The telephone rings: Do you remember me, I was your neighbor at the fair? Where the lady came by who talked to you about papers of a deceased ‘sophist’? My memories go back, nine months ago…
On the fair a lady comes walking towards me. ‘I have been sent to you.’
My eyebrows rise, I look at her, my head tilts. ‘Why?’ I say in anticipation.
Her voice sounds tender, thoughtful. ‘I took care of the old man during his last days. He had worked his entire life for the Western Mysteries. On his deathbed he asked me to take care of his documents. At his directions I came here. Can you use his life work: the papers of a closed order?’
The hair on my arms shoot upright, shivers go down my spine. Bang, bang, bang, speaks my heart. My mouth gets dry and falls open while I try to grasp the reach of what she is saying.
‘I should see those papers first,’ I answer, ‘I head such an order…’
‘I will make sure that you get them,’ the woman answers. I give her my card.
I don’t hear anything at all. Regularly my thoughts go back to this meeting and I punish myself with guilty thoughts; ‘You should have made an appointment with her right away, you fool!’
I remember a story told by my old teacher. About a meeting with a man on a train. He asked her extensive questions and left the train with the message that he would leave her the papers of his order after his death. Months later a mysterious box arrived, full of teaching material that became an ongoing resource of teachings which she used regularly. Recalling this memory I am even madder at myself. ‘I have no idea where this lady lives.’
The voice at the telephone sounds quick and hasty. ‘I was your neighbor at the fair. The lady came back and brought a big cardboard box to me with the question if I could give it to you. She lost your card, but I still have it. Do you come over to get it?’
I don’t hestitate. I take my car and hit the road. The man awaits me smiling on the sidewalk. ‘It is a large quantity of maps. Look ….’ and he opens the box.
I see a gigantic amount of files, filled with stenciled leaflets. They crack moaning; ‘Be careful, we are vulnerable,’ when I try to separate them. I look for names, data; the documents are from halfway the previous century…
Thank you Frank, for contacting me. Thank you, Brother Th., that we are allowed to learn from your life work. I wish I would have had the pleasure of knowing you by life. I will teach from your life work and name you.