When She Was Queen (19 page)

In the three hours of labour Rusty pointedly avoids the most conspicuous part of the backyard, and Diamond avoids asking him about it; finally they proceed toward it.

The path of inlaid stone, approaching directly from the side door on the right of the house, proceeds at the back toward a small square building the size of an average room. It has a light blue stucco exterior and an arched studded door under a facade shaped like the section of a dome. A flower bed runs around its sides, in portions of which the two men as their final chore devotedly plant tulips to blossom next spring.

Having finished, they stand back and appraise each other. Diamond waits for the explanation he has already guessed.

“This is my shrine to Elvis Raja,” Rusty says. “Let’s wash up and come back.”

But before returning they have an elaborate afternoon tea with the family, an Indian custom that cannot be violated.

Rusty waits for him to step inside, then closes the door and turns on the lights. Diamond draws a sharp breath of astonishment; a multitude of colours and images leap out all around him, assaulting his senses.

It’s a picture of Rustam Mehta’s brain, he tells himself, after a moment’s pause; if you want to know what’s inside it, this is it, this dizzying madness of blatant multicoloured fantasies … and he belongs to another planet, surely.

The floor is wood, covered in plush white broadloom. There is a smell of paint and carpet, intermingled with
incense. Rusty takes off his shoes on a mat just inside the entrance and motions for his guest to do the same, after which they proceed forward. The ceiling is painted in a geometrical design of alternate blue and beige lines radiating from the centre, to create a crude illusion of the inside of a dome. The wall to their left bustles with myriad miniature Elvis hand paintings. The right wall contains an incomplete mural. And straight ahead lies the sanctum sanctorum of this temple. In the centre of the wall is a large, circular head-and-shoulder portrait of late Elvis painstakingly constructed from chips of tile. “Vina’s handiwork,” Rusty whispers. Around this portrait runs a border containing the words “Elvis King of the World” as well as two words in Hindi script that Diamond can’t read. Bright yellow rays radiate from the central image to the four edges of the wall.

“And look here,” Rusty says in his low voice, taking a diagonal step to his right and kneeling down.

On the floor, on a bit of maroon carpet, stand four gaudily painted cutout figures of wood or cardboard. Diamond’s heart flutters as he too kneels to view them fully—they look like Hindu icons, each with the face of Elvis. Elephant-headed pot-bellied Ganesh, with puffy middle-aged, perhaps drug-drenched, Elvis face and leer, the trunk holding a small guitar; monkey-god Hanuman as the rock ’n’ rolling young Elvis in hound-dog pelvis-shaking posture; blue Krishna holding a mike and proffering a benevolent smile; and finally, in the centre, larger than the rest by a head, a black Elvis as Kali the terrible in her dance of death, gorged on blood and guts, her two arms falling over a guitar slung across the neck,
and at her feet the skulls of vanquished foes—identified in small handwritten red print as Andy Williams, Bing Crosby, John, Paul, George, and Ringo.

Away from these four Elvis-as-god icons, to their right, stands a squat stubby silo-like phallus of grey stone, at the tip of which plays a white jumpsuited Elvis with pink face and hands; singing what—Diamond asks himself—”Love Me Tender”?

Diamond stares at this vision for a long time. He does not know how to respond. It offends, profoundly, yet he isn’t sure how. He turns to look at Rusty, who is going on in dead earnestness, “I had these made in India. It was some job bringing them over intact. What do you think?” He looks puzzled by Diamond’s silence, but says, “Here, take a look at these—”

An Elvis jumpsuit, white, gold, and silver, hangs ghostlike from a black Ikea coatstand behind the phallus.

“The King himself wore that, at a concert in Iowa City,” explains Rusty. “I bought it off the widow of the concert-hall manager … didn’t come cheap, but I beat a competitor to it. And now, here’s some more memorabilia—”

He heads toward a tall, narrow table almost exactly at the centre of the room. Upon it rests a shallow glass case containing an odd assortment of objects: a red, white, and blue neck scarf, still wrinkled at the two ends where it had presumably been tied; a silver button sewn to a piece of white cloth, a lock of black hair, a short length of wire that could be from a guitar string, a shard from a broken singles record, a comb, a jockstrap; a small test tube containing a brown waxlike substance….

“Don’t ask me how I got that button—it’s from a suit Elvis wore during a concert—after which he gave it to his cousin Gene to hold, then Gene missed his limousine and was chased by a frenzied mob down a street, and finally in desperation he threw the whole expensive suit at them….”

