Jacob Atabet Read Free

brought increasing relief. Controlling my perceptions this way had always brought a sense of confidence. The ritual had felt good for as long as I could remember, even when I was a child and tried to imitate this effect with my eyes closed. If only I could control my mind this easily.
    I crossed the sparsely furnished room. A portrait hung on the wall that I sometimes looked at in these states, of my great grandfather Charles Fall. He stared out at me now with his silvery mane and starched Victorian collar, his stalwart face aglow. There was not a trace of fear in him, I thought. It seemed inconceivable that he had suffered from these psychic hemorrhages. And yet, like his friend the elder Henry James, he had struggled with an affliction of visions through much of his life. His triumphant clear-eyed look had been won through a struggle like mine. If I had inherited his unpredictable genes, could I appropriate some of his strength? I stared back at the portrait, opening myself to the poise it contained. But in the covering glass my reflection wavered like a shadow self. The image was overweight and discolored, a poor offspring from the grand old man beneath it. What would he tell me to do? What advice for a descendant who seemed so weak? At least part of the answer was obvious. According to family tradition, he had made his best inventions in conditions like mine. It was almost certain he would let his visions deliver their message while he kept on working. No institutions or therapists for him! Nor for me. That was the way I would fight it. Relief would have to come through my project.
    As if to confirm my resolution, the church bells sounded from the Square. I found copies of the articles I had written about Bernardine Neri, put them in a briefcase and started back to the church. In the nine years I had studied such cases, most had slipped out of my grasp because I had not pursued them as they happened. Something prodigious had occurred during that communion service and I would track it down before it disappeared completely.
    A Chinese boy answered the bell at the parish house. Father Zimbardo was resting, he said, but I could talk to another priest. A moment later the second priest at the Mass appeared, a young Italian with a thin dark face. He sat down with an impatient air. “I’m Father Bello,” he nodded. “What is the problem?”
    I introduced myself, thumbing through the papers in my briefcase. “I’m working with some priests in Rome. Whatever happened in the church this noon is like the kind of thing we’re looking into. You’ve heard about Bernardine Neri? Here are some articles I’ve written about her.”
    “You’re not a reporter?” he said, squinting suspiciously.
    “I publish books for a living. You know the Greenwich Press? We have our offices on Grant Avenue, just around the corner. But this kind of thing is what I’m really doing—studying this kind of event. Those articles will tell you what my project’s about.”
    “The man’s name is Jacob Atabet,” he said abruptly. “Zimbardo has known him for years. But what happened, don’t ask me. Zimbardo might’ve had an epileptic attack. At least that’s what the doctor just said.”
    “An epileptic attack? And get right up like that to finish the service?”
    “Who can tell?” he shrugged. “Do you really think it’s something to get excited about? What do you think happened?”
    I briefly described my experience and told him about the reactions of the people around me.
    ”So some of them thought Atabet pushed Zimbardo over!” he exclaimed. “That’s absurd. Zimbardo was ten feet away. And someone else saw a light like you did? Well, maybe you’re right. Maybe this is something to study.” But I could see the veil in his eyes. Like the priests in Italy I had talked to about Bernardine Neri, he was filtering the experience to fit his normal perceptions. “But there’s a problem,” he went on. “We don’t know where Atabet