She had little sense of her relationship, or its future. There was the magazine story, with its deadline. Then what? What plans did they have, once the article was done? The memory of their two month separation, without so much as a postcard, still rankled. She’d known he was leaving, she had accepted that, but she had also expected some contact. Was it asking too much, to stay in touch with your lover?
With that thought, Grace felt a sudden shock; a sharp, painful sense of what it must have been like for her own friends, after she’d disappeared in the wake of Dean’s accident. She’d had a regular Tuesday date with Alison, bargain night at the movies, religiously honored even when Alison was pregnant. Or Sunday mornings, when Vanessa would invite Grace for brunch, the New York Times spread like a bacillus culture all over the living room floor, bowls of yogurt and strawberries on the coffee table. It had never occurred to Grace to wonder, until now, how Alison or Vanessa had spent those Tuesdays and Sundays, the weeks after she’d disappeared.
Granted, he had a better alibi. But two months! He hadn’t spent every hour in mourning. He’d seen his ex-girlfriend. He’d flown to New York, visited friends, eaten at restaurants, gone to movies, shopped for CDs. He’d bought a jean jacket.
“I thought about you every day.” That’s what he’d said. Thursday night it had sounded romantic; now Grace rolled her eyes. Was he thinking about her now, trekking in the hills? Was he devoting even a moment to wondering where their relationship might be in, say, another two months? Or a year? Grace couldn’t visualize it. She tried to imagine the two of them in India—on a beach, at sunset—but it was a reach.
She ground up some coffee, put on the kettle, and picked up the magazines scattered around the flat. Generally she liked Saturdays, the Nepali day of rest. It had taken a while, but she’d finally learned how to treat them like Sundays. No newspaper, sad to say, but a good time to catch up on her reading. And how the mags piled up. She’d better make it through this stack. Larry Prince had flown back to town yesterday, after a meeting in Bangkok, and he’d promised her the latest issues of Cosmopolitan, Traveler, Aperture, and the New Yorker. That should hold her until the rains came.
She was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and leafing through a three-month-old GEO, when the doorbell rang.
Her friends knocked, knowing that she hated the buzzer. Three kinds of people rang the bell: her landlord, fruit sellers, and kids from the school library, who made frequent rounds to collect used books. The fruit man had come in the morning, and her landlord was in Beirut. Grace left the kitchen, tied on a green sarong, and picked up the small stack of paperbacks by her bed: Winter’s Tale, O Jerusalem! To Kill a Mockingbird, and Tess of the D’Urbervilles. She was barefoot, wearing an ankle bracelet. Her toenails were pink. The bracelet jangled as she trotted down the stairs.
“Who’s there?”
“Grace!” She recognized the loud voice. “Open up. It’s Larry.”
Larry? It was out of character for Prince to bring her magazines over to her. He’d been by only once before, for her housewarming party.
“Oh, shit! Sorry, I need the key.” She ran back upstairs, found the key to the deadbolt, glanced in the mirror, and ran down again. The books were still under her arm. She heard Larry talking to someone and opened the door. Then time stopped, and the books fell to the ground, and the ringing in the air became a roar.
“I brought someone by,” Larry said, grinning.
“Oh, Grace,” Vanessa said, and rushed forward, folding her up in her arms.
THAT HAD BEEN this morning. Eleven hours ago. Her world had since transformed. Now Grace stood in the center of her bedroom, facing the empty walls. They looked anemic, naked. Her calendar, and the postcards taped to the wall above her dresser, were gone. The Kalachakra mandala and the Tara painting, rolled into tubes. Her books, the ceramic cups, the bronze rice paddles from Patan, all packed away. Tomorrow she would strip the bed, fold the futon, and hire a minivan to take her things to Rhoda’s. Then to the Yak and Yeti, to meet Vanessa.
The flight to Bangkok was at one o’clock. Three hours later, they’d touch down in Bangkok. Just for a night, before flying on to Phukhet. He’d be there, waiting at the airport: Dean Ishimuro, PhD. Walking with forearm crutches, but snorkeling without them.
