Memorial

by Bruce Wagner

  Joan thanked them, then saw the envelope under the door—a message from the hotel operator, saying “Cora Ludinsky” had called.

  She retrieved the voicemail informing that Marj was back in Beverlywood. The neighbor hadn’t left a number and Joan didn’t have it in her Treo afterall (of course) but it didn’t matter, she jumped in the car and went right over. On the way, she phoned the detective who had helped with the fraud case; he said he’d do what he could. Of course when she got there, her mother was gone, and Cora didn’t have much to add, except the disquieting reference to “Lucas.” No one was sure if she’d flagged a cab or gotten on a bus or was just meandering—in a follow-up call, the detective thought the latter a more likely scenario, that she was out there confused, and someone had most likely given refuge, and was in the process of contacting authorities—so Joan canvassed the neighborhood until it was pitch dark. She even stopped at Riki’s and the young man said yes, she’d been in, not too long ago, to buy a ticket. Cora said that Marj was wearing a stylish green coat, and Joan was positive it was the Jil Sander she bought for her that 1st week she’d come home from the hospital. Mom liked to wear it when they ate at the subterranean hotel coffeeshop. She passed that on to the detective.

  Joan and Barbet had plans to go to Locanda Portofino for her birthday—a supershitty day to turn 38. (She hadn’t expected her father to remember, and chided herself for even having the sappy, babyish thought that he’d send flowers and a 6pack of Diet Coke.) They wound up meeting at Kate Mantellini’s because the restaurant was sort of between the hotel and the old house; that way, Joan could feel halfway in her skin. There was nothing to do for now and at least she had the gut feeling Mom would soon be found. The detective had his “eyes and ears out there” and was waiting for a high-priced PI colleague to return his page. Joan awaited that callback as well—she’d already emailed a picture of Marj and there was no reason the PI couldn’t get started right away. She told the detective to give his friend a number—$25,000, as retainer fee—and he said that was way too high but Joan insisted. She knew it guaranteed action. She needed someone who would knock on doors if it came down to that.

  She dumped all this on Barbet and he was an enormous comfort. He brought a gift, an iPod with the complete downloaded audioworks of Trollope and Dostoevsky (unabridged). Even her favorite, Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita, was on there, bless his soul. A feature allowed you to fast-forward narration without distorting the text, a kind of “speed listening.” (She couldn’t wait to zip through The Idiot.) Barbet managed to get her laughing, and Joan needed that because she was beyond hysteria. She was beyond beyond. He started riffing on Kate Mantellini’s, which was actually designed by Thom Mayne.

  “I know,” said Joan. “Did you see the thing in the Times today where Mayne ass-licked El Zorro?”

  “The Phaeno Science Center, in Wolfsburg.”

  “Will the shiteating never stop?”

  “Not as long as there are anuses. Would you look at this restaurant? It’s like a house in Vegas, commissioned by one of the boobs who hit it big in Blue Man Group. This waterhole’s so fuckin ugly. Are those boxers carved out of metal? Is this supposed to be, like, a postmodern sports bar? I mean, whuh? Look, babe, consider yourself lucky. You could have fucked Ground Control to Major Thom, and be about to give birth to some illegitimate Ichabod Crane Pritzkerfetus who needs anger management. Some bitch-slapping toddler with close-cropped hair and a mean streak who’s destined to do yoga with Saul David Raye and eat strawberry salsa à table, at Table.” He pretended to masturbate then looked around, shivering with disgust as she cracked up. “Even the people here. Realtors and loser comedians with trust funds. The feng shui makes your flesh crawl—the ambience! The whole experience is…it must be like the aftertaste people get when they go for chemo. That Writers Guild crowd trickling in from Doheny; they go see movies for free or listen to Bill Maher ‘in conversation’ with Ariadne Huffington”—he was so bombed (he’d had a head start) that’s what he called her—“for the hundred-thousandth time. The vibe here is so creepy. Don’t you think? A nouveau riche sports bar with Major Thom’s usual warm, fuzzy edges—the poor waitresses must get impaled when they turn the corner into the kitchen! At least you didn’t get impaled on a Thom Mayne hard edge. At least you had the sense to be inseminated by a Jew billionaire!”

