by Bruce Wagner
Then upside-down I went, and fainted dead away.
I awakened in a too-bright room that smelled of ether and fast food.
Loud voices, laughter, shushing. Kura hovered close to Coat and Shabby Tie, who gave a tidy running commentary on my needle tracks—I had an abscess on the inside of my elbow—and couldn’t stop throwing up. Blood-soaked compress on hand and under rib . . . those cigarettes he was smoking—not Kura, but Coat and Shabby Tie—the ones that smell like weed and incense and cheap Egyptian perfume—clove. Oh, and Coat and Shabby was most assuredly a doctor because I knew my doctors. This one was pasty, late 40s, an abortionist-type out of Faulkner, with the missed-train look of one who’d burned his adrenals for a middling cause at too young an age. Or a tragic one—maybe on a balmy summer night, he’d backed out of the driveway and run over his kid.
Apparently the boyfriend’s knife found a relatively safe spot under the ribs and I’ll never know if the Nameless One missed the arteries and vital organs on purpose. Probably. He was a precise motherfucker, would’ve been a helluva surgeon in another life. I’ll never know what the Abominable Puppeteer did to him either, surgical-wise, once he got him to the far side of the lot.
Coat and Shabby stitched what was left of my fingers and did a pretty good job of it if I do say so myself. I must have been in that weird little private ER for two days. They transferred me to a chic Old World clinic, an upgrade from the other place to be sure. When I got my wits back, I discovered it was the Drake—that’s high-end hotel living for ya. The puncture seemed to take care of itself. The main concern was my hand, because bone infection is never a good thing.
I was there a couple of weeks. It was Christmastime. I had a 24-hour nurse. Every few days, a huge Samoan looked in on me. No way you couldn’t feel safe around that man. All of the people around Kura had heart. I knew they’d take a bullet for him, and probably had—or worse. My minder never spoke, which made me feel like an utter fool. Five-hundred pounds, with a Cheshire grin. I had the feeling he was close to Kura, and when in his presence I made sure I behaved. I even acted repentant, though for what I wasn’t sure.
All I did in my perfect, stately cocoon was eat club sandwiches and listen to The White Album. Lots of room-service hot fudge sundaes, lots of doodling and drawing, lots of journaling about my White (Mocha) Knight. I had become fairly obsessed. Because after all, I’d seen him just twice—once, when he stripped off his shirt to stop the bleeding and the other while being patched up by Coat and Shabby, which was kind of a dreamy corollary of the former, with more dope and less blood—so his messianic absence made a perfect breeding ground for my hormonal, father-starved, junkie-Rapunzel imagination to run wild. In my head, my mysterious savior was pure Thanatos, with a heavy dollop of Eros on top.
So there she was, Eloise with a social disease (gonorrhea, and cured, courtesy of Coat and Shabby). Fidgety, depressed, and packin’ on the pounds . . . feeling deserted by all her witchy-woman powers. Like a doomed prisoner, awaiting reprieve—I still held out hope that he’d gallop up and swoop me onto his saddle. And now I remember one of the things that tortured me. They never bothered to station a guard at the door of the suite to prevent my escape, at least I never saw one. I didn’t know which freaked me out more: that I could leave anytime I wanted, or if other people could enter. What if my ex’s posse was hunting me down? (Not that anyone gave enough of a shit about my ex to avenge him—not to mention they would already have ascertained they were brutally outmatched.) In my worst moments, it boiled down to Kura not caring less. But now I know exactly why they—he—Kura—didn’t feel the need. Because it had to have been so obvious I wasn’t going anywhere, not as long as there was the slimmest chance of a rendezvous with the Big Boss. That was plain as the stumps on my hand . . . O, they must really have gotten a kick out of stringing me along! No, by the time I left, I was convinced I would just have to leave it all behind: my savior, the Samoan, the Norwegian nurse, the room service—ooh, that was going to hurt!—goodbye to all that. Everything but the mason jar of Darvons that Coat and Shabby had prescribed, to wean me from the heroin.