He falls silent, watches Diamond contemplate the entire room from this central vantage point. Leaving Diamond at the table, he hurries over to the icons in front and lights some incense, and somewhere else he puts on an Elvis version of a gospel song, before returning.

“Impressed?” he asks. “What do you think?”

“Yes, I am impressed,” Diamond replies, “I truly am, by all this,” and Rusty glows with emotion.

“You know—” he says, hesitantly, putting a hand on Diamond’s arm. “I have a … a dream—don’t laugh, please—a dream that in a few decades—perhaps half a century—Elvis will be at the centre of a new world religion that will contain all the other religions. He speaks to so many people from all backgrounds and ages—even in different languages. What was Jesus when be started out? Elvis is much more. And look at the condition of the world today—the hunger and greed … wars and massacres … all the intolerance … Now more than ever we need Elvis. Have you noticed, the letters of his name can be rearranged to read: LIVES?”

No, Diamond says, he hadn’t noticed that. They go to examine the left wall.

“This wall is the work of Ma. She used to be an art teacher in India. For several months every morning she would come here and create one image of Elvis.”

Hundreds of Elvises, from straight copies of movie posters to far-out fantasies—Elvis as Arab prophet kneeling before the angel Gabriel holding in front of him a musical score, Elvis as baby Jesus, Elvis riding on a tiger, Elvis with a beard.

The incomplete mural on the opposite wall is planned to depict a procession set against a red background, in a desert perhaps, as an allegory of the three stages of life.

“This is my work. I’m afraid I’m not a very good artist…”

“I’m sure Raja says I can go now,” Diamond says and smiles as graciously as he can at his hosts. He feels nervous and edgy after the recent experience. Am I in a nuthouse, he asks himself. The three of them have gathered at the dining table. From the TV comes the rasp of pro football commentary.

“Raja will tell us after dinner,” Rusty says, pleased with Diamond’s remark.

The phone rings, Rusty goes and picks it up.

Vina says in the interlude, “It’s so nice you’re here. How did you find Rusty’s museum, hmm?”

“A little too strong for my taste,” Diamond murmurs.

“It’s his thing,” she replies softly. “We all need our own madness, don’t we, in order to survive?”

He looks sharply at her, and she puts her hand on his arm, and he thinks, Would you like to be my madness? She pulls her arm away.

“That portrait you made for the shrine is very good,” he says.

“We all pitched in.”

“By the way,” Diamond says to Rusty coming back from the phone. “Who is Raja?”

Rusty stops, and says, “Oh. I thought you knew. Didn’t we tell you?”

“No,” says Diamond. “An oracle of sorts?”

“An oracle, yes.
Raja
, my dear friend, is exactly that—King. And who is the King?—
He don’t stop playing till his guitar breaks …
Elvis, of course,” Rusty proclaims and traipses onward to his chair.

“You don’t mean—” Diamond sputters helplessly at Vina.

She comforts him, “We’ll conduct a seance. Don’t worry. It’s quite harmless—and so revealing, you’ll see.”

There is a short silence, as the couple let him absorb the information. Then Vina says, “My sister Rina’s coming over Tuesday—day after tomorrow. I’d like you to meet her, Diamond. You’ll like her. She’s a beautician—and quite a beauty herself, isn’t she, Rusty? I was always the ugly duckling in the family,” she smiles.

That must make me a Frankenstein, Diamond thinks glumly. He takes the photo Vina passes him, of herself and her sister Rina, in full pose, in red and blue saris. Yes, the sister is pretty, though a little too tall and forlorn looking, and she doesn’t hold a candle to you my dear, he thinks, meeting Vina’s eye.

“She is divorced,” Vina says, attempting innocence, “and no children. I do think you should meet her.”

He goes for a long walk. His Ford Escort is now parked further into the driveway—Vina had asked to move it, now her car is parked behind his. And Vina has his keys. How will he get away if Raja rules against his leaving?
Will this place be his prison? He walks up the hill, then comes down to the highway exit, to walk back to the house from the town side. On his way downhill a four-wheel drive passes him at full speed, the two occupants letting off a howl in his vicinity. He wonders if the two are among the Mehtas’ tormenters. Hasn’t anyone thought of taking down licence-plate numbers, or even taking a video of the scene?

