New York for Beginners

by Remke, Susann

  Osho International Meditation Resort, which was about 90 miles east of Mumbai, was resurrected as a kind of spiritual service provider for well-heeled westerners who wanted to leave their soul-garbage in India. The 37-acre campus on the outskirts of Pune had a Japanese flair, with its walkways snaking around bridges that overlooked lily ponds and through high bamboo forests. A monk—or whatever they called them here at Club Meditation—greeted Zoe and Allegra.

  “Welcome to India,” he said in that charming, Indian singsong tone of English. “My name is Vatsayana. India is a unique country which aspires to reach the highest goal: to find truth and to be truth.”

  Well then, Zoe thought, while Allegra nodded in eager approval. Al had long since abandoned the role of editor-in-chief—and had instead adopted the role of Julia Roberts searching for the meaning of life. It was as though Al had never intended to do anything else. Judging from what Zoe knew about Allegra, she would surely find some way to make money on this trip as well. Maybe with her own TV show for those on quests for meaning, or something like that.

  The resort’s Welcome Center was decorated in subtle gray stone and natural wood. It had surely been conceptualized by some interior designer that had charged $800 an hour.

  After registration, all the little sheep had to take an AIDS test. While Zoe accepted this strict rule with astonishment, Allegra only grinned with excitement.

  “One less thing to worry about. Every man who comes in here is clean.”

  The two friends would be staying in the Osho Guest House, which, with its camel-colored Eames chairs, lived up to the standards of any designer hotel. The next morning, at the very comfortable hour of nine o’clock, all the newcomers met up in the auditorium for the Welcome Morning. Vatsayana, the philosophical greeter from the day before, directed the salvation searchers. He was tall, thin, and sinewy, like a marathon runner. He didn’t have an ounce of fat on him. If Zoe’s grandma had seen him, she would have been overcome by her feeding reflex and served him heaps of French toast and wiener schnitzel to nurse him back to health. He looked like he was around forty, and Zoe realized that despite his singsong Indian English, he seemed be northern European, judging by the color of his skin.

  “In this wonderful world, we all live in our personal little ponds of misery,” he said, citing Osho. “That is why we practice silent meditation here every day. It is generally difficult for visitors to step directly out of their speedy lives to sit calmly and cleanse the mind of all its refuse. We will help you with this.”

  Zoe looked over at Allegra in slight annoyance. She was sitting cross-legged with a serene smile on her face. She had apparently already begun her cleansing. But Zoe really wasn’t all too sure that she wanted to part from all of her mental refuse. Wasn’t all of that part of who she was too? She decided to go for a walk. Prayer, meditation—or whatever you called it—was a very vague concept to Zoe Schuhmacher, the C&E Christian. There is no way Osho can repair my wounded heart, she thought.

  Here she was in the City of Virtue, and she felt further from her true self than she ever had before.

  For morning meditation, Zoe put on a loose-fitting, dark-red dress that went down to her ankles. In the evening, she’d have to wear white, in accordance with the dress code. They had a dress code like at the real Club Med.

  In the 90-foot-tall glass pyramid, which, according to the brochure, had a capacity of five thousand people and a disco-worthy sound and light system, there was a one-hour meditation session. First, they danced “Ring Around the Rosie” for a bit. At least, that’s what it looked like to Zoe. “To rid ourselves of unnecessary energy,” the meditation leader said. Allegra laughed happily and threw back her wavy mane. Zoe obliged her indulgently. Taking strangers by the hand—in India, at that—wasn’t really her thing. Then they sat down cross-legged on large pillows on the floor. “To let the silence fill us.”

  Zoe tried to empty her brain. But how do you think of nothing? And when you were thinking of nothing, weren’t you still thinking of something? Again and again, she was haunted by images of Benni Nigmann, the annoying Aaron Papst, and, of course, Tom. And Tom again. The way he’d stood there when she saw him for the last time, completely astonished and angry, as though his wife had ruined his perfect plans for his transatlantic affair. Actually, I should be glad there weren’t other bimbos in Germany, Switzerland, and Canada, Zoe thought. But maybe there were . . .