On the morning I left, I had all sorts of conflicting emotions. I was in way over my head but what else was new? I was weak and angry and weepy and paranoid. For a while, I thought Kura worked for my father! The Samoan probably disabused me of that notion somewhere along the line. But I couldn’t piece together why—how—Kura had been there to save me nor could I understand why I was being looked after—cared for—with such painstaking, tender deliberation. At check-out time, the futility of my serious convalescence crush, the intensity of yearning for my patron came home to roost. I longed for him in every fiber of my broken being. Estrogen and Electra coursed through my veins like lava. I fantasized us having a life together—preposterous. The greater my yearning, the more crazy-insecure I became. (I suppose I haven’t changed too much.) I decided to make an “overture” but was paralyzed by anxiety. What if I was rejected? Laughed at and humiliated? Another problem was—and there were moments when I flattered myself by thinking it was the only problem—that I was sure he knew by now that I was underage.
My mocha knight on a hijacked black tar horse . . .
All packed and dressed—it breaks my heart to see myself as that sad little girl, with her poor bandaged hand!—I held my nurse, utterly inconsolable. In the last week, I’d painstakingly composed a pitiful, “noble” letter of thanks to he who had rescued me. Lord, if only I’d kept that. I handed it to the Samoan as I prepared to go, eyes downcast, then hugged that great tree of a man while bursting into tears.
I had no idea that Kura had left the morning after the murder.
The Samoan patted the top of my head, then said, “He wants to see you.”
I don’t remember much about that trip to Paris (I was too happy, too stoned), other than being in possession of a passport that carried a name and DOB that weren’t my own. I traveled alone. The Samoan gave me a back-story—O! Now I know where that story about getting my fingers chopped by a propeller came from. That was part of the original script.
Saved again!
When I got to Kura’s I ran to his arms and kissed him on the mouth but he pushed me away. I was confused, embarrassed. Maybe he was working for my father! Or maybe he was my father, long lost, and we’d been reunited under the terms of a noir, a Nouvelle Vague. He actually asked if I wanted a tutor! You know—to be home-schooled, s’il te plaît. I wondered what I’d gotten myself into. I had a few tantrums and when the storm passed, we settled into a sunny life, très sympa. I grew up living in a mausoleum; one of my father’s estates had its own police force. But this . . . I’d never seen such casual opulence, such riches, such beauty. He had the most exquisite apartment in the Marais. Well, it wasn’t exactly an apartment, it was what they call an hôtel particulier. Effing spectacular. People came and went, all very respectful. To me, I mean. And Kura never discussed business. Ever.
I don’t think we slept together for at least six months. It was like he needed me to be quarantined, physically and emotionally, before we became intimate. I turned 17. I loved having my own bed, and sleeping in his without fooling around. (That was a new one.) It felt safe. Incestuous, romantic—très français! And while I may not have been capable at the time of admitting it, I’d been through some pretty profound changes. I wasn’t the girl I used to be . . . I should probably say we weren’t completely pure, maybe a little closer to Elvis and Lisa Marie when they were courting. You know, heavy petting optional. He was in love with me from the very beginning, but I didn’t know it. But that’s what I wanted to believe. I was so young and so vulnerable, especially after all that had happened. I probably hoped he was just biding his time, waiting to see if his feelings held. (They held for me.) I wanted to ask all about it when we met up in Delhi but never had to, because he confessed to everything before I had the chance.
He had his own plane back then and we struck out like p
irates—Casablanca, Tunis, Istanbul, Corfu, Gstaad . . . we were bonnie companions and that was major because Kura always said if a man and woman couldn’t travel well together, there was no hope. I was a feral cat and incorrigibly ignorant, his punk Pygmalion. He read aloud to me and made charming little study plans. He was always interested in the . . . spiritual. I don’t know what kids aspire to these days but Kura knew his destiny early on. He’d make himself into a great criminal, the greatest of all, a dejamiento, a saint! (In that order.) The real turning point came in his early teens when he discovered Milarepa. The legend of the murderer who became a great siddha was irresistible. Kura was sold.
