1952: The Biltmore Hotel
For the past year, Irene had stayed home grieving for her husband. Now, she was ready to live again, but without Robert. Her new life would begin tonight in downtown Los Angeles at one of her favorite places, the Biltmore Hotel.
The lavender tails of her Hermès scarf fluttered as she entered the limousine and slid in beside her best friend. The fragrance of Beatrice’s White Shoulders perfume gave her comfort.
Beatrice reached over and squeezed her hand. “It’s good to see you, dear. Thank you for inviting me to this important occasion.”
“It’s good to be with you, too,” Irene said.
“I can’t wait to hear Yogananda speak.”
For the past seven years, Beatrice had been a patron of the Indian guru and studied yoga and meditation at his headquarters in Mount Washington.
Beatrice patted her poodle cut with the palm of her hand. “Do you think it’s too short, dear?”
“It becomes you.”
The chauffeur navigated the driveway of Irene’s South Pasadena estate. As she surveyed the grounds, the feathers in her hat swept across the roof. The jacaranda tree had dropped its winter leaves, a golden buttery hue. In two months, it would bloom purple. Robert would never see that splendid display again.
“I’ve missed you, dear. The French twist is so attractive, especially with that hat. And the scarf goes beautifully with your auburn hair.”
“I feel fragile. Like I’ll break.”
Beatrice moved her matronly body next to Irene’s and put her hand on top of hers. “Of course you do.”
Irene drew strength from her friend’s closeness. They had met ten years before when they were docents at the Huntington Hartford Museum.
“You’ve been so kind. The baskets of food and flowers were lovely,” Irene said. “And the phone calls. Brief as I made them.”
“I’ve missed our afternoon teas at the Biltmore, and here we are,” Beatrice chuckled, “on our way there.” She removed her hand. “I’m glad you chose to come out for Ambassador Sen. You’ve done so much to help the people of India.”
“Helping others is what saved me from despair.”
Years ago, when she and Robert had visited India, she was appalled by the starvation, disease, and poverty. After months of mourning, she delved once again into her charity work with India. She wrote letters, made telephone calls, and sent tens of thousands of dollars to help with the suffering. For her generosity, Irene was invited to dinner at the Biltmore Hotel to honor India’s Ambassador Binay Ranjan Sen. The name of the guest speaker caught her attention: Paramahansa Yogananda.
After Robert’s death, Beatrice encouraged her to see the yogi. Irene declined. She was suspicious of all things other-worldly—yet Irene saw a change in Beatrice. Her friend was happier, expanded her endowments, and had enormous energy for a woman of fifty-six, fourteen years her senior.
Thrilled with the invitation, Beatrice said she’d pick her up on the way from her home in San Marino.
The limo turned onto Fair Oaks Avenue.
On this late winter evening, as the sun vanished below the Pacific, Irene found Ambassador Sen and Yogananda’s presence together at the Biltmore—ironic.
“You’ll finally get to hear him. What Yogananda has brought to this country is immeasurable, that we can know God through meditation.”
Irene sighed. “You know I’m agnostic.”
“So you’ve said.” Beatrice laughed. “I’m not saying you’ll have an epiphany, dear. But you’ll enjoy him. He has a wonderful sense of humor.”
The chauffeur drove up the freeway ramp and headed toward downtown Los Angeles.
“The skyline will always remind me of Robert,” Irene said. From her husband, she had learned about architecture—functionality, durability, quality, and asceticism. His buildings were modern, innovative, and sleek. She grew to love the older ones, too—like the Biltmore—as Robert had. “He had so many plans for the city.”
“He was a great architect. We were both lucky to have such wonderful husbands. Even though their lives were cut short, we were fortunate to know and love them. It’s been over fifteen years, and I still talk to Lloyd.”
“I wish I had known him.”
“So do I. My, you can still see orchard groves to the south and meadows. It’s no wonder Yogananda was guided to come west. Open fields, open minds, land of possibilities.”
Her friend’s enthusiasm often conflicted with Irene’s skepticism. “I still can’t believe Robert’s gone. I wish I knew he was all right.”
“Yogananda says that when death comes, mortal tortures cease. They can’t go beyond the portals of death.” She leaned over and whispered, “I know Robert’s fine.”
“No one really knows what happens when we die, certainly not that TV evangelist Billy Graham. Or Yogananda.” She bristled at religious leaders who professed to know everything. “Isn’t Yogananda just another cult?”
“Hardly, my dear.”
Cars and limousines jammed the off-ramp at 6th Street.
They inched down the incline in bumper-to-bumper traffic.
Huge excavators towered in the sky above Pershing Square.
The park held a special place in Irene’s memory. In 1930, when she and Robert picnicked on the grounds, he proposed to her. She loved many things about him, and his light-heartedness brightened her reserved nature. During the war, he and his buddies performed in a drag show. She didn’t see it, but the pictures of him made her laugh so hard tears streamed down her face. He was a handsome man but a frightful-looking female, especially with the five o’clock shadow.
They turned onto Olive Street.
In the twilight of Los Angeles, with its silhouettes and concrete, she was reminded of a black-and-white movie.
The limo parked in front of the Biltmore.
