The Power of Silence (11 page)

"But
isn't stalking taught in deep, heightened awareness?" I asked.

"Of
course," he replied with a grin. "But you have to understand that for
some men wearing women's clothes is the door into heightened awareness. In
fact, such means are more effective than pushing the assemblage point, but are
very difficult to arrange."

Don Juan
said that his benefactor drilled him daily in the four moods of stalking and
insisted that don Juan understand that ruthlessness should not be harshness,
cunning should not be cruelty, patience should not be negligence, and sweetness
should not be foolishness.

He taught
him that these four steps had to be practiced and perfected until they were so
smooth they were unnoticeable. He believed women to be natural stalkers. And
his conviction was so strong he maintained that only in a woman's disguise
could any man really learn the art of stalking.

"I
went with him to every market in every town we passed and haggled with
everyone," don Juan went on. "My benefactor used to stay to one side
watching me. 'Be ruthless but charming,' he used to say. 'Be cunning but nice.
Be patient but active. Be sweet but lethal. Only women can do it. If a man acts
this way he's being prissy.' "

And as if
to make sure don Juan stayed in line, the monstrous man appeared from time to
time. Don Juan caught sight of him, roaming the countryside. He would see him
most often after Belisario gave him a vigorous back massage, supposedly to
alleviate a sharp nervous pain in his neck. Don Juan laughed and said that he
had no idea he was being manipulated into heightened awareness.

"It
took us one month to reach the city of Durango," don Juan said. "In
that month, I had a brief sample of the four moods of stalking. It really
didn't change me much, but it gave me a chance to have an inkling of what being
a woman was like."

Don Juan
said that I should sit there at that ancient lookout post and use the pull of
the earth to move my assemblage point and recall other states of heightened
awareness in which he had taught me stalking.

"In
the past few days, I have mentioned many times the four moods of
stalking," he went on. "I have mentioned ruthlessness, cunning,
patience, and sweetness, with the hope that you might remember what I taught
you about them. It would be wonderful if you could use these four moods as the
ushers to bring you into a total recollection."

He kept
quiet for what seemed an inordinately long moment. Then he made a statement
which should not have surprised me, but did. He said he had taught me the four
moods of stalking in northern Mexico with the help of Vicente Medrano and
Silvio Manuel. He did not elaborate but let his statement sink in. I tried to
remember but finally gave up and wanted to shout that I could not remember
something that never happened.

As I was
struggling to voice my protest, anxious thoughts began to cross my mind. I knew
don Juan had not said what he had just to annoy me. As I always did when asked
to remember heightened awareness, I became obsessively conscious that there was
really no continuity to the events I had experienced under his guidance. Those
events were not strung together as the events in my daily life were, in a
linear sequence. It was perfectly possible he was right. In don Juan's world, I
had no business being certain of anything.

I tried to
voice my doubts but he refused to listen and urged me to recollect. By then it
was quite dark. It had gotten windy, but I did not feel the cold. Don Juan had
given me a flat rock to place on my sternum. My awareness was keenly tuned to
everything around. I felt an abrupt pull, which was neither external nor
internal, but rather the sensation of a sustained tugging at an unidentifiable
part of myself. Suddenly I began to remember with shattering clarity a meeting
I had had years before. I remembered events and people so vividly that it
frightened me. I felt a chill.

I told all
this to don Juan, who did not seem impressed or concerned. He urged me not to
give in to mental or physical fear. My recollection was so phenomenal that it
was as if I were reliving the experience. Don Juan kept quiet. He did not even
look at me. I felt numbed. The sensation of numbness passed slowly.

I repeated
the same things I always said to don Juan when I remembered an event with no
linear existence.

"How
can this be, don Juan? How could I have forgotten all this?"

And he
reaffirmed the same things he always did.

"This
type of remembering or forgetting has nothing to do with normal memory,"
he assured me. "It has to do with the movement of the assemblage
point."

He affirmed
that although I possessed total knowledge of what intent is, I did not command
that knowledge yet. Knowing what intent is means that one can, at any time,
explain that knowledge or use it. A nagual by the force of his position is
obliged to command his knowledge in this manner.

"What
did you recollect?" he asked me.

"The
first time you told me about the four moods of stalking," I said.

Some
process, inexplicable in terms of my usual awareness of the world, had released
a memory which a minute before had not existed. And I recollected an entire
sequence of events that had happened many years before.

Just as I
was leaving don Juan's house in Sonora, he had asked me to meet him the
following week around noon, across the U.S. border, in Nogales, Arizona, in the Greyhound bus depot.

I arrived
about an hour early. He was standing by the door. I greeted him. He did not
answer but hurriedly pulled me aside and whispered that I should take my hands
out of my pockets. I was dumbfounded. He did not give me time to respond, but
said that my fly was open, and it was shamefully evident that I was sexually
aroused.

The speed
with which I rushed to cover myself was phenomenal. By the time I realized it
was a crude joke we were on the street. Don Juan was laughing, slapping me on
the back repeatedly and forcefully, as if he were just celebrating the joke.
Suddenly I found myself in a state of heightened awareness.

We walked
into a coffee shop and sat down. My mind was so clear I wanted to look at
everything,
see
the essence of things.

"Don't
waste energy!" don Juan commanded in a stern voice. "I brought you
here to discover if you can eat when your assemblage point has moved. Don't try
to do more than that."

But then a
man sat down at the table in front of me, and all my attention became trapped
by him.

"Move
your eyes in circles," don Juan commanded. "Don't look at that
man."

