Memorial

by Bruce Wagner

  Laxmi wasn’t ready to visit her father in Pune yet anyhow, and Chess wasn’t surprised. All good, he said. Truth being, he wanted to be alone, travel alone, the guru had bestowed the gift of propulsion and velocity, he wanted to set out by himself—like a proper man. The man he’d never had the chance to become. As had the itinerant mystic-poets, he would visit Ramana Maharshi’s 7-storied mountain (itself said to be a great guru), and go to Benares, 35-hundred year old nexus of death and rebirth. Hadn’t he come as a pilgrim? He even thought of acquiring a begging bowl. Chess knew he might not have come up with the idea if it weren’t for the security his settlement provided (plus he still had a hundred Oxy and 200 1-mg Klonopin; he was still too kultur-shocked to feel the FNF-induced pain full-bore. He heard you could get morphine tabs in Calcutta, which meant probably anywhere, and that Indian smack was rad. Opium was legal but supposedly hard to get your hands on, whatever with that, but the farmers were fucking licensed. Opium was the opium of the masses. Ha ha, who said that) but chose not to judge himself or his real/imagined cowardice, he had made a career out of that, he was casting off, on a new journey, look at him, look where he was, look where he’d been a few months ago, weeks ago, money probably wasn’t required, not in the end, wouldn’t be in the end, maybe the settlement would be abandoned, dormant in his account until turned over to some State Comptroller, maybe he would become a beggar, and that was what his teacher Time and Her daughter Space had wished for him all along.

  Laxmi wanted to take the motorboat Elephanta Island (not far from her guru’s) but Chess thought it too touristy, he didn’t say as much, who was he to judge or throw cold water—let her go see the cave temples dedicated to Siva, he didn’t need to, hadn’t he already been privileged to serve as waterboy to the imperial army? Mascot to the gods! He had run with them like that boy in the Kipling story his father used to read to him at bedtime—clung in terrified ecstasy to hairy leathered backs while charging dark wet jungle Mysterium…

  No, he’d hit the ashram of Sri Aurobindo at Pondicherry on the Coromandel Coast instead, where lay the grave of a woman called the Mother. A caffeine-swilling seeker mentioned having recently been, it came up in conversation during morning tea shared before satsang, a Down Under girl said something about “the Mother,” and Chester thought of his own. He wanted to honor Marj, she who brought him into this world, she to whom he’d never said a real goodbye, she whose sand was now being roughed up and returned to the Source—he wanted to honor Marjorie that way—a kind and right thing, an auspicious way to begin his real travels. She gave him a birthday card last year that said, “You don’t remember, but I’ll never forget the 1st time I saw you.” Though the ashram was in Tamil Nadu, the Tsunami hadn’t affected the city; an old seawall spared it. The Australian said that water buffalo roamed the streets. You could eat cheap and stay in an amazing 19th century sanitorium for $6 a night, rooms overlooking the Bay of Bengal, snakebirds and drongos circling overhead, and at temple the trilingual elephants (responding to English, Hindi, and Malayalam commands) blessed you with their trunks. I have already been blessed. Though I must take care to be unprideful—I must not suffer from that sin of sins. Still, it is true I have heard their sacred song, their supernatural call to battle. I have already been dusted by the earth that shakes from the stomping of columnar legs. I have had satsang and sadhana with All Who Matters: She Who Is So Righteously Guarded whispered to me there is No-Thing to guard. And yet, because, because She shared this, I must not swell with pride. For I am no sadhu…

  They made love then he gathered his things.

  She cried as he left but Chester said he would see her soon, on the wigged-out beaches of Goa, the ash-rammed shit- and blood-strewn alleys of Benares, the cubensic deserts of Rajasthan, in the dreammachines of Agra. (She said, “Why Agra?”—he thought she’d said something else.) He wanted to scope out Bodh Gaya and Calcutta then join the reunion with Laxmi’s Father in Pune. He knew none of this would happen. Best for her to press on alone, there was something to be said about the gravitas of aloneness, the aloneness America knew was brummagem, it was loneliness, aloneness of comfort and convenience, prideful, convenience store pride, and prejudice, no, now they would seek True Aloneness, not that of hedonists or ascetics, but Aloneness before the eyes of God. Best for her soul to be without him on this journey, he got her this far, she’d gotten Chess further, in her own way, both had done as much as they could for one another.

