Bruce Wagner - The Empty Chair

“A year passed. I was distracted by the profitability of my business enterprises. But at the end of each day, my fancies drifted to the missing saint… Along with the health of my heart, my affections had returned. Very quietly I began to lay the groundwork for a project as subterranean as it was quixotic. I carefully tricked my mind into believing the adventure I was about to embark upon was mere sport. I couldn’t afford to be emotionally invested, which wasn’t too difficult in that the chance of success was practically nil. We are speaking of a muni who disappeared from Bombay 15 years prior without a trace! He could be anywhere in the world, if indeed he was still alive. But you know how I am, Queenie, when I get a bee in my bonnet. The dream team assembled this time bore no resemblance to the farm club cobbled together in that frantic time after we lost him. The uniqueness of his features — tall, Caucasian — might help our cause, but only if he’d remained in India. So you see, I couldn’t really get too excited about the little numbers game I was running on the side and that was a good thing. With nearly a billion souls walking the Continent, the whole treasure hunt notion was really a joke, a folly.

“I set a ceiling on this hobby of mine at five years and three million euros. (A portion went toward baksheesh , from “man on the street” beggars and shopkeepers to the highest in government.) I gave my people free rein, never asking for reports on their progress. The lot were grossly overpaid yet did not lack for further incentive: a seven-figure bonus awaited whoever cracked the code, dead or alive. (Irrefutable proof was required in order to collect.) I left them to their own vices , while stupidly pursuing mine. It’s embarrassing to admit but during this period I reverted yet again to my dissolute ways. I exchanged veggies for red meat, took up pot smoking again, and used ‘medicinal’ amounts of pharmaceutical cocaine — which as you can guess, did wonders for my bypassed heart — and spent a fortune on my beloved ladies of the night. Do not judge me, my Queen. How far I had fallen from a romance with the Spirit! I hated what I’d become: an old roué, a fallen ‘spiritualist’ with a bad ticker and a Viagra-dependent schmeckel .

“It was 4 a.m. I was in Morocco. I’d been asleep just half-an-hour when the phone rang off its hook. Aside from Gaetano and Justine (my secretary), the gumshoes were the only ones who could reach me. They had explicit instructions to phone immediately if in receipt of important news — damn the torpedoes and perish the time zone. A man called Quasimodo was on the other end. Funnily, he was the only one whose skill I had doubted. I was this close to firing him.

“‘Sir,’ he said, ‘I believe I found him.’

“I saw stars. I asked him to go on, slowly.

“‘A village 400 kilometers from Delhi. He’s tall, white. 82 years old. He lives in a cave.’

“‘A cave?’

“‘I spoke to the elder — the village chief. A very friendly fellow. He said “the Hermit” showed up about 10 years ago. That’s what he calls him, “the Hermit.” Or “Guruji” or jnani… ’

“‘And?’

“‘I hiked up to the cave. Very nice set-up! I had both sets of pictures with me — from the ashram in the ’70s, and the ones generated from the forensic model. He didn’t seem to look like either but I’m not very good at that, you know. I’m face-blind.’

“‘Now you tell me. You took a photo?’

“‘No, and I’m sorry about it. He wasn’t too keen on having his picture taken.’

“‘Jesus! Well, if he didn’t look —and you say he showed up ten years ago, but he’s been gone for twenty … What makes you think—’

“‘I didn’t want to tip him — I said I was looking for a shrine. I thought he’d be standoffish but the old guy had a sense of humor. He said he didn’t know of any shrines in that area, which just went to show that all roads don’t lead to Mecca.’”

After too many hours and too few stops, we reached the foot of the village fingered by the hunchback with a hunch. A pair of armed men stood waiting beside a train of burros. Apparently, it was the end of the line for anything with an engine. As we mounted our steeds, one of the guards suggested he accompany us on the trail or at least partly up the hill, but was politely refused.

It felt good to have an ass massage after such a long ride. A thousand trivial things flitted through my logy, travel-loopy head. I wondered if my gargoyles missed me, and even wondered what happened to Quasimodo. Fat and sassy no doubt, shacked up somewhere on Easy Street with his seven figures (though I doubt he’d collected just yet)… We loped along uphill — six sherpas in front, four in back — and not a one spoke the King’s (or the Queenie’s) English. Kura rode ahead in a trance of monomania, eyes fixated on the dubious prize before him. I became rather fixated myself, abruptly seized by the hair-raising fear that a massive coronary would topple him from his burro before we reached the finish line. (Why couldn’t we have brought the elusive doctor along?) I think what spurred that particular fantasy was a general agita about the man, a turmoil, a nervosity. Anyone would have been excited about the prospect of reuniting with a person who had played such an important role in one’s life, that was understood, but I think Kura was fundamentally vexed , and not in a good way. One thing I noticed was that his reminiscences toggled back and forth between the warm, intimate “my guru” and the cooler, detached “the American,” the latter even further removed by an ironic inflection of quote marks, as if borrowing not just my but the Great Guru’s widow’s description. What I mean to say is, his conflicted feelings were so obvious. I believe that the closer we got— he got — to that damnable cave, the more unresolved and bewildered he became.

I had no idea how much time had passed. We dipped then rose up the side of yet another barren ravine, crossing a cool meadow the size of a soccer field before beginning the perilous ascent of Hillock Number 17 (or so it seemed). There was no comfort to be drawn from the dearth of hints that any of these traversals were bringing us closer to our destination — then suddenly, we were there.

The sherpas helped us dismount. A few ran off, returning a few minutes later with a smartly dressed, silver-haired chap in tow. The village elder wore a silvery Groucho moustache above a crazy rack of ultra-whitened teeth.

“Mr. Bela Moncrieff!” he shouted. The elusive Quasimodo had no doubt provided the gentleman with one of Kura’s aliases. At least he hadn’t called him Lucky Pierre. “Please! Come. ”

We were led to a modest home, where a lovely middle-aged woman with a bindi and a delicate ring through her nostril greeted us with a tray bearing cups of tea. She was the elder’s wife. A handful of sweet morsels had been laid out as well and I wolfed two down without ceremony — I was famished. When offered, Kura waved them away.

Our host spoke perfect English. After a few rounds of social niceties, he got down to brass tacks.

“Ah… the Hermit!” he said with a grin. “You are his friend ?”

“In a manner of speaking,” said Kura, solemnly. “But before we go any further, I need your assurance.”

“I am at your service, Sir Moncrieff, sir!”

“My man told you not to speak with anyone in the village about my pending arrival. Can you assure me that yo—”

“Quasimodo! Hell of a guy! Gave me a Macintosh computer ! And Frito-Lays ! And Sir Alfred Dunhill cigarettes!”