“Galadonians who speak English.”
“Yes.”
“And when these English-speaking Galadonians are being trained, what colloquialisms and accents will you be looking for, what country’s ways will you encourage?”
Henry stares at the prince. He knows the answer but isn’t sure where it’s going. “Okay, I guess that would be American. The more convincingly American they can sound, the better.”
The prince smacks his hands together so forcefully it startles Henry. “Bingo, Yo-Town!”
“I don’t follow.”
“Despite your economy, your widening cultural void, your anti-intellectualism, your reality-TV approach to electing leaders, your fast-food addictions and thickening midsections—despite all of this, what the world wants most is to act like America. And at this moment in time I think that there is no greater job, no calling that better captures the era, than what you are doing here. Teaching the art of being American.”
“Okay.”
The prince returns to the models, looks at them while speaking with Henry. “What you are doing for your water company is teaching this on a lesser scale. Important, yes, but what I would like is to be able to hold your model up as an example to other companies that are considering doing business here, to show them that our people are capable of acting like and doing business with the best.”
Henry nods. “That’s fine, but I haven’t even started yet. I need to make my own little thing work before using it as some kind of—“
The prince waves him off. “I have no doubt you will succeed.”
“But, again . . . I’m not. . . I. . .”
“I’m sure your company would not mind at all, Henry Tuhoe, if you helped out casually, every now and then, as a friend of the state, as a corporate liaison. As a favor to me, because in this economy I could use all the help I can get.”
Henry decides that it’s best to go along with it for now. Later he will call Giffler and speak with whomever he needs to speak with to see how to handle this. But right now, jet-lagged, disoriented, frightened, and freaked out, he decides he’s in no position to take a stand on anything. Rather than formally committing, he answers the prince with a question. “So to make all of this come to pass,” he says, sidling up to the edge of the models, “what is the single most important thing that needs to happen?”
The prince steps back and fixes his gaze on Henry. He stares at him for an uncomfortably long time. He wants Henry to know that not just his question but every aspect of him and everything that he represents is being considered, being judged, and that the answer the prince is about to give is not something to be taken lightly.
“What needs to happen first and foremost, and sooner rather than later, Henry Tuhoe, is for the heart of my father to stop beating.”
~ * ~
One Man’s Spa
Spiritual enlightenment and state-of-the-art luxury, it turns out, are not mutually exclusive.
After sleeping for most of the hour-and-a-half drive from the capital, a gradually ascending, late-day trek over deep-rutted, unpaved roads bordered by rice paddies and jute fields, Henry awakens when the Range Rover jerks to a stop.
Shug looks at him in the rearview mirror and clears his throat. Several times at the beginning of the journey Shug tried to get Henry to discuss his conversation with the prince, but all that Henry would volunteer, to Shug’s growing consternation, was that one day he might work out with the prince at the palace. When it became clear that Shug wasn’t going to get any political insight or royal gossip, he decided to give Henry the silent treatment.
Henry sits up and rubs his eyes. To his left, the edge of the road gives way to a sheer granite precipice. Looking down through the lavender twilight, he sees a gray mass of smog trapped in the valley, and through the smog he can barely make out the rooftops of a village and the black snake of a river.
Shug points to the nearest bend in the snake, to a modern building north of the village. “Your place of business is down there. In the valley.” Then he looks up and to his right at a lavish edifice partially built into the smog-free mountainside. Sunset rays illuminate a spectrum of brilliant colors and ornate Galadonian spiritual carvings. “And here . . . once again, here are your lodgings: Ayurved Djong and Spa.” Two men in white ghos scramble down the front steps of the spa to greet them.
Madden may have been right. “What happened to having an apartment in the valley, near the office park?”
Shug glances at him in the rearview mirror again. “You were supposed to. But the prince upgraded you. Last week the head of Sri Lankan Trade stayed here in the presidential suite, until the head buyer of Old Navy arrived and bumped him to a lesser room. Anyway,” Shug continues by way of farewell, “these men will show you to your accommodations. In two days, Monday, I will be waiting here at eleven a.m. to take you to your new headquarters in the valley.”
At once Henry’s door and the back luggage hatch swing open. A smiling young man steps back and opens his arms. “Welcome to Ayurved Djong and Spa. I am Ratu, your personal concierge.”
~ * ~
Eating a room-service cheeseburger in his boxers alone in his suite, listening on his headphones to Dylan’s “Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands” from Blonde on Blonde, which, if he’s not mistaken, was written in a hotel room, in the Chelsea.
He’d asked for the cheeseburger and fries to mess with Ratu, who seemed especially proud of the organic vegetarian menu, but the man, despite seeming pure of heart and mind, did not blink. “Absolutely, Mr. Tuhoe. Would you prefer waffle or shoestring fries with that?”
