My worst fright came at my favorite theater on the Bowery where, for the last twenty years, I have attended every production. One evening hurrying up the stairs to buy a ticket, I wound up behind a distinguished looking grey-haired man. Suddenly, he shrieked: “A rat!’” He nearly lost his balance and fell backwards on to me.
For my own good, Malcolm insisted that I watch out for rat bites. “Rats are excellent swimmers,” he confided. “Can hold their breath underwater long enough to swim up into your toilet. Useless to flush, just keep a heavy object on the lid. Remember, I care about you, Bella.” By this point, Malcolm and I had no sex, let alone the tantric variety. Had I become suddenly unattractive—a carrier of a dread, rat- transmitted disease?
Forget meditation! I became addicted to prescription tranquilizers. Worried about Malcolm, I tossed and turned till dawn, then later fell asleep in front of academic colleagues. Performing as a university librarian, expected to be alert at a reference desk during scheduled periods, stretched my endurance to the breaking point. My writing, which once had dovetailed with my routine, fell by the wayside.
A dour Malcolm sat me down one day to relay a message, supposedly from Mamaji: “Do not return to the Center until your paranoia ceases. There are complaints that during meditation you squirm while making ugly faces.” Someone had noticed my anti-wrinkle facial exercises! Malcolm, shaking his head sadly, continued, “I thought you were a truly spiritual being, as rare as a white raven.” When I feebly complained about the injustice, that the rats appeared out of nowhere, Malcolm frowned:
“So what if you see a few rats!” he countered. “Don’t those creatures deserve to exist? Where is your compassion? Stop blowing up coincidences out of proportion.” Mutely resigning myself to unfair exile, I suppressed the desire to screech like a cat on a hot tin roof. Irrationally, I blamed Mamaji for aggravating Malcolm and causing my troubles.
Months earlier, a Women’s Studies class at a university in Vermont had invited me to present a series of lectures on my current biographical subject. With spring approaching, I scheduled vacation time and boarded Amtrak. A former colleague had invited me to spend ten days at her house nearby, an opportunity to enjoy Vermont’s seasonal changes. Long walks in the fresh air, flea markets and church suppers restored my equanimity. Obstinately, Malcolm’s face materialized on tree trunks, grocery store shelves, and in the bathroom mirror while brushing my teeth. To surprise him, I decided to come home early. Surely, by now, he missed me as much as I did him, although he had not written.
Riding home on the train, I visualized cuddling with Malcolm on his double bed under a brand new comforter I’d bought him. Evening, to surprise him I took a cab to his East Village apartment. I twisted the key he gave me in the front door lock to no avail. Did I have the wrong key? Remembering that the super had left to visit his daughter in San Francisco, I grew alarmed.
None of my friends lived in the vicinity. Half asleep, I decided to get coffee at a nearby Starbucks. Like a coolie, I lugged two suitcases for three blocks. Meanwhile, I mulled over options: Should I try to find a locksmith at this hour, or go to the police? I didn’t want to go home for I had a premonition something terrible had happened to Malcolm.
Peering in Starbucks’ window an unexpected sight startled me. Sal, Danny’s sidekick, sat with the buddies I remembered from the now shuttered Lucca cafe. The neighborhood cronies were smoking, drinking coffee and playing cards while ogling girls in short skirts.
“Damn my eyes,” cried Sal as I stumbled in the door. “You been scarcer than hair on a bald guy’s pate since Danny’s funeral. How come?” As Sal spoke, he rubbed his face with a closed fist like a cat does with its paw.
“Busy,” I stammered, careful not to mention Malcolm. “I’m locked out of this place. Damn it!” I left the location vague. Exhausted, I collapsed on a chair.
“Sal’s gonna fix things up. Trust me, Danny’s looking down from that place, insisting I take care of his main squeeze.” Sal stared skyward as though expecting specific instructions. He twirled uneven whiskers jutting above his pinched lips.
“How come you’re in this neighborhood, not some café in the West Village?”
“West Village is over. No Lucca cafes left to hangout in. Only fancy restaurants crowded with business types jawing about money and more money. Nannies everywhere, not an artist in sight.”
