Bruce Wagner - The Empty Chair

I will never be able to adequately describe what I saw when I glanced at Kura’s face. An immemorial darkness, something primeval… his features dissolved before me, one set replacing another, from the fragile fear of a neurotic city dweller to the monolithic indifference of an Easter Island moai . I blinked hard until Kura reverted to his angry, nonplussed self. That the man who had conned him now dared to blithely lecture on the supreme importance of finding a follow-up bullshitter added insult to injury.

“This guru of yours, this Guru Number 2 ,” he spat venomously. “I suppose he’s long dead…”

“Why, no!” said the American. “He’s very much alive.”

“Then where is he?” he demanded, more tantrum than query. “Where is he! And tell me who is he! ”

“Would you like to meet him? He’s in festive spirits, I can assure.”

“He’s here?—”

“O yes! In this very room.”

Kura fussed in his seat, wary of being played for sport.

“Is that right?” he said, with noxious disdain. “Well, I don’t see him .”

Kura stood. He slowly moved in the direction pointed by our host, squinting into the habitat’s dim recesses. I think he was in the throes of some sort of hysteria.

“I say I see nothing !”

“My old friend, that you see nothing is not my affair. He’s right in front of your face.”

“There’s nothing but a chair.”

“Correct,” said the American. “Nothing — and everything! Allow me to be more clear. The chair does not contain the emanations of the guru, nor does it aspire to: It is the guru himself. ”

The Hermit sank to his knees in front of the simple throne, prostrating himself. Now cross-legged, he looked up at the chair. “It took my entire life to find what was never missing…” He turned to Kura with such love —I know it’s corny, Bruce, but to this day I swear the fragrance of roses blew straight through me. “And it is all because of you.”

He wasn’t done speaking though stopped short, as if knowing his guest’s next move. The American’s heart was open, his smile benevolent.

But I could not have predicted what happened next.

Kura bolted from the cave in a silent scream.

Mountaineers say the descent is more dangerous than the climb, which definitely applied to our return trip. We suffered four-legged and four-speeded calamities; when night fell, the driver announced it was unsafe to continue. We stayed over at an inn. Any thoughts I might have previously entertained of Kura whisking me to Paris for a little post — egg hunt R and R were pretty much dashed by the impenetrable pall that had settled over him. He went incommunicado. I knew better than to try to draw him out.

Thirty-six hours later, I was greatly relieved to be ensconced in the First Lady — Maharanee? — wing of the Presidential Suite. I called to ask if he wanted supper, suggesting we do a little recap over room service. (I already knew the answer.) After a long soak I made notes in my trusty Smythson, expanding on them when I got back to New York.

I was nodding off when the phone rang. Someone in the posse said to be packed and ready at 10 a.m. I’d never unpacked so when morning came there wasn’t much to do but order up a carafe of lattes and chocolate croissants for extra protein. I took a constitutional around the perimeter of the hotel in the forlorn hope that my bowels might want to start a conversation; they were quiet as a grave.

I was in the lobby uncharacteristically early, befitting a depressed person in a faraway place waiting to go home to die. My eye fell on the elevator just as Kura and his retinue emerged. My main man wore a blue serge suit and a heartbreakingly sportive pompadour. He’d paid scrupulous attention to his toilet — his way, I suppose, of ending the sentence or at least dotting the “i” in Delhi. We chitchatted on the drive to the airport and I even wrung a few smiles out of him. I actually started to wonder if he would whisk me away, to destinations unknown.

The convoy rolled onto the tarmac but none of the posse approached the Bentley when it parked, as if knowing in advance to allow us our privacy. We stayed in the car.

“Queenie, I cannot tell you what your being here has meant. And I know I shan’t be able to process it — any of it — for some time. I was going to ask you to come to Paris… what a time we would have had! But now that’s impossible. This has been a strenuous trip and I hardly wish to send you back in worse shape than you arrived. So I’ve opened up my appartements in the Marais; my staff awaits you. An itinerary has already been customized for your pleasure, with an emphasis on the off-the-beaten-track and taboo. You shall want for nothing. If the idea of Paris — without your Kura! — does not appeal, the plane will take you anywhere you wish: Kyoto, Patagonia, Lindos… but you must promise to forgive my heavy-handed mood. You know how it pains me to be a terrible host.”

“You’re going back to see him?”

“Yes. I’m going back.”

Had he asked me to accompany him I would have without hesitation but I knew Kura well enough to understand his speech was a farewell. I was honored to have served my purpose. He was on his own now, just as he wished.

I returned to New York and my griffin friends straightaway.

On the plane, I dawdled with completing the crossword of his plan. (He hadn’t shared, I hadn’t asked.) I was never good at puzzles but was good at tossing them aside, unfinished. Which is what I did… After a few months, my depression lifted, or at least became manageable. I went on about my life with the necessary delusion most of us share that we’re captains of our destinies, when truth be told we have no more power over our fates than falling leaves do over a tree.

I’m not exactly sure why Kura wasn’t in my head much after that strange sojourn, not substantially anyway — and I didn’t feel guilty about it, either. Maybe Delhi was my second guru, because it helped make sense of that long-ago time in Bombay. I’m not sure exactly how I felt. Though I do remember I didn’t cry when I learned he was dead.

Wow — we’re nearly at the end. I think all in all it’s been a good experience. (I hope it has, for you!) Just to puke everything out… that doesn’t sound so wonderful though, huh? But you know I think it really does help put things in order. I mean, not that there was a dire need. At least I don’t think there was. Who knows. So often these tremendous— things happen in one’s life, and one never stops to take their measure or look at patterns — you know, ‘the figure in the carpet.’ Anyway, I just wanted to thank you, Bruce, for being such a good listener and for being so patient with my silly tangents…

Now of course I wasn’t there for this last part I’m going to tell you so when I speak of things only Kura could have been privy to — his direct experience — I’ll be channeling from his diaries. He bequeathed me the lot; I’ve been cribbing from them for much of what we’ve already covered. Details were taken from a notebook he kept in the last six months of his life so I guess I’ll be paraphrasing more than usual.

In the moment he ran from the cave, Kura was convinced that his former teacher was stark raving mad. And yet by the time we arrived at the plush sanctuary of our Delhi hotel, he found himself in the grip of a converse idée fixe : What if the American was sober as a judge? Could it be that he was in the exaltedly cockamamie tradition of those legendary sadhus who attained “crazy wisdom”? Like the saints of Mahamudra who appeared as drunks and village idiots, so might the Hermit prance about his cave talking to enlightened furniture. It was a sliver in Kura’s foot that had to come out.