  Her thoughts had already run away with her.

  Silence.

  Emptiness.

  Bullshit.

  Zoe jumped up, darted outside, and angrily threw herself onto a granite bench next to a lily pond. She’d imagined that this would be easier.

  “You have to let it happen, you know,” a quiet voice behind her said.

  She turned. It was Vatsayana. He was standing and she was sitting, so she felt like he was smiling down at her, a little too indulgently for her liking.

  “What do you know?”

  “More than you think,” he said and then drifted away.

  Later, while they put on their white robes for dinner, Allegra gushed, “Isn’t it fantastic here? I met a banker from London, born Spanish. He’s so hot!”

  So that’s how it is, Zoe thought, recalling Allegra’s talent for always finding the wrong guy. Zoe was already counting the days until her flight back to Germany: nineteen to go.

  Breakfast, lunch, and dinner were held in “India’s most hygienic cafeteria,” which did a lot to reassure Zoe. The food, which was grown on the hotel’s own organic farm, was served on the garden patio under white umbrellas. Less India was impossible. Allegra had registered for a three-day seminar called “Live here and now—through reliving your past!” Together with her sexy Spaniard, of course. She kept wanting to talk Zoe into a workshop called Growing, Flowering, Becoming One with Life: How to Manage Your Loneliness. But Zoe had stubbornly refused. Instead, she sat by the lily pond every day and brooded. Ever since she was a teenager, Zoe had always done two things: First, she had always worked. She had part-time jobs while in school, she’d had internships, she’d written articles as a freelance writer—basically she had always worked toward her career. And second, she had fallen in and out of love with guys. She had always been waiting to truly become herself. She thought that would happen automatically, all by itself, sort of like reaching legal age.

  Benni Nigmann, Prince Charming On Hold, had been her first true love. But then Tom came along and flipped her whole world upside down. Zoe sighed loudly and wondered how this eternal mental movie could ever be turned off. Because in the long run, she didn’t like the film at all. And ten days at the Ashram had done nothing to help.

  “A new beginning can only happen when something old ends,” a voice said. It was Vatsayana again, whose job was apparently to comfort his escaped sheep. But this time he sat down next to Zoe.

  “Those endings can be pretty painful sometimes.”

  “Not if you see them as beginnings.”

  And then the dam broke. The entire story of Benni, Papst, and Tom came out. Especially Tom. And New York, and how she felt like Cinderella there, living in constant fear of being kicked out by the honorable Aaron Papst. Not being good enough for the sonny-boy of Katherine “Kitty” Whitney Fiorino. Basically not being good enough for the entire world. Vatsayana listened patiently and kept handing her tissues. Using up almost an entire box in one sitting had to be a new record. Maybe psychologists are right about the grief stages, Zoe thought.

  “Let it go,” Vatsayana advised her. “You have to let it go. You can’t remain unhappy just because you fear change.”

  It was kind of irritating when a stranger could see you more clearly than you could see yourself. Now both of them were sitting there in silence. For the first time, Zoe felt nothingness engulf her like a comfortable cloud of fog.

  “What about you? What are you doing here? You’re not Indian by b
irth, are you?” Zoe asked after what seemed like an eternity once she returned to reality from her cloud. “Where are you from? Where are you going?”

  “I come from nowhere, and I am going nowhere. I live in the here and now.”

  The old Zoe would have just said “Well, then.” But this time she held back.

  “It is how it is, Zoe. Instead of pondering things from the past that can’t be changed, you should accept them,” Vatsayana explained.

  He left her sitting alone by the lily pond. Zoe tried to send love and light to everybody involved in her misery, just like Vatsayana had suggested. Benjamin Nigmann. Aaron Papst. And finally, even Tom. Although she still wasn’t quite convinced that the three of them deserved it. But maybe that would change in the remaining nine days.

