"I'm pretty easy."
"I do a marinated swordfish with a kind of avocado-citrus salsa and a wheatberry-nut salad; it's a nice lunch."
"Sounds fantastic."
"When are you back?"
"Sunday, I'm not sure what time."
"So come for late lunch; bring a friend if you want:"
The crying woman, he'll bring the crying woman to the movie star's house; it makes no sense. "Can I bring anything?"
"You won't have anything; you'll be empty from meditating."
He calls the Golden Door again. "I need to add something to my message. Tell her to come to Richard's house for lunch next Sunday."
HUNGER. He realizes he hasn't eaten anything all day. The fridge is empty: Cecelia cleaned it out before they left. The freezer. The Carvel cake from the night he met Cynthia is still in the freezer. He takes a spoon to it — the spoon bends. He takes a fork, spearing the chocolate.
His nephew's voice echoes in his head: "How come we're not having cake?"
There is the sound of a party in the distance. The swimmer's backyard is strung with colored paper lights, filled with people milling. Would he recognize her up close?
When she's doing her laps, he imagines throwing something — a flower, a pebble, something to let her know that he's there. He imagines going to the edge of the hill, calling out, "Good morning. Hi there."
He imagines trying to break the ice. And now she is having a party — a good excuse. It makes sense until he gets there, until he goes in and realizes that he doesn't know a single person. "Can I get you a drink?" someone asks. "Wine," he says, "a spritzer." He looks around; his eye catches a ham. He can't remember when he last had ham. He cuts himself a slice, puts on some mustard, and pops it in his mouth — delicious. He makes another slice and tops it with cheese.
"So," he says to a blonde woman standing next to him, "do you know all these people?"
"Most of them. Who do you know?"
"No one. I'm the neighbor up the hill — I'm crashing."
He eats his way around the table — ham, cheese, carrots, zucchini, dip, chips, nuts. He eats in a circle, going around and around, realizing how hungry he is. He munches, listening to conversations, amusing himself — this is his idea of wild. Finally he spots a familiar gesture, the turn of her head, the flicking of her hair.
He goes to her. "I just wanted to say hello."
The minute she turns towards him he wishes he hadn't come; she's different in person — her eyes are brown when he was expecting blue, and there's a harshness that leaves him with a sinking sensation. She's not who he thought she would be. He feels out of place, and he's got a cashew stuck in his throat. He coughs. "I'm your neighbor, up the hill."
"Are we being too loud?" she asks.
"No, no. I heard the party and I just wanted to say hello. I see you swimming every morning. I'm up early."
"Which house?"
He points up the hill — from here his house looks good. "The one with the sinkhole. Last week a horse fell in and Tad Ford came and got him with a helicopter — that was a big adventure. Maybe you saw it on TV?" She shakes her head no. "Well, hopefully, the house won't slide down the hill; then we'd really be neighbors." He laughs. She doesn't. "Anyway, I just wanted to say hello, to introduce myself." He's talking as he's backing towards the door. "I'm Richard. I see you every morning, I stand at the glass, I watch you doing your laps." He meant it as a compliment: she was his inspiration, his muse, his mermaid. He goes home wishing he'd left it as it was — in his mind's eye.
IN THE MORNING, he takes a taxi to Anhil's.
"Why didn't you call? I would have picked you up from the airport."
"I came home yesterday."
"Even better — a very slow day in donuts. Did you know that Fudgie the Whale is also Santa Claus? The famous icecream cake — if you turn it around, the whale becomes Santa Claus; that's genius. Right now all I can do is add green to the donuts on St. Patrick's Day, pink on Valentine's; I can't make a man into a whale." He shakes his head. "I am not your stereo-tropical man who comes to America with poor ideas."
Richard has no idea what Anhil is saying, he's trying to decipher: "Do you mean 'stereotypical'?"
"Yes, that's what I just said. How was your brother?"
"Fine. Right now, my son, Ben, is driving to Los Angeles."
"You couldn't send him a plane ticket?"
"He wanted to drive. And this afternoon I am leaving for a silent retreat."
Anhil shakes his head. "Americans try on the spiritual life of others like they don't have any of their own."
"I'm actually looking forward to it. And then, when I come back, I go to Malibu. I rented a house on the ocean — absolutely everything in it is white."
"I know the house."
"How could you know the house?"
"I saw it on television. White carpet, white pots and pans. It's owned by the mayor. He's going to tear it down and build something bigger."
"I'm not sure it's the same house," Richard says, assuming there's more than one white house on the beach in Malibu.
"He bought it for his girlfriends; then he got elected and can't have any girlfriends. So now he's going to tear it down and build something for his wife. America has two kinds of politicians — one has sex, the other has war — which do you like?"
Richard doesn't answer.
"I can drive you to your silence."
"That's OK, I'll take a taxi."
"Take my Toyota; no one will think anything of you. And I will take care of your car, I will use it like my own."
"OK, great. I will."
Anhil laughs. "You're a funny man — going to meditation, moving to Malibu."
"What are you getting at?"
"You're stuck."
CHECKING IN. He cannot wait to not talk. He imagines that the silence will be easy, that it is a fantastic way to be with people, low-pressure, no need to make conversation.
The lobby smells of incense and steamed broccoli. There are signs everywhere: "Be mindful of the quiet." "Pay phone accepts quarters only." "Receptionist has limited ability to make change."
The people are speaking too calmly. They are speaking in hushed, practiced voices. He looks around; it is like a communal mental hospital, a low-rent cooperative insane asylum. It is as though he is going under, submitting himself for some sort of procedure, a small surgery that requires general anesthesia — that's how he thinks of the silence, anesthetic. He is simultaneously holding on, trying to prepare himself for something terrifying, and wanting to let go of everything.
They are asking him questions, handing him various-colored forms to read and sign: "Name. Address. Emergency contact. Any medications? Under a physician's treatment? Underlying medical conditions? Blood sugar or blood pressure issues? Anything we should know about you? Religious or spiritual background? Meditation history? Are you interested in bodywork while you're here?
"Please read and initial the following: We are a sex, drug, and alcohol free institution — any violation of that and you will be asked to leave. We ask that you wear no perfumes, or scents of any kind, and that while here you use an unscented soap. No shoes in the meditation hall. We ask that you not bring reading or writing materials, part of respecting the silent retreat is a commitment to not practicing those things during the period of the retreat."
The woman checking him in hands him a map and takes out a yellow highlighter. "We are here." She makes an "X." "The meditation hall is here." Another "X."
He overhears another retreatant checking in; it's a little like seeing who's going to be on the trip with you, like boarding the Titanic. "A single room," she says. "I asked for a single room. I have a history of abuse; there should be a letter from my doctor on file. I can't sleep in a room with a stranger."