  They would do for themselves, now—in solitaire.

  That was how it should be.

  He laughed out loud: “My Favorite Weekend”! I should dash something off and fax it to the Times …“I like having satsang with an avatar, after devotions to Durga. Then my girlfriend and I crap in a hole and

  He was done with little mind-goofs. His goofs had ended with Maur

  He walked until dusk

  On a vast boulevard of whores where women stood before flimsy curtains and he thought of his camera, what an incredible location, I am a location scout still (Ramesh said that on their deathbeds, even holymen responded to their birthnames), but now I am scouting for Her, and for Time and Space. I am one of Her soldiers and mascots, waterboy in Her imperial army. He asked a passerby, a tourist, for money, and they smiled like they didn’t understand or pretended not to, maybe he wasn’t making sense, maybe he had only imagined he was talking but was really just thinking. He swallowed 3 Oxys. The sky darkened and the inkiness of the bay became like an unruly crowd and he began to beg in front of the Taj Mahal Palace and Towers Hotel but was shooed away and as he strolled toward the Gate of India he asked everyone he encountered, man, woman, or beggarchild for money, asked the beggars themselves! some of whom laughed and some got angry, that is what the guru said to expect, not from begging, but from the world and its dualism: laughter and anger, horror and joy, deformity and pulchritude, barrenness and fertility, poverty and wealth. Chester made certain to ask the poorest of the poor, the most diseased of the diseased, the most indecently scarified, made sure to ask each BardoBeing for cash because what difference did it make, all he had was Time, everything an ocean of time and space, all Hers, did not the beggars share those same radiant choppy waters? were they not created by his teacher? and if they had forgotten and washed ashore would they not return? If only everyone, both prosperous and needy, could see—from the dumb pisspoor park of the Gate of India, Chess saw—Elephanta Island and flickery boats in the harbor, and thought i will ask for money with my begging bowl, on the way to see the Mother. i have no shame nor have i pride. i am grateful. and if it is not Your plan to let Enlightenment happen to this body, let it not happen, O Lord! i am but a pilgrim He thought again of the mushrooms and remembered being brought to his knees, inadvertent posture of prayer in that small desert motel, watching intricate woof of carpet when there was none, head down, as if in a great basilica (which he was), this happened near the end of his cubensis journey, end of time with plant and planet, of voluntary conscription in Her army, divine enraptured bugle boy, end of time with Her as overseer, now he was drafted, a careering soldier, and in careening desert recalled these very words: if at least i find myself in the cathedral, i shall be honored. if in the end i am beggar or pilgrim on my knees and that is all, then i shall be honored. honored and grateful and moved. if at the end i am beggar among beggars in this cathedral, then that will surely be enough. how can i ask for more? how moved i will be. for She has said there is nothing to join nor is there anything to guard or protect, there is No-Thing

  to take a number at the Hilton. Thousands of people: Barbet and Joan were #’s 2,178 and 2,179. But the feeling was all flowers and love, that old hippie feeling, rose oil and canyon good vibes run amok, and besides, it would take a shitload to bring her down, she was so fucking rich. Barbet held her close and she didn’t feel alone. You really need a hug, huh, he said. You need a hug from God. And you’re gonna get one.

  He was funny, her Barbet.

  A man in front of them reminded her (physic
ally) of the Nicobar Islander on the Tsunami anniversary show who said the earth balanced on a colossal tree that could be jolted by spirits and that bad spirits were at the tree trunk trying to hurt people and good spirits were trying to save them. She thought of Lew and the branch-hanged Esther, and Samuel’s lost skeleton, and kept wondering if Andy Goldsworthy was going to do something like the piece he did in Tatton Park, a sheet of ice stuck between the bole of a Haw-thorn bisected by lightning. Ol AG had a lot of tricks up his sleeve.

