THE old woman went home and sat in front of the TV. She was in the middle of reading a slim book about Jesus’ visit to India as a young man. A lot of people questioned if he ever really made that historical trip to Orissa but Marj didn’t doubt it in her heart. Jesus reputedly gave sermons and traveled as the Buddha did amongst people of various castes, and learned the art of healing in the holy city of Benares. She had seen pictures of Benares and it reminded her of Venice. It was supposed to be a city of death but seemed so alive.
Marjorie thought more and more about her own journey. She would have to start planning soon. At night she sat in bed and steeped herself in delicious memories of the Taj Mahal Palace, her conjurings enhanced by a trove of clipped and yellowing pages from Look magazine. The colonial wedding cake of a hostelry, filled with marble halls, dark incense-laden recesses, and a seemingly limitless army of servants clad in shiny boots, turbans, and maroon or blinding white linen, was in a most enviable section of that dense, aromatic, splendiferously beleaguered city: just behind the legendary Gate of India, a tiny Arc de Triomphe perched like a launching pad for genies on the Sea of Oman. (Both hotel and Gate were at the very beginning of David Lean’s glorious film as well, just before Judy Davis and Dame Peggy board the Deccan Queen.) There was an island her father took her to by motorized dinghy — the Elephanta Caves — you could actually see the water-bound site from their hotel room, and, remembering, Marjorie’s eyes teared up at the exoticism of it.
She would soon be there!
The most phenomenally eccentric thing about the Taj was the chestnut she insisted her father recite (after a draught of Kipling) each night before bed. It seems the English architect who designed the palace went home during its construction; upon returning from London his eyes told him the workmen had built the hotel the wrong way round — its facade faced the water and its back, the city! Mortified by the error, he drowned himself in the bay. Whenever Dad told that story she trilled with glee and he tickled her and said that his Marjorie Morningstar was a bonafide scoundrel and a scamp too. How she adored him! She could smell him still.
She would use the same agency that handled the holiday trips she took with Ham to Italy and Alaska; her husband had never favored a “passage to India.” Trudy always got the best deals. Marj didn’t know if India was a specialty but the Travel Gals were generally pretty well versed, and where there’s a will (Ham’s), there’s a way, No pun intended. She laughed aloud at her little joke then lazily drew a finger over the page of the atlas from Bombay to Bangalore to Madras to Calcutta to Benares to Agra to Delhi to Jodhpur and back to her precious Bombay, the trail always like a gloriously twisted wedding ring of 22 karat gold.
EVERY few days, she visited her Wells Fargo home branch and the teller wrote down Marj’s balance. She’d never had that kind of money in her life. She thought of calling Joan and talking to her about the trip though she didn’t like to bother her busy daughter. Still, she knew that her youngest shared a love for the subcontinent as well. It was “genetic.” Straight through her teens, she adored the Indian saris and statues Marj brought home from shops and flea markets; she read to her little girl about Ganesha, remover of obstacles; they made pilgrimages to the zoo to marvel over the elephants. (She was entranced when told of the Elephanta Caves, where Mama had visited with Joan’s grandfather.) The pale, pretty child drew pictures of the Taj Mahal — not the hotel but the real Taj Mahal — and even then showed an extraordinary talent for detail and perspective. Marj was so proud: proportions always so beautifully done, with fastidious decorations, crosshatchings, and subtle hints of pastel evoked with a stubby pencil and crude crayons. Even as she grew older, Joan asked if they could one day visit the memorial in Agra, and while Marj didn’t say it, she knew Hamilton wouldn’t look kindly on mother and daughter traveling alone, and that he’d never consent to join them. Maybe now Joan might want to come, for at least part of the trip. The old woman decided not to make any proposals. She would mention her plans to visit Bombay, and leave the rest to Joanie. She wasn’t going to bend anyone’s arm — that wasn’t any fun.
Besides, Marj felt perfectly fine “flying solo.”
XIII.Joan
JOAN kept seeing Thom Mayne at Peet’s, on Montana. She and Barbet were already taking meetings with Lew Freiberg about the Mem. Lew was in the middle of buying a house in Bel-Air. (He was in the middle of buying houses everywhere.) He was staying at Shutters, which he kept saying he couldn’t stand. Thom Mayne was ridiculously tall, cranky-looking, and gorgeous, and Barbet hated him more than ever since he’d won the Pritzker.
One morning before they met with Lew, Barbet triumphantly brought in a page he’d torn from the “My Favorite Weekend” section of the Times. The headline: ALWAYS ON THE GO, EVEN WHEN HE’S AT HOME. Barbet read out loud, punctuating each of Mayne’s sentences with great, insane flourishes.
When I get home, I just want simplicity, stability, and routine. Just walking our dog, Isis, going to get a cup of coffee, and looking for heirloom tomatoes at the Santa Monica Farmers Market. 8:30 on a Saturday night will usually find us at Table in Venice, a new restaurant opened by David Wolfe of 2424 Pico fame. The place is funky and laid back, very 70s Venice…Surfer son Cooper often accompanies us as he’s an adventurous eater and loves David’s cooking. I had real severe back problems about 10 years ago…so my wife, Blythe, got me going to yoga…My back problems have gone away. But I’m not at all into yoga as a spiritual thing.
“Who the fuck is he kidding?” said Barbet. “His dog Isis and his Adventurous Eater Surfer Son—oh, he fancies David Wolfe’s cuisine! — whoever the fuck that is, ‘of 2424 Pico fame’—how fucking adventurous! How fucking adventitious…”
“Adventitious? What is ‘adventitious’?”
He ignored her query. “And that bit about the yoga — God forbid we think Mr Morphosis has a spiritual side! Mr Polymorphosis Perverse! What a sanctimonious prick-monster.”
“Oh come on, Barbet, you’d love to be telling the LA Times about your ‘favorite weekend.’ ”