“For some time now I have sensed a truncation occurring in the Tao – the Path folding in upon itself. All these things, not only for you, but for many others, are poised upon a cusp. I suggest you seek Right Action first ― that which is proper for you at this time ― and pursue it with your entire being.”
The Tanner reacted. “Sure. Lord Buddha teaches this and Lord Buddha teaches that, but you’ve got your path, Master Sun, and I’ve got mine ― and they’re completely different. Don’t force me down a road I’m not ready to take. In my own time, old man. I’ll do it in my own time. Okay?”
“You may not have a choice in the matter, my son. Let me tell you a story. A true story. It will only take a moment.
“Many years ago, in the spring of 1804 in fact, twenty-seven British convicts escaped from Australia and made their way to the Fiji Islands with firearms and ammunition. If they’d been sober and energetic men, possessing any brains and some ability to use them, they easily could have wrested independence for the entire 224 islands in the archipelago ― each becoming a sovereign king with eight or nine islands under his individual scepter. But instead, they lived worthless lives of hedonism and extravagance and every one of them died without honor ― in most cases by violence. Among them was an Irishman named Duncan O’Connor whose life-ambition was to sire fifty children. He fathered forty-eight and died lamenting his failure. It was a fatuous sort of avarice.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Lyköan grumbled.
“It’s a simple lesson. See that you don’t squander your own second chance.” Sun Shi had grown deadly serious.
“You sure you’re not practicing Zen Buddhism?” Lyköan asked, shaking his head.
“Not at all. By the way, that profligate Irishman ― O’Connor?” Sun Shi asked, wide eyes questioning, waiting for acknowledgement.
“Yeah?” Lyköan obliged.
“He was a direct relation of yours, six generations back, on your mother’s side. Check it out independently if you’d like.” Sun Shi was gazing at the wall of his cell. When he finally fixed his eyes on Lyköan again, it was only to say, “That’s enough instruction for one night ― don’t you think? We’ll talk again ― soon. Stop by anytime.”
Sun Shi leaned over and, one by one, began snuffing out the candles beside his cold stone bed. Lyköan said goodnight and waiing, backed out of the alcove. Passing from the kutis into the main hall or bot, where dozens of identical alms bowls lined the wall, he indiscriminately dropped a 500 baht note into one of them and walked outside.
What a night. Where does he come up with this shit? Breaking into a run, he left Wat Tee Pueng Sut Taai by the main gate and sprinted for home.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Footsteps of the Buddha
It does not matter how slowly you go, so long as you do not stop.
Confucius
Lyköan awoke at dawn the following morning to threatening, overcast skies. Sometime during the night the prevailing winds had shifted, ushering in Bangkok’s rainy season. For the next dozen weeks, Indochina would wallow under monsoon drafts blowing consistently wet off the South China Sea, creating moisture-filled clouds that would rule troubled skies. Perhaps not the monotonous, almost hallucinatory downpour of the Indian subcontinent, beating mercilessly for months on end, the Thai monsoon winds were more intermittent, but it had arrived early and made for one damned dismal morning. He had planned a daybreak run. Here was the perfect excuse for not carrying through on that promise. But no, that would be too easy.
As he peered out the window, an image flashed through his head: old Sun Shi trudging through the downpour somewhere in the sodden city on his morning pai bintha bat or alms begging rounds, traversing the waterlogged streets, rain-drenched saffron robe sticking to his shivering, goose-bumped flesh. The old coot sure had pushed some buttons last night so he deserved it. Was even one word of that Australian prison break yarn true? Lyköan was unaware of any south sea island connection, but his mother was Irish and 1804 was a helluva long time ago. Confirming or refuting Master Sun’s claim would be a lot of work for even a dedicated genealogist, and he wasn’t about to hire one. Let the story remain a tantalizing mystery. Sun Shi had meant it as a lesson about second chances. Had he succeeded?
Dragging himself out of bed, he walked into the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. Make the most of your second chances? One would actually have to make an appearance first.
