by Bruce Wagner
His brother Samuel’s death in Tamil Nadu had frightened and galvanized him. Lew Freiberg was 48 years old and had only recently embarked on creating one of the epoch’s great art collections. Before the 1st year anniversary of the tsunami had passed, he’d spent $300,000,000 raiding fiscally challenged museums of their French Impressionist art. He had inherited Sam and Esther’s vast trove of Buddhist antiquities, the Goyas, the Fra Angelico altarpiece, Rothkos, and Pollocks (Lew’s favorite “spatterfuck” was Full Fathom Five), and their quintet of fine art modernist armchairs, at $100,000 apiece. He gave Joan a tour of the 15,000 square foot cave tunneled into a mountain that would eventually contain 2 kitchens, 6 sleeping rooms, and a computer-retrievable 200,000 bottle wine reserve. Excavated 50 feet beneath the earth, it was a kind of medieval, meditative humidor—aside from the mosaic’d, brightly lit ballroom that was to be a replica of Moscow Metro’s Komsomolskaya station, complete with subway cars as lounges. There was going to be a grotto down there too and because of dampness vs delicate electronics, a corps of engineers had designed a system to completely recirculate the air at least once a minute. That would cost 2,000,000 alone, the side benefit being that people could watch Lew’s favorite Capras while soaking in a lava rock pool. Sylvia Sepielli and Michael Stusser (of the Osmosis spa and meditation garden in Sonoma) and one of Spielberg’s production designers were building a Kyoto-style ryokan and authentic bathhouse within, to which Guerdon planned to import an authentic full-time okami, or lady innkeeper. There was the half-built observatory; what really interested Lew at the moment was “an outlaw star” that had been ejected from the heart of the Milky Way. He loved the idea of an outlaw star—that’s what he was—and sang Joan a sweetly off-key “Desperado.” A chef and his wife lived in one of the tents, cooking for Lew and the children, when they weren’t with their mom. The new house would be built with virgin old-growth timber, dead-head cypress, and pine from rivers in southern Georgia, hand-hewn logs dredged by divers from lakes where they’d been submerged for centuries. Cold, river-bottom wood didn’t rot and was exceptionally beautiful. It was 10 times more valuable than ordinary planks.
3 hours after her arrival, Lew’s 10,000,000 dollar twin-engine Bell/Agusta AB-139 faerie’d them away at 200 miles an hour. He leaned close—their faces touched and his hand lightly gripped her thigh—to peer out one of the huge cabin windows on Joan’s side. There it was, the Lost Coast: coniferous forest of fetid adder’s tongue giving way to melancholic, barren swatch of no-man’s-land—like the smudged, empty margin of a book where a crazed scholar’s pencil notes reside—then rocky drop-off of hyper-graphic de-illuminated text into foamy wind-tossed void where the rest of the pages of the Infinite are buried. Lew said it was the longest stretch of undeveloped shoreline in the States. (Naturally, he was one of the few “inholders” to own private land within a federal reserve.) The desolation made her shiver. As the fog rolled and the helicopter banked, her head slowly cleared.
She was finally starting to get ideas. She wanted to visit the site in Napa before going back to LA. (Joan knew what he was up to and wondered why he hadn’t already jumped her back in the Cirque du so-so lay Mogul Tent. It was better for them to keep their mitts off each other anyhow, until the Mem issue was settled—like boxers before a match. She was having a reptile brain moment: if they got intimate again, what of the tenuous sap now suddenly rising?) Without pen and paper she mentally grafted her thoughts onto the primeval grid, mnemonically marrying them to the mossy, fuzzy, scary-crazy-ecstatic carpet below.