“C’mon along!” he barked. Tossing his cards on the table, Sal grabbed my bags and followed me a few blocks to the address I gave him. Sal had revered Danny for his big time expertise at screwing the system. Now—partly showing-off—the cat burglar was going to prove he was no slouch at breaking and entering.
At eleven PM neither pedestrian nor vehicular traffic disturbed the silence. On tiptoe, Sal walked as stealthily as a cat on its paws. His eyes were greenish-grey, feral rather than human. Instead of trying the front door of Malcolm’s first-floor apartment, he inserted a knife to raise a side window. He stared at me, then grunted, “Somethin’s fishy here.”
Sal slithered in, then put a finger over his mouth—a warning to button my lip. From inside, he opened the door so I could enter. Looking around suspiciously, he snarled: “Bums may be burgling this joint. I hear something.” Proceeding down the hall toward the kitchen, I tripped on a throw rug. Quick as a cat catches a mouse in its claws, Sal caught me. I trailed after him while he checked out the back bedroom.
Exhilarated to be back in the same city as Malcolm, I yearned to throw myself into his arms to demand that he caress my needy body. “You might get put in jail for breaking in,” nagged an inner voice that belonged to the respectable Jewish girl from Philadelphia. “Get your beauty sleep. Come by tomorrow. Malcolm’s surprise will turn to delight after he sees how rest and clean air has made you look ten years younger.” But something pushed me onward.
As Sal opened the bedroom door, I crept behind him. Indian music droned quietly from Malcolm’s CD player. A rose-scented candle lit the room where two blonde forms slept on the bed. They were locked together in the tantric embrace Malcolm taught me. Bliss, the aftermath of leisurely lovemaking, emanated from their faces. The bed shimmered, grew fuzzy around the edges, and appeared to float away. Immobile, I rubbed my eyes to erase the vision. Gasping, it felt as though I had inhaled glass.
Sal, knife blade poised, tiptoed toward Malcolm’s side of the bed. Smirking, he wrinkled his nose like a cat sniffing the air. The couple lost in dreamland looked so young, I felt like Methuselah. When had Malcolm started deceiving me? Incidents that made no sense now fell into a pattern. When Sal grazed Malcolm’s cheek ever so slightly with the knife’s sharp point, a tiny drop of blood fell on the comforter I’d given him.
Malcolm, fully awake, jumped up. “This is my apartment! Who the hell are you?” he bellowed at Sal. Touching his cheek, the culprit simultaneously spotted the knife in Sal’s hand. As I moved forward, he crouched backward as though seeing a ghost. Was it possible that Malcolm and I had once slept here, clasping each other in the exact same position, his magic lance at my service all night?
The lovers fluttered like frightened chickens. I expected to see feathers scattered on the bed. Throwing on his clothes, Malcolm zoomed to the front door, followed by a half-dressed, screaming Maya. Savoring the low comedic spectacle, Sal folded up his knife. He rubbed his hands together, gave a hearty chuckle, then sympathetically patted me on the back. The job done, Sal, impatient to resume his card game, left. Too bad Danny could not have been on hand to witness his friend’s neat handiwork. The incident would undergo epic exaggeration in Sal’s retelling.
Since I couldn’t get my hands on the deceitful pair, furious, I ripped the expensive comforter to shreds. The material was heavy, yet I pulled and tugged until my fingers hurt. Kicking the harmonium that Malcolm treasured gave me no relief. Breathing wrathfully like an enraged Hindu goddess, I couldn’t get the odor of semen and incense out of my nostrils.
Fleeing the painful scene, I shut the front door and ran outside to hai
l a cab. At home I dropped my bags and wandered from room to room. Restless, unable to stay put, my feet took me outside again. Robotically, I moved toward the Hudson, the scene of early rendezvous with Malcolm. Knees shaking, I staggered out on the pier that Malcolm and I had made our own. A homeless man lolled on a bench. Placing some money in an empty cup beside him, I fought the urge to sob for his woes, mine, the world’s.
I kept moving to the pier’s end, toward the spot where Malcolm had placed the Tara necklace around my neck. Symbolically, to free myself from the lover whose spiritual facade had hoodwinked me, I hurled his gift—still around my neck—into the river. With Malcolm, instead of enlightenment, I had found servitude.
