Robert Sward
WAITING TO SEE THE SILENT ONE
Noah stays up all night scribbling in his notebook, drinking beer and watching television. In spite of its rating--"pure fertilizer" --he watches director Ed Adlum's Invasion of the Blood Farmers about some modern-day Druids. He watches Jay Raskin's I Married A Vampire ("this one's better than Sominex") and Paul Mazursky's Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice with Elliot Gould and Dyan Cannon ("lots of funny moments"). Squinty-eyed, tongue swollen, face flushed, he wakes to a raucous cawing, caw, caw, a reveille of crows. Stumbling to the bathroom, tripping over one of Joey's worn-out sneakers, he hallucinates. A cataclysmic event has occurred and, apparently, he has been left behind-left to die?-by those who escaped. Wake up. Get with it. What are his choices? Choice #1 - The macho approach: He can go one-on-one with the Champion of Living. Keeping his appointment, pretending all is right with the world, he can interview the man as scheduled.
Choice #2 - The I-have-a-headache approach: He can postpone the interview "for personal reasons," complaining, "I'm ready to jump out of my skin. Up all night with fever and chills, I'd like to take a rain check."
Choice #3 - The mad man approach: He can begin breaking and burning furniture in the best zombie-beast tradition.
7 AM
Pelted by rain, Noah makes his way to the Volvo to pick up a fresh notepad and file of background notes. He tosses these into a briefcase and runs through a grove of redwood trees. Ten minutes later, he approaches the circular corrugated metal building. "Welcome to Mt. Chakra. Administration Office." Relieved to have reached this familiar structure, recalling the nature of his mission, but seeing two of everything, including two blurry, wet door bells, he rings one. Concentrating on keeping his eyes from rolling, ready to enunciate every syllable with care, he waits for the woman known as Anandi Joy. "Noah, you're here early. Here, let me help you. Come in, come in," says the physician's white-clad, 180-pound secretary. Funny how many of the women at Mt. Chakra are solidly built, powerhouses of raw energy. At 6'2", Noah towers over immaculately groomed Anandi Joy (formerly Sandra Rothchild), but guesses his weight is about the same as hers. On the other hand, the men at Mt. Chakra are lean and ascetic looking. Does the practice of yoga create some power in these women that it doesn't create in the men? "I was hoping for a little extra time with Rama." "I'm sorry, Noah, but unless there's a cancellation, I don't think that's possible. You do have a couple hours as it is. You know what morning's are like for him." "This is no ordinary morning." "Really? What does that mean?" "This is a big day in my life. I've never interviewed someone who doesn't talk." "Would you like a cup of tea while you're waiting?" "No, thanks, but I could do with something nourishing. How about a cup of coffee?" "You're in luck. I just happen to have a jar of instant. And here's the sugar. You do look a little stressed," she says, handing him a cup. "Noah, I've been thinking: Maybe you should ask him more about why he doesn't talk." "My wife Holly asked him that." "She did?" "Yeah, 'How can I stop talking so much?' she asked. Actually she was asking about herself." "And what did Rama answer?" "He wrote on his little chalkboard: 'I too once asked myself that question.' Then he erased those words and wrote, 'I stopped talking.' My hunch is that, like Holly, he too was once a talker. My guess is that talking was the thing he loved doing most and that he gave it up because that was the hardest thing for him to do. "My wife says talking with him is like having a conversation with a Chinese fortune cookie." Anandi turns to pluck dead leaves off a poinsettia plant.
Thirty minutes later, in a moment of weakness, Noah changes his mind. Reaching for his car keys, he prepares to drive to Santa Cruz. He needs to talk,he needs someone to listen. He thinks of his grandmother who used to tell how, in Russia, women in distress would run out of their poor homes into the street and bang on a tea kettle--hok a chainik--until all their friends would gather around them. "Oy, boubala, boubala, why are you banging on that kettle?" "Oh, that husband of mine. He wants this and that and he never lets me alone."
Why not jump in his station wagon and head for the lounge of the nearest Holiday Inn? Order a margarita? Sip tequila and lemon juice, bang with a spoon on the icy salted glass and shout for help?