They landed. They walked a mile or so, passing the lean-to of a sculptor Lew had befriended, a Robinson Jeffers type who famously worked with wood and was allowed to lease a parcel of land out here. He wasn’t home. They poked around his frontyard, if you could call the stupefying cauldron of the Pacific a yard. Lew said the guy’s work reminded him of “Andy” (she’d heard enough of Mr Goldsworthy, thanks very much). As they hiked, conversation segued to the furniture of Nakashima and Noguchi—Lew had just bought a little postwar table for $800,000, at auction—Strange, Houshmand, and Walsh. He spoke of the sundari where the body of his sister-in-law was found, without mentioning Samuel; she wondered about that, and remembered what Pradeep had told her about the “spirit tree.” Maybe the topic of his brother was just too painful. They talked about the tidal wave catastrophe in general, which proved amenable enough to an ocean that seemed to roar, hiss, wallop, and sting for its supper. Lew shook his head and laughed about the shrinks who’d flown to Banda Aceh as grief counselors. It was so loud that he had to shout. He asked Joan if she knew about the supplies sent over in bulk: shipping containers with hair conditioners and gel, bikinis and disposable pink razors. Another riff on the obscenity of corporate America’s largesse. (His phrase.)
He told her how “Sam and Esthie” were in Kerala and Kochi—he had all the emails and digital photos his brother sent from the trip (there weren’t too many)—how they’d visited a place called Jew Town with an amazing 16th century synagogue, “the Paradesi,” its roof strung with dangling oil lamps and crystal chandeliers. Sam said that most of the Jews had gone to Israel, and only a few were left: “ ‘black Jews’ and ‘white Jews’ (orthodox) but today we saw a deeply taciturn woman sewing who went by the unlikely name, or likely, if you wish, of Mrs Cohen.” Deeply taciturn. His brother was a good writer, with a droll, subtle way. Lew had culled from the computer correspondence to make a booklet for the family service.
He recounted by rote how the couple were in Chennai before heading south to Mahabalipuram, where they perished. When the waters receded at the place their lives ended, ancient carved elephant heads and long-buried running horses were miraculously uncovered. Not many died there besides Sam and Esther. They were among “the lucky ones,” said Lew sardonically—of ¼ million, only a few hundred Americans were killed. He’d come to believe it was their fate, their appointment in Samarra. With a doff of the cap to his Buddhist sister-in-law, Lew wittily amended: appointment in samsara.
(A conjuration of Buddhist stuff had been on Joan’s mind from day one and she envisioned a sand mandala Mem, with a nod to Kyotan Zen gardens. A walking labyrinth, like that September 11th installation in Battery Park—something akin to Roy Staab’s arrangement of reeds and knotweed in the Hudson River would, like a mandala, be obliterated in mere days’ time, but she dismissed its transitoriness as too “Andy.” Damn him. {As Jon Stewart might say.} She dredged further from her mental file: the 93 WTC granite shrine, and small stubborn chunk that still remained after 9/11—a memorial of a memorial. She thought of all these things and it was excruciating to realize that her “sappy” frisson had been spurious and she didn’t have an original idea in her semen-filled head. Zaha wasn’t Zaha for nothin.)
Then he said something heavy that she hadn’t been aware of.
The body of his brother had been recovered then misplaced by authorities. Only the cremains of his pain-in-the-ass sister-in-law—that said with a smirk not devoid of warmth—would be buried on Napa grounds.
“You know,” said Lew, philosophically. “Memorials are hilarious. I mean, the idea of them. A grave is a grave. But…everything we do is a memorial. Eating’s a memorial. Shitting’s a memorial. Fucking’s a memorial. Do you know about Malcolm Forbes?”
“He rode in balloons and laid Fabergé eggs. He took Liz Taylor on a Harley and threw Brokeback chopper parties.”
“Right! And he’s buried on an island in Fiji—only a few people know this. Mel Gibson wound up buying in the same neighborhood. He just had an 8 lane bowling alley shipped over, by the way: not Malcolm, Mel. A man has to bowl…the passion of the Mel! Gotta hand it to the guy—I mean you better hand it over, or he’ll take it. Mel’s crazy, but I like him; I’ve been to his father’s church. Been to Mago too. But the Forbes place—the most beautiful place on Earth. (Aside from where we are now.) The Forbes family actually had a written contract that said when they sold the island, they would come pick up the body. Exhume ol Talcum�
�d Malcolm, Fabergé balls and all! What if Malcolm-Ex thought he was going to be spending an eternity under white Fijian sands—oops! Sorry! You’re in purgatory now—Malcolm in the Middle.
