by Bruce Wagner
So I gave her a leg up by tactfully mentioning the very last page of the journal, in which her employer expressed an urgent desire to have a certain courier return a certain chair to a certain province wherein lay nestled a certain village, and so forth. Her voice quavered; she admitted to being so busy with legalities in the wake of his passing that she hadn’t been able to “properly” read the facsimile, at least “not all the way through.” I suppose I’d embarrassed her (not my intent), as there were only two options ultimately to be taken—at least committed to—i.e., to read the damned thing or not. But I’d caught her off-guard and now she risked looking like she didn’t really give a shit about his posthumous memoirs. The more I downplayed my question, the more lugubrious she became. It got worse by the moment—I could hear her barely suppressed panic at having maybe taken a giant dump on her loved one’s final request. Now I was committed, and walked her through. “Did there happen to be a wooden chair near Kura’s desk when they found him?” Again, she was stymied. (The when-they-found-him actually provoked a cough.) I bullet-pointed that he wrote in his diary that a chair had been removed or at least a chair had been intended to be removed from the office closet, and so on and so forth. After a long pause, Justine said “Ah, oui!” a bit too stagily but unmistakably thrilled to be in the affirmative mode. There was a chair, she said, a very odd little chair . . . Was anything taped to it? No, she said tentatively, “nothing to my knowledge.” The footfalls of panic returned. Well, I said, maybe it might be good to have a look? Long pause. She said the closet had been “cleaned out” and I knew she regretted the words as soon as they came from her mouth. One of Kura’s pet peeves was giving too much information, a lesson she must have learned well but had forgotten in the heat of the moment. She said she’d look into it “thoroughly” as soon as we hung up.
Justine called back three days later, sounding truly distraught. She feared the chair was aboard a ship, on its way to America! She added to my confusion by saying, “It was in the closet . . . and that fact alone should have made it exempt. It should never have been touched. O, it’s my fault, Cassiopeia, all my fault!” When I asked what the hell she was talking about, I got pitched into a primer on Kura’s recycled goods empire, one of whose entities shipped donated clothes and furniture to needy countries that paid by the pound. (Yawn.) Apparently, back when it was politically unpopular, Kura had a brainstorm that the U.S. would eventually be a bigger importer than exporter. As usual, he was ahead of the curve; by the time his theory bore out he had already laid the groundwork. He’d cultivated high-level relationships in Washington for years, delivering full containers to the States at no cost (to his great tax advantage) . . . which was more than I cared to know. But what could I do? Justine was like the proverbial dog on the pant leg. She ended the conversation by swearing that she would not rest until she learned the exact whereabouts of that freakin’, fucking chair.
Cut to: TEN WEEKS LATER.
There she was on the phone again, unbearably chipper, unconscionably French. (It was starting to feel like we’d once had a fling that ended badly.) She began by telling me that she’d at last been able to read the diaries straight through. “There was so much about religion that was hard for a layperson to understand, but it was such a moving experience! Incroyable.” Her voice cracked. I’m not sure what it was about her that made me want to shoot myself in the head. “It just brought him right back . . . in such an amazing way. Like he was in the very room . . .” She told me the diaries should be published one day, “though of course this cannot happen, for obvious reasons.” Then, almost as an afterthought, Justine said she’d managed to track down the chair. “As it turns out, Cassie, there is an amazing symmetry to what happened.” By way of explaining her jubilance, she recapped the last part of the diary—his wish to return the chair to the village school, its destination before being wrested from the boy. While she knew the chair had belonged to Kura’s guru, she still couldn’t seem to grasp the significance of that final gesture. What she did know was that the chair had ended up in a school after all, albeit one in America. Hence, her pleasure that her boss’s decree had been fulfilled “in a roundabout way.”
