by Bruce Wagner
“A lot of the tulku’s chants began with the word ‘Kyema,’ which for me was new. The translator said it meant sadness, weariness, wariness, some sorrow. The way he put it was, ‘Oh. Oh my! Okay.’ He was fuckin’ brilliant, that translator. I’d sat for many satsangs, many talks and lectures, before and since, but this guy was unforgettable. You know, I usually have to try and get past the translator—they’re obstacles, or perceived obstacles, because most of the time they’re . . . not so wonderful. And that can become part of the experience, part of the teaching. Of the workshop, the weekend, whatever. Navigating through and around those guys is almost like a meditation in itself because your mind grabs onto whatever you feel their inadequacies are and it impedes you, it tries to subvert you from listening to the guru. And I accept that. Most of the time! You know, if they’re nervous or hyped up or just plain scared . . . I’ve seen it all. And sometimes they’re not fluent in the language, they’re filling in or just doing the best they can, like everyone else. That’s a pretty big burden. But this one was different. Clearly, he’d been with the Rinpoche a long, long time. Traveled the world with him. I assumed he was a serious student of his as well, that would be pretty common. So fluid, so elegant, but . . . scientific. Poetic! He was, like, the Glenn Gould of translators! Chökyi Nyima would talk for, say, five minutes at a time, and then he’d pause, with this devilish smile on his face, you know, like he was challenging the guy—but playful. ‘Translate that!’ And the guy did, you know, no problem, just seamlessly summarized. Even my ‘silent’ brother was flabbergasted.
“That night, in our log cabin—we were right on the river—my old friend was in a somber mood. I thought it was because of the Rinpoche’s talk. Because so much of it was about death and impermanence, and I had the idea that Meghan might have been ‘weighing heavily’ on his mind. But it was something else . . . and at the end of each talk, getting further into the weekend, he became more and more quiet and reflective. I was pissed at myself for not having as rich an experience as he was having! Then he said something that took my breath away. Completely leveled me.
“He asked if I had noticed anything ‘unusual’ about the translator. Right when he said that—bam!—I knew: the translator was the ‘sombrero’! Sancho, Fatso, Dutch Boy! Schmucko the Tourist! The cannonballing ‘banker’ . . . groomed and hatless, he’d been unrecognizable in his cantaloupe-colored robes. And I just kind of took in that new reality. Just sat there, shaking my head and tripping on it, and when I looked up I saw that my friend was in tears. He looked like a saint in the middle of having a vision—the tears were coming from a well so much deeper than a place of contrition or embarrassment. Tears from some distant place . . . some—river.
“That fucked with us hard, because the translator and his teacher were the same—the same! No difference. No difference. We’d pissed on them both in that encounter by the water. In the very first hour we were there! Pissed on the teacher! That really got me, but it hit my friend like a ton of bricks. He finally took off his little ‘Silent’ sticker, I don’t know why, because it wasn’t like he was going to talk to anyone anyhow—and nobody was going to talk to him either. People pretty much keep to themselves on retreats, writing in their journals, meditating, what have you. I think he did it out of respect. He was raw and open now, but very contained—something shifted in him. I could see it, feel it. Something shifted in me too, though not as dramatically.
“On our last day, Sunday, we were out by the river when we saw the tulku jogging toward the hills. In his Nikes, with his entourage, the whole deal—I’d heard that he loved to run. ‘The jogging Rinpoche.’ We saw the translator again too. (Not jogging.) My friend approached him. He put his hands on the translator’s shoulders and they spoke. I never asked him what was said.
“But the moment—the lesson—ingrained itself. And that’s the first time I’ve told that story. I guess it was a little long. Thank you for listening.”
“That was so beautiful, Michael,” said Dusty.
“Yes—lovely,” said the guest of honor, heartfelt.
Its aftereffect washed over the gathered. Following the Geshe’s lead, everyone closed their eyes in contemplation; deep sighs became a single, collective breath. The room grew quiet as a zendo.
