The Man in the Tree

Chapter Twenty-six

From the St. Petersburg Times:

"An Evening of Magic and Mystery," presented Friday through Sunday at the Sherman Theatre, is a puzzling mixture of entertainment and propaganda.

At the Friday performance, stage illusions, offered by a magician who called himself the Astounding Willy, dominated the earlier part of the evening. Ghostly heads floated out over the audience, there were showers of rose petals, and many things appeared and vanished, including cards, coins, pigeons, and the magician himself.

As a climax of this part of the evening, the Astounding Willy stepped into a large glass box on wheels, which was then covered with a drape by his assistants. When the drape was removed, Willy had disappeared, and in his place was Gene Anderson, eight feet six inches tall, billed as "The World's Tallest Man."

Emerging from the box, Anderson, a former circus performer who has made his home in Pinellas Park for the last two years, spoke to the audience about peace and brotherhood. At the end of his lecture, he brought up a young man in a wheelchair, allegedly suffering from muscular dystrophy, and healed him, or appeared to heal him, by miraculous means.

On leaving the theater, members of the audience were handed application forms for an organization called "Peace, Prosperity, and Justice," and were also given pink play money to exchange with each other.

The performance will be repeated tonight and Sunday.

Margaret pasted the clipping into a scrapbook, along with copies of the newspaper advertisements, flyers, and handbills. Within a few months the scrapbook was full, and she began filing clippings in the first of a series of fat folders.

Coomaraswami had taken a leave of absence from the university to set up a think-tank in Orlando; it was beginning to issue position papers on renewable resources, birth control, the economics of a declining population. "It turns out there are a lot of things you can do," he said. "For instance, if population is declining, there is a lot of work just in tearing down large buildings that you don't need anymore, and salvaging the materials, and so on. Then the demographics are different too, so there is room for new products and we need different services. It is not hard to keep people working if you just look at the needs and opportunities."

One evening, after a private talk with Gene, he reported that Gene had touched him on the forehead. "You know, when he touched me, I felt as if I could feel those two marks of his fingers on my forehead afterward. It was really strange. I think it was just something he did, but it was really extraordinary how I felt about it."

"You don't think he can -- rearrange your brain, or anything, do you?" Wilcox asked."

"No, no." Coomaraswami waved the suggestion away. "I am sure my brain has not been rearranged. As far as I can tell, I am thinking as clearly as ever. Maybe a little more so. Just before I came in here I had the idea for a really marvelous physics paper. But, you know, something happened when he touched me. I can't explain it. But I feel now that it made everything definite in some way. As if he had confirmed a decision. And, really, I am very happy about it, but still it is strange."

The "kitchen cabinet," as Irma called it, still met on weekends when Gene was at home, but now there were new faces in it: lawyers, managers, publicity people. The head of the new legal staff was Brian Altman, who looked more like a choir boy than a corporation lawyer.

After St. Petersburg, Gene and Mike Wilcox took their show to Tampa, Orlando, Miami, and Savannah, setting up local organizations in each city. Arrangements were being made for a national tour beginning in June -- not in theaters this time, but in stadiums and civic centers.

"How will you manage the magic part in a big stadium?" Linck asked Wilcox. They were in the kitchen, with Irma, Pongo, and Margaret; Linck had just returned from a New York trip. Gene was in his room.

"It can't be done," Wilcox said. "I mean, I suppose you could do an elephant, but Gene doesn't want anything like that. We're giving up the magic. It was fun while it lasted, and it served its purpose."

"Is he relieved about that?"

"No, in a funny way I think he liked the idea, because he hates these comparisons with Jesus, and the magic made him different."

"How is that?"

"Well, I mean, Jesus at least wasn't a magician."

"Perhaps not, but he was crucified for being one. Don't repeat this to Gene, please, but when Jesus was brought before Pilate, you probably remember, Pilate asked the Jews, 'What is this man accused of?' And they answered, 'If he were not a doer of evil, we would not have brought him before you.' Well, you know, this sounds at first rather like the trial scene in "Alice in Wonderland." But 'doer of evil' at that time was a common term for a magician."

"Good heavens."

"The story is only in John, not the other three gospels. But it is a convincing story to me, because it makes good sense of this episode. In the other gospels, the charge against Jesus is blasphemy. If that had really been the charge, he would have been stoned to death under Mosaic law, not turned over to the Romans. Under Roman law, blasphemy against the Hebrew god was not a crime. But the practice of magic was, and the penalty was crucifixion."

Wilcox said after a moment, "I never heard that before, and I've read a good bit about magic. Why isn't there a little footnote or something to explain it in the Bible?"

