A Gunga Gnu Ga

Believe it or not, I was in Los Angeles, at the Ambassador Hotel, when Sirhan Sirhan shot Bobby Kennedy. In fact, I was one of the first to get to him after he'd been hit. I knelt there next to the man, on the cold kitchen floor, and, feeling the words of Kipling stirring in my soul, I thought I'd offer him some refreshment. He'd just had a glass of water before he went down, and, since a bowl of greens sat on a counter a few feet away (it was a kitchen, after all), I offered the injured candidate some of the leafy. He, however, had other desires on his mind, and was realizing they would never be fulfilled. For instance, now he would never lay his eyes on the wild architecture of Bukkitinggi. The conversation we had plays through my mind constantly to this day.

• “Salad?” I ask. “Freest Sumatran art a must see,” RFK said, “alas.”