Bruce Wagner - Still Holding

“Hey, Cherry Girl, you know what? I think I wanna marry you.”

At Sarbonne Road

LISANNE WENT to her favorite Level 1 at Yoga Circle. There were only five people in attendance — a guy fatter than she was; a sixty-something socialite type with a wrist splint and a ton of face work; an even older, hollow-cheeked Nefertiti type in a turban, with weirdly elongated muscles; a grumpy, inflexible fellow in his fifties who looked as if he’d been forced by a probation officer to attend; and Marisa Tomei.

Afterward, she overheard the actress talking to the hippie girl at the front desk about a meditation class that night. Lisanne boldly asked if anyone could come. Marisa was sweet as could be and actually wrote down the address for her.

• • •

THE CLASS TOOK place at a private home in the Bel-Air hills.

The Yoga House sat on the edge of a vast property belonging to the producer Peter Guber and his wife, Tara. After Marisa left, the hippie said that Tara used to be Lynda, before taking a spiritual name. She said that Tara was one of the Buddhas who took female form, specifically to help women. Tara was born of tears shed over the suffering of sentient beings. Lisanne thought that if you had to give yourself a new name, that was a pretty good choice.

The night was windy and spectacular. The zendo sat on Sarbonne Road, high on a hill. Lisanne was surprised at how quiet it was, the kind of sepulchral stillness that, in the midst of an enormous city, only the very rich could afford. She parked on the slope and descended the driveway on foot.

A small group (Marisa was nowhere in sight) milled about or sat on cushions in preparation for what a flyer on the desk called satsang. Lisanne slipped off her shoes and signed the guestbook. She wrote out a check for the suggested “dana”: $15. She retrieved a Mexican blanket from the corner of the studio and on her way back to the sitting area studied the black-and-white wall photos. Some were of a woman doing yoga while pregnant; others of the same woman, older now, in symmetrical yogic poses with a man. Lisanne assumed the woman was Tara Guber.

A handsome, fortyish guy came in — the one in the photographs with Tara — and quietly bantered with a few of the sitters before stepping onto the platform. He assumed the lotus position, facing out. He was lithe and unpretentious, smiling at the group.

“We’re going to begin in silence,” he said. “The Upanishads said the only thing of real value is silence. That’s where the answers are. Tonight, we’ll begin with silence — and end with silence.”

He said he wasn’t going to guide them and they should just close their eyes. He told everyone to slowly find their breath (an instruction that puzzled Lisanne). After ten minutes or so, he said, “Open your eyes.” They were now free to ask questions.

Lisanne couldn’t quite grasp the evening’s format — because of what Marisa Tomei had said, she thought she would be attending a meditation class. But her back was already hurting so she was glad to have respite. The man beside her kept doing the kind of desultory leg stretches that dancers do, even though tonight clearly wasn’t about movement. Another woman took her watch off, positioning it so she could constantly read the time. Lisanne related to that. She had always, to her chagrin, been a clock-watcher.

Someone asked about “chakras.” How does energy move up to the head then out the crown? The teacher gave a thoughtful, seemingly roundabout answer, in which he invoked a tantric prayer called “The Power of Regret.” He said that during certain meditations, one visualized the Buddha dropping light and nectar down like a purifying stream through the crown of the head so that it filled one’s totality with bliss. Another woman asked if it was all right to meditate between one and four in the morning. The teacher said his teacher told him that a yogi should be asleep during the day and awake at night. By that he meant “awake while sleeping. As with Christ: ‘I am in the world, not of it.’ ” As a rule, he cautioned them against baroque, late-night gestures. He said that if you were awake at that hour, it probably meant that you were “over-amped.” There was, he added, a tantric practice where one meditated in the middle of the night, in water up to one’s belly, during a full moon. Meditated on the moon in the water. Even though the teacher seemed learned, Lisanne found herself judgy and cynical. He just seemed too handsome to be taken seriously. Too California, too Malibu surfer. Too something-something.

After the Q & A, he led the class in breathing: stomach-tucked rapid breaths, and “bumblebees”—in through one nostril and out the other. (It suddenly occurred to her that it was probably time to have a doctor check the fetus.) This part was hard, but she liked it when, at the end, he had everyone breathe “into your hearts,” then out to infinity.

He asked them to settle into lotuses for closing meditation. Lisanne kept adjusting her legs, occasionally opening her eyes in slits to observe the serene, sandy-haired Aryan guru erectus. He made no perceptible movement; she couldn’t even see his respirations. Her stomach growled and gurgled as she listened to the electronic rush of hedges just outside the window, buffeted by the Santa Anas. The hypnotic sound of the leaves and her own breath led her back to that magical visit to Kit Lightfoot’s trailer and how he had patiently explained, like a kind, scholarly Adonis, the recondite attributes of the golden Buddha. At last, her mind alighted on the soot that was the residuum of her father.

A few minutes before the hour, the teacher chanted a mantra that began and ended with AUM, and they all joined in. Lisanne liked that part even though the man next to her — the irritating stretcher, who, instead of even attempting a lotus was the only person to have deployed one of those portable back-support chairs that were stacked along the wall (Lisanne had thought of using one when she first came in but couldn’t figure out exactly how they worked) — began to consciously harmonize, annoying her to no end.

Riding in Cars with Boys

THE BAR AT the Four Seasons was mobbed. Big-bellied Cassandra sat on her stool and got dirty looks for nursing a snifter of Petron. Becca wasn’t sure when she had begun drinking again.

Mrs. Dunsmore grunted because there weren’t any celebrities. “I guess Thursday’s bridge and tunnel night.” Becca never understood that phrase.

Grady waved his arms from the lounge — their suite was ready. Rusty helped Cassandra up, and Becca followed. A familiar-looking woman touched her arm.

“Becca? It’s Sharon — Belzmerz. You came in to read for me.”

“Oh, hi!” she said, gushing. “How are you!”

“The director really liked your tape,” said Sharon.

Becca was so flummoxed to be “recognized” by a professional that she didn’t know what the lady was talking about.

“He finally looked at it — he’s a little slow.”

“Oh! That’s… great!” stuttered Becca, feeling like a fool.

“Are you still at the same numbers?”

Sharon was tipsy. It was loud and she pushed in so close that Becca could see down her throat.

“Yes! And you have my cell—”

She made a move to her purse for a pen, but the casting agent stayed her hand. “I’m sure we have it. Anyway, I can always reach you through Cyrus.” She asked if Becca still studied with him. Then she changed her mind, and they exchanged phone numbers and e-mails. Becca couldn’t believe Sharon Belzmerz was actually giving out her home phone.

“That is so great,” said Becca, referring back to the director. “I thought they had totally decided to go with somebody else.”