The three of them planned a trekking trip through the jungle, but the law stated they must have a guide in these areas. They walked to the river where their guide, Aman, gave them canvas coverings to cover the lower parts of their legs to protect them from the bites and bruises of leeches.
A bamboo raft carried them a few miles downriver to the trekking area. They hiked, surrounded by the songs of the birds, through the pristine forest, where they saw a small group of elephants playing in the Periyar Lake. Aman pointed to a Bengal Tiger about a hundred yards from them.
They ended their hike before dark and said their goodbyes, exchanged e-mail addresses, and promised to write.
Deepok picked him up early the next morning. They drove to Allepppey, a place where one could cruise the backwaters of Kerala by dugout canoe or houseboat. Rick stayed at a small guesthouse with the doorway just eight steps from the water’s edge. His room was small with a mosquito net coming down from a central point on the ceiling and draped over a double bed with a white sheet and thin mattress.
His next door neighbors were Daniel and Frieda, both Indian and from Bangalore, which was a short plane ride from Cochin. Daniel was a master sailor and captained cargo ships.
The three of them chatted on lawn chairs outside their front doors and soon became lost in a deep conversation. Their conversations were so stimulating that it piqued the interest of a woman, who asked to join them.
Ruth was an older British woman. She was born in Bombay when her family was part of the British Raj. She’d been educated in England and was passionate about India.
In the late afternoon, Ruth and Rick shared a dugout canoe paddled by an Indian man who took them through the small canals. Along the riverbank, people came out of their homes smiling and waving with their children and dogs.
Perhaps Elena had seen some of these things, and he wondered how she’d felt. He imagined her beside him and thought he could smell her fragrance. She was there.
Chapter 26
Rick returned to Bombay the next afternoon, on November 30. He called Bill to arrange a visit to his home later that evening. One of Eric’s childhood friends would be there and Rick was eager to meet him.
Rick sat in an auto rickshaw on the way to Bill’s house. The driver got as close as he could, but police barriers detoured traffic after the terrorist attack at the Taj Mahal Hotel, leaving Rick to walk to Bill’s place through reminders of the tragedy. Large signs with red arrows redirecting traffic were posted around the deserted square near the Gateway of India.
Military personnel wore black helmets and carried automatic assault weapons in the aftermath of the attack. News crews roamed the streets, filming the devastation and interviewing people who had witnessed the attack. Knotted sheets still hung from the windows of the Taj Mahal Hotel, used by guests to lower themselves to the street to escape the flames during the violence.
People stood on the roadside and on rooftops, in tears, as they showered orange marigolds on funeral processions carrying slain police officers to cremation. Police cars with their piercing sirens controlled the streets. Crowds stood behind a line of police, whose arms were outstretched to each other, creating a human barricade that kept people out of the square.
Rick walked to Leopold’s café with its dramatic red sign and white lettering. He’d been there a few weeks earlier, when he ate and enjoyed the busy surroundings. Now, he watched men cleaning the bloodstained floor under the table where he’d sat.
He joined a small group of people upstairs at the bar and listened to them talk about the attack. A man paced back and forth, describing what had happened as news crews televised it. He pointed to a table where he’d seen an elderly couple sitting and said that, when bullets ravaged the man, blood gushed out of him and his wife clung to his side, crying.
The owner of Leopold’s described the first moments of the attack when two gunmen came in, exploded a grenade, and asked if there were any Brits or Americans there. No one answered. Then they sprayed the room with bullets at random. People fell to the floor, others hid under the tables. Screams were everywhere.
The gunmen left two minutes later, after each of them emptied at least one magazine. The owner promised Leopold’s would reopen in a couple of days and announced the terrorists had not won.
It was a sad day for India, but Rick was happy to know Kamran was killed during the attack. He left Leopold’s, looked at the sky, and whispered again, “He’s dead, Elena. He’s dead!”