Staring at the water while a balmy wind blew calmed me. I wondered how many distraught women had thrown themselves into this river to become rat food for those industrious commuters who swam back and forth. Let the rats live out their foraging lives. I intended to resume mine without the stress Malcolm had caused. Walking home, I marveled at the poetic justice of our finale: Sal the cat had caught the big rat!
Two weeks later, a worried Beverly called. Had I fled to India or parts unknown with Malcolm? Invectives flying, Mamaji had accused him of stealing money from the Center. The police were investigating the case. Mysteries begot mysteries that I still ponder. Sometime later, Beverly called again, “Hey, Bella, tonight you must come with me to a new ashram on the Upper East Side. They teach yoga in a room with a temperature hotter than Hades.”
“So?” I responded, bored with the Eastern flavor of the month and the charlatans who purveyed it. “I’m finalizing pesky footnotes for a scholarly journal that asked me to contribute an essay. It’s due Friday.”
An undaunted Beverly, wanting company on her new escapade, sweetened the package: “Bikram yoga harmonizes the nerves, endocrine system, and fosters self control.” When I remained negative, she added another incentive: “Advanced students are taught sexual stuff, ancient secrets. Great research material for you.”
“Who’s the teacher?” I inquired, my interest piqued.
Knowing my predilections, Beverly poured on the honey. “Ravi’s a former Bollywood film star, a handsome Indian devil over six feet tall, sexy beyond belief. In Poona, he studied the erotic arts with Bagwan Rajneesh.”
Straightaway, I shut off my computer, put aside the incomplete footnotes and agreed to meet Beverly at the appointed hour. While getting dressed, a silly question popped into my mind: Did the ashram have an exterminator?
SEVENTEEN: THE GANG’S NOT HERE, SUMMER 2010
I will not give up on Paradise. Paul Goodman
Two weeks after our final meeting before summer break, Sarah, Chloe and Tiffany met for brunch. Alarmed by Sarah’s weight loss and chalky complexion, Tiffany made an appointment for Sarah with her Upper East Side internist. Overriding Sarah’s objections, Tiffany escorted her by taxi to the doctor’s office, then paid the bill. After a series of tests, the diagnosis of breast cancer made Sarah distance herself from the Club. We postponed meeting until we knew better what Sarah intended to do about her illness. Only Tiffany made the trip by limo to visit Sarah at home. By phone, she informed us about Sarah’s refusal to accept standard medical treatment and her visits to a faith healer who promised miraculous results.
Months later, I received a phone call from Tiffany while I was dressing for a date with Ronnie, an East Indian physicist attached to Columbia. He had invited me to dinner in a restaurant serving food in the regional style of his birthplace, Trivandrum. I felt guilty about to feast while Sarah struggled to get down solid food, but these days an expansive mood made me laugh like a loon for no reason.
“An ambulance rushed Sarah to St. Lukes Hospital on the Westside. I called everybody, but nobody’s home. Get ready to leave with me!” Tiffany barked from the phone.
“What happened?” I gasped.
“Spoke to her on the cell. In a jiff, I’ll be at your place. My car service is super prompt.”
Minutes later Tiffany rang my bell and we sped to the hospital. On the way, she filled in some background on her visits to Sarah’s apartment.
“It’s really disgusting! Sarah’s place is a shrine to that third rate actor who dumped her. His photos are all over. So are the scripts she typed for him. His jeans and tee shirts are piled up on chairs in her living room.”
“Paul, that’s his name, I think. Sarah mentioned him once or twice.”
“I can tell he’s a big, muscle bound imbecile... la vache,” scoffed Tiffany.
“As the French say, ‘When there’s so much in the legs, what’s left for the brain?’ “When that louse took up with a floozy he acted with on a TV soap, it broke Sarah’s heart.”
“It’s no wonder she got sick,” I said. “Anger that she couldn’t express churned inside her. I wish we could have done more to help her.”
In the emergency room, people sprawled on chairs waiting for treatment. We spied a bone-thin Sarah sitting in a corner next to a groaning man with a bandaged head. Clutching a cross in her fist, Sarah, looking very pale, slowly raised the cross to her lips.
“Not in a room yet?” exploded Tiffany, glancing around for someone to yell at. A breath of summer in a flowered outfit, her ensemble contrasted with the room’s drab walls. Removing a pink straw hat, she bent down to kiss Sarah’s sunken cheek. Meanwhile I reached for Sarah’s hand that was more like a chicken’s claw.
