The Empty Chair (28 page)

“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!”

“You were
warned
,
weren't you?
Not
to let the man in the cave know he might be having visitors? Did he tell you that?”

“It's true! But I can assure it is was a warning most easily ignored.”

The remark got Kura's attention. “I don't follow you.”

“If for a
single moment
I believed there was one nefarious
thing
behind the whole gambit that might possibly result in harm to the Hermit,
I would not have hesitated to warn him
, i.e., sound the alarum throughout the entire village. He is after all an irreproachable member of our community—the Hermit has quite a special status, to say the least! The village feeds and clothes him, and thanks God for the privilege. I shall reserve to make further explanations regarding my meaning at a different time, for I know you are in a
very big rush.
As said: I would certainly
not
have hung fire to
tip off
the
jnani
of
any
goings-on should I have suspected something
shady.
In fact, it would have been my distinct pleasure and honor! But when Quasimodo—one
hell
of a guy, I assure!—informed me the Hermit was your
guru
,
whom you wished to make
reunion
after so many years
and planned to come such a great distance to
worship . . .
my heart became full and it was a facile thing for me to then agree. So may I say: I rejoice
with
you, and
for
you!”

“Just tell me. Have you kept your word? Or broken it?”

To which the elder replied, “Sir! All that I have—apart from this village and its souls, who are my consummate children—is my
w
ord.
I gave it to your hell of a man in complete and utter
seriousness . . .
and now give it to
you
in the very same spirit. Sir! Mister Bela Moncrieff! I will now settle it
again
so that each and every one of us are free to go about the pressing duties of our individual day.
You have my solemn assurance that I breached nothing.
The only personage who knows of your agenda other than myself is my dear wife.”

He threw her a glance. After meeting it she flirtily averted her gaze, turning back to look after the soup on the stove.

“Only my wife was—is—aware that certain guests may or may
not
be—are—dropping in.
Have.
I hasten to add that in telling this woman I did not break my word. Not at all!
For after half a century of matrimony, we are no longer separate people! We are one and the same.”

I applauded the elder, who'd managed to put my old friend at ease, which was no mean feat. Kura rested his hands on his thighs in a posture of relaxed, fraternal fidelity. His face got ruddy and his eyes were bright.

“Your village shall receive a handsome dowry in addition to that which my man has already seen to. Such endowment is to be dispersed solely
at your discretion. Now, does that meet with your approval?”

“O, eminently, sir! Eminently so!”

“Good.”

The wife motioned for us to sit on two ottomans covered in ornately woven patterns. We did as she commanded. There were smiles all around. This time Kura sampled the confections. After a swallow, he faced the elder and said, “Tell me what you know.”

“The Hermit arrived in the autumn of '87,” he began. “He came to us as a mendicant, a
sannyasi
, a wandering monk. It is the ancient tradition of our village, as it is in all villages, to be
most hospitable
to visitors. With a holy man, such largess
takes on a new dimension . . . He spoke our dialect to
perfection.
We provided him food and shelter—twas our honor and duty before God! His looks, of course, were striking; tall and blue-eyed. The sun had baked him but it was obvious he was fair-skinned. We knew not where he
hailed
from nor was it our business to ask. After a few months, he said he was
American
—a testimonial to the linguistic prowess
of the man, for when he spoke to us in our mother tongue there simply was no accent
at all.
An American
rishi
—this really threw us for a loop!
The very
idea
of it . . . but I've taken too much of your time. I presume you'll stay for supper? We'll catch up on everything later . . . My wife, as you can see, has been hard at work. Her soup is among the
jnani
's favorites!
Delicacies
will be served tonight: American-style chips and ‘dip'! Ha ha!
I shall now suspend any more talk of the life that your guru has spent not
among
us but
within our hearts
, divinely so. For I am a poor biographer and hew closely to the maxim ‘Wise is the man who knows that the line between tidings and gossip is thin.'”

“But
you
have an accent,” said Kura. “I can't place it. Where is it from?”

“Ah ha! You can't see the forest through the trees. It is nothing more nor less than an
American
accent! I wished after one since I was a boy . . . and though he lacked one himself, I owe it all to the Hermit, a patient tutor, and as gifted a linguist as he is a Master of
soham
,
the self-realized knowledge ‘That, I Am.'”

His wife approached with plates of appetizers, to hold us over until dinner. Kura declined. Weeks of anticipation had bollixed him up; his stomach was sour. No matter—a food basket had already been prepared. When she handed me a small canvas bag with two bottled waters, the woman forever won my heart.

The hour of reckoning was upon us and Kura was coming apart at the seams. “Is he—is he there?” asked Kura. “At home?
Now?
Is he in his cave?”

“Most certainly! A hermit wouldn't be a hermit if he wasn't at home in his cave, true? The
muni
has no desires—no need to seek out
that which was never lost
. And whatever his body needs for sustenance, the village provides . . . believe me, it is the barest of essentials!”

A young boy tumbled in from outside, pantomiming guffaws while pretending to outrun the delicious torment of a phantom tickler. Then, with theatrical flourish, he stopped abruptly, stood ramrod straight and dusted himself off before extending a hand in welcome.

“Ah,”
said the elder, beaming with love. “You must end your foolishness long enough to carry out a very important errand.” He turned to us and said, “My grandson!” Back to the boy: “You are to escort our guests to Dashir Cave without delay.”
To us: “My grandson
also
took lessons from you know who!” To the boy: “
Now
,
without any nonsense!
And if, while on your way, a
busybody
should inquire after where you are going, you are simply to tell them, ‘Grandpa has asked me to show his guests the Tamarisk
tree.' Now
go.
Vamoose!”

He went to his grandmother instead and clung to her waist. She dispensed a handful of wrapped toffees; he undressed one and placed it in her hand before leaning over to nibble as a horse would its sugar cube. A most expressive, talented boy.

“Vamoose,”
said the elder. “Funny word, don't you think? It is my understanding it also has the meaning of ‘skedaddle'—and perhaps,
scram.
” He erupted in peals of laughter as his grandson grandly bade us to follow.