The Chrysanthemum Palace

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AS I WAS SAYING AT the beginning of these pages: I was at the bakery awaiting a latte when a young father came in, holding a babe in arms. But let me paraphrase, and even add some detail, so the reader needn’t thumb backward.

It was on a Thursday afternoon when I found myself at the Sugar Plum confectionary (now defunct), hand poised on legal pad, dog-eared copy of Jack Michelet’s Chrysanthemum spread — forgive the word — before me. Something wasn’t sitting well. I had consented to adapt the book for a welter of reasons which I hope I’ve made clear. But I didn’t like the novel; in fact, I’d grown to hate it. Worse, I didn’t feel wonderful for having taken the job in the first place.

I was on a third latte, this one by necessity decaffeinated. I’d mentioned earlier, one may recall, how experience had shown that I was somewhat of a “magnet for babies’ eyes”—the bundle now before me proving no exception. He fussed and squirmed in Daddy’s arms while fixing me with the expected stare, just long enough to get my attention.

His view then shifted somewhere beyond. I glanced, as did his father, to see where he was focusing, but the end point was amorphous.

That was when the infant, gaze unwavering, giggled with ineffable ecstasies — he was communing with the infinite, and like a bodhisattva, tried showing us the way.

“What do you see?” said his father. “What do you see?”

I looked and suddenly did see: the design of baby-faced Thad, and Clea too — and of the twins the coroner said were in her belly waiting to be born — saw Castor and Pollux, Leif Farragon and little boy Me. I looked and looked until the gooey sumptuous Badwater stillness lifted up behind them, behind all machinations, no matter how luxurious, threadbare, desperate, or giving, saw the selfless scrim that rose and ceaselessly fell upon this earthly stage of triumph and trespass, saw it there, in the eyes of this melodious sweetshop angel, cooing and gurgling like a desert fount, the fancifully ridiculous, idiotic heartbreak of the whole damn thing — and knew I could never face myself without at least trying to set it down as best I could.

So that’s what I’ve done.

And I couldn’t be more grateful you’ve stayed to the end. Maybe—maybe—I should have followed the advice of Jack Michelet when he said in that vile interview how certain pages should be burned. But I’m throwing my pages, and caution, to the wind.

Because as Mother loves to say, life’s too short.

Don’t you think?