Rich in history, the hotel had hosted the Academy Awards several times. For their 16th anniversary, Irene and Robert stayed in the same suite as the Duke and Duchess of Windsor. Visitors insisted that the ghost of a young boy roamed the third floor. At midnight, Robert left and went looking for him. He returned ten minutes later. “Maybe if we finish off the bottle of champagne, we’ll both see him.” They laughed, and he drew her onto the bed.
* * *
An attendant opened the door.
“Thank you,” Irene said, staring up at the tall archway.
Dozens of people were arriving and entering the Biltmore.
The two companions walked arm-in-arm into the lobby.
The hotel, with its elaborate wrought iron lattice railing, enormous four-tiered chandeliers, and the brown satin sofas and chairs, was just as Irene remembered. Two years before, Robert had given a speech. She could still hear his deep, vibrant voice. His descriptions of modernism in architecture were exciting and vivid.
Passing through the foyer, they encountered security guards and East Indians.
At the banquet door, Irene gave the usher her invitation.
They entered the hall. For the ambassador’s first visit to California, the room was filled to capacity, and Irene was overjoyed with the turnout, the people engaged in conversation, and the overall sense of anticipation.
Irene and Beatrice’s table was close to the rostrum. They both faced the dais.
Ambassador Sen and his wife arrived. She was stunning in a white dress, with a fringed Indian shawl draped over her shoulders. Irene looked forward to meeting them.
Following the diplomat’s wife was the man who inspired her best friend and millions of Americans. Paramahansa Yogananda’s charisma overshadowed his short stature and portly appearance. Black hair fell to the shoulders of his ochre robe. She found his brown face serene, his countenance—as Beatrice often mentioned—inviting.
She had her doubts about him but would try to keep an open mind.
Yogananda smiled at Beatrice. He put his palms together, hands up, and bowed his head. She returned the gesture.
The host made introductions.
Yogananda walked to the lectern. A hush spread across the room.
He introduced the ambassador and his wife and mentioned the late Mahatma Gandhi, who applied Christ’s principles to politics and won India's freedom. He repeated the words, “My India, my America.”
“World nations and men are all a little bit crazy,” Yogananda said.
Irene agreed.
When the guru spoke of a model civilization in which all nations would form a United World, with God guiding them through their consciences, applause broke out.
Irene found it incredible that politicians could ever agree on anything.
Yogananda continued with how India and America could learn from each other. He talked of focusing on the good qualities of a nation and said, “I remember that just before I first came to America in 1920, I was warned by Hindu friends never to go in dark alleys, lest my scalp be removed by Red Indians! And whenever I saw a bald-headed man, I thought some Indians had been at work!”
Laughter erupted.
Beatrice glanced at Irene and winked.
He continued his speech about America's industriousness and the Hindu’s focus on building spiritual skyscrapers of the mind. “Somewhere between the two great civilizations of efficient America and spiritual India lies the answer for a model world civilization.”
As the audience sat spellbound, his lyrical voice filled the room. Irene thought him a poet, a dreamer. Once in a while, his gaze lifted upwards with just the whites of his eyes showing. His words inspired, but how could there ever be world peace?
“If we can raise money for wholesale killings, couldn’t we picture the possibility that if all big leaders and all peoples got together, they could collect a vast fund that would banish poverty and ignorance from the face of the globe?”
Irene knew he had the best intentions, but was doubtful, knowing that millions of people followed someone like Hitler.
He proceeded. “I am proud that I was born in India. I am proud that we have a great ambassador representing my spiritual India.”
The crowd applauded.
Yogananda read from his poem, “My India.”
“God made the earth, and man made confining countries and their fancy-frozen boundaries. Where Ganges, woods, Himalayan caves, and men dream God—I am hallowed, my body touched that sod.”
With those words, Paramahansa Yogananda slumped to the floor.
Someone shrieked.
People on the stage rushed to his side. Security guards spoke into walkie-talkies.
Beatrice jumped up, spilling water, and ran around the platform to the guru.
Irene stood. “Is there a doctor here?” she shouted, scanning the audience.
Guests zigzagged around tables to get to the yogi.
Beatrice hunched over. Tears glistened on her cheeks as she looked at her friend.
In a split second, Irene saw a blur—or was it an apparition? It floated away from the dais and disappeared. In disbelief, she covered her mouth with her hand. Her fear of death fled, replaced by an inner calm. Irene could question what she saw, even deny it, but not what she felt.
As people tried to save him, she knew Yogananda had died.
Weeping, Beatrice made her way to their table.
“Yogananda always said when he left, all that would remain would be his love.”
Irene held her friend tight. “I’m so sorry.”
The older woman pulled back and brushed away tears.
“One of the disciples said Yogananda knew he would leave tonight. I myself heard him say, ‘I do not wish to die in bed, but with my boots on, speaking of God and India.’ It was his time.”
“I know. Just as it was Robert’s.”
© DC Diamondopolous
 |
| DC Diamondopolous |
DC Diamondopolous is an award-winning short story and flash fiction author with hundreds of stories published internationally in print and online magazines, literary journals, and anthologies. DC’s book Captured Up Close: 20th Century Short-Short Stories is her second book. She lives on the California coast with her wife. dcdiamondopolous.com
.jpg)
.jpg)
