Julie.”
“Jesus.” Though I didn’t say it, I remembered wondering: Will it work?
Five months later I had my answer.
Alan’s Ishmael
In Alan Lomax’s account of his experience with Ishmael,* he admits to protesting that he was “not the kind of writer” who could bring Ishmael’s message to the world. But when faced with Ishmael’s death, he evidently went home and found a way to become that kind of writer. I salute him for this.
I’ve talked to many people who have read Alan’s book, and not a single one has commented on the very odd fact that when it came time for Ishmael to leave the Fairfield Building, he left without saying a word to Alan about it. (Alan doesn’t comment on it either!) Similarly, no one seems to notice that Ishmael is very far from delighted when Alan finally shows up at the Darryl Hicks Carnival. (And while Alan notices it, he shies away from looking at it very closely.)
I’m sure everyone will be relieved to hear that I don’t intend to produce a point-by-point comparison between what Ishmael said to me and what he said to Alan. To my mind, the only real discrepancy occurs on the subject of Ishmael’s other pupils. If Alan is reporting truthfully (and why wouldn’t he be?), Ishmael gave him the impression that he’d had very few pupils in the past—and had failed with all of them. This is very strange, since he gave me the opposite impression—that he’d had many pupils and succeeded with all of them to some extent. This indicates that Ishmael was shading the facts for one of us, though I can’t imagine why.
Is Alan’s Ishmael my Ishmael? I personally don’t think so, but then I’m hardly in a position to be objective about it. Alan’s Ishmael seems to me a bit dour and gloomy, and rather uncomfortable with this particular pupil. But how will my Ishmael seem to people who read this account? I have no idea.
I learned something very important from reading Alan’s book—besides what Ishmael had to teach him. I mean I learned something from Alan himself. It’s not easy to put into words, partly because it means admitting I was wrong. From reading Alan’s book, I learned how easy it is first to leap to a false conclusion about someone and then to view everything he does in light of that conclusion. Once I’d made up my mind that Alan was a jerk, everything he did looked to me like the work of a jerk. Reading his book made me see that this was not only grossly unfair, it was completely untrue. Art Owens was guilty of the same fault to some extent—but not Ishmael. Ishmael consistently defended Alan to me, was clearly irritated by my prejudice against him, and refused to contribute to that prejudice by discussing with me his worries about Alan’s possessiveness. I once saw Sigmund Freud quoted as saying, “To understand is to forgive.” In Alan’s case, after living with his book for four years, I’d revise that maxim to read, “To understand is to understand.”
People also ask me about my reaction to the teachings of the person known as B—Charles Atterley, another pupil of the gorilla.* What I think is this: Ishmael wasn’t training parrots, and B is certainly no parrot. He took what he learned from Ishmael and carried it in the direction of his own passion, and I’m sure this is exactly what Ishmael wants to see happen. Are the teachings of B authentic—meaning, do they derive in any way from the teachings of Ishmael? I would certainly have to say so, based on intimations to be found in Alan’s book. The fact that these same intimations are not to be found in my book means nothing. Ishmael made it very clear that each of his pupils receives “a different telling” of his message.
As I’ve written this book, I’ve known all along that I was eventually going to have to justify my opening line about waking up at age sixteen and knowing I’ve been screwed. I guess now’s the time.
When Alan’s book came out, I told Art I intended to write one of my own. His reply was: “Ishmael would certainly want you to do that—but you’ll have to wait for a while.”
Naturally I asked why.
“You’ll have to trust me about this,” he said.
“I trust you,” I said, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t ask why.”
“In this case it does, Julie. You’re just going to have to take it on faith.”
“Okay. But what am I waiting for?”
“I can’t tell you that either.”
“Is this some instruction from Ishmael?”
“No.”
“How long am I supposed to wait?”
“Until I tell you to go ahead.”
“Yes, but how long will that be? One year? Two years? Five years?”
“I’m sorry, Julie, I just don’t know.”
“This isn’t fair.”
“I know it’s not fair. I’m not doing it because it’s fair. I’m doing it because it’s necessary.”
