Space Between the Stars

by Deborah Santana

  Slowly, I stood and again stretched my arms above my head.

  I felt Carlos's eyes. He called me into his arms. I could do this every morning, I thought. Easily.

  “Good morning,” Carlos said, wrapping his legs around me as I slid under the covers. He kissed my face and pressed his body into mine. His touch connected my dreams to the reality of his love, like a long, narrow river flowing between us.

  “I was dreaming of angels,” he said. “Do you believe in angels?”

  His hands were soft, pressing against my back. Even the calluses on the tips of his fingers where he memorized notes on the guitar strings were smooth.

  “I don't see them as cupids or women in white gossamer robes who fly,” I said. “I see them as spirits that hover around our lives to protect and guide us. What do you think?”

  Carlos rested his head on mine. “I see angels as God's divine messengers, as warriors who speak to us to help us gain knowledge.”

  We lay together talking about reincarnation and the fear of dying, which Carlos did not have. I told him how, while growing up, I had learned to pray without ceasing, no matter where I was.

  Our beliefs and openness to spirituality united us in a way that I had never been close with anyone before. I felt deeply in love after having thought I could never love again, because I was speaking, living, and acting from what I believed to be true— that I was more than my body or even my mind, and my purpose was to discover and expand this reality. I believed it synchronous that Carlos and I had met, and I wondered if it was part of God's plan.

  Carlos had a press conference and band rehearsal in the afternoon. After he showered, he pulled out his notepad and pen and began writing a music set. He hunched over, concentrating on choosing the sequence of songs they would perform in concert. “Every note, its time of manifestation in the show, is important,” he said. I sat beside him, reading, looking up occasionally to see the crease between his brows, the twitch of his mustache.

  Carlos stood up. “I'm going downstairs to do some interviews. You want to go? I will leave for rehearsal from there.” He ripped off the sheets of paper that held his notes, put them in his bag, and walked to the closet for his jacket.

  “Sure.”

  The band members gathered in the hotel ballroom behind a skirted table. Men and women from various newspapers and magazines sat with tablets, cameras with gigantic flashbulbs, and tape recorders waiting for the first words. Michael Shrieve was soft-spoken, his eyes holding wisdom and kindness. The bassist, a tall, lanky, Afro-topped man named Doug Rauch, seemed distant and mentally removed from the press conference, pulling his hair while looking up at the ceiling. Armando Peraza, the conga player Carlos revered so much, slapped Carlos on the back and talked in his ear. Carlos told me how Armando had carried his conga across fields in his native Cuba, fighting off ruffians who tried to steal his drum on his way to gigs. When he first came to America, he played with Mongo Santamaria and George Shearing. Armando knew my dad's music. “You're Saunders King's daughter? Wow, man. I've been listening to him for years,” he said. His dark brown face broke into a smile, and he rubbed his forehead with his thick, callused hands.

  Mingo Lewis also played congas. He had got his gig with Santana when Michael Carabello protested the changes Carlos was making in the band and did not fly to New York for the Madison Square Garden show. Carlos had asked whether there was anyone in the audience who played congas, and Mingo jumped onstage. Chepitó, the timbales player, was the only band member I tried to avoid at all costs. Diminutive in stature, with long, curly hair styled like a woman's, he had said crude remarks to women, which I'd overheard after one of the Win-terland shows. He looked over at me at the time, as though hoping I would react, but I looked away, embarrassed and furious. I had told Carlos what he'd said. “He had an aneurysm in his brain a couple of years ago and has not been right since,” Carlos said. “He's an exceptional musician, but a difficult person.” I considered that an understatement.

  Tom Coster—the keyboardist Carlos and I heard playing with Gabor Szabo at the El Matador Club when we had first begun dating—was from the old school of jazz. He improvised beautifully and could read charts like no one else in the band. Tom told corny jokes that made me laugh. Richard Kermode also played keyboard. He had been in Malo, Carlos's brother Jorge's band. Together, the band was a rhythmic brotherhood whose personalities and differences merged into one musical force onstage.