***
When Rick went to Bill’s place, he was introduced to Brian, who had arrived from the USA two days earlier. Rick was genuinely surprised and happy to meet Eric’s best friend. He embraced the tall, solemn faced, bearded man who had blue eyes and dirty blond hair combed back into a ponytail.
“I’m just here for a couple of days,” he said. “I had to see you, sir. I didn’t want it to be later in the USA. I’ve never been to India. Now I know what people mean by culture shock. It’s a different world. I wanted to be here and meet you before Eric’s passing becomes a memory. You gave him life and that makes you special to me.”
“Thank you. I’m so glad you’re here, Brian.”
“The reason for the short stay is that I teach guitar in San Diego and can’t take too much time away or I’ll lose my students.”
“I understand. I really appreciated your e-mail. It helped me understand the kind of person Eric was.”
“Would you guys like some beer?” Bill asked. “We have Hayward’s and Kingfisher.”
They opted for the Kingfishers. Bill brought them out along with some poppadums and mango chutney. They sat and talked, mostly about India and places they’d been, until Bill excused himself, saying he had a bad headache and felt emotionally drained.
Brian and Rick went to a small, quiet restaurant on Tulloch Road. They ordered vegetarian curries, roti, some Kingfishers, and talked.
“Eric told me all about you, Rick, and now that I’ve met you, I see a lot of him in you. Not just in looks, but in your general demeanor. It was a terrible tragedy. I’m angry with him for doing it, but he will be part of my life every day I live.”
“I thought about the why, Brian. I couldn’t get it out of my head. He loved his son so much. How could he leave him? Was he in that much pain?”
“He got to a point where he couldn’t see things with a straight mind.”
“Why? He was smart. Maxwell was a big part of his life, he had meaningful friendships, and he loved music and his work.”
“Those are all rational reasons. Why would he want to leave life...and Maxwell? It’s more complex than that. I understood him. It was about how he felt about his life. He was at odds with Sarah because she restricted his time with Max after they were separated. They were constantly in court, and the judge seemed to go Sarah’s way. Eric became bitter.”
“Tell me about it. I’ll just listen.”
“First of all, Eric was addicted to drugs. He fooled himself by thinking he could quit anytime. We had a tight-knit group of friends and we all started drugging in high school. Our lives were enmeshed in each other’s, and it was all about partying.”
“You too?”
“Yes, absolutely. Eric and I were on top of the list when it came to using drugs...and partying! I don’t know how Eric got his chemistry degree with honors in only three years. Sarah’s family helped them financially when he went to school. It was different for me.
“I quit school, got whatever work I could get to have money for drugs. I was fired from my job for stealing money from my boss. I stole jewelry and money from my parents, drank the vodka my parents kept for social occasions, and replaced the empty bottles with water.
“I had a girlfriend who thought she could change me. She gave me money until she ran out, and I asked her to sell her body for me. That did it. She was done with me, and I was done with drugs. I got into a strict drug rehab. No phone calls or visitors.
“I got out ten months later and came back into the light. R
ick, I was ready, and I knew it. I got clean and stayed dedicated to the NA program. I still go to three meetings a week. I enjoy my work, which is all about music, most of which I learned from Eric. I fell in love, got married to the right girl, and have a one-year-old son, Jonathan. Some things take time, and a person has to be ready. When you’re ready and desperate, good things happen.”
***
The vegetable curries finally arrived along with dahl and basmati rice. Rick and Brian used the roti to scoop up the deliciously flavored dahl as the sweet smell of the masala penetrated the air. They continued to talk and were so lost in conversation that even the taste of the food, with its wonderful spices, eluded them.
Rick was still curious about the reason Eric took his life. He thought that, perhaps, Eric’s inner pain had blocked out his friendships, music, and even Max. Drugs won.
Eric’s life would have been different if Julie and I raised him—and so would ours.
“Brian, is there something I’m missing about Eric, something distinctive, some single element that energized him?”
