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he wanted. In the days that followed I felt a strange and pervasive well-being, as if a connection existed between us that would help confirm my work and finally show me a way to live the life my theories promised. That this was an irrational response I fully realized. It was plausible he was telling the truth about the events in the church and that I was projecting unwarranted hopes upon him. And yet . . . our meeting continued to haunt me. Some angel of guidance seemed to say that our connection would grow stronger.
    On the day following our meeting I began to inquire about him, only to discover how elusive he was. Just one art gallery, a little place near the waterfront, had heard of his work—though the owner, a crusty old Scotsman named Sandor McNab, said his paintings “showed an eerie kind of genius.” At the museums no one knew his name. And around Sts. Peter and Paul’s he remained an enigmatic figure. Father Zimbardo, with whom I talked twice more, said that he had been a good example for the boys of the parish but that no one at the church knew him well. At the Greenwich Press he was totally unknown, though Casey Sills, our chief editor, remembered that a writer named Armen Cross had once tried to do an article about an eccentric local artist named Atabet. That was little help, however, for Armen Cross had done an article on me for a New York magazine and in it had delivered a damning critique of my research that had taken me months to get over. I would have to be desperate for information before turning to him. Only John Levy, a friend, knew Atabet personally. Levy was legendary in San Francisco for his discovery and support of budding artists and philosophers, and for his judgment about problematic characters. Atabet had intrigued him from the day they had met. “Your instinct is right,” he said. “He’s got something else going besides his painting. I feel it every time we talk. But it’s hard to say what it is exactly. All I know is that there’s a power there . . . if I were you I’d pursue it. Have you heard the rumors about his paintings, that they move on the canvas? Sandor McNab told me about them.”
    “That his paintings move? It must be an Op Art effect.”
    “Well, I don’t know. I own one, and by God, I think it does move. It’s definitely changed color. But it’s his presence that impresses me most. His presence and the lift he gives me. Stay with it. And don’t worry about the other people, especially Armen Cross. He wouldn’t recognize Jesus!”
    Our conversation restored my morale. The doubts and blank looks I found almost everywhere else seemed inconsequential in the face of this one sympathetic judgment.
    But six days passed without a call or letter, and the hopes our meeting had aroused began to fade. The anxiety and frightening imagery of recent weeks returned with new intensity. On June 23rd, the seventh day after our meeting, I went up to his place to find him.
    No one answered when I rang his bell, and I knocked at the Echeverrias’ door. An old lady answered and said in broken English that he had gone up to Sonoma with the Echeverrias to see some relatives. He wouldn’t be back for a couple of days.
    I walked back to the Press in a daze. That he hadn’t phoned me proved he didn’t like the book. Irrational though the feeling might be, I felt totally betrayed. Casey Sills was my chief associate and editor at the Greenwich Press, and since my divorce I had depended upon her for emotional help in every kind of crisis. All week we had talked about Atabet. She stuck her head in the door and made a quick appraisal. Yes, I needed help, she said—giving my book to a reader always caused some kind of trauma.
    She pulled up a chair by my desk and started to tease me about this infatuation with a stranger. As I tried to account for my feelings her wrinkled face gathered into a frown. “Darwin,” she sighed. “It’s time you found someone who knows how to cook and make a