  Her partner knew the paternity issue was conversationally off-limits, but what the hell. He never believed her one-night-stand Geek Squad story anyhow. “Entre rien” (as Barbet put it), he suddenly asked if she wanted to join him next week at the Airport Hilton to “experience” an avatar called Amma, Mata Amritananandamayi (“Say what?” said Joan. “Amma means mother,” said Barbet), popularly known as the Hugging Saint. He said that someone tried to stab her not too long ago in Kollam, where the Big Wave hit, and Joan riposted, “You’re nobody till somebody stabs you.” She was actually surprised to hear Barbet was even interested. He said wryly, “Why not? Everyone can use a hug. Especially after a fucking memorial reject. Besides, I have ulterior motives.”

  “Don’t you always?”

  “One of our pretentious potential Buddhist clients said I should go.”

  “Ah. Is there such a thing as an unpretentious potential Buddhist client?”

  Barbet smirked, and said it might give ARK the edge in getting “the job.”

  “What job?” she said. “What are you talking about?”

  “Some temple in Taos.”

  “Been there, done that. Haven’t we had enough faux Buddhists for a while?”

  “Well, that ain’t my faux. Anyway, Lew Freiberg isn’t a Buddhist.”

  “I hate fucking Buddhists,” said Joan. “I’d rather get raped by a Getty conservator than be invited to another Steve Ehrlich Zen brunch. There are no American Buddhist people of color.”

  “What are you, the ACLU now?”

  “They’re rich and they’re white and all they do is spend thousands of dollars making precious little pilgrimages to Dharamsala or wherever so they can write 4th-rate prosepoetry ‘essays’ about their cushy, cosmic adventures for Tricycle, or Travel + Leisure. They all suck the Dalai Lama’s 12 inch dick. Legends in their own luminous minds. Oh! And they love to talk about ‘sitting’—you know, my meditation practice can beat up your meditation practice. ‘Just sit’—that’s the big famous phony Buddhist motto. Just sit—on your Prada meditation pillow. You know what I say? Just shit. Take a big shit. That’s what I say.”

  “You know why I love you, Joan? You’re the only person angrier than I am.”

  Just now, he knew she had every right to be.

  “Have you read the magazines, Barbet? I’ve done a lot of research—as you know—and I’ll tell you! Here’s what’s on the covers, every month: Robert Thurman Robert Thurman Robert Thurman, Pema Chödrön Pema Chödrön Pema Chödrön. Robert Thurman in conversation with Robert Thurman in conversation with Pema Chödrön in conversation with Robert Thurman eating out Pema Chödrön. Sharon Salzberg! Sharon Salzberg in conversation with Pema Chödrön! Pema Chödrön in conversation with Sharon Salzberg! Jack Kornfeld on a panel with Jack Kornfeld on a panel with Jack Kornfeld sucking his own dick while Pema Chödrön blows Rudolph the red-nosed Rinpoche!”

  “The Aristocrats!”

  “Richard Gere Richard Gere Richard Gere! bell hooks bell hooks bell hooks! Oh! And the big controversy—the letters to the editors—are these pathetic assholes who try to distinguish themselves in the hierarchic pecking order by declaring how they think things should be spelled. Barbet, I am serious.” She began to sing, “You say nirvana, I say nibbana, you say the dharma, I say the dhamma—nirvana, nibbana, the dharma, the dhamma—let’s call the whole thing—”

  “ ‘Nothingness,’ ” Barbet interjected, arching an eyebrow. She ignored the comment; he grew secretly glum when she didn’t acknowledge a bonafide witticism.

  “They even spell tao D-A-O. Like that idiot woman who just had to recycle Swann’s Way: The Way by Swann
’s. Dumbshit!”

  “You mean ‘The Shit by Dumb.’ ”

  “And what is up with the Dalai Lama? Did you hear he said Katrina happened because of people’s karma?”

  “Their khamma—”

  “Now he’s Pat Robertson! Then I read something about how ol HHDL sat—just sit!—”

  “Is that like DHL? UPS? FedEx?”

  “—His Highness the Dalai Lama sat with this guy who set himself on fire because of the way the Chinese treat Tibetans. The guy sets himself on fire and goes into prayer position, OK?”

  “I do that after sex.”

