by David Michie
“Highly regarded by the abbots of our major monasteries,” said Lobsang.
Tenzin nodded. “Important.”
“Critical.”
There was a pause before Lobsang prompted, “I’m sensing a but.”
Tenzin looked at him evenly. “If it was only the abbots he had to deal with, that would be one thing. But whoever takes the position has to get on with a wide variety of people.” Glancing over at me, he quickly corrected himself—“beings.”
Lobsang followed his glance. Unable to restrain himself, he came over, picked me up, and held me in his arms. “A bit lacking in his interpersonal skills, is he?”
“Very shy,” said Tenzin. “He’s fine talking about scriptural matters. There, he’s on firm ground. But the biggest challenges of the role are always people problems. Conflict resolution.”
“Giving people ladders to climb down.”
“Exactly. Something Chogyal was very good at. He had a way of getting people to think that his ideas were their ideas and of appealing to their highest motives.”
“A rare gift.”
Tenzin nodded. “Tough act to follow.”
Lobsang was massaging my forehead with his fingertips, just the way I liked it. “I take it he didn’t warm to HHC?”
“Didn’t seem to know how to react. It was like she’d arrived from outer space.”
Lobsang chuckled. “So, what did he do?”
“He just ignored her.”
“Ignored? How could he do such a thing to you?” Lobsang looked down into my big blue eyes. “Didn’t he realize you have the final decision?”
“Exactly. Working out who really wields influence is another requirement of the job.”
“And such beings are not always the ones you expect, are they, HHC?”
Two days later, I arrived to find Chogyal’s chair occupied by a mountainous monk with a big, boulder-like head and the longest arms I’d ever seen.
“Oh, yes. And who is this?” Before you could say Om mani padme hum the monk had seized me by the scruff of the neck, lifted me up, and suspended me in midair, slowly strangling me as though I were some brazen intruder.
“That,” explained Tenzin quickly, “is His Holiness’s Cat. HHC. She likes sitting on our filing cabinet.”
“I see.” The giant stood up, grasped me with his other hand, carried me over to the filing cabinet, and thumped me down on it so hard that pain jolted through my tender hindquarters.
“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” he observed, crushing me as he ran his hand down my spine.
I meowed plaintively.
“She’s very delicate,” noted Tenzin. “And much loved.”
As the monk returned to his seat, I shakily surveyed the office. Never before had I been treated so roughly in Jokhang. Never so casually grabbed by the neck and inspected like some zoological exhibit. For the first time I could remember, I actually felt afraid in this office. The monster didn’t know his own strength. He hadn’t meant to hurt me. In putting me on the filing cabinet, he probably thought he was saving me the effort of jumping up there myself. But now all I could think about was how to escape as quickly as possible from the office without him touching me again.
I sat there, anxiously awaiting my moment. While Tenzin worked through the recommendations of a Red Cross proposal, at the desk facing him the Cat Strangler was a whirlwind of activity. E-mails were drafted and documents read. Summary notes were stapled to them—all with great energy. Drawers were slammed shut. The telephone was smashed back in its cradle. The very air in the office jangled with activity, and at one point when Tenzin made a joke, the great monster laughed from his belly, great gusts of hilarity reverberating along the executive floor.
The moment he announced he was going to make himself a coffee and offered to make one for Tenzin, too, I slipped down from the filing cabinet and made my escape. As I hurried away to the Himalaya Book Café much earlier than usual, I found myself thinking how, by comparison, Venerable Monkey Face was infinitely preferable. My feelings had been hurt when he ignored me, but I had come to realize that it was his problem, not mine. On the other hand, the red-robed giant was a physical threat. If he were chosen as Chogyal’s successor, much of my life at Jokhang would be spent trying to avoid him.
And what kind of life was that?
Jangled, I made my way into the comforting environs of the café. With the constant swell and ebb of diners and book buyers, there was always plenty of bustle, but I felt safe here. I had certainly never been rough-handled by a giant—red-robed or otherwise.
Only halfway up the magazine rack to my usual spot on the top shelf, I became aware that something unusual was going on in the corner of the bookstore where we often gathered for our end-of-the-day treats. Serena and Sam were standing close together, whispering in an urgent, confidential manner.
“Who s-s-says so?” Sam was asking.
“Helen Cartwright’s friend knows his sister, Beryle, in San Francisco.”
“And when?”
“Soon, very soon.” Serena’s eyes were wide. “Like, in the next two weeks.”
Sam was shaking his head. “That can’t be right.”
“Why not?”
“He would have told us. E-mailed something.”
“He’s not obliged to.” Serena bit her lip. “He can come back whenever he likes.”
For a while they both looked at the floor. Finally, Serena said, “Kind of puts the spice-packs thing into perspective. Doesn’t matter what Franc thinks if I’m not even working here.”
“You d-d-don’t know that.” Sam’s authority had deserted him.
“That was the deal. I’m just a caretaker. A stopgap. When we made the agreement, I was planning to go back to Europe.”
“Why don’t we phone him?”