“Remember that Jap who bought a Van Gogh? What’d he spend, a hundred million? For a Dr Gachet? And that was back in the 80s. Or 90s. I think he was a ‘department-store king.’ Super Salaryman. Did you know that when he died, he was gonna have the painting cremated along with his body? I’m serious! Never happened. I think he was in debt and the banks took it back. Poor little slope. Hell, I’d pay good money to watch a Gachet burn. Nothin lasts forever. My brother sure didn’t.
“So much for memorials and the wishes of the dead.”
BY the time she got back to LA, Joan had a name for the Freiberg Mem, even if she couldn’t quite summon the thing itself.
She went to ARK and rushed to her portfolio—this time scanning the Esther/Buddhist section. She reread the sutta, Buddha’s words to a god who had tried in vain, by ceaselessly running, to reach the end of the world. (Maybe Joan would just wind up forging a great and beautiful prayer wheel, to signify “mindful” running, or turning. It could also signify spinning my wheels.) Samuel was a marathon runner, so it was a good thematic fit:
Thus have I heard: The end of the world can never be reached by walking. However, without having reached the world’s end, there is no release from suffering…
I declare that it is in this fathom-long carcass, with its perceptions and thoughts, that there is the world, the origin of the world, the cessation of the world, and the path leading to the cessation of the world.
How beautiful—that this tireless, needless runner should be covered over by waters, turbulent then still. Receding…. It reminded her of Lew’s “running horses,” freed at last from the Great Wheel of Rebirth.
That’s what she would call it, and she couldn’t wait to tell Barbet: Full Fathom Five.
XXX.
Ray
SHE told Raymond—most of the time she called him “Raj” or “Bapu,” but it was Raymond whenever something weighed heavily on her mind that she had trouble giving voice to—she told him she’d awakened with the smell of monsoon in her nose.
Ghulpa often wore a fragrance called ittar that smelled like the 1st monsoon wetness of parched earth. The old man lasciviously said he felt a bit parched, and could do with a little “moisture”; her overbite twisted and she called him a lunk. He was only joking.
Her mood grew dark and he didn’t understand. She wept and padded around the house in Target flip-flops then took to her bed. Ray guessed she was hormonal, or sensing the ebb of womanhood, because she was that age. He prided himself on the sudden insight, feeling more worldly and knowing than he’d been accustomed.
Big Gulp wanted sweets and Ray promised he would “make a run” to her favorite shop in Lakewood. She gave him a list: mango ice cream with elaichi, and mishti dahi, sweet yogurt made with jaggery. (She knew he wasn’t strong enough yet, but acceded to make him feel better.) She hankered to watch a Bollywood movie. He said, well, they should try and go before the Friar came home because then they’d have their hands full. A theater near the bakery showed all the latest, Dimple Kapadia and Rani Mukherjee—or he could pick up a DVD. BG spoke of getting a big new bed, one that was “fantabulous.” The Indian ladies were always talking about beds. Ray thought maybe she had a fever.
She recalled her days with the Consul General. Ghulpa cried inconsolably, saying how she missed caring for the 2 little ones. The life of a CG was glamorous but tough. She sympathized with Pradeep’s wife, Manonamani, who hated “going on the town” or even entertaining at home, especially after the 1st child was born. Ghulpa used to commute with the family to LA, looking forward to those trips because in San Francisco she was a gilded prisoner of Pacific Heights—like Manonamani herself. She would visit her cousins in Artesia, and it was almost like being home. She could dare to flirt with the gentlemen and feel a bit alive. (She knew Pradeep had been having an affair with a “wicked Hollywood woman” who was a builder, but it was easy for her to look the other way. Her employer was good to her, and she was of a mind that terrible things came to those who judged another.) Ghulpa was grateful for the opportunity she’d been given, grateful to Pradeep and the Mrs for bringing her to this country, but still she saw her life passing by. Sometimes she even longed to return to Calcutta. She yearned for the great Kali Temple there—as a girl, she climbed upon it until guards chased her down. She was brave in her own fashion, and one day did the unthinkable by running away from Pacific Heights. She left Manonamani a note saying she had not taken anything except her own money and the clothes on her back, begging her not to call the police or immigration and begging her not to worry, that she was so sad to be leaving them and the children like this but feared for the stability of her own mind! She added that it would be “no problem” for them to find someone to replace her.