  “But he lived. So Lord Lama comes a-callin! The guy has 4th degree burns and His Holiness gives him a lecture on why he shouldn’t hate the Chinese! The piece of toast tries to sit up—just sit!—out of respect, but keels over! At least His Holiness got his shot in! His parting fucking shot!”

  Barbet was howling.

  “You know,” said Joan, with a minxy smile. “You’re a pretty good straight man. And you’re straight. We should have had a baby.”

  “We tried.”

  “Yeah, we did.”

  “Besides, I’d be too raged out.”

  “I still think you should help me raise it.”

  “Help you rage it.”

  “Fine, help me rage it. But just help me.”

  “That’s a given.”

  They gave their 2 miscarriages a moment of silence.

  “There is something far out that I saw in the Times,” said Barbet. “You could send it to Freiberg. It’s really interesting. They found 2 fossils fused together, fucking. 65,000,000 years old. In some state in India. Insect lovers or whatever. Now it’s just microscopic fungus, but you can actually see them in the act. Died in the Paleolithic saddle. How’s that for limbic dissonance? Not too bad. I think you should send it to Jew—I mean Lew. You know, the whole Sam and Esther shticky: the Way We Were.”

  Another quiet moment.

  “So: will you come to the Amma thing?”

  She threw back her head and laughed as the waitress brought a pile of calamari.

  “Sure.”

  “You have to take a number for a hug—seriously, Joan. We need a ‘token.’ Sometimes this woman hugs, like, 9,000 people.

  “Sign me up. But can’t you reserve? You know: ‘Dial 777-HUGS’?”

  The Treo rang.

  It was the PI.

  Joan mentioned her price and he said he would find her mother within 24 hours.

  LXXXII.

  Ray

  HE showed BG the deposit slip from the account, with both their names: Raymond Rausch or Ghulpa Ksemankari. After attorney fees and sundry expenses, the balance was $488,383.51. Ray joked that “it would buy a lot of Pampers.”

  Ghulpa was glad, but having bad dreams again.

  A tiger was killing her Raj, her Bapu bled in fields of thousand-foot mangroves, searching for honey in forests of Sundarbans, from his blood and plasma sprang ordinary demons whom Durga and black Kali (jumping from their puja pandal as Little Gulp’s schoolfriends led them to the Hooghly River) lapped up like thirsty whores, then shook as did palm fronds in a storm, quivering with delight while they decapitated and quartered the old man, stuffing him down their gullets. The honey, redolent of oak and lavender, poured like ice wine; amber at dusk but saffron-colored in the day, and so very sweet—yet human flesh was sweeter! A single drop on a newborn’s tongue would keep it healthy for years. BG wanted that drop for her child, even if the price (how it wrenched her heart!) was to be paid with the death of her husband—she’d finally acceded to his proposal though they hadn’t set a date; there was talk of a consecration of conch shells, knotted scarves and ghee, of how the darker the hand-henna wedding day designs grew (and the longer they remained), the better the augury—but the raucous cats from Bangladesh showed no mercy, and would not let her near the nectar.

  The cousins selflessly, cheerfully, efficiently, assiduously, comically rushed to and fro, as their Ghulpa became engorged with a sleepwalker’s dread. She called out Bapu! it seemed every few minutes or so, asking him to enter the room so she could see him in the flesh. The human flesh!

  The old man couldn’t ride the shuttle with the Friar anymore (the dog was down to twice-a-week visits to the Center), couldn’t even leave the house because BG was afraid that something terrible would happen and he wouldn’t return.

  The tigers.

  That is what her dreams kept telling her.

  She stopped watching television because the news frightened her, nor did she watch the DVDs that Ray and the others procured. Tech-savvy cousins brought a thin black Nano jukebox but she only listened to radio. One night, Ghulpa closed the door and lowered her voice in great secrecy to ask Ray if he’d pick up a “golden oldie” that mesmerized her (weirdly, a song he had wooed his ex with) and her enjoyment of it sorely perplexed; his mind stammered. Might Joan have told her about it? No—Joan and Ghulpa hadn’t actually met. Where had she heard it? The radio, of course…but still, so strange.

  —don’t fear, my darling, the lion sleeps tonight.