Five more minutes pass and again he changes his mind. Why not use himself as a guinea pig? Why not tell the doctor what's really on his mind? Why not put Rama--and himself--to a test of sorts? Who's to say? Such a conversation might come in handy for the feature. Oh, yes, the feature. He pulls out a spiral notebook and begins:
"Born in Israel, Anandi Joy is a Berkeley-educated lawyer. Also a diplomatic trouble-shooter, sentry and earth mother," he writes.
Why is it that passionate people (Anandi Joy?) so often turn out to be spiritual seekers?" he adds.
Vital facts, names, ages, dates, relationships of people at mountain top retreat? Interview Anandi.
Ask her: Where do new arrivals come from and why? How are visitors welcomed? Cost of room and board? "Daily practice? What's required? "Special events? Holidays?
"Unimpeded views. Mt. Chakra. The topside of winter fog. What it's like to look down on cloud cover. Waking in a tent. Redwood tree shadow. Deer foraging for food. The tool shop, storage shed & geraniums. Whole families camping out in hobbit huts covered with bougainvillea. Swimming in a mountain lake near Admin. Bldg. Late model Hondas, Toyotas and Mercedes in parking lot (gravel) past the (3-room?) schoolhouse.
"A rich people yoga country club. True or false?
'Enough is enough.' It is also said 'Enough is too much.' At what point in their lives did the people at Mt. Chakra say 'Enough is enough'? Or did they ask themselves, 'Is that all there is?' Was it divine revelation, inspiration, epiphany that made them seek out a101-year-old East Indian physician? Or were they simply sick and tired of being sick and tired? Or, or...
What of those who come and get disillusioned? "
And what about this Sandra Rothchild who, eyes bright, smelling of incense and the commune's chai--a blend of black tea, cinnamon, cardamom, nutmeg and cloves--has clearly been up since dawn? Anyone at Mt. Chakra who, at 7 AM, bears the scent of East Indian chai and sandalwood, has probably already showered, meditated for an hour and enjoyed a light breakfast. What is her function here? In researching the story, Noah learned that some yogis, like corporate CEO's, have administrative assistants to protect them, guard them against unwelcome visitors. Sandra Rothchild, thirty-something aide to the Champion of Living, once worked for a San Francisco law firm. At Mt. Chakra she serves as a gatekeeper, determining who will and will not get to see Rama. Even as he waits, the woman answers the phone, sets up appointments. Noah laughs as, between calls, she grinds tumeric and sandalwood powder into a paste. "What's that for?" "First aid for acne--for the teenagers who live here. It's an old prescription. You also have to drink half a cup of aloe vera juice two times a day." "The doctor practices Ayurveda medicine." "Good for you. You read those books I gave you." "Pulse diagnosis? Healing oils? Enemas? It's not for me, Joy." "Well, of Ayurveda's mind-body types yours is right on. Pitta: Reddish complexion with freckles, high energy, quick-tempered... " Noah decides she might possibly have healing powers of her own. "Joy, I hear you grew up in Israel." "That's right." "And that you worked on a kibbutz. "Right again, Noah. What are you, a private eye?" she asks. "I'm a writer. I'm supposed to do this. Look, I know I sound pushy, but what is your exact title?" "I don't have one." "What made you leave a kibbutz--and then a law practice--for Mt. Chakra?" "None of your business," snaps the former Sandra Rothchild. Again the phone rings. Standing, she answers it and, a moment later, hangs up. Now she focuses on the journalist. "There are people here who would like to read your article. Before it's published. You understand. Our staff members need to be sure the facts are straight. They have total confidence in you..." "But...?" "Rightly or wrongly, communities like ours are in disfavor in this country. Remember Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh, that free sex macher in Oregon? Any time anyone writes about healers or yoga teachers, that's what people think of. People on the outside are ready to believe the worst. "We've given you all the background information you asked for," says Anandi, her hands on her hips. "We'll continue to cooperate just as we have, but now we'd like you to cooperate." Noah sobers up. "I've been here for three weeks and now, before this key interview, you've got some new conditions. What the hell are you pulling on me?" "Take it or leave it, Mr. Newmark," Anandi says. "Does Rama know what you're up to? You'll see the finished story when it's published. I don't know of any journalist who shows his work to the people he writes about. For approval. What you're asking is unethical. I'm not in the business of writing press releases." "No one is asking for a press