"The meaning of 'doer of evil'? I suppose because the translators didn't know it. There are many mistakes in the English bible -- and in the Dutch one, too. Every translation is different. Did you know that in the French Bible, where it says in the English version, 'Blessed are the meek,' it says in French, 'Heureux sont les debonnaires'?"

"Debonnaires! That's very good. Maurice Chevalier at the Pearly Gates. But there's something else that bothers me. You know, Gene won't hear of any idea that he's the Second Coming or anything like that. You seem to be suggesting that he really is. I'm curious to know if that's what you actually think."

"No, and that's why I asked you not to mention this to Gene. I don't believe in reincarnation, you know. I think that when we die the universe takes us apart and uses us to make other things. That's just my opinion. But I also believe that there are patterns in the universe, and perhaps sometimes they repeat. Why not? The Platonists and Pythagoreans believed in the 'magnus annus,' the great year, when history would begin to repeat itself. I don't think for a moment that Gene is Jesus come again. But just consider a few things. His father was a carpenter. He has the power to heal and to make things appear and disappear. 'Gene' means 'born,' and 'Anderson,' well, you could interpret it as 'the son of man.' "

"I don't like talking about it behind his back this way," said Irma.

"I don't either, but he has only told us that he doesn't want us to talk about it to him. He hasn't said that we mustn't talk about it among ourselves. Well, never mind that, but there is something more important. How can we do our duty to him unless we try to understand what is happening? I assume that you all feel as I do, that we have a duty to him. To help him and protect him as far as we can. Would you agree?"

Their heads were nodding.

"Well, we can't predict the future, but sometimes we can see a pattern. That's really all I am saying."

In the spring Gene Anderson continued his tour; He was traveling now in his own Lear jet, with a modified motor home waiting for him at every airport. Plans for a European tour had preoccupied him through the winter. He was studying Russian and Polish with a young man named Kozlow, who reported that his progress was excellent. There was talk of buying a short-wave radio station in West Germany, perhaps a TV station as well.

On the evening before the rally in Houston, the group assembled as usual in the living room of Gene's suite. Through the open window came the sound of a car radio at full volume:

You're the one, Gene Anderson, You are the one. Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh! Anderson, You are the one, oh-oh!

"That tune is driving me crazy," said Linck. "I have heard choral versions, one with a brass band, an organ version, and I don't know what all. It goes around and round. I can forget it quite easily, but then somebody plays it again."

"Let's begin," said Gene. "Anything earthshaking today?"

Lisa Finn, the public relations director, showed them a religious magazine, poorly printed on coarse paper. On the cover was a drawing of a Gene's Dollar which had been altered to give him a Satanic appearance. The headline was "The Mark of the Beast."

"This kind of thing isn't too important -- these people are always calling for a crusade against somebody. Here's something that worries me a little more, though." She held up a newspaper, opened to a syndicated column. The headline was "Against America."

"Let me read you a little of this. 'Gene Anderson is telling us to give up competitiveness, reduce our population, reduce consumption, disarm ourselves -- in other words, to give up all the things that make this country strong. The rosy future he paints for us is one of villagers baking their own bread, milking their own cows, and patching their own pants, probably under the eye of a commissar appointed by the Kremlin. Is Gene Anderson the Anti-Christ? Maybe. Is he Anti-American? No doubt about it.'"

"Piffle," said Brian Altman.

"Maybe so, but it's the kind of piffle they seem to like in Washington. You know that Senator Monroe has introduced a bill making it a criminal offense to promulgate the doctrines of a cult."

"How can they do that?" asked Cliff Guthrie. "I thought there was something in the Constitution against any law about religion."

"The bill isn't directed against religions, only against cults."

"Well, how do you tell the difference?"

"The bill sets up a Federal Commission on Cults. So a cult is anything declared to be a cult by the commission -- meaning anything the Moral Majority doesn't like."

"Brian, how serious is this?" Gene asked.

"Not very. In my opinion, the bill won't pass, and if it should, it will be struck down by the courts -- this cult commission is a transparent device to evade the Constitution. In any event, they're obviously out to get the Moonies and Hare Krishnas, Church of Scientology, people like that; I don't see how it affects us."

"Lisa?"

"I think we ought to oppose it on principle, just the same. I could get together with a couple of lobbyists and work something out."

"How much?" Gene asked.

"Oh -- sixty, seventy thousand. Maybe a little more."

"Okay, let's do it. Next item?"

From Art Buchwald's column:

The other day my friend Garfinkel handed me a pink dollar bill. "What's this?" I said.

"A Gene's Dollar. I gave it to you because you did something nice. You were starting to light your cigar, but when you saw me coming you put the match out."