Minutes later, two cups consumed, he returned to the bedroom, resolved to take action. Removing his compression suit from the dresser, he pulled the slick fabric over his naked flesh, slipped on his battered running shoes and tied the laces. More than eleven hundred kilometers on them now, soles worn almost smooth, fabric frayed. They were perfect. Conventional wisdom advised tossing a pair after four or five hundred klicks. Lyköan didn’t agree, for any number of reasons. While other things in Thailand could be had for a song ― especially if you haggled ― for some unknown reason, running shoes, many of them manufactured right here in Bangkok, were outrageously expensive, twice what they’d set you back, full price, in the States. Reason enough to push a pair as far as possible.
Once outside, a light drizzle already collecting in beads on both flesh and fabric, he took off loping down Thanon Lan Phet towards Khlong Phra Kanong. Reaching the paved path beside the inner-city waterway, he headed west. Ahead lay more than ten kilometers of unbroken trail. After seven and a half he would turn around, which would total the fifteen klicks he had planned for this morning.
Shaking out the kinks, he spent five minutes in first gear, cueing the internal dialog. Second gear, devoted to refining a consistent stride and stretching stiff musculature, occupied the next fifteen. Thai humidity was legendary, great for bleeding salts. Shoulders and forearms now glistening, pistons stroking to the burgeoning inner fire, he entered third gear near the twenty minute mark. Legs almost dry now, moisture evaporating faster than it could be replaced by the morning mist. Gait lengthening, every bit of energy devoted solely to respiration and mechanical muscle movement ― the double stride, the single breath. Ninety right foot strikes to the minute, preparing for the agony of the final shift, the physical body was now only an extension of his will. Fourth gear at last! His second wind: A realm where repeating strides and bisecting breaths became effortless and automatic. Endorphins were pulsing through his bloodstream now, triggering receptors in the cerebral cortex, increasing resolve and mental acuity: the well-known “runner’s high”. Physiology, biomechanics and biochemistry ― and that alone? Perhaps. But it felt like so much more, when you were totally immersed in this intensification of perception, simultaneously expansive and succinct.
From a nearby kaew tree, hidden behind a curtain of white blossoms hanging heavy in the rain, an orchestra of koel and iora warbled in the high canopy, their melodies echoing into a sea of white chang-nang flowers growing thick along the bank. Joined by the tap, tap, tap of heel strikes padding past both the songbirds and the cascade of white, remorselessly striding, upon the rain-slicked path, this other instrument now on its way to the altar of the absence of desire, approaching the summit of Mount Meru itself, the willful soul prodding the physical body onward. Two separate and distinct entities now, each footfall landing in an identical footprint left by Gautama himself, lifetimes before, on his path to enlightenment by a different route.
Hardly the absolute clarity of the Buddhist meditational masters, where the veil of false reality dissolves and the underlying true reality emerges, but certainly an improvement upon his otherwise muddled thoughts. The physical demands of pushing into his second wind had redefined and reprioritized his personal reality. In random snippets of internal dialog, he began enumerating the revelations of the past few days.
First there was Whitehall. Probably not the picture of probity he cultivated. A run-of-the-mill property and casualty man would never have been so adept a shadow. Lyköan had never encountered one in the flesh, but Whitehall seemed more like a corporate or governmental
professional, and one with hired help. How else could his absolute success be explained? Tailing Lyköan for weeks, even into Wat Tee Pueng Sut Taai, without ever raising an alarm? That suggested a coordinated effort: other unknown faces, probably Thai, easily blending in, even at the wat. Lyköan felt foolish for having been such an easy mark.
Whitehall had said he was revealing his extracurricular activities only because he was now satisfied that Lyköan could be trusted. What had convinced him? He would need to work closely with Whitehall in the future, like brothers, if Innovac’s ambitions were going to be realized. Whitehall’s winning graces and gift of gab were formidable and shouldn’t be underestimated. Whoever he really was and, ultimately, whatever cause he served, he was very good at what he did. Until Lyköan understood those loyalties and motivations, it would be best to consider the man dangerous.
