The shipment arrived late in the afternoon of the eighth day. Five enormous
crates, each requiring the combined energies of Eliot and three Newari workmen
to wrangle up to the third-floor room that housed Mr. Chatterjis
collection. After tipping the men, Eliotsweaty, pantingsat down
against the wall to catch his breath. The room was about twenty-five feet by
fifteen but looked smaller because of the dozens of curious objects standing
around the floor and mounted one above the other on the walls. A brass
doorknob; a shattered door; a straight-backed chair whose arms were bound with
a velvet rope to prevent anyone from sitting; a discolored sink; a mirror
streaked by a brown stain; a slashed lampshade. They were all relics of some
haunting or possession, some grotesque violence, and there were cards affixed
to them testifying to the details and referring those who were interested to
materials in Mr. Chatterjis library. Sitting amidst these relics, the
crates looked innocuous. Bolted shut, chest-high, branded with customs stamps.
When he had recovered, Eliot strolled around the room, amused by the care that
Mr. Chatterji had squandered on his hobby; the most amusing thing was that no
one except Mr. Chatterji was impressed by it: It provided travelers with a
footnote for their journals. Nothing more.
A wave of dizziness swept over himhe had stood too soonand he
leaned against one of the crates for support. Jesus, he was in lousy shape! And
then, as he blinked away the tangles of opaque cells drifting across his field
of vision, the crate shifted. Just a little shift, as if something inside had
twitched in its sleep. But palpable, real. He flung himself toward the door,
backing away. A chill mapped every knob and articulation of his spine, and his
sweat had evaporated, leaving clammy patches on his skin. The crate was
motionless. But he was afraid to take his eyes off it, certain that if he did,
it would release its pent-up fury. Hi, said Michaela from the
Her voice electrified Eliot. He let out a squawk and wheeled around, his hands
outheld to ward off attack.
I didnt mean to startle you, she said. Im
Goddamn! he said. Dont sneak up like that! He
remembered the crate and glanced back at it. Listen, I was just
locking . . .
Im sorry, she repeated, and walked past him into the room.
Ranjeesh is such an idiot about all this, she said, running her
hand over the top of the crate. Dont you think?
Her familiarity with the crate eased Eliots apprehension. Maybe he had
been the one who had twitched: a spasm of overstrained muscles. Yeah, I
She walked over to the straight-backed chair, slipped off the velvet rope, and
sat down. She was wearing a pale brown skirt and a plaid blouse that made her
look schoolgirlish. I want to apologize about the other day, she
said; she bowed her head, and the fall of her hair swung forward to obscure her
face. Ive been having a bad time lately. I have trouble relating to
people. To anything. But since were living here together, Id like
to be friends. She stood and spread the folds of her skirt. See? I
even put on different clothes. I could tell the others offended you.
The innocent sexuality of the pose caused Eliot to have a rush of desire.
Looks nice, he said with forced casualness. Whyve you
been having a bad time?
She wandered to the door and gazed out. Do you really want to hear about
Not if its painful for you.
It doesnt matter, she said, leaning against the doorframe.
I was in a band back in the States, and we were doing okay. Cutting an
album, talking to record labels. I was living with the guitarist, in love with
him. But then I had an affair. Not even an affair. It was stupid. Meaningless.
I still dont know why I did it. The heat of the moment, I guess.
Thats what rock n rolls all about, and maybe I was just
acting out the myth. One of the other musicians told my boyfriend. Thats
the way bands areyoure friends with everyone, but never at the same
time. See, I told this guy about the affair. Wed always confided. But one
day he got mad at me over something. Something else stupid and
meaningless. Her chin was struggling to stay firm; the breeze from the
courtyard drifted fine strands of hair across her face. My boyfriend went
crazy and beat up my lover. Whatever. My boyfriend killed him. It was an
accident, but he tried to run, and the police shot him.
Eliot wanted to stop her; she was obviously seeing it all again, seeing blood
and police flashers and cold white morgue lights. But she was riding a wave of
memory, borne along by its energy, and he knew that she had to crest with it,
crash with it.
I was out of it for a while. Dreamy. Nothing touched me. Not the
funerals, the angry parents. I went away for months, to the mountains, and I
started to feel better. But when I came home, I found that the musician
whod told my boyfriend had written a song about it. The affair, the
killings. Hed cut a record. People were buying it, singing the hook when
they walked down the street or took a shower. Dancing to it! They were dancing
on blood and bones, humming grief, shelling out $5.98 for a jingle about
suffering. Looking back, I realize I was crazy, but at the time everything I
did seemed normal. More than normal. Directed, inspired. I bought a gun. A
ladies model, the salesman said. I remember thinking how strange it was
that there were male and female guns, just like with electric razors. I felt
enormous carrying it. I had to be meek and polite or else I was sure people
would notice how large and purposeful I was. It wasnt hard to track down
Ronniethats the guy who wrote the song. He was in Germany, cutting
a second album. I couldnt believe it, I wasnt going to be able to
kill him! I was so frustrated that one night I went down to a park and started
shooting. I missed everything. Out of all the bums and joggers and squirrels, I
hit leaves and air. They locked me up after that. A hospital. I think it
helped, but . . . She blinked, waking from a trance.