She shook her head. “It’s his right, Sam. His business. I guess this was always going to happen.”
“Perhaps we can ask around. Could be just a rumor.”
When their conversation concluded I continued to the top shelf and settled down in croissant pose. Although she hadn’t been here for long, Serena had brought a warmth and vibrancy to the café that made it even more special. That she might have to leave was something I didn’t want to contemplate, especially with all that was going on up the hill.
The next day I was at the café early again, having slipped out of Jokhang in case the Cat Strangler returned. When Serena arrived for the day, I could tell that the news wasn’t good. She approached Sam, who was shelving a new delivery of books, and told him what had happened at yoga class the evening before. One of her fellow students, Reg Goel, who was one of McLeod Ganj’s best-known property agents, was keeping an eye on Franc’s house while he was away. As they were returning their bolsters, blankets, and wooden bricks after class, Serena had asked Reg if he had heard from Franc.
Oh yes, Reg had replied breezily. He had been at Franc’s place that very morning to oversee the removal of dustcovers from the furniture, the return of house plants to their proper places, and the restocking of the pantry and fridge. Franc had called him last week. He was due back any day.
Serena had been so shocked that she had hardly known what to say. She hadn’t felt in any mood to stay for the postyoga tea session. As it happened, Sid had been in the hallway at the same time, and seeing the expression on her face, he had asked her if anything was wrong.
To her embarrassment, she had started to cry. Sid had shielded her discreetly before anyone else could see and had walked her back to the café. She had explained to him that the arrangement with Franc had only ever been temporary and that his return would mean she would be out of a job.
Shortly after ten the next morning, who should arrive at the café but Sid. I didn’t recognize him at first, having only seen him in his yoga clothes. As he stood in the doorway, tall and elegant in his dark suit, he emanated a certain poise that was almost regal.
Serena approached him, gesturing her surprise and delight at his appe
arance.
“Actually, I came to see you,” Sid explained, leading her to the back of the restaurant and the banquette that Gordon Finlay had favored in times gone by. It was the perfect place for a private conversation.
“I’m sorry I made an idiot of myself last night,” Serena told him, after they were seated and had ordered coffees from Kusali.
“Don’t say that,” Sid told her protectively. “Anyone in your position would have felt the same.” He looked at her closely for a while, eyes filled with concern. “I’ve been giving some thought to your situation. If the worst were to happen and you found yourself without a job, you would still want to stay in McLeod Ganj, wouldn’t you?”
She nodded. “But that may not be possible, Sid. I need a job—and not just any job. I used to think that working in one of Europe’s top restaurants was all I ever wanted. But the longer I stay here, the more I realize that it wouldn’t really fulfill me. I’ve discovered other things that reward me in more important ways.”
“Like the curries and spice packs?”
She shrugged. “All a bit hypothetical now, isn’t it?”
He leaned against the banquette. “Or is it?’”
Her forehead wrinkled.
“I remember you telling the yoga group how popular the spice packs had become,” he said. “How you had to take on a new employee just to handle the orders.”
“He’s in there right now,” she said, tilting her head in the direction of the kitchen. “An order for another two hundred came in overnight.”
“My point exactly.”
“But if I’m not working here …” She trailed off, not following him.
“You also said that Franc doesn’t want to continue with the curries and so on.”
She nodded.
“What I’m thinking,” Sid said, “is that if he returns as manager and keeps to his usual menu, it wouldn’t be a conflict of interest for you to continue manufacturing spice packs.”
Her eyes widened. “But where?”
“There are many premises available around here.”
“I don’t know, Sid. As it is we’re starting to run into supply problems.”
“With the spices?”
“The Dharamsala markets are fine for medium-size quantities. But we need guaranteed continuity of the best-quality spices in larger amounts.”
“That,” Sid told her emphatically, “is something I can easily arrange.”
“How?”
“Through my business. We have access to producers across the region.”
“I thought you were in IT,” she said, her bewilderment deepening.
He nodded. “Among other things. Issues like fair trade in organic spices—these are very important to our community and important to me.”
During the postyoga conversations on Ludo’s balcony, Sid often referred to our community. This was something, Serena began to realize, that stemmed from a deeply held personal concern. But his mention of organic rang alarm bells. “What about pricing?”
“We would be buying direct. The cost would probably be less than what you pay in the market.”
He had said we, she noticed, sipping her coffee. She set down her cup and placed her hand on the table. “Even if I were to, you know, set up a separate business, the only reason spice packs have taken off is because of the Himalaya Book Café.”
Sid smiled, his eyes glowing with affection. He reached out and briefly rested his hand on hers. “Serena, the Himalaya Book Café was the reason you came up with the idea. But a successful business model doesn’t depend on it. The two are entirely separate.”
As Serena looked at him, the truth of what he was saying dawned on her. Of course the reason why people kept reordering spice packs wasn’t because of the Himalaya Book Café but rather because of taste, convenience, and price. But more important to her at this moment was the truth of why he was saying it. Sid had evidently given a great deal of thought to her and the challenges she faced—much more than she would have thought likely even a day ago.