Justine declared that she would never have learned of the chair’s Stateside migration without the “creative investigations” of “a very interesting man called Quasimodo.” (It was as though she’d forgotten I’d accompanied Kura to Delhi and most likely would have been privy to the name.) She wound up flying him to California, where he reported that the item was indeed part of a shipment of five containers to arrive at the Port of Oakland. Four left the harbor on trains, but the fifth—the only one that held furniture—languished outside a warehouse for six weeks before its contents were trucked to a sorting facility. Records indicated the items remained there another month and were then dispersed to needy schools in the Bay Area. The resourceful Monsieur Q had diligently visited every institution on the list, to no avail. He’d even come armed with a Polaroid—Justine found the Land Camera mugshot tucked in the pages of The Book of Satsang—but never had the opportunity to compare and contrast. In the end, there wasn’t any real proof the chair had been adopted by any school at all, but it was close enough to ease Justine’s guilt. For that, I was genuinely glad. Sometime later I received an envelope with a final, eerie souvenir. Justine had thoughtfully framed Kura’s photo of the chair, believing it would make a nice memento.
I’d only seen it from a relative distance, swaddled in the darkness of Dashir Cave, but in Paris, Kura had taken a picture under harsh fluorescent lights. Now that I had a closer look, I was surprised by what I saw. Justine was right, it was an odd little chair. Its shabby state couldn’t hide its provenance—turn-of-the-century Edwardian. (I happen to know a bit about these things.) The armrests were high; they call them elbow chairs. I used to see them on weekend treks with the love that I lost. (She adored antiquing.) I wondered how a chair like that would have found its way to the foothills of the Himalayas, though I’m sure they’re not uncommon in India . . . probably belonged to some Brit, a bureaucrat who sold it or gave it away, then wound up at a flea market or something—oh look, I’m already coming up with a backstory! Still, it’s likely that the explanation was pretty prosaic. But isn’t it always—don’t you find, Bruce, that just when you think it’s simple, the truth reveals itself to be so crazy-complicated? Somewhat of a riddle, I suppose . . . though not exactly Hemingway’s snow leopard, is it? I’ll bet somebody has that story. Good luck finding him.
There are mysteries upon mysteries, no?
I never asked if I could examine any of her artifacts, including Kura’s diaries, but for some reason I did inquire about the “mugshot” of the chair. She excitedly summoned a helper to fetch a 19th-century Japanese puzzle box made of exotic wood. She moved a series of slats until the top slid open. There were papers inside; underneath them, a photo framed in mother-of-pearl. Actually, three photos: a large “portrait” of the chair, flanked on both sides by smaller, detailed images. The first was that of its cabriole-style leg, ending in a finely ornamented foot; the second, of an engraved copper identifier affixed to the undercarriage.
The letters were well-worn but you could just make them out—the name of a shop, with a phone number: “Ballendine’s Second Penny.” With a shock that hasn’t diminished an iota to this day, I came to realize the American guru’s chair was the very same that Ryder used to hang himself.
In 2010, Charley gave me the account of his son’s death. I heard Queenie’s story five years earlier, and had been haunted by it ever since; my mind had ready access to its many details. So the moment Charley mentioned the name of his wife’s parents’ shop—Ballendine’s Second Penny—everything started to click. We can presume that the cheap-looking, provisional dog tag featuring the merchant’s name fell off somewhere between Paris and Berkeley; after all, it was fastened to the cane, most of which had already disappeared by the time Kelly came across it. (God knows how it held on durin
g its life in India.) Otherwise, I would most assuredly have heard about it from Charley. It would have been a very big deal indeed that an item from the “Second Penny” would have reappeared in such a way—like the proverbial dog traveling thousands of miles to come home . . . and an even bigger deal that Ryder would have jumped from it.15
As earlier explained, the chronology of narratives was reversed for dramatic considerations; in a sense, Queenie’s story was the “second guru” in that (for me) it truly did make sense of the first, in ways both figurative and literal. And I suppose I naturally resisted the linear approach, not only because it goes against my grain but because some key plot points—the dog tag; the chair winding up in Berkeley—might have interfered with the reader’s absorption in Charley’s moving chronicle, even telegraphing what was to come. The last thing I wanted was to rob anyone of a hoped-for frisson.
I often find myself musing along the same lines as Queenie. We know how the chair journeyed from India to Berkeley yet the story behind its voyage to Dashir Cave from a defunct antiques shop in Syracuse that occasionally bore a “Gone Fishin’” sign will never be known.
