to take a number at the Hilton. Thousands of people: Barbet and Joan were #’s 2,178 and 2,179. But the feeling was all flowers and love, that old hippie feeling, rose oil and canyon good vibes run amok, and besides, it would take a shitload to bring her down, she was so fucking rich. Barbet held her close and she didn’t feel alone. You really need a hug, huh, he said. You need a hug from God. And you’re gonna get one.
He was funny, her Barbet.
A man in front of them reminded her (physically) of the Nicobar Islander on the Tsunami anniversary show who said the earth balanced on a colossal tree that could be jolted by spirits and that bad spirits were at the tree trunk trying to hurt people and good spirits were trying to save them. She thought of Lew and the branch-hanged Esther, and Samuel’s lost skeleton, and kept wondering if Andy Goldsworthy was going to do something like the piece he did in Tatton Park, a sheet of ice stuck between the bole of a Haw-thorn bisected by lightning. Ol AG had a lot of tricks up his sleeve.
She wondered what Calatrava was—
Barbet said they should have brought the pillow that Cora gave her mom. That way, they could’ve charged money for people who wanted hugs but didn’t feel like waiting on line. Then he said, “Oh, by the way, Calatrava’s out, Ando is in.” “Ando?” “Tadao Ando. What can I say. What’d I fucking tell you? The Birdman of Alcalatrava has flown. It’s like Russian roulette. Russian River roulette! Seems our friend Freiberg — isn’t that like My Friend Flicka? — ran into Tom Ford and Richard Buckley. Went to see the pied-à-soleil in New Mexico, with the indoor underground swimming pool? Got all hot and bothered. Ah so. So solly for Mr Ando. Tadao now have to deal with body of Jew woman hanging in bonsai tree! Maybe Tadao shrink bones. That way Jew Lady fit in bonsai tree. Tadao then stick Jew Lady and bonsai tree in stone alaah to honor Brentwood Country Mart Buddhism. Andy Goldsworthy make stone snake leading to dhau tree. Mr Goldsworthy make ness of dhau thorns, antlers and ice. Mr Goldsworthy make look like Spiral Jetty. Mr Goldsworthy make Eliot Ness.”
Joan said Ando would probably do something origami-like, in homage to Esther’s Eastern flirtations — like that black steel shop he did in Tokyo, hhstyle.com/casa.
Then she said that standing in line—and since when do you say “on line,” Barbet? What are you, suddenly from New York? — was like waiting to go on the Matterhorn.
“The Matterhorn’s been closed for, like 10 years!”
“OK, then Magic Mountain.”
“Also closed.”
She swayed gently into him, like a docking buoy against a pier. She emptied her mind then let it go where it would. Joan had looked at a house in Zuma that was gorgeous, 3½ acres smack on the coast. She wondered if it might be too cold for her mother. Plenty of room to build, which was nice. She could design something fun. Everything had been set in motion to create the Marjorie Herlihy Giving Foundation. Joan wasn’t sure exactly what charitable function it would perform but knew she wanted to do something major in India. For as long as she could recall, Marj had this thing to alleviate misery — it was never too late, as Barbet aptly reminded. Joan was in touch with Pradeep, in Delhi; he was brimming with ideas. She would travel there, maybe a year or so after having the baby, see that part of the world for herself. Who knew? Maybe Mom would be in better shape by then and be able to go along. One day, Joan would pour her mother’s cremains into the Ganges at Varanasi. It was the one wish that Marjorie had actually handwritten, in the margin of a travel book, before things went south.
2 in the morning, and they finally closed in on Amma. She was hugging people one after another, the stage garlanded with flowers, and all the time they’d been there — around 5 hours — Amma hadn’t left once, not to use the bathroom, not for anything, at least not that Joan was aware of, she hadn’t even seen the woman drink a glass of water. Maybe she was a saint. Barbet said Amma was in a trance, her bodily needs “in suspension.” The nearer they got, the more serious he became, as if to make up for earlier, sinister tomfoolery.
Why was she thinking of Sheryl Crow. She saw the ad, the got milk? ad. Please be all right. Please be in remission. She sent a prayer to Sheryl Crow please be all right. The ad said Milk Your Diet/Lose Weight! oh God. To keep the crowd on their feet, I keep my body in tune…rock hard. Oh
Attendants stood by. They told Barbet to remove his glasses for the imminent hug, handing both of them baby-wipes. The couple was asked to wash the sides of their faces that would touch Amma’s cheek. Joan was surprised to note that her heart was speeding up. The attendants helped them onstage; Barbet preceded her. Joan saw him kneel and then the holy woman embraced him. Amma whispered something in his ear. Then it was Joan’s turn. Her eyes filled with water. As they hugged, the saint whispered, “My daughter, my daughter, my daughter. Yes. Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes. Yes. Yes,” and then someone led Joan off as if in a dream as
Marj held the pillow close while it vibrated. She had a yeast infection and was catheterized but felt no pain. Cora had been to see her and thought, At least there isn’t that smell. The neighbor spoke of the pending trip with her daughter to the Taj Mahal but all Marjorie could think of was the Blind Sisters traveling together, holding hands in a row, linked like holy mendicants, all she could see was the Shadow Taj, the black one meant to be Hamilton’s crypt but abandoned when the Raja was imprisoned by his own son.
They called it the shadow monument—
Monument to the shadow drawings of the Blind Sisters…
SHE was looking for the elephant’s ballroom. The man in a turban and beautiful coat said, “Young lady, I’ve worked at this hotel for nearly 40 years and never seen that place myself!”
He stroked his bushy meesha, working his teeth with an ivory toothpick.
“But it is here,” she said, “my father will tell you!”
— so delighted to see Dad again. He looked ruddy and fit and wore tortoiseshell spectacles. She grinned at the familiar tiny beads of perspiration on his upper lip; she’d forgotten about those.
He said my little one, the monsoon is coming, and how lucky they were to be in the Presidential Suite, on an upper floor. But she wanted to know what would happen to all the poor people. She was quite concerned. Won’t they have peonies? Don’t you worry, he said dotingly, we’ll make certain none of them drown — to be sure! — and are fed proper meals, with dessert too. Marjorie asked about the ballroom and he said it was most likely underwater by now because it was somewhere beneath ground floor, no one really knew (she suppressed tears and he touched her cheek reassuringly), not to worry! the elephants could fend for themselves — and besides, the whole herd would be rescuing people, that was their job, plucking those who fell through manholes and such, sucked into the ballroom, why they’d snatch them like fish from a net, each and every one. He saw that her mood wasn’t exactly brightening so he added that ballroom water was special so that people could breathe until “our very long-nosed friends” came to their aid. But what about the dance? she asked. He laughed, lifting her in his arms. Little one, little mahout, don’t you worry. The elephants love to dance! They won’t let a thing like a silly monsoon spoil their fun. Now I said don’t you worry, Marjorie Morningstar