After sleeping for most of the hour-and-a-half drive from the capital, a gradually ascending, late-day trek over deep-rutted, unpaved roads bordered by rice paddies and jute fields, Henry awakens when the Range Rover jerks to a stop.
Shug looks at him in the rearview mirror and clears his throat. Several times at the beginning of the journey Shug tried to get Henry to discuss his conversation with the prince, but all that Henry would volunteer, to Shug
’
s growing consternation, was that one day he might work out with the prince at the palace. When it became clear that Shug wasn
’
t going to get any political insight or royal gossip, he decided to give Henry the silent treatment.
Henry sits up and rubs his eyes. To his left, the edge of the road gives way to a sheer granite precipice. Looking down through the lavender twilight,
he sees a gray mass of smog trapped in the valley, and through the smog he can barely make out the rooftops of a village and the black snake of a river.
Shug points to the nearest bend in the snake, to a modern building north of the village.
“
Your place of business is down there. In the valley.
”
Then he looks up and to his right at a lavish edifice partially built into the smog-free mountainside. Sunset rays illuminate a spectrum of brilliant colors and ornat
e Galadonian spiritual carvings.
“
And here . . . once again, here are your lodgings: Ayurved Djong and Spa.
”
Two men in white
ghos
scramble down the front steps of the spa to greet them.
Madden may have been right.
“
What happened to having an apartment in the valley, near the office park?
”
Shug glances at him in the rearview mirror again.
“
You were supposed to. But the prince upgraded you. Last week the head of Sri Lankan Trade stayed here in the presidential suite, until the head buyer of Old Navy arrived and bumped him to a lesser room. Anyway,
”
Shug continues by way of farewell,
“
these men will show you to your accommodations. In two days, Monday, I will be waiting here at eleven a.m. to take you to your new headquarters in the valley.
”
At once Henry
’
s door and the back luggage hatch swing open. A smiling young man steps back and opens his arms.
“
Welcome to Ayurved Djong and Spa. I am Ratu, your personal concierge.
”
~ * ~
Eating a room-service cheeseburger in his boxers alone in his suite, listening on his headphones to Dylan
’
s
“
Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands
”
from
Blonde on Blonde,
which, if he
’
s not mistaken, was written in a hotel room, in the Chelsea.
He
’
d asked for the cheeseburger and fries to mess with Ratu, who seemed especially proud of the organic vegetarian menu, but the man, despite seeming pure of heart and mind, did not blink.
“
Absolutely, Mr. Tuhoe. Would you prefer waffle or shoestring fries with that?
”
Ever since that morning in the focus group room with Giffler, Henry hasn
’
t had a chance to stop and collect his thoughts. And now, still unable to sleep and too tired to engage in anything beyond music, he is finally doing just that. And the results of collecting and giving these thoughts even the most casual scrutiny are disturbing. Losing a marriage, a job, a house, and a country, all in . . . what, two, three weeks? Jesus. This song, he decides, concentrate on the song.
Written for Dylan
’
s wife Sara, right?
On
“
Sara,
”
on
Desire,
he sang what?
Stay in
’
up for days in the Chelsea Hotel,
Writin
“
Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands
”
for you .
. .
But it
’
s no use. He is sweating all over, and clearly it
’
s not that hot out; this is the mountains, he thinks, not the goddamn tropics. And it
’
s too soon to have contracted, like, typhoid, right?
He places his hand over his heart, which is racing considerably faster than the six-eight time of the song, and now he can
’
t concentrate on the lyrics or even the specific things he
’
s trying not to concentrate on, but instead of not concentrating on individual issues, or let
’
s call them themes, the themes of his totally fucked-up life, he is overwhelmed by their inseparable blind totality.
Telling himself, At least you didn
’
t go through with the vasectomy, at least you still have this or that, doesn
’
t help, only reminds him of. . . an even greater totality that now includes fundamental penis/procreation/cuckold/witchcraft issues as well. He rises and walks away from his half-eaten burger, the untouched pile of shoestring fries, and walks to his window, which looks out over the now black valley, the unseen village, the river.
A heart attack, he thinks. So this is what a heart attack feels like. Here, of all places.
On the intro tour,
whatshisname
—Ragu? Ratu?—showed him mud baths, yoga, meditation pods, sundry wraps and scrubs, wine tasting bars, infinity pools, massage suites, flora and fauna, using the language of religion to preach the gospel of self-indulgence, telling him he can achieve a higher sense of purpose without having to give up the creature comforts, that he can go on a one-of-a-kind metaphysical quest without sacrificing a thing. Right here. And now, he thinks, here you are in one of the world
’
s most exclusive enclaves of relaxation, eating a cheeseburger and shoestring fries, and you
’
re having a massive heart attack. Like Martin Sheen in
Apocalypse Now.
