Hungry ghosts, p.22
Hungry Ghosts, page 22
Chapter 27
The next morning, when James phoned Frankie, a gravelly man’s voice mumbled that he was calling a house phone and that she wasn’t in. James left his number and address and asked the man to get her to call him. Disappointed, he went for a walk around the block and wandered into a bookstore where he purchased World on Fire: An Autobiography by Vic Woods. Rick’s enthusiasm for the book intrigued him and that was why he wanted to read it. Nothing personal. Nothing to do with his father.
‘That’s an amazing book,’ said the young man behind the counter. ‘We’re selling truckloads of it.’
‘Yeah, so I heard.’
James couldn’t quite believe what he was saying.
With World on Fire tucked under his arm, he returned to his room in the yellow house to study his purchase, hoping that the hype was ill-founded. He scrutinised the cover: the black-and-white photograph of a nun seated in the lotus position, ablaze on the streets of Saigon, in an act of self-immolation, was in stark contrast to the big, bold, golden letters that screamed out the book’s title and the name of his father, Vic Woods. The juxtaposition of sacrifice and fame struck James as tasteless. And yet, when he opened the book, he was greeted by affirmations and endorsements from activists and artists that he respected. Noam Chomsky said Vic’s work was “radical and ground-breaking”. Abbie Hoffman declared that “everyone must see these photographs”. And Jane Fonda described the book as “shocking and astounding”. She promised to send a copy to Lyndon Johnson. Where James saw a traitor, they saw a man of courage and principle.
But couldn’t they see what he could see? That his father had looked on and done nothing; he had done worse than nothing, he had watched and profited, betrayed that girl for silver coins laid in his palm. How sick was that? He said that he served a higher purpose, but what use were photographs anyway? He said that now people could understand how messed up it was and that would bring the suffering to an end. James couldn’t see it that way; all he could see was the girl’s pain, and the fighting and the killing going on and on without end.
What was the use of pictures! Now was the time for action.
James’s ruminations were interrupted by the dull thunder of repeated knocking on the door of his room.
‘Hey,’ said Frankie, when he opened the door. ‘You called.’
‘Wow! Great to see you. Come in.’
‘Do you wanna come on a picnic with me?’ she said.
‘Yeah, great. Where’re we going?’
‘I thought we could go to Mount Tamalpais. It’s only about twenty minutes in my van. But it feels like you’re way up in the mountains. And there’s 360-degree views of the Bay Area and loads of walking trails and picnic spots. What do you think?’
‘Cool. When?’
‘Er… now?’
‘Don’t we need to make a picnic?’
‘Done and dusted and in the back of my van, or I wouldn’t have asked.’
They climbed into Frankie’s battered VW Type 2 Kombi van, which was decorated with swirls of psychedelic red, orange and blue flowers painted over pale-green panels.
‘Nice van,’ said James.
‘Thanks, man,’ said Frankie. ‘It’s a bit old, but I’ve never had a moment’s trouble with it. I use it for surf trips and sleep in the back if I need to.’
‘Did you paint it yourself?’
‘Sure did. It was a dull olive-green when I bought it off an old fruit market guy. I guess he’d used it for his business. Anyway, me and Rick made flower templates and sprayed on the patterns. Cool, eh? Can I call you Jimmy, by the way? James seems so formal.’
‘How about Jamie? Only my mum gets to call me Jimmy.’
‘How come?’
‘My mum named me after her brother who was killed in the war.’
‘Okay, man, Jamie’s cool.’
They drove to the top of the mountain, parked the van and unfolded themselves into the warm sunshine.
‘I know a great place away from the crowds,’ she said. ‘It’s a bit of a hike, but it’s worth it. Here, let’s drop some acid and we’ll be flying by the time we get there.’
James hesitated. The unknown made him anxious. But he couldn’t disappoint Frankie.
‘Okay, let’s go. I’ve never done this before,’ he said.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll look after you.’
They dropped the LSD and set off into the forest. As they strolled through the giant redwoods and Douglas firs that reached up to the sky, James listened to the insects’ chatter like a badly tuned radio, and he glimpsed a red-tailed hawk hovering high up in the blue beyond.
‘Far out, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘Where are we going?’
‘The Frog, which is like this massive rock that looks like a—’
‘Frog.’
‘Yep, a frog, smart arse. It overlooks the valley with a fab view across to the Bay. I love it. You can sit there and just chill while you listen to the stream rush by.’
They scrambled up the rough bush track that had been pressed into the soil by years of ramblers tramping through the redwoods. Their footsteps sent the lizards rushing under the rocks, while woodpeckers drummed out their insistent rhythms and songbirds called through the treetops. As they walked side by side, he felt himself slide into a place of grace and ease.
The Frog was as big as a house and surrounded by skyscraper redwoods whose trunks had been blackened by fire that had swept away the undergrowth.
‘Fires scare me, they’re so destructive,’ said James.
‘But they clear out the deadwood, so new shoots can appear,’ she said.