I examined the dollar; sure enough, it said: "YOU WERE NICE TO ME."

"What can I do with this?" I asked.

"You can give it to somebody who's nice to you."

"Suppose everybody is nasty to me?"

"Then you get to keep the dollar."

I lit my cigar and puffed smoke at him. "If I put this out again, do I get another dollar?"

"No, because I've only got one more and I'm saving it for my girlfriend."

I puffed steadily; he coughed and turned a little green. Finally, as he got up to go, he handed me another bill: on the top it said "Garfinkel's Dollar," and on the bottom, "YOU WERE LOUSY TO ME."

They were in Roanoke a month later when news came that the Anti-Cult Bill had been passed by the Senate and the House on the same day. On the following day it was signed into law by the President, who appointed a five-man commission. At the end of the week the commission announced its preliminary list of organizations proscribed as cults. There were thirty-six; among them was the Anderson Movement.

"They really railroaded it through," said Brian Altman. "Under the statute, anybody who promulgates a proscribed doctrine or induces anyone to join a proscribed organization can be brought up on criminal charges. I hate to say this, but I think we'd better cancel the rest of the tour."

"There will be ten thousand people waiting to get into the civic center tomorrow night. The network crews are here; we've got three people lined up to be healed."

"How can this be happening?" Margaret asked. "You know the Moral Majority is a minority."

"Yes, but it's the kind of minority that runs a lynch mob," said Lisa Finn. "I saw this happen thirty years ago -- a lot of good people were afraid not to quack when everybody else was quacking."

"How's the hate mail running?" Gene asked.

"Pretty high. Worse the last month or so. Some death threats."

"I can't believe this country will throw away its greatest traditions overnight," said Cliff Guthrie.

"Let me tell you about those traditions." Lisa Finn tapped with a pencil on the table for emphasis. "Most of the civil rights we take for granted are recent. Women didn't even get the vote until nineteen twenty. In the forties, thousands of Japanese-Americans were rounded up into concentration camps. The traditions you're talking about say that couldn't happen -- so does the Constitution -- but in fact it was very easy. The President said do it. That's all it took. Don't think it can't happen again."

"Do you agree with Brian, then?"

"I agree it's serious. About going on tonight, I think that's your decision."

Gene looked around the table. The others were nodding. "All right," he said; "we'll go on."

In the focus of the lights and the ten thousand faces, hearing the echoes of his words come back like the sound of handballs bouncing from a court, he said, "The Bible tells you that you must worship God, but I tell you that God doesn't care if you worship him or not. The Bible tells you that you must follow God's commandments, but I tell you that there are no commandments, except the ones built into your bodies, and you haven't got much choice about those -- when you are hungry, you eat, and when you are sleepy you sleep. The Bible tells you that you will be rewarded in heaven if you are good, but I tell you that there is no heaven or hell except in the minds of human beings. This is our life, right here, right now, and it's the only one we've got. The Bible tells you that God is all-knowing, but I tell you that if he knew everything, he would be bored for all eternity. God made us, not because he knew what we would do, but to find out what we would do.

"Remember I didn't say that God doesn't care about us. He does care, because we give him joy and delight, but he won't step in to save us from starving, or getting sick, or falling out a window. He might like to, but that would spoil his great experiment -- to see what will happen if he brings us into the world and then leaves us alone. That's what the world is all about, and that's why he takes delight in us, along with all his other creatures -- because we do things he never expected us to do. What would be the point of an experiment if you knew how it was going to turn out? Or what would be the point of it if you stopped it in the middle and made it turn out the way you thought it would? How would you ever learn anything that way?

"God doesn't care if the human race survives or not. We are not his chosen people. If we become extinct, he's got millions of other species -- species that we're killing off right now at the rate of about one a day. He's got the leopards and the deer and the elephants and the fish in the ocean and the spiders with their wonderful webs. Everything in God's world reflects his beauty, and he can get along without us. We depend on him, not the other -- "

The flat crack of an explosion echoed from the rear of the hall. A little gray smoke was drifting above the distant balcony, and there was a confusion there -- people standing, moving like ants; there were shouts and screams. Ushers and security people were converging on the spot. Just below the podium, the head of the security detail was speaking into his walkie-talkie. "What is it?" Gene said.

"A bomb, looks like. We don't know yet how many are hurt."

Gene said into the microphone, "Please remain in your seats." To the security man he said, "Get me up there."

Seven people were lying between the rows of seats, bloody and ragged. He healed five of them, one after the other; but two were dead.

"You were right," he said to Brian. "Lisa, you were trying to tell me the same thing. It was my damned pride. Those people would be alive if I'd listened to you. Cancel the rest of the tour. We're going home."