  I sat in the back of the room watching the press conference and the attention placed on Carlos, his music, and the band. Most questions were directed to Carlos, and when he spoke, the journalists were quiet. He answered questions about his short hair with an explanation of his spiritual quest. The press did not linger on the subject, wanting to know about the music, the songs. Carlos was comfortable in the attention and adulation. Could Carlos love me, one person, when he is adored by thousands? Should I allow myself to care so deeply for him, when there is a great chance I could be hurt? I sighed. My soul seemed to whisper: Live true to love. Give Carlos the sacred that flows through you. He will reward you with the sacred in him.

  His soft, luscious voice came from the microphone. I measured the width of his shoulders, the profile of his face, the directness with which he looked into one's eyes before answering a question, and I longed for our love to survive.

  Carlos left for rehearsal. I asked the concierge for a map of the city so I could walk from our corner of Hyde Park to Har-rods department store. London was cold and gray, with a chip of winter in the air. Store windows were festooned with Christmas trees and lights. Harrods was a glittering, warm madhouse of people, clothing, housewares, and food. I sent Mom and Dad a foil-wrapped Christmas pudding, even though I was unsure what it was. I caught a taxi to Buckingham Palace and watched the guards march from their stands to the closed arches of the monarchy's castle. In a fancy tea shop where I barely understood the inflections of the waitress's English, I drank a pot of Darjeeling tea and ate a buttery scone, which took away the early evening cold.

  On the afternoon of the concert at Wembley Pool Arena, the band bus rolled and dipped through London streets, tumbling past cathedrals and walled gardens with topiary bushes and park benches. Most of the band, including Carlos, were withdrawn, quiet. Only Chepitó threw out jokes like rapid-fire sticks on drum skins as we drove into the backstage parking area. Pulling up alongside the two semitrucks that transported the band's tons of musical instruments and sound equipment, we disembarked in a line, heading for the heavily guarded stage door entrance.

  Fans were lined up behind the metal barricade, screaming, “Carlos, can you autograph this?” “Michael, we love you!” “Car-los, can we get your picture?” “Chepitó, Chepitó!”

  Chepitó danced over to the fans, his fluffy black hair blowing as he stepped daintily in his black high-heeled boots, sweet-talking two young girls who giggled at his attention. The rest of the musicians waved briefly, following the manager inside to the hospitality suite.

  Carlos left the group and walked to his tuning room. The other musicians hung their wardrobes and snacked on fruit and cookies from a heavily laden buffet table. Armando wrapped each of his fingers with half-inch strips of white tape. The skins of the congas tore through his calluses if he did not protect his thick, powerful hands.

  I found a soft chair, plopped down, and opened my novel. Heads popped in and out of the dressing room as technicians did their jobs. Loud bantering ensued between Killer Kahn, the production manager, and the local crew as they hurried to bring in extra lights. Chepitó's high-pitched laugh floated down the hall. I could hear the shuffle of feet moving upstairs in the arena as the audience took their seats.

  Twenty minutes before eight, I walked to Carlos's tuning room. His technician was leaving with a guitar in each hand to place in stands on the stage.

  “Make sure you watch my signals tonight, man,” Carlos said, leaning over to light two candles. “I don't want to have to look for you if the monitors aren't
working right.” He blew out the match as sharply as he ended his sentence and sat down on the floor, crossing his legs. A picture of Jesus was perched on an amplifier next to a photo of Sri Chinmoy. I sat on a white metal road case and meditated with him for five minutes. When he rose, he gave me a quick kiss, opened the door, and swiftly headed straight down the hallway for the stage. I followed behind, waiting for Killer to tell me where I could sit.

  The band ascended the stairs, spotlights lifted, and a roar erupted from the crowd. Killer led me to a road case on the side of the stage beside the sound engineer who mixed the stage monitors. The first note was the echoing ring of a brass gong. A spotlight swung on Carlos, and the audience leaped to its feet. No one introduced the band. Carlos offered no words of welcome. A musical train of notes, rhythms, and percussive blasts railed, rallied, swooped, and gained momentum. A swirling aura of light-filled music blew through every pore of my skin.

