Camp Echo - Chapter 4

 

Max and Jules were sitting in the back of Aeriol's Citroen Dyane heading into town. He'd switched on the radio, but quickly changed his mind and popped in a cassette. They followed the early afternoon traffic, listening to symbols clashing, drumming, and a sort of melodic chanting, only disrupted by Aeriol crunching the gears and swearing.

“Is he really that good looking?” Jules whispered conspiratorially.

Max smiled, “You’ll see for yourself. If he’s coming.”

“You been before?”

“To an Ashram?” 

“Yeah.”

“No never.”

The chanting had reached fever pitch and was repeating like a needle stuck on the turntable. Aeriol was tapping his hands on the steering wheel in time with the rhythm. A screech and jolt as he slammed the breaks and swore. Aeriol was not a good driver. He lacked concentration and everything was everybody else’s fault. It was like he expected a clear road just for himself. Of course the car had that spongy soft suspension renowned of French cars and rolled around corners like riding across waves. You could say the whole experience was rather stressful. 

“Meditation!” Aeriol exclaimed. “Clears your mind.” 

That he had to see. Max was so far from imagining Aeriol sitting cross legged and meditating that he honestly wondered if this wasn’t one huge joke. They rolled into the kerb, jolted to a halt. Someone behind sounded a horn. 

“Stay here. I’m gonna get Chester. Back in a minute," Aeriol announced.

“Is he gay?” Jules spoke normally now there were just the two of them.

“You seem very interested in Michael?” Max replied.

“Just curious.”

“Yeah? Well, I have no idea. Anyway what if?”

“Nothing.” Jules was looking through the window at the passers by.

“And you?” Max asked.

“What? What about me?”

“Are you... gay?”

 

Chester lived in one of those old buildings that looked like a tenement block. No lift, the stairs outside led to all floors and a covered external walkway that did the tour of the building. It was typical of post war construction, but which war? Aeriol climbed up to the third floor, turned left, number thirty-three. He rang the bell. 

“Aeriol!” Chester beamed. “You want to come in.” 

He hesitated, thinking for a second about the badly parked car, but what the hell. If he got a ticket, he never paid them anyway. He stepped inside. Followed Chester along the corridor to the tiny kitchen-diner. 

“Hi,” he nodded at the disinterested thirteen year old sitting at the table. 

There was no response.

“Don’t mind him. Take a seat.” 

Aeriol slid onto the bench seat that stretched one side of the length of the table. 

“You better get your jacket,” Chester told his son. “We're not hanging around.” 

Aeriol watched the boy get up and walk around the table. 

“He’s upset about going to the ashram.”

“Why don’t you leave him here then?”

Chester grinned. “I need to keep an eye on him, that’s why. There’s no one home this afternoon. Besides it won’t do him any harm. Gets him out of the house.” 

Michael was standing in the doorway, maroon bomber jacket ballooning his torso, making his legs look even thinner. 

“Okay, let’s go," Chester said.

Aeriol stood up and followed Michael out of the flat. Chester took the passenger seat next to Aeriol and Michael squeezed in next to Max and Jules on the bench seat at the rear. 

“Hi Ches,” Max greeted the man as he closed the passenger door. 

Chester turned and smiled back, “Max, Jules, how’s things?”

“Good,” they answered in unison and began laughing. 

 

Aeriol started the motor, crunched into gear and pulled out into the traffic, accompanied by the sound of more screeching brakes and horns. Did he even look in the rear view mirror, or indicate? Probably not. Michael started doing acrobatic contortionism. His arms going everywhere and his body knocking into Max. 

“It's too hot in here,” he struggled to remove his jacket. 

Max was enjoying the show, the complaints, and especially the bodily contact. Another screech and jolt as they stopped at lights, Michael finally got his jacket off, but not before falling half across Max. 

“Better now?” Max grinned at Michael only to receive a surly frown.

The rest of the journey passed without much conversation. It was like a preamble to what was to follow. There was at least an hour's chanting on the cassette and it wasn’t that long a drive. The suburbs soon engulfed them in rows of identical terraced houses with tiny front gardens each with a hedge, or wall, and little gate. These gave way to tree lined avenues with larger semi-detached homes, looking much more impressive, but not as grand as the large detached houses in the street they just entered. Aeriol pulled up to a halt in front of one such beast. Set back from the road by a huge lawned garden adorned by a giant oak tree whose branches spread out in all directions and whose trunk was thick and solid. That tree must have stood there before ever the house was built, maybe two hundred or two hundred and fifty years old. 

 

“Let’s go guys,” Aeriol killed the engine and stepped out into the street.

Standing there looking at the house, Max and Jules both admired the architecture. This was suburban England in all its glory. 

“This is it?” Max asked somewhat in awe. 

Chester turned, “Yeah, impressive old house, huh?”

“Not how I imagined an ashram,” Jules was still standing looking.

“Well, this isn’t India,” Aeriol started up the path towards the equally imposing front door. 

Michael didn’t know what all the fuss was about, he followed directly after Aeriol. 

 

Once inside they exited a large hall through double panelled wooden doors into a huge reception room. Enormous bay windows looked out across the front lawn towards the oak tree. People were busy placing chairs in rows. Others were bringing in plates and dishes to put on trestle tables, arranged down one side. At the opposite end of the room was a table adorned with flowers and fruit. A picture of an Indian guy in multi-coloured robes and wearing a bright orange scarf and woolly hat, took centre place. The smiling face, peeked through a silver grey beard and moustache, in one hand he held beads like a rosary, his other hand rested in his lap the forefinger and thumb forming a circle.