As Serena considered this, other things were swiftly flashing through her mind. Like how often Sid sat next to her on the balcony after yoga class. How delighted he had been when she announced her intention to stay in McLeod Ganj instead of returning to Europe. How concerned he had been when she mentioned that Franc had lost his father. All of this was pointing in the same direction.
Just as Sam had remained oblivious to Bronnie until she was standing across the counter from him shaking his hand, for the first time Serena actually noticed Sid. He might have been there all along, but only now was she beginning to understand—and smiling at the realization.
“What about marketing?” she questioned, somewhat distracted. “The customer database belongs to the Himalaya Book Café.”
“Franc seems to be a reasonable man,” said Sid. “Even if he didn’t want to continue the spice-pack business, there would be no conflict if he referred business to you, perhaps for a royalty.”
She nodded. “That would be fine as supplementary income. But if I were to go out on my own …”
“You’d need much wider distribution, ideally overseas. And there is someone who can probably help you.”
“Oh?”
“You’ve already met him.”
That line again. “Here?”
“I don’t remember his name, but you mentioned that he was one of the most successful businessmen in the fast-food industry.”
Gordon Finlay, thought Serena. “Wow!” she said aloud. “If he opened the door to just one retail chain …” She was shaking her head. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of him.”
“Sometimes it’s easier to see these things from afar.”
For the longest time they held each other’s gaze.
“This is … amazing!” Serena said eventually. This time it was she who reached across the table, taking his hand between hers. “Thank you, Sid, for everything.”
He nodded deeply, smiling.
“Do you have a business card or something?” Serena asked. “In case we need to talk more?”
“You’ll find me at yoga,” he said.
“You’re always so conscientious,” she told him. “But I may not be there regularly this week.”
“I won’t be missing any classes.”
There was a curious pause before she persisted. “If I could just have a phone number or something?”
After a moment, and perhaps with some reluctance, Sid reached into his jacket pocket, took out a black leather wallet, and retrieved a card.
“It doesn’t have your name on it,” observed Serena as he handed it to her. “Just an address and phone number.”
“Ask for Sid.”
“They’ll know who you are?”
Sid chuckled. “Yes, they all know me.”
Serena was distracted for the rest of the day. There were moments when I looked up to see her behind the counter staring into the mid distance—something I’d never seen her do before. On one occasion she carried a bottle of chilled Sauvignon Blanc from the wine cellar to the kitchen instead of to the customer’s table. On another she waved good-bye to a customer without giving him his change. She was going through the motions of being maître d’, but her thoughts were evidently elsewhere.
Sid’s visit had been as much a shock as a joy. How could she have missed it? Her own feelings had been etched in the delight on her face as he had reached out to touch her. And she had been unusually self-conscious as she realized just how much careful thought he had devoted to her situation. But now that he was no longer there, her thoughts were clouded by doubt. The news of Franc’s imminent return, the revelation of Sid’s interest in her, his bold but scary business proposals—it was a lot to take in. Why did everything always have to happen at once?
Shortly after lunch, a succulent feast of tender sole meunière that I devoured gratefully, I heard her replaying some of Sid’s suggestions to Sam, but veiled in reservations. “I’m not sure Franc would be will
ing to let me use the mailing list,” she said, confiding her doubts. “Seems he doesn’t want the café to have those associations.”
Sam was silent.
“Even if Gordon Finlay did open doors for me,” she continued, “it’s a long way from that to a steady flow of retail orders. How would I pay the bills in the meantime?”
It was a strange afternoon. The Himalaya Book Café was usually such a convivial place to spend time, but today it was as though the familiar music of the café had been transposed into a minor key. Dark clouds rolled across the sky, and the breeze grew so chilly that by three o’clock, Kusali had to swing the glass doors shut.
For my own part, I remained only because I was so afraid of what I might encounter if I returned to Jokhang during working hours. The very idea of the giant monk setting finger on me sent a shudder through my fluffy, gray boots. Though His Holiness’s arrival was only days away, the threat of the giant monk dampened my excitement.
For Serena, it seemed that whatever excitement she might be feeling after Sid’s visit was more than tempered by her worries about Franc’s imminent return.
And that evening’s hot-chocolate session seemed to confirm how dangerously unsteady things had become. After the usual exchange of signals between Serena and Sam, she had made her way to their spot, followed soon afterward by Kusali. On his tray were three mugs of hot chocolate—Bronnie had also become a regular—along with the dog biscuits and my milk.
Marcel and Kyi Kyi were soon attacking their biscuits ravenously, as though it was the first food they had seen all day. I attended to my milk with somewhat more decorum. Sam came over from the bookstore and sat down heavily opposite Serena.
“Bronnie coming down?” Serena asked, nodded at the third mug of chocolate on the tray.
“Not this evening,” Sam said wearily. Then, after a pause, “Maybe never.”
“Oh, Sam!” Serena’s face filled with concern.
He took a long sip of chocolate before glancing at her only briefly. “Big argument,” he said.
“Lovers tiff?”
He was shaking his head sadly. “More.”