And then she took a Greyhound to Los Angeles…
WHEN Ray and Ghulpa arrived at the surgical center, there was a woman in the waiting room whose dog was having chemo. She struck up a conversation and was startled to hear that their “baby” had actually been shot, but was too timid to ask any details. Her face relaxed a bit when Ray, noting her discomfort, said it had been accidental and “the Friar” was going to be just fine. In fact, they were there to pick him up. The woman showed off a picture of Pahrump, a feisty-looking King Charles with a tumor. She confessed she’d been telling friends and family he had leukemia because a tumor sounded “so awful.” Ray assured her this was the finest institution of its kind in the world, and they’d patch up Pahrump as sure as they’d patched up his Friar. She listened as one would to an oracle.
“I’m sure of it,” he said, fully convinced.
This time, the Friar was well enough to greet them in a visiting room. He was weak and limped but showed signs of his old self. Ghulpa fussed over him while the technician spoke to Ray about aftercare. She gave him a roster of places that provided hydrotherapy; one was in Covina—not so far away. The woman even suggested a therapist who could “support” Nip/Tuck (that’s what the hospital staff now called him; they got their jollies from his AKA) reacclimate. “He’ll need some help with PTS—post-traumatic stress.” She warned about loud noises, sirens, cars backfiring. All were potential problems. She wrote down “www.dogpsychologycenter.com” on a slip of paper. (BG took it from her to examine.) There was a man named Cesar who could help. If Ray wanted to call for an appointment, the hospital would “facilitate.”
He asked if they could take him home but the gal said he needed a bit more time. Maybe by the end of the week. The old man was crestfallen. He was embarrassed because all he’d been talking about was how he wouldn’t leave without his boy. BG stroked Ray’s neck.
As they left, they passed Cora on the couch.
“Where’s your baby?” she said, expectantly. She was agitated, as if something dire had happened.
“Oh, they want to hold on to him awhile longer. They’re pretty thorough folks! He could’ve come but they want to give him that extra boost. If you ask me, they’ve gotten plumb fond of him, and don’t want to let him go! But he’ll be fine,” said Ray, with a wink. “He’s a champion. And so is—”
Ray pointed a finger at the photo Cora still held in her hand.
“Pahrump,” she said, with a sickly smile. Then her lip began to tremble. Ghulpa rushed to hug her. He knew what the woman was thinking: No one gets out of here alive.
At home, there was a message from the ACLU, saying it was urgent that Mr Rausch call.
XXXI.
Chester
OFFERS for work came in that Chess had to turn down. That was harsh. He made sure to pass each one to Remar; proof of income lost. It wasn’t the pills that precluded him from working—it was more the actual driving, turning his head this way and that, getting in and out of the car. Even holding up the camera or pumping gas exacerbated the pain.
Remar also wanted him to
round up whatever tax returns he could get his hands on. Chess repeated how that might open a can of worms, but Remar was blasé.
“We’ll see. We’ll reconstruct. No harm, no foul.”
MAURIE came over, without warning.
“How you doin?”
“All right.”
“Listen, Chess. I know what happened was fucked up. But that wasn’t anyone’s plan. You know that, right?”
“I know that.”
“I mean if I had a clue it would have gone down like this there is no way I would have involved you. I thought it would be a goof. A way for us to pocket some bread.” He reached out and touched Chester’s arm. “I’m really sorry. OK?”
It felt like a ploy—Chess wondered if he’d been put up to this by FNF legal, or even a lawyer of his own. He was probably just being paranoid. He actually missed his “bud,” and wished things could go back to how they used to be. That’s how sick I am.
Maurie said he got a gig to shoot a commercial for an Indian casino in Morongo. Was Chess up for scouting? 3 days that’d pay around 4,000. It sounded too good to be true. Chess knew Remar would never give the go-ahead—it was short money and a bad move, the type of thing that might scotch his whole case. Maybe that was part of the Jew’s master plan. The Protocols of FNF.
When he said he couldn’t because his neck was torqued, Maurie turned on him with a fury.
“You’re really being a fucking ham! Get back in the saddle, man! Where’s your sense of humor?”
