The River Beneath the River

by Susan Tabin

  “Please, Darci.” He pointed to the chair next to his.

  I sat down, swallowed hard and with my eyes averted blurted out, “Why, why Ere Zeta?”

  “That question, Darci, will kill off some universe. You can’t have the answer on this level of existence and when you get to the next level that question will seem, well, mundane. The only worthwhile question is, ‘Am I doing the best I can with what I know?’ You knew what you knew, you did what you did and you cannot allow this to dictate the rest of your life. If you focus into this you’ll beat yourself up to the death and you’ll be right in the negativity.”

  “But the pain…” I groaned and tears streamed down my cheeks.

  “It’s a purifier, not a punishment. It’s an opportunity to go from, ‘oh my God, it hurts so much,’ to, ‘oh my God,’ when you get above the pain. I can’t take this from you, Darci. This is the flow of your karma. And you’ll have to validate what I’m saying, see if it fits for you.”

  “But I feel like the Light’s abandoned me.”

  “Never, it’s always present. You have to call yourself forward into it.”

  “I have,” I said hopelessly.

  “But you’re not able to partake of the Light. You have to open your hands and pull the energy of spirit toward you. And that means letting go of what you’re holding on to. If you want to hold on to the story, the negativity, you have a right to it. The Light is in the value of the relations you have with people, not in how or why or the way it ends.”

  “Are you saying there’s value in this?”

  “Of course. It’s all part of your path into Spirit. But it’s difficult for you to know because there’s so much distracting you. Out of God comes all things, that which you label good and that which you label bad. The keys to your awakening are being presented to you in every moment of your beingness. You haven’t quite secured the level you’re on, it’s shaky. You want to fall back to your familiarity and that will kick you in the head. You were unhappy and uncomfortable with yourself for years. You didn’t like it then and you are not going to like it now. You have to be bigger than your own life. You have to pull yourself above your dilemma. There’s really nothing esoteric about it. Just handle this level as it comes. It takes great strength to be happy. By all means go inside yourself and awaken the inner strength….”

  I sat silently while Ere Zeta’s words quickened inside of me.

  “Don’t you think God knows the experiences you need in order to awaken?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “But you’re in darkness, damning the experience as not valid for you because it’s not spiritual and you can’t know Spirit because of the darkness.”

  I cleared my throat that had filled with tears. “Ere Zeta, you’ve said many times to love it all, but I don’t know how to love this.”

  “Then just love yourself through it all.”

  I repeated, “Love myself through it all.” A chill ran up my spine. When it reached the nape of my neck my head jerked in a tight, counterclockwise stir. “Love myself through it all. I suppose I could work on that.” Thoughtful, I slowly rose. “Thank you, Ere Zeta for the teachings, for your loving.”

  We embraced again. I walked toward the elevator when I realized I hadn’t told Ere Zeta how much I loved him. I turned back to the conference room, pressed my face against the glass to show I had a little smile, but I didn’t see him. I looked right, then left. I opened the door. Ere Zeta wasn’t in the room. I rode the elevator back down to the lobby and went over to the front desk to ask for a piece of paper and a pen. The clerk approached me with stationary and pen in hand.

  “Hello again, Miss Beriman. This is for you. Mr. Ere Zeta said you would be wanting this.”

  “Thank you,” I chuckled realizing that my teacher had vanished from the fourth floor conference room and had reappeared to the unsuspecting desk clerk, with instructions for my writing needs.

  ~

  Beloved Ere Zeta,

  Beyond thanking you, I want to say how deeply, how very much I love you. In Light,

  Darci

  ~

  I walked out of the Waldorf Astoria onto Park Avenue. Above, spectacular billowy white clouds floated across the sky and a long ago memory floated across my mind. I hadn’t thought of Natalie in years. My childhood friend used to say that downy clouds were pillows filled with angel feathers. I heard her saying, “Look, Dar, the angels are pillow fighting.” I was transfixed by my remembrance when I saw a blue sky opening in one of the clouds, shaped like a perfect heart. I placed my hands over my own heart and knew that the Light was in the value of my relationships and that it really didn’t matter how or why or the way they ended.

