Bruce Wagner - Memorial

2 in the morning, and they finally closed in on Amma. She was hugging people one after another, the stage garlanded with flowers, and all the time they’d been there — around 5 hours — Amma hadn’t left once, not to use the bathroom, not for anything, at least not that Joan was aware of, she hadn’t even seen the woman drink a glass of water. Maybe she was a saint. Barbet said Amma was in a trance, her bodily needs “in suspension.” The nearer they got, the more serious he became, as if to make up for earlier, sinister tomfoolery.

Why was she thinking of Sheryl Crow. She saw the ad, the got milk? ad. Please be all right. Please be in remission. She sent a prayer to Sheryl Crow please be all right. The ad said Milk Your Diet/Lose Weight! oh God. To keep the crowd on their feet, I keep my body in tune…rock hard. Oh

Attendants stood by. They told Barbet to remove his glasses for the imminent hug, handing both of them baby-wipes. The couple was asked to wash the sides of their faces that would touch Amma’s cheek. Joan was surprised to note that her heart was speeding up. The attendants helped them onstage; Barbet preceded her. Joan saw him kneel and then the holy woman embraced him. Amma whispered something in his ear. Then it was Joan’s turn. Her eyes filled with water. As they hugged, the saint whispered, “My daughter, my daughter, my daughter. Yes. Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes. Yes. Yes,” and then someone led Joan off as if in a dream as

Marj held the pillow close while it vibrated. She had a yeast infection and was catheterized but felt no pain. Cora had been to see her and thought, At least there isn’t that smell. The neighbor spoke of the pending trip with her daughter to the Taj Mahal but all Marjorie could think of was the Blind Sisters traveling together, holding hands in a row, linked like holy mendicants, all she could see was the Shadow Taj, the black one meant to be Hamilton’s crypt but abandoned when the Raja was imprisoned by his own son.

They called it the shadow monument—

Monument to the shadow drawings of the Blind Sisters…

SHE was looking for the elephant’s ballroom. The man in a turban and beautiful coat said, “Young lady, I’ve worked at this hotel for nearly 40 years and never seen that place myself!”

He stroked his bushy meesha, working his teeth with an ivory toothpick.

“But it is here,” she said, “my father will tell you!”

— so delighted to see Dad again. He looked ruddy and fit and wore tortoiseshell spectacles. She grinned at the familiar tiny beads of perspiration on his upper lip; she’d forgotten about those.

He said my little one, the monsoon is coming, and how lucky they were to be in the Presidential Suite, on an upper floor. But she wanted to know what would happen to all the poor people. She was quite concerned. Won’t they have peonies? Don’t you worry, he said dotingly, we’ll make certain none of them drown — to be sure! — and are fed proper meals, with dessert too. Marjorie asked about the ballroom and he said it was most likely underwater by now because it was somewhere beneath ground floor, no one really knew (she suppressed tears and he touched her cheek reassuringly), not to worry! the elephants could fend for themselves — and besides, the whole herd would be rescuing people, that was their job, plucking those who fell through manholes and such, sucked into the ballroom, why they’d snatch them like fish from a net, each and every one. He saw that her mood wasn’t exactly brightening so he added that ballroom water was special so that people could breathe until “our very long-nosed friends” came to their aid. But what about the dance? she asked. He laughed, lifting her in his arms. Little one, little mahout, don’t you worry. The elephants love to dance! They won’t let a thing like a silly monsoon spoil their fun. Now I said don’t you worry, Marjorie Morningstar

He dried her eyes till they shone again.

As they climbed the stairs — black marble — sumptuously costumed guests and impeccably mannered staff passed by, the latter bearing luggage and parasols and giftboxes and elaborate trays of spices and foodstuff. The water submerged the lobby and she realized her father’s words about the ballroom already being underwater were probably true. That made her sad but she tried to remember you could breathe in it and that the elephants were busy on their rescue missions. Still, she looked down from his arms at the rising tide and he saw she was afraid and said, “Joanie!”

Why is he calling me that?

“We’ll be safe, little one — safe and dry!”

Marj said she was worried about the elephants and he said don’t you dare. They protect, that is their job, that is their role in this world. That is Ganesha! They know how to take care of us. So stop your crying Miss Morningstar. You don’t want those tears to add to all the water around here, do you? Now that will make things harder for our long-nosed friends.

She nodded, closing her eyes as they ascended: up and up the spiral staircase through the inordinate, comforting bustle, she could hear the excitement of guests from the warm perch of her father’s arms, hear the rushing of water too but knew that he was right, the magnificent Taj Mahal Palace and its brigade of turban’d Ganeshas could never, ever let anything happen to them…a lifetime of climbing until they reached the capacious suite where food was laid out on silver platters. Perfumed lodgers from other rooms, some of whom were countesses draped in pearls, kundan and ariya, joined Maharajahs in breastplates and tunics bearing insignias of their various kingdoms, the royalty mingling while servants came and went, aristocratic children underfoot as well, stunning-looking well-mannered boys and girls her age; the girls with noses pierced by 22 karat gold. A Nizam and his retinue rose to greet her father who afterall was an extremely popular man, Marjorie’s mother was there too, she struggled from Papa’s arms to get to her, he set his wriggling daughter down but before she could make any headway the moppets ferried her aside to inform in hoarse whispers: The elephants are dancing tonight! After they rescue the last of the drowning people, they are going to dance! This is what the children told her. There was another ballroom, here, not in the basement as her father had said, but here, on higher ground! And off they went to

the headstone. Ray’s girlfriend was to be buried in Calcutta, come hell or high water — that was what Joan gathered from the industrious diligently sweethearted women he always called “the cousins,” one of whom it turned out was actually the dead woman’s sister.

Joan told them her father said Ghulpa wished to be buried here in the States, at Forest Lawn, in a plot already purchased, and that was when the Artesian brood confided there were “difficulties”—that the “spousal relation” was not “sanctified,” that the deceased was in fact not a legal resident. Joan understood.

She asked nothing more.

THERE were a host of stones to choose from.

“Do I have to pick it now?”

“No, no! This is just a selection.”

“Could something — can something be built? I mean, a design of some sort?”

“Do you mean a mausoleum?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure. I’m an architect…”

The woman smelled money.

“That depends on the amount of space you purchase. I can check in the particular area your father—”