At some point, Jeremy caught the tail end of Allegra vanishing up the kitchen stairs. The guests began talking, in low tones, about the novella-like lushness of Michael’s “fable.” Garry and Donna took bathroom breaks. The Ruschas strolled onto the sand for the night air and stars. The surf, louder with the sliding doors open, was like a raucous prayer.
The Haim and the Rodarte spoke animatedly amongst themselves. Then one of them asked, “What happened—to your ‘silent retreat’ friend? Are you still in touch?”
He cleared sadness from his throat.
“I never saw him again. For a while I got postcards, from all over the States—he was still in America, which for some reason surprised me. I thought he’d have gone back to India or Asia, even South America. Because that was always his thing—to get on a plane and go as far as humanly possible. Get way out of Dodge. Then once he got to the end of the line, go even farther—trekking, climbing . . . Chökyi Nyima has a brother, Mingyur—Mingyur Rinpoche. And I read that Mingyur left his monastery in Bodh Gaya a few years ago to become a wanderer. Left with no money and only the clothes on his back, told his students there wouldn’t be any way to reach him. Said he was going to do it like an old-school yogi, you know, a mendicant without fixed plans or agenda. It was kind of big news in the dharma. He wrote a farewell letter to the sangha, and when I read it I thought of that time by the river and wondered about my friend. That maybe he’d chosen that path as well.
“In his last postcard, he wrote, ‘I am almost there.’ He said—he said he’d be with his wife soon, with Meghan, which I thought was . . . strange. I got afraid for him. ‘I am almost there’ . . .” The actor stared out the window, over the dark waves and their undercarriage of lambent moonlight. “It was haunting.”
“What do you think he meant?” asked Jeremy.
“I don’t know. All he said was that he was going to a place called Summerland.”
—
When he found her, she was crying in her cozy bolt-hole. (Her moodiness had distracted him all evening.) He sat on the duvet, stroking the small of her sweatered back.
“Puppy, what’s the matter?”
“Jeremy!” she snot-blathered. “Everything is so fucked . . .”
“What is it? What happened, pup, what’s wrong?”
“She’s seeing someone!” (Which set off a string of sobs like ugly firecrackers.) “She’s seeing someone!—”
“Who?”
“That woman Larissa! Her camera double . . .”
“What?”
His wheels were spinning—he couldn’t get traction.
“Dusty and I had this thing with her the night we had that party. After everyone left—”
“Really,” he said sarcastically. “I would never have guessed.”
“—I only did it because I thought it was something she wanted, that they were probably already into it—that Bunny was getting bored with just me. Oh, Jeremy!” she pled. “It was like she set it up, like she totally planned it so she could dump me! She knew what she was doing, you picked up on it, didn’t you? How they were sitting together, with everything touching?”
“Leggy, you are losing it.”
The sarcasm was gone.
“Bullshit, Jeremy! They were climbing all over each other, it was so obvious. And I don’t even know when it started or if there’s been other people! And I guess I was feeling—I’ve been feeling insecure and I guess part of me was just happy she wasn’t trying to hide it, you know, that she wanted to include me. And I know that sounds pathetic but I thought maybe it was even something she was doing to, like, try to start it up with us again.”
&n
bsp; “Okay, and so? You all fucked each other. And so?”
“But right after, like, the next day, everything got so weird, it was like something totally changed between us, Jeremy, I can’t explain, it was so radical, like, suddenly—well, not suddenly, because the fucking bed death has kind of been going on—but it was like she just wasn’t into it anymore, with me. Into me anymore, at all . . . it was like the light totally went out. And Jeremy, you know how hard that was—with the baby—I was, like, suicidal and wasn’t feeling in my body and I know I was a total bitch. But then I was slowly feeling better and starting to reach out but it was just too late . . . and now I know it’s too late! She’s, like, completely moved on. And I was, like, wondering if she was seeing someone and then I found out it was Larissa—”
“Found out how? What’d you do, read her journal?”
