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.