  She wondered what Calatrava was—

  Barbet said they should have brought the pillow that Cora gave her mom. That way, they could’ve charged money for people who wanted hugs but didn’t feel like waiting on line. Then he said, “Oh, by the way, Calatrava’s out, Ando is in.” “Ando?” “Tadao Ando. What can I say. What’d I fucking tell you? The Birdman of Alcalatrava has flown. It’s like Russian roulette. Russian River roulette! Seems our friend Freiberg—isn’t that like My Friend Flicka?—ran into Tom Ford and Richard Buckley. Went to see the pied-à-soleil in New Mexico, with the indoor underground swimming pool? Got all hot and bothered. Ah so. So solly for Mr Ando. Tadao now have to deal with body of Jew woman hanging in bonsai tree! Maybe Tadao shrink bones. That way Jew Lady fit in bonsai tree. Tadao then stick Jew Lady and bonsai tree in stone alaah to honor Brentwood Country Mart Buddhism. Andy Goldsworthy make stone snake leading to dhau tree. Mr Goldsworthy make ness of dhau thorns, antlers and ice. Mr Goldsworthy make look like Spiral Jetty. Mr Goldsworthy make Eliot Ness.”

  Joan said Ando would probably do something origami-like, in homage to Esther’s Eastern flirtations—like that black steel shop he did in Tokyo, hhstyle.com/casa.

  Then she said that standing in line—and since when do you say “on line,” Barbet? What are you, suddenly from New York?—was like waiting to go on the Matterhorn.

  “The Matterhorn’s been closed for, like 10 years!”

  “OK, then Magic Mountain.”

  “Also closed.”

  She swayed gently into him, like a docking buoy against a pier. She emptied her mind then let it go where it would. Joan had looked at a house in Zuma that was gorgeous, 3½ acres smack on the coast. She wondered if it might be too cold for her mother. Plenty of room to build, which was nice. She could design something fun. Everything had been set in motion to create the Marjorie Herlihy Giving Foundation. Joan wasn’t sure exactly what charitable function it would perform but knew she wanted to do something major in India. For as long as she could recall, Marj had this thing to alleviate misery—it was never too late, as Barbet aptly reminded. Joan was in touch with Pradeep, in Delhi; he was brimming with ideas. She would travel there, maybe a year or so after having the baby, see that part of the world for herself. Who knew? Maybe Mom would be in better shape by then and be able to go along. One day, Joan would pour her mother’s cremains into the Ganges at Varanasi. It was the one wish that Marjorie had actually handwritten, in the margin of a travel book, before things went south.

  2 in the morning, and they finally closed in on Amma. She was hugging people one after another, the stage garlanded with flowers, and all the time they’d been there—around 5 hours—Amma hadn’t left once, not to use the bathroom, not for anything, at least not that Joan was aware of, she hadn’t even seen the woman drink a glass of water. Maybe she was a saint. Barbet said Amma was in a trance, her bodily needs “in suspension.” The nearer they got, the more serious he became, as if to make up for earlier, sinister tomfoolery.

  Why was she thinking of Sheryl Crow. She saw the ad, the got milk? ad. Please be all right. Please be in remission. She sent a prayer to Sheryl Crow please be all right. The ad said Milk Your Diet/Lose Weight! oh God. To keep the crowd on their feet, I keep my body in tune…rock hard. Oh

  Attendants stood by. They told Barbet to remove his glasses for the imminent hug, handing both of them baby-wipes. The couple was asked to wash the sides of their faces that would touch Amma’s cheek. Joan was surprised to note that her heart was speeding up. The attendants helped them onstage; Barbet preceded her. Joan saw him kneel and then the holy woman embraced him. Amma whispered something in his ear. Then it was Joan’s turn. Her eyes filled with water. As they hugged, the saint whispered, “My daughter, my daughter, my daughter. Yes. Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes. Yes. Yes,” and then someone led Joan off as if in a dream as

  Marj held the pillow close while it vibrated. She had a yeast infection and was catheterized but felt no pain. Cora had been to see her and thought, At least there isn’t that smell. The neighbor spoke of the pending trip with her daughter to the Taj Mahal but all Marjorie could think of was the Blind Sisters traveling together, holding hands in a row, linked like holy mendicants, all she could see was the Shadow Taj, the black one meant to be Hamilton’s crypt but abandoned when the Raja was imprisoned by his own son.