Ever since that morning in the focus group room with Giffler, Henry hasn’t had a chance to stop and collect his thoughts. And now, still unable to sleep and too tired to engage in anything beyond music, he is finally doing just that. And the results of collecting and giving these thoughts even the most casual scrutiny are disturbing. Losing a marriage, a job, a house, and a country, all in . . . what, two, three weeks? Jesus. This song, he decides, concentrate on the song.
Written for Dylan’s wife Sara, right?
On “Sara,” on Desire, he sang what?
Stay in’ up for days in the Chelsea Hotel,
Writin “Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands” for you . . .
But it’s no use. He is sweating all over, and clearly it’s not that hot out; this is the mountains, he thinks, not the goddamn tropics. And it’s too soon to have contracted, like, typhoid, right?
He places his hand over his heart, which is racing considerably faster than the six-eight time of the song, and now he can’t concentrate on the lyrics or even the specific things he’s trying not to concentrate on, but instead of not concentrating on individual issues, or let’s call them themes, the themes of his totally fucked-up life, he is overwhelmed by their inseparable blind totality.
Telling himself, At least you didn’t go through with the vasectomy, at least you still have this or that, doesn’t help, only reminds him of. . . an even greater totality that now includes fundamental penis/procreation/cuckold/witchcraft issues as well. He rises and walks away from his half-eaten burger, the untouched pile of shoestring fries, and walks to his window, which looks out over the now black valley, the unseen village, the river.
A heart attack, he thinks. So this is what a heart attack feels like. Here, of all places.
On the intro tour, whatshisname—Ragu? Ratu?—showed him mud baths, yoga, meditation pods, sundry wraps and scrubs, wine tasting bars, infinity pools, massage suites, flora and fauna, using the language of religion to preach the gospel of self-indulgence, telling him he can achieve a higher sense of purpose without having to give up the creature comforts, that he can go on a one-of-a-kind metaphysical quest without sacrificing a thing. Right here. And now, he thinks, here you are in one of the world’s most exclusive enclaves of relaxation, eating a cheeseburger and shoestring fries, and you’re having a massive heart attack. Like Martin Sheen in Apocalypse Now.
He tumbles facedown upon the pure wh
ite bedding and tries to breathe, but the air is slow in coming. As he begins to roll onto his back he is startled by a small patch of red on the sheets. An aneurism! Great! He pulls out his earphones and touches his ears for signs of blood while leaning in for a closer look at the stain. Ketchup. That’s what you get for ordering red meat in an Ayurvedic spa in a Buddhist nation. Bad condiment karma. On his back now, breathing deeply, still gasping, he takes stock of his arms, the right in particular. No pain to speak of, shooting, throbbing, pulsing from the heart. And other than not being able to breathe, he feels no pain in his chest, the general neighborhood of the heart.
He thinks, Maybe I’m not having a heart attack in an Ayurvedic spa in a Buddhist nation after all.
Maybe it’s only an anxiety attack.
When he asked what the word djong meant in relation to the resort’s name, Ratu answered, “Monastery fortress.” When he asked how many centuries old this monastery was, Ratu answered, “This is not technically a monastery. Or a fortress. It was built two years ago, a fusion of the old and the new culture, as part of the prince’s grand plan.”
The likelihood that this is an anxiety attack, not a heart attack, isn’t as comforting as he’d like. An anxiety episode would be preferable, he decides, much better than an attack, but it’s nice to be relatively sure you’re not about to die.
On the nightstand, wrapped in a strip of green banana leaf next to a vase of white lilies, is a spa menu. Still on his back, he reaches for it and opens it. Listed in calligraphy within its eight vellum pages are dozens of categories and subcategories of treatments. Facials. Wraps. Mineral baths. In-room spiritual consultation.
The entire centerfold is dedicated to a variety of massage options.
A man answers the house phone. “How may I help you, Mister Tuhoe ?”
“Ratu?”
“Yes.”
“I would like a massage.”
“We have many massage options. Have you considered the menu?”
“I have not. Look, Ratu. Between us, I’m not doing so well right now, stresswise. Do you know what I mean?”
“Yes, Mister Tuhoe. I believe I know exactly what you mean.”
“It’s been a crazy couple of days, with no relief in sight. My wife ... I feel like I’m about to explode.”
“Say no more. I can have someone in your suite within fifteen minutes.”
~ * ~
Fourteen minutes later there is a knock at his door. A pretty Galadonian woman with her black hair cross-thatched in a loose bun smiles and bows at him. “My name is Lacy.” She is wearing a white doctor’s smock and holding a black leather work bag.
Henry returns the bow and motions her inside. Lacy tells him to remove his clothes and lie facedown on the bed.
As he takes off his T-shirt, he begins to explain his trip and his new job, but she shushes him and twirls her finger to indicate that he should spin around, get on the bed, and shut up.