But as the lady said, there are mysteries upon mysteries.
These were among Queenie’s last words, on the night before I left. We haven’t spoken since, nor do I know her whereabouts. All efforts to contact her have failed.
She was very stoned.
Okay, that’s enough.
E-nough.
I’m finished—famished. Let’s go kill ’n eat somethin’. Then it’ll be your turn, bub. Tha’s right, bubba, I’ve decided I can’t let you leave . . . just yet. Right on. No way. ’Cause you’re blessed. An’ I’m too blessed to stress. Aw, just teasin’! You are hereby free to go. You’re probably a better listener than you are a talker, anyway. Am I right? Course I am. On second thought, you ain’t completely off the hook yet so don’t fall to pieces on me . . . O come on now. I ain’ gonna make you sing for your supper. But I cain’t just let you skate. I mean how would it look? To the ladies and gentlemen in our audience? Well you know maybe I could but that just wouldn’t do, not after what-all you put me through. Just wouldn’t be right. What are friends for. Blah. Man, I am drunk. Guess that’ll happen when you have a 72-hour nip or however long the fuck it was—heh heh heh—was that the long goodbye or the long hello? But enough about me, let’s talk about me. Okay now really. Listen up. I’m gonna ask you to perform an activity, I’ll tell you what it is. In a minute. No cause for alarm. Nothing illegal or compromising. Well maybe just a little. But I swear it won’t hurt—though maybe it kinda sorta will. What are friends for. Have some wine, we need to soften you up for the kill. Ease the ol’ performance anxiety . . . Hey-oh! I’ll bet you’re the type who needs loosening up. O shit, I’m not going to have to seduce you, am I? [calls out to staff] Esme? Ez? Es-me!—where is that girl? O there you are. Don’t mind me, I’m drunk off my ass. I’m so drunk I’m drunk off his ass. And yours too. Must be the celebratory oxy. Things go better with ox. And the celebratory weed. And the and-the and the and-the. You know: job well done. I told the whole story! Whoa. Kinda honored my baby, my Kura, something maybe I never did so well in life. Though that isn’t really true. He didn’t honor me. No, that ain’t true either, he was awesome. Sorry, Kura. Devil made me do it. Ez-honey? Do you think we can get a fire going? Ya do, ya do, ya do? O goody. Then can you get that together? To get a fire going? Could Miguel—can you tell Miguel? That we want a fire? Maybe over by the tent? Yes. Well, dig a pit then. Go for it, Esmeralda . . . do what you gosta do . . . Say what? . . . Yup. Exactamente. Thank you, Esme! Man, I have been wanting me a fire all day long. If we don’t get one going pretty soon I’m like to shoot somebody, and I shoot pretty good too. From the hip! Right. Ha! Hey-oh. But seriously, Broozer, you’ve talked to what, thousands of people? Okay, maybe not thousands but hundreds, right? I mean, at least. So don’t get all modest. However you slice it, it’s a shitload and a halfa people. Right? And not everybody has the gift of blab, comme ça. I mean, comme moi. Non? Mais non? Mais oui? May we? Well, pardon my French. Bet you’ve had your fair share of folks baring their souls in under an hour, brevity being the soul of wit and all. Speed storytelling. Oops! Then what does that say about moi. Enough about toi, let’s talk about moi. I talk a lot but I’m funny, right? Aren’t I, Brewster McCloud? Does being funny make me look fat? Don’t answer that. Allow me to continue. Some of the folks who told you their stories—some of ’em probably blew lunch in an hour, maybe less, am I right? Course I am. So here’s my little request. Queenie’s gonna lay it all out for you, put all her cards on the table. K? I want you to think of a story somebody told you, a single, solitary story. Like a beautiful one. It can be short, but hell, it don’t have to be. It can be long-ass. But the deal is it has to have stayed with you, plus you have to need to want to tell it, because—because there’s something about it you just couldn’t shake. K? Beautiful or haunting or crazy-funny or whatever. Do a really short one, or a long one, I only offered training wheels as a simple courtesy. Didn’t want to jam you up. But if you’re pressed for time, it can really be short, you can tell