  I returned to my cousin May’s. She was on the phone when I came through the beaded doorway curtain. She held her hand over the black mouthpiece and whispered, “It’s your dad. Do you wanna talk?”

  “Not right now,” I whispered back.

  “Uncle Pini, I’ll tell her you called. Bye.” May hung up the receiver. She looked at me with embarrassed sad eyes. “This is awful you and Michael finding out that you’re brother and sister. You slept together, didn’t you? I’m so sorry,” she said.

  “Don’t feel sorry for me. I’m gonna be okay. I know now that no matter what’s going on, no matter what it looks like, everything is all right.”

  We hugged and cried, and spent the next two days at the Metropolitan and Guggenheim Museums. Then I returned to Spain.

  Nineteen

  “Miss Beriman, where may I find the Las Meninas painting?” he asked, reading my name tag.

  I told the man standing at the information desk that I’d take him there, that it was my favorite.

  “Thank you. You’re fluent in English, Miss Beriman?”

  He was cute, big shoulders, narrow waist, a well cut tweed jacket over a blue dress shirt, chino pants. I found him attractive and I found myself cooing, “Yes, from New York. Please call me Darci.”

  “I’m from Lexington, Kentucky, myself. I’m Kevin, Kevin DeMornay.”

  “Well here you are, Kevin.”

  “It’s spectacular. I’ve waited a long time to see the original. Isn’t this something, larger than I expected.”

  I stepped back, admiring his exuberance. His gentle brown eyes had watered in the presence of Velazquez’s masterpiece. He dipped his sandy, curly haired head into his hands. Then he covered his mouth as if no words could be uttered to express his awe and gratitude. He didn’t try to impress me with his artistic critique. Kevin DeMornay was moved and he let his emotions show freely.

  I returned to the information desk. When the Prado was about to close, Kevin came by. “What a gift—I’m overwhelmed by the works here.” He paused as if to contemplate the paintings one last time. “Miss Darci, I’ll be back. I look forward to seeing you.”

  “Adios,” I said and waved.

  ~

  The following morning I was looking through my closet for something to wear to the university luncheon. I came across the pink silk suit Olivia had given me. It was time to pass it on. I looked at the suit and thought how special our friendship had been and how much I still loved her. I sent her Light and was startled out of my reverie by the sharp ring of the phone. I picked up the receiver and said, “Hola.”

  “Darci Beriman?”

  “Olivia,” my own voice rang out.

  “Yes, love, is me.”

  “Olivia, you’re not gonna believe this. I was just thinking about you. I came across the pink suit you gave me when I first moved to Madrid.”

  “This is amazing, how we are connected across miles, years, even lifetimes,” she said. There was a brief silence, then she asked how I was.

  “I’m well, Olivia. Tell me about yourself.”

  She told me she had a daughter, Sophia—a gifted, exceptional child, three years old. Her husband was French; they were living in Paris. “I am happy. When Sophia is little older I plan to open boutique. Have you seen Michael?” she asked.


  “I spoke to him recently, but I haven’t seen him in a while;” I had followed my teacher’s advice and had relinquished the story years ago. I wasn’t going back into the negativity. I didn’t tell Olivia that I’d slept with Michael. I did tell her of the amazing turn in our lives—that Michael and I learned we had the same father.

  “My God, this is so crazy,” she shrieked. “I cannot believe this. Life is a fantastic magic carpet ride… don’t you think?”

  “I do and I’m learning to ride it. The more I surrender and accept, the more I see the glory in it all. You might not know this, Olivia. Michael’s traveling with Ere Zeta. He’s devoting his life to the spiritual teachings.”

  “No, I didn’t know. I have not spoken to him in years. Last time I saw him… in Barcelona at the house. I go to take some things they were precious for me. Remember the guest room, love?” she asked.