The whole plan, of course, had been Vanessa’s. She’d known intuitively what Grace needed. It was her idea to come here and coax Grace home: just for a month. If she wanted. There was no pressure, Vanessa said. She could decide in Phukhet. But they’d bought her a ticket home.
Grace surveyed her luggage: a suitcase, duffle, and two camera bags. Not to mention the daypack, filled with slides, prints, and unprocessed film. That was the only souvenir she was bringing home: film. No singing bowls, no Tibetan carpets, no masks or prayer wheels or marionettes. Just two years of images. The story of her life, as seen through a viewfinder.
Grace walked into the kitchen and poured herself another glass of wine. The dishware, luckily, belonged to the landlord. That was another thing to do tomorrow: bring the milk and cheese downstairs. The food, and her key. Her hope was to come back in September, after the monsoon. But that was a million years from now—and who could guess what these next months would bring? It was ironic: Going home had become the ultimate adventure.
A wave of weariness swept through her. She dropped into a chair and picked up the current issue of Traveler. Unconsciously she glanced at her fingernails—and the memory of that Kansas City salon, where she’d stolen the article about Nepal, crept up on her like a sneaker wave. Then it hit her, all at once: everything she had been, and was now, and might never be again. The life she loved, and the love she was letting go.
37
Wheel of Misfortune
THE MORNING OF May 9 began as they usually do: in bed. Coming back from the mountains was a shock, and I was in no hurry to face the city streets. There was also the elevation change, from the thin air of the Khumbu back to Kathmandu. Not a huge difference, but enough to reoxygenate my cells and saturate my body with a sense of well-being. I’d slept deeply, dreaming of a spaceship the size of Mount Everest. No, Mount Everest was the spaceship. It had lifted off and soared, a sun-blocking behemoth, moving across the sky and above the rivers with the maneuverability of a biplane. Vast chunks of ice dislodged from its flanks, thundering down around me. They littered the ground like landlocked icebergs, their blue tips scraping the sky. The immense mountain-ship, stripped of its snowy coat, appeared as naked and black as a cinder cone.
I pulled my legs out of bed. Buddha Jayanti, the full moon of Buddha’s birth, was a day to think good thoughts. Chokyi Nyima’s exchange with the German woman stuck with me: The karmic effect of everything I did today, good or ill, would be multiplied billions of times.
Grace was nowhere to be found. My post-trek fantasy of luring her out for a bowl of borscht at the Red Square had come to naught. I tried her again: still out. Was she aware of the day’s potential? I envisioned her in Pharphing, hanging a string of prayer flags. Or near the gate of Pashupatinath, scratching a sacred cow between the ears.
FIVE HUNDRED RUPEES in coins jangled against my hips, weighing me down like ballast, as I stepped through the Boudha gate. It had drizzled before dawn, and the cobblestones steamed like boiled potatoes. Fresh prayer flags cantered in a light breeze. I entered the kora and tied my windbreaker around my waist. Before I could put my hands together for a prayer, a leper approached, clasping a tin plate between withered stumps. I placed a coin on the tray and returned his smile. Buddha’s birthday is a banner day for beggars; devotees and pilgrims arrive with a Christmas spirit, eager to practice generosity and pay off a bit of their karmic debt.
I surveyed the scene. It was just as I’d expected. Beggars, cripples, sadhus, homeless mothers, trash pickers, orphans, toothless anis, and hobbling monks formed a receiving line around the stupa’s circular plinth. The kora had became a kind of “merit mill.” Devotees circumambulated with the shrine on their rig
ht, the beggars to their left. The opportunities for karmic advancement were astronomical. I did the math: a poor farmer offering a single ounce of rice could return home transformed, having accumulated merit equivalent to dispensing 1,250 tons of grain.
My own plan was equally simple. I’d walk around the stupa and give every beggar one rupee. The multiplied merit gained by this gesture would be dedicated to Jordan.
There were scores of beggars, but their numbers seemed manageable. Most sat cross-legged along the shallow drainage canal that encircled the shrine. Flat metal plates and offering bowls rested on their laps, or on the stones before them. They’d appreciate my one-rupee coins; the customary offering was only a few paisa, or a spoonful of rice. Though it didn’t seem like much, one rupee was real money in Nepal, where the average per capita income was about $3 a week.