  I concentrated on each musician for a few moments, my eyes moving in a circle, looking at the different grimaces and faces each one made. I was mesmerized by the talent with which each musician picked notes, like fruit hanging ripe from sun-blessed trees, juices dripping in their hands. I was in a trance. Chepitó threw his timbales' sticks out into the audience, the spell broken as I turned to watch fans fly into a frenzy in the section of seating where the sticks landed.

  Carlos was a speechless conductor: He tiptoed across the stage, dark eyes flashing as he connected with each musician, willing them to play their hardest, their best. Standing directly in front of Armando, he stomped his heel, biting hard on his lower lip, snapping his head on the beat. When he was pleased with the rhythms Armando played, a wide smile sprang onto his face. He strode to the keyboards, bending and swaying, pushing Tom to dig deeper into his solo.

  At concert's end, when the final chord was held, Michael pounded the drums and cymbals in a fury. The audience was on its feet, screaming. I stood on the side, impressed with the mu-sicality of the set, the creative realm that had carried me along for two hours. It was like a play—the notes telling a story with the rise of suspense in the fast songs relieved by ballads like “Samba Pa Ti.”

  After three encores, Carlos walked into my arms. His T-shirt, drenched with the remaining essence of his performance, soaked me as he held me close.

  “It was a great show,” I whispered into his moist ear. Carlos's body was steaming.

  “Thank you. We tried our best. The band played better than at Winterland! I was so high from the music, I didn't know where I was.” We walked to the hospitality suite. Carlos was almost airborne. Guests of the band filled the backstage area, their bodies packed together tightly. Laughter looped through the room. The musicians, high with the show's energy, hugged friends and high-fived the promoter and representatives from the record company. The euphoria of the concert heated the backstage like a fireball. Carlos grabbed two bottles of mineral water and led me to the tuning room.

  The review in the British press said, “The gods descended from Mount Olympus,” praising Santana's musicality and power, and confirming that Carlos had chosen the best musicians and songs to complement his new direction. In the next week, I flew with the band to Germany, Sweden, and Switzerland. Carlos's life was dedicated to making each performance better than the last, and we listened to Miles Davis, Herbie Hancock, and Wayne Shorter—jazz artists I knew about and loved, too. Carlos said, “These are the geniuses of American music, the masters.” He knew the name of every song on every album, every musician who played on each track. Carlos and I meditated early every morning before exploring Europe's walking streets, museums, and brasseries, returning to the hotel in the afternoons when shops closed and people went home to rest. I had never visited cathedrals so magnificent, with intricate stained-glass windows that told spiritual stories, nor had I seen such delicately carved stone statues of the Virgin Mary. Each historic landmark made an impressive imprint on my memory because of my exhilaration of seeing it on Carlos's arm. We were like walking fireworks, attentive and scintillating at every moment. When we arrived in Berlin, the sky blended into sodden gray buildings. The hotel was square, sparsely furnished, and felt as cold inside as outside. Carlos left for the show, and I took a taxi to the Berlin Wall. The photographs in the fortress-like museum chilled me—the construction of the wall dividing East and West. Tanks lined the Friedrichstrasse as I walked a few blocks, past guards patrolling with long rifles slung over their shoulders. The darker the afternoon became, the more sorrowful I felt, as though the horrors of World War II idled as ghosts in the German streets.

  After the show on our last night together in Montreux, Claude Nobs the promoter had a dinner for the band. His chalet in the Alps was hung with colored lights, and Carlos and I danced in a romantic spell while Claude ignited cherries flambé.

  Carlos and I parted at the airport so I could return to New York to keep my promise to Guru to help Mahalakshmi. The band was traveling on to Holland and France. Tears pooled in my eyes as Carlos and I hugged. I had not been away from him since we met five months before in July, and it would be almost two weeks until we would see each other again.

  I slept fitfully in the window seat, my head covered with the airline's small, scratchy blanket. In my hand was a wet, shredded Kleenex that I dabbed in the corners of my eyes. I was miserably lovesick.

