Space Between the Stars (22 page)

“I hear new notes to play, new songs. You?”

“I'm thrilled thinking about what is ahead. I feel clean and pure.”

Before Carlos and I left Queens to fly to Europe, Sri Chin-moy called us to his house for a private meditation. His eyes rolled heavenward as he entered into a trance on his throne. “You have been initiated into a new life, a blessingful, prayerful life, dear ones.” As he spoke, his eyes fluttered. “I am your spiritual parent. I offer you my highest love and gratitude for the service you will offer the Supreme through me. Hmmm.”

We bowed, and I felt an intense love. It was unlike human love. It was almost fragrant, as though petals of a most delicate ginger flower were floating above us. Sri Chinmoy's eyes were closed, and we took that as our cue to leave his home and go out into the world.

he night Carlos and Mahavishnu completed their musical collaboration, they danced into the house like fireworks from heaven. One of Sri Chinmoy's books had a poem, “Love, Devotion and Surrender,” that Carlos felt represented his spiritual journey, and he chose the title for the album.

The next morning Carlos and I rose early to finish packing for our flight to London. I tidied our little guest room, stripped the sheets, folded blankets, and left a note leaning against Sri Chinmoy's photograph thanking Mahalakshmi for her hospitality. Hugging the Mahas good-bye, I had to fight not to cry. So much had happened in the month we had known them. I was sad to part with our new friends.

We flew into Heathrow International Airport. I thought of the time I had come to London with Sly. The memory of snorting cocaine in the bathroom of the Bally shoe store on King's Road seemed like another life. I chanted “Supreme, Supreme” to push the image out of my mind. Carlos, by my side in his
white disciple clothes, myself in a sari beneath my long woolen coat—we were definitely not the same people we had been the year before.

We walked to the bus that would carry the band to our hotel. Barry Imhoff, the tour manager, was the first face whose mouth dropped open when he saw Carlos's hair. Michael Shrieve said, “What happened, man?”

“Remember John McLaughlin's guru? We joined his path.”

Michael rubbed his chin. “Whoa. That's drastic.”

Carlos and I slid into a row near the back of the bus. “We have to try to stay awake all day to get our bodies on this time,” he said, hugging me. I listened, smiling in sleepy agreement as we leaned back against the soft, high-backed seats. All I wanted to do was rest my head on his shoulder and take a nap.

At the hotel, we opened our suitcases and set up our shrine. We centered Sri Chinmoy's and Christ's photos on the coffee table, placing a brass incense holder to the left and a votive candle in front of our two spiritual guides. Carlos, intent on staying up, rushed to change into jeans, then spirited us off to Kensington Market in a roomy, box-like black taxi with a horn that sounded like a circus clown's. There were many Indians living in London, so I did not look out of place in my sari. We stepped into a boot maker's shop in a marketplace. Smells of leather and polishes hung thickly in the room. Carlos shook hands with the craftsman. “How've you been, man?”

The shopkeeper smiled, pumping Carlos's hand. “We're doing all right, my friend. Thanks for coming back.”

Carlos strolled down a row of the high-heeled cowboy boots he loved to wear. He chose three pairs—a creamy light
brown, a bright red with white stitching, and a dark green. After paying for his treasures, we strolled through the other market stalls. Carlos paused near a curtained entryway. “I've been to the psychic here,” he said. “She predicted our band was going to break up.”

“You're kidding!” I had never been to a psychic. I did not think they were legitimate. “When was this?” I asked.

“The last time our band was in London. I knew things were falling apart, so I asked her what she saw in my future. It really scared me when she told me, but when I went back to the hotel, I knew in my heart that if the band broke up, it would be the best thing for all of us.”

I did not know whether I would ever believe a psychic, but here was proof that at least one prediction came true.

We stopped in a diner, both of us craving fish and chips but settling for grilled cheese sandwiches and French fries, to abide by the vegetarian diet of disciples. We were becoming delirious with fatigue and laughed at our increasing clumsiness as we tried to stay awake. Back at the hotel, we crawled into bed, passing into a dreamless state, our bodies on New York time.

I awoke while it was still dark, washed my face, brushed my teeth, and began stretching. I reached my arms toward the ceiling, bent over and touched my toes, and then pushed my right leg straight out along the floor behind me, following with my left. Lowering my torso down to the floor, I lifted my head and neck while lying on my stomach. I had learned this asana, “Salutation to the Sun,” at the yoga studio in San Francisco. As I flowed into the movements, I awakened fully to my inner connection with the unknown. An orb of peace radiated in my
chest, and I relaxed into the awareness that God's radiant spirit cared for me and held my energy in the universe. As long as I had faith in the infinite Presence, I would be fine.

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.