I took a fistful of coins from my pocket, joined the kora, and began dispensing alms.
It began well. I made eye contact with every beggar I encountered. There was an uncommon bond, on this day, between giver and receiver. Even the most downcast ragpicker, by accepting my charity, became a partner in a mutually beneficial transaction.
Once I’d gone a quarter of the way around the stupa, though, the ring of beggars seemed to have thickened considerably. Up to that point I’d been dropping a rupee in each bowl, exchanging a glance with the recipient before moving on. Suddenly, I was confronted by a multitude of outstretched hands. My transactions were no longer with people, but with palms. Some were small and plump, others as seasoned as catcher’s mitts. Some held mallas draped over grimy wrists or showed long, narrow fingers wrapped in narrow gold bands. Some hands had no fingers at all. The paddlelike stumps, mapped with abbreviated lifelines, shook at me with force.
A third of the way around the kora, I realized that my store of funds would not suffice. The number of beggars had multiplied exponentially. But I continued moving clockwise, dispensing coins as quickly as I could.
Then a terrible thing happened. I recognized a hand. It was a woman’s palm, with two gold bands and a tribal tattoo. I recognized her face, too. She’d been among the first beggars in line.
The truth became clear: I was being had. In my zeal to hand out rupees, I’d fallen for an obvious ruse. The more mobile beggars were accepting my charity, backing out of line, and racing ahead to find another opening. No wonder the line was getting thicker! With my every step, more beggars leapfrogged forward to take up new positions. Some had probably gotten two or three rupees by now.
On the heels of this discovery came a righteous anger. I stopped in my tracks. The offending beggars, for their part, realized instantly that I’d worked things out. A fracas ensued as the “virgin” beggars—those with legitimate claims to a rupee—shouted at me in protest, rattling their bowls. But the two-timers, unwilling to reveal themselves, followed suit. King Solomon couldn’t have told them apart.
I stood paralyzed with confusion, my clothes tugged from all directions, when two policemen arrived. At first, I was grateful for the escort. They led me along the kora, fending off the career beggars and directing my philanthropy in plain English: “This one okay. This one also, yes. Can give. Him, no! No! No good man! This one give. This woman, no! Bad!”
But even the police couldn’t stop the most desperate souls from elbowing their way back in. By the time I reached the halfway point, the scene was dismal. My self-appointed bodyguards were literally clubbing beggars away—and the question of whether or not I was still “gaining merit” from this exercise deserved serious consideration.
It was time to cut my losses. Just ahead, a twisted leper raised his hands. The stumps of his legs rested on worn-out tire treads. I pulled every last coin from my pocket and showered him with rupees. They covered his plate and rolled in all directions.
There was a moment of suspended calm, followed by a mad scramble. Further up the line, luckless indigents howled abuse at me.
As I fled the stupa, the fearful German woman at Chokyi Nyima’s talk seemed prescient: I should have stayed in bed.
AFTER THIS PHILANTHROPIC fiasco, it seemed a good idea to balance my karmic ledger. Just beside the Boudha gate, several Tibetan-owned shops sold block-printed prayer flags. I bought a string of fifty, reclaimed my motorcycle, and rode the eighteen winding, potholed kilometers to Pharphing.
The trip was arduous, but it was a pleasure to put the city streets behind me. I parked on the side of the road, at the edge of the rice paddies that surrounded Urgyen Tulku’s farmhouse. A woman stood in the lama’s yard, reaching toward the limb of a tree, and for a thrilling moment I thought it might be Grace, but it was only a housekeeper, rescuing a cat.
Across the road was a small temple. The unassuming shrine is the site of a much-loved miracle, still in progress. For centuries, an image of the elephant-headed Ganesh, carved from a stone outcropping, welcomed visitors on their way up the hill. About twenty years ago, though, the Hindu pachyderm got some Buddhist company. Just above Ganesh’s head, in the same stone face, a second sculpture began to emerge. The “self-arising image” depicted Tara, the protector goddess of the Kathmandu Valley. In 1979, when I’d first visited Nepal, the palm-sized image had been rough and abstract. Now it showed amazing detail. Tara’s head and arms were clearly defined; her legs were poised and smooth. I studied the image carefully. Was someone carving it surreptitiously, sneaking in after hours with tiny chisels and steel wool? There were no signs of tool marks; even the freshest features looked ancient. It was as if the Tara had always been there, tucked into an alternate dimension, waiting for this particular decade to emerge.