release. This is a complex story, and you told us you have a deadline. There's room for error and we're offering to help you get the facts straight." "There's always a deadline. But I have an editor and people at the magazine whose job it is to check the facts. Am I going crazy? Didn't we talk about this on the phone? Didn't you agree to what I'm asking then? This isn't the first article I've written." "Take it easy. I know I gave you the go-ahead. It's probably my fault. Now I've been overruled by others on the Board--not Rama. Yes, people in communes vie for power, too. The problem is the commune--and Rama himself--have more to lose by this than you do. So we may have to withdraw permission for the interview. Besides, Rama doesn't need anyone to write about him. It's not as if he needs to send out a call for more people, more people to heal. He's probably the only doctor in America who acts on the belief that there's a contradiction between taking money from people and healing them. In fact, he says the more money a doctor takes from a patient, the longer it takes for the patient to heal. And that taking money from poor people shortens their time on earth, and diminishes the life, the spiritual life, of the doctor." "Why does he heal people?" "Because the first principle of medicine is compassion." "Compassion?" "The doctor calls it 'sympathetic consciousness.'" "Why would he bother to see me?" "Is it possible that you, like the rest of us, are in need of some 'sympathetic consciousness'? Noah, remember, you asked to see him. The Champion of Living story idea came from you. I asked around--I'm being candid--and learned you have a reputation for staying away from sleaze. At a time when communities like ours are under scrutiny, if not attack, I thought you could be useful to us. And that maybe you could benefit personally. I like the work of yours I've read. That's the truth." "Sandra, if it turns out you like the article, fine. But I repeat: No one reads what I write before it goes to the editor." "God, you're stubborn. Other Board members are going to ask. You know that." "They're free to ask. I've dealt with power plays before. And you're right. It's your fault. Whether you intended to or not, you set me up."
"I have an idea," Noah says. "Why don't we let the doctor decide? Let Rama himself decide. I'll ask him. If he says to show the article to you for approval, I'll do it."
East or West, doctors are doctors. What they enjoy doing more than anything else, the journalist decides, is making people wait. Noah uses the time to look over his notes. He re-reads D.T. Matthews' description of Rama in The Voice of Silence. Matthews visited Rama in Bombay in the 1960s. "He's tall and lanky, but this ascetic 160-pound physician architecturally designed and helped build the laboratories and clinics... He sleeps four hours a night. His food intake for the last thirty years has been fruit, vegetables and eight cups of water a day... yet when there's no other way of moving a support beam or slab of concrete, Indian construction workers call for him. Like a character in a TV cartoon, he lifts heavy objects with one-pointedness of mind." Noah wonders if he didn't read something like that years ago in Be Here Now. Conceivably Rama's 'power' is equal to that of other noted teachers.
Struggling to stay awake, Noah thrashes around in his seat, bites his lips, opens his eyes as wide as he can. Shuts them. And again opens them.
Joy floats two feet off the floor. She and the half-lit office whirl like dervishes. Obsessed with The Champion of Living, Noah decides to include a muscular, white-clad, 180-pound woman--who levitates. He'll also include this Quonset hut office with its bouquet of chrysanthemums, Indian prints and a shrine to some six-limbed dancing deity. And the women at the commune, women in 60s'style granny dresses and work boots, women wearing layered skirts and babushkas-like boubas in some l9th Century Russian shetl. If he can just get into his writer mode, he'll be okay. The journalist strains to become the journalist. "Sandra, come on. Your people ran a background check on me. Now I'd like to ask you a few questions." "Why me?" "As I see it, you're an important part of this story. Besides, I'm curious about how you got here. If you like, let's say I'm a nosey journalist. I'd like to know why you left the kibbutz." "Why? Because in Israel religion and politics are too tied up with one another. There's no room for idealism. If you haven't been there, you don't know what it's like. For me there was something missing. I'm one of those people who needs some sort of ideal. Mt. Chakra is my kibbutz. "So, the short answer to your question is: Here I feel fulfilled. Living on a kibbutz I didn't." "What about that San Francisco law firm?" "I only worked for them a year."