  AFTER BG fell asleep, he called his daughter’s cellphone.

  She sounded a little frantic.

  “Did I catch you in the middle, Joanie?”

  “No—it’s fine. It’s just—I have—there is so much stuff going on right now.”

  It sounded like she was outside, and out of breath.

  She had a busy life. And wasn’t used to getting calls from her daddy.

  “Hi, Ray!” she said, as if starting over. “It’s really nice to hear from you.”

  “I’m sorry if I got you at a bad time.”

  “No, no! It’s cool—it’s fine—go ahead.”

  “Well, it’s been a little rough but I think we might have seen the worst of it. The City of Industry came through, and I wanted to ask”—could he need money? no no no could he be asking—“and I wanted to know if there was anything that you or your brother Chester…may I inquire how you’re ‘fixed’?”

  “Oh! I’m—no, I’m fine!”

  “Because I’d like to give you—both—a little gift.”

  “You don’t have to. It’s so not necessary.”

  She saw him in her head, envelope ready, like a wedding guest in The Godfather.

  “I know that. I know that. But I figure there’s a lot of gift-giving opportunities I missed along the years, and I didn’t want to miss one again.” He heard her softly crying. “So let’s say this is an opportunity for an old guy to feel good, and for a young gal and her brother to make an old guy feel good.” He cut her some slack. “You don’t have to tell me just now, Joanie, but think about it. Won’t you? And won’t you tell your brother Chester about my offer, and y’all can put your heads together? Now, as long as it isn’t a private plane,” he said, with country-club bonhomie, “then I’m pretty sure I can swing it. Tie it up with a red ribbon.”

  “That’s—that is…very sweet, Dad”—both realized it was the 1st time she had called him that—“but I’m fine. We both are. But it’s—I can’t believe how thoughtful that is.”

  “You sure?”

  “Pretty sure, yeah.”

  “Like I said, you don’t have to tell me now.” Pause. “Joanie—Joan—do you think that Chester…when you’ve discussed—did he say—do you think he might want to see me?”

  “Yes,” she lied.

  She lied because she hadn’t mentioned Ray’s existence, and now she never would. She didn’t want her brother touching a cent of the old man’s hard-earned settlement, and was unconflicted about her decision.

  “What does he do, Joan?”

  “He’s…in the movie business. He finds the places directors need—the locations—for their films. You know, if they’re looking for an interesting-looking building, or a big house with a pool—or bowling lanes…”

  She spoke to him as she would to a child, without knowing why. It was the way she talked to Marj.

  “Important job,” he said, l
ike his daughter had just told him Chess was a virologist at the CDC. “I was thinking it would be nice for the 3 of us to have dinner. There’s a helluva place downtown, near MacArthur Park—the Pacific Dining Car.”

  “Yes, it’s a wonderful restaurant.”

  “You been there?”

  “With clients. It’s still open 24 hours a day, isn’t it?”

  “That’s what they say. I don’t know how they do it—must be a wealthy family owns it.”

  “It looks amazing. It’s really ‘old Los Angeles.’ ”

  “Just like me!”

  “It’s been in lots of movies.”

  “I blew some detectives to steak and lobster there the other night, and I thought it might be quite a thing for us to have a meal—just the 3 of us. You, me, and Chesterfield. My treat! You could even tell your mother; I’d love to have her—if she’s back from India and all, and feeling up to it. Probably unlikely. Did you say you were joining up with her? I wouldn’t tell Ghulpa, hell, that’s one I’d mark ‘Top Secret’! Have you told your mother we’ve been in touch, Joanie? Have you told Marjorie you’ve seen me?”

  “You know, I haven’t had the chance,” she said, smiling thinly through the phone. “The only reason is, she’s been away. It’s kind of a heavy thing to drop on her while she’s traveling. She’s a fairly independent woman, Ray—”

  “Oh yes, I do remember!”

  “And when she goes to India, she’s not so easy to reach. She’s got a cellphone but I’m not so sure she knows how to use it! She stays at the Taj Mahal Palace, in Bombay, kind of her homebase. But it would take a search-and-rescue team to track her down.”

  Joan started at her own words, the pathos of it—tears streaming down her face again.

  “She goes there a lot?”

  “Couple times a year.”