Bruce Wagner - The Empty Chair

He had his own plane back then and we struck out like pirates — Casablanca, Tunis, Istanbul, Corfu, Gstaad … we were bonnie companions and that was major because Kura always said if a man and woman couldn’t travel well together, there was no hope. I was a feral cat and incorrigibly ignorant, his punk Pygmalion. He read aloud to me and made charming little study plans. He was always interested in the … spiritual. I don’t know what kids aspire to these days but Kura knew his destiny early on. He’d make himself into a great criminal, the greatest of all, a dejamiento , a saint! (In that order.) The real turning point came in his early teens when he discovered Milarepa. The legend of the murderer who became a great siddha was irresistible. Kura was sold.

But he would have to become a killer first.

As his reputation for ruthlessness grew, so did his fixation on the mystics. His nightstand booklist reeked of incense, shamanism, esoterica: Gurdjieff, Ouspensky, Jacob Boehme… Pico della Mirandola, Castaneda, Hermes Trismegistus.

And of course, The Book of Satsang —which the rest of my story is really about.

Hey, you know what? I’m tired.

I guess it was that homicidal trip down memory lane. Hadn’t thought about it in a while. Ugh.

I’m gonna take a nap.

Let’s take naps.

Then we’ll have a lovely dinner and begin again. K?

I took a long nap then availed myself of an offered massage. A few hours later, I was summoned back to the tent. Queenie looked radiant.

Over dinner, she told me about her current travels — her quest for the “Lost City.” Turkish coffee and sweets were served and we settled around a fire to resume.

Where was I?

Ah, yes: The Book of Satsang.

In Paris, I soon learned that a thick, well-riffled volume “written” by an Indian saint known far and wide as the Great Guru occupied prime real estate on his nightstand. It was Kura’s de facto bible, actually a collection of edited transcripts of what is called satsang, a gathering wherein a holy man imparts wisdom, not just to students and adepts but everyday people. Sat means “truth,” sanga means “company,” i.e., the company of a guru. (I Googled it today when I woke up.) The Book of Satsang was the best-known and most beloved of all the Great Guru’s bound teachings that had been released in the handful of years before — I think it was first published in ’65—Kura had copies of it stashed everywhere. And this is interesting: I later found out he was carrying it on the night he killed Douma— Douma! Whoa! The name just came back, isn’t that funny? The brain is such a strange thing… Lord Jesus. “Douma”—doomsday — could anything be more perfect? Okay. Deep breaths. Anyhow, the Great Guru’s public talks were simple and conversational, down to earth, free of the sunny dogma and endless scriptural name-dropping that clogs up so much of what’s out there. So the book gives you a real flavor of the man. The editor did an amazing job (more about him later — a lot more) because the text very subtly, very cogently reflects the Great Guru’s personal characteristics and peccadilloes. It leaves you with an eerie feeling of having been present in the room where the talks were held, a tobacco shop in Bombay that was kind of famous even then. The Master was a tobacconist by trade.

Each morning, from 9:30 to 11:30 (the shop opened at noon), he gave satsang to visitors from all over the world. Typically, about 30 people crammed into that neat, clean space, redolent with the aroma of cigars, cigarettes and all those other identifiable and unidentifiable smells of India—

Douma …

Hold on a minute. [She closed her eyes] I need to do a little voodoo here. [She took deep breaths then suddenly shook her head rather wildly, eyes still shut] Neutralize that fucker with a little spell. [She shook her head a final time, then opened her eyes. Lit a joint, took a deep hit, then smiled as she exhaled] Okay — the deed is done!

The copy of The Book of Satsang that Kura was carrying with him at the time of the murder — he had it on his person , in the large outside pocket of his peacoat — became, for him, infused with nearly supernatural qualities. Its pages were tea-stained by my blood and probably that of he who’d been executed on that freezing, starry nightclub night. Kura was always urging me to read the thing in its entirety, specifically that exact copy. (Which creeped me out.) He had the idea it was some kind of omen, that “the Source” had pointed out the Book ’s life and death importance by spattering it with my “Four Humors.” I laughed when he uttered that archaic phrase, yet there really wasn’t anything funny about it. I’d examine the Book , weigh it in my hands, dip into it here and there, but only the leafs that were corroded by my humors finally, perversely held my interest. (But never for too long.) Back in the day I had a real block when it came to reading, just terrible A.D.D…. God! Kura tried everything to get me to sidle up to that book of The Great Guru’s Greatest Hits. He’d bribe me with Hermès and Chanel. I’d say, “Yes, please!” but never held up my side of the agreement. After reading a while, I always failed the pop quiz.

He was patient. I was audacious enough to believe I was the center of his universe. (I came to learn I was partially right.) But Kura had enough expertise with the suicidal character to know that, as much as I loved him, it would be risky to apply too much pressure. So he played it pianissimo. Sometimes he read to me from the Book in bed, before we made love — or after. Probably during! I think I was maybe a little jealous of that guru but I was also puzzled. If the holy tobacconist was alive and well (which he was), why hadn’t Kura made the trek to Bombay?

One day I blurted out as much, point-blank. He winced and made a funny-face, as if he’d been waiting for someone to ask the painfully obvious.

“Because I’m a fucking dilettante.”

Was he being serious?

“Do you think he’s going to judge you?” I asked.

He went rigid — I’d found a weak spot. Oh, I was haughty … a spoiled, haughty, entitled bitch on two wheels.

“Well, if he does, he’s an asshole , Kura. And not worthy of your time.”

I thought I’d get a medal for rushing to his defense.

“Don’t be a stupid girl!” he roared. “This man does not judge … this man is not even a man!” He literally foamed at the mouth. “And don’t ever use that word for the siddha , I won’t have it! Save it for your ridiculous friends — save it for the men who wish to take you off this earth, or the parents you dishonor with each breath, those who gave you life! Why don’t you look in the mirror and fling that word at what you see there , like a monkey throwing shit! But never in connection with the Great Guru… And learn not to speak of things you know nothing of. ”

Well, I couldn’t — speak — for about five days.

I got truly frightened. Because as close as we’d become, his coruscating rage demonstrated for the first time that it was possible for him to say goodbye without looking back. That he had that in him. Which might sound naïve; but perhaps you know a little about the power that a young and beautiful girl can hold over a man. Or the power she sometimes thinks she has… On the last day of my silent retreat, I apologized. I don’t think I’d ever done that before, not to anyone. I remember stealing into the den where he was reading beside the fire and telling him how sorry I was. He didn’t look at me. Then I dropped to my knees and clutched his ankles, hair hanging down while my forehead brushed the floor. We’d been together about ten months and finally I thanked him for everything he’d done. (I wasn’t sure he’d ever seen the note I’d composed at the Drake but that couldn’t have been a proper thank-you.) I thanked him for all that he was and all he’d become to me. I thanked him for saving my life and looking after me while I healed, thanked him for daring to bring a crass, selfish, obstinate girl ( underage! ) to Paris at such great expense and even greater risk. I thanked him for protecting me, for teaching me—