But I still feel so disconnected, you know?
Eliot carefully lifted away the strands of hair that had blown across her face
and laid them back in place. Her smile flickered. I know, he said.
I feel that way sometimes.
She nodded thoughtfully, as if to verify that she had recognized this quality in
* * *
They ate dinner in a Tibetan place in Temal; it had no name and was a dump with
flyspecked tables and rickety chairs, specializing in water buffalo and barley
soup. But it was away from the city center, which meant they could avoid the
worst of the festival crowds. The waiter was a young Tibetan wearing jeans and
a T-shirt that bore the legend MAGIC IS THE ANSWER; the
earphones of a personal stereo dangled about his neck. The wallsvisible
through a haze of smokewere covered with snapshots, most featuring the
waiter in the company of various tourists, but a few showing an older Tibetan
in blue robes and turquoise jewelry, carrying an automatic rifle; this was the
owner, one of the Khampa tribesmen who had fought a guerrilla war against the
Chinese. He rarely put in an appearance at the restaurant, and when he did, his
glowering presence tended to dampen conversation.
Over dinner, Eliot tried to steer clear of topics that might unsettle Michaela.
He told her about Sam Chipleys clinic, the time the Dalai Lama had come
to Katmandu, the musicians at Swayambhunath. Cheerful, exotic topics. Her
listlessness was such an inessential part of her that Eliot was led to chip
away at it, curious to learn what lay beneath; and the more he chipped away,
the more animated her gestures, the more luminous her smile became. This was a
different sort of smile than she had displayed on their first meeting. It came
so suddenly over her face, it seemed an autonomic reaction, like the opening of
a sunflower, as if she were facing not you but the principle of light upon
which you were grounded. It was aware of you, of course, but it chose to see
past the imperfections of the flesh and know the perfected thing you truly
were. It boosted your sense of worth to realize that you were its target, and
Eliotwhose sense of worth was at low ebbwould have done pratfalls
to sustain it. Even when he told his own story, he told it as a joke, a
metaphor for American misconceptions of oriental pursuits.
Why dont you quit it? she asked. The meditation, I
mean. If its not working out, why keep on with it?
My lifes in perfect suspension, he said. Im
afraid that if I quit practicing, if I change anything, Ill either sink
to the bottom or fly off. He tapped his spoon against his cup, signaling
for more tea. Youre not really going to marry Ranjeesh, are
you? he asked, and was surprised at the concern he felt that she actually
Probably not. The waiter poured their tea, whispery drumbeats
issuing from his earphones. I was just feeling lost. You see, my parents
sued Ronnie over the song, and I ended up with a lot of moneywhich made
me feel even worse . . . She touched his wrist, reassuring, and
the skin remained warm after her fingers had withdrawn. Anyway, she
went on, I decided to travel, and all the
strangeness . . . I dont know. I was starting to slip
away. Ranjeesh was a kind of sanctuary.
Eliot was vastly relieved.
Outside, the streets were thronged with festivalgoers, and Michaela took
Eliots arm and let him guide her through the crowds. Newars wearing Nehru
hats and white trousers that bagged at the hips and wrapped tightly around the
calves; groups of tourists, shouting and waving bottles of rice beer; Indians
in white robes and saris. The air was spiced with incense, and the strip of
empurpled sky above was so regularly patterned with stars that it looked like a
banner draped between the roofs. Near the house, a wild-eyed man in a blue
satin robe rushed past, bumping into them, and he was followed by two boys
dragging a goat, its forehead smeared with crimson powder: a sacrifice.
This is crazy! Michaela laughed.
Its nothing. Waitll tomorrow night.
What happens then?
The night of White Bhairab. Eliot put on a grimace.
Youll have to watch yourself. Bhairabs a lusty, wrathful
She laughed again and gave his arm an affectionate squeeze.
Inside the house, the moonpast full, blank and goldenfloated dead
center on the square of night sky admitted by the roof. They stood close
together in the courtyard, silent, suddenly awkward.
I enjoyed tonight, said Michaela; she leaned forward and brushed
his cheek with her lips. Thank you, she whispered.
Eliot caught her as she drew back, tipped her chin, and kissed her mouth. Her
lips parted, her tongue darted out. Then she pushed him away. Im
tired, she said, her face tightened with anxiety. She walked off a few
steps, but stopped and turned back. If you want to . . .
to be with me, maybe itll be all right. We could try.
Eliot went to her and took her hands. I want to make love with you,
he said, no longer trying to hide his urgency. And that was what he
wanted: to make love. Not to ball or bang or screw or any other inelegant
version of the act.
But it was not love they made.
