There’s something eerie about you, Claude. I begin to suspect that you do have second sight, or whatever you choose to call it.
To this Claude replied: You’re essentially a man of faith. A man of great faith. The skeptic in you is a transitory phenomenon, a heritage from the past, from some other life. You’ve got to throw off your doubts—self doubts, above all—they’re suffocating you. A being like yourself has only to throw himself on the world and he will float like a cork. Nothing truly evil will ever touch you or affect you. You were made to walk through the fires. But if you shun your true role, and you alone know what that is, you will be burned to a cinder. That’s the clearest thing I know about you. I admitted quite frankly that what he had just said was neither vague nor unfamiliar to me. I’ve had inklings of such things a number of times. At the moment, however, nothing is altogether clear to me. Go on, if you will, I’m all ears.
What’s brought us together, said Claude, is that we are both seeking our true parents. You asked me where I was born. I was a foundling; my parents left me on stoop somewhere in the Bronx. I have a suspicion that my parents, whoever they were, came from Asia. Mongolia perhaps. When I look into your eyes I am almost convinced of it. You have Mongol blood, beyond a doubt. Has no one ever remarked it before?
I now took a deep look at the young man who was telling me all this. I took him in as you would a tall drink of water when you’re very thirsty. Mongol blood! Of course I had heard it before! And always from the same sort of people. Whenever the word Mongol came up it registered on me like a pass-word. We’re on to you! is what it usually conveyed. Whether I admitted or denied it, I was one of them.
The Mongol business was, of course, more symbolical than genealogical. The Mongols were the bearers of secret tidings. At some remote period in the past, when the world wag one and when its real rulers kept their identity hidden, we Mongols were there, (Strange language? Mongols talk only this way.) There was something physical, or physiological, or physiognomical at least, which characterized all who belonged to this strange clan. What distinguished them from the rest of humanity was the expression about the eyes. It was neither the color, shape or look of the eye: it was the way the eyes were set off, or set in, the way they swam in their mysterious sockets. Veiled ordinarily, in talk these veils peeled off, one after another, until one had the impression of peering into a deep black hole.
Studying Claude, my gaze came to rest on the two black holes in the center of his eyes. They were fathomless. For a full minute or two not another word was exchanged. Neither of us felt embarrassed or uncomfortable. We simply stared at each other like two lizards. The Mongol look of mutual recognition.
It was I who broke the spell. I told him that he reminded me slightly of Deerslayer—of Deerslayer and Daniel Boone combined. With just a touch of Nebuchadnezzar!
He laughed. I’ve passed for many things, he said. The Navajos thought I had Indian blood in my veins. Maybe I have too…
I’m sure you have a drop of Jewish blood, said I. Not because of the Bronx! I added.
I was raised by Jews, said Claude. Until I was eight years of age I heard nothing but Russian and Yiddish. At ten I ran away from home.
Where was that—what you call home?
A little village in the Crimea, not far from Sevastopol. I had been transplanted there when I was six months old. He paused a moment. He started to say something about memory, then dropped it. When I first heard English, he resumed, I recognized it as a familiar tongue, though I had heard it only during the first six months of my life. I learned English almost instinctively, in less than no time. As you notice, I speak it without trace of accent. Chinese also came easy to me, though I really never became proficient in it…
Excuse me, I interrupted, but how many languages do you speak, would you mind telling me? He hesitated a moment, as if making a quick calculation. Frankly, he replied, I can’t tell. I know at least a dozen, certainly. It’s nothing to be proud of; I have a natural flair for language. Besides, when you knock about the world you can’t help but pick up languages.
But Hungarian! I exclaimed. Surely that didn’t come easy to you!
He gave me an indulgent smile. I don’t know why people think Hungarian is so difficult. There are Indian tongues right here in North America which are far more difficult—from the standpoint of pure linguistics, I mean. But no language is difficult if you’re living it. To know Turkish, Hungarian, Arabic or the Navajo tongue you have to become as one of them, that’s all.
But you’re so young! How could you have had time to … ?
Age means nothing, he interrupted. It isn’t age which makes us wise. Nor even experience, as people pretend. It’s the quickness of the spirit. The quick and the dead … You, of all people, should know what I mean. There are only two classes in this world—and in every world—the quick and the dead. For those who cultivate the spirit nothing is impossible. For the others, everything is impossible, or incredible, or futile. When you live day after day with the impossible you begin to wonder what the word means. Or rather, how it ever came to mean what it does. There’s a world of light, in which everything is clear and manifest, and there’s a world of confusion, where all is murky and obscure. The two worlds are really one. Those in the world of darkness get a glimpse now and then of the realm of light, but those in the world of light know nothing of darkness. The men of light Cast no shadow. Evil is unknown to them. Nor do they harbor resentment. They move without chains or fetters. Until I returned to this country I associated only with such men. In some ways my life is stranger than you think. Why did I go among the Navajos? To find peace and understanding. If I had been born in another time I might have been a Christ or a Buddha. Here I’m a bit of a freak. Even you have difficulty not to think that way about me.
Here he gave me a mysterious smile. For a full moment I felt as though my heart had stopped.
Did you feel something strange then? said Claude, his smile now transformed into a more human one.
I did indeed, said I, unconsciously placing a hand over my heart.
Your heart stopped beating for a moment, that was all, said Claude. Imagine, if you can, what it would be like if your heart began to beat with a cosmic rhythm. Most people’s hearts don’t even beat with a human rhythm … There will come a time when man will no longer distinguish between man and god. When the human being is raised to his full powers he will be divine—his human consciousness will have fallen away. What is called death will have disappeared. Everything will be altered, permanently altered. There will be no further need for change. Man will be free, that’s what I mean. Once he becomes the god which he is, he will have realized his destiny—which is freedom. Freedom includes everything. Freedom converts everything to its basic nature, which is perfection. Don’t think I am talking religion or philosophy. I disclaim them both, utterly. They are not even stepping stones, as people like to think. They must be hurdled, at one jump. If you put something outside you, or above you, you become victimized. There is only the one thing, spirit. It’s all, everything, and when you realize it you’re it. You’re all there is, there is nothing more … do you understand what I’m saying?
I nodded my head affirmatively. I was a little dazed.
You understand, said Claude, but the reality of it escapes you. Understanding is nothing. The eyes must be kept open, constantly. To open your eyes you must relax, not strain. Don’t be afraid of falling backwards into a bottomless pit. There is nothing to fall into. You’re in it and of it, and one day, if you persist, you will be it. I don’t say you will have it, please notice, because there’s nothing to possess. Neither are you to be possessed, remember that! You are to liberate yourself. There are no exercises, physical or spiritual, to practise. All such things are like incense—they awaken a feeling of holiness. We must be holy without holiness. We must be whole … complete. That’s being holy. Any other kind of holiness is false, a snare and a delusion…
Excuse me for talking to you this way, said Claude, hastily swallowing another mouthful of coffee, but I have the feeling that time is short. The next time we meet it will most likely be in some