I bought three candles from the blind ani who sat, spinning a prayer wheel, in the corner. These odd little temples were like magic lanterns; you stumbled across them and made your wishes. But what to pray for? The last time I’d made a wish, I’d asked for the inspiration to write about Jordan. Today, though, with the factor of forty billion added in, I might be more ambitious.
And so I prayed for insight. Not to be all-knowing, but merely free of confusion. I prayed that I might depart Nepal, when that day came, with more understanding than I had when I’d arrived: of Grace, my brother, and myself.
Outside the temple, a dirt pathway switchbacked up and out of sight, to a grassy knob surrounded by ancient trees. It was a strenuous climb, but the view of the valley was magnificent: On clear days one could see the ethereal peak of Langtang, and west to the Ganesh Himal. Today, unexpectedly, the sky had filled with clouds, and the temperature was dropping. By the time I’d hung my string of flags, the wind had come up. The thousand lines of lung ta webbing the hilltop vibrated frantically, beating like hummingbirds’ wings.
Rain began to fall. A few fat drops at first, with the promise of more to come. I hurried down the hill and gunned my Honda. For the first ten minutes of my ride the wind howled, testing me with stray drops. Then the sky opened. I had no raincoat. Within seconds I was soaked, riding face-first into the first real downpour of the year. A stream of water flew up from the bike’s rear wheel, skunk-striping my back. The road turned slick, and every pothole became a pokhari. I gritted my teeth, drenched to the skin, and tried to remember that rain was a good thing.
It took more than an hour to reach Ring Road. I entered Kathmandu by way of Kalimati, at the peak of rush hour. The last time I’d been here—with Coal and Clarice, in the middle of a bandh—the horrendous road had been empty. Not today. Horns blasted at me from every side. Taxis raced by, raising curtains of muck. But Buddha Jayanti was still in progress, and I dared not complain.
This was my karma—and it was no picnic.
38
Mike’s Breakfast
THE NEXT MORNING was blindingly clear. Rooftops steamed. The clouds boiled away at first light, revealing the snow-dusted ridges of Gosainkund. I envied the travelers who were just setting out for the mountains, weeks of trekking ahead of them. The rhododendrons would be radiant. Even the stunted plants on my deck were glistening, cleansed of soo
t and dust. For the first time in weeks, birds wheeled through the sky.
On an impulse I swept the cobwebs off my Hero bicycle, pumped up the tires, and rode into town: past Snake Lake and the cinema hall, down Durbar Marg, and along the narrow lane parallel to the Yak and Yeti Hotel. Hidden up the street was Mike’s Breakfast, an oasis of sunshine and calm. I took the table next to the birdbath and ordered a small pot of freshly brewed coffee. Mozart’s clarinet concerto played from speakers hidden in the poinsettia trees. The waiter brought me The Rising Nepal. It was filled with tedious news about political appointments and constitutional referendums, nothing with any bite. The paper was hedging its bets, reluctant to throw its full support behind the revolution. It was hard to blame them; the tide might turn again. I looked around, hoping Grace might show up. Her absence had become mysterious.
At quarter to nine, Coal and Clarice appeared. I waved them over. It was banana pancakes all around—except for Coal, who ordered his usual grilled liver and onions.
Their own Buddha Jayanti experience, at Swayambhunath, was on par with my Boudha fiasco. The temple plinth had been mobbed, Coal said. There was barely room to stand. By midmorning the resident macaques, teased to the point of madness by Nepalis of all ages, decided they’d had enough. They leaped en masse from the trees and rooftops, grabbing the offerings on the shrines and snatching food from the hands of their human tormentors. They focused their wrath on tourists, who lacked the moxie to smack them away. More than one bideshi lost her daypack; another was bitten and now faced a series of painful rabies shots. Clarice, Coal explained, had panicked, opening her jolla and throwing their lunch—yak cheese sandwiches, apples and all—at the grimacing primates.
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