Warm lavender-scented oil drips onto his back, forming an S-shaped bead. When Lacy’s hands touch him his body spasms; he is not so much startled as, after months of real rejection and fraudulent sexual recuperation, unaccustomed to the touch of another human. He takes a deep breath, finally with ease, and closes his eyes as the masseuse works her way from his neck and trapeziums down to the balled mass of muscle in the center of his back. It’s all feeling quite good and he’s thinking that this was a great idea, when the towel over his ass is slowly peeled down and a well-oiled index finger begins to probe the outer perimeter of his rectum.
“Excuse me, Lacy?”
“Yes?”
“I think I’ll skip the prostate massage this evening, thank you.”
After a moment Lacy shrugs and moves her hand north along his spine. “Maybe later, then.”
He shakes his head, which is facedown in a rolled-up ring of white towels.
Several minutes later, Lacy’s hand finds its way back under the towel. Warm fingers scoop underneath his buttocks and begin to softly squeeze his recently reprieved testicles.
“Hey—whoa, no. No, thank you.”
“I think that trimmed privates is very sexy, Mister Henry. Does this not feel good?”
It does. Besides the chronic pre-surgery-that-never-happened masturbating jag and the two times, post-non-op, that he faked ejaculating while with Rachel, it has been a while. Months. And technically and legally, he is separated. But no. Not here. Not tonight. Whoring in the second world with jet lag, fifteen minutes after having either a heart attack or an anxiety attack, or a combination of both, sporting a pair of fuzz-covered testicles upon which a virility curse has just been placed, isn’t how he wants to begin his postmarital love life. He’d rather get on with the anxiety attack.
He pushes his chest off the bed and turns. Lacy is naked. Her hair is down, unbound, almost touching the tops of her small breasts. The white smock is in a lump on the mahogany floor. “Sorry, Lacy. But I can’t.”
“Can’t, or won’t?”
He doesn’t know what to say.
“Maybe you want a boy instead?”
Henry shakes his head.
“You want me to continue, but without returning to . . . ?” She looks at his midsection.
He looks at his midsection. “No.” He doesn’t trust himself. “But thank you. Really.”
While she bends to pick up the smock, he swings his legs around and sits on the edge of the bed with a small towel covering his crotch. He tries again to explain the month he’s had, the chest pains, but Lacy doesn’t seem to be interested. When she is done buttoning the front of the smock, she walks to a mirror on the wall and pulls back her hair, ties it into a kind of soft knot.
She walks to the door and puts her hand on the knob without turning to say good-bye. Henry calls her name. She stops. “Yes?”
“You wouldn’t happen to have any knowledge of the occult, would you?”
~ * ~
Cue the Motivational Video
Early Monday morning the phone in his room rings. “What’s shaking, studly?”
Giffler. Henry rubs his eyes. He’s been sleeping on and off for almost two days. “The eco-lodge is a whorehouse.”
“Book me a VIP suite ASAP,” Giffler replies, back in New York City, via sat-phone.
“It’s like Canyon Ranch, but with prostitutes on the spa menu, right next to seaweed wraps and morning Pilates.”
“That’s my kind of inconvenient truth. And absolutely consistent with my prediction that with time, green will become so increasingly complex and fractured it will be impossible to separate the good from the bad.”
Henry opens his mouth but decides not to speak. Outside his window on the lawn of a lush garden he sees a group of American and European guests in ghos being led through a series of yoga moves. He’s fairly sure that the instructor is Lacy.
“Have you met the prince?”
“I have. We . . . well, we seem to have hit it off.”
“Splendid. I hear he’s bonkers in a cute, occasionally homicidal way. What’s up with the call center?”
“I just got here, Giff. I’m supposed to go meet the local management team and tour the new building in about an hour.”
“Here’s a little tip: your best bet right off the bat is to go all empire on them.”
“Pardon?”
“Empire. Gun-to-the-head, no-nonsense leadership. Make an example of someone within the first five minutes of the meeting. The third world expects this from us, or they will rob you blind.”
Henry considers telling Giffler Madden’s theory that Galado is about to transition from third to second world, but again chooses not to reply.
“I imagine as part of the orientation you’re gonna screen the motivational creation myth video. You have seen the video, haven’t your
“The Happy Mountain Springs video?” He hasn’t. “Sure.”
“It’s brilliantly manipulative. Show them that. Hopefully they won’t be too offended by the lesbian marriage thing. If they a
re, downplay it. No, deny it. Just say that’s the way hard-core environmentalists look in the Vermont section of the United States.”
“Okay.”
“If that fails, just keep emphasizing how much money they can make compared to abject poverty, then give them the sample customer service scripts so they can start justifying themselves.”
“Gotcha,” Henry answers, then adds, “By the way, were you or anyone back in New York or Vermont aware of the fact that more than three quarters of the country of Galado is drought-stricken or has no access to potable water?”
“So you think there’s a bottled water opportunity there?”
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