But he would have to become a killer first.
As his reputation for ruthlessness grew, so did his fixation on the mystics. His nightstand booklist reeked of incense, shamanism, esoterica: Gurdjieff, Ouspensky, Jacob Boehme . . . Pico della Mirandola, Castaneda, Hermes Trismegistus.
And of course, The Book of Satsang—which the rest of my story is really about.
Hey, you know what? I’m tired.
I guess it was that homicidal trip down memory lane. Hadn’t thought about it in a while. Ugh.
I’m gonna take a nap.
Let’s take naps.
Then we’ll have a lovely dinner and begin again. K?
I took a long nap then availed myself of an offered massage. A few hours later, I was summoned back to the tent. Queenie looked radiant.
Over dinner, she told me about her current travels—her quest for the “Lost City.” Turkish coffee and sweets were served and we settled around a fire to resume.
Where was I?
Ah, yes: The Book of Satsang.
In Paris, I soon learned that a thick, well-riffled volume “written” by an Indian saint known far and wide as the Great Guru occupied prime real estate on his nightstand. It was Kura’s de facto bible, actually a collection of edited transcripts of what is called satsang, a gathering wherein a holy man imparts wisdom, not just to students and adepts but everyday people. Sat means “truth,” sanga means “company,” i.e., the company of a guru. (I Googled it today when I woke up.) The Book of Satsang was the best-known and most beloved of all the Great Guru’s bound teachings that had been released in the handful of years before—I think it was first published in ’65—Kura had copies of it stashed everywhere. And this is interesting: I later found out he was carrying it on the night he killed Douma—Douma! Whoa! The name just came back, isn’t that funny? The brain is such a strange thing . . . Lord Jesus. “Douma”—doomsday—could anything be more perfect? Okay. Deep breaths. Anyhow, the Great Guru’s public talks were simple and conversational, down to earth, free of the sunny dogma and endless scriptural name-dropping that clogs up so much of what’s out there. So the book gives you a real flavor of the man. The editor did an amazing job (more about him later—a lot more) because the text very subtly, very cogently reflects the Great Guru’s personal characteristics and peccadilloes. It leaves you with an eerie feeling of having been present in the room where the talks were held, a tobacco shop in Bombay that was kind of famous even then. The Master was a tobacconist by trade.
Each morning, from 9:30 to 11:30 (the shop opened at noon), he gave satsang to visitors from all over the world. Typically, about 30 people crammed into that neat, clean space, redolent with the aroma of cigars, cigarettes and all those other identifiable and unidentifiable smells of India—
Douma . . .
Hold on a minute. [She closed her eyes] I need to do a little voodoo here. [She took deep breaths then suddenly shook her head rather wildly, eyes still shut] Neutralize that fucker with a little spell. [She shook her head a final time, then opened her eyes. Lit a joint, took a deep hit, then smiled as she exhaled] Okay—the deed is done!
The copy of The Book of Satsang that Kura was carrying with him at the time of the murder—he had it on his person, in the large outside pocket of his peacoat—became, for him, infused with nearly supernatural qualities. Its pages were tea-stained by my blood and probably that of he who’d been executed on that freezing, starry nightclub night. Kura was always urging me to read the thing in its entirety, specifically that exact copy. (Which creeped me out.) He had the idea it was some kind of omen, that “the Source” had pointed out the Book’s life and death importance by spattering it with my “Four Humors.” I laughed when he uttered that archaic phrase, yet there really wasn’t anything funny about it. I’d examine the Book, weigh it in my hands, dip into it here and there, but only the leafs that were corroded by my humors finally, perversely held my interest. (But never for too long.) Back in the day I had a real block when it came to reading, just terrible A.D.D. . . . God! Kura tried everything to get me to sidle up to that book of The Great Guru’s Greatest Hits. He’d bribe me with Hermès and Chanel. I’d say, “Yes, please!” but never held up my side of the agreement. After reading a while, I always failed the pop quiz.