That conversation took place in the summer of 1992. I figured he’d relent sometime during the following year, but he didn’t. In 1993 I figured he’d surely relent during the following year—but again he didn’t.
In the fall of 1994 I took a world-history course in which Alan’s book was read by the entire class as a sort of introduction. The effort it took to hold my peace nearly killed me. Otherwise it wasn’t a bad year. My mother turned some sort of corner in her life and cut out the booze cold turkey. She started losing weight, joined a women’s group, and remembered how to smile.
When I got together with Art in the summer of 1995, I said, “Look, there can’t be any harm in my writing the book, can there? Can’t I write it if I promise to hold on to it?”
He said, yes, I could write it, provided that I swore on a stack of Bibles that I’d show it to no one.
So I started writing—but I did indeed feel that I’d been screwed.
I started writing and finished most of it in six months—all of it but this chapter.
I sent Art a copy of it. He said, “It’s terrific—but you’ve got to wait.”
I waited another year, then I wrote this chapter.
Art says … wait.
The date is November 28, 1996 … and I’m waiting.
* Ishmael, Bantam Books, 1992.
* The Story of B, Bantam Books, 1996.
The Waiting Ends
On February 11, 1997, two weeks before my eighteenth birthday, Art telephoned to give me the green light. He said, “Mobutu’s days are numbered. He’ll be out of power in a matter of weeks.”
“For Christ’s sake, is that what I’ve been waiting for?”
“That’s what you’ve been waiting for, Julie. Because if Mobutu’s days are numbered, then so are Nkemi’s.”
“You mean you wanted Nkemi to be out of power before I revealed where Ishmael is?”
“That’s not quite the point. Until Nkemi was out of power, I didn’t want him to know what kind of gorilla he’d given shelter to. Remember that you named Ishmael to him.”
“True. But Alan names him too. Nkemi could have known from Alan’s book what kind of gorilla he was sheltering.”
“No, he couldn’t have known this from Alan’s book, because, according to Alan’s book, Ishmael’s dead.”
“Okay, I see that. But what would Nkemi have done if he’d known?”
“I have no idea, but I certainly didn’t want to find out the hard way, by watching him do it.”
“True.” I thought about this for a minute, then asked if he was sure that Nkemi’s days were numbered.
“Take my word for it, Julie. I have information that even the State Department doesn’t have at this point. By summer, Nkemi and his republic will be history.”
�
�I sort of liked Nkemi—and your brother too.”
“Don’t worry about those two. Before Halloween, they’ll both have good jobs teaching political science and African history in Paris or Brussels—though they’ll probably make their real money advising businessmen on who to bribe in the new regime.”
“Why couldn’t you have told me what I was waiting for all these years?”
“If I’d done that, you would have asked how long Mobutu was going to be in power, and I would have had to say, ‘Who knows? He might live to be a hundred.’ I didn’t think you’d like to hear that.”
“True.”
So the waiting’s over, and I’m two years older and wiser than the girl who wrote most of this book. I could easily go back and smooth over some of the rough spots that I know must be there.
But I think I’d better just leave it the way it is.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Many readers have written to ask, “What can I do to help?” I’d like to encourage you to support a very admirable enterprise, mentioned in the text of this book: Gesundheit Institute, 6855 Washington Blvd., Arlington VA 22213.
In early editions of Ishmael, I included a note that began, “Ishmael has always been much more than a book to me. It’s my hope that it will be much more than a book to many of those who read it. If you are one of this number, I hope you’ll do me the favor of getting in touch.”
I’d like to renew that invitation here, adding only that, while I look forward to receiving your letters (and each one will be read!), please understand that it’s not possible for me to answer each one personally.
Regular mail: P.O. Box 66627, Houston TX 77266–6627
Email: [email protected]
You can also contact other readers of my books at
http://www.ishmael.org
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Daniel Quinn’s first book, Ishmael, won the Turner Tomorrow Fellowship, a prize for fiction presenting creative and positive solutions to global problems. He is also the author of Providence, The Story of B, and (with Tom Whalen) A Newcomer’s Guide to the Afterlife.