Under the starlit blaze of Mr. Chatterjis ceiling, she was very
beautiful, and at first she was very loving, moving with a genuine involvement;
then abruptly, she quit moving altogether and turned her face to the pillow.
Her eyes were glistening. Left alone atop her, listening to the animal sound of
his breathing, the impact of his flesh against hers, Eliot knew he should stop
and comfort her. But the months of abstinence, the eight days of wanting her,
all this fused into a bright flare in the small of his back, a reactor core of
lust that irradiated his conscience, and he continued to plunge into her,
hurrying to completion. She let out a gasp when he withdrew, and curled up,
facing away from him.
God, Im so sorry, she said, her voice cracking.
Eliot shut his eyes. He felt sickened, reduced to the bestial. It had been like
two mental patients doing nasty on the sly, two fragments of people who
together didnt form a whole. He understood now why Mr. Chatterji wanted
to marry her: He planned to add her to his collection, to enshrine her with the
other splinters of violence. And each night he would complete his revenge,
substantiate his cultural overview, by making something less than love with
this sad, inert girl, this American ghost. Her shoulders shook with muffled
sobs. She needed someone to console her, to help her find her own strength and
capacity for love. Eliot reached out to her, willing to do his best. But he
knew it shouldnt be him.
Several hours later, after she had fallen asleep, unconsolable, Eliot sat in
the courtyard, thoughtless, dejected, staring at a rubber plant. It was mired
in shadow, its leaves hanging limp. He had been staring for a couple of minutes
when he noticed that a shadow in back of the plant was swaying ever so
slightly; he tried to make it out, and the swaying subsided. He stood. The
chair scraped on the concrete, sounding unnaturally loud. His neck prickled,
and he glanced behind him. Nothing. Ye Olde Mental Fatigue, he thought. Ye Olde
Emotional Strain. He laughed, and the clarity of the laughechoing up
through the empty wellalarmed him; it seemed to stir little flickers of
motion everywhere in the darkness. What he needed was a drink! The problem was
how to get into the bedroom without waking Michaela. Hell, maybe he should wake
her. Maybe they should talk more before what had happened hardened into a set
of unbreakable attitudes.
He turned toward the stairs . . . and then, yelling out in
panic, entangling his feet with the lawn chairs as he leaped backward midstep,
he fell onto his side. A shadowroughly man-shaped and man-sizedwas
standing a yard away; it was undulating the way a strand of kelp undulates in a
gentle tide. The patch of air around it was rippling, as if the entire image
had been badly edited into reality. Eliot scrambled away, coming to his knees.
The shadow melted downward, puddling on the concrete; it bunched in the middle
like a caterpillar, folded over itself, and flowed after him: a rolling sort of
motion. Then it reared up, again assuming its manlike shape, looming over him.
Eliot got to his feet, still frightened, but less so. If he had previously been
asked to testify as to the existence of the Khaa, he would have rejected the
evidence of his bleared senses and come down on the side of hallucination,
folktale. But now, though he was tempted to draw that same conclusion, there
was too much evidence to the contrary. Staring at the featureless black cowl of
the Khaas head, he had a sense of something staring back. More than a
sense. A distinct impression of personality. It was as if the Khaas
undulations were producing a breeze that bore its psychic odor through the air.
Eliot began to picture it as a loony, shy old uncle who liked to sit under the
basement steps and eat flies and cackle to himself, but who could tell when the
first frost was due and knew how to fix the tail on your kite. Weird, yet
harmless. The Khaa stretched out an arm: The arm just peeled away from its
torso, its hand a thumbless black mitten. Eliot edged back. He wasnt
quite prepared to believe it was harmless. But the arm stretched farther than
he had thought possible and enveloped his wrist. It was soft, ticklish, a river
of furry moths crawling over his skin.
In the instant before he jumped away, Eliot heard a whining note inside his
skull, and that whiningseeming to flow through his brain with the same
suppleness that the Khaas arm had displayedwas translated into a
wordless plea. From it he understood that the Khaa was afraid. Terribly afraid.
Suddenly it melted downward and went rolling, bunching, flowing up the stairs;
it stopped on the first landing, rolled halfway down, then up again, repeating
the process over and over. It came clear to Eliot (Oh, Jesus! This is nuts!)
that it was trying to convince him to follow. Just like Lassie or some other
ridiculous TV animal, it was trying to tell him something, to lead him to where
the wounded forest ranger had fallen, where the nest of baby ducks was being
threatened by the brush fire. He should walk over, rumple its head, and say,
Whats the matter, girl? Those squirrels been teasing you?
This time his laughter had a sobering effect, acting to settle his thoughts.
One likelihood was that his experience with Michaela had been sufficient to
snap his frayed connection with consensus reality; but there was no point in
buying that. Even if that were the case, he might as well go with it. He
crossed to the stairs and climbed toward the rippling shadow on the landing.
Okay, Bongo, he said. Lets see whats got you so
* * *
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4 Part 5