Sandra Rothchild goes back to concocting Ayurvedic prescriptions. Licorice and ginger tea for asthma. One teaspoon of honey and one-eighth teaspoon of black pepper for breathlessness. "What do you have for a nervous stomach?" Sandra mixes the juice of one-half lemon with a pinch of baking soda. Adding water, she hands the drink to Noah. Moments later he exclaims, "My God, it works!" "What else do you want to know?" she asks dropping a sugar cube into a vase filled with roses. "In case you're wondering, fresh-cut flowers like sugar. A little sugar makes them stay fresh longer." "If you say so. Tell me, Sandra, does Rama perform marriages? Someone told me he's a Universal Life minister. Does that mean he marries people?" "Already you're thinking of re-marrying? Sorry, I couldn't resist. He used to." "He used to? What happened?" "Frankly, some of the couples he married got divorced. Where he comes from that's not supposed to happen." "People at Mt. Chakra get divorced?" "Your middle name is divorce. You're surprised?" "I'd like to think there's somewhere--Mt. Chakra, say--where people don't get divorced."
The intercom clicks on. Noah hears a light tapping sound. "He'll see you in ten minutes." Fidgeting, pacing up and back like an expectant father, Noah breaks into a sweat. He has his notes, his outline, a list of questions. Weeks ago, at Silver Screen College, he lectured, "There's no story without background, no story without thorough research, no story without focus." He knows what he wants from the interview. But Noah is superstitious. A creature of habit. He runs through a little ritual before embarking on any interview. As he has done for twenty years, he shuts his eyes and repeats his mantras:
"1. Marshall's Generalized Iceberg Theorem: 7/8 of everything is invisible. "2. Life is an onion. Peel away the layers. "3. The enemy is passivity. The enemy is gullibility. Wake up!"
And his questions. Noah does all he can to come up with questions that are short and to the point. He is not always successful. "1. Doctor, what is the goal of yoga and what is the connection between the practice of yoga and healing? "2. What is the function of a master? "3. Who has benefited more, the yogis and teachers who have raided the West for money and power, or the West's spiritual materialists who have raided the East for wisdom and peace of mind? "4. Last weekend you had an evening program given over entirely to Irish folk songs, dancing and theater. What was that all about? "5. This place is called Mt. Chakra. Why? What is a chakra? "6. What advice do you have for people who want to live 100 years?" "7. Why are you silent?"
MARRIAGE #1 - MUCH MARRIED-MAN TELLS ALL8 AM
Rama P. Rama lives in a three-room, bougainvillea-covered redwood cabin behind the Administration Building. Noah leaves his Birkenstocks in the hallway and looks around for the physician. He peers into the bedroom. No one there. He glances into the kitchen with its stainless steel counter tops. No one there. Noah hears a whispered "Pssst." Turning, he sees Rama in his living room. The doctor is seated on a sofa facing a 32-inch console TV. Deciding to include this detail later in his Our Times Magazine feature, the journalist stands in the doorway mentally constructing his lead. Noah visualizes the title, The Champion of Living, photographs of the commune, and his opening paragraph. "Rama has a long white beard, reddish-brown skin and has never been married. He is 101 years old, but looks youthful, like an unusually tall East Indian snake charmer with prematurely gray hair, He goes barefoot and typically wears a long, loose white cotton shirt and Indian pajama trousers. He's nearsighted and, when he isn't using them, his glasses--attached to a thin black cord--dangle from his neck." What would he say about that as a journalism instructor? "What's your angle? What's this story about? Punch it up. Re-write with more action and less description." As a teacher, Noah decides, he has something to offer. Does he dare give up teaching before he makes a comeback? "Pssst." The physician motions for Noah to enter and sit beside him. The TV set is off, but there's a current Guide and a remote control device by the doctor's knee. Noah sits a few inches away from the channel switcher. Does the Champion of Living watch Good Morning America? Donohue? My Many Children? Noah has a device of his own: A voice-activated micro-cassette recorder. "Do you mind if I use this thing?" he asks. Rama points