‘But then there’s the fires of hell for Christians. And the Buddha taught The Fire Sermon where flames are symbols for hate and anger,’ he said.
‘After the fire, the flowers?’ she said.
They climbed the gentle rise along the broad spine of The Frog to the neck. When they reached the summit, the drop was sharp, and the view from The Frog’s head was clear all the way to the bottom of the mountain. The spectacle made James feel dizzy, as if he was staring at the earth through the open door of a passing plane. It was a long way down.
They lay on their backs and gazed up through the trees into the endless sky as a squadron of brown pelicans glided majestically by on their way to who knows where. As they lay hand in hand, James was aware that the LSD was kicking in. The colours around him appeared stronger, and the sunlight was that little bit brighter. The trees began to glow with a halo of light, and time paused so that he dwelt only in the stillness of now. He examined a leaf on the ground beside him, and every detail was so fascinating that he felt as if he had merged into the decaying foliage. When he looked up, he noticed that the trees had begun to breathe and pulse in sync with his lungs. He and the world were breathing as one and the planet appeared so beautiful and magical to him that he wanted to laugh out loud without his usual irony or detachment.
‘I need to move,’ said Frankie.
She stood up, glanced around and began to spin with her arms spread wide like a whirling dervish in full flight, going faster and faster until, disoriented and unbalanced, she tripped by the edge of The Frog. James’s guts threatened to spill their contents as his mind envisioned her headlong dive over the edge of the precipice and falling to a grim death on the boulders below. He grabbed her shoulders as she picked herself up off the rock floor and studied her bloodied palms.
‘You okay?’ he said.
‘Kiss me.’
As they kissed, she slipped her hands under his T-shirt and pulled it over his head.
‘Take your clothes off,’ she said.
James was astounded. She possessed all the self-confidence that he lacked. Soon, everything he knew about making love dissolved. He became aware of every muscle in his body, and every thrust and movement were enhanced until he was engulfed in limitless sensation. They were Adam and Eve discovering sex in the garden of Eden. Every cell of his body was on fire, and all his anxiety had fallen away. He was in love with the most graceful of angels, and he believed that they were one in their transcendence.
Frankie, LSD and the counterculture, it all added up to a paradigm shift for humanity and for himself. The ancient world of Cambridge life would never look the same. The shackles of tradition were falling away, and the reign of his parents’ generation was over. Goodbye, old man, hello, freedom.
The next day, the centre of San Francisco was overflowing with young people preparing to snake through the streets of the city to protest the Vietnam War. Eager marchers held aloft a sea of red balloons and a street theatre company parodied Lyndon Johnson and the US High Command in a series of gigantic papier mâché characters. As the crowd shouted, ‘End the War,’ and, ‘No Way with LBJ,’ James believed that his generation were the beating heart of a new social order of peace and justice.
He noticed a small group of monks dressed in brown robes, carrying placards displaying Vic’s photograph of the Vietnamese nun engulfed in flame with her “Stop the War” sign held in front of her chest. Wherever he went, his father and the nun seemed to haunt him. They crept around the secret passages of his mind, demanding proper burial and the righting of wrongs. She was no doubt innocent and of noble spirit. But Vic? What wrongs had he endured that he should now manifest as a phantom? The world turned upside down: Vic had done nothing except watch her burn. That girl should be haunting him.
After a bright, sunny start to the day, which had lifted the mood of the expectant crowd, the weather had turned cool and cloudy. James felt chilly and underdressed, having ventured out in only a red T-shirt and black jeans.
When the protesters shuffled out of the square into the streets, accompanied by the lively sounds of a bluegrass band, he watched Frankie’s long, golden skirt billow in the strengthening breeze.
‘Hey, let’s dance,’ she said. ‘At least it will keep us warm.’
The crowd sang, chanted and waved placards, their spirits elevated by marching in harmony with thousands who carried destiny on their shoulders. The war in Vietnam was wrong, and it was their duty to shout out for the whole world to hear. This was the great moral issue of their time, and their generation, the hope of the future, must take their stand and shape tomorrow.
‘Stop the war!’ yelled James.
‘Peacefully,’ said Frankie.
‘Sometimes violence is necessary. But today is not the day for it,’ he said.
‘We’ll make a proper Gandhian of you yet,’ she said. ‘Non-violence is the only way.’
‘Would Hitler have been defeated without violence?’ said James. ‘Will capitalism lie down and die without violence? Will the state just let us take power without force? I don’t think so. Do you?’
‘I’m with Frankie,’ said Rick, who had joined them. ‘That old idea of revolution doesn’t work anymore. We need a more slow-moving and peaceful process these days. You know, like living a new way right here, right now.’
‘And what is born of violence is more violence, and I’ve had enough of it,’ said Frankie. ‘We need to build something new out of love and compassion, not out of hate. I’ve had a gut full of violence. I’ve seen enough of it in my own family. My father came home from the war with a head full of trouble and a belly full of whisky. I never understood why my mum stayed with him. I’d have been happy if he’d just pissed off and left us alone. Need I say more?’
‘Mine did,’ said James.