  “What are you going to do when you’re back in Germany?” Allegra asked her and took a sip of tea. “You don’t really want to work at The Ansbach News, do you?”

  “Why not?” Zoe said, absentmindedly twirling a strand of her hair around her index finger. “Seems like a solid plan to me.”

  “Zoe, honey, solid isn’t everything. Sometimes you need to take a risk.”

  “But I did,” Zoe argued. “And what did I get? A crash. The plane exploded. All passengers and crew are dead.”

  “Don’t you want to get back into the magazine business? Or continue with social media? Maybe develop some new concept of your own?”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, just look at all these consumers searching for meaning. They spend thousands of euros to find themselves. After our three weeks here, I’m convinced that authenticity in life is hugely important. Back to nature, honest eating, contemplation, simplicity, spirituality.”

  “You mean longing for life like it was lived in earlier times?”

  “Exactly. Think about it: a lifestyle magazine, but without all the lifestyle.”

  “Al, that’s genius!”

  “I know! If I weren’t traveling the world, I would start developing that exact kind of magazine right now.”

  “I don’t think it should be a magazine, though. It has to be much more interactive. The users should be able to give each other advice, to give each other ideas, to motivate, to sell things they make. Limited-edition hand-produced honey from Prenzlberg, for example. Or video seminars on Loving-Kindness Meditation. That kind of thing only works with an online platform. And you could still create a magazine out of that.”

  Zoe’s head was bubbling over with ideas. She could already see the design in her mind’s eye. Clean and simple. She could see the different verticals: “Life,” “Food & Drink,” “Home & Garden,” and of course “The Good Life,” which would feature people who had managed to make life at least a little bit more worth living. People who made the world a little better.

  “We could call it something like Stonyfield Farm,” Allegra suggested.

  “Sounds too much like yogurt.”

  “True. How about . . . Yearning?”

  “Yearning sounds great!” Zoe exclaimed and jumped up.

  “Start developing the platform when you’re back in Germany,” Allegra proposed. “I’ll join as a 50-percent partner and scrape together some money for the financing. You can stay at my old place in Hamburg until I’m back. And then we’ll see. Either we’ll pull it off on our own, or we’ll find ourselves a media company as a partner. Deal?”

  “Deal!”

  22

  On her second visit that month to her hometown, Zoe was a lot more disturbed than she had been on her first visit that nothing had changed in the past ten or twenty years. It felt like a cheap horror movie where the main character trudges through empty, dusty village streets without the slightest idea that blood-thirsty zombies are hiding behind the curtains of the barricaded houses. Zoe had come back to Herpersdorf again to tell her parents in person that she was fine. And that she had plans. Big plans, which were impossible to pursue while working at The Ansbach News. She couldn’t stay unhappy just because she was scared of change.

  The editor-in-chief accepted her resignation, although he looked concerned. Zoe told him about New York and India and how she’d found herself. She felt calmer than she had in a long time. At least now she had a plan.

  When Zoe returned from her meeting at The Ansbach News, she found a black Mercedes limo with tinted windows and a running motor parked in front of her house. Leaning against the hood of the car was a blonde with endless legs. She was dressed in a crystal-embellished, floor-length evening gown with a mink wrap, and she was impatiently drumming her fingers on the hood of the car.

  “Mimi?”

  “About time you showed up, sweetie. Get in the car!”

  “Well, good day to you, too. What are you doing here? How are you?”

  “I’d be a lot better if you’d get your little butt inside this car now. We’ve got a plane to catch.”

  As she said it, she shoved Zoe toward the Mercedes, pushed down her head like in that show CSI: NY when they arrest somebody, and bundled Zoe into the car. The driver revved the engine to a howl, Mimi jumped into the passenger seat, and they were off on Route 2223, headed for the highway.