After dinner the Parker Brothers
Ouija board is brought out onto the cleared dining table, and all take their seats and gather around. The light is dimmed, and letters, numbers, and symbols begin to glow in the semi-dark, as if imbued with their own independent mysterious energy. The planchette is a flat yellow heart-shaped piece of plastic on three stubby legs, with a circular viewing window in the centre. Rusty says, “Move closer, everybody—now the procedure is this: you take hold of the planchette, very lightly, at the edge, with your fingers—you may even just touch it. And with your free hand grab someone else’s free hand—the energy is strong today, there’s all the day’s anticipation focused on this …,” he pauses, “… on this hour. Ready, now?”

“Yes, let’s begin—” Vina says, giving a shiver of delight, and everybody dutifully places their fingers on the planchette. First Rusty, then Vina, Diamond, and Shireen. Ma is too old to lean forward like the others and simply places a hand on her granddaughter’s shoulder.
Already the object seems charged with energy, hopping nervously about and raring to go. “Grab somebody’s hand,” Vina says, taking Diamond’s beside her.

“Are you there—who is it—” Rusty queries in a high pitch.

Judging by Rusty’s voice, whatever it is, if anything, has to be five or six feet away, Diamond estimates, but he feels no flutter of excitement, no suspense, no supernatural vibrations in the air—or is it ether, he wonders, in this context? He allows his hand to be carried along with the others’ by the planchette as it jumps and slides about before landing on “A.”

“No, I want to communicate with Raja, are you there, Raja?”

But “A” is persistent; he turns out to be Asim, and he has a message for Nafisa; he still loves her. Having delivered this message, not saying who or where Nafisa is, Asim leaves. There is a long pause. Diamond senses Vina’s hand, soft and pliable in his, and he squeezes it. There is no resistance.

The planchette gives a start.

“Is that you, Raja?” Rusty asks intensely, losing no time.

Pause, then the planchette hops over to the “Yes” box.

“Oh wonderful!” Vina exclaims with relief, and next to Shireen, Ma emits a chuckle.

Rusty continues, “Thank you, Elvis Raja, do you have something to say first?”

Yes. The little heart waddles off to spell out S-O-N-G….

“Song?” Yes. “You’re asking
me
to sing—you’ll never give up, will you? All right, Raja, I’ll indulge you.”

Rusty gives a quick look around at the others. Then he sings a high-pitched off-tune version of “Crying in the Chapel,” mercifully stopping after a few lines.

“I’m not as good as you, Raja, and you do like to tease me.”

“What else, Raja?” Vina jumps in.

“Hurry up,” Rusty whispers, “you know he doesn’t have much time—he gets hundreds of summonses all the time.”

“Tell us about those men in hoods who harass us so much,” Vina speaks, in a spoiled little-sister voice.

The little heart on the board tilts, then hops along.

“D-O …,” Vina reads out. “Mr. Doris the teacher—okay. Can you tell us of anyone else?… He always gives only that one name,” she whispers to Diamond. “I wonder why….”

The planchette is still. The old woman stirs, mumbles something.

“Okay, Ma,” says Shireen. “Raja, tell Ma how is Manek—her husband and my grandfather.”

She could be talking to a dog in that tone, Diamond thinks.

The heart tips a few times on its legs but declines to spell out a message.

“He is well and sends greetings,” Rusty says, too quickly; then adds: “Well, we
know
he’s doing well where he is.”

“He’s reborn as a little girl in a fabulously rich household in Mysore,” Shireen says to no one in particular. “Isn’t that what Raja told us the other time?”

“Let’s ask him our question before he leaves,” Rusty says in a low voice, then speaks up, “Okay, here’s the big
question, Raja—you can’t sign off without answering this one—”

Vina takes over, sounding anxious: “Should we allow Diamond, our guest, to leave tomorrow morning… or do you think he should stay longer and….” Her grip on Diamond’s hand tightens, he responds instinctively.

Without hesitation the planchette hobbles off energetically on its three legs to spell out S-T-A-Y.

“Stay! That’s unequivocal,” concludes Rusty firmly. “The guest will stay a few days more.”

Diamond feels not only a tight squeeze on his hand but also the bite of a nail. The yellow heart on the board runs off to “Yes,” then starts tilting back and forth and suddenly stops.

“He’s gone,” Rusty says softly, then calls out, “’Bye, Raja. You’re still King and we love you.”