‘Isn’t this a great atmosphere?’ said Frankie. ‘It feels like a festival of love. It beats boring old party politics, don’t you think? That’s no way to change the human heart.’
‘Sure, I’m done with old-style party politics. But I reckon we’re going to need more than love to change the world,’ said James.
‘What else is there?’
‘Power. We need to take control of the state.’
They strolled at a gentle pace, swathed in the leading third of the march, though some way back from the front line. The drums beat, the hooters sounded and voices sang. Frankie waved her “Stop the War!” placard, and a festival of red balloons floated towards the sun.
After fifteen minutes, the march came to a sudden halt, and James felt a rumble of activity roll towards them like a wave crashing on the beach at Linda Mar. The sound of voices, indistinct in their distress, grew louder as retreating bodies pressed against them and they were forced backwards. The tide of the march had turned, leaving the friends squashed between a tsunami and a harbour wall as those walking behind them tried to move forward, and those in front were driven back. James watched a stone fly over his head, and then another, and another.
Without warning, the horsemen were upon them, batons swinging down upon fleeing figures. James felt the sharp pain of a blow to the shoulder as the powerful beasts brushed him aside like an annoying fly. The march was in full flight now: pushing and shoving and tripping over feet in panicked retreat. James watched a woman cry out in pain and fear as she crumpled beneath the charging horses. There was nothing he could do to save her as he was swept downstream – helpless, helpless – until Frankie grabbed his hand and hauled him in.
‘What happened?’ she panted.
‘I don’t know. The police. But why, in God’s name?’
‘Trouble with a group of young men,’ said a short, bearded man in his late twenties who was walking beside them. ‘I was near the front and the cops had blocked off the road and were directing us down a side street, even though the route had been agreed beforehand. And there was this group of young guys dressed in black, wearing face scarves, who started throwing stones. Then one of them aimed a spray can in the face of one of the horses and, well, the horse went bonkers, and the police let rip and ran straight into the crowd. It was chaos, man. I was lucky, I got out of there the moment I spotted those guys. I could see there was trouble brewing.’
‘Let’s get out of here. This is scary,’ said Frankie.
They scurried towards the bus stop on the opposite side of the road. Though the bulk of demonstrators had dispersed, a substantial police presence remained in the streets. When they reached the bus stop, they watched a young man sprinting towards them, pursued by two policemen in riot gear who were surprisingly quick on their feet, given the weight of their armour. The police brought the man to the ground in front of an astounded James.
‘Fucking little commie!’ shouted the larger of the two officers, as he beat the grounded man with his fists.
‘Hey, stop, you can’t do that!’ exclaimed Frankie.
‘Some kind of a street lawyer, are you? Perhaps you’d like to come too,’ shouted the officer.
When the police officer reached out to grab Frankie, James stepped between them.
‘Hold on!’
A punch to the head was followed by one to the stomach, which left James gasping for breath. The violence frightened him, as he knew it was intended to do. His pulse raced and his resistance wilted like a dying flower.
‘We don’t like smart arses!’ said the cop. ‘Now get lost.’
‘Oh, James, man. Are you okay?’ said Frankie as they hurried away.
‘Bloody cops,’ said James.
‘And all we want is peace,’ she said.
Chapter 28
Three weeks after he’d first bedded down in the yellow house, James finally answered his mother’s call. She had already phoned him half a dozen times, but he had persuaded Tony to say that he had gone out. He was beginning to regret having given his mum the number. And this time, Tony wouldn’t play ball.
‘I can’t keep lying, man. Take the call. It’s your mom.’
He stood in the ground floor hallway with the bright-red phone held close to his ear.
‘You have to come home, or one day you’ll regret it,’ said Ruth. ‘Put aside whatever is keeping you in California and get the next plane back to England. He’s going downhill fast.’
‘The man’s got some bloody nerve.’
‘He’s trying. And he’s very sick. Look into your heart and come home. Before it’s too late.’
‘But I’ve met someone. And she lives here.’
‘Your father is dying, son. If she cares about you, she’ll wait.’
‘Maybe.’
‘You need to stop talking and start doing, Jimmy. Come home, please. If only for me.’
The next day, after a forty-minute drive to the coast, Frankie parked the van at the edge of the beach, where they sat and stared through the front window at the rise and fall of the surf. She had invited him to come and watch her surfing, and he had happily agreed. The swell was a modest two metres, though the rollers were coming in with neat five-wave sets and the break was clean. The wind was blowing off the rise behind them, and Frankie said that the waves would stand up and curl.
‘The rights are breaking with more punch than the lefts, so a regular footer like me should be cooking.’
James had no idea what she was talking about.
She dragged her board out of the back of the van and handed him her wetsuit to carry before they strolled across the sand to the meeting spot, where a handful of girls were wandering about laughing, chatting and performing warm-up exercises.
‘I expected more people,’ he said.
‘Women’s surfing is only for freaks like me.’
She stripped off her shorts and T-shirt to reveal a red and blue swimming costume over which she pulled her wetsuit.