He was patient. I was audacious enough to believe I was the center of his universe. (I came to learn I was partially right.) But Kura had enough expertise with the suicidal character to know that, as much as I loved him, it would be risky to apply too much pressure. So he played it pianissimo. Sometimes he read to me from the Book in bed, before we made love—or after. Probably during! I think I was maybe a little jealous of that guru but I was also puzzled. If the holy tobacconist was alive and well (which he was), why hadn’t Kura made the trek to Bombay?
One day I blurted out as much, point-blank. He winced and made a funny-face, as if he’d been waiting for someone to ask the painfully obvious.
“Because I’m a fucking dilettante.”
Was he being serious?
“Do you think he’s going to judge you?” I asked.
He went rigid—I’d found a weak spot. Oh, I was haughty . . . a spoiled, haughty, entitled bitch on two wheels.
“Well, if he does, he’s an asshole, Kura. And not worthy of your time.”
I thought I’d get a medal for rushing to his defense.
“Don’t be a stupid girl!” he roared. “This man does not judge . . . this man is not even a man!” He literally foamed at the mouth. “And don’t ever use that word for the siddha, I won’t have it! Save it for your ridiculous friends—save it for the men who wish to take you off this earth, or the parents you dishonor with each breath, those who gave you life! Why don’t you look in the mirror and fling that word at what you see there, like a monkey throwing shit! But never in connection with the Great Guru . . . And learn not to speak of things you know nothing of.”
Well, I couldn’t—speak—for about five days.
I got truly frightened. Because as close as we’d become, his coruscating rage demonstrated for the first time that it was possible for him to say goodbye without looking back. That he had that in him. Which might sound naïve; but perhaps you know a little about the power that a young and beautiful girl can hold over a man. Or the power she sometimes thinks she has . . . On the last day of my silent retreat, I apologized. I don’t think I’d ever done that before, not to anyone. I remember stealing into the den where he was reading beside the fire and telling him how sorry I was. He didn’t look at me. Then I dropped to my knees and clutched his ankles, hair hanging down while my forehead brushed the floor. We’d been together about ten months and finally I thanked him for everything he’d done. (I wasn’t sure he’d ever seen the note I’d composed at the Drake but that couldn’t have been a proper thank-you.) I thanked him for all that he was and all he’d become to me. I thanked him for saving my life and looking after me while I healed, thanked him for daring to bring a crass, selfish, obstinate girl (underage!) to Paris at such great expense and even greater risk. I thanked him for protecting me, for teaching me—
I thanked him for loving me.
He bent down to lift me up. I was crying. We embraced and then he made tea. We drank it in silence; he’d learned how to make a perfect cup o
f English tea from his mum.
“Do you want to know why I haven’t visited the Great Guru?”
His voice was deep, with sparkly, dancing notes. A cognac voice. Something inside him went still, beyond my reach. His mood and tone were elegiac.
“The reason I’ve not gone to visit the Great Guru in Bombay is—would you like to hear the truth? The reason I’ve not gone is . . . because he is the only man I’ve ever been afraid of in my life. The instant he lays eyes on me, he will know. It shall all be over! And where will that leave me, darling Queen? Where! And what then?”
So of course I got on that plane when he called—to Delhi. I’m afraid that’s the best segue I can manage at the moment. It’s hard getting back into it after a break.
Tell me, Bruce, how badly am I fucking up? Have I “come a cropper,” as Kura used to say? I probably could be telling the story much better. But you can change things around later, no? With the editing? You can sand down the rough edges . . . I’ll pick up steam—you’ll see. I’ll try to be more articulate. You don’t know how much I’ve been reading [her old journals]! There’s so much freakin’ material. You know what I can do? I actually can try to—I’ll try to do a little more editing in my head. Edit the thoughts before they come out my mouth . . . O? You think that’s a mistake? I don’t mean edit-edit, I’m not too good at that. I just mean be a little more mindful.