“Just listen! That night we saw her at the Soho House . . . after you left, she came over to the booth and we talked.” She fudged the truth, but the details were the same. “She said that Bunny was going to her yoga classes, the classes she teaches, like, she’d been going a lot. Which totally didn’t make sense to me because, like, a week after we all fooled around, Bunny told me she couldn’t stand Larissa. I couldn’t even, like, bring her up. I mean, Bunny totally went out of her way to trash her. And now I see that the lies were deliberate. It was a setup . . .”
“Dusty went to yoga and didn’t tell you—so? She has a life, Leggy. You’re not her mother.”
“No, Jeremy, they’re sleeping together! I know—”
“Are you having your period?”
“—because I’ve been sleeping with her.”
“With . . .”
“Larissa.”
“What the fuck, Allegra?”
“I know, I know! It’s insane, I know—but you don’t understand how weird Dusty’s been! And when Larissa told me about her going to yoga, I decided to . . . a few weeks later, to, like, call her—to call Larissa—you know, like, hoping she’d tell me more. I just wanted to find out what the fuck was going on, Jeremy, because I was feeling so totally gaslighted or gaslit or whatever . . . and it just—I needed to—and then—I don’t know. And with me and Larissa, I don’t even know who seduced who. It just—whatever happened, just happened—”
“Whoa.”
“—I saw Bunny’s earring in her bed! I gave her those fucking earrings, Jeremy! What do I do, what do I do?”
He hushed her as she sobbed. Buying himself a moment, he reverted to a campy old standby—“Why do I feel like I’m trapped in an Almodóvar movie?”—before growing scoutmaster serious.
“It’ll get sorted out, Allegra, one way or another. It will. I know Dusty loves you, she does, I know that. She’s just going through some changes. In her life.”
“What about me, I am too! And I know she is, Jeremy, I know she’s going through shit. There are things I can’t even tell you.”
“Good! And please don’t. Because I’ve heard enough for one night.”
“Really heavy things I can’t even talk about.” She dried her eyes and said, “But should I tell her?”
“Tell her what?”
“About Larissa? That I’ve been seeing Larissa?”
“Are you out of your mind? Allegra, why would you do that?—”
“Because I just can’t deal anymore! I am so angry at her, Jeremy, I feel so betrayed!”
“You feel betrayed? She has a fling and you seduce the flingee?”
“I know, I know, I know!” she said. “And I do feel really horrible . . .”
She covered her face with her hands while rocking on the bed like a penitent in petit mal.
It was time to get firm. “Now you have to listen to me, okay? Okay? Are you listening, Allegra?” She nodded, still shielding her eyes, ready to take her punishment. “You have got to stop seeing Larissa. Okay? Call her and tell her that you’re just not comfortable anymore. Or you can fucking text her . . . and then hope to God she doesn’t tell Dusty, which I strongly doubt she will, but you never know, that train may have already left the station. Just call her, Allegra—or don’t! You could just cut it off and ghost her . . . though maybe that’s not such a great an idea.” He was thinking out loud. “Just email her, okay? And find your friggin’ jollies elsewhere. All right? Okay? Leggy? Are you taking this in?” She nodded in anguish. “Look: all couples go through this, right? But the general rule of thumb is, don’t shit where the other person is temporarily eating! So you just have to stop because, aside from anything else, it’s totally self-destructive! Ultimately, right? Because you’re not just hurting Dusty, you’re hurting you. I mean, look how fucked up you are, girl! And I know the whole deal was fucked up to begin with—or has been—and I understand how it happened with Larissa—kind of—but Jesus, Leggy! Here’s another fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into . . .”
She threw her arms around him and held on for dear life. He melted.
“Come on now, it’s gonna be all right. We’ve all been through a lot, puppybunbear. But it’s gonna be okay.”
“Is it? Is it, Jeremy?”
“Yes.”
“And you won’t tell anyone?”
“Of course I won’t.”
“I’m sorry, Jeremy! I’m so, so sorry . . . I know it was stupid. I knew it was stupid when I was doing it. I so hate myself for letting it happen.”
“Well, don’t. Because hating yourself’s only going to make it worse. You’re human, okay? And people do stupid things—that’s pretty much all they do. Now, freshen up and come back downstairs.”
