Man in the Empty Boat Read online

  My normal sense of being the author of my life-narrative gave way and was replaced by a sense that I was the audience for it. The author, I felt, had to be the cosmos as a whole, the vast matrix of who knows what and where and why, of which human consciousness is one part. From that point of view, I could no longer believe that we determine what happens to us, or choose who to be; we find out what happens to us. We do what we must as we fall through time, which means—this is the feel-good part again—that we are doing the best we can, always.

  Twenty-three

  TWO YEARS HAVE PASSED SINCE my epiphany in Idaho. Believing that we are always doing the best we can, whether we intend to or not, and whether we like it or not, has turned out to be my antidote for anguish. It’s my comforting but unverifiable belief. I no longer think that I bear sole responsibility for who I am, what I do, or what I become. I share responsibility for those things with something infinitely larger than my conscious self—a higher power, which I call nature, although I don’t have any objection if you prefer to call it God on my behalf. The experience of human freedom and responsibility loses some of its terrifying significance when it is placed in a larger context.

  As for my imaginary button, the one that would bring the tragedy of human existence to a painless conclusion, in my present frame of mind I’d leave the button alone. I assume that the destiny of our species, tragic or not, is unfolding in a manner determined by natural law rather than supernatural forces or intentions. The same, I assume, must be true of my personal destiny. Believing that I’m a leaf in the wind comforts me, and when fear subsides, enthusiasm for life takes its place.

  I call myself a futilitarian, which means that although I don’t believe that anything I do really matters, I feel like doing it anyway. Among the things I feel like doing these days are saying no when my kids ask for more pets (Mom got them a pair of beta fish anyway, but if I’d offered no resistance at all it might have been another dog), answering the letters to Zeus and Hera that Esme tucks under her pillow at night (D’Aulaire’s Book of Greek Myths made a big impression), and writing yet another draft of my novel set in thirteenth-century Asia. When Yin Lu and the Mongols stop haunting me, that’s when I’ll move on.

  As for Bowie, she recovered completely from whatever it was that happened to her up there. She is fine as I’m writing this, and she is a happy dog by anyone’s standards. I still get annoyed when she barks, but the annoyance passes quickly. We’ve tried two kinds of bark prevention collars on her, with mixed results. One delivers a mild shock, the other produces a citrus-scented mist that dogs find objectionable.

  The shock collar was a bust. I tried it on myself, and believe me, you’ll never hear me bark again. I’ve never seen Jessica laugh so hard as when she saw me hold that thing to my throat, go “woof” a few times without any result, grumble about having wasted our money, then yell “RUFF!” and get the surprise of my life. I don’t recommend it. When we put it on Bowie, it just made her look more confused than ever.

  The citrus version works better, but you’re not supposed to keep it on the dog all the time, and the tiny battery is always going dead. A typical scenario: Bowie starts barking at the FedEx guy who needs a signature for a package. I go grab the collar, and she makes me chase her all over the yard until I’ve cornered her, and then I put it on her. I let go of her, and she starts barking again. Dead battery. I chase her down again, take off the stupid collar, replace the battery, and get it back on her, but by then someone else has signed for the package and the intruder is gone. Bowie wins again.

  The girls love their dog and she loves them back. My brother-in-law, Marty, a single guy who adopts pit bull mixes from shelters, plops Bowie on his lap whenever he comes over—all fifty pounds of her—and lets her kiss him on the mouth. “Look how happy she is!” he announces.

  “Get a room,” I respond.

  You’re never going to see me with a dog on my lap, but I walk Bowie twice a day, toss her ball, scratch her belly, and give her treats. In return, she lets me know when music teachers invade our territory. For a pair of empty boats tethered together, we’re doing pretty well.

  My nieces are doing well too. They’re getting ready to travel to Romania this summer with their dad to swim in the Black Sea, hike in the Carpathian Mountains, and visit their paternal grandparents. They sound cheerful whenever I talk to them. They are doing great in school and have outgrown Hannah Montana. If there is an afterlife, their mother must be proud.

  Here in California, we’ve got a pair of birthdays coming up next week. Ava will be turning ten and Esme seven. Both girls want sleepover parties, so we’ll have one this weekend and one the following. Jessica is all for it. I wonder: Couldn’t we celebrate every other year?

  Ava is our tomboy. Her current choices, in terms of who to be, are: heavy metal guitar player (she has already chosen a name for her band—Tone Death), artist (zombie themes figure prominently), skateboarder, fencer, and paleontologist. Her most prized possession is her skull collection. She is still serene, but sometimes I wish this kid was a little less serene about keeping track of her homework, her hoodies, and her trading cards. She loses everything.

  Ava’s serenity has earned her the nickname Buddha Baby. Her little sister is our Baby Bacchus. Esme is the conflicted one; she can go from joy to fury to sorrow to laughter in ten seconds flat. If there is humor to be found in any situation, or drama to be wrung from it, Esme will find it/wring it. One night, she got especially frustrated after being unable to provoke any of us into an argument at the dinner table. She’d tried pestering her sister, challenging her mommy, and browbeating her daddy, but no one was taking the bait that night. At last, she groaned like a wounded animal and blurted, “I wish somebody in this family was mean!”

  I laughed and asked why she would want such a thing. She raised her clenched fists in the air and howled, “So I can get what I need!”