“That’s Babaji ,” a voice spoke next to Jules. 

He turned to see a girl about his age, slim, with long brown hair tied with a coloured ribbon, dressed in those tie dyed fabrics that in some way epitomised the sub-continent. He stared at her a moment before returning his gaze to the picture.

“Babaji?”

“Our guru,” she smiled politely.

Somehow Jules got the impression that she was talking to him like you address very young children, but he didn't mind. He was drawn to the colourful image on the white clothed table just as he was mesmerised by the voice beside him. 

“I’m Jules,” he returned the smile, looking at her again.

“Sajani, it means beloved."

“That’s not your real name?” 

Jules knew as soon as he had spoken the words that perhaps that was not the right thing to say. But Sajani continued smiling and reached out to take his hand, just like a mother and child. 

“We receive a new name when we accept Babaji as our guru,” Her face was radiant, he felt transported, at least he was happy to be led by her towards the altar.

 

“Looks like Jules got off,” Michael poked Max in the side.

“Huh?” Max was confused, this was the most the youngster had said since they picked him and Chester up. Anyway, what was he talking about?

“Look idiot. Over there.” 

Max looked in the direction Michael indicated and sure enough Jules appeared engrossed in the company of a not unpleasant looking girl. “Well, well. I never believed he was gay, maybe, no.” 

He said that before he realised he was in the company of Michael. 

The boy just grinned. “I’ve always liked you.” Michael suddenly revealed.

“Really? Why's that?”

“Because you don’t treat me like a kid and you talk to me like anybody else,”

“You mean like anybody else my own age.”

“Yeah.”

“Well actually Michael, I forgot you was there.”

“Oh yeah! Like you forgot I was sitting next to you in the car on the way over.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You were pressing you leg against mine.”

“It's a small car.”

“You like me, don't you?”

“Yes Michael, I like you. But I’m not sure me liking you means what you might think it means.”

“Are you...” Michael moved right up close to Max and whispered, “gay?” 

What the fuck? Now he was in a predicament. How the hell should he answer. He had always told himself he wouldn’t ever lie. If someone asked, he’d straight up tell them. But this was different. He didn’t want to give out the wrong signals. 

“I know you are. You don’t even need to say anything,”

“Okay then, if you know, I won’t say anything.” That was a nice way out of a difficult situation.

“Are you two gonna help, or just stand around?” Aeriol interrupted them.

“Just stand around,” Michael replied.

“You wanna smack kid?”

“You wouldn’t dare. My dad’s just there.” Michael looked over to where Chester was lifting some chairs from one of the stacks.

Aeriol turned away and went across to help.

“I think it would be nice if you joined in a bit and helped,” Max smiled tentatively.

“I think it would be nice if you sucked my cock!” 

Max didn't reply, he glowered at the teenager, turned away and left Michael standing alone. He was angry with the boy. At that moment he thought Aeriol was right. The kid had a wicked mouth and could do with a slap, but that was Chester's job, not his.

 

There were a wide variety of people all busily helping, but it was mostly the Indian ladies who were carrying in the food. It smelt, spicy, and good. Max felt a rumbling in his stomach. It was not long before all the food dishes were set out and all the chairs arranged in neat rows. Now people started taking their places and pretty soon every chair was taken and there were four or five rows of people sitting on the floor in front of the table with Babaji's photo. At precisely four o’clock someone rang a little bell. Then the singing, or rather chanting, began. It was a combination of both, chanting in a sing song fashion. 

 

 

 

 

The chanting cycled through repeated phrases, building in tempo, subsiding, and building again. If you could imagine fifty or sixty people all chanting to the same rhythm, reaching a crescendo, then descending, the ebb and flow like waves reverberating, the whole effect was intoxicating.

 

 

“The food was great,” Jules announced as they arrived back.

“And the company too,” Max suggested.

“Yeah Jules, what was her name?” Aeriol closed the front door.

“Sajani!” Jules turned into the kitchen. “Anyone want some tea?”

“I want a smoke, but I’ll have some tea if you’re making it.” Aeriol sat down at the table and opened the old tobacco tin where he kept his stash.

“Yeah sounds good Jules,” Max joined Aeriol at the table.

“You seeing her again?” Aeriol asked.

“Maybe, if we go there again.”

“I’m up for that. If you’re going count me in," Max said.

“Om namah fucking shivaaya!” Aeriol had licked the papers together, lined them with tobacco, and was crumbling in the resin. 

Jules poured the tea. Max watched as Aeriol niftly rolled the joint, brought it to his lips, lit up, and inhaled. He passed it to Max. 

“Fuck that’s good.” Max took a couple of tokes and passed it on. 

When it was back with Aeriol he stared at Max. “What’s up with you and Michael?”

Max hesitated, he wondered exactly what Aeriol meant. “Nothing. Just sometimes the kid gets up my nose.”

“I know what you mean,” Aeriol leaned forward to hand over the joint. “I could really smack the little git sometimes.” 

Max didn’t reply, he was smoking the joint. 

“And Jules babe. I guess you don’t want me to fuck you anymore. You’ve turned straight!” Aeriol grinned.

Jules handed Aeriol the end of the joint. “Did I ever want you to fuck me?” Jules frowned. 

“Whatever. Let’s go next door and listen to some real music. I’m fucking stoned,” Aeriol stood up laughing.