to his mouth and beams as if to say, "It doesn't matter to me." Noah presses the record button. Each time the physician writes something on his chalkboard, Noah plans to read it back to him. That way he'll have a record of his own questions and Rama's replies. Noah's puzzled. How come the doctor's so agreeable? In Noah's experience, everyone's on the make, everyone wants something. And if Rama wants something there's going to be a subtext. What's the subtext? Taking his place on the sofa, scarcely looking at the page, he writes, 'Rama's skin is smooth, skin like a young man's.... the dull, brown richness of fine-baked, whole grain bread fresh out of an oven... Still, there is something about him of the aged, wizened Siddhartha-the aristocratic, classically handsome jungle sadhu.' "Oh, come off it!" exclaims Noah's inner critic. Noah tries again. 'Journalist William Shirer once said of his interviews with Gandhi in the 1930s, 'You felt you were the only person in the room, that he had all the time in the world for you.' This is true of Dr. R." Gesturing at a bowl filled with apples and almonds and another brimming with chocolates, the doctor encourages Noah to help himself. "This place is called Mt. Chakra. Why? What is a chakra?" Noah asks, peeling tinfoil from a Hershey kiss. "Sanskrit word. Cakram means 'wheel,'" Rama writes. "Chakras - spiritual energy centers on spinal column and in the head. Purpose of yoga is to awaken chakras." "Why?" "For inner peace and union with God." "God? God who?" Mirroring the writer's expression, Rama writes, "God the Father. Adonai. YHVH. 'Yahweh.'" "You went to yeshiva? You studied the Talmud?" Compressing his lips, sighing, Rama shrugs like an old rabbi. "Jews come to Mt. Chakra. Goyim study at yeshiva." he writes. Keeping pace with the doctor, Noah speedwrites Rama's answers--word for word. "Okay, I've got another question. Who has benefited more, the yogis and teachers who raided the West for money and power, or the West's spiritual materialists who raided the East for wisdom and peace of mind? "Excuse me a moment," he says, pressing the Rewind button. He plays back the tape to see if it's recording. Rama writes on the chalkboard, "You read. You interview people. What do you think?" "The spiritual materialists from the West get something, and the snatch-and-grab teachers from the East get something too. No offense intended. Anyway, I think it all evens out. "By the way, speaking of masters, speaking of teachers, what is the function of a master?" Noah asks. "Ssst," says Rama. That Ssst sound, Noah realizes, is Rama's way of laughing. He puts on his bifocals and writes, "The function of a master is to show the path and leave." Noah pops another chocolate in his mouth. "So you don't collect disciples," he finds himself saying. At the same time, the writer rummages through his notes for his next question. "Last weekend you had an evening program given over entirely to Irish folk songs, dancing and theater. What was that all about?" "Yoga postures keep body flexible and strong," the doctor writes. "Folk songs, dancing, plays do the same. Your Baal Shem Tov danced and sang as a form of worship. Who teaches that God is opposed to joy?" "I understand you're 101 years old," Noah says. "What advice do you have for people who want to live to be a hundred?" "I don't know," Rama writes. "It's out of my hands." Noah laughs. "Some old people recommend a shot of whiskey every day, a little marijuana, a garlic clove-" "Old people? What's old? Your Methuselah lived 969 years," the doctor writes. "My Methuselah?" The journalist scratches his head. "I seem to be asking the wrong questions. Maybe I should come back later..." Then he notices something odd about the doctor's eyes, and writes, 'Rama's left eye shines with welcome, but his right appears cold, dead to the world. ' Rama inclines his head and reads what his interviewer has written. "Paul Klee says, 'One eye sees, the other feels.'" he writes on his chalkboard and erases the slate.
"An artist himself, he attracts artists," Noah writes in his notebook. "Seventeen years ago Catherine K., a painter, visited Rama and asked, 'How can I combine spiritual practice with my work as an artist?" "Become art," he wrote on his chalkboard. "That was all Catherine needed. She continued with her spiritual discipline and work for seventeen years. Then she went to see him a second time. "Recalling their first encounter, he wrote, 'Did you understand what I meant?'"