“I just want to sleep!”
“You’ll sleep when you’re dead,” he chided, leading her from the bed. “Go splash water on your face, you need to make an appearance—come one, it’s just a bunch of Buddhists and celebrities, it’s perfect. That’s about as good as it gets, ever! And stop being such a drama queen or she will get tired of you.” That set her off and he had to majorly backpedal. “I’m kidding. She won’t—she isn’t. She loves you, girl. For-evah.” Though he wasn’t so sure about that anymore. “But you know what? You need to let her go through whatever she’s going through. And you need to let you go through whatever you’re going through. It’s a moment, Allegra, a moment in time. And whatever happens, you guys’ll be totally stronger.”
“What do you mean, ‘whatever happens’?”
He hushed her again, steering her to the bathroom sink.
—
Waiting for Allegra to emerge, Jeremy stood in the hall doing mental gymnastics. Life was growing stranger by the hour.
Poor Allegra!
And Jeremy knew more about Larissa Dunnick then he’d let on . . .
After their encounter with her at Soho, he went home and took one of the most satisfying bubble baths in the history of mankind. Emerging from those healing waters with a powerful sense of gratitude for the unexpected gifts this short life bestows, he was encouraged to plumb Tristen’s depths in more ways than one. That was when the boy recklessly opened up (in so many words) about his mum, unpacking the darker intimacies of her CV: the youthful arrests for check-kiting, the more recent for doctor shopping, and even more recent for shoplifting, from Kitson on Robertson. Since the divorce, she’d stayed afloat as a Jill-of-all-trades—yoga teacher, masseuse at Equinox, Neptune Society sales rep, and occasional “featured movie extra.” When Tristen almost pridefully informed that on her latest studio gig his mother got an out of left field “bump” (production asked her to sub for Dusty Wilding’s ailing camera double), a gob-smacked Jeremy managed to hold his mud, and refrained from disclosing his ties to the actress and even the film itself. He wasn’t sure why; true, he’d been way circumspect with the boy about all things showbiz, though not because he was paranoid . . . it was more an experiment in taking the focus off himself.
Some sort of instinct bade him hold back.
But still, shit, Jesus—
—Dusty’s stand-in was his boyfriend’s mom!
The whole freakish Welcome to L.A. synchrony of it was one of those too perfect cosmic nuggets he’d normally have shared with the actress via email or text, ASAP. For some reason it became yet another instance in which he failed to disclose. Hmmm . . . Clueing her in about Tristen and Larissa would have been irresistible (normally, that is), and clueing Allegra as well—though naturally, he’d have told Mama first, because Dusty liked to think she owned the worldwide serial rights to exclusives on Jeremy’s X-rated bromances, not to mention his everything else. He still wasn’t sure what made him clam up. Anyway, he was glad to have kept his piehole shut because some weeks ago he’d made the resolution to turn a new leaf with his new love and rein in his sloppy, tell-all ways. Which meant generally gossiping less and especially not gossiping about the heartbreak kid and whatever it was they had or he thought they had, not if he could help it. This latest self-improvement regime employed what 12-Steppers called “contrary action,” and Jeremy struggled to keep the fledgling relationship close to the vest. He was tired of putting his business on the street, of killing his darlings by letting the world pick the lock of the diary of his careless heart.
Was there any upside in revealing Tristen’s provenance? He couldn’t see any. The situation was already too sticky by half. On the Night of the Living Tuesday Weld, Jeremy had sensed something afoot and abreast and a-everything else (that hint of Sapphic appetizer he called amuse-bush), not just between Dusty and her double, but all three mouseketeers, a suspicion duly confirmed when Larissa slid into their booth for her sleazy sohello. Breezily letting Dusty in on the fact that he happened to be dating her stand-in’s son would start a “conversation” about the players, at minimum, and who knew where that would lead. If Dusty was having an affair with Larissa (sure sounded like it), she probably knew everything anyway—and whether she did or not, Dusty might interpret Jeremy’s reveal as icky or grandstandy, some kind of faggoty brinkmanship. It definitely would look like he was fishing.