  How could I forget, I thought.

  Her voice was sweet as she said, “The white linens and down pillows, they were gift from my grandmother. So I go take them… also some things from the kitchen. It was loving….

  Michael is such good person. It seems perfect of all the seekers, Michael is the one to work with Ere Zeta.”

  I wanted to know why Olivia had ended her marriage and had broken contact with me. I tried to bring up the subject, but I couldn’t get the words out. Eight years of being out of touch with each other had left me hesitant to ask. She relieved me of my anxious curiosity when she said, “It was over, Darci—before I left. I was no longer in love. I was untrue to myself. I hid my feelings from Michael, from our families, from you. It was unfair to him. It was miserable. I was miserable…depressed.”

  We spoke for a bit longer and pledged to do so again. I glanced at the clock. It was eleven-thirty. I was running late. I showered quickly. My hair was long again, down to my shoulders. I pulled it back into a twist, put on a white linen dress, the straw hat I bought recently—a little lipstick and I was off to the university.

  As I’m walking to my seat in the banquet hall I sense someone coming up behind me. I turn around and I’m surprised for the second time today. “Kevin DeMornay, what are you doing here?”

  “You just got here,” he said knowingly.

  I raised my eyes and told him, “I had the most wonderful call… an old friend from Crete. She got me placed on my first dig. Haven’t heard from her in years… we were very close at one time.”

  “It’s always nice to connect,” Kevin said.

  “Funny, she used that word… said we were connected. What did I miss?” I asked.

  “A welcome to the visiting professors.”

  “Oh my God—you’re one of them.”

  He smiled and agreed, “I am.”

  “Well, then I’ll welcome you personally, Professor DeMornay.” I extended my hand. It seemed small in his large grasp. I knew I was very attracted to him, but I was still taken by surprise at the intensity of that initial touch. It almost caused me to shudder. Even after graduation, my life, at the University of Madrid these past seven years, had been filled with studying, learning, teaching, becoming a professor—and little else. Kevin Demornay, I’m hoping that’s all about to change. Lingering in the experience for a few seconds more, my eyelids fluttered while I fought against closing them. When at last I removed my hand, Kevin remained standing close to me.

  “You’re representing the museum?” he asked.

  “No, I work here at the university.”

  “I thought you worked at the Prado.”

  “I volunteer occasionally. The Prado has a special place in my heart.”

  “What do you do here at the university?”

  “I teach.”

  “You mentioned a dig on Crete, you’re an archaeologist?”

  “Actually, a cultural anthropologist. I specialize in the study of ethnocentrism.”

  “That’s a ten dollar word, Miss Darci.”

  “Yeah, but it’s basic, ten cent prejudice… a group or culture thinks it’s superior—its ways are the best.”

  “With all the differences in this world… must keep you pretty busy. My southern accent; all the traveling I do… sometimes I

  feel people are pokin’ fun at me.” “What is it that you do, Kevin?” “I’m an art historian.” “No wonder you loved the Prado.” “It’s one of the finer temples of the muses,” he responded.

  I think I know this lanky, gentle man from a long, long time ago.

  ~

  That summer I saw Kevin DeMornay often—every day to be exact. When he returned to the states we corresponded frequently and in the spring when he accepted a position at New York University, I visited and stayed with him.

  “I’m looking forward to meeting your family, Darci.”

  “You’re in for quite a treat, Kevin,” I remarked facetiously.

  “You haven’t seen your father in several years?”

  “It’s been seven… I haven’t been back to the states. Of course

  I write. His wife, my stepmother, Arlene, is a doll. She answers

  the letters,” I laughed. “Which is more than my dad ever did.” “Then you haven’t seen your cousin May’s kids either, huh?” “I can’t wait to see them. May’s pretty… she always liked good

  looking men. I bet those kids are gorgeous.” Kevin said, “Even if they’re not….” “You’re right, to me they will be….”