  Mahalakshmi met me at the gate, her cheeks red from the windy December afternoon. She drove while telling me the latest news about Sri Chinmoy, and she asked whether I felt up to going to the evening's meditation. “Sure, I just need a shower to wash off the hours of travel.” I moved my suitcase back into the guest room, feeling as though I were lacking a part of myself without Carlos. We drove up the parkway to Norwalk, the night chill seeping through the car windows. Houses nestled in clumps of trees, amber lights softly glowed, and I thought longingly of having a home like one of these, warm and welcoming.

  The Connecticut Meditation Centre had been in existence nine years. The house was a lovely saltbox, painted Wedgwood blue, with lantern porch lights and cars filling the gravel drive. Other disciples arrived, and we walked together in silence: a brood of pilgrims traveling together to meet our earthly deity. Stones crunched under my feet as we neared the rambling, two-story country house. Across the large front porch were about fifty pairs of shoes—all different sizes; some old, some new. Coats and parkas were lying across a window seat.

  I followed Mahalakshmi into the meditation room and sat down cross-legged behind her, looking over her head at the photos of Sri Chinmoy that hung on the walls.

  Closing my eyes, I inhaled through my nose, pulled my shoulders back, straightened my spine, and then exhaled deeply through my mouth. I imagined my breath passing in and out of my chest, slowly. Calm feelings enveloped me; my heartbeat became faint, muted. My sadness about leaving Carlos began to dissipate. In and out, my chest heaved and collapsed in a slow, steady rhythm.

  A thought that Carlos could be here sitting next to me, sharing our spirituality, came to my mind. But the reality was, he was a musician. He would always travel. It had made me unbearably sad to leave him in Europe, but I was not one to remain sentimental or become immobilized by pain. Was not this transcendence of the temporal the reason I was looking for life's meaning? Of course I was sad, but I had to find peace within myself—whether Carlos and I were together or apart. Mystics claim that the presence of God's Spirit makes one strong and that meditation is the way to know peace and God's omnipotent power. Church had taught me that God would answer my prayers. I would never need to depend on someone or something outside of me: Life's happiness lay within my own soul. I had felt extreme contentment before. Even as a child, when my friend Karmen and I walked to her church, Saint Emydius, and she slipped the lace covering onto her head before we entered the pew, I felt the Presence. I knew in my heart that God was everywhere.

  In the distance I heard the muffled rustle of fabric and the soft hum of Sri Chinmoy's voice. My eyes sprang open. Disciples rose
to their feet, bowing as he walked in, shiny red satin dhoti hanging below his heavy brown overcoat. His face beamed. He moved his head from side to side as he walked down the aisle, looking at us. He reached his chair, pausing to smile resplen-dently before sitting down. His small feet crossed at the ankles; he sat back, lamplight shining on his bald brown head.

  We meditated in silence, my neck barely able to hold my head up as I wove in and out of contemplation and dream. My life was a flight between oceans and mountains, past and present; every person sitting around me was a new friend; and I accepted it all, drifting further and further away from my calamitous past.

  ahalakshmi took me on a tour of Parsons Boulevard, to Guru Stationery, where I bought letter paper with Sri Chin-moy's aphorisms printed on each page. A tall man named Ashrita introduced himself to me and said, in an amazingly loud voice, “Gosh, Debbie, it's so good you came back to be around Guru. You'll make so much spiritual progress here.” His clear, white skin framed flashing dark eyes. When we left the store, Mahalakshmi told me that Ashrita was Guru's messenger. If someone needed to reach Sri Chinmoy, they called the stationery store and Ashrita gave Guru the message. Only a handful of disciples could telephone Sri Chinmoy directly: Ranjana, Lavanya, Ashrita, Savyasachi, and Dulal, the leader of the New York Centre. The remaining 890 disciples, like me, had to send communiqués through these five.

  The New York skies wore a heavy winter cloak. I wrapped my woolen scarf tighter around my neck as we traversed the Queens neighborhood. Back at the Mahas', I read Carlos's itinerary, reminiscing about our days together in London and the night in Montreux when we danced in candlelight at the promoter's mountain chalet.