The Empty Chair (17 page)

On the morning I left, I had all sorts of conflicting emotions. I was in way over my head but what else was new? I was weak and angry and weepy and paranoid. For a while, I thought Kura worked for my father! The Samoan probably disabused me of that notion somewhere along the line. But I couldn't piece together why—
how
—Kura had been there to save me nor could I understand why I was being looked after—
cared
for—with such painstaking, tender deliberation. At check-out time, the futility of my serious convalescence crush, the intensity of
yearning
for my patron came home to roost. I longed for him in every fiber of my broken being. Estrogen and Electra coursed through my veins like lava. I fantasized us having a life together—preposterous. The greater my yearning, the more crazy-insecure I became. (I suppose I haven't changed too much.) I decided to make an “overture” but was paralyzed by anxiety. What if I was rejected? Laughed at and humiliated? Another problem was—and there were moments when I flattered myself by thinking it was the
only
problem—that I was sure he knew by now that I was underage.

My mocha knight on a hijacked black tar horse . . .

All packed and dressed—it breaks my heart to see myself as that sad little girl, with her poor bandaged hand!—I held my nurse, utterly inconsolable. In the last week, I'd painstakingly composed a pitiful, “noble” letter of thanks to he who had rescued me. Lord, if only I'd kept that. I handed it to the Samoan as I prepared to go, eyes downcast, then hugged that great tree of a man while bursting into tears.

I had no idea that Kura had left the morning after the murder.

The Samoan patted the top of my head, then said, “He wants to see you.”

I don't remember much about that trip to Paris (I was too happy, too stoned), other than being in possession of a passport that carried a name and DOB that weren't my own. I traveled alone. The Samoan gave me a back-story—O!
Now
I know where that story about getting my fingers chopped by a propeller came from. That was part of the original script.

Saved again!

When I got to Kura's I ran to his arms and kissed him on the mouth but he pushed me away. I was confused, embarrassed. Maybe he
was
working for my father! Or maybe he
was
my father, long lost, and we'd been reunited under the terms of a noir, a
Nouvelle Vague
. He actually asked if I wanted a tutor! You know—to be home-schooled,
s'il te plaît.
I wondered what I'd gotten myself into. I had a few tantrums and when the storm passed, we settled into a sunny life,
très sympa.
I grew up living in a mausoleum; one of my father's estates had its own police force. But
this . . .
I'd never seen such casual
opulence, such riches, such beauty. He had the
most
exquisite apartment in the Marais. Well, it wasn't exactly an apartment,
it was what they call an
hôtel particulier.
Effing spectacular. People came and went, all very respectful. To me, I mean. And Kura never discussed business.
Ever.

I don't think we slept together for at least six months. It was like he needed me to be quarantined, physically
and
emotionally, before we became intimate. I turned 17. I loved having my own bed, and sleeping in
his
without fooling around. (That was a new one.) It felt safe. Incestuous, romantic—
très
français!
And while I may not have been capable at the time of admitting it, I'd been through some pretty profound changes. I wasn't the girl I used to be
 . . .
I should probably say we weren't
completely
pure, maybe a little closer to Elvis and Lisa Marie when they were courting. You know, heavy petting optional. He was in love with me from the very beginning, but I didn't know it. But that's what I wanted to believe. I was so young and so vulnerable, especially after all that had happened. I probably hoped he was just biding his time, waiting to see if his feelings held. (They held for
me.
) I wanted to ask all about it when we met up in Delhi but never had to, because he confessed to everything before I had the chance.

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—