it, like, in a New Mexico minute. Ha. Hey-o! Y’all remember those “60-second fairy tales”? Edward Everett Horton. Horton Hears a Who. Horton hears a whodunit . . . Weren’t they a hoot? Or should I say weren’t they a Who. And why is it that whenever I get drunk, I start with the y’alls and the—the Southern shit. I don’t know why, but it’s been that way since when-evuh . . . Love will keep us togethuh. Remember “Fractured Fairy Tales”? From Rocky and Bullwinkle, right? Boris and Natasha! You could just tell us a fractured fairy tale, Bruiser. But enough about me . . . but I’m serious, I want to hear a story you really liked, one for the road, or at least one you think I would like. One for the roadies. Something memorable. So c’n you think on one? While I go freshen up? I guess the story’s on the other foot now, huh babe—ha! Come on. Just think on it. And we’ll just sit here in suspense waiting for the other story to drop. Ho ho ho. Heh heh heh. I know you can do it, babe. I know you can make it! I know damn well . . . yes we can can I know we can can yes we can can uh why can’t we if we wanted to we can can—tell ya what. To be fair. If that big brainuh yours rolls snake eyes, then you can just make something up! Hell, ain’ nobody gonna hold you to it, no one’ll ever even know the difference. ’Cause nobody’s even fucking listening but me, bubba. Man, you have got to understand, Bruce—right now I am so fucking tired I don’t even know my name . . . I know I’m drunk but I am freaking serious about this! Get your freak on, Mother Jones . . . get your free gun. So you’ll—do we have an affirmative, sir? I mean, you can wait, you can wait to tell us over dessert. Crackling fire, starry night, blah. Or you can not wait, you know, tell us whenever. Blah. Pull up a chair and stay a while. [sings] “Don’t be shy meet a guy pull up a chair. The air is humming . . . please don’t be long please don’t you be very long please don’t be long or I may be asleep—” . . . Tell you why—I’ll tell you why I’m harping. Why I’m being so importunate over here, is because—because it’s—it’s so weird that this thing just came over me like BLAM—right when we finished. It is too fucking strange . . . because you would think that after three days I’d had enough. Nope! It just sort of dropped down on me, this crazy urge, this need—do you know what I’m saying? Sounds sexual huh. Wull mebbe it is. I just had a thought . . . know what it might be? It might be I’m still in my own stuff, you know, stuck in my head, and maybe I just want to get out of my head. Because these last few days we went to some very heavy places, my friend, I am telling you. And you know it. You little devil. ’Cause you took me there. Dark, heavy places—beautiful but heavy. So maybe now I just want to cleanse the palate. Does that make sense? What are friends for. Don’t answer that. Why fucking analyze. Where’s Esme . . . Esme? Ez! Ezzy? Esme! Never can find that girl. [sings] “Never can say goodbye, no no no no . . . Then you try to say you’re leaving me and I always have to say no, tell me why . . . is it
so . . . don’t wanna let you go”—bubba, go have some wine and start Googling that big brain o’ yours while I freshen up. I am just so effing tired of hearing my own story—for three effing days!—and it’s such a trip, I am telling you it was like whoosh right you know exactly when we finished like this voice was saying “No!”—this need, this fucking need washed over me, this primal thing, and it’s not even a full moon!—like an actual physical craving. So Bruce you have got to fucking think—because I don’t want—it’s like it’s too soon, I’m not ready—I hear this voice—you know I’m just not you know quite ready to—apparently, anyway—this voice is saying like come on come on just let me hear one more—blam blam blam—’cause I’m just not ready yet, Bruce—it’s like a drug, like I’m still coming onto the drug—goddammit Bruce all I’m saying is I want to hear one more story! So just come on, man!—and I fucking know you understand—come on! Come on come on come on come on come on—tell me a fucking story!
END
C H R O N O L O G Y
1934—Kura is born.
1952—Cassiopeia (“Queenie”) is born.
1954—Kelly is born.
1960—Charley is born.
1967—Charley is molested by clergy through 1972.