  “Is this a kidnapping or something, Mimi? And what’s with this elaborate dress you’re wearing? Isn’t it a bit over the top for a secret mission?”

  “Complex tasks require exquisite dress.”

  “But seriously, Mimi. What are you doing here?”

  “I just wanted to make sure you were all right, hon.”

  It was only now that Zoe realized there was somebody else sitting there next to her in the backseat of the Mercedes. “And who in heaven’s name are you?”

  “I’m the makeup artist. I’ll be doing your face while we drive to the Nuremberg Airport. Your dress and shoes are in the trunk.”

  “Can someone please explain to me what the heck is going on here?”

  “Since apparently no one else in the entire world is capable of convincing our stubborn, proud Zoe of what she needs, it seems I have to do it,” Mimi explained theatrically. “We’re flying to Hamburg. For the German Women’s Journalism Prize awards ceremony. You won, by the way. Congrats.”

  January 19. Zoe had completely forgotten about the stupid awards ceremony. She’d put it in the Voldemort/New York drawer, way in the back of her brain. She wouldn’t have dreamed of actually going.

  “Aren’t the winners only supposed to be announced at the gala?”

  “The list has been on that journalism association’s website for weeks. At least that’s what my hacker tells me, but he doesn’t understand German, and Google Translate spat out a load of gibberish.”

  “Your hacker?”

  “Extraordinary circumstances call for extraordinary methods!”

  The awards ceremony was held at Deichtor Hall, in Hamburg’s Old Town. As Mimi and Zoe arrived, people were already streaming into the main hall. Zoe was wearing a long, ivory-colored Prada dress that had straps that crossed in the back, giving it a modern, geometric look. The makeup artist had given her a “London face,” with blood red lipstick. On stage, Sabine Christiansen was already starting her presentation. Mimi took Zoe’s hand and pulled her along, weaving between white-cloth-covered tables until they reached Table 9 in the middle of the second row. Two seats were still unoccupied. Their seats. The rest of the guests at the table seemed relieved to have made it on time.

  Aaron Papst smiled and patted Zoe’s hand. “Glad you could make it,” he said.

  If Zoe hadn’t known Lord Voldemort, she might have believed him. On the other hand, it seemed fitting that Papst didn’t seem the least bit perturbed to find Zoe, who’d vanished from New York without a trace, sitting alive and well next to him. He didn’t ask her a single question, which Zoe suspected wasn’t only because the program had already started. She wondered if Tom might have spoken to him and briefed him on what ha
d happened. Should she ask him? No, she didn’t want to show that kind of weakness.

  The next hour passed like a dream. Zoe won the prize in the Online category. German Journalist Sandra Maischberger gave a speech praising Zoe’s work. There were kisses, a photograph, and a glass of champagne backstage. Then more kisses in the audience, more photos, and even more champagne. Suddenly, Mimi mumbled that she had to leave right away. Zoe looked around in time to see her hurrying outside with the young, attractive—and married—editor-in-chief of Boulevard magazine. Mimi had a strict rule: She only slept with married men, because they had to hurry back to their wives late at night, leaving Mimi with her peace and quiet in the morning.

  Aaron Papst and Zoe Schuhmacher ended up alone together at the bar. Zoe had long since switched to mineral water, but Aaron kept sipping his Veuve Clicquot.

  “By the way, I really like being someone’s mistress,” Voldemort said. “Just in case you were wondering.”

  “Actually, I was wondering. I thought you’d fire me because of my article.”

  “No. You got the emotional roller coaster just right. But I’m an adrenaline junkie, you know? There’s nothing worse for me than the thought of two people boring each other on their silver anniversary. Sure, I’m alone at Christmas. But in exchange I’ll be going on a cruise to South America with my lover over New Year’s. Fireworks included.”

  Aaron Papst paused and then took a big gulp of bubbly, as though he needed some liquid courage. “Zoe, I’d like you to come back to New York and work for me.”