"In front of you I don't know whether to close my eyes or keep them open," says Noah. "Why don't you let me alone and meditate on yourself?" Rama replies. "Huh? What's that you said?" "Let's go on," the doctor writes. "Who are you?" Noah asks. "I used to know." "And now?" Rama shrugs. "What I mean is, say language made it possible for you to give people a further sense of who you are. Not just you, but any person. Can someone say in language who they are?" "If I have to express myself, I can't do it. To taste a sweet, you have to taste it," the doctor writes. "In other words," Noah speedwrites, "he doesn't describe himself as a person, or use his history to do this for him. He doesn't define himself by the work he does. He doesn't say, for example, 'I am a doctor.' Who he is, he says, is his experience." "So how can I write about you? How can I write about anyone? Is it even possible?" "Experience is necessary. Become what you describe and write about it." "What are you saying? I have to become you in order to have your experience? I have to have your experience in order to write about you?" "A painting of fire looks like fire, but it can't burn," the doctor writes. "It is a depiction of fire." "So I'm supposed to become a 'silent one,' a 101-year-old East Indian physician...? You know, if I do as you say, doctor, I'll end up being your brother. Wouldn't that be something! Are you suggesting I trash this Champion of Living article and, instead, write our autobiography?" "Begin by being silent one day a week." Rama peels and slices an apple. He offers half to Noah who, nibbling, writes, 'While it's true the doctor's cut out one level of communication in choosing to remain silent, he's added another by allowing each word he prints on the chalkboard to be recorded and pondered. 'He's precise--as one would expect a physician to be. He won't allow mis-readings or fuddled interpretations of what he puts on his chalkboard, ' Noah writes. "By the way, what made you take a vow of silence?" Half way into the question, Noah bites his tongue. He already has the answer in his notes. "You know," Rama writes. "It keeps me out of arguments." "Okay, okay. And what is... what do you think makes a cult?" Noah asks, checking the tape counter. "When people feel what is best for them is best for other people, too." "What about political parties? I mean, what about politicians who think they know what's right for other people?" "Ssssst..." "Okay, sir, changing the subject, tell me, how are we supposed to live our lives?" "Huff and puff and pretend it matters," Rama writes. Noah laughs. "Okay, then, let's talk about death... What is..." "Journey forward," Rama writes. "Journey forward? That's death?" "Nobody dies a moment too late or a moment too soon."
"Is that a whip or a fan?" Noah asks, his attention falling on a cluster of blue-green feathers in an umbrella stand. "What do you do with those?"
"Peacock feathers = fruitfulness. Bestow blessing." "Oh, yeah," he says, recalling Anandi's account of how Rama sometimes rapped people with his 'wand,' striking them, the writer imagined, in the manner of a queen or king bestowing knighthood. "Are you at peace?" Rama writes. "Hell no. This disinterested journalist stuff is a charade," he says at last. "Anyway, I'm supposed to be asking the questions. I'm supposed to be interviewing you." "You can say what's on your mind," the doctor writes. "Okay, I'm grateful," Noah says. "I appreciate your willingness to see me. It's actually kind of funny 'talking' to you, a man who's gone a hundred years without getting married." The doctor waits for Noah to continue. "My wife Holly has taken Joey and run off-I think with another man." Dear God. Noah can hardly believe what he's hearing himself say. These lips, which for ten years had kissed her mouth, licked and nuzzled her body saying, 'Another man...' "I've been wifeless for three days... a week... I've lost track of time." The writer struggles to keep from leaning back on the sofa. Working to keep his eyes focused, he has about him the air of an earthquake victim just emerged from rubble. What did he bring his family here for anyway? Why here? Why did it have to happen here, on Mt. Chakra? A mauni sadhu, a monk who has practiced continual silence for more than 50 years, the doctor is, at this moment, in a sweetly reasonable if altered state. Or so he appears to Noah. "Okay, doctor, now you're the interviewer. We've reversed roles. What do you want to know?" "How many times married?" Rama writes on the 8" x 10" chalkboard dangling from his belt. "Mmm, more than once," Noah answers. "How many children?" "Doctor, the Biblical Noah only had one wife. I've been husband to more than two. More than three." "How many times married?" writes the doctor, rapping on the chalkboard. "How many times married?" Noah says. "Five arks. In Chicago, where I was born, they have a zoo. The Ark in Lincoln Park they call it." "So, five marriages. How many children?" writes the doctor. "How many children? Four," he answers, scratching his head. "You know, I'm having trouble getting used to being the interviewee." The doctor shrugs his shoulders and draws some lines, makes a diagram on his chalkboard: ____________________________________________ Marriage Wife Children City 1 2 3 4 5