“He didn’t fit into the mainstream. The world had to adapt to him. That was the one thing that separated him from the rest of our friends. He was different, with strong opinions and an amazing talent as an audio engineer. All of us knew it—Bill, Teddy, Pete, Kelsey, Briana, Sarah...all of us. We all loved him, I mean loved him. I was sorry he lived with the illusion that he was in total control of his life. Maybe life is an illusion anyway.
“He was extremely methodical about his passions. He advanced the world of music by producing recordings that were perfect, especially classic rock. He engineered the music, massaged it, and tweaked it. He was great at it, but to be a master of something doesn’t mean it brings you a good life. He was convinced he could use the same logical, methodical approaches he applied to music to solve his drug problem.”
“That’s interesting. What makes you think that?”
Brian avoided the question.“I knew him. Everything about him. I brought pictures with me from our ski trips. I have some pictures of Eric taken when he was hiking the Appalachian Trail. Let’s go back to Bill’s and I’ll give you those great photos and we’ll talk some more.”
They returned, looked at pictures, and talked.
“Brian, I have to meet Max. Eric’s life goes back to Julie and me. Without us, there would be no Eric and no Max, and you and I would not be sitting here.”
“I knew you would want to meet Max. It will happen. Trust me, you will meet your grandson.”
“Max needs someone from his father’s side of the family in his life. I’m the only one left. We have the same blood, and besides, Eric wanted me to meet Max.”
“I know he did. When we sat in the restaurant earlier, I imagined Eric with us, just sitting there, eating with us.”
“What would it be like?”
“We would have ordered a lot more food. You and I like the vegetarian stuff, but if Eric were there, he would be eating the chicken and lamb, so we’d have to have Indian chicken curry with naan or Lamb Korma.
“We would talk about music, books, India, down a few Kingfishers, piss it all out in the bathroom, and then come back for more beer. We’d stay at the restaurant until it closed, and then go back to Bill’s to listen to more music as Eric talked about its audio quality. Then we would come back here in the morning for Indian pancakes. The Indian food here is much better than what we ate in the Manhattan restaurants.”
“Sounds like fun. I’d be out of the loop when it came to the music part. I was never into classic rock, just classical music. I’ll take Bach, Beethoven, Brahms, and the Beatles. The four B’s.”
“Hey, man, we liked classical music too, even the Gregorian Chants! Eric turned me on to it. I like the symphonies. Every time I listen to the same one, I hear it in a new way.”
“Really? What do you like in classical?”
“Pictures at an Exhibition got me started in classical—the orchestral version, I mean. When I listen to it, I turn up the volume as high as I can at the end and let it blast away. Eric liked that one too. He would conduct it as he looked at himself in the mirror.
“When it came to music, he liked it all, except for hip-hop, but he did some audio engineering for that genre as well. He always said, ‘music goes straight to the unconscious’.”
“I’m impressed, Brian. My father is a lawyer and he plays the flute, clarinet, and sax. Sometimes we jam together and I play the few chords I know on the guitar. I grew up with music in my house.”
“You’re lucky. Music stays with you forever. Once it’s in your life, you’ll never be alone. Want to hear how Eric stepped into the classical arena?”
“Yes, of course.”
“It was when a high school girlfriend introduced him to Tchaikovsky’s Romeo and Juliet. After he listened to it with Debra, he always thought of her whenever he heard it. Romance was something deep inside him.”
“Those are the sweet moments we string together to make a lifetime.”
“Yeah,” he replied softly.
They heard Bill snoring from the next room, so Brian and Rick went out to the patio. They sat under a soft yellow light at a round table surrounded by four cushioned patio chairs. Everything was calm and quiet.
Brian opened a large manila envelope loaded with photographs that showed Eric at work in his studio with his assistants. There were pictures of Eric’s and Sarah’s wedding, Max as a baby, and Max at the age of five.