“Any moment my room will be ready,” she whispered. “Thanks so much for coming.” Knitting abstractedly, Sarah fiddled with a swath of wool. As tears dripped down Sarah’s cheeks, she smiled beatifically. “Don’t look so worried, you two. Soon as I get home, Mother Blanche will come over. She sings hymns that inspire me. Such healing hands! When I stare into her eyes my pain disappears.”
“Are you crazy as well as sick?” Tiffany wheeled around and gestured towards a nurse, who was taking a woman’s blood pressure, as though expecting the nurse to talk sense to Sarah. Then Tiffany glared at me.
“You know,” cried Sarah, suddenly sitting up straight in her former style. “When I’m well, I’m going to be free like you two, enjoy the banquet life sets before me to the fullest... not stupidly wait for Paul to return.” Sarah inched forward in my direction. Spontaneously, I hugged her fragile body that felt like crumbly paper in my arms. Then I remembered how, when I had broken my arm a couple of years earlier, she had come over every day after work to go food-shopping for me. My eyes were wet, but I refused to cry so I would not alarm Sarah further.
“Keep writing, Bella! Your stories are gutsy, juicy... I don’t know!” Sarah, chest heaving, really laughed for the first time since I’d known her. Just then, two attendants showed up. They placed Sarah on a dolly to wheel her into the hospital proper. Cheerfully, she waved goodbye.
Next morning I called the hospital to find out Sarah’s room number. The words I heard made me choke on a piece of creamy chocolate from a big box Marilyn had given me for my birthday.
“Died during the night...” I repeated mechanically. The doctor in charge explained that Sarah’s heart had stopped. I learned from him that Sarah’s cancer had spread throughout her body. It occurred to me that such a quick finale had been fortunate, but I remained numb and speechless for a long time.
As we huddled together after Sarah’s funeral, gut-wrenching sadness cast a pall over the remnants of our Club. No one mentioned meeting again. Mental images of Sarah’s angelic face bent over her knitting made me weep.
Two months later, I walked down Bleecker Street window-shopping among trendy designer boutiques. My favorite bakery for fresh bread had been replaced by a dress shop selling Parisian imports. Inside Same sat Tiffany trying on shoes. Boxes were strewn all over the floor as two salespeople were removing the shoes she had declined. This sort of boutique was a shoe nirvana for a footwear fetishist like myself. However, the price tag on one pair equaled what I usually spent for a dozen. I shoved empty boxes off a chair and sat next to Tiffany.
“I
haven’t seen you since Sarah’s funeral,” I said, while Tiffany concentrated on a pair of velvet sling backs.
“Funerals give me the creeps,” snarled Tiffany. “Are these too slutty?” Twisting and turning her feet around to show off the fashionably pointed shoes, she said, “tres chic.” Abruptly, Tiffany got up to parade in front of me.
“They’ve got your name on them,” I responded. “Lucky I ran into you. Shouldn’t the Club meet again soon, as a memorial session to Sarah?”
“Merde! Count me out. I’m subletting my place for six months to audit French at the Sorbonne. Mon loulou Gaston is a student there. He’s promised to be my devoted tutor. I’m getting sexy outfits so he’ll find me irresistible.” Several shopping bags with designer logos on them were piled up on adjoining chairs.
“That’s a big step. Won’t you miss New York?” I exclaimed.
“Ouf! You’re kidding, Bella,” Tiffany snorted. “The Village... C’est une bouffe pour les tourists’ weekend from the burbs. Plus it’s given over to really disgusting real estate interests.” Meanwhile she tried on a pair of shiny blue, luxurious sneakers.
“When I get to Paris, I’ll join certain groups popular with des prolo... the working class,” she translated. “I’ll get somebody to publish my political poetry and I’ll show everyone my membership to the Brecht Forum. It cost me a large donation.” Finding the card in her purse, Tiffany handed it to me and said, “The Forum is holding excellent lectures this season, especially one on the Rosenbergs... Bella, Why don’t you visit Cuba to see what glorious strides Fidel has made there?”
“Impossible,” I shrugged. “I’m taking a course on Beat literature at the New School that lasts two semesters.”
Confessions of a Librarian Page 16