He tumbles facedown upon the pure white bedding and tries to breathe, but the air is slow in coming. As he begins to roll onto his back he is startled by a small patch of red on the sheets. An aneurism! Great! He pulls out his earphones and touches his ears
for signs of blood while leaning in for a closer look at the stain. Ketchup. That
’
s what you get for ordering red meat in an Ayurvedic spa in a Buddhist nation. Bad condiment karma. On his back now, breathing deeply, still gasping, he takes stock of his arms, the right in particular. No pain to speak of, shooting, throbbing, pulsing from the heart. And other than not being able to breathe, he feels no pain in his chest, the general neighborhood of the heart.
He thinks, Maybe I
’
m not having a heart attack in an Ayurvedic spa in a Buddhist nation after all.
Maybe it
’
s only an anxiety attack.
When he asked what the word
djong
meant in relation to the resort
’
s name, Ratu answered,
“
Monastery fortress.
”
When he asked how many centuries old this monastery was, Ratu answered,
“
This is not technically a monastery. Or a fortress. It was built two years ago, a fusion of the old and the new culture, as part of the prince
’
s grand plan.
”
The likelihood that this is an anxiety attack, not a heart attack, isn
’
t as comforting as he
’
d like. An anxiety
episode
would be preferable, he decides, much better than an attack, but it
’
s nice to be relatively sure you
’
re not about to die.
On the nightstand, wrapped in a strip of green banana leaf next to a vase of white lilies, is a spa menu. Still on his back, he reaches for it and opens it. Listed in calligraphy within its eight vellum pages are dozens of categories and subcategories of treatments. Facials. Wraps. Mineral baths. In-room spiritual consultation.
The entire centerfold is dedicated to a variety of massage options.
A man answers the house phone.
“
How may I help you, Mister Tuhoe ?
”
“
Ratu?
”
“
Yes.
”
“
I would like a massage.
”
“
We have many massage options. Have you considered the menu?
”
“
I have not. Look, Ratu. Between us, I
’
m not doing so well right now,
stresswise
. Do you know what I mean?
”
“
Yes, Mister Tuhoe. I believe I know exactly what you mean.
”
“
It
’
s been a crazy couple of days, with no relief in sight. My
wife ... I feel like I
’
m about to explode.
”
“
Say no more. I can have someone in your suite within fifteen
minutes.
”
~ * ~
Fourteen minutes later there is a knock at his door. A pretty Galadonian woman with her black hair cross-thatched in a loose bun smiles and bows at him.
“
My name is Lacy.
”
She is wearing a white doctor
’
s smock and holding a black leather work bag.
Henry returns the bow and motions her inside. Lacy tells him to remove his clothes and lie
facedown
on the bed.
As he takes off his T-shirt, he begins to explain his trip and his new job, but she shushes him and twirls her finger to indicate that he should spin around, get on the bed, and shut up.
Warm lavender-scented oil drips onto his back, forming an S-shaped bead. When Lacy
’
s hands touch him his body spasms; he is not so much startled as, after months of real rejection and fraudulent sexual recuperation, unaccustomed to the touch of another human. He takes a deep breath, finally with ease, and closes his eyes as the masseuse works her way from his neck and trapeziums down to the balled mass of muscle in the center of his back. It
’
s all feeling quite good and he
’
s thinking that this was a great idea, when the towel over his ass is slowly peeled down and a well-oiled index finger begins to probe the outer perimeter of his rectum.
“
Excuse me, Lacy?
”
“
Yes?
”
“
I think I
’
ll skip the prostate massage this evening, thank you.
”
After a moment Lacy shrugs and moves her hand north along his spine.
“
Maybe later, then.
”
He shakes his head, which is
facedown
in a rolled-up ring of white towels.
Several minutes later, Lacy
’
s hand finds its way back under the towel. Warm fingers scoop underneath his buttocks and begin to softly squeeze his recently reprieved testicles.
“
Hey—whoa, no. No, thank you.
”
“
I think that trimmed privates is very sexy, Mister Henry. Does this not feel good?
”
It does. Besides the chronic pre-surgery-that-never-happened masturbating jag and the two times, post-non-op, that he faked ejaculating while with Rachel, it has been a while. Months. And technically and legally, he is separated. But no. Not here. Not tonight. Whoring in the second world with
jet lag, fifteen minutes after having either a heart attack or an anxiety attack, or a combination of both, sporting a pair of fuzz-covered testicles upon which a virility curse has just been placed, isn
’
t how he wants to begin his
postmarital
love life. He
’
d rather get on with the anxiety attack.