Rick now understood more about Eric. He and his friends were enthusiastic about life, had a passion for music, and blended well together. It was a good mix guided by a first class audio engineer.
They promised to keep in touch.
Chapter 27
It was time for Rick to return home. He left India on a clear night on a flight from Bombay to New York. He saw the stars out in full force as he looked out of the window. A lonely dark cloud floated by and he kept his eyes focused on it until it passed. He tried to sort out the heartbreaking events in his life, but his brain wouldn’t let him go there. He thought of Gandhi, closed his eyes, and meditated.
He examined the good things that had happened in his life. It began with his search for Eric, without which there would be no new friendships, no love-filled nights on the desert, no visions of Gandhi, and no rich vibrant colors of India. He thought of Julie, who was with him in his heart from the very beginning. Despite the pain he felt, his life had been enriched and fulfilled during the past few months.
Sometimes pain is necessary.
As far as India went, it wasn’t quite Kipling’s India that he’d experienced. The Raj was long gone, but the flavor of the country and the sensitivity of its people lingered on.
Rick ate an assortment of Samosa appetizers, and, after four glasses of Cabernet, he fell into a deep sleep and dreamed he was in the desert with Elena. It was a cold night. They sat in front of a fire and kissed. Flashing thoughts of them together sped through his mind and piled up like a collage. Rick would always keep Elena in his heart. He awoke to the sound of a woman’s lilting Indian accent.
“Sir, would you like some breakfast? Croissants, eggs, coffee. We will be landing at JFK International Airport in one hour.”
“Yes, thank you, I’ll have it all, and please, a tall glass of orange juice.”
The plane sank gently through the heavy cloud layer until the Manhattan skyline revealed itself in the morning sun. Rick soon joined a sea of quiet, impatient passengers as they began their single file march off the plane. JFK was all dressed up in its splendid Christmas attire, and he noticed a few snow flurries floating down.
After he left the airport, Rick looked at the people in Manhattan scurrying about to get to their jobs, shopping, or just enjoying themselves. As busy and crowded as New York City once appeared to him, what he saw now was in stark contrast to the hordes of people in Delhi and Bombay.
He rode to his apartment in a gleaming yellow taxicab. The driver did not dart in and
out of traffic, what little there was of it. Much was taken out of him during his time in India, but it was replaced by new values, understandings, and people. His never ending ache remained.
When he got home, he unpacked his backpack and realized he didn’t have a picture of Elena, not one. He sat on the edge of the bed and cried.
We never took pictures. We thought we had a lifetime to do those things.
The next morning, he called Cheryl. He knew she had already located Sarah and Max.
He wanted to see Max, but wasn’t sure how that would sit with Sarah. There was no one else who could tell Max about his father’s birth parents, only Rick. Still, he procrastinated and put off calling her.
I should have married Julie. It could have worked out, but I never let it happen.
The agony of questioning his bad judgments about Julie, Eric, and Elena haunted him. Now there was Max, his grandson, who now had a grandfather who could tell him how his father came into this world so there would be no blank spaces when Max looked back to examine his life.
By choice, Rick spent the holiday season alone, lost in his sorrow, trying to come to grips with all that had happened, sorting out his thoughts and feelings.
Days before the late January school session started, he finally called Sarah.
“Hello, this is Rick Newman. Is this Sarah?”
“Oh, hi. Yes, I’m Sarah. Eric told me about you. I’m glad you called.”
“I’m so sorry about Eric.”
“Thank you. It’s not easy for me. I loved him. Condolences to you as well. I was sorry to hear about Julie.”
“Thank you. Did I get you at a bad time?”
“No, not really. I was just grading some papers. I teach at the local high school. I have time to talk. Max is at his uncle’s.”
“Well, we have something in common. I am a teacher too. I know how terrible you must feel about losing Eric and how difficult your life must be. My heart goes out to Max as well. I would very much like to meet you and Max, if that’s possible.”
Meeting Max Page 27