Bruce Wagner - The Empty Chair

“Do you know what surprised me?” I thought a little conversation might provide a distraction. “That Quasimodo apparently blew the mission’s cover — I mean, by telling the gentleman what you were up to. I found that rather strange, no?”

“Not at all! He went strictly by the playbook. You see, as outsiders we knew the locals might be somewhat chary . Indeed, the village at first disavowed any knowledge of ‘the American’ though evidence strongly suggested he was in their midst. So we fell back upon Plan B — that I was searching for a long-lost teacher, which happened to be the truth. It was a scenario they could understand and respect.”

In no time at all we found ourselves on a steady incline, a winding trail that left any reminders of the village far behind. As usual I brought up the rear, affording yet another opportunity to brood over my darling’s health. It was chilly but he’d removed his coat; while he compulsively swabbed his head with a handkerchief, I watched the vertical ellipse of perspiration between his shoulder blades ruthlessly colonize the shirt’s remaining dry land. We kept stopping — rather, I kept stopping and calling out to the boy, under pretext of having to catch my breath — so Mr. Moncrieff could catch his. My entreaties had no effect. Kura whistled at him to slow the pace but our guide grew fond of the reedy warnings and played a game of speeding up, just to trigger the alert.

Leaving Kura’s physical concerns by the wayside, I focused on his mental health. It suddenly occurred to me that my dear companion might not be right in the head — that the whole business, this obsession with the American might be part of a bigger picture, you know, an encroaching madness, even something hereditary finally come home to roost. Maybe he was losing his mind due to some fixable but as yet undetected anomaly such as Lyme disease or scurvy … early dementia? I knew I was being a little dramatic but only as a way of throwing light on what deep down seemed to have a ring of truth. Let’s say Kura had found the American (evidence to the contrary, I was beginning to have my doubts) and was about to come face-to-face. Well, what then ? What was the point? Was he still trying to get back those seven freakin’ years? The last twenty ? Or was it simply revenge he was seeking? Could it be that the blow to his pride inflicted by the Hermit of the Cave — the Missing Link, the Grand Poobah, the whomever — had been fatal to the ego, poisoning and distorting it over the years as surely as by lead or mercury?

I was tired. When I get tired I tend to go to that “Hello darkness, my old friend” place. It took everything I had to put one foot in front of the other, trudging along in a fog of mutant hormones and garage sale neurochemistry. In that moment, I thought how wonderful it would be to transform into a burro, a sari, a rock, an ottoman, even smoke from one of the hundred trash fires burning just over the horizon. Because in the end, self-awareness has spectacularly diminishing returns (in fact, it’s downright masochistic). All I knew was the responsibility had fallen squarely on my shoulders… after the aneurysm I’d be the one in charge of medevacing him out of some Himalayan fuckzone. And oh my God, Bruce, I so did not give a shit about the American! I kicked my ass with every step, not only for accepting Kura’s invitation to this sucky toad ride but for ever having gone to Bombay with him in the first place.

Now it was the boy who was whistling. He pointed to a clearing, then without further ado dashed back down the mountain as if carried by the wind.

The moment was nigh.

Kura put on his coat and ran his fingers through sticky hair like a bum about to step into church. Standing a bit straighter, he walked to his destiny as I followed — the dutiful wife I never was. After a few minutes here’s what we saw:

An old man in a bright white kurta, raking grass. Tall, wiry, stooped, baked by the sun. As we drew closer, he looked up and smiled before returning to his chore. He was so poised it could easily be believed someone had tipped him off (which wasn’t the case). If it’s possible for a human being to “grind to a halt,” that’s what Kura did. The shock of recognition gummed up his machinery.

A nervous clearing of the throat. Then, “It is I — Kura!”

The stilted delivery was heartrendingly comic.

“Of course,” he said informally. “I know who you are.”

I recognized the voice but not much else. Scarred, ravished and beatified by nomadic years of exodus, the American was still intensely charismatic. His bearing was light yet commanding. The few teeth he possessed were jagged and betel-stained. Some sort of chronic affliction — ringworm? — swelled his ankles. His hair was mostly white and gray with inexplicably random sunspots of too-bright blond.

Kura gestured toward me. “This is Cassiopeia…”

(I was touched by the introduction.)

“Lovely!” exclaimed the old man.

“She came from New York to be with me.”

The American stared into my eyes and I shivered at the enormity of what was taking place — for the first time, I understood.12 Without looking away, the guru said, “That’s a wonderful friend.” I knew he didn’t remember me, and was glad. I was freer to sit back and enjoy the play from my front-row seat.

“I’ve brewed some tea,” he said. “You must be thirsty.” With that, he turned toward home, its “front door” the congenial mouth of a most welcoming cave.

“No, we are not ,” said Kura, blood up. “We are not thirsty, and we’ve brought water of our own!”

The old man bore a look of unsurprised surprise. “As you wish.”

I thought Kura had been rude, then called myself out for being prim. The occasion hardly demanded politesse. Besides, I had a funny feeling the guru was pleased by his ex-student’s brio —the manifestation of ch’i was always welcome.

“Since you are a man,” began the siddha , “who enjoys cutting to the heart of things — a quality about you that I always admired — I shall do the same. It has been a long while since our paths crossed, but the Source has magnanimously collapsed time to arrange our rendezvous… twas predetermined, my dear old friend. Wowee zowee, this is no joking matter!

“I am one who long ago forsook living in the past or future, which seem to me vastly overrated . Even the ‘now’ is overrated!” He laughed at the small quip — really very charming. “I never bothered to consider the consequences of my sudden departure on those who called me teacher, and I’ll tell you why: I was fighting for my life. When a mortal man, a man without knowledge , already burned to the third degree , is in the midst of escaping an inferno, can he be forgiven for being oblivious to others left behind?

“But if I am to properly acquit myself, I’ll need to provide some history. In the weeks that followed the death of the Great Guru, I found myself in a bit of a quandary. A ‘pickle.’ The widow — a very aggressive woman, as well you may remember! — had virtually nominated me as ‘next in line.’ But why did she feel the need for ‘the lineage’ to carry on? (There was no lineage.) Certainly, it couldn’t have been for Father’s sake, to ‘honor his wishes,’ for he had none. No wishes and no desires! Why, then? The answer is simple: the ape’s need for figureheads is profound and enduring. But the trouble begins — and it always does! — when one confounds figurehead with Godhead. A symbol can never be the real thing, isn’t it true? Don’t you agree? A symbol covers Truth as a narcotic masks pain. Do you see my point?