  ~

  We all met at Bobos in Chinatown. May came with her husband, Danny Stein, and their two children. They really were gorgeous, like their parents. May’s mother, my Aunt Anna, was critical of the restaurant and irritable as ever. Aunt Anna’s nervous twitching husband, Ben, was still good-natured and meek. “Oy veh” had become my uncle’s habitual and persistent verbal tic. Dad and Arlene were celebrating their sixth anniversary. My father’s dark pompadour like a molting bird had thinned and grayed considerably. Arlene was plump and pleasant. They looked good. They were happy together.

  “Your father and his wife, they’re like two peas in a pod,” Kevin said assessing the situation perfectly.

  It was a wonderful reunion, as if no time had passed since we last saw each other. My family was vocal, expressive; eating like always. Opinions passed across the table as easily as egg rolls and duck sauce. May’s little girl slurped wonton soup while the baby nursed discretely under a blue cotton receiving blanket draped over May’s shoulder and breasts. Kevin for all his southern gentility felt right at home.

  Twenty

  At Christmas Kevin and I met in Paris. The days were short and cold. The city was alive, in full swing. It was a magical, exhilarating time for us. We took an hour-long ride by train southwest to Chartres and had lunch in a charming fifteenth century restaurant on the bank of the town’s meandering Eure River. I don’t remember what we ate, but the table setting was a veritable garden of sunburst yellow and cobalt blue. Completely myself with Kevin, I picked up a small plate and turned it over to read the stamp on the underside. He puckered his lips and mouthed, “Limoges.” I told him about my mother’s weekly summertime forays to the movie house on Jamaica Avenue in Queens. For women like my mother the air-conditioned theatre was a reprieve from the New York heat and never-ending domestic chores. Rewarded for their patronage, they were given the opportunity for a minimal sum to purchase a dinner plate, a cup and saucer, a soup bowl. Ultimately to assemble a full set of matching dishes.

  We walked to the historic Notre Dame de Chartres Cathedral, its two bell towers spiraling into the frigid wintry sky. Kevin remained outside the North Portal studying the sculptures and large statues of the prophets, patriarchs and angels. Melchizedek. Saint John. Abraham. Solomon. I went inside to warm up. I saw two old women dressed in black, on their knees circuiting a maze built into the floor. It was a labyrinth, its pattern different than the ones I’d seen years before on coins found at Knossos. It wasn’t the intimidating labyrinth of the Minotaur.

  Pensively I began to walk the sacred path. With each m
editative step I forgave some transgression, real or imagined. I forgave my mother for dying. I forgave my father for his secrets. I forgave Michael for sleeping with me and myself for sleeping with him. I forgave Olivia for leaving me. I forgave myself for my judgments. With each utterance I brought myself to the altar of forgiveness and shattered some crystallization of arrogance, pride and ignorance that resided in me but did not serve me. No monster to run from. No urgency to discover myself. With each step of the labyrinth, with each breath of my life, who I am was being divinely revealed to me.

  ~

  Upon our return to Paris we met with Olivia and her husband, Francois. Sophia was indeed a precocious child, Olivia even more beautiful than I remembered her. I was concerned about seeing Olivia but the passing of time had dulled the feelings of disappointment I held toward her and forgiveness had freed my heart. We were warm and friendly. We did not pick up where we had left off. It wasn’t like that. It was just a get together with an old friend. We visited several of Kevin’s friends as well.

  “Kevin, I’m amazed at how many people you know in Paris.”

  “I went to boarding school in Switzerland. I still keep in touch with my classmates.”

  “Switzerland, that’s a far cry from Kentucky.”

  “Not really there’s lots of tobacco, thoroughbred horse money. Not all Kentuckians are Appalachian mountain people.”

  “I know more about Europe than I do about Kentucky,” I said, embarrassed by my ignorance. “Honestly, I know Abraham Lincoln was from Kentucky, not a whole lot more.”

  “My family is old money, Darci, and lots of it. I was married by the time I turned twenty-two. Practically arranged… our families both owned champion racehorses. She was the first girl I was intimate with.”