I found it
impossible to stop watching the man. I felt irritated by don Juan's demands.
"What do you
see
?" I heard don Juan ask.

I was
seeing
a luminous cocoon made of transparent wings which were folded over the
cocoon itself. The wings unfolded, fluttered for an instant, peeled off, fell,
and were replaced by new wings, which repeated the same process.

Don Juan
boldly turned my chair until I was facing the wall.

"What
a waste," he said in a loud sigh, after I described what I had
seen
.
"You have exhausted nearly all your energy. Restrain yourself. A warrior
needs focus. Who gives a damn about wings on a luminous cocoon?"

He said
that heightened awareness was like a springboard. From it one could jump into
infinity. He stressed, over and over, that when the assemblage point was
dislodged, it either became lodged again at a position very near its customary
one or continued moving on into infinity.

"People
have no idea of the strange power we carry within ourselves," he went on.
"At this moment, for instance, you have the means to reach infinity. If
you continue with your needless behavior, you may succeed in pushing your
assemblage point beyond a certain threshold, from which there is no
return."

I
understood the peril he was talking about, or rather I had the bodily sensation
that I was standing on the brink of an abyss, and that if I leaned forward I
would fall into it.

"Your
assemblage point moved to heightened awareness," he continued,
"because I have lent you my energy."

We ate in
silence, very simple food. Don Juan did not allow me to drink coffee or tea.
"While you are using my energy," he said, "you're not in your
own time. You are in mine. I drink water."

As we were
walking back to my car I felt a bit nauseous. I staggered and almost lost my
balance. It was a sensation similar to that of walking while wearing glasses
for the first time.

"Get
hold of yourself," don Juan said, smiling. "Where we're going, you'll
need to be extremely precise."

He told me
to drive across the international border into the twin city of Nogales, Mexico. While I was driving, he gave me directions: which street to take, when to make
right or left hand turns, how fast to go.

"I
know this area," I said quite peeved. "Tell me where you want to go
and I'll take you there. Like a taxi driver."

"O.K.,"
he said. "Take me to 1573 Heavenward Avenue."

I did not
know Heavenward Avenue, or if such a street really existed. In fact, I had the suspicion
he had just concocted a name to embarrass me. I kept silent. There was a
mocking glint in his shiny eyes.

"Egomania
is a real tyrant," he said. "We must work ceaselessly to dethrone
it."

He
continued to tell me how to drive. Finally he asked me to stop in front of a
one-story, light-beige house on a corner lot, in a well-to-do neighborhood.

There was
something about the house that immediately caught my eye: a thick layer of
ocher gravel all around it. The solid street door, the window sashes, and the
house trim were all painted ocher, like the gravel. All the visible windows had
closed Venetian blinds. To all appearances it was a typical suburban
middle-class dwelling.

We got out
of the car. Don Juan led the way. He did not knock or open the door with a key,
but when we got to it, the door opened silently on oiled hinges - all by
itself, as far as I could detect.

Don Juan
quickly entered. He did not invite me in. I just followed him. I was curious to
see who had opened the door from the inside, but there was no one there.

The
interior of the house was very soothing. There were no pictures on the smooth,
scrupulously clean walls. There were no lamps or book shelves either. A golden
yellow tile floor contrasted most pleasingly with the off-white color of the
walls. We were in a small and narrow hall that opened into a spacious living
room with a high ceiling and a brick fireplace. Half the room was completely
empty, but next to the fireplace was a semicircle of expensive furniture: two
large beige couches in the middle, flanked by two armchairs covered in fabric
of the same color. There was a heavy, round, solid oak coffee table in the
center. Judging from what I was seeing around the house, the people who lived
there appeared to be well off, but frugal. And they obviously liked to sit
around the fire.

Two men,
perhaps in their mid-fifties, sat in the armchairs. They stood when we entered.
One of them was Indian, the other Latin American. Don Juan introduced me first
to the Indian, who was nearer to me.

"This
is Silvio Manuel," don Juan said to me. "He's the most powerful and
dangerous sorcerer of my party, and the most mysterious too."

Silvio
Manuel's features were out of a Mayan fresco. His complexion was pale, almost
yellow. I thought he looked Chinese. His eyes were slanted, but without the
epicanthic fold. They were big, black, and brilliant. He was beardless. His
hair was jet-black with specks of gray in it. He had high cheekbones and full
lips. He was perhaps five feet seven, thin, wiry, and he wore a yellow sport shirt,
brown slacks, and a thin beige jacket. Judging from his clothes and general
mannerisms, he seemed to be Mexican-American.

I smiled
and extended my hand to Silvio Manuel, but he did not take it. He nodded
perfunctorily.

"And
this is Vicente Medrano," don Juan said, turning to the other man.
"He's the most knowledgeable and the oldest of my companions. He is oldest
not in terms of age, but because he was my benefactor's first disciple."

Vicente
nodded just as perfunctorily as Silvio Manuel had, and also did not say a word.

He was a
bit taller than Silvio Manuel, but just as lean. He had a pinkish complexion
and a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. His features were almost delicate: a
thin, beautifully chiseled nose, a small mouth, thin lips. Bushy, dark eyebrows
contrasted with his graying beard and hair. His eyes were brown and also
brilliant and laughed in spite of his frowning expression.

He was
conservatively dressed in a greenish seersucker suit and open-collared sport
shirt. He too seemed to be Mexican-American. I guessed him to be the owner of
the house.

In
contrast, don Juan looked like an Indian peon. His straw hat, his worn-out
shoes, his old khaki pants and plaid shirt were those of a gardener or a
handyman.