"How many children with marriage one?" he wants to know. "None with one." Noah rubs his eyes. How could Holly do it? How could she leave him like that without saying anything? Just a few scribbled words pinned to the pillow. "Where living?" the doctor writes, and shows the chalkboard to Noah. "Shelley, my first, lives in Chicago." "Marriage two?" The doctor pokes sharply at the board with a 3-inch chalkstick mounted in a steel holder. Noah yawns and scratches, unable to concentrate. His mouth feels hot and dry as baked sandpaper. His muscles ache and, at the same time, he feels like moving, like swimming or playing tennis. The silent one pokes again at the board. He's demanding an answer. "Marriage two?" The doctor continues tapping with the chalkstick. "Two children," he mumbles. "Jim and Carol." "Where living?" asks the doctor. "Where living?" Noah repeats the question. "Boulder, Colorado." Anna. He married Anna as he might have entered a movie theater, encouraged by the reviews ("Classy family entertainment," "Anna Jones is outstanding!"), with a certain longing for sensation ("not to be missed," "a romantic adventure that will stir your heart") and, shameful confession, with the idea that if ever he found himself bored or restless he could always get up and leave. Shameful. Shameful stuff. "Marriage three?" writes Rama. "One child. New York. Manhattan. Ariel. I'm Ariel's father--this year Ariel's spending the holidays with her mother. "You know, this is harder than going through a divorce. But there's a lesson in this, isn't there, doctor? You're holding up a kind of mirror--or a chalkboard--to my life. I'm glad this isn't the day of reckoning. I'm glad I'm still alive. I'm glad this isn't Judgment Day." The doctor looks down at his chalkboard. "Marriage four," he writes. "Hindus don't have a Day of Judgment, do they?" Noah asks, checking the tape counter. Rama raps loudly on the chalkboard. He demands Noah's attention. He wants an answer. "None with four. Natasha lives now in Montreal." "Marriage five?" "Joey. Los Angeles. No, probably New York." Drawn out on the chalkboard, the chart looks like this:
______________________________________________ Marriage Wife Children City 1 Shelly Levine Chicago 2 Anna Jones Jim and Carol Boulder 3 Dolores Devine Ariel New York 4 Natasha Kaminsky Montreal 5 Holly Hollander Joey Los Angeles
The doctor erases the chalkboard. "Marriage one. Who left who?" he writes. "Who left whom ", Noah repeats. "I left," says Noah, scratching his belly. "I never should have married her in the first place. I was a kid, 18, just out of high school. She lived in an apartment complex a few blocks away from where I lived. We met coming out of a movie theater--Rebel Without A Cause, with James Dean and Natalie Wood. You know, after all these years, that film still stands up. Do you go to movies? Oh, yeah, I'm sorry. Anyway, meeting someone so sweet and warm, making friends with someone who I already felt I knew, who I seemed always to have known, in a way it was like finding a sister. Can you understand? "Soon I'd go over to her house to watch Ozzie and Harriet and the Phil Silvers show. We watched Dick Clark's American Bandstand and tried dancing to four-sided pop music. Dinah Shore, Jo Stafford, Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett. I know, I know. The names don't mean much to you. It was just before Elvis Presley. Before the Beatles. Before Maharishi's Transcendental Meditation. "Later, we married and went to the University of Illinois at Navy Pier. In those days, it was called Harvard on the Rocks. Shelley wore black leotards and sexy eye shadow like a raccoon. We had a little apartment and a couple times a week smoked marijuana. We'd get stoned, make a whole bunch of spaghetti, go to roller skating rinks--there was one on Kedzie Avenue--and listen to Teresa Brewer singing Music! Music! Music! and skate around in circles. We loved it. Or Kay Starr singingWheel of Fortune. And Shelley looked like Kay Starr. Dark hair cut short, bright red lipstick--when she wasn't being a beatnik--and with a big smile and a dimple on her cheek." Noah closes his eyes. "For money, I worked as a cub reporter--and even pitched a couple seasons for the Chicago Blackstones."