  They called it the shadow monument—

  Monument to the shadow drawings of the Blind Sisters…

  SHE was looking for the elephant’s ballroom. The man in a turban and beautiful coat said, “Young lady, I’ve worked at this hotel for nearly 40 years and never seen that place myself!”

  He stroked his bushy meesha, working his teeth with an ivory toothpick.

  “But it is here,” she said, “my father will tell you!”

  —so delighted to see Dad again. He looked ruddy and fit and wore tortoiseshell spectacles. She grinned at the familiar tiny beads of perspiration on his upper lip; she’d forgotten about those.

  He said my little one, the monsoon is coming, and how lucky they were to be in the Presidential Suite, on an upper floor. But she wanted to know what would happen to all the poor people. She was quite concerned. Won’t they have peonies? Don’t you worry, he said dotingly, we’ll make certain none of them drown—to be sure!—and are fed proper meals, with dessert too. Marjorie asked about the ballroom and he said it was most likely underwater by now because it was somewhere beneath ground floor, no one really knew (she suppressed tears and he touched her cheek reassuringly), not to worry! the elephants could fend for themselves—and besides, the whole herd would be rescuing people, that was their job, plucking those who fell through manholes and such, sucked into the ballroom, why they’d snatch them like fish from a net, each and every one. He saw that her mood wasn’t exactly brightening so he added that ballroom water was special so that people could breathe until “our very long-nosed friends” came to their aid. But what about the dance? she asked. He laughed, lifting her in his arms. Little one, little mahout, don’t you worry. The elephants love to dance! They won’t let a thing like a silly monsoon spoil their fun. Now I said don’t you worry, Marjorie Morningstar

  He dried her eyes till they shone again.

  As they climbed the stairs—black marble—sumptuously costumed guests and impeccably mannered staff passed by, the latter bearing luggage and parasols and giftboxes and elaborate trays of spices and foodstuff. The water submerged the lobby and she realized her father’s words about the ballroom already being underwater were probably true. That made her sad but she tried to remember you could breathe in it and that the elephants were busy on their rescue missions. Still, she looked down from his arms at the rising tide and he saw she was afraid and said, “Joanie!”

  Why is he calling me that?

  “We’ll be safe, little one—safe and dry!”

  Marj said she was worried about the elephants and he said don’t you dare. They protect, that is their job, that is their role in this world. That is Ganesha! They know how to take care of us. So stop your crying Miss Morningstar. You don’t want those tears to add to all the water around here, do you? Now that will make things harder for our long-nosed friends.

  She nodded, closing her eyes as they ascended: up and up the spiral staircase through the inordinate, comforting bustle, she could hear the excitement of guests from the warm perch of her father’s arms, hear the rushing of water too but knew that he was right, the magnificent Taj Mahal Palace and its briga
de of turban’d Ganeshas could never, ever let anything happen to them…a lifetime of climbing until they reached the capacious suite where food was laid out on silver platters. Perfumed lodgers from other rooms, some of whom were countesses draped in pearls, kundan and ariya, joined Maharajahs in breastplates and tunics bearing insignias of their various kingdoms, the royalty mingling while servants came and went, aristocratic children underfoot as well, stunning-looking well-mannered boys and girls her age; the girls with noses pierced by 22 karat gold. A Nizam and his retinue rose to greet her father who afterall was an extremely popular man, Marjorie’s mother was there too, she struggled from Papa’s arms to get to her, he set his wriggling daughter down but before she could make any headway the moppets ferried her aside to inform in hoarse whispers: The elephants are dancing tonight! After they rescue the last of the drowning people, they are going to dance! This is what the children told her. There was another ballroom, here, not in the basement as her father had said, but here, on higher ground! And off they went to