  Esme makes no distinction between wishes and needs, so her list of unmet needs could fill volumes. Unlike her sister, she already seems to get it—that we can’t always have what we want, or do what we want, or be who we choose to be. And she seems as puzzled by this as she seems outraged. “I want to be good,” she once wailed after receiving her third time-out of the night, “but my body wants to be bad!”

  Yet, at other times, she seems content to let things be as they are. She likes to take what she calls “life walks,” where she and her mother stroll around the neighborhood and talk about, well, life. She invited me to join her for one of these walks recently, and after confessing that she felt bad about earning so many time-outs, she suddenly said, “Sometimes I get this feeling that maybe everything is supposed to happen.”

  When I asked her to explain this, she said, “Maybe the world is a big body, and I’m a cell! I’m just doing what the big body wants me to do!”

  That’s Daddy’s girl! And I swear, I haven’t said anything to the kids about being empty boats. I’m not allowed to; Jessica says I can’t deny the existence of human freedom and responsibility in front of the girls until they’ve finished high school. And if I’ve learned one thing from being a dad, it’s that you don’t mess with Mom.

  In the meantime, I figure I can teach by example. The example I hope I’m setting these days is that it doesn’t hurt to believe that you’re doing your best no matter what. When I screw up, I accept that I’m liable for the consequences, but in my heart I blame the cosmos, and that keeps my demons in line. Let’s face it: I’m a free will denier and a moral relativist and my personal savior is a farting dog. No one’s going to ask me to be their spiritual director or to run their school board. I have to believe I’m doing my best because I doubt anyone else will. Don’t we all need someone who believes in us?

  A Biography of Mark Salzman

  Mark Salzman (b. 1959) is an award-winning and bestselling author of six works of fiction and nonfiction, including the Pulitzer Prize–nominated memoir Iron & Silk (1986).

  Born in Greenwich, Connect
icut, Salzman was a talented martial artist and cellist from an early age. In 1977, he began Yale University’s undergraduate music program. Shortly after arriving in New Haven, however, Salzman changed course, switching majors to Chinese language and literature. After graduation, he spent two years in Hunan Province teaching English and studying martial arts. His experiences in China formed the basis of his breakout memoir, Iron & Silk, about life in China after the Cultural Revolution. In addition to its nomination for the Pulitzer Prize, the book also won the Christopher Award and the Literary Lions Award from the New York Public Library. Salzman went on to play himself in a movie version of his memoir, also titled Iron & Silk (1990), filmed on location in China.

  Salzman followed Iron & Silk with three novels: The Laughing Sutra (1991), The Soloist (1994), and Lying Awake (2000), a national bestseller. He also wrote the memoirs Lost in Place (1995) and True Notebooks (2003). Around the publication of True Notebooks, Salzman began suffering crippling bouts of writer’s block, lasting almost eight years. His latest memoir, The Man in the Empty Boat (2012), describes that period, when a string of failed manuscripts, the onset of panic attacks, and the sudden illness and death of his sister threw Salzman’s life into chaos—ultimately to be saved by a life-changing epiphany. The experience also inspired his 2011 New York Public Library talk An Atheist in Freefall.

  Salzman continues to be an accomplished musician. In 1996, he performed with Yo-Yo Ma at Alice Tully Hall, a concert broadcast on Live from Lincoln Center. Salzman has played cello for the scores of a number of films, including the Academy Award–winning short documentary Breathing Lessons, which was written, directed, and produced by his wife Jessica Yu. He and Jessica live in Los Angeles with their two daughters.

  Salzman’s mother taking him for a walk, 1960. His parents settled in Connecticut, where Mark was born December 3, 1959.

  Salzman’s father holding baby Mark.

  Salzman; his sister, Rachel; and his brother, Erich, in 1964.

  Salzman on a road trip in 1971 around age twelve, a year before he became obsessed with martial arts.

  Salzman graduates from Yale University in 1982 with a degree in Chinese language and literature. He stands between his brother, Erich, and, sister, Rachel.

  China at last. Salzman studies broadsword with Master Pan Qingfu, a Chinese martial arts teacher and kung fu movie actor. After graduating from Yale, Salzman spent two years in Hunan Province teaching English and studying martial arts.

  A more sedate teaching moment. Salzman’s experiences in China formed the basis of his breakout memoir, Iron & Silk, about life in China after the Cultural Revolution. The book was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize and won the Christopher Award.

  Performing kung fu in London, 1988.

  Celebrating with Yo-Yo Ma after the Live from Lincoln Center broadcast. It was an amateur cellist’s dream come true: Ma and pianist Emanuel Ax invited Salzman to join their chamber music ensemble’s twentieth anniversary performance as a guest cellist on a Beethoven piece.

  Oscar night, 1996, on the way into the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. Salzman’s wife Jessica’s documentary film, Breathing Lessons, won an Academy Award.

  Salzman with his daughters, Ava and Esme, in 2004.

  Salzman at his sister Rachel’s house in Connecticut, reading aloud just before bedtime in 2007. From left: Rachel’s daughters, Livia and Isabela, then Salzman’s daughters, Esme and Ava.

  Bowie arrives, to Salzman’s initial dismay. Says Salzman: “Note the dog’s vacant expression.”

  Salzman and his daughters kept Jessica company in summer 2011 while Jessica worked on a film at Gorongosa National Park, Mozambique. Bowie sat this one out.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  Copyright © 2012 by Mark Salzman

  Cover design by Connie Gabbert

  ISBN: 978-1-4532-2110-5

  Published in 2012 by Open Road Integrated Media

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