Then there was Jimmy. The kid acted like a buffoon, but he bore watching as well. He laughed and smiled at everything, but Lyköan had seen the wary gears of a crafty urban player working in the depths of those dark eyes and knew enough to keep his own eyes open. Jimmy admitted he had an arrangement with Whitehall. That alone seemed reason enough not to trust him either. How self-serving were the kid’s family connections? Did the government also have ulterior motives?
The oddest and most unsettling mystery of all was his instinctive revulsion upon meeting the two Innovac point men. Outwardly, everything was businesslike and friendly as a sunny day in Bangkok. But there was that other dimension, that other something so disturbing that it defied explanation. He could only hope that, whatever it was, he would be prepared when he found out. He had no idea what to expect, but he knew enough to expect something.
There it was: the Primrose mystery in a nutshell. He had been able to run down everything he knew in less than a kilometer. Innovac-Primrose was about to become his most lucrative account ever. His salvation. All he had to do was sign the contract Gordon had already outlined, which would happen the minute Pandavas was available, probably early next week. In the meantime, best to maintain all his existing accounts. Drop the ball on one too many of those ― especially if something did go haywire with Primrose ― and he might not be eating, let alone maintaining that swanky pad at the Prakanong Hilton.
Right now all he possessed were his wits and the knowledge that everything Innovac needed to set up operations in Bangkok was in his Ōkii tablet. Those files were the most valuable thing he owned.
Too valuable to leave lying around. Better make a backup and lock it away some place safe. Not a bright idea having all those eggs in one electronic basket. Even a huge outfit like Innovac would have trouble duplicating everything I’ve built to function like a run of dominos. But put that signed contract in my itchy little palm, Dr. P, and watch as I knock the first one over.
Barring some disastrous mistake, his compensation would be considerable. Talk about your second chances.
Up ahead, a golden chedi spire rose above a slight rise in the trail, the six-kilometer landmark. Another klick and a half beyond that and he could turn around.
Lead on Prince Siddhartha. Lead on...
* * *
Five hundred meters from the finish line the sky suddenly opened in a second deluge. His compression suit, designed to wick moisture away from flesh, was soon overwhelmed. Drawing up under the apartment building’s eaves, Lyköan hit the stop button at his wrist. The display read fifty-nine minutes, twelve seconds, his best time in months.
Sitting down on the entryway steps between the shabby serpent-shaped naga-headed banisters, he drew his thighs against his chest, clasped his hands tightly around his shins and, bowing his head, let the downpour pummel his head and shoulders, steam rising from flesh and fabric. Heart rate slowing, he soon began to shiver. Better get inside.
Only after standing up did he notice the huddled form lying motionless under a low-hanging hand of dwarf palm leaves near the curb, nose to the ground, matted fur exposing every rib. He tramped across the soggy grass and stood over her. The odor of wet fur was overpowering. Until he spoke, her head remained motionless, although the tail did wag a greeting as his approached.
“Hey girl. Really miserable weather, ain’t it?” At the sound of his voice she rose and, shivering, put her soaking muzzle in his outstretched hand. He had been feeding her for only a few weeks and had never given a second thought to what she or any of the city’s other soi dogs did during the rainy season. Before today, Bangkok hadn’t seen rain in nearly four months. From this point forward, however, it would be raining off and on regularly for the next three at least. What was he going to do? Another dilemma sent to test his compassion? Only one thing was certain, there was no way he was bringing this stench into his apartment. Christ, there was hardly enough room in it for one human being. Adding seventy-pounds of stinking mongrel was beyond lunacy. She probably wasn’t even housebroken.
I’ll be damned if I’m about to teach this old dog that new trick. But maybe he could find a dry spot under the eaves in the central courtyard. If he got his landlady’s permission. He made a mental note to speak with her later. It was now about half past six. While the awakening metropolis was already bustling, it probably wouldn’t be a wise idea to knock on old Mrs. Disatapon’s door before nine. In the meantime, there was no harm in finding this poor wretch a dry spot now. Better to ask for forgiveness later, if necessary, than permission before seven in the morning. He called the animal in through the main entrance.
