Seated Lohans
It was Halloween and raining steadily in New York. It was also cold, but Ellen was layered with wool and suede in black and tan, and scarfed and caped and booted.
She was enjoying the weather. It hadn’t rained in a while. Even though her small gray umbrella had a broken handle and was difficult to manage, she picked her way among the sea of other umbrellas along Madison Avenue and remained relatively dry.
She was in the east sixties, trying to find the bus stop on Madison which would take her to the Metropolitan Museum of art. She didn’t wait long for the bus, climbed aboard, dripping around the edges, and deposited her token. Smelling of wet wool, she moved to a seat and sat down gratefully. The bus moved slowly up Madison through the crowds of traffic.
She got off at 83rd and walked over to the Park. There was the Metropolitan Museum, in all its wet magnificence, draped with banners whipping in the rain and cold wind. One banner read “Degas”. But it wasn’t Degas that prompted Ellen to come through the ran today. It was the Seated Lohans.
Yesterday Richard had asked her if she had been to the museum lately. She hadn’t been for six years.
“Go to see the Lohans,” he said in his usual cryptic way. Nothing more than that.
It had been Judith who explained that Lohans (Ellen kept calling them loohans until Judith corrected her twice) were perfected beings who had achieved Nirvana and would not be reborn again.
“Stand quietly and watch the old man,” Judith said. “There are only two of the at the Metropolitan. When these were found, they were a group of sixteen seated in a circle, representing the sixteen disciples of Buddha. The rest are scattered in other museums.”
Ellen made her way to the information desk and asked where to find the Lohans. None of the three advisors knew. They pulled out their floor plans and decided that Ancient Chinese Art was the place to start.
It was Tuesday morning yet the Museum was crowded. Many seemed to be in line for Degas. But Ellen was there to see the Lohans.
She had to walk through the Ancient Egyptian exhibit. She was awed with the magnitude of the hall, the columns, the statues. She made her way steadily past the clay figures and art to the end of the hall where she walked slowly and with purpose up the stairs. They were marble and wide and magnificent, deserving to be walked upon.
At the top was China. The guard knew where the Lohans were. “Down the hall and . . . see the entrance to the left. There.”
She followed his directions and entered a large room with Buddhist statues from China. Most seemed to be of clay.
The two seated Lohans flanked the entrance. They were life size and pale gray almost white, with green, yellow and crimson robes draped around them. They sat on pedestals four feet off the floor.
A little read, “Seated Lohans in porcelain, three colors. T’ang Dynasty 9th century AD.” Ellen read the description of Buddhism in China. It said the Lohans were transcended beings.
She spent twenty minutes with them, which was all the time she had, standing quietly at different angles to see what was there. She wanted to experience them.
She stood close to look at the old man, and she stood back. His face was formed with distinct lines, his ears large with long lobes. His mouth had full lips which turned down at the corners. He didn’t look oriental. His eyes looked down.
Tell me what you know, old man, she said to him in her mind as she looked into his eyes.
She stood back and watched from a quiet place inside. Even though his mouth turned down, she realized he was actually smiling a soft, peaceful smile. He was incredibly calm and serene.
The second statue seemed to be of a younger man who sat twisted at his waist to the right. He, too, seemed to be smiling, not as peacefully but somehow knowingly.
The guard walked in and out of the room several times, maybe wondering why she stood there so long. Most people wandered casually through, stopping only briefly.
Then it was time to leave. She didn’t really want to go. She folded her hands in front of her in salutation and bowed briefly to each one. Tears accompanied her as she slowly made her way back out onto the wet, cold street of New York.
Ho’s Wok
Lunch at Ho’s Wok.
People crowding in.
Confusion ebbs and flows.
She waits to see where
the tide will flow next.
A look at the menu board.
What to order?
The combo chicken with garlic
sauce has a star.
She steps to the order line.
The entrée steaming
on the front counter
looks better.
Too late now.
“No more combos,” shouts the head server.
“Water, please.”
“No water, only soda.”
“No napkins?”
“Napkins on table,” shouts the man.
Tray in hand
she makes her way
to the front window
where she can watch Sixth Avenue.
Slowly, the food disappears from her plate.
It burns in her stomach.
She catches the eyes of
several who go by.
She looks away.
A young man, wrapped in wool,
smoking,
goes by.
Dark hair and moustache,
friendly smile.
He looks into her eyes,
smiles
and looks again.
He waves a greeting,
smiles wider and
goes by.
She pauses
fork in hand
and smiles back.
A small smile,
half expecting him
to turn around
and come back
to chat awhile
in Arabic or Persian.
Pleasantness fills her.
The smile drifts down
into her body and
stays with her
out onto the street.
The Loft on 27th Street
Filtering light through New York windows decorated with rain spots and dust overlook other windows with rain spots and dust. Dark, uneven courtyards with potted plants, fading now. Rust and black fire escapes.
Wide plank floors. New York off-white ceiling in bas relief square patterns. Light on a bed through a skylight, grilled and etched in fashionable, New York grime.
No place to hide. Everything exposed. No secrets.
Air slightly cool. Hot tea takes the chill off. All Hallows Eve. The promise of an only-in-New-York-parade in the West Village.
Brakes squeal, doors slam, boxes load and unload. Horns honk and honk and honk.
The traffic never ends. The horns never stop. The people keep coming.