* * *
At a few minutes past nine he was rapping on the manager’s door and, hearing movement inside, saw an eyeball peer through the tiny peephole positioned directly at the middle of his chest. Stepping back so she could see who had come tapping, he waited. Two bolts slid noisily. The door opened. He smiled and humbly waiied. The woman deserved a bit of buttering up before being asked a favor, especially since the conversation was going to be conducted in his sad excuse for Thai.
“Good morning, most esteemed landlady.” Shoulders bowed, he prayed he had provided both the correct syntax and appropriate inflection.
“Good morning, Mr. Lyköan,” she replied with a smile.
So far, so good. “I come to ask of you a favor, Khun Monyhip Kaa.” His speech was halting and probably worse than Jimmy’s English, but at least he was communicating.
“Yes?” She was still smiling.
“I come to like this soi dog,” he said, assembling words from his limited vocabulary and pointing to the wet pile of fur curled up in the corner of the courtyard.
“That goo soo maan sa ban?” The smile disappeared. “I see that one hanging around the building. Bad Karma. Many misdeeds in a previous life.” This was going to be more difficult than he had anticipated.
“It may be so,” Lyköan agreed. “Still, I wish to keep this one out of the rain. May she remain here under the courtyard roof?” He was rubbing up against the limits of his conversational abilities.
“For two hundred baht a month she may. You will soon tire of this one. Foolishness. There will one day be ten million mongrels in Krung Thep. Will you look after them all? Still, if you pay and the tenants do not complain, I will allow it.”
Lyköan pounced. “Agreed. The courtyard when it rains. The street when it rains not. She is only a dog of the soi, but do others keep dogs in their apartments?” Might as well ask. Even the filthiest beast could be bathed.
There were already baht signs floating in the old woman’s eyes. “It would be a mistake, but for one thousand baht a month, I could be persuaded.”
Thais believe all farangs are crazy. Here was proof that they understood nothing of the operation of the universe. Assuming responsibility for a soi dog, no less.
What? A thousand baht a month to take in a stinking mutt? Better think it over, pal.
“No, no, I did not mean this dog, my apartment. Only the two hundred baht.”
She nodded.
“K’up coum k’up,” he replied. “Thank you, Khun Monyhip Kaa... I go now. K’up coum k
’up. Thank you.” Waiing deeply, he backed away, leaving her at the open door.
Returning to the huddled heap lying under the eaves, he decided to take this metta thing one step further and try to make the poor beast more comfortable. A blanket out of the rain at least? Here, where it’s dry.
What had the landlady called her, ‘that goo soo maan sa ban’? That broken blossom? It fit. It was the perfect moniker.
As he walked over to where she lay, his cell phone began ringing. It was a call from the Ayutt Haya. Not the desk clerk, I don’t imagine. He pressed the double-bud to his ear.
“Good morning. Lyköan Import-Export, Egan Lyköan speaking.”
“Whitehall here, Lyköan. Got a minute?”
“Mr. Whitehall! Why, I was just thinking about you. What do you need?”
“Thinking about me were you? I’m flattered, Lyköan. Listen. I just got off the phone with Pandavas and he’ll be arriving in Bangkok tomorrow and wants to meet with us at the Primrose corporate offices first thing Monday morning.”
“Fine by me. Anything I need to prepare between now and then?” The pace was quickening. Little more than a day until showtime.
“Actually, there is something I’d like to discuss with you. Can you stop by the hotel later this morning?” Lyköan picked up an urgency in Whitehall’s voice.
“Sure. How about eleven o’clock? Will this take long?”
“No more than an hour, old chap. Just a few details before we traipse in to close the deal. So we’re both playing from the same sheet of music, what?”
“Can’t be done over the phone?” Lyköan asked.
“No.”
“Okay, you’ve piqued my interest. See you at eleven.”
“I’ll be waiting. Until then.”
“Sure thing, Whitehall. Bye.”
Lyköan closed the phone and, leaving the complex’s newest tenant for the moment, headed for his apartment. When he returned a few minutes later he had his Ōkii in one hand and an old woolen blanket in the other. He placed the blanket under the eave next to Broken Blossom and, exiting the complex, went in search of a tuk-tuk to take him downtown.
The SONG of SHIVA Page 7
